Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (16 page)

But
this redevelopment deal? That was always just beyond their grasp — that
is, until the Whitneys entered the picture with their links to mammoth funding.
The two families never collaborated on very much, preferring instead to
consolidate their own positions on the island. But when it was pointed out to
the Whitneys that they could rake in tens of millions of dollars on this deal,
naturally, they were in.

The
thing was, though, Mambo liked all the gambling. He liked providing the betting
lines and booking the bets. He liked collecting on a sucker game like the
bolita. He liked the instant cash it provided. He liked what that cash would
buy. His car, for instance. He loved that car. That Trans Am brought him so
much happiness — about as much, he figured, as any inanimate object could
bring a man.

He
liked the power he had over dickheads like Kiki, and he liked bringing them
into line. He liked the fear and respect he got from every grifter and outlaw
on the island. He especially liked getting a piece of all their scores, just
like his Abuelo did for decades before him. Giving all that up was asking a
lot.

His
grandfather said, "I don't want to hear any more about this,
¿me entendés?
Logan falls in line or
else. We've got too much at stake here to be fucking around with a nobody like
him. And you. Get rid of the gambling."

"
Sí, Abuelo. Te entiendo
." The
ladies returned and the men smiled and stood, pulling chairs out for them.

Silvana

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

3:15 AM

T
HE WESTERN EDGE OF LITTLE HAVANA
slumbered, waiting for morning to
break when Silvana turned down Southwest 31st Avenue. The Ford Fusion ran like
it was supposed to, smooth, quiet, and most importantly, oh so
coooool
, man. This far inland, ocean
breezes largely disappeared and humidity took over, intensifying the feeling of
everything, even at this hour of the night. This was high summer in Miami, and
those who weren't up to it had better leave. Or find a reliable source of air
conditioning.

Somewhere
around Southwest 11th Street, she pulled over in front of a clean, two-story
stucco apartment building. She parked in the bus zone and got out. Stepping out
into the dark, silent street, she thought to herself,
I've always liked this area. Quiet, friendly. Not much traffic. Maybe
one day, I'll move out here, get me a little house.

She
aimed at a unit on the first floor, a quick walk, and when she got there, she
used her patented cop thud with the side of her fist to announce her presence.

After
a few more thuds, the peephole turned dark — he was no doubt looking
through from the inside — then the door opened. Bobby Vargas stood there
scratching himself in his underwear.

"Fuck,
is it that time already?" His voice was sandpaper.

Silvana
said, "Come on, partner. Suit up. It's almost daylight."

"Daylight?"
he cried. "Fuck me! It's the middle of the night." A big, big yawn
and a bigger stretch.

"Come
on, it's three-fifteen. You're supposed to be ready."

"Awright.
Gimme a minute." He motioned her inside and staggered to the bathroom.
Silvana entered the small living room. She took the liberty of turning on the
lamp, and then took a seat on the couch. From there, she could see the majority
of the apartment: sparse furniture, huge TV, counter dividing the living room
from the kitchen. Everything was remarkably clean, as it had been on the few
other occasions she'd been here. This was the first time, though, that she'd
had an opportunity to have a good look at it.

Along
one wall, she saw a bookcase containing delicate porcelain figurines of various
small animals. There were also a couple of dozen books. This surprised her.
Vargas did not seem the animal figurine type, nor did she know him to be much
of a reader. Funny how you can be partners with a guy, trust him with your very
life, and not know a little thing like that about him, whether or not he reads.

She
walked over and checked out the titles. Mostly dog-eared cop thrillers in
paperback, showing they'd been read thoroughly. Then there were some bizarre
ringers in there:
The DaVinci Code
,
A Tree Grows In Brooklyn,
and
Moby-Dick
. The name
Moby-Dick
rang a bell somewhere, but she didn't know exactly what
it was about. She'd never heard of the others. Of the cop books, Michael
Connelly's name jogged her memory, something to do with a detective in LA, she
thought. Just as she was thumbing through
one called
9 Dragons
, Vargas returned, all cleaned up, alert, and ready to
rock & roll.

