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Jack found a quiet place and returned the call.
Chapter 53
Brownsville was just outside the Miami city limits, a ten-minute drive north from Jack’s office. It was also one of the largest enclaves of Bahamian Americans in the United States. Tyler McCormick’s cousin was visiting friends there. Jack deemed their conversation important enough to make it face-to-face. He met Leon McCormick at a café called the Bahama Mama, “the bright purple building next to the pink one,” as Leon had described it. Jack found him at one of the neon-yellow picnic tables outside. A cheerful waitress brought Leon a basket of golden brown conch fritters just as Jack joined him at the table.
“Thanks for reaching out,” said Jack.
“Wasn’t exactly on the top of my to-do list, mon. Not till Shaky got blown away.” He pushed the basket more toward the middle of the table. “Fritter? They make the best here.”
Jack took one. The homemade hot sauce was in a vintage Coca-Cola bottle on the table. Jack splashed some on and agreed the fritters were “the best.” He hoped Leon’s truth telling would continue.
“Did you know Shaky?”
“Not really. Tyler and me was on the boat with him. One dead Shaky makes two dead people from that boat trip. I ask myself,Who’s next?”
“What made you call me?”
“My auntie said you was looking for me. I looked you up on the Google machine. You seem like a good place to start, so long as it don’t cost me.”
“No, this is a freebie. I just want to know what you know.”
Leon selected another fritter and splashed on double the hot sauce, as if to show Jack how it was done. “What you wanna know?”
“Tell me about the boat.”
“Big boat,” he said, chewing.
“How big?”
“Biggest boat I ever seen. Almost a ship.”
The waitress returned with two cold beers, which made Leon smile. “Thank you, sweetie. You take such good care of me.”
“Don’t you know it,” she said, leaving with a wink and a smile.
Jack drank from his beer, the perfect remedy for the hot sauce. “When you say almost as big as a ship, do you mean a superyacht?”
“Super-duper yacht, mon.”
“Whose superyacht was it?”
“I dunno. Some old dude. Russian.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Vladimir somethin’ or other.”
“Vladimir Kava?” asked Jack.
“Kava, yeah. Vladimir Kava. And his son, Fergie.”
“Sergei?”
“Yeah, Sergei.”
Jack made a mental note of yet another lie from his client. He couldn’t recall if she’d ever come right out and said she’d never met Vladimir Kava, but she’d certainly conveyed that impression in the negotiations with the FBI about wearing a wire to the private event for Kava’s granddaughter.
“Did you talk to Mr. Kava?”
