A Dark and Lonely Place (40 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

T
he spiky heels of Laura’s boots echoed eerily off the concrete as the wind swept through the open sides of the parking garage. The empty structure reminded John of a lonely, unused mausoleum silently awaiting the dead.

“Here’s our ride.” He took the keys from the top of the right front wheel of a used Toyota Robby had left for them on the second floor of the parking garage at the Sea Spray. Except for the grayish green Camry, the entire level was unoccupied, as were the others above. “I like American-made, myself.” He opened the passenger side door for her.

“So do I. Why would someone buy a car this color?” Laura wondered aloud.

The interior was dull beige, a pine-tree-shaped air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, and there was a child seat in the back.

“You see them all the time in traffic. There must be more people than we think who are like us, who need to blend in and stay under the radar.” He turned on the radio to catch the news. Both were startled by an earsplitting blast of raunchy hip-hop.

“That can’t be what Robby listens to,” Laura said, in mock disbelief. “It must be the prior owner’s favorite station.”

John listened. Live voices punctuated the raunch with shout-outs, gang slang, obscene challenges, and threats. “Nope, it’s Robby.” John grinned. “Definitely Robby.”

“Coulda fooled me. Thought he was into folk, Bob Dylan, and old-time country-western.”

“He is. But Robby looks young and works undercover in the Gang Unit from time to time. What we’re hearing is a street gang’s pirate radio station.” They rolled out of the gloomy garage into blinding summer
sunlight. “The boy’s just doing his homework. Listens for intel, keeps tabs on the gangbangers.” Miami gangs, he said, rent small homes, erect 130-foot antennas, plug in their electronics, and launch their own pirate radio stations. These pirates had forced a classical music FM station off the air and hijacked its signal to broadcast their raucous music and live on-air insults, slurs, and challenges to rival gang-bangers.

John turned it off so they could talk.

“I told Gram all about you.” She cut her eyes at him in a way so familiar, he was sure he’d seen it all his life. “I asked her not to talk or answer questions from anyone, locals or strangers,” Laura said. “She promised she’d do her usual act.”

“Which is?”

“Gram doesn’t like strangers, so when they show up, she looks bewildered, cups her ear with her hand, and replies to everything with ‘Say, what?’ It’s easy to pull off at her age.”

Leon called as they crossed the big, blue bay to Biscayne Boulevard. “Figured you might be too busy to answer, Johnny. Hear you shot a guard, knocked off an armored car, crashed a stolen vehicle during a chase, then dove into a canal, and swam away.”

“Haven’t been near that end of town, I swear.”

“Didn’t think so,” Leon said. “They’re tightening the screws, racheting up the pressure.”

He’d been to the diner directly across from the historic Miami cemetery where Julia Tuttle and other city pioneers were buried. “Your situation’s split the police department right down the middle, Johnny. Everybody’s taking sides. Most of the rank and file swear you were set up by the crooks who run the show.”

“Nice to hear,” John said. “But I can’t count on help from the troops. When a cop gets in trouble, the rest run like thieves. Every man for himself. No cop wants a beef with his bosses. They can ruin you. Kill you. Look at me.

“But we may be onto something. I’m on my way to meet a man. Now.”

“Good luck, Johnny.” Leon chuckled. “Hope yours is better than theirs. Heard about the mini riot at that movie theater across the bay. They turned South Beach upside down and shook it out looking for you.
Anybody who remotely fit your description, which means any white man between fifteen and sixty, had his balls to the wall being frisked. Hope you were miles away sipping a cold one. Got something for you, Johnny, from a friend a mine in your neighborhood, the nighta your so-called burglary.”

“Tell me.”

“There
was
a burglar who
is
a thief. But it didn’t go down like they said. Thief’s name is Harry. Last name sounds like Ryder or Ridder. His claim to fame is some press five, six years ago, that got him the moniker of the Matchstick Burglar. Moron didn’t own a flashlight. Worked at night and left a trail of burnt-out matches as he prowled houses looking for valuables he could carry. Didn’t own a car either. One night he’s burglarizing a house in Wynwood, dropping matches behind him as he searches for jewelry and cash, and winds up in the laundry room. Didn’t know the lady of the house was soaking sweaters in some kind of flammable cleaning solution in a basin on the floor.”

“Don’t tell me . . . ,” John said.

