Another suitor made a play. But this one didn’t ask before taking the seat across from her.
She made an exaggerated sigh and started off in annoyance. “Not interested.”
“I’m a friend of Serge.”
Her head swung and their eyes locked. “You are? What’s the matter? Is he coming? How do you know him?”
“He’s definitely coming, and I also work for Mahoney and Associates. The same case in fact. South Philly Sal.”
“Serge told you about him?”
Enzo nodded. “But right now I need a favor. It’s for Serge. Can you call Sal and vouch for me so I can talk to him?”
“What for?”
“It’s Serge’s idea. That’s all he wants you to know, for your own safety.”
“Sure, I guess.” She reached in her purse and flipped a phone open. “Sal? It’s me, Sasha . . . Oh, not much, but I have a friend here who wants to talk to you . . . I’m not sure what it’s about. But he’s definitely cool. I’ve known him since high school . . . Okay, here he is.” She handed the cell across the table.
He got up from his chair and turned around for privacy.
“Is this Sal?”
“Who am I talking to?”
“My name is Enzo Tweel. Can we meet somewhere?”
“I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t care what Sasha says.”
“We’re in the same line of work.”
“What are you, a fucking cop? It’s not going to work.”
“I know who’s been picking off members of your crew. Gustave, Omar, the guy from the hotel heist with the toilet lids, the other one from the funeral burglary, and last night your so-called Rick Maddox.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Because he’s also been picking off my crew. Works for a private eye, except I don’t think they did a proper psychological background check. The guy’s totally out of control on some kind of vigilante crusade. His name’s Serge. Serge Storms.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Neither had I, but frankly I’m starting not to feel too safe myself. And I’m guessing you’ve probably had the same thoughts. That’s why I’d like to meet and see if you have any ideas. I don’t really want to discuss this on the phone, and we can’t exactly go to the police.”
There was a pause. “Put Sasha back on.”
She took the phone. “Hey, Sal . . . Yeah, I can swear for him . . . Whatever he says is absolutely on the level . . .” Sasha held up the phone. “Wants to talk to you again.”
“Okay, let’s meet.”
“Seven o’clock, Tortugas Inn,” said Enzo. “Room’s registered under my name. If I’m not there yet, I’ll leave a key at the desk for you.” He hung up, set his leather satchel on the table and smiled.
“Hey!” Sasha pointed at the road. “There’s Serge now!”
Across the street, Serge struggled to parallel-park his Firebird in a rare free space on Ocean Drive. “Dang it, these assholes didn’t leave enough space.” Reverse, forward, reverse, forward.
Coleman chugged a to-go cup. “This is like the final episode of
“I’m not amused.” Reverse, forward. “There, finally!”
“Hey, Serge, that restaurant, the Fandango. Isn’t that where Felicia— I mean, shit, why did I say that?”
“Let’s just go.”
They jogged across the road between a Jaguar and a Harley. Serge reached the sidewalk and looked around. There was Sasha under one of the tables with an umbrella. Someone screamed. Then another. With Sasha’s platinum-blond hair, there was high contrast and no mistaking the matted blood on the back of her facedown head.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Firebird blew through traffic on the MacArthur Causeway back to the mainland from Miami Beach. It dodged and wove through slower-speeding sports cars screaming past celebrity homes on Palm and Star islands.
“Serge, you drive fast,” said Coleman. “But not this fast. What if a cop spots us?”
“Then we’ll be on live TV, because I’m not stopping.”
“Righteous.”
Serge flipped open his own cell and hit redial. “Brook? Serge. I’m sorry about this, but something’s come up, and I swear to be back as soon as possible.”
“What is it?” Brook asked from the back of a taxi.
“Once again, better you not know,” said Serge. “But trust me that I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Why? What can happen besides the police?” said Brook. “I’ve been thinking that a good lawyer can explain that.”
“It’s something else,” said Serge. “Just give me your word you won’t leave the room until I get back. You haven’t left the room, have you?”
“Uh, no,” said Brook, looking out the window at passing buildings. “Not for a second.”
“Good girl,” said Serge. “Now here’s the hard part. I’m going to have to stop taking calls soon because I don’t know what phones are tapped anymore. So you’ll just have to hang in there.”
“All right. When do you expect—”
“Got to go.”
He hung up and the cell rang again before it reached his pocket. Serge didn’t even look at the number.
“Mahoney, listen, I’m— . . . What? South Philly Sal is supposed to be where? The Tortugas Inn? Seven o’clock? . . . Who told you this? . . . They wouldn’t say? . . . Okay, thanks.” The phone clapped shut as Serge skidded over the line at minimum clearance between a Mitsubishi and a Pepsi truck, then whipped back into the fast lane.
