Rough Draft (23 page)

“I think I've got something to be glum about.”

“You're alive. The shots missed.
carpe diem
.”

“
Carpe
your own
diem
. I'm dealing with it the best I can.”

The school bell began to blare and almost immediately a sea of kids broke from the side doors, pouring into the playground. Hannah bent the rearview mirror down to look at her face, rubbing at the skin around her eyes to smooth away any remaining traces of panic.

“You look fine,” Frank said. “Kind of tight around the edges, but other than that, Randall won't know what happened unless you tell him.”

“No one's going to tell him anything.”

“And what's my cover story? Why am I here?”

“You're helping me find J. J. Fielding.”

“You told him about that? He knows what's going on?”

“Randall's the one who decoded those numbers in the book. He knows. I couldn't hide it from him if I tried.”

“Whatever you want,” Frank said. “You're the parent.”

“I certainly am.”

On the other side of 124th, Randall was waiting with a group of children and mothers for the crossing guard to stop traffic. He wasn't talking to anyone. He wasn't looking around. Frank got out of the car just as the group was crossing.

Randall was wearing baggy blue jeans and a green long-sleeve shirt, the tail hanging out in the sloppy fashion of the moment. He walked with the same loose-gaited stride as the other boys, the cocky strut of the ghetto, a don't-fuck-with-me insouciance that seemed sadly comic in this privileged neighborhood.

Frank stood beside the car, holding the door open.

As Randall approached, Frank put out hand for a shake or high-five, but Randall gave him a distrustful once-over, then dipped his head down to take a look at Hannah.

“You okay, Mom?”

“Fine,” she said. “We're just working on something, Frank and I. He's coming over to the house for a while.”

Randall sighed, then he let the front seat down and climbed into the narrow jump seat.

Frank got in, buckled up.

Hannah cranked the engine, eased out into the traffic.

“You're an FBI agent,” Randall said.

“Twenty-one years,” Frank said. “And counting.”

Randall leaned forward.

“So how many people have you killed?”

Hannah stopped at the four-way street, waited her turn.

“That's not polite, Randall, asking something like that.”

“Why not?”

“It's okay,” Frank said. “The answer is none, a big zero. I stepped on a few cockroaches around my motel room, but beyond that, no, it's been a pretty nonviolent career.”

“I thought that was why people became cops, so they could shoot people.”

Hannah took a long breath and let it out. Wincing at the acid in his voice.

“Oh, yeah,” Frank said. “Now I remember, there was this one guy I killed a few years ago. It almost slipped my mind. The guy was so short.”

“Short?” Randall said.

Hannah slowed for the light at Ludlam Road, waiting behind a UPS truck.

“Yeah, this guy was incredibly short. Fantastically, amazingly short. This guy was so short if he stood in water up to his waist he'd drown.”

Randall craned forward to get a look at Frank's face, see if he was smiling.

“He was so short,” Frank said, “he could drop his wallet and pick it up without bending over. This guy was so short he used to get armpit stains on his shoes. In fact, the guy was
so damn short he had to climb up on a ladder just to eat a pancake.”

“That's goofy,” Randall said.

“Yeah, that's what I thought too,” Frank said. “So I shot him. Man, this guy was so short, when I shot him, he didn't even fall down.”

“That's not funny,” Randall said. “You shouldn't make jokes about shooting people.”

Frank turned in his seat, gave Randall a quick look.

“Now that, young man, is the first sensible thing you've said.”

Hannah looked over at Frank. He turned back around and stared straight ahead out the windshield. In her rearview mirror she could see her son's face. She knew the look. Randall was pissed. Thinking hard of some rejoinder, some slashing irony. But after a moment his face went slack. He'd given up. He knew he'd been outwitted, something Hannah rarely managed. Outmaneuvered by humor, joked into submission by an FBI agent.

She drove silently the five remaining blocks to her house on Pinecrest Lane, feeling the strain in the air, the unspoken alpha dog tension between these two males.

