The Cage Sessions(9)
"Annika, is that you?" she says.
"Hi, mom," I say.
"Are you feeling better?"
"Much better. Really better. Super better."
We do our usual recap of the world's events. Gays are having too much fun. The President is a socialist. Miley Cyrus twerking in her little shorts is the ultimate source of evil in the world. I skip over 99% of everything I've done, brushing things off with, "Oh, Iz and I just hung out and watched a couple of movies."
Amazing how my mom still buys that after all these years.
We eat dinner, watch a rerun of The Waltons (shoot me now!), and eventually I say good night and make my way to my room.
(But not my room for much longer. Yay!)
I take out my Mac laptop and boot it up. I get the note out of my bag. I Google "arelie gutierrez machado brimford ma".
Top five results are news articles dated January 19, 2011. Three years ago. Each is a variation of the same story. A 33-year old man named Arely Gutierrez-Machado was shot execution-style behind a club off the main street in Brimford, Massachusetts. Worked as a mechanic. Leaves behind three kids by three different women. Lived in Brimford his entire life. No arrests. No suspects. Police say they are investigating.
Damien a cold-blooded killer? My spidey sense says no. Tough, yes. Kick your ass, yes. Punch somebody, yes. Defend his home with a weapon, yes.
But kill in cold blood?
No.
Not Damien Cage.
No way.
Right?
Right?
* * *
I have a dream that Damien sings Nickelback's Far Away then gets into a rocketship that takes off into space, never to return. A crowd is gathered at the launch site. Greg Colton walks up to me and says, "You're a dirty girl." Then the third pool girl walks up to me and says, "You can't even remember my name, you slut!" and slaps me in the face.
Then I wake up.
6:03 says my alarm clock.
Shit.
I get up, shower, and leave the house before my mom even wakes up.
Soon I'm parked on Grand near the Coconut Grove Starbucks, a healthy amount of iced caramel cappuccino zapping through my bloodstream.
In my amazing new car!
I swear I don't want to get out of it. And I'm being super-duper careful not to spill anything on my new seats.
Gently, I put my drink into one of the built-in holders.
Then I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Time to make a phone call.
I used to make my phone calls from the office Dale and I shared but looks like this 2014 Ford Fusion is my office now. Almost as big, actually.
I pick up my cell phone and dial the Brimford, Massachusetts police department. I take a deep breath.
"Brimford Police," says the operator. "This call is being recorded."
"Detective Gomez, please," I say.
"One moment."
I take a deep breath.
"Gomez," says a masculine voice.
"Hello, Detective Gomez," I say, "My name is Annika Spenser of MiamiImproper.com. We're gathering some background information about an unsolved murder from 2011 and my research shows you were the investigator on the case."
"You're calling from where?"
Shit, he had to clarify, didn't he?
"MiamiImproper.com," I say. "We're a small news magazine here in Miami. The case was the murder of a man named Arely Gutierrez-Machado on January 18, 2011."
Silence, then I hear keys tapping.
"Your website is down," he says.
Shit.
"Really?" I say. "I'll have to call the office about that."
"Your last name is Spenser with an S?" he says.
"Yes, that's me."
More silence. More keys tapping.
"I see some of your articles archived on Google," he says. "Most recent is an interview with rock star Damien Cage."
He chuckles.
Asshole.
"Yes," I say.
"Why would you want to know about the murder of a small-time hood three years ago and fifteen hundred miles away?" he says.
I had planned for this question.
"A tip," I say. "Probably some troll making things up, but I always follow through on leads."
"What kind of tip?" he says.
"A phone call I received from an unknown number. Said I should investigate the connection between a Jose Gonzales here in Miami and that murder case."
I picked a very common fake name on purpose. Don't want to incriminate anybody.
"Do you have a date of birth for Jose Gonzales?" says Gomez.
"No I don't," I say.
"How about an address?"
"No. He just said Miami."
Gomez snorts.
Shit, that's weak, isn't it? Can I get a do-over? Nope, too late.
"Why would someone call you to give you this tip do you think?" he says in a clearly condescending tone.
I give my phone the finger.
"I honestly don't know," I say.
"Well, there's not much I can tell you, Miss Spenser," he says. "Straightforward murder. Shot execution style in the parking lot of Club Cabrillo in Brimford."