The Mako was burning like a torch.
The watch officer was shouting, “Hall, Hall, where are you?”
“Look for the fire, sir; I’m south of the cut where the fire’s at.”
For his actions,Hall was given the Coast Guard Medal. Other than the man killed by Hall, none of the men on the Mako or in the car were caught or even identified. The dead man was a minor hoodlum from Miami Beach, whom the feds called a “known associate,” though he appeared to be an associate of every piece of scum on the Beach, which was a lot of scum.
The Mako’s Florida registration was real enough; the owner wasn’t. The fire, which sank the boat, wiped out fingerprints and DNA. The SUV was never identified or found. No gun was found on the sunken boat or in the area around it.
Hall was presented the medal by the rear admiral who commanded the Coast Guard’s District Seven. When the admiral asked him his plans, Hall said, “My hitch is almost up, sir. I’m going to college at FIU. If I go full time, I’ll be out in three years. Then I might be back, if I can get into OCS. I really like what we do.”
The admiral patted him on the shoulder with some affection. “You’ll get in. With your history, I can guarantee it. Get a degree in something useful.”
“I’m thinking crime science,” Hall said.
“That’ll work,” the admiral said.
“Sir, if you don’t mind. I do have a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Nobody’s been caught for killing our guys,” Hall said. “Where’s the FBI?”
“I asked that exact same question, a couple of weeks ago, but I wasn’t as polite as you are,” the admiral said. “I asked, ‘Where the fuck is the FBI?’ The answer was, ‘Nowhere,’ and you can quote me on that.”
NOVEMBER
CHAPTER
TWO
Virgil Flowers leftthe courtroom and caught an elevator going down. He turned as the doors began to close and a dark-haired hatchet-faced woman in an old blue floral dress, carrying an antique white woven handbag, standing outside in the hallway, looked straight into his eyes and held them. She was only a foot or two from the elevator doors, but made no effort to step inside.
When the elevator doors closed, a woman next to Virgil said, “Well, that was weird. I thought she was going to shoot you.”
“Couldn’t get a gun in the courthouse,” Virgil said. A couple of people behind him laughed, more nervously than heartily.
Virgil worked his way down to the Hennepin Government Center’s basement cafeteria, where he spotted Lucas Davenport sitting at a table to one side, legs crossed, reading a free newspaper. Davenport saw him at the same time and waved. He’d walked to the courthouse from the federal building.
Virgil went over and shook hands and asked, “You eat?”
“Not yet. I wasn’t sure when you’d get out.” Davenport was a tall man, but thin, weathered, athletic, dark hair shot with gray, crystalline blue eyes; he was fifty-two, and looked his age. He waswearing a blue woolen jacket, a white dress shirt, black woolen slacks, and cap-toed dress shoes; a light cashmere coat was draped over the back of his chair. He might have been a prosperous attorney, but he wasn’t.
“What’s that?” Virgil asked, nodding at a two-inch-thick brown file envelope sitting by Davenport’s right hand.
“Maybe a case,” Lucas said. “I’m thinking about it.” He stuck a hand in a jacket pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Virgil. “Get me a cheeseburger, fries, and a Diet Coke.”
“What, I’m a waitress now?”
“I’m saving the table,” Lucas said. “Or would you rather eat standing up?”
Virgil came backa few minutes later with a tray, scraped out a chair, put the food down, and said in a quiet voice, “There’s a woman sitting behind me... Don’t look right away, be casual about it. She’s wearing an old blue dress with flowers and has a white handbag sitting on the table.”
He sat down and Lucas looked casually past his shoulder and checked the woman. He turned back to Virgil and picked up his cheeseburger and asked, “Who is she?”
“She’s the wife of the guy I testified against. He’s going to prison for ten years or so.”
“What’d he do?”
