6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Michael
I n my Smith Agency SUV, I rolled past Sabrina’s white bungalow at a little before six am. Her house was quintessential Miami. Likely built in the nineteen-fifties, it sported an overgrown bird of paradise plant that towered over the garage and a front walk made of big white paver stones with nicely mowed grass growing between the bricks. The front door was a bright cheery blue, and not how I would enter the house.
It was in a neighborhood that had transitioned from sketchy to fashionable in the last ten years. Testament to the change was the brand-new Range Rover parked in the driveway next door. The dull silver Ford Tauras parked across the street wasn’t quite so chic. And the two guys sitting inside staring right at Sabrina’s house encouraged me to keep driving. That car at this time of the morning didn’t belong. They had to be on the lookout for Sabrina. Whether they were from the FBI, PD, or Sandoval’s crew, I didn’t care. No way I’d tip them off.
I parked a block over in front of a similar bungalow with an empty driveway and a “for rent” sign out front. By my calculations, Sabrina and this house shared a back fence line.
The sun was turning the sky a mellow gray and the morning air had, for Florida, a definite nip. I zipped my fleece jacket all the way and walked up the rental house’s driveway. I’d lived in Florida my whole life; this was my heavy winter coat, and I needed it this morning.
I hopped the privacy fence and landed like a cat in the rental’s side yard. Sparring with an ex-Navy SEAL, like Derek Sawyer, had taught me to be light on my feet despite my size. The rental had a stillness that only came from being unoccupied. I walked through the backyard, thankful for the pre-Christmas miracle of an empty house in this trendy neighborhood. A wall of tropical vegetation spilled over the common fence from Sabrina’s side.
So far, so good.
The big leaves of the banana tree acted as camouflage when I climbed over the fence into her backyard. I crouched in the deep shadow next to the wood fence and scanned the premises. Nothing looked to be out of place, and the lines of sight from the front to the back were nonexistent because of the trees and more privacy fencing.
Her yard was cute. A nice gas grill and a smoker were under the covered patio, and herbs grew in dozens of mismatched clay pots scattered around. Apparently, the chef had a green thumb based on the abundance and variety. I’d killed a cactus once, er, twice. So her skills impressed me.
I located the cabana bathroom door, the one with a jalousie window at the west end of the house. Last night we decided it would be the best one for me to use. Not like she had a set of keys to give me since she’d left her purse at the diner, so I’d be breaking in.
The old lock was easy to jimmy open with the bump key I’d brought along. This was not my first break-and-enter. Added bonus, I didn’t need to worry about disarming the alarm as she’d given me the code last night before she went to bed. I typed the number into the pad next to the door and sighed in relief when the system stopped beeping.
The mint green mid-century bathroom was tidy and clean. As I’d expect for someone with her occupation—everything in its place, a place for everything. I found an overnight bag under the sink and piled in a selection of stuff from a hairbrush to skincare and makeup.
Having your own things when your life was fucked made it a little easier. I remembered a woman I’d helped with an immigration problem; she’d go online and order the oddest things from the UK like apple-scented shampoo and tea cookies because she swore it made life in Florida easier. That woman’s problems had been far less daunting than Sabrina’s.
In the main bedroom, I located a big duffle and filled it with a collection of clothes. I tried not to look at the pretty lace underwear as I stuffed it in the side pocket, but I was a dude and women’s lacey underthings were an enormous temptation. I valiantly resisted. Mostly.
In her closet, I also added a few pairs of shoes, since at the moment she had none, and a selection of clothes. I picked things from the front that looked like they might be favorites.
Bags packed, I headed into the rest of the house. It was neat and tidy. The living room had a large bookshelf filled to overflowing with cookbooks and food magazines. Most had tabs, bookmarks, and receipts sticking out from between the pages with handwritten notes. Her archive.
I leaned close to a trophy being used as a bookend and read the inscription on the base: “Winner – Food Truck Fabulous season three.” The television network’s logo and a mini food truck topped the gold trophy. I was sure I’d seen a few episodes of the show in reruns. The first chance I got, I was going to binge the entire season and watch Sabrina in her element.
On a middle shelf in a place of pride was a photo of a teen girl at a farmer’s market. I picked up the frame for a closer look. The girl looked like a younger version of Sabrina. In her hand, she held a purple shallot, like the one in Sabrina’s tattoo. The photo was obviously important. How had this girl not made the list of significant people Sabrina gave me last night? It didn’t add up. I tucked the framed photo into a side pocket of the bag on my shoulder.
I walked down the hall to the other side of the house. The first room was a teen girl’s bedroom. On one wall, a cork board held more photos of the same girl with friends. In the open closet, I saw rows of neatly hung clothing.
I’d ask Sabrina about the girl as soon as I got back to the office. I’d missed something.
The kitchen, unlike the rest of the house, had been remodeled. It was damn near professional grade with gleaming stainless-steel appliances and white subway tile. I took the black fabric knife roll that was open on the counter and filled it with the knives from the butcher’s block. I’d always heard chefs had special attachments to their knives, so it seemed like the right thing to do.
