LITMIR.BIZ

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she had found a best friend. If Cocoa were human, Miller had explained, she would want to hang out with Lara to hear a new band, or enjoy a movie or an art show—or go shoe shopping.

      As long as Lara came and helped, as long as everyone tried, he would be happy. He knew he was looking for a damned needle in a haystack.

      But Phil Kinny had seemed sure that if he had Miguel’s head, he might be able to figure out what had happened.

      Brett knew the waters around Miami; he loved boating, fishing and diving, and had since he was a kid. But he didn’t really understand the science of what the office techs were doing. By charting the tides and the currents, they believed they could follow the flow of body-part dispersal, using the dolphin facility as a starting point and working backward. He hoped they were right.

      Restlessly, he flicked off the news. “Ichabod, you’re the best company ever,” he told the cat. “But I don’t want Jimmy or his folks waking up and thinking you’re missing. So, sad to say, out, my friend.”

      The cat seemed to understand him. He wound between Brett’s legs and headed for the door. Brett let him out, climbed up the stairs, stripped down and headed toward the bed.

      He paused, though, and went to his desk to click his computer on. Someone might have gotten back to him with some kind of a map or a plan for the morning. They would be working with the Coast Guard, and he had faith that those guys could read what they were given, but he wouldn’t mind looking for himself. And while he wanted to sleep, he still felt restless.

      His emails popped up, a few from fellow agents offering off-duty help. Nice. Nothing yet from the tech people, but he wasn’t worried. They would work all night if they had to and make sure they had what he needed in the morning. He started to turn away from the computer when a message suddenly popped up on the screen.

      He stared, stunned at first, and then disbelieving.

      Miguel did it. It was Miguel, but it wasn’t Miguel.

      The words were then gone as quickly as they had come. Brett felt as if every hair on the nape of his neck was standing up.

      He gave himself a mental shake. He must have imagined the message. He started hitting keys, slowly at first, and then more quickly, trying to ascertain if someone had hacked into his computer somehow.

      Eventually he determined that had to be the case. But even though he didn’t have the skills to do it himself, he would make sure the hacker got caught. They had some of the best computer geeks known to man in the Miami office, so all he had to do was take his laptop to work and let them have at it.

      That decided, he rose to go to bed at last.

      And it was then that his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number; it wasn’t a local exchange. He thought about letting the caller leave a message, but in the end he answered. “Cody,” he said briefly.

      “Brett Cody?” asked a deep, slightly accented voice.

      “Yes.”

      He wasn’t sure how he instantly knew who it was; he had never been assigned to the Barillo case. He’d seen the man, of course. Barillo appeared at rallies backing certain politicians and liked to make the scene when new clubs opened on South Beach, which was fairly frequently. The beach was a fickle place; the hottest club quickly became passé when a new club opened.

      For being such a powerhouse, he was a small man. Only about five-eight, gray haired and slight.

      He was a mix of nationalities—born in Mexico, but with grandparents from Italy, Colombia, Brazil and Cuba—and that might well have helped him to become the kingpin that he was, in command of his multinational “family.” He was known to speak at least five languages, including perfect English.

      “This is Anthony Barillo,” the man said.

      Brett knew he should behave professionally, keep the man talking, try to get something useful out of him, but he couldn’t help himself. “Then you should know, you piece of total crap, that we will chase you to the ends of the earth to see that you pay for what you’ve done. Maria Gomez was innocent, someone’s mother, just like your own.”

      Barillo didn’t seem offended by his words. His tone was even, dispassionate, as he said, “Special Agent Cody, my mother was a prostitute of the lowest order. She abandoned me, and I don’t know if she’s living or dead, nor do I care. But that’s another matter entirely. Here’s the thing you must know. I didn’t kill Maria Gomez. I didn’t even kill Miguel Gomez. That’s why I’m calling you. Word on the street is that you’re out for blood. Am I an innocent man? In life, that’s debatable. But in this instance, if you truly want to catch the killer of that lovely woman—yes, even I knew she was nearly a saint—you’re going after the wrong person.”

      “Bull! Miguel was wearing a wire when—”

      Brett broke off. Barillo had already hung up.

      Furious, he hit Return on the call, but all he got was a recording saying he’d reached a disconnected number. He almost threw the phone across the room but caught himself before realizing the futility of the gesture. He would just have to get another cell phone, and Barillo would still be out there.

      He called Diego—waking him up—to tell him about the phone call, and then he called Herman Bryant—whom he also woke up—to tell him about the call, as well.

      “Man’s a bloody liar. He’s as dirty as a sty on Mars,” Bryant said.

      Brett wasn’t sure just how dirty a sty on Mars was, but Bryant was famous for his strange turns of phrase. He also sounded frustrated as hell, which made sense. After all, he was head of a large task force that had so far failed in its efforts to stop the man.

      Barillo always managed to keep his own hands clean, letting his henchmen pay the price of arrest. The FBI had taken down a dozen of his men. They never spoke against him. He was known to have a long arm that could reach into any prison—state or federal—in the country. “I’m surprised he bothered to call you. He’s wanted on a dozen murders. What’s one more?”

      “I think it offended him that we thought he’d broken his own rule about not going after family, plus I think he genuinely liked Maria. Anyway, I needed to report the call to you.”

      “Of course, thanks. I’m glad you’re in on this, Brett. You could be on the task force if you wanted. You know that, right? But at the moment, I’m glad you and Diego are taking lead on the Maria Gomez case.”

      “Yeah, thanks. I’ll keep you up on everything.”

      “Any time of day,” Bryant told him.

      They rang off. Brett knew that he had to get some rest. It wasn’t easy, given his adrenaline level after Barillo’s call.

      His phone rang again; he stared at it. Again, a number he didn’t know. He answered but didn’t speak.

      “Hello?”

      It wasn’t Anthony Barillo, though this man’s voice was also accented. More of a tenor than a bass, though.

      “Who is this?” Brett asked sharply.

      “You lay off my father, man. He had nothing to do with Miguel or Maria Gomez. You understand? It will be harder for you if you don’t quit.”

      Brett tried to control his temper. To a point, he did. “Listen, you gutless little tadpole. I don’t know which one of Barillo’s kids you are, but you just threatened a federal agent, so shut up or you just might find life getting hard for you. You were smart enough to get out of the family business, now stay smart and keep out of it.”

      “Screw you!” the caller said. “My father didn’t do it—you got it?”

      For the second time that night his line went dead. He thought about letting the matter go until morning, but it wasn’t that long since he’d woken the other men up, so... He called Bryant and Diego again, and both of them were as surprised as he was that both Barillo

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