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“That’s the woman I love,” he said, as his cell phone began ringing.
Amanda saw that the caller ID read THE BLACK BUDDHA.
“What do you think Jason wants?” she said, looking at Matt. “I thought you were off-duty.”
Lieutenant Jason Washington was Matt’s immediate boss in the Homicide Unit. He was enormous—six-three, two-twenty-five—articulate, impeccably tailored, and had very dark skin. He also was one of the best homicide detectives on the East Coast, from Maine to Miami, and did not take any offense at all to being referred to as the Black Buddha.
“No disputing the fact that I’m black,” he said, “and a Buddha by definition is a venerated and enlightened individual.”
Amanda grabbed the phone, smiling at Matt as she put it to her ear.
Matt shook his head, but he was grinning.
“Well, hello, Jason!” she said. “I do hope this is a social call. How is Martha?”
Amanda’s father, before being offered retirement while recovering from a bullet to the hip from the robber he’d ultimately shot dead, had worked with Washington in Northeast Detectives a decade earlier. Charley Law and Jason Washington had become close, and Martha Washington long had served as a sort of protective aunt toward Amanda.
It was no secret to any of them that Amanda—who said she’d grown up worrying that every day she saw her father leave for work would be the last she’d see him alive, and then he did get shot—would be the polar opposite of upset if Matt were suddenly to find an occupation that did not involve hazardous duty.
After a pause, Matt heard Washington’s sonorous voice. Then he saw Amanda’s eyebrows go up behind her big round dark sunglasses.
“Thank you. Of course. Here he is,” she said, and handed the phone to Matt.
“Hey, Jason,” he said, watching Amanda watch him. He smiled. “Is the department falling apart without me?”
“Matthew, my apology for interrupting your romantic getaway,” Jason said, his deep tone sincere.
“Always happy to hear from you. You know that. What’s up?”
“This is delicate, but I need you to do something for me. Discretion is paramount.”
“Anything.”
“I’m going to mention a name, and I do not want you repeating it during our discussion right now.”
“Okay . . .” Matt said, reaching down to adjust the autopilot as an excuse to turn his face away from Amanda.
“As soon as absolutely possible—and without it triggering further questions—I need you to figure out a way to work Margaret McCain into a conversation with Amanda, asking if she has heard from her lately. And, if you can manage it without her becoming suspicious, also ask if any of her other friends or associates have.”
Maggie McCain? Matt thought, fighting the automatic urge to glance at Amanda.
What the hell is that about?
“You got it, Jason. Can I ask why?”
“No, you cannot. I’m sorry. Call me when you have an answer, Matthew.”
[FIVE]
Latitude 25 Degrees 44 Minutes 71 Seconds North
Longitude 81 Degrees 58 Minutes 58 Seconds West
The Straits of Florida, Southeast of Key West
Sunday, November 16, 4:15 P.M.
“Lucky One, Lucky One. Tin Can, over,” Jorge Perez’s handheld Motorola radio crackled with the voice of Miguel Treto as he maneuvered the sleek fifty-foot Cigarette Marauder at the back of a pack of ten other high-performance boats.
