by Shirl Henke
“And then Reicht tried to kill you and Farley. Doesn’t sound as if you’re in any better position to protect the boy. If I sent agents to wherever you’ve hidden him, there’s no way Reicht or Winchester could know to follow them.”
“What if he were already in legal custody?” Matt interjected. He could see the two of them had reached a stalemate.
Scruggs narrowed his eyes and looked at Matt. Sam pinched his thigh beneath the table, but he waved her off.
“What do you mean by legal custody?” the agent asked suspiciously.
“Miami-Dade PD custody. You can verify it through Patowski.”
“Matt, you know feds of any kind never believe the local cops can slap their own asses using both hands, for crying out loud,” Sam said, exasperated. Knowing the police connection, it wouldn’t take a sharp operator like Elvis Scruggs long to figure out the Spacefleet link to Montoya.
“The first thing the DEA needs to do is turn that disk over to Ida Kleb and let the IRS crunchers analyze what’s on it,” Granger said to Scruggs. “You planted bugs in his office, too. Look, you may not need Farley Winchester to break the case wide open. At least give the kid a chance while you work with what you already have.”
Elvis muttered an oath. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to work with Ida Kleb.” He actually shuddered.
Matt grinned. “As a matter of fact, I have a damn good idea. Be easier to deal with a poked rattler…to borrow a page from your lexicon.”
“For a Boston Yalie, you know your snakes.”
“Like I said, I’ve met the dame. I’ve also met ex-KGB agents with more charm.”
Sam could sense some kind of weird male bonding between Matt and Elvis. Men. Who could ever figure them? Before their uneasy accord broke, she said, “We’ll find out why Satterwaite insinuated herself into Farley’s life and became Reicht’s patient. Somehow it all ties together.” She shook the ice in the bottom of her empty glass, tapping her fingers against it. “I have a hunch once we find out why Reicht killed her, you and Patowski can bust up a major drug ring and solve a murder at the same time.”
“If I don’t make contact with Far, you don’t, either. Reicht could get lucky and have one of his goons tail you.”
“Fair enough,” Sam said. “Just keep in touch about what you find out and we’ll do the same. Let’s exchange numbers.”
“Where does that leave you with collecting your retrieval fee from Winchester if he ends up in jail?” Scruggs asked bluntly.
The DEA agent had done his homework on her, Matt thought with an inward grin he did not show. “Sammie will work something out. She’s resourceful that way.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Scruggs said.
“I’ll get busy digging on Susan Mallory Winchester. See if there’s any way to prove her OD wasn’t self-inflicted,” Matt said as they left the Brickell District behind.
“I’ll check on Roman Numeral’s household help. See who else he may have fired recently. He isn’t exactly the type to inspire undying loyalty.”
The lights from the Miami skyline reflected on the glassy waters of the Intracoastal while Sam steered her battered van over the MacArthur Causeway toward their home in South Beach. Neither the city nor the beach ever slept. Ahead the bright lights from high-rise apartments and condos ringing the Art Deco District beckoned. Since moving in with Matt, she’d gotten used to living close to the stunning view. Her old rental house on NE 110th had a great view, too…if your tastes ran to junker cars, tall weeds and discarded appliances rusting in the yard.
She’d liked her old neighbors, for the most part, and the price had been reasonable. When she first found out what Matt’s mortgage on the condo was she’d nearly had a heart attack. Of course, he refused to give up his home and since he was making the payments, she went along with it, grudgingly. But damn, on starry nights like this, the sounds of salsa music and laughter did beat hell out of bikers revving up their engines and wives screeching at their husbands until the cops arrived with flashing lights to quell the domestic disturbances.
The fragrance of lush tropical flowers filled the air and she took a deep breath from her open window. Matt cupped the back of her neck with one big hand and said, “Admit it, you love it here.”
“It’s pretty cool.”
“Safer than that cinder block bastion where you used to hang out,” he said.
“That depends,” she replied, glancing in her rearview mirror.
“Mmm,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck with his lips now. “On what?”
