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I keep my eyes on the cop as he turns his beady eyes onto me, looking me up and down before pushing off the side of his car and strolling forward casually while I dismount and join Danny on the shore.
“You realize faking your own death is a crime, Mr. Black.”
I laugh under my breath, walking to a nearby wall and taking a seat, removing the top half of my suit. If Danny could be arrested, he’d be in cuffs already and there would be a hell of a lot more cops here.
“Did I fake my death?” Danny asks, putting his hand out to Leon, who swiftly fills it with Danny’s cigarettes and Zippo. The kid looks bemused. Awestruck. Excited.
Higham’s curled lip twists. “So where have you been for the past three years?”
“Lying low. I’m sure you heard that my boatyard bore the brunt of two gangs’ rivalry. If I was presumed caught in the crossfire and killed, that’s your problem, not mine.”
“And Agent Spittle’s.”
“Then you should be speaking to him.”
“He’s missing.”
“Oh?” Danny lights up and joins me on the wall.
“I think you’re sniffing around the wrong dog,” I say, holding Higham in place with a stare he should feel threatened by. “Spittle was bent as fuck.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Your worst nightmare,” I say darkly, sounding as dangerous as I mean to.
He becomes flustered. “Brad Black identified the body.”
Clutching at fucking straws. He knows it. “Brad was looking at a bloated, decaying corpse that had been mauled by sharks.” Danny practically sighs. “You got a warrant?”
“No.”
“Then fuck off.”
Higham’s chest puffs out slightly, his ego dented, but he just about manages to hold up his hard façade. “I can get a warrant.”
“On what grounds?” I ask as Danny comfortably puffs his way through his smoke, and Leon’s head swings back and forth between us, rapt.
“Things have been calm around here,” he says, waving a hand at Danny. “He’s back from the dead, you show up, and suddenly bombs are exploding all over town.”
“I wasn’t dead,” Danny says. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Quiet in Miami? For fuck’s sake. I rise, moving in intimidatingly close. Higham stands his ground. Dickhead. “Some advice,” I say quietly, my mouth close to his ear. “Stay out of our way, and we will stay out of yours.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.” I sniff, looking out the corner of my eye to him. “Just advice.”
His eyes fall to my shoulder, his nostrils flaring, his lip twitching, desperate to curl again. “Have a good day, gentlemen.” A long, hard, intimidating stare before he trudges back to his car and wheelspins off, having the last say with a screech of his tires.
“Nice bloke,” I muse, joining Danny again, putting my hand out for his Marlboros. “Give me those.”
He hands them over. “Two beers, Leon.”
“Coming up.” He dashes off, leaving Danny and me perched on the wall.
“What are you thinking?” Danny asks, after we’ve sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.
“I’m wondering where Spittle’s son is. I’m wondering when the next bomb might land.” I take one last drag and flick the butt away as Leon returns with two beers. We knock bottles and swig. “What went down with Beau’s dad?” I ask, not wanting to broach that subject with Beau herself.
“His girlfriend, you met her?”
“No.”
“She used to be the boys’ plaything.” He shrugs. “Mine from time to time too.”
“Does Rose know that?”
“Yes, Rose knows that.” His nose wrinkles. “Hence, fireworks in the TV room. I had to take care of it, or we would have had two dead Russians and a dead whore.”
Hearing a car behind us, we both look over our shoulders. A beat-up old Chevy coughs and splutters its way across the gravel, and I smile, picturing Beau’s dilapidated old Mustang. “What’s he doing here?” I call to Leon, who’s moving gas canisters off the back of his Jeep.
“Otto said I’ve got to give him a job.” He heads over as the young lad from Derek’s office block pulls his big body out of his car. “I’m thinking tow truck,” he adds, and Danny chuckles. “Oh, and your phone’s been ringing, boss.”
We both stand. Look at each other.
“J-Boss,” Leon yells.
“That’ll be you.” Danny slaps my shoulder as I jog off, undeniably twitchy. I make it to my locker, retrieve my phone, and breathe out my relief when I see it’s not Beau or Fury. I call Otto back.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he barks.
I ignore his irate tone, looking up when Danny walks into the changing room. I click to loudspeaker. “What’s up?”
“I’ve traced back the emails Derek Green sent us to an IP address.”
“Where?”
“Internet café off Biscayne Boulevard.”
Danny frowns, moving in. “Are you watching the account?”
“Yeah, I’m watching.”
“The second an email lands, I want to know.”
The sound of pumping music suddenly filters down the line, and I frown. “Where the fuck are you?” I ask Otto.
