restaurant hand in hand as the mariachi band kept playing. The music followed them out onto the street and into the sea of people who were parading down Ocean Drive. The ocean yawned in a big black space to their right, and the giant palms across the street swayed in the breeze.
“That’s weird,” Lydia said, leaning into Jeffrey, observing cars and people on the street around them, wondering who was watching them. She pulled her bag close to her, suddenly feeling exposed.
“Only the people in my office know we’re in Miami,” said Jeffrey, thinking aloud.
“And Detective Ignacio,” she answered, considering the possibilities. They pushed their way through the crowd, not moving quickly enough to be conspicuous, but not meandering, either. He draped his arm across her shoulder and pulled her in closer.
“Did you bring your gun?
She hesitated. “It’s in my suitcase,” she said, slipping her hand into the bag. “You?”
“Ditto.”
“Maybe we’re being paranoid,” she said, glancing casually around her but making a point not to look behind. “Maybe it was just a really nice guy who gets off on random acts of kindness.”
“Nobody’s that nice.”
“Cynic.”
Jeffrey looked straight ahead and slowed their pace a bit. He scanned the area ahead of them, looking for someone matching the description the bartender had given. He saw at least three men in the crowd around them who fit the bill.
“Maybe the person trailing us in the black Mercedes is just making sure we get home safely,” he said after a moment.
“Do you have eyes in the back of your head?” asked Lydia, knowing not to turn around and look, though that was her instinct.
“No, but I can see the reflection in the side-view mirrors on the parked cars.”
“Very clever.”
“Just keep walking.”
They walked a block and made a quick left while the Mercedes was caught in traffic at the light, then hopped in a cab that was sitting on the corner.
“Make a U-turn, go back up this street, and then take the scenic route to the Delano,” Jeffrey ordered the cabbie. Lydia knew if she had given an order like that, she would have gotten an argument. But no one argued with Jeffrey—except for Lydia, of course. He had some kind of natural authority to his tone that people responded to automatically. Jeffrey kept an eye on the side-view mirror, and when he was sure they hadn’t been followed, he told the cab to head straight to the hotel.
They hustled through the lobby and took the elevator to their floor. When they reached their room, the door was ajar.
“Shit,” Jeffrey said, thinking that the gun in his suitcase had probably just been stolen.
Lydia handed him the Glock she had in her bag.
“I thought you said it was in your suitcase.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want you to think I was planning on getting into any gunfights.”
“Stay here.”
He pushed the door open and edged into the room. Lydia followed him. The room was empty and the bed had been turned down. A tiny box of Godiva chocolates sat innocently on each pillow. The small bedside lights had been turned on, casting a soothing pink light; soft classical music was being piped into the room from somewhere. But their suitcases sat open on their bed, looking as if they’d been neatly unpacked and repacked.
“This is the most considerate room ransacking I’ve ever seen,” said Jeffrey as he walked over to the suitcases.
“That’s how they do it at five-star hotels.”
He removed a black leather box from his and opened the clasps. His Glock remained where he had left it, polished and disassembled. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
He looked through her suitcase. “Did they get the tape?” he asked. He turned, to see her removing the Jiffy envelope in its plastic evidence Baggie from her bag with a smile.
“I never go anywhere without my bag of tricks.”
“Nice work, Felix.”
chapter seven
I t was pretty obvious that the whole thing had been
“That’s weird,” Lydia said, leaning into Jeffrey, observing cars and people on the street around them, wondering who was watching them. She pulled her bag close to her, suddenly feeling exposed.
“Only the people in my office know we’re in Miami,” said Jeffrey, thinking aloud.
“And Detective Ignacio,” she answered, considering the possibilities. They pushed their way through the crowd, not moving quickly enough to be conspicuous, but not meandering, either. He draped his arm across her shoulder and pulled her in closer.
“Did you bring your gun?
She hesitated. “It’s in my suitcase,” she said, slipping her hand into the bag. “You?”
“Ditto.”
“Maybe we’re being paranoid,” she said, glancing casually around her but making a point not to look behind. “Maybe it was just a really nice guy who gets off on random acts of kindness.”
“Nobody’s that nice.”
“Cynic.”
Jeffrey looked straight ahead and slowed their pace a bit. He scanned the area ahead of them, looking for someone matching the description the bartender had given. He saw at least three men in the crowd around them who fit the bill.
“Maybe the person trailing us in the black Mercedes is just making sure we get home safely,” he said after a moment.
“Do you have eyes in the back of your head?” asked Lydia, knowing not to turn around and look, though that was her instinct.
“No, but I can see the reflection in the side-view mirrors on the parked cars.”
“Very clever.”
“Just keep walking.”
They walked a block and made a quick left while the Mercedes was caught in traffic at the light, then hopped in a cab that was sitting on the corner.
“Make a U-turn, go back up this street, and then take the scenic route to the Delano,” Jeffrey ordered the cabbie. Lydia knew if she had given an order like that, she would have gotten an argument. But no one argued with Jeffrey—except for Lydia, of course. He had some kind of natural authority to his tone that people responded to automatically. Jeffrey kept an eye on the side-view mirror, and when he was sure they hadn’t been followed, he told the cab to head straight to the hotel.
They hustled through the lobby and took the elevator to their floor. When they reached their room, the door was ajar.
“Shit,” Jeffrey said, thinking that the gun in his suitcase had probably just been stolen.
Lydia handed him the Glock she had in her bag.
“I thought you said it was in your suitcase.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want you to think I was planning on getting into any gunfights.”
“Stay here.”
He pushed the door open and edged into the room. Lydia followed him. The room was empty and the bed had been turned down. A tiny box of Godiva chocolates sat innocently on each pillow. The small bedside lights had been turned on, casting a soothing pink light; soft classical music was being piped into the room from somewhere. But their suitcases sat open on their bed, looking as if they’d been neatly unpacked and repacked.
“This is the most considerate room ransacking I’ve ever seen,” said Jeffrey as he walked over to the suitcases.
“That’s how they do it at five-star hotels.”
He removed a black leather box from his and opened the clasps. His Glock remained where he had left it, polished and disassembled. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
He looked through her suitcase. “Did they get the tape?” he asked. He turned, to see her removing the Jiffy envelope in its plastic evidence Baggie from her bag with a smile.
“I never go anywhere without my bag of tricks.”
“Nice work, Felix.”
chapter seven
I t was pretty obvious that the whole thing had been
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