“On whether that’s the same tan Mustang that tried to make my van into a sieve back at the Kentucky state line.”
Matt looked out his side-view mirror and saw what looked like an identical vehicle approaching them far above the speed limit. Then it pulled into the passing lane and drew even with them. “I think we’re in trouble,” he said as moonlight glinted off the barrel of the MP5 that suddenly appeared in the passenger window.
Chapter 21
“Duck, Sam!” he yelled.
She leaned forward against the steering wheel and slammed down on the souped-up accelerator of the Econoline. It raced ahead of the muscle car just as a burst of automatic weapon fire roared. The rear side panel of the van took the hit. The Econoline swerved on impact, coming perilously close to the causeway guardrail, but Sam quickly corrected course.
“Damn, I just got it back from the shop this morning! Do you know how much our insurance is gonna go up now?”
“Forget the insurance. Just get us the hell away from those bozos who’re shooting at us!” Matt grabbed her bag and pulled the snub nose out of it, then started leaning out his window to see if he had a shot at their pursuers.
“Jeez, will you get your head inside before they blow it off! You can’t hit them from the right.”
She no more than got the words out before another round of fire thudded into the rear of the van, clipping one tire. A blowout at eighty miles per hour was never good. At that speed on a causeway with nothing to the sides but oncoming traffic and a drop-off into the channel, it was even worse. Sam held on to the wheel and cut it sharply as it kissed the railing, leaving behind a trail of sparks.
Once she was forced to slow, the Mustang pulled into the passing lane again and smashed against the side of the van. “Two can play this game, buddy,” she snarled, turning her wheel to slam back at the lighter sports car.
No one knew by looking at the old Econoline that it had been fitted with sheet steel panels and that the engine and drive train had been customized to make it sturdier and faster than an ordinary utility van. Driving on the rim of a tire, however, dangerously slowed it. All she could do was play hard dodgem cars now. She hit the Mustang broadside and knocked it into an approaching car. Horns blared and tires squealed as cars and SUVs swerved to avoid a collision.
“Driver’s good,” she muttered between clenched teeth as the Mustang held the road. But it bought them a small window of time before the flat tire gave out. “We already missed Palm. Gotta make it to Terminal Island.”
“I don’t think they’ll follow us into the Coast Guard barracks, but that turn’s too sharp—”
Matt didn’t get any further before Sam slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel hard to the right, peeling downhill onto the narrow blacktop road leading to the Coast Guard station on the island. If not for the flat tire’s rim scraping along the concrete, they probably would have rolled making the U-turn. As it was, the van skidded on loose gravel, traveling sideways for nearly a dozen yards before Sam was able to get it under control and limp toward the station’s lights.
Their pursuers did not follow.
As they watched the taillights of the Mustang vanish into the traffic swarming toward Miami Beach, he said, “Great driving, Sammie. Wish I could have made their plates.”
“No way in the dark. Besides, they’ll just ditch the car on a side street or parking deck,” she said as she dialed the Beach police. “We might get lu
cky and have a unit coming up Alton to Fifth.”
As she spoke with the dispatcher, Matt checked the rear of the van. Both the left side panel and rear doors were pock-marked with bullet holes. “Get lucky? We’re already damn lucky to be alive and in one piece,” he muttered.
“They’ll send a couple of units nearby to look for a tan Mustang but I bet our boys walk before anyone sees them,” she said, discouraged. She climbed out of the van and inspected the bent rim and bullet-riddled body of her car. “Uncle Dec’s gonna kill me when he sees what I’ve done to his baby.”
“It’s your van, Sam,” Matt reminded her.
“Yeah, but it was my uncle who did all the heavy lifting when we replaced the engine and transmission.” She kicked what was left of the shot-out tire. “And now we have to wait for the Beach cops and fill out a mountain of paperwork.”
Just as she said that the bright red-and-blue flashing lights of a police car drew closer. “I’ll take you to Jerry’s Deli for breakfast when we’re done,” he said, planting a consoling kiss on her cheek. “You can even order onions with your lox and I won’t complain.”
