Shadow Play Page 3

"Easy to say when you have it."

  "I can't win with you, Cisco. It's family money. That's not our fault. You know me better than that."

  He was right. But I was still digesting Mr. Hoover's death. To be honest, I'd always hated the man. He was never around for his daughter. Too busy rocking the hotelier angle and moving from country to country.

  And, boy, the feeling was mutual. I'd only met him a few times, but it was clear he thought his daughter was slumming it with Miami trash. In truth, she probably deserved better. But that didn't change the fact that he'd been an asshole.

  I frowned during the lull in conversation. "So Die Hard, huh?"

  "Thanks for not busting me," said Evan. "I told her it was an old family name. You missed the last two sequels, you know?"

  "Bruce Willis is still cool?"

  "He's still the man."

  I smirked. Evan was always into the macho action-hero thing. I suppose it's not any different than superheroes.

  Evan cleared his throat. "Where are you living these days?" Before I could answer, he waved the question off. "Actually, you know what? I don't wanna know. I'd rather you answer my original question and finally tell me what you're doing here?"

  "Besides advise you that no one wears white loafers without socks anymore?"

  Evan chuckled. "Says the man wearing red cowboy boots."

  "Alligator hide," I added.

  Granted, my combo of tank top, jeans, giant skull belt buckle, and boots was a bit caballero, but I wasn't currently concerned with makeovers.

  "I need to find the boat," I told him. "The Risky Proposition. From the Star Island house."

  My friend stiffened. "You didn't go there, did you?"

  I shrugged meekly. "For a tiny bit."

  "Did you trash the place?"

  "No way," I swore. "The hot tub moved into the living room all by itself."

  Evan slapped a hand to his head with a curse. "You're gonna get arrested one day, you know."

  "That's what I have you for, Evan. Now, how about the boat? Is it still impounded?"

  He held out his hand expectantly. "You have the file?" I pulled it from the seat of my jeans and returned it to him. He scanned it and nodded. "Yeah, I remember checking this before. The evidence was lost when a big hurricane hit. It's probably around somewhere, but it's not viable for court anymore."

  "Can you find it?"

  "I don't know."

  I lowered my tone. "I need to find the boat, Evan."

  "What makes you think I can after all this time?"

  "You're a detective. There has to be a paper trail. You can do it."

  Evan closed the file and thought about it. "No promises."

  "Whatever. What about your boss, the city commissioner?"

  Evan's eyes narrowed.

  I made like I was asking an innocent question. "Rudi Alvarez, right?"

  Boom. That got a response. Evan froze with his jaw open.

  You see, Tunji Malu had been dead for five days, but I'd known he was working a real estate scheme with prominent businessmen. I also knew plots of that magnitude required some political muscle. With the Evan connection, it was only a matter of learning how to Google the five city commissioners. Rudi Alvarez had shown up as the only one with stakes in the operation.

  "How do you know his name?" asked Evan, pounding a finger on my chest. "Don't you pull him into your problems. You hear me?"

  "The vampire was working with you to get to him, Evan."

  "The commissioner was just a means to an end. And on Rudi's end, all he did was try to make an extra buck or two in real estate. He's not an ani-whatever."

  "Animist."

  "That's what I said. He's not involved in your big zombie conspiracy."

  I scoffed. "Only a conspiracy to devalue properties in poor districts along Biscayne Boulevard and defraud taxpayers."

  In some ways, I was a huge part of that conspiracy too. You see, Tunji Malu hadn't just forced me to be his zombie pet. I'd been his personal hit man, and he'd kept me busy. I'd assassinated various gang leaders, all part of increasing crime and depressing real estate. When I'd returned from the dead a week ago, I had done my best to correct the situation, but it was too late. I'd kept up with the news the last few days. A full-blown gang war had sparked in Little Haiti. Tunji was dead, but Rudi and others were still around, benefiting from his legacy.

  "Commissioner Alvarez stands to profit the most from my time as a hit man," I said. "It's a solid lead."

