computer for about three minutes, and then she pushes away from the counter and leaves through the back door.
Carr jogs into the coffee bar, shouldering past customers and ignoring the angry looks. A twenty-something man in linen pants, a Daddy Yankee T-shirt, and lots of body ink has a hand on Valerie’s bar-stool when Carr steps in front of him.
“Hey, I’m sitting here, man,” he says, and he puts his coffee cup on the counter.
“You definitely are,” Carr says softly, “in about thirty seconds.” Carr finds the browser icon on the desktop and clicks on it.
“I’m sitting here now, man,” the twenty-something says, “so get the hell out of my way.”
“Yep, absolutely,” Carr says, watching the browser open, “I’m out of here.”
“You talk, but you don’t move your ass.” The twenty-something puts a hand on Carr’s arm and pulls, and his face seizes up in a grimace. Carr has his hand around the man’s wrist and fingers and has bent them back at impossible angles. The twenty-something’s face is pale and his knees begin to buckle, and Carr eases up on the finger lock.
“Another second,” Carr whispers, and he opens the browser history. The screen is empty and Carr stares at it a moment and says: “Fuck.” Then he hits the back door at a run, leaving the twenty-something rubbing his wrist and gasping and the few patrons who’ve noticed anything shaking their heads.
She’s a block and a half down First Avenue, walking in the shade of the Metromover tracks, and Carr is just in time to see her turn east on Eighth Street, back toward Brickell Avenue. He sprints to close the gap.
She walks briskly down Eighth Street and crosses Brickell as the light changes. Carr waits on the other side of the street and watches Valerie disappear into a tower of white stone and green glass.
When Carr steps into the building, Valerie is nowhere in sight, and security is already eyeing him. And why not-no one else in the lobby is as rumpled as he is, or as damp with sweat. He walks over to the building directory and scans the list of tenants. Software companies, law firms, management consultants, but more than anything else banks and brokerages. And, Carr notices, mostly foreign firms.
“Can I help you, sir?” the guard asks. He’s big and uniformed, and so is his hovering partner.
“Think I got the wrong address,” Carr says, and he exits into the midday heat.
There’s a Starbucks next door to the building, and a wine bar on the opposite corner. Carr likes the sight lines from the wine bar better, though neither are perfect: there are too many ways out of the green tower. Still, he takes a window seat and orders a bottle of soda water and a ham sandwich on a baguette.
The traffic churns past on Brickell while Carr eats and watches and wonders. What was Valerie doing in the coffee bar, where she had no time to drink coffee, but time enough to delete her browsing history? Surfing? Sending? And if sending, then sending to whom? And why do it there, when she has Internet access back in Boca Raton?
Privacy and anonymity are the obvious answers, and both worry Carr. He and his crew are the only people in a position to eavesdrop on Valerie’s laptop. What might she be doing online that she’d want to hide from them? And who might she be doing it with?
After an hour, the lunch crowd has thinned on the street and in the wine bar, and the air-conditioning has dried him off, but Carr has seen no sign of Valerie. He worries that he’s missed her in the wash of people, or that she’s left another way, and he pays the check and steps outside. The humidity is like a wet hammer, and Carr is sweating before the light changes. There’s a shaded plaza beside the green tower, with white pergolas, razor- straight rows of palm trees, tables with umbrellas, and a view through the lobby glass of the elevator banks. Carr heads for one of the tables, and when he stops in his tracks he’s not sure at first what it is that’s stopped him.
Something in the corner of his eye. Something he knows. Broad shoulders held just so, a thrusting gut, an aggressive, pumping gait-a familiar bulk. In the lobby, in the shuffling clutch of people at the elevator doors. When Carr picks him out, there’s a rush of noise in his head-gears grinding on one another-and he’s frozen, flat-footed, in the plaza. He might as well be waving a flag. It’s sheer luck that Nando doesn’t look over.
“What the fuck?” Carr says to no one, and he steps behind one of the manicured palms.
