“No, but it makes sense. Problem is, the DEA will use him up first. Make him do just one more job, then one more, then another. Somewhere along the line, he’ll either go back into the business or end up in the bay sleeping with whatever fish haven’t died of pollution.”
Lassiter signaled for a refill on the coffee. “I’d like to help him, Charlie, get him safely out of town, a fresh start, but I don’t know how.”
“ Amicus usque ad aras, you’re a friend to the end. But forget it, Jake. Once they’re into dope, they’re gone. Cut him loose.”
“I’m not the cutting loose type.”
“An admirable quality, albeit an anachronistic one. You’re a throwback, Jake. It’s one of the reasons I like you so much. Your ideals are as dated as that… Le Mans, or whatever it is you drive.”
“An Olds 442, Charlie. Four-barrel carburetor, four-speed transmission, dual tail pipes.”
“Precisely! You’re still a cheeseburger and double malted fellow in a world of quiche and white wine. And you still think all your friends wear white hats. Someday you’ll realize that nearly everybody in this town is playing it fast and loose. Bankers who launder drug money, boiler room gold bullion salesmen who cheat widows in Iowa, lawyers who cross the line and become partners with their clients. Everyone’s walking a tightrope, and with just a nudge one way or the other, most tumble into the swamp.”
Lassiter stared into his coffee cup. “Thirty years hanging around cops and corpses has left you a tad cynical.”
“Wake up, Jake. When you read in the paper that a dope kingpin walks because the cops lose the evidence, do you think it’s an accident? In case you didn’t know it, prosecutors tank cases, judges play favorites, and lawyers crawl in bed with their clients. Berto’s descent should not surprise you.”
Lassiter looked away and studied a group of residents — haggard men and women — filing through the cafeteria line. So young. Soon they would be experts at picking lead from gunshot wounds, standard fare in a county where gun control means holding it with two hands. “I’m not surprised by any thing in this town, Charlie. Now, how about helping me with something else. A crime I can’t figure out.”
“Murder?”
“No, a burglary. One-point-six million in negotiable bonds from a client.”
Charlie Riggs snorted. “Burglary. Ugly Anglo-Saxon word. Burgh, ‘house’ laron, ‘theft.’ A penny-ante crime for small minds. All that stuff about mastermind thieves is mostly fiction, you know. There’ve been some pretty glitzy B and Es, but mostly just second-rate smash-and-grab artists.”
“As I recall, there’ve been some pretty good jewel heists.”
“Hollywood,” Riggs scoffed. “Take the Star of India theft from the Museum of Natural History. You know damn well Murph the Surf was just a beach bum from Miami.”
Lassiter speared a fried plantain from Charlie’s plate. “Nothing as exciting as a giant sapphire here. My client kept the bonds in his office. He’s an old man who’s got a younger woman working for him, hanging around the office, hanging all over him. She’s got a look that says she’s been around the track a few times and hasn’t cashed any winning tickets yet. My client may be her last race.”
“ Auri sacra fames, the cursed hunger for gold. I assume she has an alibi.”
“A most convenient one. She was with my client at the time of the theft.”
“She has friends, does she not? A husband, boyfriend, nephew, that sort of thing. Have you done a workup on her, any surveillance?”
“The client won’t let me. He’s… fond of her.”
“Fingerprints at the scene?”
“None.”
“You’ve notified the banks, I suppose.”
“Immediately.”
“So what do you propose?”
“Don’t know, Charlie. I could confront her, make the accusation, see her reaction.”
“No. Sapiens nihil affirmat quod non probat. A wise man states as true nothing he cannot prove. You must have patience and wait. The problem with a burglary is there’s no body. Bodies are full of clues. But with a burglary, the thieves take the corpus delicti with them. For the time being, you’re stuck. Let the police handle it or mishandle it. But examine every clue they turn up. And don’t go looking for any geniuses.”
“I won’t, Charlie. You’re the only one I know.”
CHAPTER 13
At seven-thirty, Jake Lassiter pulled under the canopy of the Sonesta Beach Hotel and gave his yellow Olds convertible to a goofy teenage valet — “Rad, man, that a GTO?” — who promptly ground the gears. Lassiter gritted his teeth and walked to the veranda overlooking the ocean. In five minutes they appeared, freshly scrubbed and wholesome as a Pepsi ad.
Keaka’s short black hair was still wet from the shower. He wore baggy cotton pants and a polo shirt, his arms strung with steel-cable veins. Lila had changed into a simple pink cotton dress, the sleeveless tank top clinging to her breasts and a full skirt falling away from a dropped waist. The long skirt flung easily with each athletic stride. When they walked outside and Lila felt the breeze from the Atlantic, she locked both hands behind her head, cradled her neck, and tossed her hair downwind. The ocean was streaked with creamy light as the moon rose in the east and smoothed a warm glow over her face. The wind was gusty and scented with salt, and as it blew, Lila’s skirt gathered between her long, strong legs. She stood there with eyes closed, back arched, and breasts thrust forward, listening to a silent song, laughing into the wind.
Jake Lassiter stood transfixed. Her physical beauty was intoxicating, as natural as a windswept beach. Never had he seen a woman so exquisite, so removed from his world of the mundane and mendacious… and never one so beyond his reach. His mind recorded the sight, savored it, and burned it into place.
“God I love the wind,” Lila said finally, her hair flying.
“Easterly,” Lassiter said. “About eighteen knots, but there’s a venturi effect here from the buildings. Feels more like twenty-five.”
Idiot! He cursed himself. The occasion called for savoir faire, for poetry, anything but a weather report. Then the moment was gone.
With the top down, they headed across the Rickenbacker Causeway to the mainland, through downtown and across the MacArthur Causeway, the lights from the moored cruise ships twinkling in Government Cut. On South Beach, Keaka Kealia paused before entering Joe’s, the famous stone crab restaurant, and said, “Surf here.” His head was cocked toward the ocean half a mile away. Lassiter listened and couldn’t hear a thing.
“The ocean’s just at the end of the street,” Lassiter said, “but not much surf, at least not by Hawaiian standards.”
“Three feet, maybe a little less,” Keaka announced judiciously.
They entered the restaurant, the Hawaiian still listening for the distant shore break, Lassiter wondering if he was being put on. A throng of tourists huddled in the foyer and the adjacent bar, and Lassiter had to elbow his way toward the maitre d’.
In Miami, there are three enduring personalities who, like Franklin Roosevelt, have defined an era. There is Shula the coach, Fidel the dictator, and Roy the maitre d’. Without access to Roy, the highlight of your trip to Joe’s was standing in line with fifty John Deere tractor salesmen from the Midwest.
Bespectacled and sleek in a black dinner jacket, Roy saw Jake towering over the crowd and waved him to the front. “How do you like the Fins against the Bills Sunday?” he asked.
“Give the points and put your money on Marino.” It was the same advice he always gave — give the points, or take the points — but bet on the Dolphins. He was right about half the time.
The captain took them to a corner table under a black-and-white photo of Miami Beach in the 1930s. When they were seated, Lassiter turned to his guests. “Keaka, did you really know there was surf here?”