by Tim Dorsey
Brook understood; she had lost someone, too. She reached under the covers to hold his hand. Serge let her but didn’t grip back.
Brook wasn’t interested in sex, but she knew she was at one of those vulnerable moments and wouldn’t have objected if he made the overture. He didn’t.
Serge had his reasons. They differed woman to woman. Like Sasha. Serge was on her in a heartbeat. But that was just a violent collision of dangerous people swapping fluids the way NASCAR drivers trade paint. Brook was pure.
Serge became silent again, studying the ceiling. Danger affects women differently. Sasha was drawn to it; Brook found a safe harbor from it.
She scooted over and snuggled into Serge’s shoulder and felt secure.
They dozed off together.
THE NEXT MORNING
All the lights were on before dawn in an upper-floor suite of a high-rise on Biscayne Boulevard.
Enzo Tweel sat at the writing desk. His demeanor never betrayed emotion, but inside he was a lava pit. All those stupid idiots in their matching T-shirts just had to show up last night at the worst possible moment. But Plan A hadn’t been a total waste. The bright side was that Serge and his two companions would begin restricting their movements because of his ruse: After Enzo had shot the fake Rick Maddox, he dropped the DEA badge on the floor. And from the phone tap on Mahoney’s line last night, he learned that they had fallen for it. They thought they were being hunted for killing a bona fide federal agent when it was the scammer all along.
It motivated Enzo. He put pen to legal pad. Time for Plan B. There had been a flurry of late-night calls to Mahoney, all from the same number. Enzo heard a woman tell the PI that she had been trying to get ahold of Serge but he wasn’t answering his cell. Could Mahoney please ask him to call her? She wanted to meet with important information she couldn’t divulge over the phone. Tell him it’s Sasha.
Enzo looked up at the wall. The name rang a bell. He flipped back through his legal pad for notes from previously tapped conversations. Sure enough, there she was, in a phone call from Serge about cracking a dating bandit case.
An alert jingled on his smartphone. Another taped conversation coming in via satellite. Sasha again. The murder of her crime colleague Rick Maddox was too much. With the bloody winnowing of her gang, she wanted out. She wanted to meet Serge. Noon, the Fandango sidewalk café on Ocean Drive.
Another alert quickly followed. An outgoing call from Mahoney to Serge informing him of Sasha’s request. This time Serge was eager: She was now his best and only lead to track down her boss, South Philly Sal or Enzo or whatever his name.
“I’ll call her right after I get off the phone with you,” said Serge.
This was good. Fit perfectly into Plan B.
Enzo packed his leather satchel again.
Wake up.”
Brook’s eyes fluttered open. “What time is it?”
“Time to go,” said Serge.
“Go where?”
Serge was already dressed with duffel bag packed. “I need to get you someplace safe.”
“But I’m safe with you.”
Serge shook his head. “That was a federal agent last night. The heat’s going to be unreal. There’s all those witnesses, and by now the cops are looking for two men and a woman, so it’s better we split up until I can sort some things out and get you in the clear.”
Brook climbed into the Firebird again but without reservations. Serge drove a short distance to another roach motel and went in the office. He returned and led them to room 23.
Serge opened his wallet. “Okay, Brook, I’ve got you all set up. You’re registered under an alias. Here’s the room key . . .”
Brook Campanella took the magnetic card. “Why can’t I stay with you guys?”
“I already explained. And I have an important meeting that just came up.”
“Can I come along?” asked Brook.
“It’s someplace you can’t be,” said Serge. “For your own good.”
“But you will come back?”
“Right after the meeting,” said Serge. “You have my word. But whatever you do, don’t leave this room under any circumstances until I return.”
She nodded.
“I’d like you to say it.”
“I promise I won’t leave the room.”
“Good.”
Brook gave Serge a tight hug, and he left the motel with Coleman.
Brook picked up the phone. “Yes, I’d like a taxi . . .”
OCEAN DRIVE
The “it” address on Miami Beach. Trendy restaurants and hotels. Beautiful people walked around being beautiful. Rollerblades, champagne in ice buckets next to sidewalk tables, sprinting valets. Topless sunbathing was against the law but the law wasn’t enforced.
Sasha arrived an hour early, sitting alone at her table in front of the Fandango. Six times already she’d had to fend off another male model who wanted to join her. She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes till Serge.
Another suitor made a play. But this one didn’t ask before taking the seat across from her.
She made an exaggerated sigh and started off in annoyance. “Not interested.”
“I’m a friend of Serge.”
Her head swung and their eyes locked. “You are? What’s the matter? Is he coming? How do you know him?”
“He’s definitely coming, and I also work for Mahoney and Associates. The same case in fact. South Philly Sal.”
“Serge told you about him?”
Enzo nodded. “But right now I need a favor. It’s for Serge. Can you call Sal and vouch for me so I can talk to him?”
“What for?”
“It’s Serge’s idea. That’s all he wants you to know, for your own safety.”
“Sure, I guess.” She reached in her purse and flipped a phone open. “Sal? It’s me, Sasha . . . Oh, not much, but I have a friend here who wants to talk to you . . . I’m not sure what it’s about. But he’s definitely cool. I’ve known him since high school . . . Okay, here he is.” She handed the cell across the table.
