16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (28 page)

“And that completes the hat trick.”

“I don’t think I can handle this,” she said.

“You have to.” Serge pointed at a table. “See that badge? You got the real agent mixed up with the fake one.”

“But I didn’t kill him.”

“Right now that means less than nothing.” Serge turned to Coleman. “Go out back and look for that gun in case it didn’t clear the fence.”

“How do I get there?”

“I don’t know. Take a stab at that thing over there called a back door.”

Halfway across the front yard, Enzo crept with a pistol pressed against his thigh. No ambiguity this time. The junta had given him total clearance for any eventuality, which meant two immediate taps to the chest of everyone found at the house, to drop them, followed by two more in the back of the head on the way out. Enzo reached the bottom porch step and eased his weight onto the wood.

Suddenly he was lit up and blinded in a blaze of high-beam headlights from several vehicles that converged on the residence. “What the hell?” He sprinted back to the Beemer and sped away as more cars arrived. Tires screeched and braked to a stop at various angles on the lawn.

Inside, Brook leaped at the sound of squealing rubber. “The cops!”

Serge ran to the window. “No, not the police. They’ve got drinks. But who the hell
are
they?”

A swarm of almost twenty people in identical T-shirts spilled out of the vehicles and headed up the walkway with an unmistakable air of torches and pitchforks.

“This looks like trouble,” said Serge. “Especially the guys wearing Pittsburgh and Mets jerseys. We better get ready.” He put the chicken head back on.

Heavy pounding on the front door.
“Open up! . . . We know you’re in there! . . . Give us our money back!”

Serge opened the door. “How can I help you?”

The gang was prepared to unleash a merciless dialectic blitz on whoever answered. But the sight that greeted them created a confused pause.

“You’re . . . a chicken?”

“Correct,” said Serge. “Next question.”

“Are you the guy going by the name Rick Maddox?”

“Not today.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Feathers pointed. “In the den.”

The Mets jersey pushed through the pack. “Well, if you’re a friend of his and know what’s good for you, you’ll step out of the way.”

The others:
“Yeah, don’t try to stop us! . . .”

“We’re coming through! . . .”

“Stand clear! . . .”

Serge raised his wings. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

“Fuck you, chicken! . . .”

They shoved him aside and charged down the hall, running into the den, yelling profanities that even a sailor never heard.

The shouting unexpectedly halted. They slowly paraded out of the room with alabaster faces.

The shaken mob thought it couldn’t get any worse than the horrific scene they had just discovered. Until one of them saw something on a table in the front room. “What’s this?”

“What is it?” asked Silicon Valley Sally.

Wasted in Margaritaville held it up. “It’s a DEA badge.”

“But how is that possible?” said Lucy. “Unless . . .”

“The addresses got mixed up,” said Mets Jersey.

“It’s not the impostor,” said Shitless in Seattle. “It’s the real Rick Maddox.”

“You!” The Pirates fan pointed at Serge and took a step back. “You killed him! You killed a real federal agent!”

“Now wait just a second,” said Serge.

The gang looked around at one another. Nods and murmurs.
“The chicken killed him! . . .” “He’ll fry for this! . . .”

“Everyone needs to take it easy,” said Serge. “I going to make myself a drink of rainwater, and the rest of you help yourself to whatever you like.”

Panic only increased. They screamed more accusations as they backed up en masse toward the front door.

Coleman returned from the backyard with a big smile and a sawed-off. “I got it!”

Boom
.

A chandelier fell.

The witnesses all raced out of the house and down the steps for their cars.

“You killed him! . . .”

“You blew his head off! . . .”

“We’re telling! . . .”

Chapter Thirty-Three

BISCAYNE BOULEVARD

T
he number and condition of the budget motels along U.S. Highway 1 meant there would always be vacancy.

A black Firebird was parked in front of the one called the Coral Arms.

There were only two beds in room 17. So Serge assigned them to Coleman and Brook Campanella, while he slept on the floor.

The clock radio reached three
A.M.
, and Brook still hadn’t been able to nod off. Adrenaline from all the trauma. She just clutched the pillow and stared over the side of the bed at Serge, sleeping like a newborn with his own makeshift pillow of balled-up clothes.

Brook thought she had chosen the lesser evil by agreeing to leave with him. The only other options were to hang out at a murder scene with her fingerprints or drive herself back to the condo and wait for the cops to slap the cuffs. And those weren’t options. So she got in the Firebird.

Brook was no babe in the woods. These guys were dangerous. Well, maybe Coleman was only a danger to himself, but definitely Serge. She totally expected to have to make a break for it at some point. Her mind reeled in terror of rape, or worse.

But there hadn’t been any opportunity to get away. The Trans Am was a two-door, so there was no chance of escaping at a red light. And Serge didn’t make any stops on the way to the motel.

