Orchid Blues

57

The driver of the van seemed to be working his way west, making frequent turns.

"Anybody behind us?" John asked, after twenty minutes.

"We're clean," the driver replied.

"Then go on as planned."

Peck spoke up. "Aren't we going to the hotel?" he asked.

John didn't speak, just held a finger to his lips for silence. They drove on.

Ham didn't understand any of it.

"This will do," John said, finally.

The van stopped. They were on a narrow paved road, and from what Ham could see in the headlights through the wet windshield, they seemed to be in a swampy area. He could see no house lights.

"Peck," John said, "I want to speak to you privately for a moment." He got out of the van, and Peck followed him, giving Ham a shrug and a mystified look.

The two men walked behind the van. Almost immediately, there was a pistol shot, and a moment later, another.

Ham thought, 7.65 millimeter.

A long moment passed, then John got back into the van, this time in the front seat. "Now we'll go to the hotel," he said.

The driver made a U-turn, and they went back the way they had come. Ham saw a foot protruding from a ditch as they passed where Peck's body lay.

"Peck was an informant for somebody, probably the FBI," John said quietly.

"How did you know?" Ham asked.

"A number of things: the sudden improvement in cell phone service at the compound, and Peck was the only one left with a cell phone. Even our flight clearance tonight. We would never, in the normal course of events, be cleared direct to a Miami airport. It just doesn't happen, unless someone is paving the way. There were other things, too: odd behavior. I really began to notice only after the cellphone incident."

Ham realized that he had probably gotten Peck killed.

Holly could see that Harry was angry and depressed.

"They changed cars somehow," Harry said. "I should have been behind them myself."

"What now?" Holly asked. They were driving along the main drag in South Beach.

"I'm taking you to your hotel," Harry said.

The van pulled up in front of the Delano. It was a terribly chic South Beach hotel that Holly knew only from magazines. "I hope they like dogs," she said, clipping on Daisy's leash.

"If they give you a hard time, flash your badge and tell them Daisy is a police dog." Harry got out of the car, got Holly's luggage from the trunk and handed it to a bellman. He took Holly's arm and walked her slowly toward the door. "Now, listen," he said. "You've got the most important job in all this. You're having dinner in the hotel's restaurant at nine o'clock, with a guy named Chip Beckham."

"Harry, what is this about?" Holly demanded.

"Chip is the head of the White House Secret Service detail," Harry said. "Your job is to find out if the president is in Miami and to get his complete schedule from Chip."

"I don't understand. Why don't you just ask him?"

"Chip and I have this little competitive thing," Harry said. "He won't tell me directly."

"You mean the head of the Miami FBI office is not entitled to know if the president is on his turf?"

"Normally, yes, if I went through a lot of red tape, but there's no Miami visit on the president's official schedule, and Chip won't tell me about any unofficial visit."

"Then, if the president is in town, you think he's the target?"

"Very probably."

"And do you plan to share this information with the head of the White House Secret Service detail?"

"At the appropriate moment," Harry said, "and we're not there yet. First, I have to know if the president is in town and what he's doing."

"Harry, if this guy makes a pass at me over dinner, I'm going to stab him with a steak knife."

"If he makes a pass at you, you have my full permission to do just that."

"Does he know who I am?"

"No, only your name and that he's meeting you."

"Oh, all right," Holly said. "How do I reach you?"

"I'll reach you on your scrambled cell phone," Harry said. "Now, just go in there and register. The room's all booked, and you're the guest of the Bureau, so live it up." He left her standing in the door, which was being held open by another bellman.

Holly did not like all these games. If she were running this investigation she'd have called in everybody but the marines by now. And she doubted seriously if this was the most important job. She felt shoved aside and out of the way. Harry wasn't going to share any credit, if he could help it.

The van stopped at the entrance to the Savoy, a large hotel across the boulevard from the beach that had seen better days.

"Just go in there and register as Owen Sanford," John said. "You have a reservation; go up to your room and wait. I'll be right behind you."

Ham got out of the van, got his bag and the case containing the Barrett's rifle, and handed them to a bellman. Five minutes later, he was getting onto an elevator. Just as the doors were closing, John stopped them and got on, not looking at Ham.

"What's my room number?" Ham asked the bellman.

"Two-ten, Mr. Sanford," the bellman replied. "It's a very nice corner room, larger than most."

The elevator stopped, and Ham and the bellman got off. John got off, too, but turned in the opposite direction from Ham. The bellman opened the room door, got Ham settled, collected his tip, then left.

All Ham wanted to do was to use the phone, but as he was lifting it from the receiver, there was a knock on the door. Ham opened it and let John, who was carrying a small bag, into the room.

John looked around the room, then spent a moment looking out the window. It was an L-shaped room, with two sets of windows, set at ninety degrees from each other. "Perfect," he said. He went to the phone and dialed the operator. "This is Mr. Sanford in two-ten," he said. "Please hold all my calls until further notice." He hung up. "How about some dinner, Ham?"

"Sure, I'm hungry."

John found a room service menu, then called in their order.

Ham noticed that when he hung up the phone, he disconnected the cord from both the phone and the wall, rolled it up and slipped it into his pocket. So much for getting a call out of here, Ham thought. He discreetly patted his pocket to be sure the cell phone was still there.

Daisy lay on the bed and watched Holly get dressed. "Don't look at me like that," Holly said to her. "You're going to stay here and watch TV." She switched on the set and found CNN. Daisy liked CNN. She gave Daisy a pat and left the room. Then-scrubbed, shampooed, made up and lightly perfumed-she walked into the Delano's restaurant, wearing a straight, tight, low-cut brown wool dress that accentuated her height and figure and looked good with her tan. Men around the room turned to look at her, but one stepped up and spoke to her.

"Holly Barker?"

"Yes."

"I'm Chip Beckham," he said. He was a little taller than she, in his mid-forties, fit and good-looking in a conventional sort of way. Holly thought that, with his short haircut and erect bearing, he looked like a military man in civilian clothes.

"Hello, Chip," she said, giving him a big smile.

"Would you like a drink at the bar, or would you like to go to the table now?"

"Let's go to the table," she said.

"I've asked them to put us on the terrace. I hope that's all right."

"Of course. It's a beautiful night."

The headwaiter led them to a good table overlooking the pool. The moon and the stars were out. Holly felt distinctly odd. She had thought she would never have a dinner date with any man except Jackson.

A waiter appeared. "Would you like a drink?"

"A vodka gimlet," Holly said.

"A martini, very dry," Chip said.

"Well," Chip said, when their drinks had arrived. "You're certainly the most beautiful FBI agent I've ever met."

"Thank you, but I'm not an FBI agent. I'm the chief of police in a little town about three hours north of here called Orchid Beach."

"Oh? The terms of my deal with Harry were that he'd buy me dinner at the best restaurant in Miami, with the most beautiful, single FBI agent in his office. Not that I'm complaining."

Holly looked at him. "This was a bet?"

"No, just a trade for information."

"Well, Chip," Holly said, "this is a very weird way to meet, but cheers." She raised her glass.