He got up from his chair and turned around for privacy.
“Is this Sal?”
“Who am I talking to?”
“My name is Enzo Tweel. Can we meet somewhere?”
“I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t care what Sasha says.”
“We’re in the same line of work.”
“What are you, a fucking cop? It’s not going to work.”
“I know who’s been picking off members of your crew. Gustave, Omar, the guy from the hotel heist with the toilet lids, the other one from the funeral burglary, and last night your so-called Rick Maddox.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Because he’s also been picking off my crew. Works for a private eye, except I don’t think they did a proper psychological background check. The guy’s totally out of control on some kind of vigilante crusade. His name’s Serge. Serge Storms.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Neither had I, but frankly I’m starting not to feel too safe myself. And I’m guessing you’ve probably had the same thoughts. That’s why I’d like to meet and see if you have any ideas. I don’t really want to discuss this on the phone, and we can’t exactly go to the police.”
There was a pause. “Put Sasha back on.”
She took the phone. “Hey, Sal . . . Yeah, I can swear for him . . . Whatever he says is absolutely on the level . . .” Sasha held up the phone. “Wants to talk to you again.”
“Okay, let’s meet.”
“Seven o’clock, Tortugas Inn,” said Enzo. “Room’s registered under my name. If I’m not there yet, I’ll leave a key at the desk for you.” He hung up, set his leather satchel on the table and smiled.
“Hey!” Sasha pointed at the road. “There’s Serge n
ow!”
Across the street, Serge struggled to parallel-park his Firebird in a rare free space on Ocean Drive. “Dang it, these assholes didn’t leave enough space.” Reverse, forward, reverse, forward.
Coleman chugged a to-go cup. “This is like the final episode of The Sopranos.”
“I’m not amused.” Reverse, forward. “There, finally!”
“Hey, Serge, that restaurant, the Fandango. Isn’t that where Felicia— I mean, shit, why did I say that?”
“Let’s just go.”
They jogged across the road between a Jaguar and a Harley. Serge reached the sidewalk and looked around. There was Sasha under one of the tables with an umbrella. Someone screamed. Then another. With Sasha’s platinum-blond hair, there was high contrast and no mistaking the matted blood on the back of her facedown head.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Firebird blew through traffic on the MacArthur Causeway back to the mainland from Miami Beach. It dodged and wove through slower-speeding sports cars screaming past celebrity homes on Palm and Star islands.
“Serge, you drive fast,” said Coleman. “But not this fast. What if a cop spots us?”
“Then we’ll be on live TV, because I’m not stopping.”
“Righteous.”
Serge flipped open his own cell and hit redial. “Brook? Serge. I’m sorry about this, but something’s come up, and I swear to be back as soon as possible.”
“What is it?” Brook asked from the back of a taxi.
“Once again, better you not know,” said Serge. “But trust me that I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Why? What can happen besides the police?” said Brook. “I’ve been thinking that a good lawyer can explain that.”
“It’s something else,” said Serge. “Just give me your word you won’t leave the room until I get back. You haven’t left the room, have you?”
“Uh, no,” said Brook, looking out the window at passing buildings. “Not for a second.”
“Good girl,” said Serge. “Now here’s the hard part. I’m going to have to stop taking calls soon because I don’t know what phones are tapped anymore. So you’ll just have to hang in there.”
“All right. When do you expect—”
“Got to go.”
He hung up and the cell rang again before it reached his pocket. Serge didn’t even look at the number.
“Mahoney, listen, I’m— . . . What? South Philly Sal is supposed to be where? The Tortugas Inn? Seven o’clock? . . . Who told you this? . . . They wouldn’t say? . . . Okay, thanks.” The phone clapped shut as Serge skidded over the line at minimum clearance between a Mitsubishi and a Pepsi truck, then whipped back into the fast lane.
Coleman made a rare check of his seat belt. “What was that about?”
“Mahoney got an anonymous tip. A room at the Tortugas Inn was registered to a customer named Enzo Tweel.”
“What’s that mean?”
“That Mahoney’s phone is tapped.”
“Just because someone called in a tip?”
“Enzo called in a tip on himself. Then listened when Mahoney forwarded it. He’s baiting me.” Serge nearly sideswiped a Gold Coast taxi skidding toward the exit ramp to Biscayne Boulevard. “What happened to Sasha back there. Same café, identical MO, even the same table. I’ll never forget that table as long as I live. He’s trying to provoke me into not thinking clearly.”
Coleman’s shaking hands prepared a drink. “What are you going to do?”
“Take the bait . . .”
Two miles south, a Cherokee was parked at a Citgo station. The driver had a telephoto camera aimed diagonally across the street at the Tortugas Inn. His other hand held a cell phone. “No, I don’t trust him one bit,” said South Philly Sal. “It’s definitely a trap. I’d bet anything that this character who calls himself Enzo Tweel is actually Serge . . . Because right now he has the edge since I have no idea what he looks like, and I mean to fix that. This Serge character is ruining our business.”