Nando crosses the lobby and pushes through the doors. He’s wearing a tan suit and an open-collared French blue shirt, and he’s carrying a tan briefcase. He’s thicker and darker than when Carr last saw him, years ago in Costa Alegre, and more prosperous-looking than ever. He’s on his cell as he crosses Brickell and heads south. He’s still talking when he enters another office tower, this one clad in brushed metal and gray glass. He’s alone in the elevator when the doors slide shut, and Carr watches the numbers climb to eight.
Security in the gray building is lazy, and no guards brace Carr as he scans the lobby directory. The assortment of firms is only slightly different here-more lawyers, fewer consultants-but there are still plenty of foreign banks. The eighth floor, in fact, is nothing but banks.
Nando is inside for about an hour, after which Carr follows him down Brickell to another building-gold glass this time. Carr can’t tell which floor he’s headed to-there are too many people on the elevator with him-but there is no shortage of banks here either. Nando reappears fifty minutes later. Carr is buying gum at a lobby kiosk and readying himself for another walk in the heat when Nando turns not to the Brickell Avenue doors, but toward the back of the lobby and the enclosed passage that leads to the building’s parking structure.
Carr comes down the passage in time to see Nando board an elevator. It stops on the third parking level and Carr jogs up the stairs. He comes out of the stairwell and hears footsteps echoing, a car door closing, and an engine turning over.
“Shit,” he whispers, and he waits at the stairs as Nando drives by in a white rental.
Back on the sidewalk, Carr looks up and down Brickell Avenue, but sees no sign of Nando’s car, or of Valerie. He walks up the street to the gray tower with the lax security. Around the corner he finds the tower’s four-level parking structure and, on its lowest level, the loading dock. There’s security there-two guys in rumpled uniform shirts and sneakers-but they seem only semiconscious. Carr checks the block and climbs a low wall into the parking structure. He bounces hard on the fenders of three parked cars-Lexus, BMW, Rover-and their lights flash and their horns blare. He steps behind a wide pillar, and when the security slackers wander over to investigate the alarms, Carr slips into the loading dock and into the service elevator and rides to eight.
Three banks-all foreign-have offices on the eighth floor, but only one has a reception desk. The blonde behind it looks barely out of middle school, and she has a fizzy voice and a manic smile.
“How can I help you today?” she says.
Carr puts on a beaten look. “I’m hoping you can help me out with my boss,” he says. “He’s was in here a while ago, and he thinks he left his BlackBerry. Now he is rip-roarin’ pissed-like it’s my fault he can’t keep track of his stuff.”
The girl nods in solidarity and sympathetic understanding of irrational bosses. “I haven’t seen anything lying around.”
“He was in about two hours ago. Black-haired guy, big, dark, in a tan suit and a blue shirt.”
The blonde nods. “New accounts,” she says, and she picks up the phone. “Britty, you find a BlackBerry over there? That new client, Mr. Reyes-he thinks he might’ve left his here.” She listens and nods and smiles at Carr. “She’s checking,” she tells him. Then she listens again and frowns. “Thanks anyway, babe,” she says into the phone, and she shakes her head.
He is barely aware of the walk back to the Four Seasons, and surprised to find himself there. More surprised to find that Valerie’s car is still in the lot. He gets into his own car and finds a spot with a view of the hotel entrance and waits.
The afternoon rush washes about him, and so do the questions. Mr. Reyes? New accounts? What is Nando doing in Miami? And what the fuck is he doing with Valerie? The questions spin around like water in a drain, and there’s orange in the sky when he realizes he hasn’t been watching the hotel, or anyway that he hasn’t been seeing it.
A dinner crowd is arriving, and the valets cast long shadows as they dart among the idling cars. Carr watches them run, and watches the pretty crowd disappear inside, through the revolving doors. And then he sees a couple step out. The woman is first, and Carr recognizes Valerie right away, though her blouse is untucked now, and her hair is damp, as if from a bath. It takes him a moment longer to recognize the man, who pauses in the doorway and then walks forward, slips a thick arm around Valerie’s waist, and rests a large hand on her hip. Mike.
