"Who's he?" she said.
"He's cool. Theo's best friend. His name's Jack."
"Looks like the FBI."
"That's because he just got out of court. He's a lawyer."
She examined Jack through a narrow glare and rendered her verdict. "All right." The door closed, the chain rattled, and then Flo was standing in the open doorway. Her face seemed to light up as Cy greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.
The men entered, Flo shut the door, and Cy poured on a few kind words about how she hadn't changed a bit. She seemed appreciative, even if he was a liar. Flo then led them to an old card table in the kitchenette, which was really just an extension of the living room, which accommodated a TV, a sofa, and a place to eat. On the other side of the table was the kitchen area, still technically part of the same room. Dinner was cooking on the stove, and the entire apartment smelled of boiled potatoes, despite the noisy fan in the window that drew fresh air from the outdoors.
Flo brought a large pitcher of cold lemonade and three tall glasses with ice. She poured for them. Cy assured Jack that it would be the best he'd ever tasted.
"You always did like my lemonade," said Flo.
"A woman of many talents," he said.
Jack tried his and seconded the compliment. "Cy tells me you two have known each other a long time."
"'Bout a hundred years," she said.
"You used to sing in the old jazz clubs, is that right?"
Cy cleared his throat, as if the subject was more complicated than the thumbnail he'd given Jack in the car ride over. "Flo and I were… used to…"
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Cyrus. Tell him the honest truth. You ruined my career."
"What?" he said.
She looked at Jack, her eyebrow arching. "We started datin', and honey, I didn't feel like singin' no blues."
They laughed, and Jack joined them, though he wasn't sure that he was supposed to be part of the joke. Cy drank more lemonade, then turned serious.
"Is the boy here?" he asked.
"In the bedroom," said Flo.
"He tell you anything more?"
"Won't talk. But I know he seen something. Maybe you can get it out of him." She rose and called to the next room. "Tyrone!"
It took a minute, but finally the door opened. A thirteen-year-old boy shuffled toward the table, dressed in an oversized Miami Hurricanes football jersey.
Flo returned to her seat and sat the boy down next to her. "This here is Theo Knight's uncle," she told him. "And his friend. Say hello."
"Hey" he said weakly.
"Tyrone's my grandson," she told Jack.
Jack said, "How's it goin', Tyrone?"
"Nice suit. You a cop?"
"Nope."
"Lawyer?"
Jack sensed that it was better to leave that question unanswered. "Theo's my best friend. We met at FSP."
"You were in prison? What'd you do, shave strokes off your golf handicap?"
Flo swatted him on the arm. "Show some respect."
Cy gave Jack a little kick under the table, as if to say, "Let me try."
"You ever heard of the Grove Lords, Tyrone?"
"Course I heard of' em. Ain't what they used to be, but they're still players."
"Both my nephews were Grove Lords back in the eighties.That's how Theo ended up on death row. Jack's the lawyer who got him off."
"Really?" he said, giving Jack another look. "Cool."
"No, it ain't cool," the old man said. "Theo wasted his best years in prison. His brother ended up dead. Their leader spent most of his life in jail and got shot and killed last week. And somebody just tried to kill Theo."
Tyrone didn't say anything.
Jack said, "We hear you might know something about that."
"You hear wrong."
"It happened right here on this street," said Uncle Cy. "Last Friday night."
Tyrone looked away then back. "I ain't talkin' to no cops."
"We aren't the cops," said Jack.
"No, but if I tell you, then we gotta go downtown and tell it to the cops. You know it, I know it, and that's bullshit!" he said, rising.
"Siddown," said Flo. She had him by the wrist. Tyrone was a big kid and could have easily shaken off the old woman. That he kept his cool and sank back into his chair was a credit to her and the way she'd raised him.
Tyrone folded his arms tightly across his chest. "I ain't talking to the police."
"I know this is tough," said Jack.
"You don't know nothin'," the boy said. "They'll blow my head off. Gram's too."
