There were scenes of the room. There were the close-ups of the body, and the shots of Pam and me, Charlie demonstrating the fallacy of the crescentic fingernail abrasion. There were a variety of shots of the room itself, Nick Fox pacing in the background.
I spread all the photos on the floor, moving some empty pizza cartons out of the way. I tried different arrangements. All body shots here, all room shots there. I arranged them by field of view. Long shots here, close- ups there.
Then here.
Then there.
And there it was. Where it had been all along.
CHAPTER 41
The grand jury would convene at nine a.m. Monday, take up old business, and approve a report on the sorry state of the county's juvenile detention facilities. The jurors would break at noon and reconvene at 1:30 to hear new cases including In re Alejandro Rodriguez. Which would soon become State of Florida v. Jacob Lassiter.
At 7:30 p.m. Sunday I called Fox's office and left a new message with the weekend crew: Leaving for Rio on nine o'clock flight. Five minutes later, my phone rang.
I picked it up and said, 'Hello, Nick, what took you so long?'
'I'm glad you're there, asshole. I want to talk to you. Maybe we can work something out.'
'Wonderful. Great, Nick,' I slavered, gratitude and humility coating my voice like honey.
'I'll be there in an hour.'
'I won't be here,' I said.
'What?'
'I'm going fishing.'
'Are you nuts?'
'Snook are running, or at least swimming.'
'Don't jerk me off, Lassiter. The grand jury's going to hear-'
'Nighttime bridge fishing, good for the soul. I'll be on the MacArthur Causeway just east of the tender's shack. I'll have an extra spinning rod.'
Then I hung up and didn't answer the phone when it rang ten seconds later. Twenty minutes later, I was putting my gear in the trunk when it rang again. I went inside, lifted the receiver, and listened.
'Hello, Jake, is that you, darling?'
The crisp British accent that first sucked me in.
'It's me, darling,' I said.
'Oh Jake, I wanted to say good-bye.'
'Good-bye?'
'I just finished my last lecture and I'm booked on the red-eye to Heathrow.'
Whoa. Too much was happening too fast. I couldn't deal with both of them at once.
'Can't you stay a little longer?'
'Would that I could. We could spend some time together, perhaps rekindle that spark.' Her voice tinkled with promises. 'But my work calls.'
'Wait. Where are you?'
'On Miami Beach, at Mount Briar Hospital.'
'Great. On your way to the airport you can stop and say a proper good-bye. I'll be on the causeway. Fishing.'
'Fishing?'
Why didn't anyone believe me?
I told her where and said nine-thirty, and she'd still have time to catch the flight.
And then I went to find some bait.
The moon was three-quarters full and rising over the ocean. Silky moonbeams flashed across the surface of the bay and bounced off the steel and concrete of the bridge. I had watched the late summer sun set, dangling over the Everglades, the sky tinged vermilion from the foul breath of our two million cars, most of which seemed to be passing on the bridge just now. Carbon monoxide hung heavy and low, the air was soggy with heat and moisture, and I wondered why anyone would fish here. It was like jogging in the Lincoln Tunnel.
I wore jeans and a sleeveless vest. On the vest was a lamb's-wool patch festooned with flies. Streamers and poppers and super bugs and flipping shrimp, and my all-time favorite, the cockroach. I held a stout rod with a heavy butt and an open-face spinning reel, and if Nick Fox wanted to fish, I had another one, too.
Four lanes of traffic rattled the bridge, cars heading from downtown Miami to South Beach and back again. I stood on the catwalk near the tender's shack, just off the steel grating of the drawbridge itself. The metal hummed and sang with each passing tire. Kids on bicycles rode along the catwalk, and a collection of old coots sat in lawn chairs, digging bait out of tin cans and dropping their lines into the water. Near the lower portions of the bridge, weekend shrimpers shone their flashlights toward the bottom and swung fine-meshed, long-handled nets into the water. Two swarthy men in T-shirts angled their casts near the shrimpers. Fish are attracted to shrimp, and fishermen aren't far behind. Ten feet from me, a guy who needed a shave and a bath dangled a pole over the side. He had already borrowed some pinfish for bait and was now asking if I had any mullet. When he came close, the smell of cheap wine overpowered the tang of the bait. Despite the heat he wore a heavy plaid work shirt and a cap with earflaps pulled down.
'Tank you kindly, guv'nor,' he said.
At five before nine Nick Fox's impressive bulk appeared over the rise of the bridge. He was backlit by the powerful vapor lamps on the eastern tower. He wore a light gray suit and was alone. He arrived a moment later, sweating and furious.
'You're a first-class number-one asshole, Lassiter.'
'Good evening to you, too,' I said.
'I parked at the marina and walked a mile in this heat, a man could have a heart attack.'
'Most men would take their suit coats off.'
'There are voters who use this bridge,' he said. 'They expect me in a suit.'
'Image,' I said.
'Don't knock it. It may not get the job done, but it makes it possible to get the job done.'
'What's the job, Nick? Besides getting elected?'
'Law and order. Sending away your basic shitheads. Making streets safe for little old ladies and children coming home from school. Locking up your burglars and your strong-arm robbers.'
'And your drug barons,' I said. 'Let's not forget about them.'
He studied me. 'We didn't come here to talk about my work. What the fuck's going on?'
I baited my hook, raised the rod, flicked my wrist, and watched the twenty-pound test line drop toward the water in a poor imitation of a cast. 'Told you. Wanted to fish. When the tide starts in, I think my luck's going to change.'
He studied my outfit. 'What the hell are those flies for? You can't use 'em up here, you'll give an earring to some asshole in a Benz convertible.'
'Flies are just for decoration. Like your medals.'
'I'm trying to help you out, Jakie. Don't fight me.'
'Help me out! That's a hoot. You framed me for the Rodriguez murder.'
He studied me. 'I can get you out of it. I'm willing to compromise my position to help you.'
'What are you talking about?'
Just then the distinctive aroma of rotgut breath invaded our space. 'Scuse me, gentlemen, could you spare a
