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Twelve Years Later
Saturday night was date night. Not to be confused with sex night. “One date, one sex night—minimum, per week.” Such was the “professional” advice Jack and Andie got as devoted parents of a seven-year-old daughter who were desperate to inject a little romance into the balance between family and career.
Jack jumped behind the wheel and started the car. They were running late, partly the fault of the babysitter, but mostly because they were always running late. Late for drop-off at Righley’s school. Late for work. Late for pickup. Late for dinner. Late for the airport. Late for parties. Jack had even missed his chance to see one of David Letterman’s final performances because they were late to theLate Show.
Andie was still brushing her hair as she climbed into the passenger seat. Jack backed out of the driveway, a crunchy swatch of crushed seashells that was big enough for just one car, which was typical of older homes on the smallest of lots on Key Biscayne. As they pulled away, Andie reached behind his neck and ripped the price tag from his shirt collar.
“Good Lord, I’m turning into my father.”
“Better you did it on date night than sex night,” said Andie.
Jack smiled, but the truth was, they were just three weeks into “date night/sex night,” and he was already tired of it. Rules were a burden—none more so than the one they’d lived under since day one of their relationship. Jack seemed drawn to the most controversial cases, whether it meant using DNA evidence to prove death-row inmates innocent ordefending an accused terrorist. Andie’s most fulfilling work with the FBI was done undercover. Hence, Rule Number One: no talking about active cases and assignments.
“Can you please go a little faster?” said Andie.
Key Biscayne was notorious for speed traps, and Jack was already doing sixty over the arching bridge that connected their home on Key Biscayne to the mainland. Always late meant always in a hurry, a fact of married life with Andie that Jack had learned to accept, except when it came to leaving their island paradise for the hustle and bustle of downtown Miami. He glanced south, toward Biscayne Bay National Park, where wind surfers and kite surfers enjoyed one last run before sunset, gliding across the flat, blue-green waters. It was the same group of guys every day. They lived in bathing suits, drove open-air Jeeps, drank beer out of coolers, and hung with their bikini-clad girlfriends on the beach. Jack wondered what they did for a living. He wanted their job.
Directly below the bridge, a yacht almost too big for the shallow bay waters was cruising north, perhaps toward their destination in the Venetian Islands.
“Do you really want to go to this party?” asked Jack.
Andie’s mouth was agape. “Jack, it’s a private party forImani.”
“It’s notforImani. It’s a private party thrown by a sixty-year-old billionaire for his wife’s twenty-fifth birthday, and Imani is performing.”
“Let me just say ‘gross’ to the first part of that sentence, and then repeat the operative words: ‘Imani is performing.’ I love her. You got invited. We’re going.”
“I honestly can’t even name one of her hits,” said Jack.
“Please don’t say that outside of this car.”
Jack made surprisingly good time through downtown Miami before the jaunt back over the bridges to the waterfront estates on the Venetian Islands. Jack handed the car keys over to the valet attendant, and they hurried up the coral-stone driveway. The two-story, modern estate stretched the entire width of the lushly landscaped lot. A grand staircase led to the main entrance, which was actually on the second floor. The glass entrance doors were fourteen feet high, and the back of the house was completely glass, so Jack could see all the way through to the party by the pool and,beyond that, a drop-dead view of Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline. Jack estimated fewer than a hundred guests, which he surmised was an artist-imposed limit to keep private events manageable.
“We’re on the guest list,” said Andie, speaking before Jack could.
“Just need to check,” said the bouncer, and he quickly snapped a photograph of each of them.
“What gives?” asked Jack.
“We use a facial recognition app.”
He uploaded Andie’s photograph first. In a few seconds, he had an assortment of matching photos from the internet. The first one was from a website called “Hot Green-eyed MILFs.”
“Is that you?” he asked, surprised.
“I do not recognize that position,” said Jack.
“It’s not me. I’m an FBI agent.”
“FBI?”
“Is that a problem?”
His expression turned even more serious. “I’m sorry. You can’t come in.”
“What?”
“No law enforcement is allowed. Not that there’s anything illegal going on here. It’s a private party, and guests just feel uncomfortable knowing the cops are here.”
