He parked in front of the office and went inside. The only light in the room was a hint of afternoon sun filtering through the closed blinds, but when he switched on the desk lamp, nothing happened.

  “It’s broken,” a man said.

  Jack started and turned to see a stranger in the shadows across the room. He held the lamp cord in one hand and a gun in the other.

  “Not another step.”

  Jack froze. He tried to place the accent, but he could only guess. Sicilian?

  “Take whatever you want,” said Jack.

  “Sit down,” the man said. “You and me need to have a nice long talk. About Sofia.”

  Chapter 33

  The accent, Jack decided, was Greek—the same voice he’d heard on the telephone outside the Smithsonian.

  Jack was seated in the chair that was normally for clients, his forearms tied tightly to the armrests with the cord that the Greek had yanked from the lamp. The Greek sat on the desk, his gun aimed at Jack’s chest.

  “You must be Anthony Quinn,” said Jack.

  “If that’s supposed to be some kind of ethnic joke, Anthony Quinn was Mexican.”

  “I think I knew that,” said Jack. “But when Paulette Sparks and I tried to find out who hired the homeless guy to meet me outside the Smithsonian, we were told that an old Greek man like Zorba was behind it all.”

  He almost chuckled, as if he’d heard the comparison before, and then he started to fake his way through the lyrics to “If I Were a Rich Man”: “ya ha deedle deedle, bubba—”

  “That’s actually from Fiddler—” Jack stopped himself, still unable to recall the theme from The Munsters. “Ah, the hell with it. Common mistake. So where’s your wheelchair?”

  “Do I look like I need a wheelchair?”

  He was an imposing figure, standing erect and broad shouldered. “About as much as I do,” said Jack.

  “That little ploy worked out pretty well, didn’t it? I figure maybe one percent of the general population is in wheelchairs. Greater Washington area has—what, nine million people? That’s ninety thousand suspects. Threw the cops off the trail looking for a guy who can’t walk.”

  Jack checked out the pistol. It wasn’t anything Jack recognized, but he was far from a gun expert. Even though it looked small, he was sure it could do the job at this range.

  “You should put the gun away if we’re going to talk.”

  “It’s a bad habit. Some people smoke when they do business. I point guns.”

  “What do you want from Sofia?”

  His expression turned complicated—a mixture of anger and nostalgia, Jack guessed, and probably many more conflicting emotions.

  “I followed her here to Miami,” he said. “And then to your office.”

  “I figured.”

  “I saved her life. Those goons in New York would have killed her.”

  “What goons?”

  “Are you gonna pretend she didn’t tell you about the wiseguys who came to her bakery?”

  “She’s scared and on the run,” said Jack. “That’s all I know.”

  “She should be scared.”

  “She is—of you.”

  Jack’s words had truly seemed to pain him. Jack sensed an opening, perhaps a willingness to talk.

  “How do you know Sofia?” said Jack.

  “We were married a long time ago. In Cyprus. This was way before the Russians took over the island. I had some business problems, Sicilian style.”

  “You mean organized crime?”

  “I don’t mean a pizzeria. Crazy Sicilians threw me off a hotel roof.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Yeah,” he said, scoffing. “If you call losing Sofia ‘lucky.’”

  “Sounds like you’re still angry about it.”

  “You’ve met her. Imagine what she was like when she was twenty.”

  Jack did for a moment, and he was starting to understand the man’s anger.

  “We’re getting way off mission here,” said the Greek.

  “Really, you should put the gun away.”

  His face reddened, and suddenly he lunged at Jack and pressed the barrel of his gun to Jack’s forehead.

  “Stop telling me what to do, and listen to me, Swyteck.”

  Jack was afraid to blink. The Greek had his human and sympathetic side, but with the flip of a figurative switch, it was easy to see him putting a bullet between the eyes of Chloe Sparks, Jack Swyteck, or anyone else who got in his way.

  “I could have killed you a long time ago. What does that tell you?”

