They’re ready if the fight breaks out up here instead of downstairs. This is not their first time at the rodeo….

  The knob moves, turning slightly, one of the scouts trying the door of this room. Fingers tighten on triggers and the killers tense…

  …but the knob holds, the door’s locked, the scouts are satisfied.

  Idiots.

  The killers listen carefully, hear the scouts go to the end of the hall, trying every door, then doubling back and going down the rear stairs…the very path the killers will be taking momentarily.

  They wait for a short time, allowing themselves to relax and calm from the adrenaline rush. Very soon, the adrenaline will be flowing again; but until that moment, they must be calm, relaxed…and most of all, silent.

  One signals that it’s clear and they’re going ahead. The other unlocks the door and slowly opens it. They slip into the hallway, in sync, two people moving as one.

  They creep down the stairs, careful to keep to the edges so the steps won’t creak beneath their weight. In the distance they can hear the faint voices of their prey as they chatter nervously, wondering where Mendoza is, no doubt.

  The killers get to the bottom of the stairs. The kitchen is pitch black, the only light coming from a small lantern Chevalier brought and has sat on top of the bar.

  Signaling again, the killers make their move. They explode through the doorway, one cutting to the left, the other going right, toward the bar. The guns spit fire, the bullets buzzing like homicidal insects, stinging fatally, casings ejecting, each clinking as it hits the floor, the smell of cordite flooding the room.

  One hitter takes out Calisto and the Mitu guard with him. Neither man knows what hit him—they’re dead before they touch the floor.

  The second hitter is only a millisecond behind his confederate, but it’s enough: the Faucone bodyguard jumps in front of Chevalier. The killer nonetheless manages to drop them both, the bodyguard hit in the chest, Chevalier hit at least once in the face, taking several more as he lumbers down.

  The first hitter shoots Shakespeare, but the Trench’s guard has pulled out his gun and fires wildly as this killer takes his time, swivelling toward the shot and letting off a quick burst that opens the Trench’s chest to send up a misty pink cloud as the man falls to the floor, dying. The first hitter signals to the other, they begin to check the dead, but soon sirens in the distance encourage haste.

  What the hell? None of the victims are moving; then another hand signal, and they’re out the door.

  Caine smiled grimly. Probably took them about half a minute to pull off the slaughter….

  Fingerprinting done, Caine loaded up his kit. He took a moment and sat in a chair at the little round table and broodingly tried to put the pieces together. But he remained somewhat out of his element, with these gangbangers.

  Impulsively, he called Burnett on the cell phone.

  “You in the middle of anything?” Caine asked.

  “No. Just got back from making arrangements for Joanna. Listen, would you be one of the pallbearers, Horatio?”

  “Jeremy, I’d be honored.”

  “No. The honor’s ours…. But this is your call, Horatio—what is it you wanted?”

  “Some more consulting.”

  “No problem. You making any progress on last night’s hit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent.”

  “For one thing, we found Andrew Chevalier alive. He’s gone now, but he talked before he went.”

  “Oh, that’s a break.”

  Caine filled Burnett in, broad strokes.

  Then Burnett said, “Sounds like you’re thinking Mendoza.”

  “Well, he’s the one who didn’t show for the meeting. That sure pins the prime-suspect ribbon on him. Of course, it could be someone inside one of the organizations.”

  “An internal power play?”

  “Yeah. Like you said, Jeremy—it’s banana republic politics. You got any ideas along those lines?”

  “Hmmm. Chevalier’s people were all loyal, at least as far as we knew. They all felt like family. A lot of them have ties back to Haiti.”

  “What about Shakespeare’s crew?”

  “Well, that guy didn’t trust anybody and probably with good reason. The Trenches were just as apt to kill each other as one of their rivals.”

  “So they’re a possibility.”

  “Sure, only I doubt Shakespeare would’ve told anyone in his organization what he was up to and where he was going. Shakespeare was so paranoid, he probably didn’t even tell the lieutenant he brought along the real reason.”