Jack had seen this many times before – a reluctant witness, a good person caught in a bad spot. Interrogators had many ways of dealing with it. The skill was in choosing the right strategy, especially with kids.
"Let's try this," said Jack. "You don't have to tell me anything, okay? I'm just going to start talking. If I got it right, you just sit there. If I got it wrong, you say 'honky.'"
The kid almost smiled. "Honky?"
Cy laughed through a sip of lemonade, nearly spraying it. "'Honky' kind of went out with 'groovy.'"
"Hey, it's my game, okay?" said Jack.
The boy kept his arms folded, but Jack felt as though he'd cut the tension, maybe even made a breakthrough.
"All right," said Tyrone, "start talking."
Jack glanced at Uncle Cy, who seemed okay with him taking the lead. "Your bedroom," said Jack. "I see it faces right out on the street. And I assume it's got a window."
Jack paused. Tyrone said nothing.
"You were in your room on Friday night. Alone."
More silence.
"Doing your homework."
"Honky."
"He was grounded," said Flo.
"Thanks," said Jack. "But let's keep this between me and Tyrone, okay?"
"Sorry," said Flo.
Jack said, "You were in your room Friday night. And I'm gonna say that about nine o'clock you heard a gunshot out on the street."
Tyrone didn't answer.
"And you looked out the window."
He shifted in his chair, but he said nothing.
"Then you looked over toward Second Avenue. There was a man down on the street. Another man running toward him."
Jack could see the boy swallow the lump in his throat. Tyrone was still in the game, but the tension had returned.
"A car was speeding away," said Jack. "You saw the car. It was red."
Tyrone lowered his eyes, but he didn't deny it.
"Now, you're really afraid of those guys in the red car. Because they're gangsters."
Still no denial.
"You got a look at them, and you recognized them."
"Honky."
The response almost made Jack laugh, but Tyrone's expression was deadly serious: Jack had it wrong.
"Okay," said Jack. "You recognized the car."
"Honky."
"You saw the car again, some other place, after the shooting."
"Honky."
Jack glanced at Cy, who simply shrugged. Jack pondered it, then said, "There was something about that red car. Something about it that told you it was gangsters."
Tyrone was silent.
Jack was definitely on the right track. "It was the wheels-"
"Honky."
"The bumpers or the paint job-"
"Honky honky."
"The windows."
No reply.
Jack thought about it for a moment, trying to envision something distinctive about the windows on gang-mobiles he'd seen around Miami." There was a gang symbol etched on the rear window."
More silence. Bull's-eye.
"Okay good. Now, I don't want you to tell me anything, Tyrone. But sometimes I like to doodle when I'm talking to people. Maybe you do, too. Helps relieve the nerves, you know?" Jack took a pen and a small notepad from inside his suit jacket and slid them across the table. "So I'm going to have more of your grandmother's delicious lemonade, and if you want to doodle, you go right ahead."
Jack drank his lemonade. Tyrone stared at the pen and notepad on the table. Finally, he took them. Jack watched as he inked an image onto the pad, but Tyrone's hand covered most of it. He finished in a few seconds and slid the pad back to Jack. Jack didn't examine it. He didn't study it. He didn't want to do anything to make Tyrone nervous. He simply retrieved his pad and pen and tucked them into his coat pocket.
Tyrone let out a sigh of relief.
Flo patted the back of her grandson's hand. "You done good, Tyrone. You didn't tell nobody nothin'."
"No," said Jack. "Not a thing."
Chapter 25
Jack drove Uncle Cy home, and they were in complete agreement: they would do everything possible to keep Flo's grandson out of the investigation, but Jack needed to talk with Andie Henning. A phone call wouldn't do – not if Jack was going to share the boy's drawing with her. Just picking a meeting spot, however, presented real difficulties.
"Let's meet at-" Jack stopped himself, realizing that he was about to suggest the same coffeehouse they'd visited on their second date.
"How about-" Andie did the same thing, maybe even for the identical reason. Weird, thought Jack, the way their minds seemed to work alike sometimes.
