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  Clinton added: “Just shut the fuck up and don’t raise a fuss, and you’ll live through this shit no problem.”

  Then they helped him into the trunk and shut the lid on him. He heard the beep of his own remote click the lock.

  The inside was blacker than anything Felipe could imagine, and stuffy. He could see nothing and he couldn’t move much. He wasn’t afraid of the dark—he never had been, not even as a child—but he certainly was scared now.

  He heard them dump Lessor’s bags into the backseat with their owner, or so he hoped. Next, he heard the driver’s door close and a moment later the engine throbbed to life. His stomach churning, Felipe did his best to remain calm…

  …but it wasn’t easy. From up front, he could hear the yuma businessman’s strained voice, as the man begged for his life. Though the words were garbled through the padding of the seat, that the man was pitifully pleading was unmistakable.

  Occasional words could be made out. “Please,” Felipe heard, the voice high-pitched, whiny. Then there would be a whole sentence where he couldn’t understand a syllable, then suddenly that mournful “Please,” at the end again, like an urgent “Amen” at the close of a prayer.

  Then the radio came on—loud—and the audio blur of scanning for channels provided an unnerving if brief soundtrack to Felipe’s discomfort. A station was settled upon and, caught in midsong, suddenly Frank Sinatra was singing, “It Was a Very Good Year.”

  The car stopped for a few seconds—they were paying the parking attendant, so the masks would be off. But that meant Lessor was in the backseat with a gun pressed into him, seeing their real faces. Men like this didn’t leave witnesses, did they?

  On the other hand, the man in the trunk told himself, that was bad for Lessor, but not for Felipe—he had seen only those rubbery presidents’ faces and that fake beard. They had no reason to kill him. None. He felt panic rising in his throat.

  Stay calm, he told himself, stay calm.

  The call had come in early in the morning, a limo illegally parked across three spaces in the metered public parking lot just north of the Eden Roc.

  The uniforms were about to have the car towed when one of them noticed the smell. The cop with the twitchy nose made the tow truck wait while he called in the Crime Scene team.

  And now, with the sun rising and the heat of the day building, Lieutenant Horatio Caine stepped down from his silver Miami-Dade Hummer and closed the door with a snick that might have been a round fired from a silenced automatic.

  Pasty white, Horatio Caine never seemed to tan, no matter how much time he spent in the Florida sun. The upside was he never got white circles around his eyes or little lines on his temples from his ever present shades, either. His red hair and freckles and that fairer-than-fair flesh bespoke an Irish heritage, and what appeared to be a constant scowl gave him the appearance of a man forever pissed off. But Caine’s CSI team knew the serious expression only bespoke a natural intensity—he wasn’t irritated, just focused on the work.

  His vehicle sat only a few feet behind its twin, which had arrived earlier. Caine walked to the back of the Hummer and opened the rear doors.

  Coming around the passenger side of the vehicle, Tim Speedle and Eric Delko strode into view. Caine started toward the limo. It sat horizontally across three spaces, rather than being pulled in nose-first. Whoever left it here wanted it to be found, this much he knew. His gut told him that the reason the perp wanted it found was not going to be a pleasant one.

  “What have we got?” he asked.

  Speedle pulled a UV alternate light source case from the floor of the Hummer. “Well, H—we’ve got a mess.”

  Not a good omen when a criminalist described a crime scene as a “mess.”

  “Chauffeur, Felipe Ortega, according to his license,” Speedle explained. “Dead in the trunk of his limo, trussed up with duct tape.”

  “Dead how?”

  “Looks like he asphyxiated on his own vomit.” Speedle shrugged, made a face. “It’s a little rank, H. He made a number three.”

  By which Speed meant the victim had evacuated both his bowels and his bladder upon dying, a common occurrence.

  Delko trailed along behind the pair as they moved toward the car; a perimeter had been established by draping and tying crime scene tape around parking meters. Several uniforms stood fifteen to twenty feet away, respecting the crime scene—and avoiding the stench.

  Ducking under the tape, Caine entered the perimeter and glanced down into the trunk. The sickly sweet smell of death mixed with vomit forced Caine to breathe more shallowly and through his mouth in order to keep his own breakfast down.