Sam continued to stare disconsolately at her van as the cruiser pulled alongside them.
She had a double order of nova lox on a giant poppy-seed bagel with extra cream cheese, tomatoes and onion on the side. They sat outdoors at Jerry’s, watching pedestrian traffic warily. They hadn’t had the chance to see the gunmen in the Mustang on either occasion. Any innocent-looking tourist or guy on a bicycle could be one of the shooters. The mustang had been quickly located near Flamingo Park, leading the police to surmise that they’d had an escape vehicle parked nearby intending to switch after disposing of Sam and Matt.
“Never ceases to amaze me how you can put away the chow and stay so slim,” Matt said, taking a piece of bacon and popping it into his mouth.
“Getting shot at burns calories like crazy. So does getting run off the road and nearly crashing over a guardrail.”
“Now if you could only figure a way to burn off the halitosis from those onions, life would be perfect,” he teased, knowing she was still dejected about her van having to be towed in for more expensive repairs. When she didn’t respond with her usual sharp comeback, he turned their conversation to the case. “Maybe those bozos left some prints on the Mustang. I bet they have rap sheets longer than a roll of toilet paper.”
“Yeah, they’re strictly amateur night, trying a dumb stunt like that after they messed up in Kentucky. I bet whoever hired them didn’t green-light it.”
“If the cops arrest them, they might give up their boss or bosses.”
“So far we don’t even have a print. And it takes forever to run them through all the databases,” she said, polishing off her lox. “We’d better get cracking before Elvis finds Farley—or worse yet, Winchester or Reicht do.”
He waved to their waiter and handed him two twenties, saying, “Keep the change.”
“What, are you Bill Gates already? That was a twenty-five percent tip, for crying out loud,” she hissed as the smiling waiter strolled away. “Ask for change.”
“No, yes and no, responding to your remarks in order,” he said, starting to cross the street and head south on Collins Avenue toward their condo.
Sputtering about champagne-taste preppies living on beer incomes, she followed. Right now he had the only set of wheels and she needed them. “While you surf the Net for info on Farley’s mother, I’ll need your car.” She knew his sea-foam-blue Mustang convertible was as much his pride and joy as her refitted Econoline was hers.
“No way, Sammie. You’ll end up leaving it in the scrap heap. Besides, it’s a convertible, for Pete’s sake. You’d be too easy a target.”
“So I’ll ride with the top up,” she argued. “Come on, Matt, you know I have to have a car.”
“So, rent one.”
“You are certifiable, you know that! Pay those asphalt pirates outrageous rates when we have a perfectly good car sitting at home. I’m not made of money. In fact, this case may cost me a bundle if I can’t figure a way to squeeze the money out of Upton Winchester IV before I send him to jail.”
Actually, Sam was the certifiable one, in his opinion. “Okay, give your pal Señor Obregon a call. I bet he’d let you have that old Charger for a good price.” One of her former neighbors up on NE 110th ran a junker car dealership without benefit of license. She’d rented the incredibly battered old Dodge Charger minus second gear from Raoul Obregon when Matt had first met her.
“I’d still have to get up there to pick it up,” she wheedled.
“Use that charm on your buddy Leon, the cabbie. He’ll drive you there if you don’t haggle about the price too much.”
“You’re a hard man, Matthew Granger.”
“So you’ve said a time or two.” He waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively.
Sam was in no mood for double entendres as she punched the access code and the condo gate opened. On her way upstairs, she walked past his convertible. The urge to key it was almost irresistible, but she’d had to give her keys to the tow truck driver when he hauled the Econoline away. I’m just being bitchy because of my van.
She knew Matt was right. She’d have his pristine car wracked up in nothing flat—and that didn’t even take into account any more goons shooting at her. A disturbingly distinct possibility ever since she had accepted this job.
