“Cassie and Jo are still going through the data, but they’re closing in on something. We’re confident we’ll get this guy by morning.” He paused. “Gardner,” he said, “find a hotel room and crash. Be ready to go tomorrow at five or six a.m.”
I agreed and hung up. The local crime scene team had arrived, and Detective Curtis ordered everyone out.
I walked away, moving through the neighborhood on foot. In ten minutes, I’d left the homes behind and found a commercial street with lights on and fast-food restaurants.
As I walked, the wind increased in power. Large drops of rain touched my arms and head, but I was too tired to care how wet I was.
I hadn’t eaten all day. I found a food cart. Paid ten dollars for two hot dogs that looked barely cooked, but were covered in browned bacon and grilled onions.
A taxi pulled up to drop a group off at a bar, and I raised my hand, signaling the vehicle.
The driver rolled down his window. “Where to, boss?”
I tossed the second hot dog in the trash and got in the back. “Just drive,” I said, “over toward the beach.”
He glanced back at me, not moving, and I held out two twenties. He put the car in gear, then drove up and over the curving bridge. It split into two parts, each a two-lane in one direction that rose over the inner waterway.
As I glanced right, lights marked the curve of the next bridge over. The docks I’d seen earlier with Frank were dark now, save one that held a party boat, moored at the far end, with lights that blinkedon and off in blue and orange. Even inside the waterway, the waves crested high, causing the boat to bang against the dock.
As we came off the bridge, I directed the cabbie north, along Atlantic, where Frank and I had been earlier. Then I rang up the hospital in Gainesville, identifying myself as a federal agent and asking them to put me through to the room where Richie Brancato was.
“Hello?” a voice answered.
Richie sounded small and far away, and for a second, I stayed quiet.
“Gardner?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Figured,” he said. “No one else would call me at this hour.” His voice was gravelly.
“Are you well enough to talk?” I asked.
“My throat hurts,” Richie said. “But they gave me something five minutes ago, and I’m jumpy as shit. Just lying here in the dark.”
I didn’t reply for a second, grappling with a feeling that was unusual for me. Guilt? Concern?
“Gardner?” he said. “Still there?”
The words sounded digital and garbled. I glanced at my phone. The storm was affecting power, and I was down to one bar.
“Do you recall when you told us what happened to your sister?” I said. “It was last year. That big case. Agent Harris and I were about to jump on a copter?”
“Yeah.”
“You said you never would have joined the FBI if not for her—”
“I remember,” he said curtly, cutting me off.
“Then you told us how everyone at PAR flamed out somewhere else. Made some mistake.”
“Is this my mistake?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew. It’s okay if you want to reevaluate things. If you don’t want to work with us after this case is over.”
Richie said something, but it was garbled.
“What?” I asked.
