South by Southeast (23 page)

The elevator
dinged,
signaling the end of our conversation.

“You can't find evidence you're not looking for, Detective,” I said.

“You've got nothing on Escobar,” she said, making an O with her fingers. “
Nada
. If you've got any kind of real chops, you know I'm right. I can spend my time finding out what happened to Maria, or I can fuck you over all day and night. Your pick.”

Call me old-fashioned, but profanity sounds wrong from the mouth of a pretty woman.

“I get it. No waves, right?”

“No press conferences, no circus—no jail.
Comprende?
Good-bye, Mr. Hardwick.” Her ponytail lashed from side to side as she walked away.

I had never been shut out with such efficient grace.

And people wonder why I never want to go to the police.

When I didn't have any luck sniffing around Miami Beach Marina for Escobar's boat, escorted away by security, I decided to go back to the set. That was the one place I knew I wouldn't run into any cops.

My scene was over, but Escobar was scheduled to work until nightfall, and I wanted to try to learn by observing him. Maybe I could goad him into revealing something the police could use. I hoped he was arrogant enough to make a mistake.

Once I'd found my corner near the set, I checked out the newspaper archives on my phone, squinting at the small type as I scrolled. Gustavo Escobar was one of Miami's favorite sons. The love affair had begun two years before, when he shot some scenes from
Fidel
in Miami and drummed up support from local fundraisers. He'd visited frequently, appearing on local television and at the party scene throughout the film's release and Oscar campaign. And he had made contributions in the tens of thousands of dollars to various Cubano charities. One of the newspaper stories mentioned that he and his sister had fled the homeland on a raft in the early 1960s. His father, the story said, had been a political prisoner in one of Castro's jails, executed while his family watched.

The more I read, the more I understood Detective Hernandez. The police weren't in a position to casually question Gustavo Escobar about a prostitute's murder. I would have kicked my ass out, too. Worse, I had just crippled my own case, since the information flow would cease once the police started digging around Raphael and Club Phoenixx. I'd probably burned my sources before I went to the police, but now they were trashed for good.

Maybe the police would lift fingerprints from the driver's license. Their first suspect might be Julio, the fake-ID guy. I'd been so caught up with the Club Phoenixx angle that I hadn't tried to talk to him.

My earlier paranoia about Escobar seemed silly once I was back on the set, standing in the wings with the interns while we observed a master at work. On the surface, he was shooting a massive orgy scene, but as more cast members took their places under Escobar's careful hand, I noticed that their makeup and costumes were smaller pieces of a whole—an undulating design that would
stretch from one end of the set to the other. Elliot looked exhausted but happy as he directed his three-person team to apply finishing touches. He and Escobar worked well together.

Gustavo Escobar was an artist, whether or not I wanted to admit it. Escobar was way beyond slasher territory with
Freaknik
. He was using sex and zombies as metaphors for isolation, collapse, chaos. And he would somehow weave it all together into the message of hope by the end, with his male and female leads sharing an untainted kiss.

My phone vibrated, and I ducked into the empty hall when I saw it was Chela calling. I hadn't talked to her all day.

“How's the case going?” she asked me. Not even a hello.

“I just left the police station. I broke it all down for them, so we'll see.”

“And that's it?”

“You said you wished you'd gone to the police,” I said. “Now you have.”

“Sure, that's fine for backup. But you're the one who'll find her killer, Ten.”

Chela's trust had boosted me up before, but trust could be tiresome. “I'm on it.”

“Did you get any new leads?”

“Maybe.” I glanced around to be sure no one could overhear me. “This guy you call Mr. Big Nose—had you ever seen him before? Think carefully. He probably was wearing a disguise at the club.”

“Like a wig?”

“For instance.”

“I wasn't that close to him, thank God. And he had sunglasses, too.”

“Could it have been my director? Escobar?” Long silence. “Hello?”

“You think your director's a psycho? April says he's a big deal. And his nose is nothing like that guy's.”

If Chela couldn't identify Escobar as Mr. Big Nose, I had even less to go on. “What if it's fake? Look, I'm going to send you a scanned photo later from a security camera at the club. Just take a look and see if it helps jog your memory.”

“You're no slacker,” Chela said, impressed.

“I made you a promise, didn't I?”

I didn't tell Chela that I thought Escobar might have recognized her. That was the last thing she needed to hear, even from nearly three thousand miles away.

“I'm keeping up my end, too,” Chela said, her voice dropping into a sigh. “But Ten, she's trying to give me an eleven o'clock
curfew
. You need to talk to her.”

Good for April. April had improvised the curfew without direction from me. Her house, her rules. “Just don't hurt her,” I said, chuckling. “She means well.”

