Bessemer’s call to Curtis Prager that morning was anticlimactic. Sitting in his dim office, Carr at his side, Bessemer had phoned Prager’s private number, only to learn that Prager is away until tomorrow, and please try again. And so an unexpected day off for Carr. He’d consigned Bessemer to Bobby’s care, driven down to Boca Raton, and phoned Valerie from a spot fifty yards from her apartment building. Where she’d lied to him.
“I could drive down,” he’d said, “and take a room. We could have lunch at the beach.”
Valerie had yawned loudly. “That sounds nice, baby-really nice-but I’ve got to get some rest. I’ve been up late every night this week, and I’m supposed to meet Amy again tonight. I’ve got the drapes closed, and I’m going back to sleep.”
Carr wasn’t sure why he hadn’t believed her, why he’d waited in his parked car after she’d hung up, why he’d followed her little Audi, half an hour later, when it pulled out of the building lot and made its way to 95. Maybe it was because her yawn had been too elaborate, or because he could see from his parking space that her drapes were wide open. Maybe it was the memory of her conversation with Amy Chun, the night before, and what she’d said to him back in Portland. Maybe that’s what we should do, you and me-go away together and conduct a little research, to find some happy couples. We’ll be like archaeologists.
She turns north again at First Avenue and passes beneath the elevated tracks of the light-rail. She crosses the street, to a compact shopping plaza in the shadow of the Metromover, and goes into a coffee bar. Carr keeps walking on Tenth Street, enters the plaza from Miami Avenue, and stands in the shade of a stunted, bushy palm tree. The coffee bar is busy, but through the wide front window Carr can see Valerie slipping through the crowd toward the back of the room. He edges closer and sees her settle on a bar stool at a narrow counter along the side wall, in front of a keyboard, a mouse, and a monitor.
Carr can’t make out the screen from where he is, but Valerie reads for a while and then types. She’s at the computer for about three minutes, and then she pushes away from the counter and leaves through the back door.
Carr jogs into the coffee bar, shouldering past customers and ignoring the angry looks. A twenty-something man in linen pants, a Daddy Yankee T-shirt, and lots of body ink has a hand on Valerie’s bar-stool when Carr steps in front of him.
“Hey, I’m sitting here, man,” he says, and he puts his coffee cup on the counter.
“You definitely are,” Carr says softly, “in about thirty seconds.” Carr finds the browser icon on the desktop and clicks on it.
“I’m sitting here now, man,” the twenty-something says, “so get the hell out of my way.”
“Yep, absolutely,” Carr says, watching the browser open, “I’m out of here.”
“You talk, but you don’t move your ass.” The twenty-something puts a hand on Carr’s arm and pulls, and his face seizes up in a grimace. Carr has his hand around the man’s wrist and fingers and has bent them back at impossible angles. The twenty-something’s face is pale and his knees begin to buckle, and Carr eases up on the finger lock.
“Another second,” Carr whispers, and he opens the browser history. The screen is empty and Carr stares at it a moment and says: “Fuck.” Then he hits the back door at a run, leaving the twenty-something rubbing his wrist and gasping and the few patrons who’ve noticed anything shaking their heads.
She’s a block and a half down First Avenue, walking in the shade of the Metromover tracks, and Carr is just in time to see her turn east on Eighth Street, back toward Brickell Avenue. He sprints to close the gap.
She walks briskly down Eighth Street and crosses Brickell as the light changes. Carr waits on the other side of the street and watches Valerie disappear into a tower of white stone and green glass.
When Carr steps into the building, Valerie is nowhere in sight, and security is already eyeing him. And why not-no one else in the lobby is as rumpled as he is, or as damp with sweat. He walks over to the building directory and scans the list of tenants. Software companies, law firms, management consultants, but more than anything else banks and brokerages. And, Carr notices, mostly foreign firms.
“Can I help you, sir?” the guard asks. He’s big and uniformed, and so is his hovering partner.
“Think I got the wrong address,” Carr says, and he exits into the midday heat.
There’s a Starbucks next door to the building, and a wine bar on the opposite corner. Carr likes the sight lines from the wine bar better, though neither are perfect: there are too many ways out of the green tower. Still, he takes a window seat and orders a bottle of soda water and a ham sandwich on a baguette.
The traffic churns past on Brickell while Carr eats and watches and wonders. What was Valerie doing in the coffee bar, where she had no time to drink coffee, but time enough to delete her browsing history? Surfing? Sending? And if sending, then sending to whom? And why do it there, when she has Internet access back in Boca Raton?
Privacy and anonymity are the obvious answers, and both worry Carr. He and his crew are the only people in a position to eavesdrop on Valerie’s laptop. What might she be doing online that she’d want to hide from them? And who might she be doing it with?
After an hour, the lunch crowd has thinned on the street and in the wine bar, and the air-conditioning has dried him off, but Carr has seen no sign of Valerie. He worries that he’s missed her in the wash of people, or that she’s left another way, and he pays the check and steps outside. The humidity is like a wet hammer, and Carr is sweating before the light changes. There’s a shaded plaza beside the green tower, with white pergolas, razor-straight rows of palm trees, tables with umbrellas, and a view through the lobby glass of the elevator banks. Carr heads for one of the tables, and when he stops in his tracks he’s not sure at first what it is that’s stopped him.
Something in the corner of his eye. Something he knows. Broad shoulders held just so, a thrusting gut, an aggressive, pumping gait-a familiar bulk. In the lobby, in the shuffling clutch of people at the elevator doors. When Carr picks him out, there’s a rush of noise in his head-gears grinding on one another-and he’s frozen, flat-footed, in the plaza. He might as well be waving a flag. It’s sheer luck that Nando doesn’t look over.
“What the fuck?” Carr says to no one, and he steps behind one of the manicured palms.
Nando crosses the lobby and pushes through the doors. He’s wearing a tan suit and an open-collared French blue shirt, and he’s carrying a tan briefcase. He’s thicker and darker than when Carr last saw him, years ago in Costa Alegre, and more prosperous-looking than ever. He’s on his cell as he crosses Brickell and heads south. He’s still talking when he enters another office tower, this one clad in brushed metal and gray glass. He’s alone in the elevator when the doors slide shut, and Carr watches the numbers climb to eight.
Security in the gray building is lazy, and no guards brace Carr as he scans the lobby directory. The assortment of firms is only slightly different here-more lawyers, fewer consultants-but there are still plenty of foreign banks. The eighth floor, in fact, is nothing but banks.
Nando is inside for about an hour, after which Carr follows him down Brickell to another building-gold glass this time. Carr can’t tell which floor he’s headed to-there are too many people on the elevator with him-but there is no shortage of banks here either. Nando reappears fifty minutes later. Carr is buying gum at a lobby kiosk and readying himself for another walk in the heat when Nando turns not to the Brickell Avenue doors, but toward the back of the lobby and the enclosed passage that leads to the building’s parking structure.
Carr comes down the passage in time to see Nando board an elevator. It stops on the third parking level and Carr jogs up the stairs. He comes out of the stairwell and hears footsteps echoing, a car door closing, and an engine turning over.