"In the meantime your people need to find the Chinese guy," I say. "Ask him some questions."
The Latin says, "I've already given those instructions."
As the days pass, Santos remains on my mind. What plan can the man have that he's waiting to spring? It bothers me to remain passive, waiting to see what may happen. As usual, Elizabeth's counsel is short and direct. "My father would never let a human take up so much of his thoughts," she says. "Kill him."
"No," I say. "Not yet. I don't see any need for it. But I do think I'd be more comfortable if I saw him again. I need to get a sense of how he's feeling, get a look into his eyes."
Elizabeth stares at me. "I think you're worried he's given up. Whatever game you think the two of you have, you don't want it to end."
I look away from her emerald-green eyes. "Maybe," I say, shrugging. "I don't know."
We arrive on Miami Beach early, but not early enough for Joe's. Even though it's just six-thirty and a weeknight, cars pack the parking lot. I let the valet take the Mercedes and escort Elizabeth into the Mediterranean-style building, newly redone to blend in with all the other new and remodeled buildings taking advantage of the resurgent popularity of South Beach.
Inside the cavernous room, a line of people wait to talk to an indifferent maitre d'. "It's too crowded, too noisy," Elizabeth mindspeaks.
I nod. At every table people dine or wait for food, tuxedo-clad waiters bustling around them, carrying large trays laden with beige-and-orange stone crab claws, the restaurant's specialty. Other patrons crowd the lobby and the bar, waiting for tables that might not become available for an hour or more.
It takes me fifteen minutes to get close enough to talk to the maitre d'. He barely reacts when I say my name, but after I say, "Arturo Gomez said I should tell you we're good friends of his," he looks up and smiles, reassures me it will be only a few minutes and suggests we wait in the bar.
Three bartenders, each wearing red brocade vests, rush around the U-shaped, mahogany bar. At first I worry that Santos has the night off, but then I see him pouring a scotch for a red-faced man at the far end of the bar. I force our way through the waiting crowd, push toward him and have the fortune to find a seat for Elizabeth at the bar and a space for me to stand next to her.
Santos freezes, then frowns when he first notices us. Another bartender comes over to see what we want, but he interrupts. "I know them. I'll take care of them."
"Mr. and Mrs. DelaSangre," he says as if we were old friends, his hard eyes belying his wide smile. "What brings you here?"
"Dinner." I grin too. "I thought you said we should be less formal, Jorge."
"Yes." He nods, places both of his hands on the bright wood surface of the bar. "I did. But that was awhile ago, Peter. I guess I forgot."
"It has been quite a while…"
He nods again. "Too long," he says. "But, you know how it is, Peter, work and other things get in the way. Then again…" He looks at me. "You don't have to work, do you?"
"No," I say.
"But I bet you know how to play real hard, don't you? I bet guys you play don't win very often. But enough of that…" Santos motions toward the bottles behind him. "I have a job to do here. What would you like tonight?"
"Just Evian for both of us," I say. "We don't drink."
"Really?" he says. "Me neither. I gave it up after Maria disappeared. Funny thing though, the police arrested me a few months ago…" He shakes his head. "Peter, they charged me with DUI even though I was cold sober. I can't imagine why they'd do something like that. Can you?"
I shrug. "Sometimes stuff happens."
Jorge narrows his eyes, growls, "You're a profound guy, aren't you?"
Before I can answer, the maitre d' calls my name.
"You must know someone big," Jorge says, bantering again. "Barely anyone gets a table that fast. I bet someone with that much drag could get someone transferred from their job. You think so, Peter?" He motions us away. "Go ahead, don't worry. You don't have to wait. I'll send your drinks over to you."
"Happy?" Elizabeth asks me once we're seated at our table.
I am, but I'm not sure I want to admit to enjoying my exchange with Santos. Elizabeth would hardly understand my curiosity about the man. I hardly do myself. But, whether it's because I liked his sister and I see something of her in him, or just that he tickles my curiosity-I find myself wishing I could know him better. "Well," I say, "I think it's obvious he still plans some sort of response to our last meeting."
"Especially after you've gone out of your way to tease him."
A waiter brings a tray bearing two filled glasses. He places one in front of Elizabeth, the other in front of me. "Jorge said to tell you, it's with his compliments," he says.
I nod, pick up my glass, catch a strong whiff of alcohol before I take my first sip. "Is this Evian?" I ask.
The waiter grins. "Jorge said you'd kid with me. It's Ketl One vodka, just like you like."
"We don't drink-"I shake my head, hold the glass out to him.
"Jorge said you'd say that." The waiter ignores my outstretched hand, chuckles as if we're sharing a joke. "He told me, if you said that, I should tell you, "You might want to think about starting real soon."
Chapter 21
The next Tuesday, I wake to find the morning air changed, shed of the last remnants of summer's warmth. I breathe in deep, savor the crisp, clean smell of fall-the lightness that the air takes on when it casts off most of its humidity. It invigorates me, makes lingering in bed impossible and I rush upstairs to the great room and throw the windows open so the north wind can fill the room with autumn's first chill. Smiling, wishing Elizabeth had wakened with me, I stand by the windows facing north, toward Miami, and let the cool air wash over me.
My smile fades when I notice the sail far to the north-the tiny yellow-and-white triangle bobbing on the bay's blue waters, too far away to make out the shape of the boat. At first it seems not to move, but slowly, inexorably, it travels in the direction of my island. I shrug, try to ignore it, but find it impossible not to watch its progress, not to wonder why it's sailing toward me.
Finally I force myself to walk away from the window. I can't think of any reason this one boat should catch my attention. I know the most westward channel in the bay lies a half mile to the east of Caya DelaSangre. I realize that, a quarter mile offshore on the ocean side, the water remains deep enough, even at low tide, for almost any pleasure boat to pass. Certainly, I think, no day goes by without at least a few boats cruising near my island. Still, this craft bothers me.
Frowning at my uneasiness, I return to the window every few minutes to check on its progress. Within an hour I can make out the cut of the boat's sails, the small triangular jib and the larger main sail-both made of alternating, diagonal strips of yellow and white sailcloth.
"It may be Santos," I tell Elizabeth when she wakes and joins me in the great room, the Hobie cat now large enough for us to make out its twin hulls and the "H" insignia in its main sail.
She shrugs, says, "You taunted him. You must have wanted this," and goes downstairs to work in her garden.
I maintain my vigil as the sailboat approaches, then passes by on the bay side, close enough for me to see Santos alone on the boat's canvas deck, the man wearing only cutoffs and a sleeveless sweatshirt, his gaze fixed on my island. Walking from window to window, I follow his progress, admiring the way he handles his boat.
The man circles the island, finally letting his sails go slack, the boat stalling, bobbing in place while he reaches into a small blue bag lying on the canvas next to him and takes out a pair of binoculars. On his knees, constantly shifting his balance to counter the pitching of his stalled boat, Santos scans the island.