Jack said, "There's a McDonald's on Bird Road."
"Perfect," she said.
"No, wait. I can do better than that. Meet me at the gas station on Seventeenth, right next to Casola's pizzeria."
"A gas station?"
"Trust me on this. You'll be pleasantly surprised."
She agreed, but after they hung up, he recalled that she really didn't like surprises, and as he merged into traffic, he wondered why he cared. Rene backlash, no doubt, brought on by the fact that he hadn't heard boo from her since she left: Miami. Oh, Jack, I can't stay more than a few days at a time because Fm afraid I might never leave. Oh Jack, I promise to call you as soon as my plane lands.
Jack was still waiting for the phone to ring.
The minimart on Seventeenth Avenue was just beyond a part of I-95 that most drivers never saw: the end. It's unclear whether the geniuses who built the interstate simply ran out of cement or actually thought it was a great idea for a hundred thousand cars a day to come barreling down the final exit ramp at seventy miles per hour, straight into the proverbial parking lot that was U.S. 1. Either way it was the perfect spot for a filling station, and one had graced this location – right alongside the busy highway and elevated Metrorail tracks – as long as Jack could remember. In a recent flash of inspiration, the owner had converted a back room into a small but lively restaurant that served good food and good wine at bargain prices. The decor was reminiscent of a French wine cellar, with long wooden tables and stools instead of chairs, and the wine selection was so good that even the Ritz Carlton's sommelier was a regular. You picked your wine directly from the floor-to-ceiling bins that lined the walls, and the food was served tapas style – appetizer-sized portions to be shared with friends. And on your way out, you could buy Lotto tickets and a pack of Twinkies for dessert. Beat that.
"I never knew this was here," said Andie.
"You like it?"
She surveyed the wall of wines and the waiters dressed in traditional attire. "Yeah, I do, actually. And for you it's perfect. Sparky's used to be a gas station. Your new favorite restaurant still is."
"What can I say? In a Miami-chic world where pretentiousness knows no bounds, a guy has to search pretty hard to find these little gems."
The waiter brought menus, and Jack found himself peering out over the top of his as Andie studied hers. Men often liked a certain type of woman, and if that was true of Jack, Andie had been a complete – albeit brief – break from type. Both Rene and his ex-wife were blondes. Andie's hair was blacker than black, like a midnight blue tuxedo, and her mixed ancestry made her attractive in ways that traditional beauties weren't.
"What do you want?" she said.
"Huh?" he said, averting his eyes.
"What are you ordering?"
"Ah," said Jack, relieved to know he hadn't been caught staring. He made some recommendations, but Andie wasn't very hungry, so he ordered churrasco steak tapas and a small serving of chipotle for them to share. Andie wanted a glass of pinot grigio, and Jack convinced her to share a bottle of Santa Marguerita, since he was buying and it was cheaper here than at the supermarket anyway. That she drank was important. Law enforcement types were always stressed at the end of their day, and he wanted her in a good mood, more receptive to his strategy on how to nail the punks who had shot at Theo.
"I assume you didn't invite me out here to get me drunk," she said.
"No. I have a witness to Theo's shooting."
"Terrific. When can I talk to him?"
"He doesn't want any part of law enforcement."
"Naturally," she said. "That's the problem with drive-by shootings. Witnesses tend to get scarce."
The waiter brought their wine and poured two glasses. When he was gone, Jack showed Andie the drawing that Tyrone had sketched for him and Uncle Cy. It was a menacing-looking knife in an upright position, handle at the top, tip pointing down, and blood dripping from the blade. "There can't be that many red cars with this symbol etched onto the back window."
She examined it while tasting her wine. "I know this gang. O-Town Posse. Started in Overtown about five years ago, but it's grown fast."
"What's with the knife symbol?"
"It's actually a KA-BAR – a military fighting knife made especially for close-combat killing. This is who they are: extremely violent, heavy drug traffickers who would kill you as soon as look at you. They're trying to align themselves with the big leagues – Folk Nation out of Chicago or Crips in L.A."
