Howard Singleton, head of the Miami office of the federal General Services Administration, opened the file on his desk and started reading. Halfway through the document he stopped and scratched his head. This was like going to a movie he had already seen. He got up, took the file, and walked down the corridor to the office of Willard Smith, his deputy.
“Smitty, have you read this?” he asked, tossing the file onto Smith’s desk.
Smith looked at it. “I wrote it,” he said.
“Doesn’t this sound familiar to you? Except this time, we’re talking about a South Beach property instead of that thing up the coast at . . . what’s the name?”
“You mean the Orchid Beach property?”
“Yeah, that’s the one—Palmetto something.”
“Palmetto Gardens.”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s the same pattern; we’re getting lowball bids out of Central America, but not much local. Next thing you know, some prospective bidder is going to get himself killed, just like before.”
“Jesus, Howard, we just advertise these properties, remember? We’re not the FBI.”
Singleton looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go to a meeting at my church at five, so I have to leave now. Will you call that guy at the FBI—Harry something . . .”
“Crisp.”
“Yeah, call him and tell him I think we’re developing a similar situation to the Palmetto Gardens property, and I thought he ought to know about it.”
“Sure, Howard.” Willard Smith picked up the phone and started dialing.
Singleton went to the meeting at his church, which lasted an hour and a half, then he made for home, digging out a shopping list his wife had given him at breakfast. He was the last to leave the parking lot, which was empty now, except for his car and a red Explorer parked near the exit. He had to make three stops to fill his wife’s list—the grocery store for tonic water and limes, the liquor store for wine, and someplace for cocktail napkins. They were giving a dinner party that evening. As he put the car into gear, he began planning his route home.
Then, as he approached the parking lot exit, the red Explorer suddenly drove across his path and stopped. Singleton slammed on his brakes, just short of smashing into the car. “What the hell?” he said aloud. He started to reach for his door handle when he saw the darkened window on the front passenger side slide down. He stopped and looked at the figure behind the wheel, who seemed to be leaning over to the passenger window, as if to say something to him.
But the man said nothing. Instead, he held out his hand, and the windshield of Howard Singleton’s car turned white, except for the two holes in front of the driver’s seat.
Singleton didn’t have time to think about anything else.
Trini Rodriguez exited the parking lot, driving at a normal pace. When he was a block away, he pressed a speed-dial button on his car phone.
“Yeah?” a man’s voice said.
“Bingo,” Trini said.
“And not a moment too soon,” the man replied, then hung up.
Harry Crisp arrived at his office at eight forty-five A.M., as he did habitually. Coffee was already made in the little kitchenette off his waiting room, and he poured himself a cup. He didn’t mind asking his secretary to come in early and make coffee for him, but he always poured it himself, for appearances’ sake. He went back to his desk and picked up his copy of the New York Times national edition, scanning it quickly for stories related to federal law enforcement in general, and the Miami office of the FBI in particular. There was a knock at his open door, and he looked up. One of his agents stood there.
“Morning,” Harry said. “What’s up?”
“A federal official was murdered in Miami last evening,” the agent said.
“Who?”
“Howard Singleton, head of the local office of the GSA.”
“What were the circumstances?”
“He left work half an hour early yesterday afternoon, in order to get to a five-o’clock meeting at his church. As he left the meeting in his car, about six-thirty, somebody fired two rounds through the windshield, into his head.”
“What kind of rounds?”
“Small caliber, according to the Miami PD.”
“Jesus, there’s a real epidemic of small-round shootings in South Florida, isn’t there?”
“No more than usual, really. What do you want me to do about this?”
“Send a man over to Miami PD to get a copy of the file. We’ll keep track of the PD investigation and not get any more involved than we have to. Send a memo to D.C. saying that we’re on it.”
“Okay. Say, did Lauderdale PD pick up Trini Rodriguez yesterday?”
“Yeah. We gave them a heads-up and his location, then I pulled the tail off him.”
“It didn’t exactly work out that way, Harry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he made the tail and lost our guys.”
“Oh, shit. Call Lauderdale and find out if they got him.”
“Will do.” The agent left. Harry’s secretary buzzed. “There’s a man named Willard Smith, from the GSA, on line one.”
“Why do I want to talk to him?”
“His boss is the man who was shot last night.”
“Oh, yeah.” Harry picked up the phone. “Harry Crisp.”
“Mr. Crisp, this is Willard Smith at the General Services Administration.”
I know that, dummy, Harry thought. “What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”
“Well, as I expect you know, my boss, Howard Singleton, was murdered after work yesterday.”
“Yes, I know; we’ve got a full investigative team on that right now.”
“I’ve been made acting director, pending the appointment of a new one,” Willard Smith said, “and I just wanted you to know that we certainly want to cooperate in any possible way with your investigation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith. Can you think of anything that Mr. Singleton was working on that might have involved criminal activity? Maybe something like the Palmetto Gardens thing that got those two Miami developers killed?”
“No, not a thing,” Smith said. “Everything has been quite routine, lately. We’re still working on getting you more office space, of course.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. Well, we’ll let you know if you can be of help,” Harry said. “Goodbye, Mr. Smith.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Crisp.”
Harry hung up. “Denise,” he called to his secretary, “did my copy of Golf Digest arrive yet?”
“Not yet, Mr. Crisp.”
“Be sure you put it on my desk the minute it comes in.”
“Sure, I will, just like always.”
Good girl, Harry thought. He turned back to his New York Times. The Singleton killing hadn’t made the deadline, he noted, reading the National Report. Maybe tomorrow. By that time, Miami PD would have some jealous husband in custody, and he could forget about it.
When the agent came to report back to Harry, he had left the office. The agent left a note on his desk.