“Never heard of him.”
“Neither had I, but frankly I’m starting not to feel too safe myself. And I’m guessing you’ve probably had the same thoughts. That’s why I’d like to meet and see if you have any ideas. I don’t really want to discuss this on the phone, and we can’t exactly go to the police.”
There was a pause. “Put Sasha back on.”
She took the phone. “Hey, Sal . . . Yeah, I can swear for him . . . Whatever he says is absolutely on the level . . .” Sasha held up the phone. “Wants to talk to you again.”
“Okay, let’s meet.”
“Seven o’clock, Tortugas Inn,” said Enzo. “Room’s registered under my name. If I’m not there yet, I’ll leave a key at the desk for you.” He hung up, set his leather satchel on the table and smiled.
“Hey!” Sasha pointed at the road. “There’s Serge now!”
Across the street, Serge struggled to parallel-park his Firebird in a rare free space on Ocean Drive. “Dang it, these assholes didn’t leave enough space.” Reverse, forward, reverse, forward.
Coleman chugged a to-go cup. “This is like the final episode of The Sopranos.”
“I’m not amused.” Reverse, forward. “There, finally!”
“Hey, Serge, that restaurant, the Fandango. Isn’t that where Felicia— I mean, shit, why did I say that?”
“Let’s just go.”
They jogged across the road between a Jaguar and a Harley. Serge reached the sidewalk and looked around. There was Sasha under one of the tables with an umbrella. Someone screamed. Then another. With Sasha’s platinum-blond hair, there was high contrast and no mistaking the matted blood on the back of her facedown head.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Firebird blew through traffic on the MacArthur Causeway back to the mainland from Miami Beach. It dodged and wove through slower-speeding sports cars screaming past celebrity homes on Palm and Star islands.
“Serge, you drive fast,” said Coleman. “But not this fast. What if a cop spots us?”
“Then we’ll be on live TV, because I’m not stopping.”
“Righteous.”
Serge flipped open his own cell and hit redial. “Brook? Serge. I’m sorry about this, but something’s come up, and I swear to be back as soon as possible.”
“What is it?” Brook asked from the back of a taxi.
“Once again, better you not know,” said Serge. “But trust me that I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Why? What can happen besides the police?” said Brook. “I’ve been thinking that a good lawyer can explain that.”
“It’s something else,” said Serge. “Just give me your word you won’t leave the room until I get back. You haven’t left the room, have you?”
“Uh, no,” said Brook, looking out the window at passing buildings. “Not for a second.”
“Good girl,” said Serge. “Now here’s the hard part. I’m going to have to stop taking calls soon because I don’t know what phones are tapped anymore. So you’ll just have to hang in there.”
“All right. When do you expect—”
“Got to go.”
He hung up and the cell rang again before it reached his pocket. Serge didn’t even look at the number.
“Mahoney, listen, I’m— . . . What? South Philly Sal is supposed to be where? The Tortugas Inn? Seven o’clock? . . . Who told you this? . . . They wouldn’t say? . . . Okay, thanks.” The phone clapped shut as Serge skidded over the line at minimum clearance between a Mitsubishi and a Pepsi truck, then whipped back into the fast lane.
Coleman made a rare check of his seat belt. “What was that about?”
“Mahoney got an anonymous tip. A room at the Tortugas Inn was registered to a customer named Enzo Tweel.”
“What’s that mean?”
“That Mahoney’s phone is tapped.”
“Just because someone called in a tip?”
“Enzo called in a tip on himself. Then listened when Mahoney forwarded it. He’s baiting me.” Serge nearly sideswiped a Gold Coast taxi skidding toward the exit ramp to Biscayne Boulevard. “What happened to Sasha back there. Same café, identical MO, even the same table. I’ll never forget that table as long as I live. He’s trying to provoke me into not thinking clearly.”
Coleman’s shaking hands prepared a drink. “What are you going to do?”
“Take the bait . . .”
Two miles south, a Cherokee was parked at a Citgo station. The driver had a telephoto camera aimed diagonally across the street at the Tortugas Inn. His other hand held a cell phone. “No, I don’t trust him one bit,” said South Philly Sal. “It’s definitely a trap. I’d bet anything that this character who calls himself Enzo Tweel is actually Serge . . . Because right now he has the edge since I have no idea what he looks like, and I mean to fix that. This Serge character is ruining our business.”
Two blocks in the other direction, binoculars aimed out the driver’s window of a parked Beemer. The Tortugas Inn filled the field of vision. Enzo was beginning to enjoy his role as puppet master in this demented marionette show. The binoculars swept the street, from the black-barreled barbecue stand three blocks north, then back to the Citgo station three streets the other way. All quiet on the western front.
A black Firebird turned off Biscayne a half mile south of the Tortugas Inn, and took a parallel road through a run-down neighborhood.
“Serge, if you know it’s a trap, why are we going?”
“Because he expects my anger to rush me into the web.” Serge checked all his mirrors during a prolonged pause at a stop sign. “Enzo is hanging back watching the motel for me to arrive. So, like a spider, we’re going to drive in tightening concentric circles from the perimeter because someone on surveillance isn’t looking backward . . .”
Over on the main drag, binoculars in the Beemer tightened again on the Tortugas Inn. A few hundred yards away, a telephoto lens snapped a rapid burst of room exterior photos from a Jeep Cherokee.
Serge explored the residential streets a block off U.S. 1 and turned into a trash pickup alley behind the storefronts facing Biscayne.
“I recognize that smell,” said Coleman.
“Just watch for anything odd.”
“Everything’s odd.” Coleman blazed a Thai stick. “Those chicks at the corner are dousing each other with spray paint.”
“That’s just huffing gone inaccurate.” The Firebird rolled up behind a gas station. “Coleman, how often do you see a telephoto lens sticking out a car window at a Citgo station?”
“Let me count . . .” Coleman strained mentally. “Uh, zero.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Serge parked out of sight behind the station’s car wash. High-pressure water jets and giant spinning brushes created a cover of sound. “Coleman, wait here and keep her running. He’s no doubt armed but riveted on the room, so I have a good chance to outflank him.”
Serge closed the driver’s door but let it stay unlatched. He moved slowly along the back wall of the car wash, sliding his right hand into the waistband of his shorts and feeling a familiar grip. He peeked around the edge of the car wash, but his view was blocked by a wet, gleaming Audi that emerged from the building and dripped water as it drove back to the highway.
The view was clear. There was the Jeep, its driver still preoccupied with his camera and phone. Serge retreated a step behind the building and rested the back of his head against the wall. He closed his eyes, flicking the safety off his pistol. He had ached two whole years for this moment, and now closure sat across the parking lot a few yards away.