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“The muscular one?”
“Yes, he degraded me with his actions.”
“Make certain you are not seen.”
“No one will see me.”
Marc said, “When you’re through, call and I will send someone for you.” Ringo nodded, and Marc dropped him off near the marina.
Marc continued north, merged onto US One and passed through the suburbs of Miami all the way to Pembroke Pines and Jean Claude Villard’s home.
Villard had the garage door open when Marc arrived, and he drove the Mercedes inside. Jean Claude closed the door, then helped Marc remove Ariel’s limp body from the back seat. Jean Claude asked, “Where is Bazin?”
“On the water.”
Biscayne Bay was the color of lime jello and smooth as glass. Ringo Bazin idled the Bertram and used his Zeiss binoculars to scan the many boats at play on the water. A large group of them clustered together in one spot, and he took his time identifying each one while searching for the person who rescued Ariel from under his nose.
Several of the women were drunk, or perhaps stoned. They cavorted on several of the decks, dancing and stumbling around. One took off her bikini top, a nice looking brunette, Ringo thought, but no more than fifteen or sixteen. Several other women took off their tops, and they were older. A few were exceptionally endowed.
He found the one he searched for just south of Point West on Key Biscayne, not far from the topless women at the party.
Three hours later, he was in Pembroke Pines, walking into the home of Jean Claude Villard.
Chapter 9
Ariel sat in a wooden chair in the living room. One arm was zip-tied to an armrest as Marc and the others talked at the kitchen table. Denson left her the channel changer, and she put it on the local news to see if any witnesses saw Ringo shooting the detectives, but instead, a reporter standing by the ocean pointed at something, and the camera panned to show a mangled jet ski. Ariel’s heart caught in her throat.
The reporter said, “Terry Groen, star sophomore linebacker for the University of Miami football team was killed in a nautical accident while riding his jet ski on Biscayne Bay. There were no witnesses, although several friends had noticed Mr. Groen was missing, and later found his body. Initial reports indicate a boat struck him and Mr. Groen went into the propellers.”
“Turn it off,” Ringo said. Ariel wiped her eyes with the one free hand, and then muted it, watching and hoping. “Turn it off,” Ringo said again. Ariel did, but not before she glimpsed the start of the next story: an image of the Miami Detectives’ sedan, circled by yellow crime scene tape, sitting in Simpson Park.
~*~
Hunter put the last bite of lobster in her mouth when her phone rang. She chewed fast, looked at the caller ID and answered, still chewing, “What’s up Andre?”
“Turn on the news, right now.”
She pantomimed to Randall to turn on the TV. He reached for the channel changer. Then she said, “What is it?”
“Jason Hale and Jesse Coda were murdered.”
“What?”
“Down in Simpson Park in Miami. Call me back after you watch it.” He hung up just as the television picture appeared. She, John, and Randall watched the screen, seeing the yellow tape, the sedan, and a reporter standing at the rear of the sedan talking. When she finished with, “We will have more on this evolving story in our ten o’clock news.”
Randall muted the sound but left on the television, and flipped through the other local channels to catch their take on the story, but all the stations had moved to the next topic. He said, “They were good guys.”
The vein on John’s temple pulsed, and Hunter knew he was angry, and not just a little bit. John said, “I’m gonna make a call, see if anybody in Miami will fill us in on what they’re not showing on the news.” He left the table and walked outside as he dialed.
Randall and Hunter watched him through the glass. John wore an old Dolphins tee shirt and frayed shorts. Randall said, “Known him all my life, but when he gets like this...”
Hunter said, “How long did you two know them?”
“We’ve been good friends with Jesse for ten years. Not real long with Jason, because he was new on the force, maybe a couple years. He was all right, too.”
Hunter glanced through the window at John, “I’ll bet his blood pressure could blow the bulb out of a thermometer right now.”
“That, or the pressure will drop to nothing. If he’s grinning like he wants to hurt somebody, he’s stepped to another level.”