  The body lay on its right side in an S-shape, the knees bent, the man’s hands bound just as Speedle had said. Bits of vomit that had run out the man’s nose clung to the duct tape gag and the man’s cheek, and a small sample had puddled on the floor of the trunk. The victim appeared young, mid-twenties and Hispanic.

  “Somebody really had it in for this guy,” Delko said. “Bad way to go.”

  Caine looked up at the younger man, his expression sharp but his tone soft. “Evidence tell you that?”

  Delko winced, shook his head.

  Caine twitched a smile. “Work the evidence, Eric. Not your feelings?”

  “Right, H.”

  The cell phone in Caine’s pocket chirped and he withdrew it and tapped a button. “Horatio Caine.”

  The voice was sultry and pleasant. “You’re a hard man to track down, Lieutenant Caine.”

  He allowed a tiny smile to find its away across his face. “Well, Catherine—you’re a detective. I wouldn’t expect less of you.”

  “Horatio—you recognize my voice…I’m flattered.”

  “You do make an impression.” Caine wasted no time. “I’m assuming this isn’t a social call. What can I do for you?”

  The voice on the cell phone explained the case in question, quickly and efficiently, ending with the new DNA evidence recently uncovered. Caine had heard of Lessor, and the Boyle family into which he’d married, but had never encountered Lessor or any of the Boyles, professionally or otherwise. He knew of the case vaguely because it had been covered in the local media, due to the family’s connection to Miami.

  “So,” Caine said, “you’d like me to arrange a pickup on Thomas Lessor for you?”

  “If you could handle it yourself, that would be reassuring.”

  He turned and surveyed the limo; this crime scene could be processed without his supervision easily enough. “Do you know where Mr. Lessor will be staying?”

  “Most likely he’s at his wife’s hotel—the Conquistador. There’s a family home, but he apparently prefers to stay at a suite there. To be near the business office.”

  Caine glanced north on Collins Avenue, his gaze moving toward the Westin and, just before that, the Conquistador. “I think I can manage that,” he said, finally.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  “Now, Catherine—it’s Horatio.”

  “I’ll owe you, Horatio.”

  He smiled half a smile. “I’ll call when we’ve got him. What’s your number?”

  She told him, and he entered it into his cell phone’s speed dial.

  “And I’ll fax the paperwork to you straightaway,” Catherine said.

  “Good. I’ll collect Mr. Lessor and get back to you.”

  Caine pressed END, slipped the phone away, and turned back to his two CSIs. “You two work the scene. I’ve got to do a favor for a friend.”

  The two younger men exchanged a look of surprise.

  Caine ignored them. “Who was the driver’s last client?”

  Delko shrugged. “Driver’s sheet is gone. The limo’s listed to a”—he checked his notebook—“Acelino’s All-American Livery. They’ve got an office on Flagler in Little Havana.”

  “And what did they have to say?”

  Another shrug. “Can’t get ahold of them—they must hit the office about the crack of noon.”

&n
bsp; “But you left a message.”

  “I did.”

  “And you’ll keep trying.”

  “I will.”

  “Good.” Caine motioned toward the limo. “Work the scene. Call me if you get anything.”

  “Anything,” Delko said, “or anything interesting?”

  For an endless several seconds, Caine looked at Delko with his sunglasses-obscured eyes. Then he said, “Eric, I think I’m gonna leave that judgment call up to you.”

  And Horatio Caine went to do his favor for Catherine Willows, never imagining that the man he was planning to arrest had been Felipe Ortega’s last pickup.

  2

  Vanishing Act

  SITTING TOWARD THE NORTH end of Collins Avenue, the Conquistador was part of a high-rise lineup that included the Westin Miami Beach, the Conquistador, then the Eden Roc, the Fontainebleau and the Four Points. Horatio Caine had been here several times over the years, in his role as crime scene investigator; but that said nothing negative about the hotel. The place had a good reputation; any resort like this would have its share of heart attacks, accidents, and the like. The Conquistador had always been a class act, and the Boyle family—particularly the late Phillip Boyle—had a classy rep to go with it.