  “That leaves Calisto’s crew.”

  “With the Mitus, it’s all about the green. They go with the flow—the cash flow. Calisto’s inner circle was trustworthy, far as it goes…again, according to the intelligence we had. And the ones outside the circle would never hear about a meeting like this.”

  “Which brings us back to—”

  “Mendoza. He did set the time and place.”

  “He did indeed.”

  “Hell, Horatio, he might’ve booked his guys into that hotel as soon as he got the call.”

  Caine grunted a non-laugh. “It’s got to be him.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause we haven’t figured out a way for anyone else to have found out about the meeting.”

  “It is starting to sound like Mendoza. Any idea where to find him?”

  “Not,” Caine said, “the slightest.”

  Burnett laughed, once. “I been there…. Give me a couple of days. Maybe I can scare him up for you.”

  “Is Matthers cool with this?”

  “I wasn’t planning on asking permission.”

  “Don’t like putting you out on that limb,” Caine said. “But I’ll take any help I can get.”

  “Horatio, I been there, too.”

  Caine and Burnett exchanged good-byes, and the CSI supervisor gathered his kit—and his evidence—and checked out of the Archer.

  9

  Boots Made for Walking

  EVERYONE CAME IN BRIGHT and early on Saturday—well, early anyway.

  With the death toll over sixty and counting, that meant overtime for everybody. The extra pay, as well as the chance to close cases, made up for the tough hours. But Horatio Caine’s crew had taken on a zombielike air, and the CSI supervisor worried that even these dedicated pros might compromise their work.

  Nothing to do but bite the bullet (or, in Calleigh’s case, process it).

  The chief of the MDPD, after all, had passed the word down the line—verbal, not a memo—that this war had to be stopped by weekend’s end or first thing Monday morning, the National Guard would come marching into Miami to occupy the city and declare martial law.

  Nobody wanted that—not the police, the mayor, or the businesses who depended on tourists for so much of their income. Martial law sent the unmistakable message that the MDPD had failed in its mission to protect and serve.

  Like the chief, Caine saw that as something that could not be allowed.

  Miami had been battling a fluctuating reputation for at least two decades, with its drug-wars image; much of that had been overcome in recent years, in large part due to the excellence of a police department of which Caine’s CSI Unit was no small factor.

  Once tourists decided that Miami wasn’t safe to visit, wooing them back was an iffy and difficult procedure. And who could blame them? If the city couldn’t protect its own citizens, it wouldn’t be able to protect tourists, either. The economic impact of this sort of war could be extremely damaging in the long run, and catastrophic in the short run.

  Much as he abhorred politics and concerns driven by commerce, Caine prided himself on his role in keeping this volatile city safe for its citizens and its visitors. Sometimes working the aftermath of violent crime could wear on CSIs, drive them to depression and even despair over the human condition.

  Caine continually told his people, “Our goal is justice for victims, by the apprehension of perpetrators, which prevents more victims.”

  A crisis like the gang war had a bad side effect: Other crimes, non-gang-related murders in particular, were in danger of receiving short shrift.

  Right now Caine sat at his desk, sifting through the piles of information relating to such cases generated by his team over the last five days. The problem with murders was that one never knew what piece of evidence would be the key one; so the CSIs indulged in a kind of evidence overkill, collecting every possibility, each fiber, fingerprint, anything that might conceivably provide a lead.

  The team had been diligent with these cases, too, but the reality was the system was being choked by the sheer abundance of evidence collected in threescore homicides.

  Lab technicians worked around the clock; still, it seemed like victims were piling up faster than the lab results. Priorities were supposed to be in place, but sometimes the evidence chain hit a road bump and you got the sort of thing that Caine was looking at now.

  According to the report generated from the fingerprint lab overnight, they had gotten prints off the Valor pistol Delko had found in the sewer outside the Archer.

  It had already been established that the gun appeared not to be related to the gang shooting, that it had been the murder weapon in the killing of a Jane Doe.

