The only loose end was Adriana. She’d spoken to the Quiet Man. She might speak to him again. But she could be dealt with. Hardin’s preferred muscle was dead, but Lowry wasn’t the only lowlife in Sarasota.
Adriana would be easy enough to dispatch.
Yes, things weren’t so bad. Plenty to be thankful for.
He was in shirtsleeves, tie removed, and his bare feet padded the elaborate brickwork as he took a slow, strolling tour of his pool area. He couldn’t turn in any direction without being reminded of his blessings.
Just look at this place.
Oversized planters full of lush greenery. Palm trees shifting languidly in the sea breeze. The sound of waves in the distance. His property was far enough outside the city hustle and bustle that the sky was a deep, inky black speckled with bright stars.
He took a sip of bourbon, shoved his free hand into his pant pocket, and stared into the illuminated pool, sparkling and blue. A steaming hot tub, also illuminated, lay a few yards beyond. There were two separate seating areas. A massive propane grill. A fire pit.
Not bad for a lower-middle-class kid from a ho-hum part of Miami. It was especially impressive considering his self-imposed late start in life. After college, he’d done very little for two years. Then a stint in retail management. Then law school, savior of the disillusioned and aimless. He’d done well at the Miami firm, not quite making partner but making a lot of connections, and his sudden decision to head across the state to Sarasota, of all places, shocked people.
Hardin had always known he was destined for big things, bigger things than making partner at a prestigious Miami criminal law firm. And his early life choices had hobbled him, stunted his inevitable success. He’d needed a fast track.
A casual conversation at a cocktail lounge in South Beach had provided the answer he’d been seeking, a throwaway line from a drunken coworker. This was when Hardin had learned about Sarasota’s governmental structure. He’d found his fast track.
He continued around the pool, took another casual sip of the bourbon.
And stopped. Tumbler at his lips.
A man appeared. Materialized. From the shadows among the small palm grove behind the tiki hut.
Tall and dark. Walking toward him. There was only one person it could be.
The Quiet Man.
Hardin’s top lip cooled in the icy liquid. If he kept the tumbler at his face much longer, he’d look frightened, weak. He couldn’t have that. So he lowered it. The ice cubes rattled.
“Welcome to my home,” Hardin said with his best public smile, the same one he’d used an hour ago at the candlelight vigil. He kept his posture erect and proud, not a hint of the fear swarming through him.
The other man continued toward him, measured steps, creeping forward, glacial determination. His arms were at his sides, hands empty.
“The Quiet Man. The vigil was lovely, wasn’t it? Very touching. Part of me was expecting something a bit more exciting to happen, though. Say, a gunshot. I have you to thank for the disappointment, don’t I?”
The man didn’t respond.
Hardin took a longer sip from his tumbler, his hand shaking harder. “Aren’t you gonna tell me to ‘talk’?”
The Quiet Man shook his head, slowly. His eyes smoldered, his mouth went tighter as he stared into Hardin.
Hardin went for another sip, stopped himself, put the tumbler on the small, glass-topped table next to the wicker sofa. He brought his hands together, rubbed the shake out of them.
“Did you know that the mayor of Sarasota is a largely ceremonial position? We have a council-manager form of government. Three districts, five commissioners, with three of the commissioners being district representatives and the other two voted at-large. The commission chooses the mayor and the vice-mayor each year. Not an altogether uncommon system. Even some big cities use it—Dallas, San Diego.
“But you hear the title Mayor of Dallas or Mayor of Sarasota, and the average person doesn’t stop to consider how the person got their office. This was my fast track, man. Making up for lost time. Sizemore was just selected mayor a month and a half ago. I don’t have another year to wait for the chance at becoming mayor. So my plan was to link up with Lowry, create a panic, badmouth Sizemore’s ceremonial leadership, and then have him whacked, forcing a new mayor to be selected from among the commissioners. Of course, the logical choice for Sizemore’s replacement would be the commissioner whose strong leadership has been visible in the papers, the one who decided to unify with Sizemore at the vigil, shortly before his assassination, cementing how sincere the commissioner was about getting Sarasota through these difficult times.
“This commissioner would then become mayor of a recognizable city, a desirable vacation destination with worldwide name recognition. A year of that, then the local hero would be a shoo-in when he’d run for state legislature. He’d rub state government shoulders for a while, just a while, his last stop before landing on the national stage.”
He waited for the Quiet Man to respond. Nothing.
“You’re a man of action; that’s clear. I’m sure you can appreciate what I’ve done, nothing more than anyone else who’s making a name for himself. Gotta get ahead in this world, am I right?”
No response from the Quiet Man.
“Say something, dammit!”
The man reached beneath his jacket, pulled out a pistol, raised it in Hardin’s direction.
And fired.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Silence was in the shadows of Adriana Ramirez’s living room, dappled by swatches of streetlight coming in through the thin drapes. He slouched far back in the chair, forearms stretched out on each of the chair’s arms. One hand lay casually on his suppressed Beretta, his index finger resting on the outside edge of the trigger guard.
He felt anger boiling his face, considered a meditation, decided against it.
Sorry, C.C. No meditation this time. I need this.
That ticking. That
