Assassin

Chapter Twenty-Two

Miami

STOKELY JONES AND ROSS SUTHERLAND ARRIVED AT MIAMI International on American 170 from Boston at three-thirty on a hot, humid Saturday afternoon, the fifteenth of June. There were enormous purple clouds stacking up to the southwest, first heralds of the big tropical storm coming up from the Caribbean.

Alex Hawke had dropped them off earlier that morning at Logan. The boss was going to refuel and fly his seaplane back to Nantucket for a big powwow with some State Department honchos. He didn’t look good, and Stoke had told him to get some sleep. “You don’t want to drink whiskey, fine,” Stoke called to him as he walked back across the tarmac toward Kittyhawke. “Take sleeping pills. You can’t stay awake forever.”

The two men had been in Miami for maybe ten minutes and both of them, standing on the curb outside in the sun, waiting for the driver, were drenched in sweat.

“See, Ross,” Stoke said, “you forget all about this tropical shit.” A black Lincoln Town Car pulled up beside them. The driver, in pearl grey livery, white shirt, black tie, and heavy dreadlocks, jumped out, popped the trunk, and opened both rear doors.

“Forget about what?”

“All this damn humidity,” Stoke said, as they climbed into the back seat of the limo. “Feel like you walking around underwater. Like you some kind of damn merman or something. Merman, that’s the opposite of mermaid, case you didn’t know.”

“I was aware of that, actually.”

“Good. ’Cause they lot a people walking around that don’t know that,” Stoke said. The driver got behind the wheel and nosed out into the heavy airport traffic. “How you doin’, brother?” Stoke asked.

“Good, mon,” the driver said, his smile matching his lilting Jamaican accent. “Jah has blessed us with another golden day in paradise, yes, mon!”

“Jah must like it hot,” Stoke said, gazing out at the sun-blanched palm trees and tropical vegetation. “Miami. Jamaica. Bahamas. You don’t hear too much about Jah, you get up in places like Iceland and Alaska, places like that.”

“Jah is everywhere, mon, some people too blind to see is all. My name is Trevor, by de way.”

“Stokely Jones, pleased to meet you, Trevor.”

“Detective Inspector Ross Sutherland, Trevor,” Ross said, “New Scotland Yard.”

Stoke gave Ross a knowing smile, guessing why he’d added his occupation.

“Yeah, Trevor,” Stoke said. “We cops, just so you know. Don’t be selling us no ganja weed, ’less we have to bust your ass.”

“Don’t smoke de herb, don’t drink de rum. I’m a preacher,” the driver said, smiling in the rearview. “Preach de word of Jah. Ras Tafari. De Lion of Judah. De King of Kings. De Emperor of—”

“Okay, okay, Preacher, I know the cat. Ethiopian. Question is, do you know where the Delano Hotel is?”

“Mon! Everybody know de Delano! Famous! Movie stars, football players! You sure you not a famous football player, Stokely, mon? I recognize you. You Tiki Barber.”

“Tiki Barber,” Stoke laughed, elbowing Sutherland. “Cat ain’t half as tall, half as big, half as good-looking as me.”

“You look famous, mon, is all I sayin’.”

“I was famous for about nine minutes,” Stoke said, laughing. “Shortest career in NFL history. Badass linebacker for the Jets. You blink, though, you missed my ass. Missed my whole career. Got hurt bad first quarter, first game. First game was my last game.”

“Intercepted two passes and ran both back for touchdowns before he got hurt, however,” Ross said. “I’m quite sure he’s got the videotape of the two picks with him if you’d care to see it.”

Half an hour later, having taken the Venetian Causeway across Biscayne Bay to 17th Street, the Lincoln hooked a right on Collins and pulled into the circular drive of South Beach’s most famous white Art Deco hotel. Sure enough, Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt, both wearing white Bermuda shorts and matching knee socks, opened the rear doors simultaneously and welcomed Ross and Stokely to the Delano. Hell, Stoke thought, even the damn valet parking guys looked like movie stars.

“Preacher,” Stoke said, slipping the Jamaican a twenty, “Me and Ross going to be looking into some stuff around this town. You remember hearing about some SWAT guy getting whacked here in South Beach few weeks ago?”

“Yes, Tiki, mon. All over de papers. Ain’t found de guy did it, but I know where dey should be looking, mon.”

“Yeah? Where’s that, Preacher?”

“De Crazy House, mon! Who else but a stone crazy going to break into a SWAT guy’s apartment middle of de night, mon!”

Stoke laughed. “You right, Preacher. Anyway, we be sniffing around a few days. You seem like a kid knows his way around town. How ’bout you stick with us? Say, till Friday?”

