Fistful of Benjamins (6 page)

I
didn't sleep for days after Carlos's murder. Just like I imagined, I couldn't eat, sleep, think, interact with my son, nothing. Each time I tried to do anything—when I closed my eyes or even when they were opened—I would see Carlos's fat, bloodied dead body. I was spooked as shit when I returned to work. Everyone was talking about how Carlos had been gunned down in his own house. It had been on the news and everything. I could barely look anyone at work in the eye. Since Carlos had hardly called out in the ten years he was with the Postal Service, when he didn't show up to work for three days everyone grew suspicious. Ben was the one who'd sent the police to the apartment. They'd broken down the door and found him damn near rotting inside. It was a huge news story, which only served to scare the shit out of me even more. Of course, Eduardo wasn't fazed at all.

People at work started looking at me for answers. They were asking me when was the last time I had spoken to him; if I knew of any other friends and family he might've had and if I knew of anyone who would've wanted to hurt or rob him for any reason. I was annoyed as shit about all of the questions. Why would they assume I knew the answers? What would have made people believe Carlos and I had spoken outside of work? Right away, I wondered if Carlos had been spreading rumors that he and I were somehow romantically or sexually involved. Just the thought of anyone else at the job knowing what had happened between us made me shudder and feel sick to my stomach. It would've been a little more than just regular embarrassment if anyone else even suspected us.

“Gabriella,” Ben, my supervisor, said as he touched my shoulder from behind me. I almost jumped out of my skin as if a bolt of lightning had struck me. Ben snatched his hand away quickly and took a few steps backwards, like a snake had bitten him. That is how hard and fiercely I had reacted to his touch.

“Did I startle you?” he asked, his face folded into a confused frown. I swallowed hard and put on a fake smile.

“Um . . . no. I was just daydreaming and didn't hear you coming, so I was a little thrown off when you touched me. I've just been feeling a little stressed with everything going on . . . you know,” I said, my voice shaky. My nerves were on a hairpin trigger. I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. I shoved them in my pockets and even that didn't help.

“I know you of all people heard about Carlos. I know you must be taking it hard,” Ben said sympathetically. I looked at him strangely as if to say,
What the hell do you mean by that? Carlos wasn't my fucking man!
I guess Ben read my mind and the expression on my face.

“What I mean is, you've worked so closely with him since you've been here and he always spoke so highly of you. He told me that you had been bombarded by a lot of deliveries lately and that you were doing such a great job with it. I think Carlos really cared about you, Gabriella,” Ben continued. A pang of guilt flitted through my chest. I had no idea Carlos had been sticking up for me and giving me compliments at work. I had to shake off those thoughts and remember that Carlos also made me sleep with him through fucking blackmail.

“What a senseless tragedy,” Ben said, shaking his head. “He was such a nice guy. I don't know who would do such a terrible thing to an innocent, harmless person like him.” I had to really choke back down my words. Obviously, my opinion of that fat pervert was the total opposite.

“Yeah, a tragedy,” I repeated, at a loss for better words.

“Well, we are all prepared to do our part to help get to the bottom of this. So, I wanted to let you know that there are a few police detectives who are coming in today to speak with some of us here who worked with Carlos. We all know Carlos didn't have any family, so we were the closest thing he had to one. I guess they want to try and get a better sense of how something like this happens to a guy like that. I told the detectives that you and Carlos had a pretty close relationship,” Ben was saying. I was too nervous to even let him finish.

“We weren't close! We worked together and that's it! Why do people keep saying we were close!” I snapped, annoyed that everyone kept insisting that Carlos and me were so damn close. Ben looked at me, clearly taken aback.

“Well, I would see you talking to him all the time—that's all I was saying. I mean, he was your sorter and I could've sworn you guys were like friends. You all seemed to have gotten closer over the past months too. So I just assumed . . .” Ben replied, his eyebrows in high arches on his face.