  Two uniformed officers trailing him at a respectful distance, Caine entered the air-conditioned lobby, slipping off his sunglasses, taking in the well-maintained fifties-style ambiance. It was easy to imagine Frank and Dino and maybe Jerry (with or without Dino, depending on the year) moving through this lobby with a fawning entourage, inciting wide eyes and pointing fingers and oohs and ahhs from the tourists.

  Matching suits of armor stood sentinel on either side of the generously wide glass front doors, the carpeted path to the front desk red, making a bridge over the expanse of white marble floor. Rich tapestries and paintings adorned the walls, and massive windows overlooked the swimming pool and the beach beyond, with the shimmer of the Atlantic Ocean. Two elderly women sat sipping iced tea and watching the activity of younger generations outside.

  Caine crossed to the desk, the cops trailing dutifully, silently, and waited for the only visible clerk to get off the phone. When the phone call ended, the clerk gave Caine a sincere smile. “Terribly sorry for the wait, sir. How may I be of assistance?”

  Caine discreetly showed the clerk his badge-in-wallet ID. “I’m looking for one of your guests—Thomas Lessor.”

  The man’s smile remained but his eyes tightened. “Mr. Lessor isn’t technically a guest,” the clerk said. “He’s vice president. He keeps a suite here, although sometimes he can be found at the family home.”

  “Is he here or isn’t he?” Caine asked.

  The clerk seemed suddenly confused.

  “It’s not a trick question,” Caine said. “This is official police business and I need to speak to Mr. Lessor.”

  “You can’t,” the clerk said, frowning now.

  “Actually, I can. That’s one of the privileges of carrying a badge.”

  “What I mean to say is, he’s not here.”

  “Okay,” Caine said. “We’ve finally established that. Would he be at the family home?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes. He was expected here. We were told to make his suite ready for him.”

  “Expected here? He hasn’t arrived?”

  “No. And, uh, frankly, Mr. Boyle is a bit concerned.”

  “Which Boyle would that be?”

  “Daniel Boyle. Our manager.” The clerk’s eyes darted around, as if this important man might appear in a puff of smoke at the mention of his name. “Son of Mrs. Lessor, Deborah Lessor, owner of the hotel.”

  Caine leaned an elbow on the counter. “Father was Phillip?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s the son of the late Mr. Boyle.”

  Caine considered all of this, momentarily. “Have you checked with the airport?”

  “I did that myself, sir, personally. Mr. Lessor’s plane landed right on time, and he was on it—the airport confirmed that this morning.”

  “All right. Then where can I find Daniel Boyle?”

  The clerk gestured toward a hallway beyond the chairs to Caine’s left. “He’s in the lounge now—working with the talent.”

  Caine thanked the clerk and started off toward and down that hallway, the two uniformed cops falling in silently behind him like a pair of burly, obedient attack dogs. Old-fashioned, glittery homemade signs along the way touted the Explorer Lounge and the nightly attraction, singer Maria Chacon.

  An 8 by 10 black-and-white photo, in a sparkly starburst, revealed the singer to be a strikingly attractive dark-skinned woman, with big black hair, large dark eyes, and a self-confident, sultry half-smile; she had plenty of personality and even more cleavage. Caine kept walking, but the cops openly gawked. Somehow Caine just knew that Maria Chacon would be the “talent” Daniel Boyle was working with.

  As they neared the double doors to the Explorer Lounge, the thumping bass of the band rolled out to meet them and he could feel it in the pit of his stomach and even in the bottoms of his feet. When he pulled open one of the doors, the volume increased to just below ear-bleed level and the bass now pounded against Caine’s chest, like an external heartbeat.

  The tiered room had banquettes arranged in ever-widening C-shapes with aisles down either side, stadium-style seating, the middle one aimed at the barely raised stage. The banquettes’ open side faced the entertainment and Caine guessed the place probably seated about five hundred. The floor bore that same red carpeting with the coats of arms—the Conquistador consistently rolled out the red carpet for its guests. The lounge was empty but for a fourteen-piece Latin band onstage, fronted by Maria Chacon, and one man down front in the center banquette—presumably, Daniel Boyle.