“Got to check with de boss, mon, but I clear far as I know.”

“That’s good, my brother,” Stoke said, “Here’s my card with my cell number. You call me soon as you know.”

J-Lo, looked like, or some other damn movie star checked them in at the movie set reception desk in the movie set lobby. Big sheets of white linen hung from somewhere high above, and they moved with the breezes off the Atlantic that blew through the lobby. Beautiful, like flags from nowhere.

“Good afternoon and welcome to the Delano, gentlemen,” J-Lo said, “May I have your names please?”

“We just plain old Mr. Jones and Mr. Sutherland—ain’t even in show business—hope you don’t hold that against us.”

“Yes, I have you right here,” she said, handing them two cards to fill in. No smile, no nothing. Too good looking for her own good, that’s what.

Stoke scratched her off the list of women he currently considered to have a shot at the title. The title being the next Mrs. Stokely Jones, Jr. The ex-Mrs. Jones had taken his NYPD pension and moved to a split-level in New Jersey with her podiatrist. Stoke had told the female divorce court judge in Newark that his wife, Tawania, she left him for the podiatrist ’cause she was the kind of woman who liked to have men at her feet.

He was telling that one to Ross when J-Lo handed them the plastic key cards to the rooms.

“Come on, Ross, that was good,” Stoke said. “Men at her feet. Admit it. You thought it was funny, right? Always laughing on the inside, that’s my man Ross.”

Now Ross and Stoke were sitting by a long rectangular aquamarine pool that stretched down to the palm-fringed beach and the ocean beyond, looking at all the suntans and bathing suits. Stokely had just embarked on a philosophical contemplation of women’s swimwear while Ross talked on his cell to a captain at Miami Dade PD, making arrangements.

“Ain’t a whole lot of things you can count on in this world,” Stoke observed to no one in particular, “But the female bathing suit is what they call a constant. Constantly getting smaller every year, is what I’m saying. Ever see ’em getting bigger? No. And, I’m talking about ever since I was damn born.”

Stoke took a pull on the straw in his cherry Diet Coke, surveying the whole Delano pool scene. Women floating in the pool talking secret female stuff to each other, worried about getting their hair wet; shiny, oiled-down white guys lying on the pool chairs talking to their cell phones, everybody wearing trendoid little cat-eyed sunglasses from The Matrix Reloaded Part 9. A killer blonde music video star emerged from the pool and Stoke was amazed to see she was topless. Tits way out to here. Topless? Was that legal?

He looked over at Sutherland, trying to figure out what was on the boy’s mind. The sun was hot and the Scotsman had finished his call and put his phone away, then put his white linen handkerchief on top of his head kinda like a do-rag.

“Ross, what you thinking? I know what you looking at, boy, but tell me what the hell you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking two hours at a stone cold crime scene this afternoon is an utter waste of time.”

“See? That’s professional teamwork. Scotland Yard meets NYPD. I was thinking the same damn thing, exactly! Ain’t likely there’s anything there we don’t already know about the dead SWAT guy, right?”

“Right.”

Stoke’s cell phone vibrated and he pulled it out of the inside coat pocket of his new lightweight sports coat, flipped it open and said, “Jones.” He fingered the lapel of the sports jacket, looked over at Ross and mouthed the word, “Seersucker.”

Preacher was on the phone saying he’d gotten the okay from the limo service to stick with them. Stoke told him, cool, to keep the engine warm and the inside chilly. They’d be out front in five minutes.

“Two choices, way I see it, Ross,” Stoke said, snapping the phone shut. “We head over to Little Havana and start asking folks up and down Calle Oche questions. Or, we go see that Cuban Resistance guy Conch put us on to, her uncle, Cesar de Santos.”

“Aye, the latter,” Ross said, putting down his half-finished Bud Light and getting to his feet. “Let’s go. We’ll call him from the car and tell him we’re on our way. One thing, Stokely. We absolutely cannot discuss Hawke’s involvement during that Cuban insurrection. With anybody. Ever. Strictly black ops, off the radar.”

Stoke looked at him like he was crazy.

“Sorry, mate,” Ross said.

“Damn right you are, Flyboy. All this time together, you still see me as some football-playing, ex-SEAL badass. I was a gold shield–carrying NYPD detective when your mama was still rubbing Johnson’s baby oil on your skinny white Scottish ass. And take that do-rag off your head. Look ridiculous, you trying to look street.”

