High Lie Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Get Your Next eBook Free

  If You Enjoyed This Book...

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  For Heather and Evan, my muse and my mirror.

  Thanks to Andrew Weatherston for all the reading, and for being there all these years, even when we are thousands of miles apart.

  Chapter One

  “THE KID WAS dead for all money.”

  I listened to Lucas but didn’t take my eyes from the boy. He was small, like he never had a proper meal in his life, and his skin, tanned brown across his shoulders, was a sickly yellow color in his face.

  “The buggers wrapped him up in a carpet and tossed him overboard,” continued Lucas, in his broad Australian drawl.

  I pulled an old sweatshirt with an Oakland A’s logo on it over the boy’s head. It wasn’t cold inside my house, with both front and back doors open, letting the breeze drift through at will, but the boy had the twin ailments of mild hypothermia and shock. He stared into middle distance as I pulled the sleeves into place, his heavy eyebrows twitching.

  “What is your name?” I asked him.

  “I been talking to him since I fished him out of the drink,” said Lucas. “English, Spanish, even threw a bit of Chinese at him. Not a peep out of him.”

  I stood and turned to Lucas.

  “You speak Chinese?”

  “A bit. G’day, g’bye, thanks. I can order a beer. We get a few well-to-do Chinese chartering the big yachts at the marina.”

  Danielle wandered in from the kitchen with a cup of tea for the kid. Her brown hair was mussed, but it looked as if she had paid a hundred bucks to get it that way, rather than having been woken up at 2 a.m. by a fist banging on our door. She handed the tea to the boy and he took it as if grasping the Holy Grail.

  “Where was this, again?” I asked, wiping my face. My hair was also a mess, but on me it looked like I’d just crawled out of bed.

  “Jupiter. The inlet. Two fellas launched a tinny out of DuBois Park and puttered out about a half mile.”

  “You were out at sea?”

  “Me? Nah, I was in the river. These fellas had clearly been drinking, and I thought they might get themselves in a spot of bother.”

  Danielle looked up at Lucas.

  “What were you doing in the Loxahatchee River at one in the morning?” she asked.

  Lucas smiled. He was tanned like a cowhide, his sandy hair sun-bleached, his limbs lean but powerful. The net effect was an ageless look, not young but indeterminably old, and his smile was that of a mischievous ten-year-old boy.

  “Certainly not crabbing, Deputy. That would be illegal.”

  Danielle shook her head and returned her attention to the boy.

  “So you followed them out?” I said.

  “Yeah. Like I say, they were having a bit of trouble keeping their boat in a straight line, so I followed ’em. Just beyond the drop-off they stopped. Seemed like an odd place to fish in the dead of night, so I circled around and cut my engine.”

  “And?”

  “They nearly tipped their boat over more than once, trying to get whatever it was out. Not too many things are dead weight like that, so I got a bit suss.”

  The boy sipped the tea, the first time he had moved of his own accord since Lucas had arrived at my doorstep with the kid in his arms.

  “So what happened?”

  “They managed to dump their cargo, then they scarpered real quick. I was only about ten feet away by that stage—hiding in the moon shadow, you could say—and I figured they weren’t dumping nuclear waste, so I grabbed a tank and jumped in.”

  “Why did you have a scuba tank?” Danielle asked.

  “Night photography.” He smiled again. “I do a bit of underwater night photography.”

  No one was buying that story, but Lucas wasn’t working too hard to sell it.

  “So anyways, I jump in, flick on my light, and catch a rolled-up carpet sinking toward the bottom.”

  “Wasn’t it heavy?” I said.

  “Yep. We didn’t stop going down, but the air trapped inside the rug made it a slow drop. I cut the twine they’d used to tie it up, and let the thing unravel. Thought I knew what it was, but I was still surprised when I seen that little fella tumble out.”

  We all looked at the boy for a moment. He glanced at Lucas, then refocused on the mug of tea.

  “I can’t believe he didn’t drown,” Danielle said.

  “He was lucky, that’s for sure,” said Lucas. “Lucky they knocked him out. There’s a little cut on the side of his head you might wanna take a look at,” he said, pointing at the boy. “He was unconscious, so he didn’t panic, didn’t suck in a lot of water. He bounced back pretty quick once I got him in the ducky and gave him a shot of mouth-to-mouth.”

  Danielle took a look at the boy’s head, then stood and walked to the bathroom.

  Lucas leaned into me.

  “Sorry, mate, hope I didn’t interrupt anything with the wife,” he said, winking.

  “It’s two in the morning, Lucas. Trust me, it’s fine. And she’s my girlfriend, not my wife. You know that.”

  He smiled. “Why is that?”

  I just shook my head.

  Danielle came back with a first-aid kit, and the boy allowed her to put some antiseptic cream on his head, then wrap it in a bandage. Then she took the tea from him and placed her soft hands over his. It was a nurturing gesture and I saw the boy physically relax.

