“Don’t go turning me into a saint just yet,” Kara said, pulling out a thin manila folder. “Faxing you a crossword was one thing — but if you want access to Boyle’s full file, I need an official FOIA request, plus authorization that—”
“See, that’s the tickle,” Dreidel interrupted, putting a hand on Rogo’s shoulder and trying to get him to step aside. Rogo didn’t budge. “If the President makes an official request, people take notice. They start thinking something’s happened. That there must be news with Boyle’s case. Next thing we know, Boyle’s family wants to know what the government’s hiding. We say nothing, they say everything, and that’s how conspiracies are born. So how about saving all of us the migraines and instead treating this as an unofficial request? As for authorization, I’m happy to sign for it.”
“I’m sorry… do I know—?”
“Gavin Jeffer,” Dreidel replied before she could even finish the question. “Y’know… from here…”
Pointing a finger down toward her desk, Dreidel stabbed a piece of library letterhead just next to where his name appeared along the left margin.
To this day, it was Dreidel’s greatest get. In order to build the Manning Library, a separate foundation was set up with a board of directors that included the President’s closest friends, biggest donors, and most loyal staff. The select group included Manning’s daughters, his former secretary of state, the former CEO of General Motors, and — to almost everyone’s surprise — Dreidel. It took surgically precise phone calls and begging in all the right places, but those were always Dreidel’s specialties.
“So the files?” he said to the archivist.
Kara looked to Rogo, then back to Dreidel. The way she flicked her thumb against the edge of the manila folder, she was clearly still on the bubble.
“Kara, if you want, call the President’s office,” Dreidel added. “You know Claudia’s number.”
“That’s not what I—”
“It’s not like we’re talking about NSC staff,” Dreidel said, continuing to pound away as he referred to the National Security Council. “Boyle’s domestic.”
“And dead,” Rogo said, bouncing on his feet to keep the mood upbeat. “C’mon, what’s the worst that happens? He suddenly comes back to life?”
For the second time, Kara laughed. For the second time, Dreidel pretended to.
“And you’ll sign off on it?” she asked Dreidel.
“Gimme the form and I’m your man. And if it makes you feel better, I’ll have President Manning write you a thank-you note personally.”
Shaking her head, she stood from her desk. “This better not get me fi—”
Rogo’s phone rang in his pocket. “Sorry,” he said, fishing it from his pants and flipping it open. Caller ID said PB Sher. Off. Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office.
“I’ll catch up in a second,” he said to Dreidel and Kara as they headed for the door. Turning to the phone, he answered, “This is Rogo.”
“Hey, fatty, we missed you in court today,” a man teased with a high voice and unforgivable New York accent. Rogo knew it instantly. Deputy Terry Mechaber. Palm Beach County’s number one writer of illegal U-turn tickets… and Rogo’s oldest friend in law enforcement.
“Yeah, receptionist was sick, so I had to stay back and kiss my own butt this morning,” Rogo replied.
“That’s funny, because I just spoke to your receptionist. Sounded like her lips were just fine — especially when she said you’d been gone since this morning.”
For a moment, Rogo was quiet. “Listen, Terry—”
“I don’t wanna know, I don’t wanna hear, I don’t wanna read about it in tomorrow’s paper,” Terry said. “And based on this fight you’re picking, I don’t even wanna see the bad TV movie with the scene of me passing this along to you.”
“Wh-What’re you—?”
“The Three… y’know, the guys you asked me to run through the databases here…”
“Wait, you found something?”
“Yeah, here in the Florida DMV, we have records of all the international bad guys. No, I passed it to my partner’s sister’s brother-in-law, who’s been spending the last few years doing some high-tech computer job I still don’t understand for DOD.”
“Dee-oh-dee?”
“Department of Defense,” Terry replied, his voice slow and serious. “And when he ran The Three through there, well, remember the time when that eighteen-wheeler hauling all that rebar triple-flipped on I-95, sending metal javelins through the air and impaling nearly everyone in the ten nearest cars behind it?”
“Yeah…”
“It’s worse than that.”
63
Welcome to Key West,” the pilot called out, brushing his wispy blond hair back on his head.
Following him out of the seaplane door and down the scaffolding to the white pontoon floats that gave the orange and red plane its buoyancy, O’Shea and Micah barely waited for the plane to be tied to the dock.
“How long you gonna be?” the pilot asked.
“Not long,” O’Shea said, careful to time his jump just right. Waiting for the seaport’s light waves to sink, then swell, he hopped from the edge of the pontoon float and landed square on the dock. “Just make sure—”
“Don’t stress so much,” the pilot called back. “I know every dockmaster working this place. Soon as I tie us up, I’ll take care of it — no one’ll ever know we were here.”
“We should call Wes’s office again,” Micah said, only a few steps behind. “Maybe he checked in.”
“He didn’t check in.”
Tracing the maze of wooden planks past dozens of sailboats and charter boats that swayed against the docks, O’Shea didn’t stop until he reached the end of William Street. As Micah skidded to a stop next to him, the sound of acoustic folk rock drifted in from the bar on their far right. O’Shea narrowed his eyes, searching through the crowds of tourists clogging the shops along the docks. From the side streets, a steady stream of cars and cabs circled the block, replenishing the tourist supply.
“What’re you—?”
“All the cabs are pink,” O’Shea blurted. “Taxi!”
On their right, a bright pink cab shrieked and stopped. Opening the back door, O’Shea slid inside. “You have radios in these cars?”
The skinny African-American cabbie glanced over his shoulder at O’Shea’s dark blue suit, then over at Micah, whose tie dangled downward as he leaned in through the open door. “Let me guess — lost your wallet in a pink cab.”
“Actually, I lost my friend.” O’Shea laughed, playing nice. “He’s pretty unforgettable, though — huge mess of scars on the side of his face. Plus the redhead he’s running around with. So whattya say,” he added, lowering a twenty-dollar bill onto the armrest of the front seat. “Think you can help me track him down?”
The cabbie grinned. “Damn, man, why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
One quick description later, a slow, easy voice squawked through the radio’s receiver. “Yeah, I seen ’em, Rogers. Kid with the scars… Dropped ’em twenty minutes ago. Three twenty-seven William Street.”
“That far from here?” O’Shea asked as the cabbie looked at him in the rearview.
“You can walk if you want.”
Micah hopped inside, tugging the door shut.
“We’ll drive,” O’Shea said as he tossed another twenty onto the armrest. “Fast as you can.”
“Like your life depended on it,” Micah added.