Chapters (46)
- COVER PAGE
- PRAISE
- DEDICATION
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- SNEAK PEEK: EXIT .45
Vincent took the backpack and picked up Erin’s duffel bag, too. The guy dug in a pocket and passed him a set of keys. He said, ‘Look on the bright side. You got a sweet car. And they said you can take the surfboard, too.’
Maybe they’d figured it was too big for evidence storage.
Vincent said, ‘Always a silver lining, isn’t there?’
The surfboard was on the roof of the Pontiac, and the Pontiac was right beside the Range Rover, so the transfer was easy enough. He lowered one of the SUV’s rear seats to make room, and a minute later he was turning out through the gate, photographers on the far kerb all doing their thing, moving crabwise for the money shot.
The car had full leather, and a GPS navigation screen on the dash, and various other accessories he knew he should investigate while stationary. But for now he made use of the phone charger in the centre console. His iPhone had lost power, but it seemed to feel better when plugged in. He got the Apple logo, and after thirty seconds the screen returned to life. He pulled over and dialled the number for SECURITY CELL that he’d memorised.
The call rang through to voicemail: ‘This is Wayne. Leave a message.’
Vincent gave his name and number, said he was Eugene Lamar’s head of security, and asked for an urgent call back. Presumably the guy would see the news and guess why he’d reached out. Vincent opened the GPS application on the dashboard monitor. Sly Crow lived at 1501 Stanwood Drive, according to the police dispatcher. Vincent typed it in, and the screen refreshed, and showed him the suggested route. Stanwood Drive was only nine minutes away, apparently, over in Riviera.
Vincent thought the man was due some hard questions.
FOURTEEN
FOURTEEN
It was nearing four pm when he got there. Sly’s place was easy to find, by virtue of the police car at the opposite kerb. Vincent slowed a hundred yards out, deciding what to do. It appeared 1501 was actually a gated community. A tall hedge fronted the property, and there was a cast-iron gate across the driveway. Brick pillars to either side, and a little guard booth over on the left. Clearly if they’d picked Sly up already, they wouldn’t have a cop out front, keeping watch.
Vincent lowered his window and swung into the mouth of the driveway. The guard wore a tan uniform with a gold shield stitched on the breast pocket. He put his head out the door with his eyebrows raised.
Vincent said, ‘Crow house.’
The guy lifted a phone off his desk so Vincent could see it through the window, and his eyebrows went a little higher. ‘Name?’
Vincent said, ‘Andre.’ Hoping this guy hadn’t met the Cuban—or at least assumed Sly knew two Andres.