“Don't assume. Carlos was my sorter and I used to speak to him at work. But, that's it. I can't stand to hear people keep saying we were close, as if we did things together or told each other our closest secrets. We weren't friends outside of work or personal or close or anything like that. It was just a work thing . . . nothing more than that,” I rambled, immediately on the defensive. I was coming apart at the seams and I knew it. I had to get away from Ben before he figured it out. This was definitely more than I had bargained for. And where was Eduardo? Nowhere around to deal with the backlash of his fucking actions.

“Well, the detectives will be here when you're done with your route. So make sure you check back in because they want to speak to as many people as they can, so they can try to make some sense of this horrific incident. I told them we'd all help as much as we could. I told them it was important to speak to you, out of all of us,” Ben said, repeating the same thing again as if he was sending me some sort of message. He was still eyeing me suspiciously.

“Okay, I'll be here,” I said, as calmly as I could. I knew that I had no intention of coming back that day. I didn't know if I'd ever come back. That was, of course, until I spoke to Eduardo.

After my conversation with Ben, I headed into the sorting room. When Carlos first went missing from work, I had asked Ben if I could sort my own packages. Ben allowed it, but had said he was working on finding me a new sorter. That wasn't good at all, but at least that day I was able to get Eduardo and Ant's packages and get them delivered, so there was no lapse. When I got to my last stop that day and met up with Eduardo I told him what Ben had said about the detectives coming by to speak with everyone.

“So? Just got back down there and talk to them,” Eduardo had said nonchalantly, like it was no big damn deal. My eyebrows shot up into arches. I was really starting to think this nigga was straight-up crazy.

“I'm not going back to speak to any cops, Eduardo!” I snapped angrily. “Do you know how nervous I would be? They would be able to tell right away from my body language that I knew more than I was saying. No way,” I continued my tirade, on the brink of tears. I was feeling weak and I knew how persistent cops could be. They would've been able to crack me like a fragile egg in the state of mind I had been in since the murder.

“Yes, you are. You are going to speak to them fucking pigs and act like you know nothing about what happened to that nasty nigga that was blackmailing and raping you. You can play dumb or put on a good show. I don't really care how you do it, but dipping out is not an option. Avoiding shit is never an option, as you can tell from that nigga pushing up daisies right now,” Eduardo demanded.

“What if they feel like I know something?” I complained, biting down on my bottom lip.

“They won't know shit, because you don't know shit. If you start telling yourself you weren't there, you don't know what happened, you had nothing to do with it, then you will believe it when you speak to them. You're going to play it cool; you have no other option. What we got is too good to fuck up right now, Gabriella. You making more money than you could've ever dreamed up. We got a good thing together. Your kid is happy. That lame-ass baby daddy of yours is finally out of the picture. Your mother is proud of you. What more can you ask for? If you want to risk all of that, then you'll fuck this up. If not, you got this. If you play your hand right, everything will be all right. Don't let some bullshit nerves fuck this up for everybody,” Eduardo said convincingly. I closed my eyes for a few minutes to contemplate his words. He was right. My son was so happy. My mother was happier than I'd seen her in years. I was able to buy whatever they wanted and needed with no questions asked.

“C'mon, baby girl. Think about it and then go down there, speak to those fucking cops, and convince them that they are barking up the wrong fucking tree,” Eduardo said, grabbing my hand. I opened my eyes and looked at him. Before I could say anything to evoke any more doubt, Eduardo stuck a wad of money—my weekly pay for the deliveries—in my hand. I guess that was his way of helping his little pep talk hit home. I looked down at the money, which usually made me feel happy and excited, then I looked back at Eduardo. Money wasn't enough to calm down the torment I had going on inside of me, but I still didn't let the money go. I stuffed it into my pocketbook and turned back toward the man I had done all of this for.

“What if, Eduardo? I mean, I don't know how good I can hide because I'm so fucking nervous I can't even keep down any food,” I whined. Eduardo made a face like he was growing sick of me.

