South by Southeast (21 page)

They exchanged a few words, and Mr. Big Nose's hand landed on Maria's thigh.

I couldn't see everything that happened between them because of obstructions when people entered or left the room, but at some point, Mr. Big Nose gave Maria a drink.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Raphael said. “He likes her.”

But in some ways, that didn't seem true. Big Nose's expression was sour, never cracking a smile. He seemed only to tolerate her,
but he kept her close. Sometimes his lips curled when he looked at her.
She sickens him,
I thought. But why buy her a drink?

Maria and Big Nose were in the VIP room together for thirty-eight minutes. I only saw Maria take one drink, but she giggled over her wobbly legs when she tried to stand. Offering her an arm to lean on, Big Nose smiled for the first time.

“Does Maria get drunk?” I asked Raphael.

“This is an act. She likes champagne, but I have never seen her drunk.”

If it was an act, it was a good one. Maria looked sluggish and confused as Mr. Big Nose led her toward the exit. But no one nearby noticed her face, only her dress.

He drugged her,
I thought. I hadn't seen him touch her drink, but I felt certain. The confident Maria who had entered the room was nothing like the Maria who was leaving. She wasn't carrying her purse. She had left it behind.

“That one,” I told Joan. “The two of them. Print me that one, too. With the time stamp.”

“Hope that helps, cuz I'm done,” Joan said.

I couldn't persuade Joan to try to find the footage of Maria leaving the club, but I thought I might have enough to go on. The only men I'd seen Maria talk to at Club Phoenixx were Raphael and Mr. Big Nose. I might be heading somewhere.

“We are finished,” Raphael told me.

It was time to let him go. I was sick of the sight of him.

“For now,” I said.

He held out his palm. “My phone.”

I only stared at him.

“Hope you find out what happened to your daughter,” Joan said.

“Me, too,” Raphael said, returning my pointed stare. “Your daughter is one of the most promising call girls I have ever known. So seasoned and so young. I could make her rich.”

Joan looked up suddenly, wondering what was about to play out between us, but Raphael had chosen that moment because we weren't alone. He didn't think I would hurt him in front of Joan, and he was right.

“Easy, boys,” Joan said.

“I'll see you later, Raffi,” I said. “Bet on it.”

Raffi's lower jaw trembled as he brought his bandaged hand to his bruised face. “You are her father? Shame on you. I did not create her.”

“Perhaps you're right, Raffi,” I said. “Perhaps neither of us should be too quick to point fingers.”

A swift flash of fear and pain and masked rage. Raphael opened the door and walked away. I was glad he was limping.

“He's not so bad, as asswads go,” Joan said in his defense.

“Whatever you say.”

“I hope you're not a problem for me,” Joan said.

“I'm not a problem. I'm looking for my kid. I think she might be dead.”

“Yeah, I didn't want to say anything, but . . .” She'd heard the rumor about Maria.

Without condolences, Joan handed me the photocopies from Maria's last night alive.

Just another lost girl.

APRIL, NOT CHELA,
sent me a late-night text from L.A. to let me know the package had arrived safely. I held off on calling as soon as I woke up because of the three-hour time lag, but it was good to begin the day with a celebration.

Before I left for work, I laid out my case for Dad. With thirty years of LAPD experience, he would call me on my bullshit, and he always had good ideas. I wanted to make sure he thought I was following the right angles. Dad was grumpy because he was in his wheelchair, but he'd conceded that the chair was the easiest way for him to get around. I didn't like anything about pushing Dad in a wheelchair, but we put up with it.

Marcela dragged us to a popular South Beach breakfast restaurant, Lil Pink's, so Dad and I could barely hear each other over the noise. Lil Pink's was a huge diner-style restaurant, packed with families, tourists, and half the city's police force. I was paranoid we might be overheard, but the cops were there to eat.

“Going after the pimp?” Dad said. “That wasn't smart. Taking that gun, neither.”

“Yessir,” I said. “I won't be so reckless from now on.”

“Forget him now. He'll be ready next time. Don't know what you were thinking. “

I wasn't thinking—I wanted to kick his ass.
I hadn't hinted that Chela might have slept with Raphael, but I'd told Dad that Chela had learned about him through her investigation at the club. He was still annoyed that I'd rushed Chela to the airport without a proper goodbye.

“Why won't you talk to us about Chela?” Marcela said. She was my stepmother now, and sounded like it. “Everything's a secret. Maybe we can help.”

I shook my head. “I gave her my word.”

“But whatever happened was so bad that you sent her home in the middle of the night?” Marcela prodded.

Dad only sighed. As a police captain who had worked in Hollywood Division, he understood what Chela's life on the streets had been without me saying a word. “Leave it, Marcy,” he said. “I'll talk to Chela when we go home.”

Marcela clicked her teeth and signaled for a waiter. The waiters dressed like auto repairmen, part of the restaurant's shtick. “I'd like to know what's going on for a change.”

Family politics were slowing us down, but I tried to be patient. Finally, Dad turned his attention back to the photocopied pictures I had from Club Phoenixx. He spent a long time staring at the photo of Maria and Mr. Big Nose.

“That's a disguise,” Dad said. “Not his real hair. Sunglasses. He's hiding.”