Police cars were always going by on the boulevard. Brook could take off running in the parking lot and flag one of them down. And then say what? Okay, maybe try a cab or a Good Samaritan. But then she was suddenly at the point where they were at the motel. Decision time. Serge was already out of the car telling her to follow them into the room. Brook didn’t know why she allowed herself to do it, but she went inside.

The first few minutes were the twin terrors of murder-scene memories and now being cornered in the room with Serge and Coleman.

It was an utter surprise when Serge made the bed assignments. It had to be a trick. She’d get all snug in bed, and then . . . She blocked off those thoughts.

But instead of taking advantage of her, Serge just grabbed some T-shirts from a duffel bag and slipped them under his head on the floor.

There was something about him, especially asleep. Some qualities like her father and brother had. She found herself unable to stop watching him curled in the corner.

He turned over in his sleep. Then Brook heard some mumbling. Couldn’t make it out, even though it was steadily getting louder. He began rolling back and forth on the floor, slamming into the wall, over and over. Until finally:

“Felicia! Noooooo! . . .”

Brook sprang from bed and shook him. “Serge, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”

“Felicia! . . .”
Now with tears.

She shook harder. “Wake up!”

Serge came around with slowly blinking eyes. “Felicia?”

“No, I’m Brook. Who’s Felicia?”

“It’s not important.” Serge bunched up the clothes and wiggled his head into a comfy position. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” She took him by the hand. “There’s plenty of room in the bed. And you need a good night’s sleep, so forget the floor.”

Serge climbed into the sheets, staying as close to the opposite edge of the mattress from Brook as possible without falling off the side. Brook lay there watching him. Serge was on his back, staring wide-awake at the ceiling.

“Serge, who’s Felicia?”

“Just somebody.”

“Tell me. You were having a really bad nightmare.”

Serge shook his head.

“I want you to tell me.”

Serge shook his head again, but started talking anyway. Then the whole story gushed out, right up to the part about the fake DEA agent working for the person who was responsible for Felicia’s murder. That’s why he had hopes going to the house that night, but it didn’t pan out.

Brook understood; she had lost someone, too. She reached under the covers to hold his hand. Serge let her but didn’t grip back.

Brook wasn’t interested in sex, but she knew she was at one of those vulnerable moments and wouldn’t have objected if he made the overture. He didn’t.

Serge had his reasons. They differed woman to woman. Like Sasha. Serge was on her in a heartbeat. But that was just a violent collision of dangerous people swapping fluids the way NASCAR drivers trade paint. Brook was pure.

Serge became silent again, studying the ceiling. Danger affects women differently. Sasha was drawn to it; Brook found a safe harbor from it.

She scooted over and snuggled into Serge’s shoulder and felt secure.

They dozed off together.

THE NEXT MORNING

All the lights were on before dawn in an upper-floor suite of a high-rise on Biscayne Boulevard.

Enzo Tweel sat at the writing desk. His demeanor never betrayed emotion, but inside he was a lava pit. All those stupid idiots in their matching T-shirts just had to show up last night at the worst possible moment. But Plan A hadn’t been a total waste. The bright side was that Serge and his two companions would begin restricting their movements because of his ruse: After Enzo had shot the fake Rick Maddox, he dropped the DEA badge on the floor. And from the phone tap on Mahoney’s line last night, he learned that they had fallen for it. They thought they were being hunted for killing a bona fide federal agent when it was the scammer all along.

It motivated Enzo. He put pen to legal pad. Time for Plan B. There had been a flurry of late-night calls to Mahoney, all from the same number. Enzo heard a woman tell the PI that she had been trying to get ahold of Serge but he wasn’t answering his cell. Could Mahoney please ask him to call her? She wanted to meet with important information she couldn’t divulge over the phone. Tell him it’s Sasha.

Enzo looked up at the wall. The name rang a bell. He flipped back through his legal pad for notes from previously tapped conversations. Sure enough, there she was, in a phone call from Serge about cracking a dating bandit case.

An alert jingled on his smartphone. Another taped conversation coming in via satellite. Sasha again. The murder of her crime colleague Rick Maddox was too much. With the bloody winnowing of her gang, she wanted out. She wanted to meet Serge. Noon, the Fandango sidewalk café on Ocean Drive.

Another alert quickly followed. An outgoing call from Mahoney to Serge informing him of Sasha’s request. This time Serge was eager: She was now his best and only lead to track down her boss, South Philly Sal or Enzo or whatever his name.

“I’ll call her right after I get off the phone with you,” said Serge.

This was good. Fit perfectly into Plan B.

Enzo packed his leather satchel again.

W
ake up.”

Brook’s eyes fluttered open. “What time is it?”

“Time to go,” said Serge.

“Go where?”