"I
wanted to get an earlier start," she said as they walked out the door.
"You know, to beat the rush hour, get past all that traffic before it
starts."

"Sorry,
Silvi. I slept through my alarm, I guess. But we're still all right. It's only
a quarter of four."

"We
need to be in Key West by six-thirty."

"Why
you wanna get there so early? Why we have to leave so early?"

She
said, "We've gotta get there before he gets up and around. He's an outlaw,
so he probably lays around in bed all day. Or all morning, anyway."

They
drove away in the darkness. Vargas couldn't stop yawning. "Let's stop and
pick up some coffee, okay?"

She
nodded and he saw a Dunkin' Donuts ahead. Just as she pulled in, she said,
"It's a good thing you live close to the Turnpike. Makes it easier, you
know, quicker to get out of town."

"Yeah.
Real convenient."

He
went in and grabbed two coffees to go. Back in the car, Silvana asked him,
"How do you like living over here, here in this part of town?"

"Oh,
I like it a lot," he said. "Close to everything except downtown.
Makes it a bitch to get to work sometimes, you know, with the rush hour
traffic, but it's worth it to live out here in the peace and quiet."

"I
was thinking, you know, thinking I might like to move out this way."

Vargas
raised his eyebrows. "Really? Hey, you should do it. You'd like it here.
Only thing is, is I didn't think you'd ever leave that little place you got
down off
Calle Ocho
."

"Yeah,
I do like my place. Close to work, you know? Plus I got it fixed up just the
way I like it. It's really me."

"Well,"
he said, "I bet you could find yourself a place out this way. You looking
to rent or buy?"

"Buy."

"Oh,
shit, you should do it. Now's the time, too."

"Why's
that?"

"The
market has been in the fucking tank for about three years now. They say it
might recover soon, so if you're in a position to put some dough down on a
house, you could make yourself a pretty sweet deal. I'm thinking of buying a
house myself. There's a lot of them for sale, too. People who got upside down
on their homes."

"Upside
down? What's that?"

"That's
where their house lost so much value, they owe the bank more than what it's
actually worth."

All
this high finance talk was hard for her to grasp, so she let the conversation
lie there and just drove instead.

They
got on the Turnpike south toward Florida City, where they would pick up US 1 to
Key West.

Silvana
said, "Hey, Bobby. Did you read all those books you got back there? In
your living room?"

"Yeah,
just about. Why?"

"I
don't know. Here we been partners for three years now and I never knew you were
a reader."

"I
love to read," he said. "Takes me away from the bullshit and the
scumbags we have to deal with every day. Like an escape, you know? To another
world altogether. Escape to a world where someone else has to deal with all
those problems and I can just sit back and enjoy watching them."

"Yeah.
Escape." She gazed out the windshield and picked up speed.

≈ ≈ ≈

They crossed into Key West at six-thirty sharp after speeding most
of the way down, the southbound lane almost to themselves. What traffic there
was came at them from the opposite direction, people getting an early start on
returning to their lives following a Fourth of July weekend at the End of the Road.

By
now, as they drove along the southern shore of Key West, the sun had cast its
first glimpse on the horizon. Puffy clouds embossed the southern sky out in the
Florida Straits, probably forming up for rain later in the day. A couple of
sailboats were already drifting on the open water and the first jet skiers of
the day were warming up on shore, waiting for the approaching dawn. Joggers
loped along the beach in both directions.

Silvana
had run an R&I check on Logan through the state database and had come up
with his record and his address. One arrest, strong-arm robbery back in '04, no
conviction. The vic had gone back to Oregon and didn't want to make the long,
cross-country trip to testify at the trial. Case dismissed.

Their
GPS led them wildly astray, and it wasn't until a little after seven that they
arrived at the Margaret Street address. Silvana cursed the GPS for making them
later than she wanted to be, but figured it was still early enough to catch
Logan before he got too coherent.

They
went up to the door and knocked. Surprisingly, a woman answered right away.
"Yes?" she said. The aroma of brewing coffee flowed out the door from
behind her.

Silvana
looked her up and down and did a quick assessment.
Look at this fucking slob! Wearing a muumuu. Means she's too fat for
real clothes, stupid look on her face caused by the fucked-up teeth. And
barefoot. Jesus, don't these fucking people wear shoes down here?