“Gabriella, for the last fucking time! Calm the fuck down and just go talk to them. If you avoid them that's like admitting you're guilty about some shit. You can't fuck this up because if you do, shit will get worse for all of us than just a few homicide cops investigating a murder. It'll be fucking DEA, FBI, and all types of feds breathing down our necks. You think they gonna take lightly to you, working for the federal government and doing the shit you've been doing? Hell no—they're going to come down harder on you than even me or Lance. Forget what Luca might do if you fuck up his entire flow. You better go in there and act like you about to win a fucking Emmy award. No joke, you better act like an innocent angel and be damn convincing about it. I don't care how you do it, just do it. I'm not going to talk about this shit anymore,” Eduardo replied, and the tone of his voice was borderline threatening. I looked down at the money sitting in my bag, seemingly glaring back at me. I wondered right then if it was worth it. Was a couple thousand dollars that would've never made me rich anyway worth digging deeper and deeper into the quicksand of my actions? Or signing my life away, for that matter.

W
hen I got back to the post office after my routes, Ben was there with two white detectives waiting for me. Talk about bag of nerves—my damn teeth were hitting together like it was zero-below outside. I had tried to stall and take as long as I could, but that just caused Ben to call me up on my personal cell phone. I guess that was how badly those detectives wanted to speak to me. Apparently, they had already spoken to all of the other mail carriers, clerks, sorters, and packagers at the station. I walked inside slowly, with my head down, too afraid that if I made eye contact they'd be able to read my guilt right away.

“Ah, there she is,” Ben said, rushing over to me. “Whew! Gabriella, I thought you weren't going to show up. They've been waiting a long time for you. What took so long? I had to keep making excuses,” Ben whispered through his teeth. I didn't answer him or look at him, either. Ben pushed me in the back, ushering me toward the two detectives as if I needed help walking.

“Gabriella, these are Detectives Sinclair and Boules. Remember I told you that they wanted to talk to you about Carlos?” Ben introduced, his voice jumping and nervous. He was so damn jittery he was making
me
jittery. What the fuck was he nervous for? I barely opened my mouth to greet the two men, who were both dressed in their obligatory sand-colored trench coats, wingtip shoes, and cheap Men's Wearhouse suits and ties. Because the inside of my mouth was so dry, it felt like I'd eaten ajar of paste.

“Hello, Ms. Vasquez,” one of the detectives said. He had a friendly enough face, unlike his stony-faced partner. I barely opened my mouth again. I just nodded at the detective, who I could tell was just being nice as a tactic.

“They've been speaking to everyone in the break room,” Ben interjected, motioning for me to follow him and them. Apprehensively, I followed Ben and the detectives to the break room. With every step I felt like I was walking into uncertain doom. My legs felt like two lead pipes. I was thinking all sorts of shit now. What if they had found a video in Carlos's house that I had overlooked? What if Carlos left some kind of death manifesto, letting them know everything? What if I had left DNA or fingerprints somewhere in the house, even though Eduardo and I had tried to clean it up? But just as fast as those thoughts came into my head, I started replaying Eduardo's words over in my head as well:
Your kid is happy and your mother is so proud of you.
What he'd said was more important to me than anything else. I decided then that I was going to have to put my big-girl drawers on and ace this fucking interview as if was the last test of my life.

“We can take it from here,” the detective with the friendly face said to Ben. Ben gave my shoulder a squeeze as if he could transfer some strength from himself to me. With that, Ben was gone and I was alone with the two detectives. Friendly-face was tall, bald, slightly overweight, and breathing hard like he'd just run for miles. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Sinclair. Stone-face was also tall, but he was muscular; I could tell that by his thick neck. He seemed to be the paramilitary, clean-cut, by-the-book-type that kicked ass and took names after. He didn't bother to extend his hand or introduce himself. He just kept eyeing me evilly. I guess their good cop-bad cop routine was starting already and it wasn't hard to tell who was going to play which role.

