“I’m calling because I have great news. Upon further inquiry, I ultimately received a press release faxed from the DEA about a fraud alert on someone impersonating one of their agents in a phone scam. If your father had been present to answer the call, he would have been told of pending charges against him that could be dropped if a civil fine was immediately paid through Western Union. It was all a hoax.”
“What?”
“After getting the news release, I did an online search and found several chat rooms where all these furious people want to strangle the fake agent. Apparently the guy was good, and some victims paid up to six thousand dollars. The chat rooms tell almost identical stories of being on the phone with him, shaking uncontrollably and almost having heart attacks. One Internet bulletin board is even making progress tracking him. He’s hit Maryland, Tennessee and is now believed to be in Florida.”
“But—”
“I know your next question. The common denominator was that all his marks had recently had their credit-card data compromised. Did that happen to your father?”
“I . . . uh, have to go.”
“Okay, but I knew you’d want to know right away. Aren’t you happy?”
She hung up.
Brook sat quietly alone for the rest of the viewing.
At the end, she heard someone clear his throat. The funeral director.
“Yes.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Brook dabbed her eyes. “Thank you.”
The director smiled with practiced sympathy. “But you’ll have to move on.”
She nodded—“I know. My father would want me to”—and got out another tissue.
“No, I mean you have to go.” The director pointed toward the doorway and two employees standing in the hall. “They need to wheel in the next casket. The family’s already starting to arrive.”
Brook got up without reaction and drove home in a ten-year-old Ford Focus. If electrode pads had been attached to her head, they would have detected brain activity on the level of a major thunderstorm.
She pulled into the driveway, went up to the condo and opened the door.
Brook stopped with an open mouth.
On top of the TV stand was a lot of air. Her eyes went to an empty shelf where the stereo had been. She roamed room to room. The silverware stuck deep in the closet was gone, including the cake knife from her parents’ wedding. They’d gotten Ronald’s watch and favorite cuff links.
The police were exceptionally polite, taking notes and offering condolences. They had been encountering more and more burglary victims wearing black.
Brook fought tears at the kitchen table. “What are the odds my father died because of a scam . . . ?” She turned generally toward the living room. “. . . And then
“I’m afraid it probably wasn’t a coincidence,” said the lead detective, still jotting on a pad.
Brook looked up quickly. “What do you mean, not a coincidence? Are you saying that the person who left the phone message also robbed us?”
The detective shook his head. “What I mean is you put a funeral notice in the newspaper, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So you shouldn’t have done that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s a sad commentary on the direction of society,” said the detective. “But we’ve begun distributing Crime Stopper tips to grieving relatives about what details to withhold from the newspapers.”
“What for?”
“Because most of the people reading funeral notices today in South Florida are criminals looking to burglarize the homes of survivors during the viewing. You may want to have someone watch this place.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes they come back during the burial.”
“What the hell is wrong with these people!”
The detective solemnly bowed his head. “They have no empathy.”
Soon, all the notebooks were closed. The police offered their condolences again and let themselves out.
Brook was left sitting alone in silence. The thunderstorm in her brain spun off downpours with hail.
Chapter Twenty-Three
MIAMI BEACH
Cigar smoke was thick, but an off-shore breeze quickly carried it off the patio.
Three cocky types with red ties and American-flag lapel pins puffed big Hondurans grown from Cuban seeds. A waitress came by with their drinks. The men tipped well, which entitled them to ask her to bed. The seafood restaurant was called Barnacle Buddy’s.
The trio blew smoke rings and faced the ocean.
Serge faced them.
Coleman sipped a rumrunner from a glass the size of a flower vase. “Serge, what are we doing here? Don’t get me wrong, I’m drinking.”
“Multi-tasking,” said Serge. “The Master Plan is hitting its stride and working on three different levels. First, we’re in position again because Mahoney gave me the last critical details on the next targets, but it’s not going down until tonight. Second, in the meantime I’m continuing to recharge my idea reservoir because it looks like there’ll be a lot more jerks than I originally anticipated. And third, I’m scouring for a political infiltration point to track my elusive main quarry and achieve closure.”
“Felicia?”
