It was sunny and windy, the temperature plunging when Steve, in cotton sweats, took his run. He followed the usual route through South Grove, across the Gables Waterway bridge, to the end of Cocoplum Circle. Bobby rode his bicycle twenty yards ahead. Bribed with the promise of a papaya smoothie, the kid had pulled a windbreaker over his Marlins jersey.
Steve was hoping to get into the zone, that relaxed place where the body goes on autopilot and the mind relaxes in the La-Z-Boy. Sometimes, zoned out, ideas would pop into his head-new sandwich recipes or trial strategies-and he'd race home and write them down. But today he had only questions.
What did Charles mean? “The woman is perfected.”
Steve's gut told him it was the key to the case.
Questions in Bobby's case, too.
How do we discredit Kranchick and Thigpen? Who's the mystery rebuttal witness? And how the hell do we win?
A question about Victoria, too.
If we'd met before she hooked up with Bigby, would things have turned out differently?
All questions, no answers.
Passing the halfway point, Steve concentrated on his form. Arms relaxed, head still. There wasn't much traffic, just a few real estate brokers chauffeuring clients past waterfront homes. He saw Bobby half a block ahead, carving figure eights on his bike, then swerving back on course.
Steve called out: “Hey, kiddo, wait up!”
The boy turned, waved, then pedaled faster, heading away from him, toward LeJeune Circle.
Where does he get that rebellious streak?
Standing upright on the pedals, Bobby turned right at the circle and disappeared from view.
“Dammit.” Steve picked up his pace.
Sometimes Steve thought he was overprotective. When he considered his own childhood, he was sure of it. When he was just a little older than Bobby, he would ride his bike from Miami Beach across the Julia Tuttle Causeway, cars whizzing by, horns blowing. He'd look for pickup baseball games in a park near the Liberty City projects. He was usually the only white kid in the game, but he couldn't remember anyone ever hassling him. At least, not until he started betting five bucks he could beat anyone in a race.
Any race. Around the bases, straight down the foul line, from home plate to deepest center field. They'd laughed at him, skinny Jewish kid from the Beach who thought he was a brother. But he'd won six races in a row, pocketed the cash, then dashed off on his bicycle, a couple of sore losers chasing him with baseball bats.
Now Steve crossed the bridge over the waterway, turned on Edgewater, and headed toward the bay.
Bobby was not in sight.
He'd probably turned up Douglas Road, the quickest route home, Steve figured. Not to worry, right? Still, he sped up.
Edgewater was quiet on a Saturday morning. No cars, no pedestrians, just a chorus line of wood storks. He turned left on Douglas, heading up a slight incline, a hill by Miami standards.
Still no Bobby.
He tried to calculate how far the boy could have gone, pedaling with those legs, as spindly as the wood storks'. He didn't like the answer.
Bobby should be here. He should be in sight.
Then, just past Battersea Road, Steve saw it. Bobby's red Schwinn, on its side, its front wheel poking out of an azalea bush.
“Bobby! Bobby, where are you?”
The only sound was the caw of an unseen bird.
“Bobby! C'mon, no screwing around.”
He forced himself to remain calm. The boy could have walked down Battersea to the seawall. He could be skipping stones across the flat water of the bay. He's on the rocks at the shoreline, Steve told himself. He had to be.
Halfway down the street, Steve could see all the way to the bay.
“Bobby!”
No answer.
He turned around, got back to Douglas, started running north. Cars were backed up at the Ingraham intersection, an arts festival in the Grove jamming the traffic all the way to Old Cutler Road. He picked up speed, running along the berm in the shade of palmetto trees, looking into each gridlocked car as he passed. Families in sedans, teens in Jeeps, hotshot guys in convertibles. Horns honked; drivers craned out windows; a man cursed.
Breathing hard, Steve willed himself to stay loose. He knew that tensing up would drain his energy. He had to make a quick decision. Douglas Road split in two. Bear right, you head up Main Highway into the downtown Grove and even worse traffic. Stay straight, and you hit South Dixie Highway. If Bobby had been snatched, the car would head for South Dixie. Once there, it could turn north toward I-95, go straight into the Gables, or turn south and head for Kendall. It could go anywhere.
If the car gets to South Dixie, Bobby's gone.
Steve stayed straight, running full bore. He was at De Garmo when he heard the screech of burning rubber. Ahead of him, one of the cars pulled out of the pack. But it wasn't a car.
A muddy green pickup with oversize tires.
It peeled into the oncoming lane and tore left across traffic onto Leafy Way. Steve was too far away to see into the truck.
Was it Janice?
Or Zinkavich's thugs?
Or some freaking pedophile?
No way to see if Bobby was inside. But there are some things you sense. He felt Bobby's presence. His heart raced now, not from the exertion of running but from the fear boiling through his veins.
Steve headed toward Leafy Way, a block ahead. A strange choice if they were looking for a shortcut. The street dead-ended three blocks from the intersection.
He figured he had one minute, at most, before the truck pulled a U-turn at the end of the street and came back out to the intersection. The only sounds now were the pounding of his own heart and the slap of his running shoes against the pavement. For the first time, he was aware of his aching legs.
He pictured Bobby at the park, tossing the ball. Herky-jerky movements, no natural coordination, but the kid loved to play. They would pretend Bobby was a Marlins pitcher; Steve would get in the catcher's crouch and call balls and strikes. “Stee-rike three! Bobby Solomon, the rookie sensation from Miami, strikes out Barry Bonds to end the Giants' threat.”
That someone could hurt this boy filled Steve with a hot, murderous rage.
Then the spigots opened, the adrenaline poured, and Steve flew. Alongside him, the gridlocked cars were a blur, the faces of motorists featureless smudges. He jumped on the hood of a blue BMW and leapt off on the other side, the driver yelling, “Ay, cabron!” as Steve crossed Douglas and spun into Leafy Way.
Sure enough, the muddy pickup with the bug screen was growling back out, coming straight at him. Now he saw it had a reinforced steel bumper mounted with a recovery hook, waist high. There could have been three people in the cab or three hundred; Steve couldn't see past the windshield glare.
He ran straight at the truck. Playing chicken. The hook would be the first thing to hit him, entering the stomach, exiting his back. Steve had several seconds to imagine the autopsy photos.
He kept running; the truck kept coming.
The truck's horn blared, a steady blast.
He had maybe five seconds to dive over the curb and into a flower bed.
Suddenly, the truck braked hard, tires squealing. It fishtailed to a stop ten feet from him. Bouncing over the curb into a yard alongside a one-story stucco house, it smashed through a ficus hedge.
Steve chased after it.
From a neighbor's yard, someone yelled, “Hey! Fuck!”
The truck plowed through the property at the rear of the house. Churned up chunks of grass, sideswiped a
