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“Who’s that playing?” asked Jack, nearly shouting to be heard.
“Drake.”
“Ah,” said Jack, as if he knew him.
“You don’t like it?”
“The music’s good. A few too many words that rhyme with U-C-K for my taste on the lyrics.”
Theo shook the mixer and poured a couple of cocktails into stemmed glasses. “Like the world needs another fucking song about taking a little chance, doing a little dance, and finding a little romance,” he said, and then went to the other side of the bar and delivered the cocktails to customers who were about half Jack’s age.
The man could have a point,thought Jack.
Jack drank his beer. His cellphone rang. He didn’t recognize the incoming number, and he might have let it go to voicemail if he hadn’t just spoken to Imani. Pop stars had more phone numbers than drug dealers.
Jack answered, but it wasn’t Imani’s voice on the line. It was someone speaking through a voice-distortion advice.
“Judge Stevens screwed you.”
Jack didn’t hang up. The ruling had been announced in chambers andwas less than an hour old. Not that many people on the planet were even aware of it yet.
Jack closed one ear with the press of his fingertip so he could hear. “Who is this?”
The distorted, mechanical-sounding voice continued. “Tell Shaky’s lawyer that if he reopens the hearing, you’ll call Shaky back to the witness stand and ask him about Tyler McCormick.”
“Who is Tyler McCormick?”
There was a pause on the line and then, finally, a response. “He died twelve years ago.”
“How?” asked Jack, but the caller was gone.
Jack’s gaze swept the club. It was a long shot, but maybe someone had called him from inside Cy’s Place. He saw only the usual happy hour gatherings. He swallowed the last of his beer and dialed Imani on the same number he’d used from the car.
“Hi, Jack, what’s up?” she answered.
Jack inserted his earbuds so he could hear more clearly. “What can you tell me about Tyler McCormick?” he asked.
“Never heard of him,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
Jack told her, and he was searching the internet while speaking. A twelve-year-old headline from the local section of theMiami Tribunepopped onto his screen.
body found inbiscaynebay ruled homicide, the headline read. Jack froze as he skimmed ahead:
The victim has been identified as twenty-three-year-old Tyler McCormick, a resident of the Bahamas who was enrolled as a student at Miami-Dade College. According to MDPD homicide detective Gustavo Cruz, Mr. McCormick’s body was found at low tide in approximately nine feet of water, fastened to a concrete piling. Investigators have yet to determine the motive for the murder and the unusual display of the victim’s body, said Cruz.
“Jack, are you still there?” asked Imani.
“Yes,” he said, his mind still processing. “Imani, you and I need to talk.”
“We are talking.”
Jack wanted to see Imani’s reaction—not just hear her words—when he told her. “No. I mean a sit-down, face-to-face, lawyer-to-client talk.”
“Shit, Jack. You make it sound like somebody died.”
“Funny you should say that,” said Jack.
Chapter 11
