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Andie thanked him, and they said goodbye. She and Greenberg found their way back to the elevator, and they rode down to the lobby, neither of them saying a word until they were outside the building.
“Thank you,” said Andie as they followed the sidewalk to the parking lot.
“For what?”
“I was feeling pretty small after my presentation to the task force on piracy. It’s nice to have your support.”
“Don’t worry about that. I call it ‘task-force testosterone.’ Anytime you put a bunch of cops from multiple agencies in one room, there’s bound to be a couple of dicks who need to show the world how smart they are by cutting down someone else.”
“Well, anyway. It’s appreciated.”
“No problem. See you back at the office.”
They parted ways in the second row of the parking lot, Greenberg heading toward his car and Andie toward hers. Andie dug her keys from her purse, and as she unlocked the door, her cellphone vibrated with a text message. She glanced at it, and even though she didn’t recognize the number, the message immediately caught her full attention.
itstheo,the message read. The fact that there was no capitalization and no apostrophe in the word “it’s” only made it more likely that it was him.
Another text bubble appeared on her screen:
when can I call u? its instant.
Andie surmised that the dreaded autocorrect had struck again. “Instant” probably should have been “important.” Or “urgent.” The protocol for random text messages from unknown numbers was to contact the IT experts. But if it was Theo, and if it was indeed “urgent,” Andie didn’t have time for protocol. Her thumbs went to work.
Call now, she texted back,if you can.
Andie got in her car, turned on the air-conditioning, and waited.
Chapter 43
Five o’clock Friday marked the end of the first week of trial. Jack and Imani went back to his office to debrief.
Jack’s office was once the personal residence of a bona fide Miami pioneer. It dated back to the 1920s, ancient by Miami standards, built in the old Florida style with a coral-rock façade and a cozy covered porch that made you want to pull up a rocking chair. The previous occupant was the Freedom Institute, where Jack had worked as a young attorney fresh out of law school. Jack was well established in private practice when his mentor’s unexpected death left the institute on the brink of financial collapse. Jack came up with a plan to save it, which meant buying the building. The Freedom Institute operated rent-free upstairs, run by Neil’s daughter, Hannah Goldstein. Jack and his longtime assistant ran his practice downstairs. His personal office was in his favorite room in the entire house, the old dining room with the original hardwood floors of Dade County pine and a working fireplace that Jack used about once every five years and cleaned once every ten.
Jack entered his private office and flipped the light switch, but the ceiling lights didn’t come on.
“Cool old house,” said Imani. “But you might be interested to know that a lot of the offices they build these days come with electricity.”
He’d heard the same thing from about a half dozen handymen, all of whom had told him it would be cheaper just to tear the house down and rebuild from the ground up. “I’ll never leave this place.”
Jack led her to the kitchen, which had been completely renovated—including electrical wiring—since Jack’s days of bag lunches with Neil and his team. All that remained of the old décor was Neil’s framedphotograph of Bobby Kennedy on the wall. They sat at the table, and Jack started the conversation at the top of his checklist.
“Were you able to find your old passport?” he asked.
Jack had hoped that her passport would show no travel to the Caribbean prior to the death of Tyler McCormick, further undercutting the testimony of Shaky’s former bodyguard.
“It’s gone,” said Imani.
Jack checked it off his list, though he wondered if it was truly “gone,” or if she had strictly heeded his advice to find it only if it showed no travel to the Caribbean.
“Let’s talk about Shaky,” said Jack.
“What about Shaky?”
“I want to think like the prosecutor for a minute. Let’s assume Shaky actually did tell his bodyguard he wanted to gibbet music pirates.”
“Wanted towhat?”
“Gibbet. It’s the term for putting a pirate’s corpse on display after hanging. I’d never heard it either until I read it in theBoston Herald’s coverage of Shannon Dwyer’s murder. Anyway, let’s even go so far as to say Tyler McCormick was the first music ‘pirate’ to be gibbeted on Shaky’s order. Why did he stop at one?”