Serge was already dressed with duffel bag packed. “I need to get you someplace safe.”

“But I’m safe with you.”

Serge shook his head. “That was a federal agent last night. The heat’s going to be unreal. There’s all those witnesses, and by now the cops are looking for two men and a woman, so it’s better we split up until I can sort some things out and get you in the clear.”

Brook climbed into the Firebird again but without reservations. Serge drove a short distance to another roach motel and went in the office. He returned and led them to room 23.

Serge opened his wallet. “Okay, Brook, I’ve got you all set up. You’re registered under an alias. Here’s the room key . . .”

Brook Campanella took the magnetic card. “Why can’t I stay with you guys?”

“I already explained. And I have an important meeting that just came up.”

“Can I come along?” asked Brook.

“It’s someplace you can’t be,” said Serge. “For your own good.”

“But you will come back?”

“Right after the meeting,” said Serge. “You have my word. But whatever you do, don’t leave this room under any circumstances until I return.”

She nodded.

“I’d like you to say it.”

“I promise I won’t leave the room.”

“Good.”

Brook gave Serge a tight hug, and he left the motel with Coleman.

Brook picked up the phone. “Yes, I’d like a taxi . . .”

OCEAN DRIVE

The “it” address on Miami Beach. Trendy restaurants and hotels. Beautiful people walked around being beautiful. Rollerblades, champagne in ice buckets next to sidewalk tables, sprinting valets. Topless sunbathing was against the law but the law wasn’t enforced.

Sasha arrived an hour early, sitting alone at her table in front of the Fandango. Six times already she’d had to fend off another male model who wanted to join her. She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes till Serge.

Another suitor made a play. But this one didn’t ask before taking the seat across from her.

She made an exaggerated sigh and started off in annoyance. “Not interested.”

“I’m a friend of Serge.”

Her head swung and their eyes locked. “You are? What’s the matter? Is he coming? How do you know him?”

“He’s definitely coming, and I also work for Mahoney and Associates. The same case in fact. South Philly Sal.”

“Serge told you about him?”

Enzo nodded. “But right now I need a favor. It’s for Serge. Can you call Sal and vouch for me so I can talk to him?”

“What for?”

“It’s Serge’s idea. That’s all he wants you to know, for your own safety.”

“Sure, I guess.” She reached in her purse and flipped a phone open. “Sal? It’s me, Sasha . . . Oh, not much, but I have a friend here who wants to talk to you . . . I’m not sure what it’s about. But he’s definitely cool. I’ve known him since high school . . . Okay, here he is.” She handed the cell across the table.

He got up from his chair and turned around for privacy.

“Is this Sal?”

“Who am I talking to?”

“My name is Enzo Tweel. Can we meet somewhere?”

“I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t care what Sasha says.”

“We’re in the same line of work.”

“What are you, a fucking cop? It’s not going to work.”

“I know who’s been picking off members of your crew. Gustave, Omar, the guy from the hotel heist with the toilet lids, the other one from the funeral burglary, and last night your so-called Rick Maddox.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because he’s also been picking off my crew. Works for a private eye, except I don’t think they did a proper psychological background check. The guy’s totally out of control on some kind of vigilante crusade. His name’s Serge. Serge Storms.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither had I, but frankly I’m starting not to feel too safe myself. And I’m guessing you’ve probably had the same thoughts. That’s why I’d like to meet and see if you have any ideas. I don’t really want to discuss this on the phone, and we can’t exactly go to the police.”

There was a pause. “Put Sasha back on.”

She took the phone. “Hey, Sal . . . Yeah, I can swear for him . . . Whatever he says is absolutely on the level . . .” Sasha held up the phone. “Wants to talk to you again.”

“Okay, let’s meet.”

“Seven o’clock, Tortugas Inn,” said Enzo. “Room’s registered under my name. If I’m not there yet, I’ll leave a key at the desk for you.” He hung up, set his leather satchel on the table and smiled.

“Hey!” Sasha pointed at the road. “There’s Serge now!”

Across the street, Serge struggled to parallel-park his Firebird in a rare free space on Ocean Drive. “Dang it, these assholes didn’t leave enough space.” Reverse, forward, reverse, forward.

Coleman chugged a to-go cup. “This is like the final episode of
The
Sopranos
.”

“I’m not amused.” Reverse, forward. “There, finally!”

“Hey, Serge, that restaurant, the Fandango. Isn’t that where Felicia— I mean, shit, why did I say that?”

“Let’s just go.”

They jogged across the road between a Jaguar and a Harley. Serge reached the sidewalk and looked around. There was Sasha under one of the tables with an umbrella. Someone screamed. Then another. With Sasha’s platinum-blond hair, there was high contrast and no mistaking the matted blood on the back of her facedown head.