Next to the six-burner stove was a tattered notebook with Viande scrawled on the cover. I flipped it open to a handwritten recipe for fish chowder that would feed fifty. There were notes in the margins on both sides. Part of the page was near transparent, where drips of what had to be butter had soaked into the paper. The notebook went into the bag on top of the knives.
I took a last look at the superfunctional but still cozy place and imagined Sabrina in the kitchen, pots bubbling and pans sizzling. An expensive bottle of wine open, maybe some music playing as she tasted, chopped, and seasoned. It fit her or the version of her I’d met last night over wine and cake. The other version, the scared and guilt-ridden witness, was a different woman altogether.
I went out the same way I came in, resetting the alarm. On my return trip, I hoisted the duffle over the fence before popping over myself. It had been a successful home invasion. I got what I’d come for and a bit more. Thoughts of the teen in the photo gave me a bad feeling that made me worry about all the things I didn’t know about Sabrina.
The duffle in the back seat, I cranked up the SUV and circled the block, stopping at the corner for a few moments to snap pictures of the guys in the gray Ford and their license plate. It was likely a dead end, but it was worth the time. Smith would circulate it to some of his shadier connections in the criminal underground of Miami. He might get lucky. I had contacts in the less salubrious parts of the city as well, but mine were restricted to the local motorcycle clubs. Smith’s were wider ranging.
As I was about to stick my phone in the cup holder, a black sedan pulled into Sabrina’s driveway and two guys in FBI windbreakers got out. I cranked up the zoom on my phone’s camera and nabbed photos of them, too.
Cell phone cameras were one of the most useful items ever invented for a guy in my line of work. Back in the day, I’d have been scrambling for a sheet of paper and trying to write down license plate numbers or pulling out a camera, hoping it had film and trying to sneak a shot. I pulled away from the intersection, a smile on my lips.
My good mood didn’t last.
“This is Steel.” I answered the incoming call on the hands-free system in the SUV.
“It’s Kennedy.” Noah Kennedy was one of the ex-military guys at the Smith Agency. He had a bit of a playboy attitude but was solid when shit got real. “That restaurant space in the design district you put two guys on last night?”
“Yeah.” My gut knotted in anticipation of the bad news.
“It got ugly this morning. Four vehicles rolled up and shot the shit out of the place. Tried to burn it down too. Our guys put out the fires after the shooters left and before PD or fire was on scene. It was all they could do. Our two men were outgunned and outmanned. This crew laid down a barrage of automatic weapon fire like from a Schwarzenegger movie.”
“Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m on my way.” I pounded the dash with my fist and hit the accelerator.
“Ah, Smith said, don’t tell the woman.”
“What now?” I clenched the steering wheel so tight my knuckles cracked. It was wrong to keep this information from Sabrina. Smith liked to play his cards close, but come on.
“He said, don’t tell the witness about the vandalism.”
“Vandalism?” No way the shitty car microphone’s limited audio capabilities properly conveyed exactly how pissed I was that Kennedy had characterized the attack like that. I’d seen all those cookbooks and magazines at her house. She’d been dreaming, working to have a restaurant of her own for years. It was her life’s passion.
“Not my word choice. It was Smith’s. He said telling her will only freak her out and make her do something stupid.”
“Those were John Smith’s exact words?” I worked for one heartless bastard.
“No. He said something about unnecessarily upsetting the poor woman and making her feel more powerless.”
My anger drained away in an instant with the change in perspective. Fuck, I hated when John Smith was right. The last thing we needed was Sabrina trying to see the damage firsthand. That was exactly what the assholes that shot up the place wanted. Then the same four vehicles full of bad guys with semiautomatic weapons would… Nope, not even going to think that thought.
If Sabrina knew that her place had been damaged, she would do anything and everything to see the vandalism firsthand. We had a few jail cells at the office, but I’d rather not see her in one, even if it was for her own good.
I sighed and got with the John Smith program. “Any of the PD on scene guys we know?”
“Ah, yeah, Richards is here.”
“Tell him the owner is our client. We’re going to need the reports fast-tracked for her insurance company. And have PD keep an eye on the restaurant and her house.” I rattled off her home address, not that I expected Sandoval’s thugs to shoot it up next. They’d made their play. If she didn’t come to see Viande, she wouldn’t resurface to check on her house either.
“Roger that. See you soon.”
The moment the line disconnected, I called the office.
“Smith Agency.” It was the man himself.
“Smith, it's Steel.” No doubt my boss already knew I was calling, and he’d only answered the phone to talk to me. Caller ID was a son of a bitch.
“I assume you’ve heard about her restaurant.”
“I’m on my way there now,” I answered.
“Don’t bother. Noah has it in hand. And Quinn will start the insurance paperwork as soon as we get police reports. I assume Noah explained Sabrina doesn’t need to hear about the vandalism at this precise moment?”
“Yes.” I hated agreeing, but her life was far more important than broken glass.
“Good. You have other things to handle, like Sabrina’s family.”
“Understood.” I made a U-turn to head back to the office. I hoped Sabrina was awake. We needed to reach out to her mother and brother. If Sandoval would shoot up a building in the heart of Miami, her family needed protection.
The photo of the teenage girl holding the shallots flashed in my memory, and I pressed down on the accelerator a little harder.