Lassiter

39 A Semi-Pro P.I

Where the hell was Amy?

After her motel room had been broken into, she said she was coming over to the house, but she never showed. I tried calling a dozen times. Never called me back.

I was thinking all this while the Eldo rumbled across the 12th Avenue bridge over the Miami River. I was headed south toward Coconut Grove and home. I passed what used to be the Orange Bowl. For the last few years, it’s been an empty lot, sad as a cemetery. Now it’s a hole in the ground, workers building a new baseball stadium for the Marlins, but it won’t be the same. With its view of the downtown skyline, the rickety and rusty O.B. was a classic of the game. Home to Joe Namath’s heroic Super Bowl, Doug Flutie’s impossible Hail Mary, and the Fins undefeated season, two decades before I suited up.

I played for the Dolphins in the cold and sterile Joe Robbie Stadium, carved out of the sawgrass near a turnpike exit. The stadium was renamed Pro Player Stadium in return for some loot from a now-defunct clothing line, then back to Joe Robbie, then Land Shark Stadium because a beer company paid for the privilege, and finally Sun Life, after an insurance company. Ah, Miami. So rich in tradition.

I had already hit South Dixie Highway when I saw a candy-apple red Escalade two cars ahead and one lane over. Correction, I heard the Escalade, the lake pipes rumbling like thunder. Then I saw the spinning wheel covers and the shiny paint job. Last week, I’d seen an identical pimpmobile double-parked in front of the Justice Building. Then it had tailed me down Douglas Road, barely three miles from here.

I passed the pair of cars between us and swung behind the Escalade, getting close enough to see the vanity plate, U R NEXT.

Gotcha.

Same vehicle. Miguel Sanchez of Homestead.

But who the hell’s driving your car, now that you’re an inmate at FCI?

The Escalade stayed in the right-hand lane and passed the Red Road intersection in South Miami. I was two cars behind when it turned right onto Sunset Drive, and I followed.

We passed South Miami Hospital and headed west. The driver gave no indication he knew he was being tailed. I let another car get between us. Just past 97th Avenue, the Escalade turned into a strip mall. I continued for another two blocks, hung a U-turn, and doubled back.

When I pulled into the lot, I saw the Escalade parked next to Scully’s Tavern, a neighborhood joint known for its fish sandwiches fried in a potato-chip batter. At least, that’s what the sign in the window said.

I parked in front of a snake and iguana shop a few doors away and headed for the tavern. I didn’t know who I was looking for, but figured if the guy saw me, he’d react.

The lunch crowd was gone, and the place was nearly empty. In a side room, two guys in University of Miami T-shirts shot pool. They paid no attention to me.

A couple of solitary drinkers at the bar. A young couple at a table. I circled the bar and saw the guy. Recognized him from behind, thanks to the diamond earring and barbed-wire tattoo around his neck. Pepito Dominguez, my DUI client. Sitting on a bar stool, drinking a Bud.

“You asshole.” I lifted him off the bar stool by the scruff of his neck.

“Jake!” His eyes registered shock, about twenty thousand volts’ worth. “I’m sorry, jefe! Just one beer.”

“I don’t care about the beer.” I let him fall back onto the stool. “Why you following me? What the hell’s going on?”

“Just practicing, man. That’s all.”

“Practicing for what?”

“To be your P.I.”

“Bullshit.”

The bartender, an older guy in a Dolphins polo, came over to see if there was a problem. We both said no, and I ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

“It’s true, jefe,” Pepito said. “I tailed you for three days, and you only made me that once, at the traffic light in the Grove. Unless you saw me on the Trail, too.”

“The purple Impala? That was you?”

“Yeah.”

Then it came to me. Sanchez, owner of the Escalade, had been captured after jumping bail. A fugitive named Terence Connor owned the Impala. Both must have put their cars up as security, which is how Dominguez Bail Bonds got them.

“You borrowed the cars from your dad, didn’t you?”

“Switched them every day,” Pepito said, proudly. “That was my cover.”

“Might have worked better if the cars weren’t so conspicuous.”

He gave me a little sideways grin. “Worked fine yesterday when I followed Charlie Ziegler.”

That stopped me. “How the hell do you know about Ziegler?”

“The other night when it rained like hell, I followed you to an ugly-ass house in Gables Estates. Looked up the property records, found the owner’s name. Charles Ziegler. Stopped in your office the next morning, shot the shit with Cindy, and she filled me in.”

“You little sneak,” I said. Meaning it as a compliment.

Our drinks arrived. Pepito hoisted his beer and offered a toast. “Muerte a Fidel!”

“Death to all Philistines,” I agreed. “Now tell me what the hell you’ve been up to.”

“I tailed Ziegler up to Lighthouse Point. He spent three hours in a condo at the marina. Place is owned by a Melody Sanders.”

My look shot him a question, and he answered, “I checked the mailbox. Looked up the property records on Lexis-Nexis. She’s thirty-nine. Single. Born in Sarasota.”

“Sounds like Saturday morning nooky.”

“Exactly what I figure, jefe. She bought the condo seven years ago. Paid all cash.”

“You’re showing off, Pepito.”

He grinned at me. Okay, I had misjudged him. He’s got real ingenuity.

“So you want me to follow Ziegler some more?” he asked.

“Maybe later. But I’ve got another job for you.”

I told Pepito to find my missing client. I gave him the make and model of her car and told him where she’d been staying before checking out. We tossed around a couple ideas, and then I said, “Just so you don’t get too cocky; I caught you in the other car, too. The Hummer.”

“Big-ass H2?”

“Yeah.”

“Gray?”

“Yeah.”

“Windows tinted black.”

“That’s the one.”

“Wasn’t me.”

I laughed. “Of course it was you.”

“No, man. But I saw the Hummer twice. That night you drove to Ziegler’s house, it was cruising down Casuarina. Then yesterday, I saw it tailing Ziegler on Copans Road.”

That rocked me. “Get a look at the driver?”

“Never had the chance.”

“Shit.”

“Why’s someone following both Ziegler and you, jefe?”

“I don’t know. But if I can figure out who, I’ll know why.”