next room to hear your own ears ringing. So don’t ask me one more fucking time if I think you should call her. Call her.”
Theo slid the phone across the bar top, but Jack was still debating. Strictly from the standpoint of case strategy, he should have been all over her without delay. Last thing he and his client needed was for Rene to get an earful about Tatum from Gerry Colletti or Homicide Detective Larsen before Jack could speak to her. But something was troubling him, holding him back. He looked at Theo and said, “I’m not gonna say she was flirting, but it was damn close.”
“You trying to make me jealous?” he said, then puckered up and shot a squeaky, exaggerated air kiss in Jack’s direction.
Jack ignored it. “Why would she even be nice to me, let alone flirt? If you believe yesterday’s newspaper, Sally Fenning-Rene’s sister-hired my client to pump a bullet into her brain.”
“You just said the magic words, Jacko: If you believe yesterday’s paper. Obviously, Rene don’t believe it. Which is all the more reason for you to get on the phone and get into her-”
“Theo,” he said, groaning.
“Camp. I was gonna say camp.”
“Yeah right.”
Theo handed him the phone. “Call.”
Jack took it and got the hotel number from directory assistance. Theo stood over him, watching in silence, as if to make sure that he actually dialed it. The hotel operator connected him to Rene’s room, and she answered on the third ring.
“Rene, hey, it’s Jack.” Then he added, “Swyteck,” like an idiot, which had Theo rolling his eyes.
“Hi,” she said. “I was just on my way out the door.”
“I won’t hold you up. I just wanted to follow up on what we talked about earlier. You know, about setting up an appointment.”
Theo screwed up his face and said, “An appointment?”
Jack waved him off, waiting for her reply. The delay felt longer than it actually was, but Jack got the definite impression that she was mulling something over.
Finally, she said, “Can you pick me up in half an hour?”
“Tonight?”
“Well, if tonight’s not good-”
“No, tonight’s fine.”
“You sure? I was just going to catch a cab. But now that you’ve called, and the more I think about it, I’d really rather not go alone.”
“Forget the cab. I can take you. Where you going?”
She answered in a flat, serious tone. “Sally’s old house.”
“The mansion over on Venetian Isles?”
“No.” Again she paused, then said, “Her real old house. The one Katherine was murdered in.”
Jack gripped the phone, but he didn’t speak.
Rene said, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
The music, the laughter, the endless bar chatter all around him-it all suddenly merged into an annoying buzz in the back of his brain. “I want to,” he said. “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
Forty-nine
They caught the tail end of rush hour out of downtown Miami and didn’t reach the Ninety-fifth Street exit until almost seven, well after dark.
The business district for Miami Shores was built around a little hitch in the road that connected I-95 to U.S. 1, and most of the community had the same small-town feel-quiet residential streets, drugstore on the corner next to the local diner, white church steeples protruding through the broad green canopy of palm trees and sprawling live oaks. It was a neighborhood in transition, much of it updated with the influx of younger families, especially in areas away from the interstate. But Sally’s old place wasn’t just built in the sixties; it was trapped there, just two blocks away from I- 95, a two-bedroom, ranch-style house, still sporting the original jalousie windows, aluminum awnings, and terrazzo front porch that screamed “rental property.” Jack almost expected a pink plastic flamingo on the front lawn.
Jack parked his Mustang in the driveway. A potbellied man wearing blue jeans and a V-neck undershirt was waiting on the front steps, visible in the yellow glow from the porch light.
“Who’s that?” asked Jack, peering through the windshield.
“Property manager,” said Rene. “Just follow my lead, okay?”
“Your lead?”
“I didn’t tell him that my sister used to live here and that I just wanted to look around. I said I needed a place in a hurry and that I’d give him ten percent more than the going rate if I like it. That’s why he agreed to meet me on a Friday night.”
“Anybody live here now?”
“An old guy, lives alone. Ever since the murder, I’m told it rents month to month, if it rents at all.”
“With that kind of history, I guess you have to be pretty down on your luck to live here.”
“Yeah,” she said, and then her voice trailed off as she added, “Even more down than Sally was.”
They headed up the walkway, and the property manager greeted them at the steps. Rene said, “You must be Jimmy.”
“That’s right.” A toothpick wagged from his lips as he spoke, his thumbs hooked on his belt loops.
“I’m Rene, this is Jack,” she said, handshakes all around. “We’re here to see the house.”
He closed one eye, a nervous habit, and said, “Y’all know ’bout the li’l girl got kilt here, right?”
“Yes, we know.”
“Good. I want that out in the open. Cuz people comes here all the time, ya know. They look around, likes the place, then find out ’bout dat girl, and it changes their minds right quick. Jis wastes my time.”
“We’re okay with it.”
“No children, huh?”
“No,” she said. “No children.”
He pulled a big ring of keys from his pocket, found the right one, and turned the lock. He pushed the door open, then immediately took a step back. The pungent odor of old kitty litter hit Jack in the face like an ammonia-soaked rag.
“Cats,” said Jimmy. “Screwball who lives here now gots eleven of them.”
“Eleven?” said Jack.
“Yeah. Can’t stand them smelly bastards. Y’all go ahead. Look around. I’ll wait right here.”
Rene went first and switched on the light. Jack followed, and Jimmy stayed behind. The door closed just as soon as they were inside. Jimmy was apparently determined to contain the cat odor.
The living room was small and cluttered, with threadbare green carpet stretching wall to wall. A dingy white sheet was draped over the camelback sofa, and Jack counted five cats sleeping on it. Two armchairs, an ottoman, and even the coffee table were likewise covered with old sheets, and Jack accounted for three more cats.
“Man, it stinks in here.”
Rene simply shot him a look that said, Try living in Africa for three years, bucko.
Jack took a step forward, then jumped at the sound of a cat toy squeaking beneath his shoe. He let out a nervous chuckle, but Rene didn’t even flinch. She suddenly seemed oblivious to the sounds, the smells, the sights-to anything but the past she’d come here to uncover. Jack, too, could feel the mood shifting. No more little jokes, no more playful smiles, no more contrived distractions to keep them from breathing in and absorbing the tragedy that had occurred right here in this house, the horrible crime that had ended a child’s life and changed a young mother forever.
“She was twenty-four when it happened,” said Rene, her voice quaking.