  On the stage, the woman looked even more beautiful than she had in the photo—in the same skimpy sparkly dress—and she seemed electrically charged as she danced around the stage.

  That dress looked to be constructed entirely of silver sequins, what there was of it, cut low and high at the same time—low on top and high on the bottom. The pastel-colored lights favored her dark skin and black hair, making for an even more high-voltage performance, as the sequins reflected like countless tiny mirrors. Behind her, the band pounded away. Caine counted bass, two guitars, keyboard, drummer and two other percussionists, four horn players, and two backup singers, encouraging the vocalist with their choruses of “Shake your bon bon, baby.” Maria Chacon, doing as instructed, brought the count to fourteen, as she flounced across the stage.

  Immersed in his work as he was, Horatio Caine often felt bewildered by the gaiety he encountered in Miami. Didn’t these people know that murders were happening out there? What was there, exactly, to sing and dance about?

  As the song wound down, Caine led his little posse up the center aisle. Just as the music ended with a flourish, the man Caine assumed to be Boyle rose and walked to the foot of the stage, where he talked quietly with Maria Chacon. Caine could see that she’d noticed his presence, flicking her eyes toward him occasionally as she spoke to her oblivious boss; but she said nothing as the three officers came up behind him.

  “…and don’t be shy about shaking that money-maker a little more during that last chorus,” Boyle said—his voice was like good whiskey, smooth but with a bite. “Hey, it’s not like you’re going to break it.”

  Maria rolled her eyes. Up close and in person, she was even more beautiful than the starburst 8 by 10 indicated. Her eyes were dark but flashed under the stage lights. “Jesus, Danny! I’m a singer—not a stripper!”

  “Hey, honey,” he said, raising his voice just a little. “You sing great—but they’ll think you sing really great if—”

  Before he could finish, Caine stepped forward. “Sorry to interrupt—Daniel Boyle?”

  “I’m Daniel Boyle and this is a closed dress rehearsal,” the man said as he turned, before seeing the uniformed cops.

  Boyis
hly handsome, the thirtyish Boyle had high, wide cheekbones, close-cropped dark hair that was starting to recede a little, springing out in unruly cowlicks here and there. His slender frame was encased in an expensive black cashmere sweater, gray slacks, and black Bruno Magli’s. His clothes said “money,” and his attitude did too.

  Caine flashed his badge. “Miami-Dade Police, Mr. Boyle. We understand you’re concerned about Mr. Lessor not showing up here at the hotel.”

  Boyle frowned. “I didn’t call anything in. Anyway, isn’t it twenty-four hours before you can report a missing person?”

  “That’s a myth, sir. But do you consider him missing?”

  “Well, he’s not here. What would you call it?”

  Boyle’s gray eyes were sharp and intelligent, but carried a hint of weariness; the presence of Caine and the two cops wasn’t the only thing in this life that didn’t impress him much.

  “We’re looking for Mr. Lessor ourselves,” Caine said. “I was hoping maybe you could help us.”

  Boyle looked impatient, but he said nothing to Caine. Instead, he turned back to the singer and the musicians. “That’s all for now! Maria?…We’ll talk later.”

  The singer gave him a blank look that nonetheless struck Caine as most expressive; then she took a few discreet steps away and accepted a white hotel towel from one of the backup singers. As she moved off, Boyle turned back to Caine again, but remained silent.

  It occurred to Caine that Maria Chacon could probably still hear them, as she dabbed at her sweaty hair; he didn’t particularly care, but wondered if she were purposely positioning herself to eavesdrop.

  Caine said, “Thomas Lessor is, I believe, your stepfather.”

  “Yes he is,” Boyle said noncommittally. “What does that have to do with him being missing?”

  On stage, the band was beating a hasty, murmuring retreat into the wings. In the end, only Maria Chacon remained.

  Caine pressed on with this mildly hostile witness. “Wasn’t your stepfather supposed to come to the hotel after his plane landed last night?”