“Pretty day,” she said, as she was pulling in the brick driveway.

Frank hummed his agreement. Randall was silent.

Frank got out first, held the door open for Randall, but he stayed in the jump seat until Hannah opened her door, then he climbed out through her side. He marched past her up to the back door, used his own key to let himself in, and stalked through the kitchen and dining room heading back to his computer. Frank followed Hannah into the house and watched her as she set her purse and keys on the kitchen table.

“Well, I certainly made a good impression,” he said.

“You were fine.”

“Was I? I thought maybe I was a little brusque.”

“You were fine. Funny and fine. Exactly brusque enough.”

“I say things sometimes, I don't know how it's going to sound till it's already out there. Low impulse control. Works okay at parties, but it's not exactly a treasured skill in day-to-day life.”

“You thirsty, hungry?”

“Hey, this is some house. Oozing with character. Tin roof, wood siding, you don't see that much anymore. Nice kitchen, that old-fashioned country look, oak floors, cherry cabinets.”

“Charm is my middle name.”

“A Coke would be nice, or a sandwich if you got one. I missed lunch.”

“Yeah, too busy standing around parking lots spying on people.”

Hannah opened the refrigerator, took out some sliced turkey, Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickles, mustard, a can of Coke.

“Who was the big guy? The one you were having lunch with.”

“Marcus Shoenfeldt's his name. I wanted him to look at the handwriting, see what he could tell me. He does graphology for Miami PD, an old friend.”

“And?”

“Toasted or regular?” She held up the loaf of whole wheat.

“I don't care, surprise me.”

“Marcus claimed the handwriting was done by a woman. A somewhat unbalanced woman. Mentally unstable.”

Frank grinned. He leaned his elbows on one of the counters. She watched him as his gaze prowled the room, the row of brightly colored Ball jars lining the tops of the shelves. A couple of philodendron vines running around the window.

“Why is that funny?”

“Not funny, it's just that I like your style. You don't let Fielding dictate the shots. He's trying to get you to follow the stuff in the book, solve the riddle, go from point A to point B, around the Stations of the Cross or some bullshit,
and you're off at the gun range analyzing the handwriting. That's good independent thinking.”

“Marcus said the handwriting is fake. Meant to look one way when actually it's another.”

“Fake?”

“The woman who wrote it wanted to appear agitated but in truth she was very deliberate. Like some kind of con.”

“All that from the handwriting?”

“This guy is good.”

“Well, he's big. I saw that much.”

“Big and good,” she said.

Hannah put the bread in the toaster oven, got out a plate. Took a handful of ice from the freezer and dumped it into a glass.

“Okay, you're all set,” she said. “Here's the stuff. This is a make-it-your-own-damn-self household.”

“Great.”

Frank moved over to the counter and started assembling the sandwich. Heavy on the mustard, an inch of turkey slices. Big eater. Of course it had been a long time since she'd had a man in her kitchen. Her dates were usually the fancy-restaurant type, trying to impress her. None of them had gotten as far as making sandwiches back at her house.

“Listen, I should go check on Randall. He's taking this hard. Doesn't want me chasing after this stuff 'cause it brings back all the bad memories.”

“And all of a sudden there's this big bad FBI agent hanging around,” Frank said. “He's not exactly rapturous about that either.”

“I'll be right back,” she said. “Then we can sit down with the book, go over the code, figure out the next step.”

“It's a date,” he said.

Hannah shot him a look. Frank with an innocent twinkle in his smile.

“I didn't mean date-date. I meant like it's a deal. You know, like that.”

“This is not social, Frank. I'm one hundred percent dead serious about this.”

“So am I, Hannah. As serious as I get.”

“You gave Fielding's Web address to your computer jocks?”

“I did.”

“I suppose you haven't heard anything yet.”

“Apparently it takes a while to track this back to its source. It's a good deal more complicated than a phone trace. They're working on it. Top priority.”

“We should go back on-line,” she said. “Keep monitoring Fielding's site. I just hope he doesn't die before I can get my hands around his throat.”