  Jack struggled for the right answer, but he wasn’t sure there was one.

  The Greek said, “I take you out only when necessary. Don’t make it necessary.”

  “Just tell me what I have to do.”

  “I need your help with Sofia.”

  “I won’t help you kill her.”

  He grabbed Jack by the hair and jerked his head back. “You think I would kill my Sofia before I kill you?”

  Jack was sure the man was going to hit him, maybe even shoot him. But the Greek took a couple of deep breaths, got himself under control, and returned to his seat atop the desk, facing Jack.

  “Why did she come to you?” said the Greek.

  “She didn’t want to see me end up like Chloe Sparks.”

  “I didn’t kill that woman.”

  Jack didn’t believe him, but now was not the time to argue. “Sofia never said you did. In fact, she wouldn’t tell me anything about you. Like I said, she’s afraid of you.”

  “Afraid of me? It’s your father and his new friends she needs to be afraid of.”

  “What does my father have to do with this?”

  “Grayson comes down to Florida, goes hunting with your father, and dies a sudden death. Next thing you know, Harry Swyteck is the nominee to become vice president. All right after I told Grayson I could make him president.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Jack. “Are you saying that you sent Grayson the same message you sent me?”

  “Not directly. I sent it to his wife.”

  Jack thought back to the FBI telling him that his wasn’t the first message. Marilyn Grayson had obviously turned hers over to law enforcement.

  “Did you tell her more than you told me?”

  “Only after she responded.”

  Jack bristled. He hadn’t heard anything about response.

  “You two had a dialogue going?”

  “Until her husband died, we did.”

  “Did you end up telling her as much as you told Chloe Sparks?”

  “No more, no less.”

  “So why was it ‘necessary,’ as you say, to kill Chloe Sparks, but not Marilyn Grayson?”

  “It’s one thing to know that President Keyes is controlled by a certain family from Sicily. It’s another thing altogether to know why.”

  “You told Chloe why?”

  The Greek shook his head. “She figured it out.”

  “Does Sofia know why?”

  “Sofia knows.”

  “I presume that’s why those men came for her yesterday.”

  “Exactly right. And that’s why I need your help.”

  “What can I do?” ’

  “You have Sofia’s ear. Convince her that she can’t go to the FBI or the police with this. No one at any level of government can be trusted.”

  “What am I supposed to tell her to do?”

  “Get out of the country. Now. If she hears that advice from me, she will never believe it. But if you tell her, she might.”

  “I can’t promise she’ll believe me.”

  “She’d better.”

  “What if she just doesn’t listen?”

  He leaned forward, his nose just a few inches from Jack’s, his eyes narrowing. “Then killing you will become very necessary,” he said, his voice so calm and cold that, for a moment, Jack thought the Greek would actually enjoy it.

  Jack returned the glare, but he was looking at a three-eyed monster—the Greek’s dark eyes and the muzzle of his handgun.

  “I’ll do my best,” said Jack.

  Chapter 34

  They waited until dark, and then Jack led the way to the Hotel San Pietro.

  “Faster,” said the Greek. They were already covering the scenic block along Alhambra Circle at the pace of a much younger man, which told Jack something about the Greek’s recovery from his hotel roof fall. The Greek walked a couple of steps behind, his hands buried in his coat pocket. Jack assumed there was a gun aimed at his spine.

  The San Pietro was one of the oldest hotels in Coral Gables. The lobby floor was a mosaic of cracked Cuban tile, and cross-beams of pecky cypress supported the high arching ceiling. In daylight, colorful stained-glass windows filtered the strong Florida sunshine, throwing patches of red, yellow, and green against the thickly textured walls. After dark, however, the windows were black against the night sky, and the lobby took on a shadowy, castle-like ambience beneath a broad candlelit chandelier. On the wall behind the front desk were rows of old-fashioned key cubbies with room keys on tassels.

  “Good evening, Mr. Swyteck,” said the young woman behind the desk.

