Steve wore khaki shorts and an old Hurricanes baseball jersey.
Once off the bridge, they were able to cut through the picnic areas that lined the causeway, just yards from the shoreline. Their path was lit by hundreds of headlights from the traffic jam. White gulls trudged along the beach, digging for toenail crabs.
“This is all my fault,” Steve said as they jogged alongside each other.
“What is?”
“Bobby. I’ve been too self-absorbed. I haven’t paid enough attention to him.”
“You’re a wonderful father to him, Steve. Bobby adores you.”
“I haven’t been consistent. At first, because of everything he’d suffered with my crazy sister, I didn’t want to deny him anything. Then I thought maybe I was overprotecting him, so I backed off. Now I just don’t know. I’ve lost all sense of balance.”
“All parents learn on the fly, and you’re doing fine.”
“If I were doing so great, he’d be home right now.” Steve shot a look across the Bay in the direction of Cetacean Park. “If anything happens to him…”
His words hung in the humid air, and they ran in silence for another few moments.
Just after they’d left the house, Steve had called FBI Agent Parsons again on her cell. This time, she sounded even more exasperated. “Your twelve-year-old nephew has ridden off on his bicycle, and you think it’s a federal case? Is that it, Solomon?”
She hung up on him.
Next, Steve called the Miami Police Department and got through to a desk sergeant. When it became clear that Bobby hadn’t been snatched, and that he’d been gone less than two hours, Steve could feel the officer’s interest level wane. Following procedures, the sergeant said to call back in the morning if the boy hadn’t returned.
“Do you know what first attracted me to you?” Victoria said as they neared the collapsed trailer and sailboat.
“My musk cologne?”
“Your love for Bobby. The risks you took to rescue him. The way you put him first. With all your faults, you’re still the kind of man a woman wants to father her children.”
“What faults?”
“C’mon, Steve. Let’s pick up the pace.”
They broke into a full run, Steve shortening his stride just a bit to match hers. Victoria ran athletically, smoothly. They were in perfect rhythm, perfect sync, and moving fast.
They passed cars parked at water’s edge on the causeway’s lover’s lane. Couples inside. Drinking. Kissing. Writhing. Close by, a homeless man with a scrawny dog rummaged through a trash barrel.
The tow truck was still there in the middle of the roadway, where they’d first seen it from the top of the bridge. Workers were trying figure out how to hoist the sailboat off the pavement.
The causeway eased toward the right, and the warm southeast sea breeze hit them head-on. Behind them, horns honked, and traffic still hadn’t moved. They could see the lights of Cetacean Park, less than a mile ahead.
Steve gestured toward Victoria’s purse, a black leather Dolce amp; Gabbana. “Isn’t that slowing you down?”
“A woman never leaves her purse in the car.”
“You want me to carry it?”
“No way. You’re not licensed.”
Steve gave her a look that she took as a question. It was the second time that night he’d asked.
“Yes,” Victoria said. “I still have the gun Pincher gave me.”
Thirty-nine
It wasn’t a body.
It was a dummy. Like the ones used by the Navy in rescue training.
Bobby climbed over the low wall and watched from high in the rafters. Wedged against a beam, he was hidden in the shadows, his head bumping against the corrugated metal ceiling.
Spunky and Misty were somewhere deep in the tank below. The dummy floated faceup. Mr. Grisby held two wooden sticks that looked like pool cues, only shorter. The man in cowboy boots and the larger man watched as Mr. Grisby clacked the sticks together three times. A second later, both dolphins burst from the water. Spunky grabbed the dummy by an ankle and dived, dragging it with him. Misty stayed on the surface, turning circles, as if on surveillance.
The seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. If the dummy had been a man, he’d be turning blue. After three minutes, Mr. Grisby blew the whistle. Again, Spunky blasted through the surface, this time tossing the dummy onto the platform, splashing the three men. A good way to kill an enemy saboteur, Bobby thought.
Mr. Grisby reached into a pail and tossed chunks of raw fish to each of the dolphins. Misty shot water out of her blowhole and made a
“Nice party trick,” Cowboy Boots said.
“But I’m not sure it’s worth a million bucks,” the larger man said. “We can train the bastards, too.”
“Even without Sanders?”
Their voices carried easily across the water and echoed up the metal walls.
“Big deal. We hire another frogman,” Cowboy Boots said.
“The home office is none too happy with you about the whole Sanders deal,” the other man said.
“I’m telling you,” Grisby said, “Sanders was working for the feds. He was trying to arrest me when I shot him.”
“Bullshit,” Cowboy Boots said.
“If Sanders was a snitch, you’d have been busted instead of that dipshit kid,” the other man added. “Anyway, you got no cause to double the price on us. There’s a place in the Dominican we can go. Six dolphins trained to B level.”
Grisby laughed. “Try to get a B level to do this.”
He kicked the dummy back into the water, then rattled the two sticks against each other like a drummer in a marching band. He kept the
“Jesus,” Cowboy Boots muttered.
Grisby grinned at the two men. “Either of you want to take a swim?”
The big man laughed nervously. “We’ll get back to you on the price. We got to talk to the home office.”
Grisby tossed two pieces of mackerel to the dolphins, who were standing on their fluttering flukes, waving their fins, as if applauding themselves.
Wedged into his hiding place, Bobby felt himself tremble. Were these his best buddies?
The dolphins began leaping. Competing to see who could jump higher. Spunky was bigger and stronger, but Misty had a sleeker body. On their third leap, they neared the rafters. At the apogee of her jump, Misty stared straight at Bobby. She hung motionless in the air for a fraction of a second and emitted a