The 1970 Dodge Charger was still missing second gear as Sam babied it through several stoplights en route to the Winchester family manse in a very posh section of Coconut Grove. Winchester’s home was newly built with its own private mooring on Biscayne Bay. She recognized a fifty-plus-foot Tiara yacht bobbing gently at its berth. Interestingly, it bore the name Susan M. on the side. She wondered why Roman Numeral hadn’t had it changed after his most unlamented wife passed.
“Probably didn’t want to piss off his in-laws,” she muttered to herself as she walked the flagstone path twisting around poinciana and tulip trees toward the servants’ quarters. On her earlier visit she had learned where Dare Rogers, the family chauffeur, lived, along with a small army of other servants. The lawn was as manicured as a golf green and tropical flowers of every hue were perfectly clustered to provide sun and shade color to the lush setting. No weed would ever dare raise its head aboveground.
She grinned, thinking of Raoul Obregon’s front yard where the crabgrass was knee-high and the only spring flowers were dandelions. Before driving over, she had called the housekeeper, Mrs. Wachter, disguising her voice with a Southern drawl that would’ve done Elvis proud. She posed as Dare’s cousin Melba from Pensacola, asking if he was at home or out driving his employer around. On her first visit, she had noted his upstate accent and inquired where he was from. That kind of detail often proved useful in her line of work. The old harridan had informed her that Rogers would return from driving “the Mister” to his office in about an hour.
Sam rushed to beat Rogers home so the housekeeper couldn’t tell him his “cousin Melba” was arriving for a visit and blow her cover. She was relieved to see the limo pull up the driveway just ahead of her. After he parked the big black monster expertly in the garage, she hailed him as he started to climb the stairs to his quarters above it. The white frame outbuilding was easily the size of four South Beach condos.
“Mr. Rogers, hey! Got a minute?” she yelled, dashing across the grass in what was surely a gross violation of the head gardener’s rules. She could see the leer on his florid face as soon as she drew near the bottom of the steps. Dare Rogers wore his thinning hair in a comb-over that didn’t shade his scalp enough to keep it from turning pink under the hot Florida sun. The broken veins on his flattened nose indicated that he was fond of booze and had been in his share of bar fights. On the losing end.
“Well, Sam, as I live and breathe. What brings you out here again? You find that boy?”
“No. That’s why I need your help again,” she said with a big smile. She’d worn a hot pink tank top with a l
ow scoop neck and jean shorts to accentuate her best assets.
“Anythin’ to help you find the poor kid. Say, wannna come up an’ have a drink?” he asked slyly.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, wondering if she’d have to flatten his nose even more to get out of the joint. She followed him into the upper apartment area. His unit was at the end of the long hall and had a nice view of the marina. A set of deer antlers and a print of dogs playing poker were the sole attempts at interior decoration. The furniture, probably provided by Winchester, was sturdy and functional.
A dark green sofa and wing chair, small oak table and four chairs were unremarkable, but the bookcases filled with porno magazines and Rogers’s version of “collectibles” were anything but. She noted several small plastic action figures sold only in “adult” shops. Are those two toys…aw, sick.
Sam turned her attention to the living room-kitchenette area’s main attraction—a large-screen TV complete with DVD player and a mountain of cassettes scattered around the entertainment center. Driving rich people around all day paid pretty well, she thought as he pulled a bottle of top-drawer Scotch from a kitchen cabinet. When he’d said a drink, she’d been thinking more along the lines of a cold beer. Jeez, it wasn’t even ten in the morning!
“Whoa, just give me a couple of ice cubes in that, please,” she said as he filled the second tall water glass. “I gotta drive back to the Beach and I can’t afford another DUI.” She’d never had one, but she wanted Rogers to think of her as someone with whom he had something in common. He dropped in several small cubes that looked as if they’d survived the last ice age and handed her the glass.
“Set down, take the load off,” he said, sprawling his spare tire across the sofa and patting the cushion beside him.
Sam opted for the chair and took a sip of the Scotch to distract him from the rebuff. “Great stuff. You got good taste, Dare.”
“I do okay,” he replied, nodding to the entertainment center.