  Jack tried not to look nervous as he returned the smile. “I sent a client over this afternoon. Sofia is her name. Has she checked in yet?”

  “Yes, she has. Would you like me to ring her room?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She glanced at the Greek. “And who else should I say is calling?”

  “It’s a surprise,” said the Greek. “I’m an old friend.”

  She ran her finger across her lips, zipping them. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “That’s what they all say,” said the Greek.

  She didn’t seem to know how to take his meaning, but she smiled anyway, dialed the room, and announced that Mr. Swyteck was in the lobby.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said into the telephone, then hung up.

  “Miss Sofia would like you to come to her room,” she said.

  Jack wasn’t surprised. Being on the run, she probably felt safest in the room.

  “Then we’ll go,” said the Greek.

  “First floor,” said the desk clerk. “Chopin Room.”

  That was another cool thing about the hotel. All of the rooms were named after famous composers.

  At least she’s not in the Salieri Room, thought Jack.

  The hallways were narrow, and there were numerous abrupt turns. Hotel San Pietro was actually several old mansions linked together into a single hotel, which made getting to your room a bit like a trip through a maze. They passed the library and the dining room, and if Jack hadn’t been to the hotel before, he would have had no way of knowing if he was headed in the right direction. The old floorboards creaked beneath the carpeting in the hallway as they passed the Bach and Beethoven rooms. Finally, they reached the Chopin Room.

  The Greek stepped aside so that he could not be seen through the peep hole. Jack knocked three times. The door didn’t open, but he heard Sofia’s voice.

  “Is that you, Mr. Swyteck?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  Jack heard the rattle of the chain lock, the deadbolt turning. The door opened.

  “Please, come in,” she said.

  Jack stayed where he was. “I have someone with me.”

  Her concern was immediately evident, as if she knew who it was.

  The Greek stepped behind Jack. “Hello, Sofia.”

  “Demetri!” She gasped, and then slammed the door shut.

  The Greek leaned into Jack’s back, letting him feel the gun in his right kidney. It was still hidden inside the Greek’s coat pocket.

  “Tell her she shouldn’t be afraid,” he said in harsh whisper. “Tell her to let us in. Go on. Tell her!”

  “Sofia, it’s okay,” said Jack, speaking to the closed door. “I’ve worked something out with…Demetri,” he said, repeating the name Sofia had used.

  There was no reply. The Greek nudged Jack with the gun.

  “It’s all a misunderstanding,” said Jack. “Please, let us in. This is all going to work out.”

  The lock clicked. The doorknob turned. Slowly, the door swung open, but Sofia was nowhere to be seen. She appeared to be shielding herself behind the door.

  “Come in,” she said, still out of sight.

  Jack entered first. The Greek was right behind him. The door slammed shut, and in a lightning-quick blur, both Jack and Demetri were hit from behind with the force of a charging bull. Jack went down first, and Demetri fell right beside him, both men facedown on the floor. The man sitting on Jack’s kidneys felt like a rhinoceros, and the gun at the base of Jack’s skull felt big enough to drop an entire herd.

  “Move and I’ll blow your head off,” the man said.

  Jack’s right cheek was pressed to the silk rug, and out of the corner of his eye he could see that the Greek was in the same predicament.

  “You’re early, Vladimir,” said the Greek.

  The man named Vladimir got off Jack’s back and stood over him. The Greek remained pinned beneath the other man.

  Vladimir said, “Your deadline was last Tuesday.”

  “You gave me another week. It’s only been five days.”

  “And what did you do with the extra time?” said Vladimir. “Nothing, except cook up a plan to run from the country with your ex-wife.”

  “That’s not true!” said Sofia.

  “Quiet!” said Vladimir.

  Sofia cowered in the corner. Jack didn’t have a good vantage point from the floor, but he could see that her hands were bound behind her back. He also noticed that behind the long, drawn draperies was a set of French doors that led to a courtyard—presumably the intruders’ point of entry.