  Of two sets of fingerprints on the gun, one belonged to a young man named Jimmy Hamilton, who’d been printed when he’d gotten a job at the Palace jai alai fronton. The other set was unidentified. Gang war or not, this was too good a lead to let pass by….

  The detective of record was Yelina Salas. The robbery/homicide detective was one of the best in Miami, but she was also Caine’s sister-in-law…or, anyway, former sister-in-law. She was his brother Raymond’s widow.

  They worked together frequently and clicked well, but an awkwardness remained. Actually, even when Ray was alive, there’d been an awkwardness, as Caine and Yelina had dated prior to her involvement with his brother. Even now, three years later, both of them were trying to deal with their sorrow over Ray’s death and an attraction that Caine sensed was mutual, but…well, awkward was the word.

  He gave Yelina a quick call, and she agreed an interview with the Hamilton kid was called for.

  “You should probably come along,” Yelina said. “If you can tear yourself away from this gang war.”

  “Do you really think I’d figure our murdered Jane Doe should have to wait in line?”

  “No.”

  “Pick me up?”

  “Sure.”

  Soon, she drove up out front, and he hopped in. He was wearing the shades he was never without outdoors, and a sportcoat and tie. They exchanged smiles and greetings.

  “So much for my day off,” Yelina said. Her original intention this Saturday was reflected in her attire: jeans and a sleeveless black top with a scoop neck.

  He always glanced away when he first saw her, like his eyes were a child’s fingers and the detective’s beauty a hot stove. Yelina managed to look both slender and voluptuous, a tall, commanding woman with a huge mane of dark hair; her wide blue eyes, long, straight nose, and full lips, all set in an olive complexion, lent her an exotic quality.

  “You ready for this?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve been over the evidence.”

  She smiled faintly; sometimes he suspected she found his stiffness around her a little amusing.

  The drive to the Hamilton family home was thankfully short and easily filled with small talk about Caine’s nephew, Ray Jr.

  Just off Galloway and Southwest Fourth, the middle-class stucco home painted a very light pink was typical of the neighborhood, a low-slung one-story structure with a tile roof and an attached two-car garage. The doors were closed, but a white Vibe was parked in the driveway.

  They went up to the front door, Yelina in the lead; Caine, as a cop himself, did not always defer to the detectives on cases, as CSIs in some jurisdictions were required to. But out of respect, he usually gave Yelina that courtesy.

  The detective rang the doorbell, and a young man barely twenty-one—which he’d have to be, to work at the Palace Fronton—opened the door. He wasn’t a bad-looking kid, with his short dark hair, bushy eyebrows, and cleft chin. Harmless looking, in a Palace T-shirt, jeans, and socks.

  At first, seeing a beautiful woman in a scoop-neck top, the kid grinned, but it was more embarrassed than flirtatious. “Whoa. Hello.”

  “Hello.” Yelina held up her badge. “Are you Jimmy Hamilton?”

  The color drained from the kid’s face; he nodded.

  “We’re from Miami PD. I’m Detective Salas, this is Lieutenant Caine. May we come in?”

  “Do you…need a warrant or anything?”

  Hands on his hips, Caine smiled tightly at the boy. “Why, son? Have you done something wrong?”

  He swallowed and said, “I just…I mean…Come on in.”

  The kid opened the screen door for them and led his guests into the living room. The house seemed neat and orderly, nothing too cheap, nothing too expensive, everything very middle of the road and in good shape—rent-to-buy furniture that had been paid off.

  The young man was sweating now, though it wasn’t terribly warm in the house, and his brown eyes were darting, looking at anything in the room but the two cops.

  Caine and Yelina exchanged glances, acknowledging how sadly easy this was going to be. Her expression asked Caine if he’d mind carrying the ball here.

  So it was Caine who asked, “Why don’t you sit down, son—mind if we do?”

  “No. Please.”

  The boy sat on the edge of an armchair and his guests took the couch. Caine leaned forward, and his smile was of the tough-love variety.

