Last Call

Chapter 3

Most days, Jack was simply a criminal defense lawyer. At 3:30 a.m., when calling the Miami-Dade state attorney at home, he donned his former-prosecutor hat. There were times when it paid to be part of the club.

"This had better be good, Swyteck," she said with a grumble into the telephone.

"I can help you find Isaac Reems."

He sensed that she was suddenly wide awake.

Jack's talk with Theo had raised a serious dilemma. An old robbery conviction made Theo's possession of a firearm a second-degree felony in Florida. Theo was willing to tell all about Reems, but Jack insisted that it be done through his lawyer – with an agreement from the state attorney that there would be no flack about the illegal firearm.

"Deal," she said. "What do you have?"

"One other thing," said Jack. "I want this information disseminated to law enforcement without attribution. My client's name stays out of this."

"Why? He's doing the right thing."

"He's turning in the former leader of the Grove Lords. They ruled this city once upon a time. Gangsters have long memories and they don't like rats."

"I see your point, but I hate making deals with these kinds of conditions."

"It's not negotiable. I gave him strict orders not to tell anyone – not even his uncle, who lives with him."

The line was silent. She seemed to be considering it." All right. The source isn't important, as long as I'm able to vouch for the fact that the information is reliable."

"It's totally reliable," said Jack. He was speaking in his former-prosecutor voice again.

"Then we understand each other. Talk to me."

ANDIE HENNING WAS IN downward-facing dog pose, wearing only a black exercise leotard, struggling to get her breathing under control. It was her Saturday morning routine: yoga class to the soothing sound of breaking waves on Miami Beach. Watching the sun climb up above the Atlantic was totally invigorating, and if you could do it with your ankles up around your ears, you were among a privileged few.

The class ended by 7:30 a.m., and even though it was early May, Andie could feel summer in the air. She pulled on sweatpants, more out of modesty than necessity, and then packed up her workout bag and slung it over her shoulder. Inside were the standard yoga props, her cell phone, and her Sig Sauer 9-millimeter pistol.

Andie was in her ninth year with the FBI; she'd spent the first six in Seattle and the balance in the Miami field office. Hardly a lifelong dream of hers, the bureau had been more of a safe landing for a self-assured thrill seeker. At the training academy, she became only the twentieth woman in bureau history to make the Possible Club, a 98 percent male honorary fraternity for agents who shoot perfect scores on one of the toughest firearms courses in law enforcement. Her supervisor in Seattle saw her potential, and she didn't disappoint him – at least not until personal reasons prompted her to put in for a transfer to Miami, about as far away from Seattle as she could get.

"Nice look, babe," said the jogger as he passed her on the sidewalk.

Dumb-ass remarks were one thing she didn't like about South Beach. At least they came in about nine different languages – part of the panoply of contradictions that made for the crude-cosmopolitan, chic-chauvinist ambience of Ocean Drive.

Lincoln Road Mall was her destination, a pedestrian-only thoroughfare lined with eclectic shops, restaurants, bars, and galleries. Andie had a breakfast meeting with an acquaintance who fancied herself an expert on computer dating. With such a busy career, Andie had resigned herself to trying something new. At one of the many outdoor cafes on the mall she found Maria Cortina smoking a cigarette at a small table beneath the shade of a Cinzano umbrella. Maria was wearing a tight red dress and evening makeup that needed to be refreshed or removed. Either she hadn't made it to bed at all last night or she hadn't made it to her own bed.

Maria borrowed a pen from the waiter and took notes on a napkin while slurping highly caffeinated coffee.

"So, what was your last serious relationship?" Maria asked.

"Not exactly my favorite subject," said Andie. "I was engaged when I lived in Seattle. He slept with my sister."

"Ouch." Maria took a drag from her cigarette. "Have you dated at all since coming to Miami?"

"Some. "

"Anyone you really liked?"

"Is this personal dating history really important?"

"Absolutely," she said, smoke pouring out with her words. "I'm trying to get a feel for your target mate. Juicy details aren't necessary. But if there's a guy in your recent past who you thought had some promise, tell me about him."

Andie considered it. "I guess that would be Jack Swyteck."

"The former governor's son?"

"Yeah. We met while I was working a big kidnapping case out of central Florida, and we ended up going out a couple times after it wrapped up. Believe me, my expectations were extremely low. An FBI agent dating a criminal defense lawyer – what chance does that have? But to my surprise, I was feeling some major sparks."

"What happened?"

"Bam! I said something stupid and it was over"

"How stupid?"

"I'd really rather not get into it, if that's okay."

Andie got the impression that Maria would have persevered on any other morning, but the coffee and cigarettes didn't seem to be doing the trick on her hangover. Maria glanced at Andie's resume and frowned almost immediately

"Is something the matter?" said Andie.

"Your photograph. You're beautiful in person. Those high cheekbones, the raven black hair."

"My biological mother was American Indian."

"I presume it was an Anglo father who gave you the amazing green eyes. The mix makes for an exotic, captivating look. But…" Maria crushed out her cigarette and savored her last lungful. "You should be blonde."

"Blonde? But I get a lot of compliments about my hair."

"I know computer dating. Blonde women get twice the calls."

"And I'm sure naked women get three times the calls. I'm not changing my hair."

"Okeydoke." She read on. Another frown. "I see you put the FBI right up top."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"For a job application, it's great. But in the world of online romance, women in law enforcement don't get callbacks.You need to hold that info for the actual date. What else are you trained to do?"

"Well, I went to law school, but I never practiced."

"Excellent. Men will adore you: smart but non-threatening. How about other jobs? What did you do before the FBI?"

"Waited tables in college. I actually drove a truck one summer in law school."

"Hmmm. What kind of truck?"

"Delivery truck. I worked for UPS"

"Perfect!" she said, thinking aloud as she scribbled on a napkin. "Educated at Brown."

"Hold on. That is so misleading."

"Half your callbacks will be from married men who keep a credit card and a cell phone in the name of an unmarried friend so that the wife won't see the paper trail. That's misleading."

Andie retrieved her resume. "You know, maybe this online stuff isn't for me."

Her cell phone rang. It was Guy Schwartz, the assistant special agent in charge of the Miami field office. Her boss. She excused herself and took the call, finding a more private spot a little farther down the mall. She talked while standing in the recessed entrance-way to a closed gallery.

"The feds are getting into the Isaac Reems manhunt," Schwartz said.

"We clearly have jurisdiction. Reems was in federal custody before we released him to TGK for trial on the state charges."

"Yeah. Apparently life in federal prison for kidnapping wasn't enough for the state attorney. She had to tack on sexual assault under Florida law."

"Hard to argue with that if you look through the victim's eyes," said Andie.

"Sure. But now look where we are. Miami-Dade Corrections let him slip out the window on a rope made from bedsheets. Bedsheets. How the hell does that happen in the twenty-first century?"

"He won't get far."

"That's where you come in. I just got off the phone with the commander of the Violent Offenders and Fugitive Task Force. He's bringing in every resource – the state and locals, the U.S. Marshals, and the FBI. I need an agent I can count on to coordinate our office's involvement. You've done excellent work with the kidnapping joint task forces. I would expect nothing less here"

"When do I start?"

"How soon can you be here?"

She checked her appearance. Sweatpants and a leotard weren't exactly office attire. Good thing she kept a clean set of clothes at work. She could shower there, too. "See you in twenty minutes," she said.