  Vladimir began to pace—not the quick steps of a nervous man, but the slow and confident gait of a man in control.

  “We’ve been watching you, Demetri. We know you went to visit Sofia’s bakery. We followed her to Miami. We saw her go to Swyteck’s law office. We watched you show up an hour later. Did you really think you could run from us?”

  “Of course not. That’s why it makes no sense for you to say I would even try.”

  “Except that now you must believe anything is possible, no? Now that you have the son of the future vice president to help you.”

  “I’m not helping him,” said Jack.

  “Shut up!” said Vladimir. He stopped pacing, and silence hung over the room. Finally, he said, “This is how it’s going to be. Demetri, you are coming with me.”

  Vladimir gave a nod, and his partner got up and lifted the Greek to his feet. He patted the old man down, found the gun in his pocket, and threw it on the bed. Then he shoved him face-first against the wall and put the gun to the back of his head.

  Vladimir said, “Sofia and the lawyer stay here with Mika. I give Demetri twenty-four hours to pay what he owes. If he comes up with the money, I shoot him. If he doesn’t, I kill him any way I choose. And Mika shoots Sofia and the lawyer.”

  “Can’t we talk about this?” said Jack.

  “We’re done talking,” said Vladimir.

  He pushed the Greek toward the door, then stopped before opening it.

  “Twenty-four hours,” he said. “Mika, if you don’t hear from me before then, you know what to do.”

  Jack listened as the door opened, the men filed out, and the door closed.

  Mika locked it and took a seat in the reading chair. “Let’s decide,” he said.

  There was smugness in his tone, and Jack didn’t bite. Sofia did.

  “Let’s decide what?” she said.

  He released the ammunition clip from his pistol, then shoved it back into place for effect.

  “Who will I shoot first?”

  Chapter 35

  Ortanique on the Mile was bustling, and Andie sat alone at an outdoor table for two. A brightly painted, seven-foot statue of a flamingo stood guard on the sidewalk beside her. She was halfway through her second mojito—Ortanique’s were numero uno in Miami—and she already knew what to order. It was creative cuisine with a Jamaican flair, and everything was exceptional, but the special West Indian bouillabaisse with lobster and Key West shrimp in a curry broth was a lock.

  Andie had spent all day preparing for an undercover role. She’d been looking for ways to stay busy ever since Thursday’s phone conference with the Washington ASAC. He’d told her things about Harry that she probably would have been better off not knowing, and ever since she’d been cool to the idea of spending too much time around Jack. She worried about a slip of the tongue. Saturday was their standing date night, however, and she’d decided to keep it. She’d called that morning to tell him that it was going to be a crazy day and that she would just meet him at the restaurant at seven.

  It was now after eight o’clock. Andie dialed him once more on her cell, and for the seventh time, her call went straight to voice mail. Desperate, she dialed Theo. He picked up from behind the bar at Cy’s Place, the jazz club he’d named after his sax-playing uncle.

  “Theo, do you have any idea where Jack is?”

  “Last I looked, he was right here on the shelf next to Mr. Bacardi.”

  It took her a moment to realize he was talking about Jack Daniel’s.

  “I meant my Jack, wise guy.”

  He shouted something to a customer. It was getting hard to hear him, between the traffic noise on the Mile and the weekend roar over the line from Cy’s Place.

  “Sorry,” said Theo. “Haven’t seen him since lunch.”

  “Do you know if he had something going on? He’s over an hour late. He hasn’t even called, and I can’t get him to pick up on his cell.”

  “You might want to call Hotel San Pietro. He had…er—uh.”

  Andie definitely sensed backpedaling. “What?”

  “He has a client staying there. I gotta go. See ya.”

  Andie looked at her phone, confused. Theo had clearly just committed a slip of the tongue of some sort. Calling a hotel probably wasn’t a lead she would have followed if Theo hadn’t acted so weird. She pulled up the number for Hotel San Pietro, dialed it, and connected to the front desk.