“Ms. Vasquez, I know your supervisor told you we wanted to speak to you to find out some things about Carlos Ortega and that is partially true. But before I ask any questions and you give any answers, let me start by saying, we know some things already. We've done some digging beforehand and I think we are pretty well prepared to talk to you,” Sinclair said, looking over at evil-face Boules for confirmation. Boules nodded and grunted.

“So we want you to know from the very beginning that telling the truth is the only way to go here. It saves you the heartache of lying to us and getting caught up, and it saves us the heartache of painting you as a liar and, in turn, a suspect,” Sinclair said, looking at me with a serious—yet still friendly—gaze. My insides immediately started feeling funny, kind of like I was hungry and had to take a shit at the same damn time. I folded my arms over my abdomen, trying to get the feeling to go away. It was as if my organs were grinding against one another. I stayed quiet after Sinclair's little spiel. Listen to the questions and give them answers—that was all they wanted me to do.

“So to start with, without asking a bunch of bullshit, we think you know some things about what might've happened to Carlos and we would like to know just how much you know,” Sinclair said, leaning in closer to the table. I moved back a bit from the table, clearly uncomfortable.

“Let's face it, Carlos was a little more than just your coworker . . . maybe even a little more than a casual friend,” Sinclair said, raising one of his eyebrows knowingly.
What the fuck does he mean by that? What does he know about me and Carlos? Oh, my God! Does he know I was fucking that nasty pig?
I was screaming in my head and praying that, as terrified as I was, my fear wasn't playing out across my face. Now, my heart was hammering in my chest. The evil-eyed detective, who I assumed was the one Ben had introduced as Boules, stood up and forcefully slammed a case file and a video DVD on the table in front of me. I almost fell out of the chair when I saw the video DVD. I just knew they were about to tell me I was going to jail for the rest of my life for being an accessory to Carlos's murder. I was blinking rapidly.
Maybe Carlos did have more hidden cameras in his apartment. They must have me and Eduardo on tape.

“Is there anything you want to tell us?” Sinclair asked, as Boules drummed his fingers on top of the video. I kept thinking about what Eduardo had told me. I had to play it cool, even if the detectives seemed like they knew everything. I decided to stick to that plan and see where it took me. If they knew something more, they were going to have to pry that shit out of my lips.

I shook my head left to right, signaling that I didn't have anything to share with the detectives. Boules let out a long, exasperated breath and stopped moving his fingers. There was a few minutes of mind-bending silence. It was so quiet my breath was loud in my own ears.

“You and Carlos Ortega were good friends here at the job, no? This video from the camera shows you having long conversations with him every day—even the day before he was murdered,” Sinclair said, moving in closer to the table and eyeing me closely. I swallowed hard, thanking God silently that the videotape wasn't from Carlos's building, apartment or some shit like that. These stupid-ass cops had just told on themselves. I was thinking,
You dumb asses should've bluffed a little longer and you might've scared the truth out of me.

“We weren't friends. He was my sorter, so I had to spend time talking to him about routes and packages . . . you know, work stuff, but that was it. Everyone thinks that we were closer than we actually were. I guess that was the way Carlos made it seem to everyone. He was a really lonely man, but I guess you already know all about that. I am just a person who is always nice to everyone. I felt sorry for Carlos, because he was always talking about wanting to have a family, a wife, or even just a girlfriend to take on dates, so I was always nicer to him than everyone else here. People can be very mean. You know because he was . . . was . . . different,” I said, widening my arms so that they got my drift. Both detectives were hanging on my every word. Evil eye twisted his lips like he wasn't so convinced by my rousing speech.