“I'm not playing, Ten. She's acting like she thinks she's my mother.”

Chela never made references to her mother lightly, and her words caught me so off guard that I forgot any snappy answers. If I'd proposed to April in Cape Town instead of backing away, April would have been Chela's stepmother by now, sort of. And Chela's damage from her birth mother's neglect was still multiplying, even years later. Chela needed a mother, and I needed April. Why had it seemed so complicated?

“I'll make sure everything works out fine, Chela,” I said.

I wish I had known the magnitude of my lie.

“Tennyson!”

Escobar caught me at seven o'clock, just when I was ready to slip out to go home. How long had he known I was there? I hoped he wasn't about to try to enlist me in his orgy scene. I surveyed his
masterpiece of makeup: a collection of two dozen nude extras with perfect painted bodies and misshapen faces lay arrayed on dark-colored pillows.

I turned warily, and he gestured for me to come to his high director's chair. Elliot, who was nearby, looked surprised to see me hanging around the set so late.

“I'm off the clock,” I said to Elliot, but the message was meant for Escobar.

“You've been spying on me,” Escobar said.

I glanced at Elliot, wondering if he'd told Escobar about the surveillance photos. I'd been foolish not to ask him to keep it to himself. Elliot shook his head:
Nope, not me
.

“What do you mean?” I asked Escobar.

“What do you think?” Escobar leaned closer to me so I couldn't miss his earnest expression. His chair was so tall that we were at eye level. “This moment. This is the crossroads, Tennyson. All is lost, or all is won. The killing is stopped, or it goes on unchecked. The forces of good marshal against the forces of evil. One is vanquished.”

Elliot might have heard his director talking about his movie. Not me. My heart took a leap, turning cold. Escobar was toying with me.

“I already know how this story ends,” I said.

Escobar's eyes flashed. “Do you?”

“It looks great, Gus,” Elliot said. “It could be a painting by that Spanish artist who went crazy—Goya.”

Escobar and I both ignored Elliot, intensifying our staring match. Finally, Escobar said, “Yes, Francisco Goya. His so-called black paintings, from his time of illness. He painted them directly on his own walls, so they always surrounded him. Do you think true art can only be inspired by madness?”

“You tell me,” I said.

Escobar laughed, patting my shoulder. “This is what I like
about you, Tennyson. It's why I chose you. You're a truth seeker. A truth speaker.”

Elliot, puzzled by our exchange, stepped away to give us privacy. Louise Cannon appeared in his place, flustered as always. “Gus, can we all maybe get some sleep tonight?”

Escobar stared on at me, not blinking. “I won't be sleeping tonight,
mijo,
” he whispered. “I'll be dreaming. But you already know this, don't you, Tennyson?”

Gooseflesh crawled across my arms. It took all of my willpower not to shove him away.

I SAT IN
my car in the parking lot with the engine off, and I couldn't force myself to go home. Escobar had all but announced to me that he would be hunting that night, and if the police weren't going to tail him, I would. I needed to interrupt his plans. I didn't want to hear about another dead woman on the news.

I needed computer-savvy backup, which meant I couldn't rely on Dad, either. I dialed April's number and hoped she was in a good mood.

She wasn't. April had a litany of complaints about Chela, although everything she described sounded mild to me. Chela was apparently on her best behavior.

“Does she know how to pick up her clothes?” April said. “She dropped her jeans in the middle of the hallway! And when she took the milk carton out of the fridge this morning, she left it sitting on the counter. Do you play Jiffy-Maid at home, Ten?”

“I'll talk to her,” I promised, although my thoughts were far away.

“Okay, well, I can see you didn't call for an update on Chela,” April said. “What's up?”

“I'm working a case,” I said, and bit by bit, I told her the real reason I had sent Chela to live with her, including my suspicions about
Escobar. I held back on some of the details about Chela's night with Raphael, but April probably knew. I braced for a lecture, but none came.

“Ten, that's awful,” she said. “But I know you're only telling me this because you want something, so what is it?” The distance in her voice was like a slap.

I missed the version of April who would have reminded how much my investigations had already cost me. But she didn't have to. We both knew.

“Are you near your computer?” I said.

“Yeah, I'm at work. Trying to get out of here early.”

I pretended to miss her hint. “See if you can tie Gustavo Escobar to a boat called
Rosa
that's docked somewhere down here. If it's his boat, maybe he's mentioned it or been photographed with it. I think he takes women to that boat before he drowns them.”

“Based on what?”

I sighed. “Just a hunch, April. I told you, my case has nothing to stand on.”

“If you find his boat, then what?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I'm trying to pull together enough evidence for the cops.”

That might have been partially true but not entirely. We both knew that, too.