  “Jimmy, we’re really busy right now. Maybe you’ve seen the papers. Bit of a crisis.”

  The boy swallowed, nodding. “These gangs, shooting everything up.”

  “That’s right. So we don’t have any time to waste right now. We’re not going to beat around the bush here, Jimmy.” Eyes narrowed, Caine met the young man’s eyes and held them, then he spoke in a very measured, meaningful fashion. “We’ve got…your fingerprints…on a gun we found.”

  The boy’s hands came to his face, and he began to weep.

  Yelina and Caine exchanged another glance; both were compassionate by nature, but it was too early in the game to offer support.

  “The gun,” Caine said, “was used to kill a woman in Bayfront Park.”

  Swallowing, Hamilton looked up, face streaked with tears. “I…I know.”

  “Did you kill that woman?”

  Hamilton wiped his eyes on his T-shirt, pulling it up and exposing his pale belly. “No! No…God, no.”

  Again Caine glanced at Salas, who looked as confused as he felt. Why the tears, then? Caine wondered.

  But what he said was, “Jimmy…if you didn’t shoot this woman, how did your prints get on the gun?”

  The kid let out a long, shuddering breath; his lower lip quivered, but he managed to hold back further tears. For now.

  He said, “I knew you’d be coming here someday.”

  “Is that right.”

  “I…I don’t know how I knew…but I knew. And I promised myself that, no matter what, I’d tell you the truth.”

  “That’s good, Jimmy.”

  “I wasn’t…wasn’t strong enough to come forward. Too afraid.”

  Again, the detectives traded glances.

  “But when you came,” the boy was saying, “I swore to myself, I’d tell you what happened.”

  “Then, Jimmy, why don’t you?”

  “Well, first off, like I said…I didn’t kill that woman.”

  “But you know who did?”

  “Yes. Mike Garner.”

  Another shared glance, then Caine said, “Jimmy, that name doesn’t mean anything to us. You’re gonna have to bring us up to speed.”

  The kid began to cry again.

  Yelina rose and handed him a tissue from her purse; she put a hand on his shoulder. The boy looked up at her with a trembling smile and thanked her. Then he blew his nose, and she sat back down.

  “Garner is this…this bully who’s always kicking my ass. He’s like my, my…nemesis.” He swallowed snot and straightened up. “Well, finally, I got sick and tired of it…and…I decided I was going to kill him.”

  Caine raised a hand. “Jimmy—we’re going to have to take a second now, and give you your rights.”

  He nodded. “Like on TV.”

  “Like on TV,” Caine said. “Detective?”

  Yelina read the boy his rights, which he said he understood.

  Then, carefully, Caine said, “Would you like to go on, Jimmy?”

  “I…I would. Or should I get an attorney or something?”

  “That’s your choice. But if you didn’t kill this woman, maybe you should just get it off your chest.”

  “That’s what I want to, Lieutenant.”

  “So this Mike Garner was a bully. Wasn’t deciding to kill him a little…extreme?”

  “Not when you been getting humiliated and beat up by the same person for five or six years.”

  “Tell us about that.”

  Hamilton nodded, touched the tissue to his nose, gathered his thoughts, and then said his piece.

  “Mike Garner had been kicking my ass since high school. We were in shop class together, and he’d make fun of me and it spilled out on the sidewalk, after school. Anyway, I thought it would stop after high school, but it didn’t. I enrolled at Dade County Community College and, wouldn’t you know it, there was Mike Garner again. Two more years of his bullying me, taking money from me, vandalizing my car, scaring off any girls that might have been interested in me—”

  “Jimmy,” Yelina said gently. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Garner said he’d kill me if I ever told anybody anything.”

  Caine said, “Did you believe he would do that?”

  “I saw him kill a dog once—with a hammer.”

  With a raised eyebrow, Caine said, “So you kept quiet.”

  “Yeah…and then when I got the job at the Palace, I figured I was finally rid of him for good.”

  “But,” Caine said, “you weren’t.”