"So this is a good lead?"
She drank more wine. "Just because we have a red car with a recognizable gang symbol doesn't mean we can peg the shooter.
"Find the car and haul in the owner for questioning."
"I definitely will. But it's not easy to get someone to testify against a gang as ruthless as O-Town Posse, and the owner of this vehicle knows that. He won't crack just because I ask him tough questions."
The waiter brought their churrasco. It was done to perfection, medium rare, and the chimichurri sauce wasn't too oily. "What if I can get the witness to talk? Will you protect him?"
"Did he see the triggerman?"
"No."
Andie finished her wine. Jack poured her more. She said, "I can't sell the bureau on protecting a witness who doesn't know enough to get an arrest, let alone a conviction. I already have my hands full trying to justify protection for Theo."
"He's helping you figure out who helped Isaac Reems escape and who shot him. It's not like he's getting something for nothing.
"But we cut Theo's deal on the assumption that the same guy who shot Isaac Reems also tried to shoot Theo. The more we learn about Theo's shooting, the less it resembles Isaac's."
"You don't need the exact same MO for two shootings to be related."
"No, but now that we know Theo was shot by a gang, the state attorney is going to say, hey, maybe this had nothing to do with Reems. Maybe it was even random. Because the Reems case is looking more and more like a professional hit."
"Gangs do hits," said Jack. "And if somebody wanted to eliminate both Isaac and Theo, what better way to confuse the investigators than to make one of the killings look like a drive-by shooting by a gang like O-Town Posse?"
"But all we have is a theory Your theory. Honestly it's not entirely adding up for me."
"Why not?"
"There are a zillion holes."
"A zillion?"
"Yes."
"You counted them?"
"Stop being such a literal lawyer. I meant there are a lot."
"Let's hear them."
"I can't name them all."
"You can't name any."
"I can name plenty."
"Plenty? Help me with my math. Is that more or less than a zillion?"
J
ack didn't enjoy getting under her skin, but when she wore her FBI hat, that was the only way to make her talk.
She swallowed more wine. "All right, explain this to me. Every arm of law enforcement was out looking for Isaac Reems and couldn't find him. But the killer was able to hone right in on him. I'm curious as to how that works under your theory. How did the shooter know to go to the restaurant that used to be Homeboy's? How did he know exactly when Isaac Reems was going to be there? How did he get such a clear shot at Isaac? Why did Isaac call out Theo's name before he was shot? Why would-"
"What did you just say?"
Andie froze. She'd obviously shared something she shouldn't have. "Forget what I said."
"No way."
"Jack, be professional about this."
"I am being professional. I heard what I heard."
"All right, fine. Now you understand why I'm having difficulty buying your version of events"
He also understood that the only way to change her views was to tell her about Isaac's phone calls to Theo. Only then would she understand how the killer – by tapping Theo's phone line – had heard Isaac tell Theo to meet him behind the old Homeboy's at 1:00 a.m. Problem was, those calls could also prove that Theo knew where Isaac was going to be.
"I could fill those holes for you," said Jack, "but I need to protect Theo from any possibility of being charged with Isaac's murder."
"What are you asking me to do?"
"Look at the evidence I'm willing to share with no one else but you. See if it convinces you that whoever killed Theo's mother also killed Isaac – and then tried to kill Theo."
"What if it doesn't convince me?"
"I'll forget that you slipped and told me that Reems called out Theo's name before he was shot. And then you'll show me that you can keep your word."
"Meaning what?"
"Somewhere down the line, if the state attorney ends up charging Theo with Isaac Reems's murder, you can't share this evidence with the prosecution."
"You want me to get amnesia?"
"I want you to make a deal, and I want you to stick to it."
She shifted in her seat, her posture more relaxed, and took another drink of wine. "Let me ask you something. I'm curious. What if we were dating?"
Last Call Page 13
