We still didn’t know how someone had come upon Freddie Pecos and why whoever killed him had left two weapons and a million dollars’ worth of debit cards inside his mobile home. So we left Richie at the office, looking into those crucial twenty-four hours before Freddie’s death.
The rest of us hit the road with one goal: to enlist Travis Wells as our new C.I.
Vincent, our tech, was a thick white guy—five foot six with long, brown sideburns and a black T-shirt under a white polo. His skin was pale, almost bloodless. As we got in the van, he pointed toward a swiveling captain’s chair in the back.
“Grab some wood right there, Agent Camden,” he said, his accent thick on the wordthere. “That’s the primo seat in the house, and you’re the boss, am I right?”
“You are right,” I said.
I told Vincent we needed to move, and he nodded.
“Just gotta put on my lucky surveillance hat,” he said, grabbing a Yankees baseball cap from the glove box. “Nothin’ ever goes wrong with this bad boy on.”
We drove diagonally out of the Pembroke Pines area to Farner County, an hour northwest. The sky was pale blue, and all around the highway were marshes that looked like mile-wide prairies, with osprey and snail kite perched on branches that protruded above the sawgrass.
Shooter sat up front with Vincent. “How long you been in the undercover game?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m just the tech guy, Agent Harris,” he said. “I don’t do undercover.”
“But we’re headed to a bar,” Shooter said. “When we get there, you’re gonna go inside, right? Set the cameras up?”
Cassie flicked through pictures of the bar’s Instagram on her phone, and I looked over her shoulder, half listening as Shooter tried to get Vincent to tell her stories about his best undercover work.
“I’m known for my discretion,” Shooter said, and Cassie snorted.
We passed a grove of weeping banyan, their husky aerial roots dropping down from the branches overhead and forming thick trunks of wood that plunged into wide swaths of standing water.
Turning farther west, we drove inland through farm country. Along the highway, giant poles strung electrical wire from a series of towers, the larger ones on my left turning to parts unknown, where residents use boats to get around, more than cars. I opened my laptop and finished a report for Poulton.
A moment later, Cassie nudged me as a structure came into view.
The Rotten Coconut was a one-story bar with a wavy metaloverhang that jutted six feet out from the top of the building and was painted teal. Mounted atop the metal was the bar’s name in yellow, flanked by a pair of circular objects painted a cream color to look like coconuts. Through the two large windows, neon signs advertised Budweiser and Miller Lite.
Vincent brought the van to a stop in the parking lot and turned to Shooter.
“You wanna come with?” He motioned at the bar. “If I have to do it myself, it’s gonna take longer, ’cause I gotta order a drink. Wander around. Act like I’m going to the bathroom.”
Shooter looked at me.
“These are pin cameras you’re placing?” I asked.
“Not more than an inch wide,” he said. “Built-in networking equipment. State of the art. Primo stuff.”
I nodded at Shooter, and Vincent leaned over the bank of seven-inch monitors that faced Cassie and me. He turned on three of the four screens, which all showed static.
“Those’ll be up quick,” he said and turned back to Shooter. “If you can talk up the bartender, I’ll wander around. Quietly place the cameras.”
They got out and walked over to the front porch. Moved inside.
The FBI has long engaged in undercover operations, and the techniques are considered standard in detecting and prosecuting all sorts of activity, from terrorism to public corruption, drugs, and organized crime.
Cassie turned to me. “You got plans this weekend?”
“Camila has a science project,” I said. “There’s an event at the school on Friday.”
“In other words,” she said, “youhave a science project to finish sometime this week?”
I noticed her smile and turned up the corners of my mouth in response. Today, Cassie wore black jeans and a white blouse that became sheer along the sleeves.