Two blocks in the other direction, binoculars aimed out the driver’s window of a parked Beemer. The Tortugas Inn filled the field of vision. Enzo was beginning to enjoy his role as puppet master in this demented marionette show. The binoculars swept the street, from the black-barreled barbecue stand three blocks north, then back to the Citgo station three streets the other way. All quiet on the western front.
A black Firebird turned off Biscayne a half mile south of the Tortugas Inn, and took a parallel road through a run-down neighborhood.
“Serge, if you know it’s a trap, why are we going?”
“Because he expects my anger to rush me into the web.” Serge checked all his mirrors during a prolonged pause at a stop sign. “Enzo is hanging back watching the motel for me to arrive. So, like a spider, we’re going to drive in tightening concentric circles from the perimeter because someone on surveillance isn’t looking backward . . .”
Over on the main drag, binoculars in the Beemer tightened again on the Tortugas Inn. A few hundred yards away, a telephoto lens snapped a rapid burst of room exterior photos from a Jeep Cherokee.
Serge explored the residential streets a block off U.S. 1 and turned into a trash pickup alley behind the storefronts facing Biscayne.
“I recognize that smell,” said Coleman.
“Just watch for anything odd.”
“Everything’s odd.” Coleman blazed a Thai stick. “Those chicks at the corner are dousing each other with spray paint.”
“That’s just huffing gone inaccurate.” The Firebird rolled up behind a gas station. “Coleman, how often do you see a telephoto lens sticking out a car window at a Citgo station?”
“Let me count . . .” Coleman strained mentally. “Uh, zero.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Serge parked out of sight behind the station’s car wash. High-pressure water jets and giant spinning brushes created a cover of sound. “Coleman, wait here and keep her running. He’s no doubt armed but riveted on the room, so I have a good chance to outflank him.”
Serge closed the driver’s door but let it stay unlatched. He moved slowly along the back wall of the car wash, sliding his right hand into the waistband of his shorts and feeling a familiar grip. He peeked around the edge of the car wash, but his view was blocked by a wet, gleaming Audi that emerged from the building and dripped water as it drove back to the highway.
The view was clear. There was the Jeep, its driver still preoccupied with his camera and phone. Serge retreated a step behind the building and rested the back of his head against the wall. He closed his eyes, flicking the safety off his pistol. He had ached two whole years for this moment, and now closure sat across the parking lot a few yards away.
Serge crept from behind the car wash and worked his way around the edge of the property, passing the fifty-cent tire inflater and a blue pay phone stand with the phone removed. He stopped and studied the Jeep’s mirrors and calculated the one, single straight line to the vehicle that would keep the mirrors blind to him. He began walking the asphalt tightrope.
The cell-phone conversation could be heard at a range of fifteen feet.
“. . . Yeah, he hasn’t shown yet. I think this is a big waste of time,” said Sal. “But you have to consider the source that vouched for this. Sasha can really be out to lunch sometimes . . .”
The phone was snatched from his left hand and smashed to the ground. His head spun. “What the fuck?”
Serge cracked him quickly in the side of the head with his pistol butt.
“You’re a dead man,” said Sal.
“Just set the camera down slowly on the dash.” Serge kept the .45 pressed to Sal’s temple and opened the door with his other hand. “Now get out.”
Sal eased himself from the driver’s seat. “Are you Serge?”
“That’s right,
your new chauffeur.”
Moments later, behind the car wash, Sal lay in the bed of the Firebird’s trunk. Wrists and ankles bound with plastic ties. “You better make damn sure you kill me, or I’ll leave you in a million pieces.”
Serge tucked the gun behind his back and smiled. “I can work with that.”
The hood slammed.
A couple blocks south, binoculars lowered in a Beemer. Enzo Tweel checked his Rolex. What could be taking so long? One of his areas of expertise was human behavior, and provoking Serge with that Sasha business back at the beach was a can’t-miss.
And he was right.
The binoculars went to his eyes again just as a black Firebird sped south.
“Son of a bitch!”
The binoculars flew into the backseat as Enzo hit the gas to merge onto Biscayne.
And he merged T-bone-style into the side of a beer truck.
“You stupid fucking moron!” the beer-truck driver yelled down from his cab. “Look what you did to my truck!”
Enzo aimed a German pistol at the driver, who promptly raised his hands in silent surrender before diving across the front seat and scrambling out the passenger door.
The luxury sedan was crumpled to the side panels, and Enzo needed his shoulder to pop the door open. He crawled out of the car with a gash on his forehead and tiny pieces of windshield in his hair.
Enzo began limping away toward the camouflage of the adjoining neighborhood, looking up the highway as a southbound Firebird became a dot and disappeared.
Chapter Thirty-Five
BISCAYNE BOULEVARD
Lights glowed through the curtains of the second-floor motel room. Water ran in the sink.
Serge whipped a spatula around the mixing bowl. He had tremendously thick rubber gloves and a welder’s apron. The gloves were orange.
“What’cha makin’?” asked Coleman.
“Don’t get so close,” said Serge. “You’re not wearing protective goggles.”
“Hey, that’s some of the stuff we picked up at Food King.”