  Evan assumed his self-righteous stance again, hands on hips. "It's political, it's white collar, and it's out of your league. Listen, this is Miami. There's salt in the air. The city's wheels need a little extra grease to keep the rust away. A little selective enforcement is used to engineer profit, but you'll have a hard time getting anywhere against him without a grand jury. Somehow I don't think an anonymous vagrant can convince a judge of anything, alligator hide or not."

  My friend still didn't get it. I could only laugh his points away. "You think I wanna take these people to court?"

  "No, but you should be worrying about the people that did this to you."

  "Just like you're worrying about your job."

  Evan clenched his jaw. "That too. Little details like putting food in my family's mouth."

  "Don't you mean my family?"

  My friend stood firm and steady. "Not anymore, Cisco."

  We stared each other down. I'd promised myself I wouldn't get in a fist fight with him again, but I was sorely tempted. Instead, I focused on the business at hand. If Evan wanted to play politics, I could accommodate him.

  "Without the Proposition, my only lead is the city commissioner. Get it?"

  Evan's eyes were daggers, but he wanted me as far away from his boss and his job as possible. He knew if he didn't throw me a bone, I'd find one on my own.

  I softened my voice, trying not to turn everything into a battle. "Get me the info, okay?"

  He grunted, nodded, and rejoined the festivities.

  Chapter 6

  Dinner Key used to be a small island, but it was joined to mainland Coconut Grove generations ago. Picturesque airport hangars once lined the water, solid but with the 1930s flair the city is famous for. Over time, the seaport declined in use, becoming completely unnecessary due to technological advancements after just fifteen short years. The structures were demolished. But the main terminal, the one by the roundabout at the end of Pan American Road and lined with palm trees—that building still stood. Only now it was known as Miami City Hall.

  For those keeping score at home, I had told Evan I'd stay away from his boss in exchange for help. The fact that I currently paced the grounds where the city commissioners worked was a bit disingenuous of me—misleading, even—but it wasn't a lie so much as the most convenient thing for me to say at the time.

  Besides, Evan hadn't given me any information yet. Until he did, Commissioner Rudi Alvarez was fair game.

  I didn't know much about the man. A second-generation Cuban-American, like myself. According to the tablet I "borrowed," city commissioners were supposed to be liaisons between their city and the community. That meant they dictated policy changes, planned infrastructure projects, and oversaw a whole lot of financials. It was a career that didn't come with a huge salary but had plenty of perks, especially for the politically minded.

  As far as I was concerned, the question wasn't if Rudi Alvarez was dirty, it was how dirty was he.

  I wasn't sure what the logistics of simply walking into City Hall were, much less gaining an audience with a sitting commissioner. I decided to play it incognito. (Not for Evan's sake as much mine if he found out I was here.) And luckily, my caution paid off. After an hour of loitering and pretending to admire the boats, lunchtime hit and various employees began leaving the building. Foremost of note was Commissioner Alvarez.

  Rudi was perfectly groomed, almost fifty (but without a gray hair on his styled head), and smiled and shook hands like a president. As he held the attenti
on of a small crowd outside the building, an Asian woman in a business suit stood quietly at his side holding a pen and a planner. Her ponytail and glasses conjured the appearance of a librarian, but when Rudi referred the crowd to her and she shook their hands and began taking down their information, it was clear she was in his employ. A personal assistant, perhaps.

  The commissioner left the pack and made his way to the parking lot. Since I was standing near the open-air lot myself, I decided to make the most of the situation.

  A simple walk-by to size the man up. Let's call it a closer look. In animist terms, I wanted to get a sense of his magical abilities, if he had any.

  I pulled the rim of my baseball cap over my face, making the "Federal Boob Inspector" logo prominent. With the sun directly overhead, my face was naturally shadowed. I tapped my spellcraft to deepen the shade. Nothing too obvious. Just enough to keep my features unidentifiable to anyone casually observing.

  The older man straightened his suit and headed toward a Cadillac entering the driveway. Shit. I had to hurry to intersect with him now. It was a little obvious, but I hopped into position and was on course to converge with him. Rudi kept his eyes forward and didn't notice my approach. The one time he did look I lowered my face.

