Undercover Connection

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“I think they could be at any given time.”

She didn’t argue that.

“I didn’t bring a car. Taxi or an Uber?” he asked.

“I’m fine walking.”

“In those shoes?”

She shrugged. “Not my favorite, but we’re going about seven blocks. Over a mile in these? I’d say taxi or Uber!”

They walked past T-shirt shops and other restaurants with tables that spilled out on the sidewalk. It was a beautiful night. Balmy. It had to be in the midseventies. Jasmine could smell the salt on the air, and, over the music that escaped from many an establishment, she could hear the water—or at least she could imagine she heard the waves crashing softly up on the shore. Here where they walked, the sand and water were across busy Collins Avenue; the traffic was almost always bumper-to-bumper. She knew young people often came just to cruise the streets, showing off their souped-up cars.

She didn’t get it; never had cared for fancy cars.

People in all styles of dress thronged the sidewalks. Some were decked out to the hilt, planning to visit one of the clubs or see a show. Others were casual, out just to shop or dine in a more casual fashion. While the South Beach neighborhood of Miami Beach was trendy and filled with great deco places, boutiques and more, heading farther north, one crossed Lincoln Road, a pedestrian mall and beyond that, a lot of the more staid grande dame hotels from the heyday era when Al Capone and his mobsters had ruled, and later the fabled Rat Pack had entertained, along with other greats.

The beach was like a chameleon, ready to change for every new decade.

At an old and ever-popular restaurant, known for its stone crabs while in season, they did find they were welcomed by a hostess and discreetly—but far too quickly—shown to a table. Jacob had managed, even with the lines outside wrapping around the building, to get them a private table in a little alcove.

Jacob made a pretense of studying the wine menu. He had known, she was certain, exactly what he wanted from the beginning. He wound up ordering champagne—and club soda, as well. She knew as the evening progressed, the champagne would disappear into leftover club soda.

The waitress was gone—they had both ordered the stone crab claws—and he leaned toward her, taking her hand from across the table, rubbing his thumb lightly over her flesh.

“You talked to your people?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “This afternoon. The three men in the oil drums...one has been there, they estimate, about three years. One several months...and one maybe two weeks or so.”

Jacob smiled lightly, his expression expertly at odds with their conversation. “Do you know who they might be? They’ll be testing, checking dental records. But so far, they don’t match anyone reported missing down here.” He hesitated. “We’re a land of promise, but...people take advantage of that. I recently worked a case in New York... Here’s the thing, and the cause of half the world’s problems. When you have nothing at all, you have nothing to lose. People from war-torn countries might be desperate and can be drawn in and then forced to do just about anything.” He was quiet for a minute. “Some wind up in oil drums.”