“The other day he told me he was going to meet a girl on craigslist; you know, so he could have sex or whatever these men do when they pick up strange women from a Web site like that. I was kind of shocked. I knew Carlos was lonely, but I never expected him to really be into like, prostitution—well, digital prostitution. I told him not to do it. I warned him that not only was it illegal, it could be dangerous meeting strange women like that, because they could rob him or worse, set him up, and have their real boyfriends or pimps hurt him. I don't know if Carlos went through with his plans to meet the strange woman and this is the result or not. I sure hope that you guys look into that; because honestly, I don't know anyone else who would've wanted to hurt him,” I fabricated on the spot, lowering my voice like I was really sad and concerned. I had surprised even myself with my lying and acting skills. Shit, like Eduardo said, I deserved an Emmy or Oscar for that performance. I was clapping for myself in my head.

Sinclair and Boules looked at each other like they were considering what I'd told them. I'm sure the dumbfounded looks on their faces meant that they were probably thinking this was the first time they were hearing anything about a craigslist date. I even had two seemingly seasoned detectives second-guessing their investigative skills.

“What do you know about the packages Carlos sorted every day? Aside from the fact that he just gave them to you for delivery
every day
,” Sinclair asked, stressing the words
every
and
day
. “Did he ever say anything to you about any strange packages that he'd been receiving? Any packages that were coming from the same place? In another state, maybe?” Sinclair asked. I immediately felt sweat beads running a race down my back. I balled up my toes in my shoes and bit into my bottom lip.
Stay calm, Gabriella. They don't know shit. Stay calm like Eduardo said. Just answer what they ask.

“I don't know anything, except he sorted the stuff for my routes and I delivered them. I'm just the little ol' mail lady; I never get caught up in where packages came from or really who they were going to. Especially express-mail packages. I just dropped them wherever they needed to go. Carlos certainly never spoke to me about any one package in particular. All of our conversations were just general,” I replied, lowering my eyes. My legs involuntarily started to swing in and out under the table. I tried to control them, but they would just start back up again. Boules and Sinclair looked at each other again. This time their exchange was more like a knowing smirk rather than a dumbfounded, confused look. That seemed like a bad omen to me, but I continued to wear my poker face nonetheless.

“Humph,” Sinclair said, looking at me through squinty eyes. “So you know nothing about the packages? You just delivered them to the correct addresses as they were listed on the boxes?

“Yes, sir,” I said, all official-like. The detectives looked at each other again.

“And you're sure this is all you know?” Sinclair asked, his tone suspicious.

“Like I said, I'm just the mail lady,” I replied. Boules stood up first. He still wore a pissed-off scowl, but that wasn't anything new for him. I was more concerned about Sinclair's facial expression. His eyes and face were no longer so friendly. He wore a scowl as well now. He kind of looked like I'd insulted him in some way.

“You have a nice day, Ms. Vasquez,” Sinclair said as Boules picked up the stack of stuff from the table. Sinclair stood up next. He started gathering up his pen and pad too.

“That's it? We're done here? Just like that? Seems so—so—abrupt,” I said nervously. Neither of the detectives responded.

“Is there any other information about who might've done this? Are you going to check out the craigslist lead? Is there anything else I should worry about?” I asked a bunch of dumbass questions. It was my nerves; they'd finally gotten the best of me. I was fucking bugging for that, but I needed to know why they had ended the interview so abruptly. I was nervous as shit about that. What did they know about the packages? Why were they even asking about the packages?

“We have no other information, Ms. Vasquez. We are still investigating. I can tell you this much, something about Carlos Ortega's murder smells very fishy. And for some reason, I just keep thinking it has something to do with his job. Something to do with someone close by. Something to do with those packages we asked you about. I guess you can just say this is not my first time at the ballpark, so I'm a little smarter than the average gumshoe out there,” Sinclair said snidely. I didn't know what else to say to that.

Both detectives gave me a knowing glance before they walked out of the break room, leaving me there alone, paranoid and scared shitless. Now I had to decide just how much I was going to share with Eduardo.