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“All right, Harry, and thanks. I owe you one.”
“Makes a nice change, doesn’t it?” Harry said.
That night, alone in bed, an officer parked outside her house, Holly allowed herself to think about what she’d been avoiding. She’d killed a human being that day. She didn’t stop crying until she was asleep.
39
Howard Singleton, head of the Miami office of the federal General Services Administration, opened the file on his desk and started reading. Halfway through the document he stopped and scratched his head. This was like going to a movie he had already seen. He got up, took the file, and walked down the corridor to the office of Willard Smith, his deputy.
“Smitty, have you read this?” he asked, tossing the file onto Smith’s desk.
Smith looked at it. “I wrote it,” he said.
“Doesn’t this sound familiar to you? Except this time, we’re talking about a South Beach property instead of that thing up the coast at . . . what’s the name?”
“You mean the Orchid Beach property?”
“Yeah, that’s the one—Palmetto something.”
“Palmetto Gardens.”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s the same pattern; we’re getting lowball bids out of Central America, but not much local. Next thing you know, some prospective bidder is going to get himself killed, just like before.”
“Jesus, Howard, we just advertise these properties, remember? We’re not the FBI.”
Singleton looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go to a meeting at my church at five, so I have to leave now. Will you call that guy at the FBI—Harry something . . .”
“Crisp.”
“Yeah, call him and tell him I think we’re developing a similar situation to the Palmetto Gardens property, and I thought he ought to know about it.”
“Sure, Howard.” Willard Smith picked up the phone and started dialing.
Singleton went to the meeting at his church, which lasted an hour and a half, then he made for home, digging out a shopping list his wife had given him at breakfast. He was the last to leave the parking lot, which was empty now, except for his car and a red Explorer parked near the exit. He had to make three stops to fill his wife’s list—the grocery store for tonic water and limes, the liquor store for wine, and someplace for cocktail napkins. They were giving a dinner party that evening. As he put the car into gear, he began planning his route home.
Then, as he approached the parking lot exit, the red Explorer suddenly drove across his path and stopped. Singleton slammed on his brakes, just short of smashing into the car. “What the hell?” he said aloud. He started to reach for his door handle when he saw the darkened window on the front passenger side slide down. He stopped and looked at the figure behind the wheel, who seemed to be leaning over to the passenger window, as if to say something to him.
But the man said nothing. Instead, he held out his hand, and the windshield of Howard Singleton’s car turned white, except for the two holes in front of the driver’s seat.
Singleton didn’t have time to think about anything else.
Trini Rodriguez exited the parking lot, driving at a normal pace. When he was a block away, he pressed a speed-dial button on his car phone.
“Yeah?” a man’s voice said.
“Bingo,” Trini said.
“And not a moment too soon,” the man replied, then hung up.
Harry Crisp arrived at his office at eight forty-five A.M., as he did habitually. Coffee was already made in the little kitchenette off his waiting room, and he poured himself a cup. He didn’t mind asking his secretary to come in early and make coffee for him, but he always poured it himself, for appearances’ sake. He went back to his desk and picked up his copy of the New York Times national edition, scanning it quickly for stories related to federal law enforcement in general, and the Miami office of the FBI in particular. There was a knock at his open door, and he looked up. One of his agents stood there.
“Morning,” Harry said. “What’s up?”
“A federal official was murdered in Miami last evening,” the agent said.
“Who?”
“Howard Singleton, head of the local office of the GSA.”
