office of his strip club when suddenly Owen lurched to one side and blood spouted from the side of his head. It was an amazing and totally unexpected moment. Hannah didnât know who shot him or why. Perhaps the shot was actually intended for Erin, or was meant to implicate her. Or maybe, given the nature of Miami, it was simply stray gunfire from some botched holdup going on nearby.
As Owen Band spilled his lifeblood onto the desk before him, Hannah got up, went to the kitchen, made a turkey sandwich, and took it out to the front porch table to eat.
The house sheâd bought after her parents were killed was more than eighty years old, ancient by Miami standards, with a glinting tin roof and a screened-in porch that ran the full length of the front. Edging the property was a tall, solid wood fence overgrown with purple and orange bougainvillea, totally blocking from view the surrounding neighborhood. The old house had oak floors, a coral fireplace, a dozen ceiling fans, and its several French doors opened out onto a wide yard of neatly laid out avocado and mango trees, remnants of the grove that early in the century had spread all over that part of Dade County. Some mornings when Hannah sat out on the porch in one of the wicker rockers sipping her coffee, she could hear the faint echoes of those tenacious New England pioneers who had cleared and tamed thatharsh subtropical tangle. And whenever she returned home after any sort of journey, just the sight of that shady two acres and the solid old farmhouse soothed the clatter in her pulse.
That afternoon the sky was clear and the last of the orange jasmine was still in bloom, cloying the air around the porch. As she finished her sandwich, she drew in a deep perfumed breath, feeling a ripple of energy and quiet pleasure. There were wild parrots squawking in the avocado trees and a blue jay scolding them in reply. She watched the birds fuss at each other for a minute, maybe something she could use, a little moment of atmosphere in her story.
She had about an hour and a half before Randall got home from school. If she was lucky that was long enough for Erin to check Owen Bandâs pulse, then run out into the alley behind the strip club and stumble on the next complication.
Misty was parked among the mothers. Their vans and sport utility vehicles lined the street outside Pinecrest Middle School. The mothers visited with each other or talked on their cell phones while they waited for the afternoon bell to ring.
Misty was in her powder blue Corolla with the peeling Naugahyde top. She was parked beneath a gumbo limb tree a half block east of the school. Nobody paid any attention to her. If they did, theyâd probably think she was a maid, a housekeeper, someone like that, waiting to pick up young Travis or Michelle or whatever the hell cute names they were using this year.
One of her derringers lay on her lap. Small, but heavy. Its mechanisms were reliable and made firm, satisfying clicks. The derringer was loaded with two .38 slugs. It was Mistyâs belief that if you couldnât bring down your target with two shots, you shouldnât own a gun at all.
Out her windshield she watched the mothers. They were dressed in summery outfits, creamy beiges or pastels, or else bright-colored workout clothes. These women had nothing but leisure time. They had expensive hair and subtle makeupand they moved with slinky assurance. They were married to lawyers or accountants or bankers or stockbrokers. Misty knew their husbands, because it was guys like them who frequented the downtown Hooters where she worked, and drank draft beer and stared at Mistyâs breasts, always angling their heads to get a shot down her top, glimpse her nipples.
Misty didnât look like any of the mothers. First, she was very pale. Deathly white is how some people described her. She didnât mind that. It was kind of a compliment really. Set her apart. Her white skin was smooth, tight,
As Owen Band spilled his lifeblood onto the desk before him, Hannah got up, went to the kitchen, made a turkey sandwich, and took it out to the front porch table to eat.
The house sheâd bought after her parents were killed was more than eighty years old, ancient by Miami standards, with a glinting tin roof and a screened-in porch that ran the full length of the front. Edging the property was a tall, solid wood fence overgrown with purple and orange bougainvillea, totally blocking from view the surrounding neighborhood. The old house had oak floors, a coral fireplace, a dozen ceiling fans, and its several French doors opened out onto a wide yard of neatly laid out avocado and mango trees, remnants of the grove that early in the century had spread all over that part of Dade County. Some mornings when Hannah sat out on the porch in one of the wicker rockers sipping her coffee, she could hear the faint echoes of those tenacious New England pioneers who had cleared and tamed thatharsh subtropical tangle. And whenever she returned home after any sort of journey, just the sight of that shady two acres and the solid old farmhouse soothed the clatter in her pulse.
That afternoon the sky was clear and the last of the orange jasmine was still in bloom, cloying the air around the porch. As she finished her sandwich, she drew in a deep perfumed breath, feeling a ripple of energy and quiet pleasure. There were wild parrots squawking in the avocado trees and a blue jay scolding them in reply. She watched the birds fuss at each other for a minute, maybe something she could use, a little moment of atmosphere in her story.
She had about an hour and a half before Randall got home from school. If she was lucky that was long enough for Erin to check Owen Bandâs pulse, then run out into the alley behind the strip club and stumble on the next complication.
Misty was parked among the mothers. Their vans and sport utility vehicles lined the street outside Pinecrest Middle School. The mothers visited with each other or talked on their cell phones while they waited for the afternoon bell to ring.
Misty was in her powder blue Corolla with the peeling Naugahyde top. She was parked beneath a gumbo limb tree a half block east of the school. Nobody paid any attention to her. If they did, theyâd probably think she was a maid, a housekeeper, someone like that, waiting to pick up young Travis or Michelle or whatever the hell cute names they were using this year.
One of her derringers lay on her lap. Small, but heavy. Its mechanisms were reliable and made firm, satisfying clicks. The derringer was loaded with two .38 slugs. It was Mistyâs belief that if you couldnât bring down your target with two shots, you shouldnât own a gun at all.
Out her windshield she watched the mothers. They were dressed in summery outfits, creamy beiges or pastels, or else bright-colored workout clothes. These women had nothing but leisure time. They had expensive hair and subtle makeupand they moved with slinky assurance. They were married to lawyers or accountants or bankers or stockbrokers. Misty knew their husbands, because it was guys like them who frequented the downtown Hooters where she worked, and drank draft beer and stared at Mistyâs breasts, always angling their heads to get a shot down her top, glimpse her nipples.
Misty didnât look like any of the mothers. First, she was very pale. Deathly white is how some people described her. She didnât mind that. It was kind of a compliment really. Set her apart. Her white skin was smooth, tight,
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