  Nothing to see here. Just a guy wearing a tank top and red alligator cowboy boots.

  My senses became muddled as I neared. I didn't feel his magic as much as I was disturbed by something unnatural. Foreign. I lifted my head to check and ran smack into a wall.

  A metaphorical wall, anyway. In this case, brick by solid brick of hip-hop bodyguard a whole head taller than me. Seriously. He had the black suit, black shirt, black tie, black shades, secret service earpiece, and the biggest sulk on his face ever, like he'd been instructed to sort the commissioner's M&Ms by color.

  After dislodging my face from his chest, I refixed the cap on my head and considered the obstacle. I couldn't see his eyes through the shades, but they were fixed on me no doubt, and he wasn't happy.

  "Walk another way," he said in a deep voice.

  I peeked past the large man, which involved taking a step to the side and executing a healthy lean. Rudi Alvarez was getting into the back seat of a Cadillac.

  I'd missed him. But I suddenly knew where the unnerving feeling was coming from.

  "I'm sorry," I told him. "I was hoping I could shake the commissioner's hand."

  "Not gonna happen."

  Straight to the point, this guy. "And who are you?"

  "Tyson Roderick, his head of security. If you have business with the commissioner, take it up with his chief of staff." He gestured toward the Japanese woman by the building. Then he raised an eyebrow. "But somehow, I don't think your FBI credentials warrant a meeting with him."

  I was confused until I remembered the hat. Then I was embarrassed. I backed off, already making a much larger impression than I'd wanted to.

  I walked the opposite direction, hoping to defuse any interest, fighting the pull to watch them. There was something about that man that set me on edge. My Spidey-sense urged me to get out of there as soon as possible. Reflecting on it from a distance, I couldn't pinpoint what it had been.

  I rounded the corner of City Hall and snuck in an unassuming peek. Rudi's Cadillac waited. Tyson Roderick hopped into an SUV and drove to the commissioner's tail.

  Interesting.

  I didn't know if the politician always kept a security detail or if it was a special assignment. What I did know was, I was curious. A fatal failing of mine, maybe. Probably.

  In fact, I bet that's what had gotten me killed.

  It didn't matter. I knew my curiosity could very well land me in trouble again, but it was better than leaving the burning questions in my head.

  In the side parking lot, I started my pickup truck and headed to the road, wondering where we were all going.

  Chapter 7

  Some cars are inconspicuous by design. Dodge Neons. Toyota Corollas. Hyundai... well, all Hyundais really. My 1970s, all-steel, heavy-duty pickup truck was not one of those vehicles.

  It wasn't just faded, it was rusted. It wasn't just old, it was ancient. The headlights were dim, the air conditioner didn't work, and the V6 engine rattled on its mounts. But the truck was solid. Built like tank. Ran on diesel. There wasn't a single computer chip inside the thing. Nothing was pushing this baby around. And if that somehow happened, it could walk away from a beating.

  I'd found an ad for it on Craigslist a few days ago. Not only did it fit my budget, but the old man had let me keep it in his name. How much of that was him being a nice guy versus the impending senility? That's a judgment call. But it sure helped out a dead man who needed to skip the DMV's photo ID process.

  According to the government, I didn't exist. Not anymore. I was happy to keep it that way.

  I rumbled along Bayshore Drive, keeping a healthy distance behind the convoy, wondering if I'd already screwed the pooch. Bad turn of phrase, I thought, as I adjusted the spiked dog collar on my wrist.

  My promise to stay away from the commissioner had left me without a plan. Boredom had made me reckless. Instead of sitting back and watching, I'd already practically announced myself. Topping that, I was now trailing his head of security in the middle of the day. The blaring sun would keep most of my covert shadow magic in check. I was making one mistake after the other.

  Better to stay back and remain an impartial observer. I eased my foot off the gas and settled into the drive.

  That plan was going swimmingly until I made it to the next intersection. A car at full speed slammed into the right side of my truck.

