few minutes. Jack knew almost immediately that the prosecutor was bluffing. If the state could prove that Falcon was continuing to harass the mayor’s daughter, the prosecutor would have been in court faster than a bailiff could say “All rise.” Jack would not agree to a restraining order. The personal call from the mayor had made it considerably more difficult to maintain that position, but it was his job to put emotions aside and to act in his client’s interest. He still had a conscience, however. If his client was determined to continue breaking the law-if Falcon refused to give up his pursuit of Alicia Mendoza-then it was time for him to get a new lawyer. Jack had defended plenty of clients who had committed horrible crimes. Anyone who had a problem with that had no business being a criminal defense lawyer. It was something altogether different, however, to provide legal protection for someone who was steadily working his way up to the big kill.
And that was his problem with Falcon.
“We there yet?” said Theo.
Jack ignored him. The Miami River stretched five and a half miles in a southeasterly direction, from the airport to downtown Miami, where it emptied into Biscayne Bay. Over the centuries, everything from raw sugar to raw sewage had floated down its tea-colored waters. At any time of day, you might find a ninety-foot yacht bound for the West Indies sharing the right of way with a rusted old container ship weighted down with cocaine. It was truly a working river, handling over four billion dollars a year in legal cargo, and a walk along its banks was like a slide show of Florida history. There were two-thousand-year-old relics from the Tequesta Indians, warehouses and dockyards built by the Florida East Coast Railroad, an old fort from the Civil War, marinas, public parks, historic homes, mangroves, run-down apartment buildings, and even some pretty good restaurants.
Theo grumbled to get Jack’s attention. “Hey, Swyteck. I said, ain’t we there yet?”
“Almost.” The Big Fish restaurant was one of the landmarks Falcon had mentioned, so Jack knew they were getting close. Right on the river, it was actually one of Jack’s favorite lunch spots. It was nothing fancy, just a relaxing place to eat fresh dolphin, tuna, or shrimp ceviche while soaking up a historic stretch of river, 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. Jack led Theo around the restaurant, past the trash bins and a nearby marina, where the combined odor of diesel fumes and discarded fish guts nearly gagged him. He imagined that Falcon had scored many a meal right here, rooting through the Dumpsters for leftover french fries or hush puppies.
They passed beneath a bridge, and when they emerged on the other side, the river started its jog to the northwest. A brisk wind was blowing straight into their faces. Though the sun was shining, south Florida remained in the grip of an abnormal and persistent cold front. Every fifteen steps, Jack heard Theo huffing in an unsuccessful attempt to see his breath steam. Cold was a relative concept in Miami.
“That must be it,” said Jack, pointing. There was an abandoned car about twenty feet off the riverbank, near an old warehouse-just as Falcon had described it.
Instinctively, they slowed as they closed the last twenty yards, caution in their steps. The car was little more than a burned-out metal shell. All of the windows were gone, including the windshield. The steering wheel and front seat were missing as well. The backseat was still in place, but it had been slashed many times over, and the stuffing was coming out.
There was no sign of Falcon.
“Reminds me of the last time we saw your Mustang,” said Theo.
He was talking about Jack’s pride and joy, a vintage 1966 Mustang convertible with rally pack gauges, wood steering wheel, and pony interior. His first major purchase out of law school, it was nothing short of a work of art until some angry drug dealers put a match to it.
“That was harsh, Theo.”
“Sorry, dude.”
They stepped closer. Theo walked all the way around the vehicle and stopped directly in front of it, facing the grillwork. “All Mustang jokes aside, it actually is a Ford.”
“You think?”
“Definitely. Late seventies, I’d say. Ford Falcon.”
“A Falcon?” said Jack.
“Yeah. Funny, huh?”
“I figured he called himself Falcon because he was ready to fly off a bridge. Turns out, it’s just an extension of where he lives.” Jack took a slow walk around the car, inspecting it. Rat droppings were scattered across the sun- baked hood. Cockroaches hid in the darkness of the wheel wells. Scattered about the interior were some dirty Tupperware bowls, empty coffee cans, an old raincoat, and a tattered sheet of plastic. “Imagine living here,” said Jack.
“Beats the hell out of death row,” said Theo.
As usual, Jack couldn’t argue with the big guy’s perspective.
Theo said, “So what do we do now? Sit around and wait?”
“It’s not as if I can call my client on his cell phone and set up a meeting.”
“You want to leave a note and a quarter, tell him to call you?”
Jack thought about it. “Let’s give it a few minutes. He said if I ever needed to find him, afternoons were the second best time to catch him at home.”
“When’s the best time?”
“After midnight, but I’m not about to come out here then. Not even with you watching my back.”
Theo scratched his head as he searched for someplace to sit. He went to the rear of the car and hopped up on the trunk lid. It made a funny noise as he landed, as if the lid and latch no longer fit just right. Just then, Jack noticed some brown droplets on the bumper. He squatted down for a closer look.
“What’d I do now?” said Theo.
Jack wasn’t sure what it was, but he had a pretty good idea. “Theo, don’t touch anything. Just climb down slowly.”
The tone of Jack’s voice made it clear that he wasn’t kidding around. Theo slid down until his feet touched the ground. As his body weight lifted from the trunk, the old spring hinges creaked, and the lid opened on its own power.
Then they saw the body-or what was left of it. It was a mangled heap at the bottom of the trunk. A rat the size of a small dog scurried away from its lunch, giving them both a start.
“Holy shit,” said Theo.
Blood, everywhere, so much blood. “My thought exactly,” Jack said quietly.
chapter 11
J ack watched from behind yellow police tape as the crime scene investigators tended to the body in the trunk. It was like watching a well-oiled machine-swabs taken, photographs snapped, evidence gathered. He probably would have stayed even if Detective Barber hadn’t asked him to stick around, but it was near sunset, and Theo was clearly ready to leave.
“Don’t you got any actual living clients you should be back in the office overchargin’?” said Theo.
“Oh, be quiet,” said Jack. “Have you no respect for the dead?”
“That’s odd.”
“What’s odd?”
“Beginning a sentence with the word ‘have.’ It’s like starting with ‘to whom,’ which, studies have shown, can’t possibly happen-no way, no how-without a stick up your ass.”
That was Theo, on a perpetual mission to save the world from itself.
Jack signaled to the detective. He was standing across the yard, near the abandoned vehicle, and talking with one of the investigators. In due time, he finished the conversation and walked over to the police barricade at the outer edge of the crime scene.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Barber.
“Sorry?” said Theo, his hands buried in his pants pocket. “We been standin’ around for over an hour, pal. It’s cold as hell out here.”
