Orchid Blues (27 page)

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 cell phone 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 midforties, 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.

Fifty-eight

HAM TRIED TO SLEEP, BUT COULDN’T. HE LAY ON one of the two queen-sized beds in the big room, while John slept soundly on the other. It was only ten-thirty, but John had insisted on going to bed early.

“Big day tomorrow,” he had said.

He had to try to contact somebody. Ham got out of bed and in the darkened room, felt his way toward the bathroom. On the way, he got the cell phone out of his suit pocket and took it with him, closing the door behind him. He dropped his shorts, sat on the toilet and switched on the phone. He searched his memory for Holly’s scrambled number. Finally, it came to him, and he dialed. It rang several times, then he heard Holly’s voice.

“Hello?”

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom opened. Ham managed to close the phone and conceal it in his large hand before the light came on. John stood there, looking sleepily at him.

“What is it, John?” Ham asked, making himself sound annoyed.

“What are you doing?”

“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing? Can I have some privacy?”

“Sorry,” John said, flipping off the light. “But leave the door open.”

Holly was enjoying her evening. She’d had two gimlets, and Chip two martinis, and now the waiter brought a bottle of wine with their dinner. She and Chip had exchanged curricula vitae, and she had listened to his brief account of his divorce, and now she was at the point when the natural thing to do was to tell Chip about Jackson.

“What about you?” Chip asked, helping her along.

“I was engaged, but he died,” she said, keeping it simple.

“I’m sorry. Long ago?”

“Not very long.”

“And how did you get tied up with Harry?”

“We worked on something together last year, something on my turf in Orchid Beach.”

“Wait a minute, I know about that,” he said. “It was that crazy subdivision. There was a huge amount of currency involved, and it was all over the papers.”

“My fifteen minutes of near-fame,” she said.

“So what are you working on with Harry now? And what is it that he wants from me? He certainly didn’t put us together because he’s a nice guy.”

“It’s pretty simple,” she said. “He wants to know if the president is in town.”

“No,” Chip said, “he isn’t. Is work over now?”

“Work’s over,” she said, raising her wineglass. “Bon appétit.”

“Bon appétit,” he replied.

And then something, she didn’t know what, caused her to put her hand on her small purse, which was resting on the table. She felt the vibration. How long had it been doing that?

She clawed at the handbag, got out the phone and snapped it open. “Hello?”

She heard a click at the other end, then silence.

“What is it?” Chip asked.

“Just a minute.” She conjured up Harry’s scrambled cell phone number and dialed it.

“Yeah?” Harry’s sleepy voice answered.

“It’s Holly. Did you call me?”

“No.”

“Then Ham did.”

Harry was suddenly wide awake. “Tell me.”

“Nothing to tell. As soon as I answered, he punched off.”

“He has the phone,” Harry said, a note of triumph in his voice.

“He has it, but he apparently is having trouble finding a way to use it.”

“They’ve got to be watching him like a hawk,” Harry said. “What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty or so.”

“You still with Chip?”

“Yes, and the president is not in town.”

“Thank God for that,” Harry said. “Call me if you hear from Ham again.”

“Will do.” She closed the phone, but she didn’t put it back in the bag. Instead, she left it on the table near her hand.

“What’s up?” Chip asked.

“Nothing, apparently.”

“Who’s Ham?”

“My father. I’ve been hoping he’d call.”

“Was that Harry you called?”

“Yes.”

“And he hopes to hear from your father, too?”

“Yes.”

“This is all about some operation of Harry’s, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t tell me about it?”

“No,” she said.

“Not even if I beg?”

“No, not yet.”

He poured more wine in her glass.

“You trying to get me drunk, Chip?”

“I’m already drunk,” he replied, “so you must be, too.”

“I can’t tell you about it.”

“Finish your wine,” he said. “Think of all those winos out on the streets with nothing to drink, and there you are wasting it.”

Fifty-nine

HOLLY WOKE EARLY, AND WHEN SHE SAT UP, SHE had to lie down again. She hadn’t drunk that much in a long time, or been as hung over. Finally, she managed to stand and get to the bathroom, where she was desperate to find her toothbrush.

Suddenly, she was ravenously hungry. She phoned room service for a big breakfast, then got into a shower and finished it off by standing under cold water until she was fully conscious. She toweled her hair dry, and stood looking at herself in the mirror. It made her feel better that she was in better shape than a lot of women ten years younger than she. The doorbell rang, disturbing her reverie.

She got into a robe and directed the waiter to a table by the window, overlooking the beach and the sea. She signed, leaving a very generous tip from the FBI, and, after feeding Daisy, sat down to eat. Halfway through the waffles and sausage she had so craved a few minutes before, she felt ill and had to stop eating. She was paying for her pleasures.

The evening had ended well, with Chip not getting pushy. She had given him her number at home, knowing that he would never get to Orchid Beach, and she had gotten the information Harry needed from him without trading her virtue for it. Harry could never have done that, she thought smugly.