Sheffield walked to the beach and trotted off. Four miles on the hard-packed sand, thinking of Nicole the whole way, her line about his huffing. This was a woman worth getting in shape for.
Afterward, dripping sweat, he went over to his dresser, got his cell, flipped it open. The Recent Calls screen was up. A screen he rarely used. Frank stared at it, thinking of last night, Nicole’s groping around on the dresser, going into the bathroom, staying for a while. He scrolled through the recent calls, incoming and outgoing, finding nothing of note. Maybe she was checking for old girlfriends. Or maybe Frank was having a paranoia flash. She was probably just gathering her own stuff off the dresser, or any number of other perfectly innocent possibilities.
Sheffield let it go. He stood in the open doorway of 106, the efficiency apartment he called home, and dialed the office. In early as always, Marta Gonzalez, his secretary for the last fifteen years, picked up on the first ring.
“Not coming in? What is it now? New drain field? Roof leak?”
For the last few years Sheffield had been remodeling the Silver Sands, the wreck of a place he’d inherited from his old man. Twenty rooms, two stories, a rectangular mom-and-pop motel from the forties with a subdued art deco style. Two hundred feet off the white-sugar sands on Key Biscayne, wedged between massive condo towers on three sides. The place hadn’t been remodeled in all the years his parents owned it. It went broke, then the old man died, and suddenly it was Frank’s, a run-down building sitting on primo land. In the current market the land was worth 4 to 5 million, or so the Realtors told him.
But once he picked up his hammer, hung his first sheet of drywall, started plastering, a lot of happy memories began firing off, the sweet old days when his granddad and grandmom ran the place and he’d played there every summer day while his parents were off at work, back when the key was a slow, empty island with an expansive view of the city of Miami across Biscayne Bay, back when the tallest downtown buildings were no higher than six stories.
“No, it’s not the motel,” Frank told Marta. “First, call Metro homicide, see who’s heading up the Marcus Bendell death. Happened yesterday morning. Marcus Bendell, spelled like it sounds.”
“Got it.”
“I want anything they’ve got. Crime-scene photos, the whole deal.”
“And what do I tell him it’s about?”
“An FBI investigation into a possible terrorist cell.”
Marta was quiet for a moment before asking if there was more, her voice more businesslike now.
“Who’s our best cybersleuth?”
“Angie Stevens.”
“Yeah, Angie. I want to meet her this afternoon, two, three o’clock. And I want background checks on four people.”
“My pencil’s poised.”
He gave her the names. Pauly Chee, Wally Chee, Claude Sellers, and Cameron Prince. Told her to call the Bureau’s liaison at the Department of Defense, see what kind of soldier Pauly was, service record, special training, medical history, medals, date of discharge. And the civilian side, too. High school, college, traffic tickets, all of it. Run the full background check on the others. Criminal, financial, work history.
“Later this morning I’ll be at Metro PD watching a video. Anything comes up that might endanger all mankind without my immediate intervention, I’ll have my cell with me.”
“Try turning it on. Much better reception.”
“Another thing,” Sheffield said. “We need to put together a team for a force-on-force drill. Five from SWAT.” Frank gave her the names of the four he wanted, including a fifth as an alternate. “See if we can get all five together later this afternoon. I should be back by one. Anytime after that.”
“Oh, Nicole McIvey called. Seemed to know you.”
“Called this early?”
“Said she’s an early riser.”
“She told you that?”
“Oh, yeah, we had a nice chat.”
Frank was quiet, not happy with where this was going. “She’s with the grid police, NIPC. What kind of chat?”
“Just some girl talk.”
Marta was in her early sixties. Three grown daughters, seven grandkids, thirty years on the job. More friend than subordinate.
“Girl talk?”
“You wouldn’t understand. Being a man and all.”
“Try five words or less.”
“Is he seeing anyone?”
Frank looked out at the parking lot. A building-code inspector had arrived in his white Jeep to check the installation of the new hurricane windows. Juan Medira, a Cuban guy who appreciated Frank’s stubborn refusal to sell out and as a result didn’t bust his balls on the trivial stuff.