“Yup, drops a match, the fumes ignite, go
whooosh,
and he runs screaming down the street, lit up the night with a three-alarm fire in the seat of his pants. Police find him at Jackson’s burn unit. Couldn’t sit down for a year. Had skin grafts, the whole nine yards. Cost the taxpayers a bundle. You know how fire victims like Phantom of the Opera, Freddy Krueger, or that guy Jason in the mask have charred, scarred, shriveled faces? That’s what his ass looks like. At least that’s what I’m told, ain’t seen it myself. Did time for burglary and arson, was paroled early. Got busted for burglary again a couple, three weeks ago. But oddly enough, they didn’t revoke his parole. He was released. First place he goes is yours. Not his usual MO. Usually hits houses and small businesses. Didn’t leave no burnt matches either. Did he?”

“Nope,” John said. “Not a one.”

“Humph,”
Leon said. “Another friend in your hood says Harry just strolled around the corner that night, all nonchalant. Then the two cops who said they chased ’im come tearing around the corner all breathless and putting on a show. Soon as they’re outta sight of your place, they slow to a walk, high-five, laugh, and chew the fat for a while. Then they go back and say he outran ’em.”

“The Matchstick Burglar,” John said. “With that street name, Harry shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“Right,” Leon said, “could be reluctant to cooperate, unless he hears a major investigation is coming together and he’ll be protected.”

“Hopefully, that’ll happen,” John said.

“Watch yourself, Johnny. They’re making it more dangerous for you. Once they convince the world you’re a deranged outlaw on a violent crime spree, it’s open season—on you.”

“Got it,” John said. “Let me know if you get a handle on where Harry bunks. I’d sure as hell like to talk to the man myself.”

“Sure thing. Watch your back.”

“Somebody’s doing that,” he said, as he and Laura exchanged a sweet glance. “Things are looking up, man. Stay in touch. I need all the help I can get.”

The sun glinted off cars in the bank parking lot. John spotted the silver-blue BMW at the back with Lonstein still behind the wheel. John drove by at a crawl, gave him a nod, and made eye contact or tried to. Lonstein wore huge, mirrored aviator shades. John saw a departing SUV free up a space closer to the entrance.

As he swung the Camry into the spot, Laura gasped.

“Oh my God. He’s James Bond!”

“For Pete’s sake,” John said.

Lonstein walked toward them. Along with the shades, he wore black Nikes, fingerless black leather driving gloves, and a black turtleneck under a dark jacket, despite the heat. A metal-sided attaché case appeared to be chained to his left wrist. With every stealthy catlike step, every swing of his shoulders, he swiveled his head, scanned the landscape, and peered over his shoulder. He gave the wary appearance of a man guilty of something and certain that he’s being followed.

A noisy white minivan rolled by packed with children and driven by a harried woman in search of a parking space, Lonstein stopped, stared, then riveted his eyes on the license plate, moving his lips as though committing it to memory.

“What happened to his preppy look?” John asked.

Lonstein focused on an elderly couple, the man hobbling slowly on a
walker, the woman using a cane. He lowered his chin to study them so intently that, alarmed, they picked up their pace.

“Nine-one-one will probably be flooded with calls before he even walks into the bank,” Laura said.

“I should have mentioned,” John said, “that he fantasizes about being a detective. Said he missed his calling.”

“He’s role-playing,” Laura said. “More actor than investigator.”

“And not doing very well at it, unless he plans to play Inspector Clouseau in a Pink Panther flick,” John said.

Lonstein approached, his back rigid, eyes straight ahead. Abreast of their car, he slowly surveyed his surroundings, then muttered, “Hey,” out the side of his mouth.

“Hey.” John sighed. “You have the key?”

Gil nodded, then made eye contact with Laura over the top of his shades. “A familiar face,” he said suavely. “Glad to see you looking so well.”

“I’m spectacularly well,” she replied, and cut her eyes at John. “My name is Lonstein,” he said. “Gil Lonstein.”

“Laura,” she said.

“Yes. The lovely model.” He cocked his head at John. “You coming?”

“You don’t need me,” John said. “Sign in as you did before, use your access code, hand over the key, then bring out the package, all the paperwork.”

“Should I ask the clerk to make us copies?”

“No. We can do that in a less public place.”

“It’ll leave the box empty. Shall I ask them to close it?”