  The glass in the passenger door shattered. I jerked towards the other seat, restrained by my seat belt. The pickup veered into oncoming traffic. I yanked the wheel around (you better believe there was no power steering) and turned off the street, narrowly avoiding another car. The truck skidded to a stop in the grass.

  The car that had hit me didn't fare as well. It tumbled over twice, scraping its side against the asphalt as it continued down my lane. Sparks trailed behind until it thumped into the grass across the street, a front wheel spinning off-kilter. The entire front end of the car was crumpled.

  The third car I had narrowly avoided sped off with a single honk and, just like that, the street was empty.

  I dropped from my truck and rubbed the back of my neck. I wasn't sore but my head was ringing like a Klaxon. This was Cisco Suarez at full alert.

  There was no way security had seen me on their tail. I was too far away. Besides, how could they have set a trap so fast?

  The overturned car had ended up on its side, sagging into wild grass between the asphalt and a canal that ran alongside a beautiful row of palm trees. Past that was an empty park. On my side of the street, there were residences, but they were offset a good distance from the road. The amount of vegetation had made this a fairly private spectacle.

  Still, it had been a spectacle. Crunched glass and metal. Or cheap fiberglass anyway. Any bystander or driver could've already called the police. I couldn't exactly stick around and file a police report, but I did need to check things out. That meant I had to hurry. I rubbed the spikes of the dog collar around my wrist, ready to invoke destructive shadow magic, and approached the wayward car.

  On the way, I found the logo that had cracked off its hood. A Dodge Neon. What did I say about inconspicuous?

  The windshield of the car hung limply, half-attached but still in one piece. The roof was crushed in to the point that I couldn't see into the cabin.

  "You okay in there?" I asked, unsure why I was disguising my voice in baritone. When no one answered, I decided to right the crumpled vehicle. It was pretty small and at a slight lean, so it only needed minimal force on the roof to tip over and settle on its tires. I rounded to the front door and threw up my left hand in case I needed a quick shield.

  The car was empty.

  I scanned the vicinity. It was quiet out here. Clear enough that the driver couldn't have run without
me noticing. I mean, I don't like to brag—well, maybe I do—but I recovered pretty damn fast after the accident. I'd watched the Neon as it still tumbled, so there was no chance for anyone inside to escape.

  I checked the car again, but there wasn't anything to miss. It was a tiny hatchback coupe, made tinier by the collapsed roof. The trunk was locked and the driver's door was dented beyond use. I managed to open the passenger door fine. I tilted the seat forward and pulled the cover for the back trunk. No one there either.

  I scratched my neck again, feeling the soreness come on. The car had slammed into me pretty good. I reset the seat back and sat inside, ducking under the lowered roof. No objects were lodged over the gas pedal. Nothing appeared odd. The car was still in drive, the engine still running. All things I would expect.

  I flipped the AC on and set it to high. At least there was a bright side to this mess.

  After a minute of mulling the mystery over, I opened the glove compartment and found the registration. John Harmon, Bayshore Drive. The address was just a block away from here. That meant one of the well-to-do residents had pulled out of the marina, slammed into me for no reason, and vanished into thin air.

  Quite the puzzle. But a hell of a way to derail my attempt to follow Rudi Alvarez. Somehow I didn't think John Harmon knew his car was here.

  I grabbed the handle to open the door but the lock clicked. I pushed the door but it held firm, and the unlock button didn't do anything. That's when I noticed there were no keys in the ignition. The cabin light began blinking on and off.

  It wasn't until the car shifted into reverse all by itself that I understood what was happening. Another poltergeist, this time haunting a Dodge-fucking-Neon.

  The gas pedal hugged the floor and the car skipped backward, right into the canal. Adding insult to injury, the AC switched from cool to heat.

  "Hilarious," I muttered.

  The coupe didn't have windows anymore, so water poured over me immediately. Thing was, with the roof crumpled, I couldn't well squeeze out those windows.

  I leaned back and kicked my boots against the door, but it was jammed tight. Water roared over my head. I checked the back seat, wondering if I could go through the trunk. Fuck it, there wasn't time, and I wasn't helpless.