“I thought so, too.”

While Marcela told the waitress our order, Dad and I slipped into a bubble where his wheelchair disappeared. Even after a stroke, there was nothing wrong with Dad's mind. He had forgetful moments, but I did, too. He was a smart cop.

“Got enough for South Beach Homicide now,” Dad said.

Dad knew I had made a mistake by not going to the FBI in my previous case. Chela had wanted to bring in the police all along; instead, I'd made her feel obligated to go to Raphael. Even if Maria's killer confessed to me personally, the ending wasn't happy already.

“I hate calling cold,” I said. “And I left handprints on that pimp.”

“Think he's gonna press charges?” Dad said. “Just say what you know. In and out. I'll try to dig up somebody.”

“I don't want Chela dragged into this,” I said. “It might become public.”

“Might not,” Dad said. “Worth the chance, with what you have.”

While the waitress set down our huge round waffles, I studied the picture of Mr. Big Nose sitting by himself in the VIP room, his clearest image. My eye went to his ear lobe, and my heart jogged. Mr. Big Nose had a prominently attached lobe.

Just like Gustavo Escobar.

I stared at the face again. Same complexion, potentially, but his nose was nothing like Escobar's. “Unless it's fake, too,” I said, thinking aloud.

“What?” Dad said.

“Does that nose look fake to you? Another part of the disguise?”

Dad studied it and nodded. “Could be. Professional job, though.”

I itched to call Chela to ask what she thought. She'd said that Raphael worked with cast and crew from
Freaknik
. But most of the crew members couldn't afford Raphael's prices, and the man's build didn't match any of the actors. I glanced from the attached lobe to the man's arms to his slight midsection paunch.

If I ignored the face, it could be Gustavo Escobar sitting at that bar stool. Was he really a suspect, or did I want him to be a suspect?

“Whatchu thinking?” Dad said.

“This guy could be the director of my film,” I said. “If I take away the disguise.”

“You think he was with Maria?” Dad said, to clarify. “Can you prove it?”

Even if the police watched the video footage, we both knew they weren't likely to question Escobar over such a flimsy resemblance, and Raphael might not tell the police about Mr. Big Nose at all. After last night, Raphael might have taken the first flight back to Italy.

“All I can do is try,” I said.

Dad patted my hand with an approving smile I would have given anything to see from him as a kid, even if I couldn't have admitted it. “Tennyson,” he said. “What did you do to that man?”

“Raphael?”

He nodded.

“Not much,” I said. “Just gave him the finger.”

Elliot stared at the photos, his face blank. “Too much of his face is covered,” he said. “Nice prosthetic nose, though.”

“You can tell the nose is fake?”

“Look at the size of that thing. I'm betting the mustache is fake, too. That's how he's masking the nose. A little crude, but not obvious. I give up. Am I supposed to know this guy?”

I hesitated. I didn't want to lead Elliot.

“Someone you've worked with,” I said.

He flipped through the photos, staring without recognition. Then he leaned over to see more clearly, tracing the man's earlobe. “Wait a minute,” he said, and grinned.

“You know him?”

“Where'd you take this? Are you spying on him? This is creepy, Tin Man.”

“Who is it?”

Elliot gave me a skeptical look. “You're shitting me, right? It's Esocbar.”

“You can tell under all that makeup?”

“Look at the ear. Most people don't think to cover that. Don't realize how distinctive it is. There are some things you can't hide without a plastic surgeon. What, are you following him around?”

Elliot was right; the longer I looked at the photo of Escobar in the VIP lounge, the more obvious his features. If I squinted and ignored his nose, I was staring at my director. But would anyone else see it besides a makeup artist and me?

I glanced at Elliot. “Would Escobar need help making that nose?”

“Like me, you mean?” Elliot said. “I would've done a better job, but anyone who knows a thing or two could put it together.”

“What about Escobar? Could he do it himself?”

Elliot looked at me as if I were blind. “Ten, come on. Escobar's knee-deep in makeup and effects.
Fidel
wasn't an accident. Makeup nearly got him that Oscar. That's all anyone remembers. I'm lucky he doesn't have the time, or what would he need me for?”

Elliot's intel on Escobar was useful, but the worship in his voice worried me. When Escobar wasn't partying, he was being feted at dinners and book signings.
Nuestro Tío Fidel
had been a major event in Miami. And I was about to visit South Beach Police to name Escobar as a potential murder suspect? I didn't have a photograph of Escobar with Maria—I had a photo of a phantom. The most Elliot could say was that it
might
be him.

So far, Maria's death was still classified as a drowning, and no homicide department wanted to open a potentially difficult case, especially with political overtones. The police would need convincing just to open a murder investigation, never mind sniffing around Escobar. Dad was right when he said I was always looking for reasons not to trust the police, but I had good reasons.

“Nice life, huh?” Elliot said, gazing at the photos from the club. “Are you stalking him?”

I could confide in Elliot and try to enlist his help, or I could
keep quiet. For the sake of my case, and maybe Elliot's sake, too, I chose the latter. “Just a bet with a friend,” I said.

In between reciting lines, I had a few hours to try to build a case against Escobar that would at least make him sound plausible.

The police would have to catch up to me.