clubbing high tea, I had her pick up Brent so that he could meet Sam and me at his father’s house. We needed some idea, some path, to where Henry might be hiding. I had a good idea that he was nearby, maybe even tracking his son, as I simply could not believe, even with the two million dollars in life insurance money, that he would let Brent do battle with his demons. Never mind that Henry hadn’t bothered to pay Brent’s tuition.
The Grayson family home was in Miami Shores Village, an outcropping of suburbia bordered by Biscayne Boulevard and I-95 that nevertheless managed to look like small-town America. Less than fifteen thousand people called Miami Shores home and it seemed as though there was a church, a park and a cafe for each of them. The village was only twenty minutes from both downtown Miami and Fort Lauderdale, but seemed much closer to Pleasantville.
The house itself was a one-story ranch-style home on Ninety-ninth Street. Judging by the concrete-block stucco design, it had been built in the late 1940s or early 1950s, which was when Miami Shores was first developed. It was repainted recently, so in the sunlight it gleamed a brilliant white. That and the new slate on the roof indicated to me that Henry Grayson had kept the house in good order up to some recent point. The overgrown grass and shrubs told another story.
We parked across the street and walked to the house. Fiona and Brent waited for us on the front porch and I could already tell, just from Fiona’s posture, that she was not in the best mood. Maybe having her pick up the kid was a mistake after her experience with Yuri Drubich.
“Nice neighborhood,” Sam said. “Except for that high-pitched squealing sound. Do you hear that?”
“They call those birds,” I said.
“Annoying,” he said. “And it smells funny out here, too.”
“That’s called fresh air,” I said. “That sweet scent is what’s known as flowers.”
“For my money, Mikey, I prefer air with a bit more bite to it.”
I looked down the block and noticed that two rather conspicuous-looking SUVs were now parked on either side of the street. Since no harried parents came tumbling out of them, followed by sugar-filled children, I had the sense that maybe they weren’t locals. Well, that and the tinted front windows, which don’t have much of a functional purpose for people not in the violence or protection business.
“Looks like we have company,” I said.
“Not exactly trying to hide,” Sam said. “Maybe more of Big Lumpy’s people?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s see.” I stopped in the middle of the street and waved at both cars.
“Michael,” Fiona called from the porch, “what are you doing?”
“There are some bad guys parked down the street,” I said. “I’m letting them know that I see them and wish them well.”
Fiona stomped across the front lawn and into the street, saw where I was looking and then mumbled something under her breath and began rummaging in her purse. She mumbled something again, this time with a bit more vehemence, so I said, “What was that?”
Fiona looked up and her expression was… well, she seemed a touch on the angry side. Her face was a handsome shade of red. “I said, ‘We should just shoot them.’ Maybe you’ve heard me say that before?”
“We’re in the middle of a residential street, Fiona.”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed, Michael, but I have an open wound on my head.”
“I noticed.”
“And I turned my ankle-did you see that?”
I looked down. She was wearing, as usual, a nice pair of heels. “It does look a bit swollen.”
“While you and Sam were having beers with an evil scientist, I was in a fight for my life. So you’ll excuse me for not having much patience,” she said.
“Fi,” Sam said, “maybe you should just wait in the house. Let the physically fit handle this.”
“Where are you going to be, then, Sam?” Fi said and she headed off down the street.
“Uh, Fi,” I said.
“I’m in no mood for this,” Fiona shouted. She reached into her purse and pulled out a gun, not her Sig, I noticed, and then remembered what she’d told me. Nice that she already had a replacement. I didn’t anticipate her pulling another gun from her purse, too. She had both of her arms outstretched as she walked, which made for a rather striking image.
“You want me to run after her?” Sam asked.
“No,” I said. “She might kill you.”
“Is everything all right?” Brent asked. He’d moved to the middle of his lawn but couldn’t see the action.
“It sure is,” I said. “Just stay where you are.”
Fiona stood directly in between both SUVs, but was far enough away that I couldn’t hear her voice. By the way she waved her guns, however, I had the impression that she was stating her points emphatically. After another thirty seconds of this, both SUVs pulled away at a normal rate of speed. Even used their blinkers at the corner.
Fiona stuffed both of her guns back into her purse and walked back toward the house.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Some gentlemen who believe Henry Grayson owes them money,” she said.
“Bookies?”
“Loan sharks,” she said.
Not good. “What did you tell them?” I said.
“To get in line.”
“How much is he on the hook for?” Sam asked.
“They didn’t say,” Fiona said, “but enough that the kind gentlemen apparently have spotters somewhere on the street to let them know when someone shows up unannounced.”
“Great,” I said.
“But I convinced them to leave the house alone,” she said.
“Permanently?” Sam asked.
“I told them I worked for Yuri Drubich,” she said,
“and that if they valued their lives and the lives of their children they’d consider the debt a loss on this year’s earnings. Now, can we get on this? I have a lateevening appointment at a day spa to get rid of the ugly gash I have in my head. I’d like not to miss it.”
Fi brushed past us then, grabbed the house keys from Brent’s hands as he stood patiently on the porch and calmly let herself into the house.
“She seem a little agitated?” Sam asked.
If you want to get to know someone, look at their bookshelves. If they have row after row of self-help books, you can assume with absolute clarity that they are insane, since clearly if self-help worked, they wouldn’t need dozens of books on the topic. If they have books primarily suggested by Glenn Beck, you can be fairly certain that if they’re not home it’s because they’re busy looking for the black helicopters or checking on the birth records of every elected government official and thus won’t be back to bother you anytime soon. If they don’t have bookshelves, that’s a sign, too. Never trust someone who doesn’t read.
In Henry Grayson’s case, the bookshelves in his home office were filled with two kinds of books: ones on betting strategy-this included a fascinating work called Killing the Book, which, the cover blurb said, was written by “an ex-Mafia bookie” who “knew where the numbers and bodies were buried”-and then books on how to disappear.
The first books were easy enough to understand-he was a compulsive gambler who must have always been looking to end the losses. The second books, of course, spoke to his current predicament and they weren’t the kinds of books one generally found on the shelves at Barnes amp; Noble: Hiding from the Government: A Guide to Living Off the Grid; Faking Your Death for Profit; The Minutemen Survival Handbook and about fifty others of a similar ilk. None of these books were actual bound books; rather, they were bulky photocopied messes held together with paper clips or velo binding or gold brads.
Henry Grayson had spent a good deal of time scouring the dark corners of the Internet for source materials, which I admired-at least he wanted to get educated before he flew off-but the majority of books like these were written by crazy people for crazier people. The keys to disappearing were (1) don’t leave evidence sitting around and (2) stop creating new evidence-two things Henry Grayson had notably not done.
