“Bobby,” Mai said. “Will you promise me that when you grow up, you won’t be a defense lawyer?”
“I’m going to be a major league pitcher,” the boy promised.
Six minutes later, Dr. Mai Ling reached into a file cabinet and handed Steve the file. It didn’t take long for him to find what he wanted. Stapled inside the cover was a business card.
“Happy now?” Mai asked.
“Did she tell you why the FBI was involved in a state murder case?”
“She told me she was investigating. That’s all.”
“Constance Parsons,” Steve said, as if the name might conjure up something. “What else can you tell me about her?”
“She’s one of the young ones. You know how they are. Gung ho, until they get transferred to Missoula or Rapid City.”
“Connie Parsons,” Bobby said.
Steve gave him a look. “Constance. Connie. What difference does it make, kiddo?”
“Nothing much. Except her friends probably call her Connie.”
“Yeah, probably. So?”
“‘Connie Parsons’ is an anagram for ‘Passion Conner,’” Bobby said.
Thirty-three
“Does this mean I can’t pitch to you today?” Bobby asked.
“No way. We’re gonna work on the circle change-up,” Steve told him. “You’ve got to follow through all the way, make ’em think a fastball’s coming.”
They were in Steve’s Mustang, headed down South Dixie Highway toward Coconut Grove.
“What about finding the FBI agent?” Bobby asked.
“A fastball’s all about power. A change-up is about deception. I like the change-up.”
“Uncle Steve. What about Connie Parsons?”
“Gonna take care of that right now.”
Steve picked up his cell phone. It took a while to work through the automated menu of the local FBI office, but finally he reached a real person, the weekend operator.
“Agent Constance Parsons, please,” Steve said.
“The office is closed today, sir.”
“Do kidnappers and bank robbers know that?”
“Would you like to leave a message, sir?”
“My name’s Steve Solomon. I know you have emergency contact numbers for all the agents. So please contact Agent Parsons immediately. Tell her to meet me for drinks at six o’clock at the Rusty Pelican on the causeway. I’m buying.”
“Are you asking Agent Parsons out on a date, sir?”
“More or less. Please also tell her if she doesn’t show, I’ll subpoena her to testify in open court in the Nash case, and she’ll never work undercover in this town again.”
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“Only that I have her wig and sunglasses.”
Steve clicked the phone off and winked at Bobby.
“Can I come along, Uncle Steve?”
“Nope. After we work out, I want you off your feet. You have a game tomorrow.”
“It doesn’t take much energy to stand in right field.”
“You’re pitching tomorrow, kiddo.”
“Does Coach Kreindler know that?”
“Not yet. But I’ll talk to him.”
“Riii-ght.”
“You gotta trust me, Bobby. On everything. At six o’clock today, I’m gonna solve the Nash case. And tomorrow, when the First Baptist Bashers come to the plate, you’ll be pitching.”
Thirty-four
The sun dipped toward the Everglades and painted a ribbon of clouds the color of pomegranates. The still water of Biscayne Bay sparkled with diamonds. It would have been a beautiful evening, Steve thought, if he didn’t have to threaten an FBI agent over cocktails.
The Rusty Pelican sat on the north side of the Rickenbacker Causeway, halfway between the mainland and the island of Key Biscayne. Arriving early, Steve had parked his Mustang in the restaurant lot, walked across a tropical walkway over a man-made waterfall, and entered the place, a tourist trap with average food but a stunning view of Miami’s skyline across the Bay. The Pelican had burned down once, and been blown away a couple of times by hurricanes. But like a chopped-down melaleuca tree, it kept coming back to life.
Steve chose the meeting spot both for the view and the fact that Agent Parsons would be unlikely to shoot him in such a public place. Now he sat under a wicker paddle fan, nursing a Clase Azul tequila, watching a triangular sailboat race just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He wondered if she would show up.
Animal rights activist. Girlfriend of the terminally dim Gerald Nash.
FBI agent. Undercover operative. Instigator. And…
Steve was on his second tequila when someone came up behind him. “Mr. Solomon.”
Tall, great posture, athletic build. Brunette with a cute, Dorothy Hamill haircut. A blue canvas skirt with white stripes and a white cotton top with blue stripes. A sailor look. The handbag was made of straw and big enough to carry a gun, but not so big as to slow her down in a chase. She eased into the seat across from him at the small table.
“I don’t know what to call you,” Steve said. “Passion. Constance. Connie?”
“Agent Parsons will do.”
“I didn’t get a good look at you on the Jet Ski that night. But it was you, Agent Parsons.”
“I was on duty. You know that now.”
“You’d infiltrated the Animal Liberation Movement, but you didn’t know what you’d gotten into.”
“Not at first. But once Sanders came into the picture, we did a workup on him. We found the connection to Hardcastle, and the investigation expanded.”
“Fraud in government contracts by a huge defense contractor. It’s the parallel investigation the U.S. Attorney warned Pincher about.”
“What about it?”
“Big, important case like that. You sure it’s not a little over your pay grade?”
“Did you invite me here to insult me, Mr. Solomon?”
