Asylum

Chapter 21: A Flawed Post-Mortem

The front passenger door slammed shut, and I knew that the post-mortem was about to begin.

After recovering Ivan's phone, the four of us had retrieved our shopping bags from a pair of tanned and surgically-altered octogenarians who had thankfully appointed themselves the parcels' temporary guardians during the "hubbub." I then found a ladies room where I could wash my wounded hand and wrap it in a disposable field dressing of brown paper towels, and had finally gone into the lingerie shop, with Mateo stationed outside and Marsh standing a respectful distance away.

Now we were back in the town car with the divider between the front seat and back lowered, Marshall at the wheel and Mateo twisted around in the passenger side, looking back at his boss.

"Thoughts?" Ivan asked.

"Not just a pickpocket, and not a random target," Mateo began.

"Agreed. He took the phone and left the cash in the same pocket. He had what he was after."

Marshall met Ivan's eyes in the rearview mirror. "But who sent him? Only ... one other party knew we were coming to Miami." I knew the bodyguard was being circumspect because of my presence, but I kept silent; let him think me ignorant that they all worked for the cartel.

"It wasn't our friends from down south," Ivan disagreed firmly. "My money's on Miami PD."

Mateo nodded thoughtfully, and I kept my face carefully blank. I focused on my breathing to calm the queasiness in my stomach.

"But how would they know we were coming?" Marshall protested.

Ivan turned to stare out the window, an elbow resting on the door, his knuckles pressed to his lips and hiding his expression. "Maybe someone is sitting on the house," he suggested. "Maybe NYPD followed us to the airport and got Miami on the horn ..."

"I was watching for a tail," Marshall countered. "I'm sure we weren't followed in New York."

"Maybe they're getting better at surveillance," Ivan speculated. "Or it's possible that the tip came from Emilio's end; perhaps he has a rodent problem."

A rat or a mole. I worried at my improvised bandage, my eyes cast down lest they reveal something I had to keep hidden.

"We'd know who sent him if we'd been able to talk to him," Mateo grumbled. I risked a glance up in the big man's direction, but he was avoiding looking at me at all.

"Enough, Mateo." Ivan's voice was clipped and precise. "Lex is a bartender, not Secret Service. And she's the only reason some computer geek in Special Investigations isn't hacking my address book and calendar as we speak." Mateo turned away from the heat of that blue glare, scanning the view through the windshield. "He got away, but empty-handed; now we have a warning that they're more clued in to our movements than we thought, and they have nothing."

Nothing except, perhaps, a look at Ivan Alkaev's new female companion, I worried. How much did that cop see of me? I wondered. He didn't see me tackle him, and didn't turn around as he ran away, but he'd certainly gotten a good look at me when I made him for a pickpocket and he took off running. And who knew how much surveillance he had done at the mall before making his move, or in front of the house before that.

I swallowed uncomfortably, my stomach flopping like a fish in the bottom of a boat. I hadn't let the thief escape out of inexperience or incompetence, as the men in the car believed. Rather, when I had gone to grab the stolen phone from his pocket, I'd clearly seen the young man's shield, clipped onto the back waistband of his shorts, uncovered when his shirt flew up in the fall. There was no hesitation on my part; as soon as I'd realized he was a fellow cop, I had no choice.

But since the thief was Miami PD, that meant I was likely now on their radar. I could only hope that they dismissed me as just another local girl they had no records on and didn't try to trace me back to New York. The mental image of a police artist's sketch of my face coming across DiMarco's desk made my empty stomach clench painfully. I dug my thumb into my injured palm, blocking panic with pain.

The town car rocked us gently as Marshall pulled into the driveway of the Santiagos' Florida retreat.

"Do another sweep of the house and grounds before we settle in," Ivan ordered his men. "I don't think we should be taking anything for granted."