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And then another.
Putting Mason down.
Cantor waited to see if Mason was moving. If maybe he had worn a vest. He was an ex-cop, after all.
Or maybe he had just underestimated Cantor.
Cantor moved out from behind the door now, moved slowly toward Mason, two hands on his gun, keeping it pointed until he was convinced Erik Masonwasn’tmoving.
“Mason,” Cantor said.
No response.
“Talk to me.”
Still nothing.
Cantor covered the last ten yards between them, stood over Mason, and recognized what he knew was a Magnum Desert Eagle, one of the most dangerous handguns on the planet, next to Mason’s outstretched right hand. He had been wearing a dark windbreaker, but even with that Cantor could see blood soaking the front of it. Only now did Cantor feel his own breathing, and the beat of his own heart, slowly return to normal.
He told himself that he had come here tonight as a cop, albeit one without a badge right now, and that solving this case could save his career. But Cantor knew it wasn’t just about him. It was about Jenny Wolf, too. And maybe his belief that they might still have a future together.
Cantor knelt down and pulled the ski mask off Mason’s face. Saw that his eyes were open. And that he was still breathing, if faintly and with great effort.
“I need an ambulance or I’m going to bleed out,” Mason said to Cantor, choking out the words.
“How about this?” Cantor said. “How about we talk about what I need first?”
One Hundred Eleven
IN THE MORNING,after Ben Cantor had awakened me to tell me what had happened across from Harris’ and what he’d learned from Erik Mason—that it was Mason who’d been a strong enough swimmer to make it back to shore the night he threw my father overboard—I decided to drive up to Palm Beach and see my uncle Nick Amato, whom I hadn’t seen in years.
The last time we’d been together, at a home on South Ocean Boulevard that was more like a palace, he’d joked to me that he’d financed it the old-fashioned way.
“Ill-gotten gains.”
“Oh,” I’d said.“Those.”
“The best kind.”
He had reminded me that day, even though I didn’t need reminding, that if I ever needed anything, and that meant anything at all, I just had to pick up the phone. And when I didn’t think I had the votes to maintain control of the Wolves—when I had convinced myself I didn’t have the votes and was about to lose my team—I had done just that.
I tried to call him before I left my hotel in Miami but got no answer, not even voice mail. I tried again when I was in the car. This time he did pick up, and right away I started to tell him about the shoot-out in San Francisco and was about to tell him what happened with the commissioner the previous night when the voice at the other end cut me off.
“This is his son, Vincent.”
“You’re kidding. You sound just like him.”
“So I’ve been told,” Vincent Amato said, and he told me that unfortunately this might not be the best day to see his father.
I promised not to stay long. I said I was probably flying back to San Francisco tonight and was already past Boca Raton and that it was silly for me to turn around.
“Not staying for the Super Bowl?”
“We have televisions in San Francisco.”
“But it’s the big game,” he said.
“Not for me it’s not.”