"Police
officers," Silvana said. She and Vargas gave a quick flash of tin, not
enough for this fat bitch to see they were from Miami. "We're looking for
Logan."

"What's
this about?"
 

"We
just need to speak with him, ma'am. A few questions is all."

"I'll
go get him. Just a minute."

When
she went to get him, Silvana looked the place over.
A little nicer than I would've given this guy credit for.
Expensive-looking furniture in the living room, fancy lamp, kitchen looks
pretty clean and upscale. Big Sub-Z fridge. All in all, not bad. Crime must
really pay in these parts.

It
wasn't long before the fat woman came back with a guy in his bathrobe.
Short hair, but sticking up here and there
from a night's sleep, unshaven. Thick legs, solid build, looks like he can
handle himself.

"What
can I do for you?" he asked.

"We're
police officers and we wanted to talk to y —"

"First,
may I see your badges?"

Vargas
had the temptation to ground this guy's foot like he did with Flaco out behind
the 305, demanding to see his badge. Silvana stepped between them.

"Certainly,"
she said, trying hard for smoothness. She produced her shield, and Vargas's
look told her he was not on board with the idea. She motioned him with a head
gesture and he pulled it out. Logan looked at each one carefully before
returning them.

"Miami,"
he said. "You're a long way from home, Sergeant."

"A
triple homicide makes the world a little wider for us," Silvana said,
noticing the fat slob hadn't left the room. Stood right there taking it all in,
as if she belonged or something.

"Triple
homicide? Why are you all the way down here? And why are you in my home?"

"Where
were you a week ago Friday night? The 24th of June, to be exact. Late Friday
night."

"Friday
night? I was here with my girlfriend." His demeanor remained even,
unflinching.

"All
night?"

"All
night."

"What
were you doing?"

"Watching
TV, talking. I don't recall that specific evening, but if it was like all the
others, that's what we were doing. We don't go out much, her and I. And we went
to bed at our usual time. Around eleven-thirty, twelve."

"Remember
what shows you watched on TV?"

"Not
offhand. Maybe a Marlins game. We sometimes use the TV for background noise
while we talk. Or play cards."

Vargas
said, "What do you talk about?"

"I
don't think that's any of your business, Detective."

Vargas
stepped closer to Logan. He hissed, "If I ask the question, then it's my
business, asshole. You got that?"

Logan
appeared unfazed at Vargas's tough talk. "What I
got
is you two are way out of your jurisdiction. And you're not
here with any local cops, so that means they don't know you're here. I might
oughta call them right now and tell them there are people here in my home
harassing me and my girlfriend at seven in the morning, getting me out of bed,
pretending to be Miami cops." He walked over and picked up the phone.

"All
right, all right, take it easy," Silvana said. "No need to get all
excited here."

Logan
looked directly at her and said, "I'm not the one who's excited. Now what
is it you want?"

"We
want to know where you were late on Friday night, June 24."

"I
was here. I already told you that."

"Yeah,
yeah, I know. You were here. Are you acquainted with Chicho Segura?"

"Chicho
Segura? Let me think. No … no, I don't think so. Can't place the name."

"Well,
place this. You were seen in deep conversation with him a couple of weeks ago
in La Luz … that's a bar up in Miami. Then a bank in Miramar gets boosted, and
later that night, Segura and two others are blown to kingdom come at a house in
Little Havana."

Logan
kept his cool. "I
was
up in
Miami a few weeks ago, but I saw a lot of people, you know? I don't remember
all their names."

"Try
to remember this one. Chicho Segura. You were also ID'd as being a conspirator
with him and other unidentified parties in various crimes in the Miami-Fort
Lauderdale area."

Logan
chuckled. "Whoever gave you that information needs to get an eye exam. I'm
no criminal."

Silvana
checked out the fat bitch again.
She just
moved up next to him to be shoulder to shoulder. Only a slight move, Vargas
probably didn't catch it, but I did. She's in this, too. I can feel it. If
she's not involved, then she knows about it.