Cowboy Boots didn’t move. He didn’t drop the gun, either.
“She’ll do it,” Steve said, treading water. “She’s shot lots of stupid men.”
Cowboy Boots seemed to think it over.
Victoria pulled back the hammer on her state-issued.38. An ominous click.
Cowboy Boots dropped his handgun.
“Turn around slowly, both of you,” Victoria ordered.
The men did as they were told. Suddenly, the bigger man reached behind his back and pulled something out of his waistband.
A second gun.
Victoria fired.
The round zinged by the big man’s head, and he dropped the gun, along with what smelled suspiciously like a load in his pants.
Above them, the chockety-chock of engines. A helicopter descended; a powerful searchlight swept the channel and the embankment. A sharpshooter with a scoped rifle leaned out the open door. Next to him, FBI Agent Constance Parsons yelled into a bullhorn: “Everyone freeze!”
Forty-two
It took hours. There were stories to tell and retell to dozens of cops, investigators, and agents.
City of Miami. Miami-Dade Sheriff’s Office. FBI. U.S. Marshal. Village of Key Biscayne, highly useful for directing traffic on the causeway.
Cop cars, flashing lights, crackling radios. Photographers, Forensics guys and gals, and a camera crew from Channel 4. No one from the Miami Herald was there, the newspaper having cut its staff so severely, it now took a triple homicide or Fidel Castro’s gallbladder to make it into the paper.
Three paramedics vehicles came to the park, but they only needed one. Wade Grisby was loaded onto a backboard, his neck packed in ice. The ambulance whisked him off to Jackson Memorial, Steve hearing whispers of “broken neck” and “paralysis.”
Bobby refused to come out of the water until a cop paddled over in an inflatable and used a tire iron to break the lock on the channel gate. The cop swung the gate open, Bobby click-clacked some message to Spunky and Misty, who headed back up the channel, the cop closing the gate behind them.
Ray Pincher relieved Victoria of her gun, telling her that in the half century Assistant State Attorneys had been issued handguns, none had ever been fired at a suspect. Victoria asked if she’d done anything wrong. No, Pincher told her. But he was still taking the gun. The case against Nash would be dismissed and her duties would officially end at five P.M. Monday.
The two guys turned out to be Larry Vollman, who now needed a change of underwear, and Richard Zinn, Mr. Cowboy Boots. They ran Wellfleet Investigations, which, though buried under two or three layers of corporate paperwork, was a distant cousin of Hardcastle Energy Services. After three cups of coffee and a flashlight beam in the face, they yapped for an hour.
“We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sanders told us we had a deal to buy the dolphins from Grisby.”
“It had to look like an animal rights raid, but that was none of our business.”
“We just do what Hardcastle tells us.”
“Sure, we’ll give you our boss’s name, and anything else you need.”
Paramedics wrapped Steve and Bobby in blankets, checked their vital signs, and pronounced them healthy. Bobby talked up a storm to Agent Parsons, asking what would happen to Spunky and Misty. She promised to look into it.
“Not good enough,” Steve said.
“I beg your pardon.” Agent Parsons’ tone was not begging in the least.
“You’re too busy. You’ll never get around to it.”
“Maybe not today, but-”
“The dolphins have to be fed. They have to be cared for. We know a place in Key Largo with great facilities. They bring in kids from hospitals to swim with the dolphins. I can have the owners up here in twelve hours.”
“Then what do you need from me?”
“I just don’t want some U.S. Marshal blocking our way, claiming those dolphins are evidence or government property or whatever bullshit red tape they come up with.”
“I’ll get the clearance you need in the morning. Fair enough?”
“Deal.”
Around dawn, a lunch truck pulled up. One of the chrome-paneled wagons that service construction sites. Sandwiches, chips, and sodas were passed around.
Steve’s cell phone was water-logged, so he borrowed Victoria’s phone, and with Ray Pincher’s help, he got through to the jail.
“Your lawyer wants to talk to you, but first I gotta apologize,” Pincher said when Gerald Nash was on the line. “I’m sorry I charged you with murder. But you’re still a horse’s ass, and so’s your old man.”
The apology apparently having been accepted, Pincher cracked his knuckles and handed Steve the phone.
“Good news, Gerald,” Steve told him. “They’re gonna let you out in a couple hours, so I want to wish you good luck.”
“Thanks, man. You’ve been great.”
“Ordinarily, I’d come over there, help you with the paperwork, but I’ve got a prior commitment. So if it’s okay with you…”
“That’s cool, Solomon.”
“You have any plans, Gerald?”
“Heading to Denmark, as soon as I can.”
“Denmark?”
“Most of the world’s mink farms are there. There’s work to be done.”
“You take care, Gerald.”
“Say, is Passion with you?”
“Agent Parsons? Yeah, but she’s kind of busy right now.”
“Tell her I don’t hold grudges. If she wants to go to Denmark…”
Steve said good-bye and checked on Bobby, who was still yakking with any cop who was interested. Victoria came by, wrapped her arms around Steve, and whispered, “You were right this time, lover.”
“Wild guess about Grisby. His story never felt right. I’m just happy we saved Bobby’s pals.”
“What about going up against me in court? You seem to enjoy pulling my chain.”
“Well, it does rev my engine. Speaking of which, do you realize how long it’s been since we…?”
“After Bobby’s game today. Okay?”
“The game! Jeez, what time is it?”
Before Victoria could answer, Steve spotted Constance Parsons standing inside a minyan of federales. “Agent Parsons! We’ve got an emergency here.”
“What now?” she asked.
“Your helicopter. We need it.”
Forty-three
There are many ways to get to a Sunday school league baseball game at Sunniland Park in Kendall. Easiest is to drive down Dixie Highway. Metrorail works, too, if you bring a bicycle along for the last leg of the trip.
But today, Bobby, Steve, and Victoria took an FBI helicopter. The chopper ferried them from Key Biscayne, across the Bay, to Coconut Grove, Bobby silently watching the still, turquoise water in the morning sun. His eyes were distant, baseball surely not on his mind.
“They’re gonna be okay, kiddo,” Steve said.
“I know.”
“We’ll go down to Key Largo a lot. When the kids from the hospital come by, you’ll introduce them to Spunky and Misty.”
“Can I teach the kids to talk dolphinese?”
“You bet.”
The water below them was shallow and clear, brown sea grasses waving below the surface.
“I’m sorry about all that stuff that happened before, Uncle Steve.”
“What stuff?”
Bobby shrugged, and the helicopter passed over the shoreline of Coconut Grove, following the path of banyan trees along Main Highway.
“You know. All the mean things I said about you not caring about Spunky and Misty.”
“Not a problem, kiddo. You were upset.”
“Yeah. But that’s not an excuse. It was extremely…” He paused to dig up a word. “…immature of me.”
“You’re a Solomon. Immaturity is expected from time to time. Now, are you ready to take the mound?”