“It’s a display,” I said. “A series of homemade fly traps. Camila’s been saving water bottles and cutting them in half. She takes the top and sticks it upside down into the bottom.”
“I’ve seen those at my niece’s school,” Cassie said. “She’s testing different types of bait?”
“Four,” I said. “Molasses, maple syrup, and honey. Then there’s a wild card. She’s been rotting beef in the hotel room’s mini-fridge.”
“Eww.” Cassie cringed. “Lucky you.” She cocked her head then, smiling. “Need a math expert to help?”
“No,” I said.
I realized right away that I had answered too quickly. But when I examined Cassie’s face, she did not seem offended.
I studied her as she looked back at her phone. For years, Cassie and I were partners. And she was always a terrific teammate. Always willing to listen to my ideas or brainstorm. Day or night, I’d call, and she’d come by. But after the big case we closed fifteen months ago, she asked me a question at a retirement party. And it dawned on me that maybe she was more than a work friend. That a relationship might be had between us.
But that was the same week that Frank Roberts, our former team leader, left PAR: the week I became head of the group. Trying to navigate this was fraught with politics. And I fail at politics.
So as we rebooted in Miami, I partnered with Shooter and let Richie and Cassie work as a team. When Cassie asked me why I’d made the change, I told her that what Richie needed most was a teacher. Which was true. And that she was our best mentor. Which was also true.
But neither were the reason for the reorganization.
Did she understand the real reason? I don’t know. We never spoke of it aloud. I never allowed myself to give anything between us a chance. I was the new Frank, after all.
The first monitor came to life. Video only. No sound. A fish-eye view from a pin camera that Vincent had stuck to a window. In the background, I could see Shooter flirting with the bartender on duty, while Vincent crossed the large open space, which at this hour was devoid of customers.
The second screen came to life, then a third. The second showed the main area of the bar, a collection of nine red leather booths. With the afternoon sun pouring in, the place looked white hot and worn down.
My eyes moved to the third monitor, where two pool tables were situated.
On screen one, Shooter high-fived the male bartender. A few minutes later, Vincent came out of the restroom, and she followed him out of the bar.
And that was it.
That would be the extent of our work inside the Rotten Coconut. From here, it was a waiting and watching game. Waiting for Travis Wells to show up with his cousin. Watching as they got drunk. Then tipping off a local cop to pull him over.
“Quick work,” I said when Shooter and Vincent were back in the van.
Vincent got behind the wheel, and we picked up food from Jimmy Roo’s, a local chicken place, before heading back to the bar.
“What do we know about Travis Wells’s cousin?” I asked as Vincent drove.
“Matt?” Cassie said. “Thirty-three years old. Works construction. A drywaller.”
“Criminal charges?” I asked.
“None,” Shooter replied. “Unless consorting with his shitbag cousin counts.”
Vincent pulled the van back into the lot at the Rotten Coconut, parking in a spot where we would go unnoticed. Sandwiches and chicken fingers were passed around. As I ate, I recalled other undercover operations I had done as a rookie. The feeling was familiar. Waiting. Waiting with seemingly nothing to do.
The sun went down, the bartenders changed shifts, and the parking lot lights came on. I texted Camila, who was with Rosa, to make sure she was doing her reading. A text came back fast.
Done and done. Watching Soy Tu Duena with grandma.
A rerun of a telenovela Rosa had seen years ago.
I turned my attention to the screen farthest to my right. Vincent had stepped outside a few minutes earlier and set a pin camera on a fence post outside the bar. Now an image of the parking area filled the final monitor.
At 9:15 p.m., the 1983 Chevy Camaro that belonged to Travis Wells pulled into the lot, parking four spaces down from us. The car was white with a gray rocker panel. Two black stripes ran down from a vent that protruded from the hood.
We were set up in the back of the van, and Vincent had laid a reflective strip across the front window to create a dark cube of space inside.