  “Do you speak English?” she asked. “Hablas inglés?”

  The boy’s face showed no emotion, but he whispered, “Si. Yes.” The first noise he’d made.

  Danielle gave the boy a soft smile. It was the same look that lifted the weight of the world from my shoulders, but I had seen it only sparingly of late.

  “What is your name?”

  “Desi,” said the boy.

  She nodded and took this in. “It’s nice to meet you, Desi. I’m Danielle. This man here is called Miami, and the man who pulled you from the water is Lucas.”

  The boy looked at us and we nodded to him. Still no smile, but at least eye contact.

  “How old are you, Desi?” continued Danielle.

  “Eleven.”

  Danielle nodded and I thought how glad I was she was there. I was pretty certain
the kid would have clammed up for Lucas and me, even if we’d offered him a trip to Disney World.

  “Now Desi, you are safe here. We can help you. You are not in trouble.” She rubbed her fingers along his hands, then continued.

  “Who were those men, Desi?”

  The boy looked down, perhaps unsure. I couldn’t read his face at all.

  “It’s okay, Desi,” said Danielle, “but it is important.”

  The boy didn’t look up, not for a time, as if considering whether or not he could trust us. I could hardly blame him for that. If someone had rolled me in a carpet and tossed me in the Atlantic, I’d be reconsidering my trust parameters as well. But the kid must have come to some sort of decision, because he looked at her and sighed.

  “Bad men,” he said.

  “Yes, bad men.” Danielle nodded. “But who were they, Desi?”

  The boy hesitated again, then frowned. “They took my money.”

  Now it was Danielle’s turn to frown. “Your money? Did you know these men?”

  The boy nodded slowly. “Si.”

  “Where did you know them from, Desi?”

  The kid hesitated again, but came to a decision quicker this time. Danielle had a face a guy could trust, and it seemed the boy did.

  “At the fronton.”

  “Fronton?” said Danielle. Desi nodded. She turned to us with a question on her face.

  Lucas frowned at me. “What’s a fronton?” he asked.

  “It’s like a giant squash court. It’s where they play jai alai.”

  “High lie?”

  “Yeah, jai alai. It’s a sport. Spanish, I think. It was popular in South Florida back when Don Johnson was somebody.”

  I got down on my haunches so I was at eye level with the boy.

  “The fronton? Where they play jai alai?” I said.

  Desi nodded.

  “Which fronton?” I said. This time I got no reaction, and the boy looked to Danielle. So did I.

  “Fort Pierce, West Palm Beach, or Dania?” she said.

  “Palm Beach,” said Desi.

  I stood and looked at Lucas.

  “The casino is taking bets from an eleven-year-old kid?” Lucas asked.

  “How much money did you owe?” said Danielle.

  “Two hundred,” said Desi.

  “They dumped him in the drink for two hundred bucks?” said Lucas.

  “They took two hundred dollars from you?” asked Danielle.

  Desi shook his little head slowly.

  “They take four hundred. Money for my papa.”

  We all traded glances, then Danielle turned back to the boy. “Where is your papa, Desi?”

  Desi looked at the floor, avoiding eye contact with Danielle. “Cuba,” he said.

  Lucas and I retreated to bar stools at the kitchen counter, and I made coffee. We let the professional talk to the boy. Danielle sat on the sofa and chatted with him. We learned that the boy was placing bets with two big men, one with no hair, the other with hair of fire.

  “Hair of fire?” said Danielle.

  “Rojo,” said Desi.

  Danielle sat with the boy until he finished his tea and the life seeped back into him. Then she got up and came into the kitchen.

  “I’ve got the morning shift, so I might as well go in early, see if I can find out anything about these guys.”

  She went to shower and change, and I asked Desi if he wanted anything to eat, to which I got no response. When Danielle came out she was in her green sheriff’s uniform, which earned a look of concern from Desi.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You are safe here. You’re not in trouble. I’m a sheriff’s deputy, you understand? Policia? I can help you.” The boy watched her without expression.

  “These men here,” she said, looking up at Lucas and me, “they can help you, too. You stay here, and we will help you.”

  The boy nodded.

  Danielle grabbed her keys and kissed me. “See if you can get him to eat something. If I find anything, I’ll call you.”

  Danielle headed out, and I made a ham sandwich and placed it and a glass of ice water in front of Desi. He didn’t speak but his eyelids looked heavy. I knew that feeling. Not just 2 a.m. speaking. The adrenaline of almost being drowned had worn off, and fatigue was setting in fast. I’d been in my fair share of high-stress situations, and I knew the drop after an adrenaline rush was like a cliff. I grabbed a blanket and a pillow and brought them to the sofa.

  “Sleep, siesta?” I said.

  Desi nodded, his head almost unable to hold itself erect. I dropped the pillow on the sofa and he fell back into it, then I placed the blanket over him. He looked up at me through heavy eyes, as if studying me.

