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“Eeeuw.”
“It’s not that bad. It’s a variation of the bakery thing,” Hooker said.
He connected with the roommate, did some preliminary flirting, and asked about the dive equipment.
“Maria has dive equipment,” Hooker said, putting his phone back in his pocket. “It’s in a storage locker in the apartment building. And it’s still there. The roommate keeps her bike in the locker. She used the bike this morning, and she remembers seeing the dive equipment.”
“So maybe this isn’t about diving.”
“Or maybe Maria and Bill knew someone was after them, and they only had time to get the charts. You can always buy more dive equipment.”
I saw Hooker’s eyes focus beyond my shoulder, and I turned to find a man smiling at us. He was nicely dressed in a black shirt and black slacks. His hair was slicked back. His face was perfectly tanned. His teeth were shockingly white and precisely even. Full veneers I was guessing. I was pretty sure it was the guy from the diner and the club. And maybe he was the guy Melvin saw coming out of Bill’s apartment.
“Sam Hooker,” he said. “I’m a fan. This is a real pleasure.”
“Nice to see you,” Hooker said.
“And this is Miss Barnaby, if I’m not mistaken?”
Hotshot NASCAR drivers are recognized all the time. Claims adjusters are rarely recognized. Actually, we’re never recognized. And I was okay-looking, but I wasn’t Julia Roberts. So being approached by a total stranger who knew my name (and maybe had been following me) was disconcerting.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “And my name isn’t important. What’s important is that you pay attention, because I like watching Hooker drive, and I’d hate to see that end.”
“And?” Hooker asked.
“And I’m going to have to take steps if you continue to look for Maria Raffles. My employer is also looking for her, and you’re muddying the water.”
“My brother—”
“Your brother made a bad decision, and there’s nothing you can do now to help him. Go home. Go back to your job. Forget your brother.”
“Who’s your employer?” Hooker asked.
The guy in black dismissed the question with a small humorless smile. “I’m the one you need to worry about. I’m the one who will pull the trigger.”
“Or hold the knife?” Hooker said.
He gave his head a slight shake. “That wasn’t my work. That was clumsy. Ordinarily I wouldn’t give a warning like this, but like I said, I enjoy watching you drive. Take my advice. Both of you. Go home.”
And he turned and left.
Hooker and I watched him walk away, past the pool, disappearing into the dark shadows of the taproom and beyond.
“He was a little creepy,” Hooker said.
“I told you I was being followed by some guy with slicked-back hair who dressed in black! Maybe we should turn this over to the police.”
“I thought you were worried about your brother’s involvement.”
“That was before someone threatened to shoot us.”
Bob Balfour met us at Bill’s apartment. Balfour was plainclothes Miami PD. He was in his early thirties, and he reminded me of a golden retriever. He had brown retriever eyes, and sandy blond retriever hair and a pleasant retriever personality. He was easy to talk to, and easy to look at, but if I’d had a choice I would have preferred a cop who reminded me of a Doberman. When I called the police I’d hoped to get a cop who could corner a rat and snatch it out of its hiding place.
Balfour looked around Bill’s apartment and wrote in his little cop notebook. He listened carefully when I told him about the guy in black. He looked slightly disbelieving when I told him about Puke Face. He took down Bill’s neighbor’s name for possible future interrogation.
I told him about Maria surfing bomb sites. He included this in his notes. He asked if I thought she was a terrorist. I said no.