Frank poured his Coke and as the foam died he took a bite of his sandwich. A layer of pickles, Swiss cheese, lettuce, a thick slice of tomato. Having a guy like this around would double her grocery bills. He tore off a sheet of paper towel and wiped the mustard off his mouth.

“Something worries me,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Fielding mentioned my name.”

“So?”

“It was only my first name, so it's not that important. But who knows how long he's been on the Net, broadcasting his bullshit. He might have mentioned my whole name before. Might've mentioned Miami. Given out my street address, for all we know.”

Frank took another bite of his sandwich and gave her a so-what shrug.

“In case you've forgotten, Frank, other people are after Fielding. If they found out about that Web site, that Fielding was sending some woman secret messages about how to locate him, they'd be on my tail in a second.”

He set the sandwich down, wiped his mouth again.

“You mean the drug people.”

“That's right, the drug people. Those happy-go-lucky fellows from Cali.”

“I doubt they pay a lot of attention to the Internet down there. Not much surfing going on in Colombia.”

“You're sure of that, Frank?”

“Not sure, but I think it's a pretty safe bet.”

“There must be a way to check previous transmissions on a Web site like that. Randall would know how to do it. If I could bully him into it.”

Frank took a long breath, lowered his eyes to the floor as if he were hiding his reaction.

“Maybe it's my imagination,” she said, “but I've had the feeling in the last couple of days that I was being watched. Maybe followed.”

He lifted his eyes.

“Yeah? Why do you say that?”

“I saw a guy yesterday and then again today.”

“What guy?”

His lips were tightening.

“Yesterday in the Gables, walking down the street I got a glimpse of this guy in a deli, he had a motorcycle helmet sitting up on the counter next to him.”

“Motorcycle helmet.”

“Bright red with dark visor.”

“Yeah? What else?”

“I was a little spooked at the time, had a little prickle on the neck like I was being spied on. This guy with the helmet just caught my eye for a second and I passed on. I forgot all about him until this morning after I left the Bayshore place. Then I saw a guy behind me in traffic, a few cars back on a dirt bike, and he was wearing a red helmet. He came and he went, but he was back there for a good while.”

“No other description of him?”

“What? Do you know this guy, Frank?”

“Did you get a look at him, Hannah? In the deli when you were passing by. Did he have a beard, long hair, what?”

“Close-cropped hair, I think. Other than that, no. I just got a quick glimpse.”

“Listen, can I use your phone?”

“Sure. But what's going on, Frank?”

“Probably nothing. But maybe you're right. Maybe some Cali guys have come to town. I just need to check in, pass this along. Have them put it on the street.”

“Put what on the street? A guy on a motorcycle, buzz cut. What good's that going to do?”

“Look, I'll just be a minute.”

“Is someone trying to kill me, Frank?”

He looked at her for a long moment and said nothing. His lips twitched as if he was struggling to give her a consoling grin but couldn't manage it.

“Phone's in the living room,” she said. “Take your time. I need to talk to Randall anyway.”

Frank said, “Nobody's trying to kill you, Hannah. Those shots, they weren't about you.”

“You're sure about that?”

“I'm sure. Absolutely.”

He nodded and after a second she nodded back. But he wasn't sure. She could see it in his naked eyes. For a career FBI guy, Frank Sheffield was one lousy liar.

Shane answered with a quick, “Go.”

“Those plates on the shooter's Chevy Caprice. You get them back yet?”

“Is that you, Sheffield?”

“The plates, Shane. Tell me.”

“Stolen from a hotel parking lot on Miami Beach. A rental car registered to a tourist from Europe.”

“You got an all-points on the car, right?”

“The shooter dumped the car two blocks from the shopping plaza. Miami PD is working the area right now, checking for witnesses.”

“You should've chased him, Shane. We had the manpower.”

“Miami PD is doing the fiber and prints now. If there's anything in the car, we'll know in a few hours.”