  “Sleep,” I said, and he did.

  Lucas and I took our coffee out onto the patio. The lights from Riviera Beach twinkled across the Intracoastal, and we sat on the loungers for a while, watching the city sleep. A cool breeze brushed my skin, as it did in the season. Lucas broke the silence.

  “Some yobbos were going to kill that boy for a measly two hundred.”

  I nodded in the darkness. That fact had been gnawing at me since I had heard it. “Yobbo?” I said.

  “Yeah, yobbo. Dunderhead, goose, moron.”

  Talking with Lucas was like learning a new language.

  “Something needs to be done about that,” he said.

  I nodded again.

  “What time does that casino open?” he said.

  “In the morning I guess, but I think the jai alai starts at around lunchtime.”

  Lucas said nothing in return.

  “You thinking we should pay a visit?” I said.

  “This is not something you need get involved with.”

  “There’s a half-drowned Cuban boy marooned on my sofa. I’m involved.”

  “Sorry about that, mate.”

  “Don’t be. You saved that boy’s life. The least I can do is find out why you had to.”

  Lucas sat up in his lounger but didn’t take his gaze from the dark water. “Lunchtime, you reckon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That a hammock over there, between them palms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I borrow it for a bit?”

  “Lucas, I have a spare room. You can get some sleep inside.” It occurred to me that Lucas was probably coming down off a pretty significant adrenaline high himself.

  “That’s okay, I prefer sleeping outside.”

  “What about the bugs?” I said. The breeze off the water kept the bugs manageable most evenings, but if the wind dropped during the night the hammock could end up looking like a wheat field during a locust plague.

  “I don’t bother the bugs, the bugs don’t bother me.”

  He got up and wandered over to the hammock, sliding into it with the practiced style of a submariner. Within a minute, he was snoring. I took that as my cue. I slipped back inside and locked the front door, then checked on Desi. He hadn’t moved a muscle. He looked peaceful, which I considered a fair effort for a kid who had been rolled up in a carpet and tossed in the ocean only a few hours earlier. I padded to Danielle’s and my bedroom but left the door open, and I flopped onto the bed for a few Z’s. I pushed thoughts of Desi hitting the water from my mind, only to have them replaced by the feeling that a long night was likely to turn into an even longer day.

  Chapter Two

  THE WEST PALM Beach Casino and Jai Alai sat on the good side of I-95, across from Palm Beach International Airport. It was an older establishment that had seen its heyday about the same time as Elvis. Big seventies-style retro letters proclaimed the name of the place across the windowless facade, and as I parked my Ford Escape in the spacious and near-empty lot, the thought occurred that the signage wasn’t so much seventies retro as seventies original.

  Inside, the casino was like a cave. In Vegas they lit their places like it was always close to midnight, but here the ambience was more one of power failure. A few fluorescent tubes thre
w dull light across mostly empty card tables. The carpet was black with colored flecks in it, and it held the latent stench of years of cigarette smoke despite the venue now being allegedly smoke-free.

  We wandered past a bored-looking woman at the information and cash kiosk and turned toward a sign that read Jai Alai. Through the door was another world. A cavernous space with high ceilings—on one side twenty rows of seats that were as sparsely populated as the card tables; on the other a brightly lit court the width of a half-dozen bowling alleys and twice as long. One long side was exposed to the seating behind a net, with all the other sides painted Wimbledon green. Two men dressed like polo players were on the hardwood floor of the court and two men in referee’s stripes stood just off the playing area. Everyone wore beaten helmets that also looked like remnants of the seventies.

  Lucas and I stood for a moment, taking in the game. There were two players. Each wore a long scoop on his right hand that doubled his reach. One player used the scoop to slingshot a white ball at the far wall. When it bounced back the other player used his scoop to catch the ball, then slung it back at the wall again. Each player did this with considerable force until the ball seemed to bounce away from one player, at which point an announcer’s voice rocked across the loudspeakers.

  “Point for Roto. Roto two. Next is Miguel.”

  It must have been the end of the game because the defeated player left the court and was replaced by another. Oddly, he wore a shirt with the number twenty-five on the back but the number four on the front. We took the lapse in play to scour the crowd. It wasn’t a big job. The place might have held four hundred seats but only about thirty of them were taken, and as I scanned the room I noted that most of those were not paying a lot of attention to the game.

  “There,” said Lucas, slapping my shoulder.

  In the back row, under the shadow of a darkened, corporate box-type structure, sat two big guys. They were both pale, and wearing tank tops to show off muscles that would have been impressive a decade earlier. Everyone else in the room was either Cuban or Latino, so the two white guys looked positively albino. One had a shining bald head, shaved as close as his chest, and the other had his hair close-cropped, like a marine. His hair was red. Rojo. Hair of fire.