“No.” John was becoming impatient. Lonstein, in his getup, stood out like a sore thumb to every passerby on the street, every passing car on busy Biscayne Boulevard, and all the foot traffic in and out of the bank. “Let’s just get the package Eagle wanted you to give me. You can close it later. And Gil, do me a favor, lose the shades before you go inside. The gloves too. Relax. Act normal.”

Lonstein looked startled.

“We don’t need negative attention,” John explained. “Bank robberies are up, employees are alert. Sunglasses, hats, packages, anything out of the ordinary spooks ’em and can create problems.”

“All right,” Lonstein said curtly. He plucked off the aviator glasses, stuck them in his pocket, peeled off one glove, then struggled with the other because of the attaché case chained to his wrist.

People stared. “Okay. Okay. Just leave that one on,” John said.

“I’m going in,” Lonstein muttered dramatically without moving his lips.

“Good. Good luck, Gil.”

“If I’m not out in fifteen minutes, make a run for it. Godspeed, go for broke.”

“You’ll come out. It’s all routine,” John assured him.

Lonstein squared his jaw and, without looking back, trotted up the five steps to the double glass doors. He opened one and turned to give a thumbs-up with his gloved hand, which caused the attached metal briefcase to bounce painfully off his groin. He limped inside as the door swung shut.

John stared. “Did you see what I saw?”

“At the door,” Laura whispered, her face pained, “when the wind caught his jacket, I saw a bulge.”

“Me too.”

“Oh, no,” she murmured.

“He never mentioned that he had a gun, a permit to carry, or knew how to shoot,” John said.

“Even if he did,” she said, “it’s illegal to carry a firearm into a bank, bar, school, or public building.”

“He’s crazy,” John whispered.

“Probably considered it a vital accessory to his
Mission Impossible
ensemble,” Laura said. “Let’s go.” She touched his arm and glanced around the parking lot. “Let’s get out of here, now.”

“If Eagle’s papers are what he described, we can’t risk losing them. It may be the evidence we need. Our future rides on this. Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you, darlin’.” He turned the key and the engine kicked in. “I’ll drive you about twenty blocks north, drop you at a bus stop, and be back here before Gil comes out. If I don’t pick you up in twenty-five minutes, hop the next bus north toward Robby’s jurisdiction. Stay on until the end of the line, then call him or Katie. You were never here. Got that?”

“No,” Laura said, “I am here, I always will be. Cut the engine, now. I will not get out of this car.”

“Listen to me—”

“Look,” she said.

Lonstein exited the bank, stopping to hold the glass door open for a small, elderly woman. She gazed up gratefully, and he returned a benevolent smile, tough guy with a heart.

He swaggered toward them, still smiling.

Behind him a bank security guard, in his early sixties, wearing a blue-gray uniform, stuck his head out the same door.

“Uh-oh,” John and Laura said in unison.

The door swung all the way open. The guard raised his arm and shouted at Lonstein. “Sir, sir!”

Lonstein heard him, looked back, walked faster, then ran the last few yards to the car.

“You have it?” John said.

“In here.” Lonstein gasped. He fumbled with the key to his attaché case as the guard walked briskly toward them.

“You locked it?” John said, exasperated.

“Damn straight.” Lonstein panted. “This stuff is dynamite. I need to go with you. I want a copy.”

His hand shaking, he finally managed to turn the key. The case flew open and the file spilled into the parking lot. Lonstein froze and stared down wide-eyed at what he had done.

John and Laura bailed out opposite sides of the car to retrieve the papers. Most were clipped together in a large manila envelope. Only two loose sheets fluttered away among the parked cars. Laura chased and caught both, as John snatched up the overstuffed envelope.

Lonstein looked up at the approaching guard, yanked a gun from beneath his jacket, and pointed it, his outstretched arm shaking, at the man.

“Halt!” he cried.

The gray-haired guard froze. He had never even thought to draw his own weapon. In his hand he held the aviator sunglasses Lonstein had inadvertently left in the safe-deposit box cubicle. “Sir!” he said, eyes wide.

Startled, Lonstein opened fire.

When he did, the weapon seemed to take on a life of its own. He
could not stop squeezing the trigger. Passersby screamed, hit the ground, or ran, as bullets ricocheted off the walls of the building. The security guard dropped and rolled.