The architectural firm of de Santos & Mendoza occupied the entire top floor of a jet-black glass tower situated on an island just over a bridge from the heart of downtown Miami. Called Brickell Key, its office towers, hotels, and apartment complexes all boasted panoramic views of Biscayne Bay. The Port of Miami, with giant cruise ships parallel parked along the pier, was to the north; Rickenbacker Causeway and Key Biscayne lay to the south. Ross and Stokely stood in reception, waiting for Señor de Santos, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at all the activity on the sparkling blue bay.

“Mr. Jones? Mr. Sutherland?” the pretty, Prada-clad receptionist said. “Señor de Santos will see you now. I’ll buzz you in.”

They pushed through heavy double black lacquered doors into a room they were totally unprepared for. The four walls were draped in heavy black velvet, and the only light in the room came from countless tiny windows and miniature streetlamps. Spread out before them was an exquisite scale model of the entire city of Havana, at least thirty feet square, on a raised platform. The architectural detail was astounding. Every statue in every plaza, every fountain, every shrub, tree, and tiny climbing bougainvillea was perfect.

“Bienvenidos,” said the elegant white-haired man dressed completely in black who was coming towards them with his hand extended. “Welcome to la Habana.”

“Inspector Ross Sutherland,” Ross said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”

“A pleasure,” he said, smiling. “You’ve probably guessed I am Cesar de Santos. You must be Stokely Jones.”

“Thank you for seeing us, Señor de Santos,” Stoke said, looking at the twinkling lights of the miniature city. “I got to tell you, this is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Muchas gracias, señor. I chair an organization called the New Foundation For Old Havana,” de Santos said. “One day, my precious Habana will look just like this. See, the many ancient and beautiful buildings with the blue flags are to be completely restored to former glory. Red flags are the hideous monstrosities built by the Russians. Dynamite. White flags are much-needed new buildings that Cuban-American architects are designing for us even now. But, please, this is not why you’re here. My niece, Consuelo de los Reyes, has told me much about you. How may I be of service?”

“Señor de Santos,” Ross said, “I’m a senior inspector with Scotland Yard. Mr. Jones and I are investigating a murder that took place in England little more than one month ago. We have reason to suspect the murderer may be a Cuban national. Possibly living somewhere here in the Miami area. Or down in the islands. The American secretary of state was kind enough to suggest you might be of help.”

“Yes, my niece Consuelo told me about this horrific murder. A bride on the steps of a church! Despicable! Unfortunately, there are many—how shall I say it, low-lifes, living in Miami’s Cuban community. Las cucarachas. Such a cockroach will be hard to find, I’m afraid.”

“I understand precisely,” said Ross, “But this particular low-life is likely to be living the high life. Our suspect was high in Castro’s government, feeding at the trough of Fidel. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he hadn’t siphoned tens of millions offshore.”

“Ah, a rich low-life. We have those, too.”

“Señor de Santos,” Stoke said, “those three generals who tried to overthrow Fidel a few years ago?” He got a look from Ross but ignored it.

“I remember this attempted coup, yes,” de Santos said. “It was in all the papers. The New York Times. Fox TV.”

“Well, our boy, this suspect, he was double-dipping back then. The U.S. government discovered hundreds of millions the generals put in offshore banks. Cayman Islands, Bermuda, not to mention Miami. CIA found some of it, but not all of it.”

“We believe our suspect has access to these funds, Señor de Santos,” Ross said. “If he’s here, I would imagine he has created a new identity for himself. Changed his name and appearance. Possibly living as a wealthy, highly respectable member of society.”

“There are many, many Cubans who fit that description in the exile community, Inspector,” de Santos said, lighting a cigar. He offered his opened gold case to Ross and Stokely who declined. “What does he look like, may I ask? Age, et cetera?”

“He’s got no eyes,” Stoke said.

“No eyes, señor?”

“No color in his eyes. Like some zombie in a horror flick.”

Ross said, “I’m sure this man kept a low profile when he first arrived. But he may feel sufficient time has passed for him to surface. Enjoy his wealth.”

“Ah, I see. Perhaps I have an idea,” Cesar said. “There is a party tonight. My foundation’s annual benefit dinner. The very top echelons of Cuban society will attend because we will award this year’s Medal of Freedom.”

“That just might be a very good place to start, Señor de Santos,” Ross said. “Thank you.”

“Cocktails are at seven, dinner at eight. The Grand Ballroom of the Fountainbleau Hotel on Miami Beach. Invitations will be in your names at the registration table. I look forward to seeing you there. It’s black tie, I’m afraid.”

“That means tuxedos, Ross,” Stoke said and got another look from Ross going out the door.