ran the administrative side of Children First’s operation. Rene had liked them from day one on the job, a couple of down-to-earth Oklahomans who didn’t do charity just to get their mugs in the society pages and who’d found a meaningful way to spend their retirement together. They were back from their daily jaunt to the post office, Jim the former Iowa State football player having led the way. Rene stepped out of the examination room and asked, “The usual?”
“No,” said Mr. Roberts. “There’s actually something here for you today.”
“Really? Put it on the desk. I’m with a patient.”
“It’s from a lawyer,” he said.
That piqued her interest. She crossed the room and took a look. She didn’t recognize the name.
“Who’s the boy?” asked Mrs. Roberts.
“Sorry?” said Rene, still focused on the envelope.
“The patient. Who is he?”
“His name is Kamun. I’ll introduce you in a minute. This looks kind of important. Maybe I should open it.”
Mr. Roberts handed her an opener. She quickly sliced the envelope from end to end, then removed the letter. It was one page long. Her eyes shifted from left to right as she read, then her lashes fluttered and her hand began to shake.
Mr. Roberts asked, “Is everything okay, Rene?”
Instinctively, she brought a hand to her mouth. “It’s my sister,” she said.
“She’s okay, I hope.”
Rene looked up from the letter and said, “She’s dead.”
Mrs. Roberts came to her, put her arm around her. “Oh no.”
Rene lowered herself onto the edge of the desk, the quickest place to sit down. “She was shot. A robbery or something. They don’t know exactly. In Miami.”
Mr. Roberts took her hand. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
Mrs. Roberts said, “She was such a sweet girl. I mean, it seems like she was just here with us.”
“It’s been over two years since she left.”
“Really? That long? Oh, time flies. But she was still so young. I think I’m going to cry.”
“Please, don’t,” said Rene.
Mr. Roberts glanced at his wife, as if telling her to be strong for Rene. She cleared her throat and quickly toughened her resolve.
“Thank you,” said Rene.
Mr. Roberts grimaced and said, “She really was such a nice person.”
“Would you like a minute alone?” asked Mrs. Roberts.
“I’ll be fine, really. But thank you both. It’s kind of you to say such nice things.”
Mrs. Roberts said, “We can arrange for some time off, if you would like.”
“I don’t expect I’ll be going anywhere.”
“It’s no problem, if you want to go home.”
“Sally was the only family I had left. Now she’s gone. There’s nothing to go back to.”
The older woman smiled flatly, as if she were trying to understand. “It’s up to you, dear. Whatever you want to do.”
Rene returned a sad smile, then started back to the examination room. She stopped in the doorway, then turned and looked at both of them. “I don’t want you or the organization to be at all worried about me. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Like we said, Rene. It’s totally up to you.”
With a final nod, she tried to convey that this would be the end of the matter. Then she stepped into the examination room and turned her attention back to Kamun.
Twelve
At noon on Thursday, Jack took Sally Fenning’s ex-husband to lunch.
He’d spent the morning in court at the Criminal Justice Center, so they met just a few blocks down the Miami River at the Big Fish Restaurant, one of Jack’s favorite lunch spots. For all its miles of breathtaking waterfront, Miami offered amazingly few places that actually allowed you to sit by the water and eat seafood. The Big Fish was right on the Miami River, nothing fancy, just a relaxing place to score fresh dolphin, tuna, or shrimp ceviche while soaking up a historic stretch of river where ninety-foot yachts bound for the West Indies shared the right of way with rusted old container ships filled with stolen SUVs destined for South America. It was a landmark of sorts, a piece of old Miami where mariners from houseboats at the west end of the river sidled up alongside bankers and lawyers from the office towers to the east, where the mouth of the five-and-a-half-mile river emptied into Biscayne Bay. Jack was sentimental about the place, too. It was over broiled grouper and french fries that, as a federal prosecutor, he’d talked his first mobster into testifying for the government.
Jack didn’t think he’d ever duplicate the sense of symmetry that came from nailing Tony “the Big Tuna” Dilabio at a place called the Big Fish. But he still felt a rush of adrenaline as he shook hands with Sally’s ex-husband.
“Thanks for coming,” said Jack.
“No problem.”
They took a small table by the window, which overlooked an old fishing pier that had been half-submerged in the river for as long as Jack had been coming here. Miguel was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and blue, form- fitting bicycle pants. He’d joined the City of Miami Police Department near the tail-end of his marriage to Sally, and he was now part of the downtown bicycle brigade, a small team of officers who patrolled the parks and streets by pedal power on twelve-speeds.
Miguel’s full name was Miguel Ortiz Rios, a first-generation Cuban-American. Jack’s mother had actually been born in Cuba, but he didn’t mention it to Miguel. She died just hours after his birth, so his Latin connection was purely genetic, and he came across about as Cuban as Yankee pot roast. He knew from experience that if he told Miguel he was half Cuban, Miguel would start speaking Spanish, Jack would do his best to respond in kind, and Miguel would quickly revert to English, surmising that Jack was a lying sack of shit gringo who was trying to forge an instant rapport by claiming to be Latino.
“I assume you didn’t invite me here to turn me on to the conch fritters,” said Miguel.
Jack gave a little smile and said, “That’s true. Though the conch fritters are pretty good.”
“That’s what I’m having,” he told the waitress. “Just water to drink.”
“I’ll have the big tuna,” said Jack.
“It’s all pretty much the same size,” she said.
Jack caught his own Freudian slip. “Sorry. I mean just the tuna. Seared, rare. And an iced tea.”
The waitress took their menus and left them alone at the table. The lunch crowd was streaming in, and the conversations around them had merged into a single, steady rumble.
Jack said, “Before we start, Mike-”
“It’s Miguel. Only Sally called me Mike.”
“Sorry. I just wanted to remind you that you do have the right to have your lawyer here.”
“Forget it. Parker Aimes gets a big hit if I take home the forty-six million, but I still gotta pay him a reduced hourly fee if we lose. I’m using him as little as possible.”
Interesting, thought Jack, that Miami’s top probate lawyer didn’t like the ex-husband’s chances well enough to take a straight contingency fee arrangement. Jack said, “I have a few things I want to ask about you and Sally, but let me start with the big question. What do you think Sally was up to here?”
“Like I said at the meeting. As far as I know, there isn’t a single person on that list of beneficiaries who Sally loved. And a few of them, I know for a fact Sally hated them.”
“So she decided to leave forty-six million dollars to people she hates?”
“No,” said Miguel. “She left her enemies to fight over forty-six million dollars that they would probably never get their hands on.”
“You consider yourself one of her enemies?”
