The man in the red jacket returned, and I had to give him props for being the only person near the ring to be working the entire day. He was going through the running order with a man wearing a headset. My view was then blocked by an usher.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  I looked at him but said nothing.

  “These seats are reserved.”

  “I know.”

  “Soooo, you’ll need to find your own seat.”

  “I have.”

  The usher frowned and glanced at the two people behind him. One was a woman of roughly thirty and an older guy who I could have met in Orlando. He had his brother’s eyes and nose, but his gray perm was all his own, a bold and interesting choice for someone not living in the 1970s.

  “Um, sir, this is Mr. Priestly’s seat.”

  I looked up at Breyer Priestly. He had matched me in wearing a tuxedo, but his jacket was purple velour, and he was totally rocking it. Beside him, I felt like a waiter in a French restaurant.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” said the usher. “There’s a reserved sign.”

  “There is?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re sitting on it.”

  I leaned forward to reveal the sign. I had flipped it over and scribbled on it with a marker, so it now read: Reserved, Miami Jones.

  “So it does,” I said.

  “Umm, sir?”

  I smiled at him and then at Priestly, who didn’t reciprocate. I didn’t know who the woman was, but she seemed to find the whole thing amusing, which in turn seemed to sour Priestly’s mood even more.

  “I’ll tell you what, why doesn’t she sit with me, and Hugh Hefner can go play the slots?”

  “Do you know who I am?” said Priestly. His Dr. Wrexham had used the same line.

  “Bob Ross?” I replied.

  “I’m gonna sit,” said the woman, and she did just that, right next to me. She smiled, then looked up at Priestly.

  He was obviously the head honcho of this whole rodeo, complete with prefight drinks in a luxury suite and front-row seats right where the TV camera would catch them. But right at that moment, he was a man who had just had his pants pulled down to his ankles, and he either hiked them back up and lost all dignity or he doubled down.

  I gave him a third option. The way to save face. I leaned into the woman.

  “It’s okay. It’s an old routine. We went to college together.”

  We had to be twenty years apart, but she giggled and said, “That’s funny.”

  “Breyer, you old dog,” I said as I stood. “It’s been too long.”

  We shook hands with an audible slap like we had been on the wrestling team together.

  “Give me a second of your time,” I said, turning Priestly toward the ring and moving away from the woman. “Here’s the deal. I’m going to leave here with a wink and a nod, and she’s going to think you’ve got a sense of humor that we both know you don’t have. But first I’m going to tell you that I know all about Fishook and your crumby fighters’ fund.”

  “You’re the buffoon that barged into my brother’s office.”

  “Buffoon? That’s a good word. I’m going to start using it more. And yeah, that was me. I know your brother spoke to you and you spoke to Fishook and he called Tina Cabrini and offered her five hundred measly dollars. These front-row seats go for what, four times that? So five hundred isn’t going work, is it?”

  “I don’t know who you think you are—”

  “Miami Jones. It says so right there on my reserved sign.”

  “Your client is a murderer. Yeah, I know he’s in prison.”

  “Prison is where you go after you’re convicted.”

  “Which he will be.”

  “Maybe. But that just makes it more important that his wife gets what she deserves from the fund.”

  “I am not involved in the day-to-day operations.”

  “But such an important guy like you can certainly make a recommendation. You know, that his case be reconsidered.”

  “Or what?”

  “Three things. One, I tell the Palm Beach Post and local TV that we can prove boxers were cheated out of money they paid into a fund to help them when they got older. I have a university surgeon willing to confirm that not only do his tests show my client and others have boxing-related injuries, but that a hack with no neurology credentials denied claims from your fund. And two, I put a call in to Immigration and Customs Enforcement. You’re a Canadian, right?”

  “And British Virgin Islands. Dual citizen.”

  “Right, but not American. So you being at this boxing match as president of the sanctioning body would be considered doing business, which you can do on a business visa. But I know for a fact that there’s an office up in Orlando with your name on it. That makes it a place of work, for which you need a work permit. It’s a bureaucratic difference, I grant you, but one I assure you they take very seriously down there at ICE. One call and you get dragged out of here in cuffs and miss the big fight, and whatever you think is gonna happen with your granddaughter there.”

  Priestly pinched his lips together, and it didn’t suit his hairstyle at all. “She’s not my granddaughter.”

  “Glad to hear it. But the third thing I’ll do is tell her about that funny time back in college during spring break when you and I met some girls who gave us a souvenir that itches like hell in the crotch when the humidity is up.”

  Priestly clenched his jaw.

  “And if you’re thinking to just tell me what I want to hear and then do nothing, remember that the first two things I mentioned don’t go away so easily, and the third can be used to ruin a good time with your next prospect.” I slapped his shoulder. “You feel me?”

  “How do I know you won’t talk after I’ve passed on the message?”

  “You don’t. But one of us is a stand-up guy who doesn’t con invalids out of money they could use to pay their medical bills, and the other one is a piece of excrement that looks like Leo Sayer. So we’ll go with me, you think?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good man.” I took a step and turned so his date could hear. “Good to see you, Brey, you old dog.” I gestured to the whole theater. “Great show. You always were the man.” To the woman: “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  I walked up the stairs to the exit. I didn’t need to see the main event. I needed my car. I needed to get home. My wife was waiting, and I was wearing a tuxedo.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I didn’t get a lot of sleep, but sometimes that makes the next day all the better. I had received a text message from Elissa Croix, so I left Danielle early and headed to her office. I turned up bearing bagels with cream cheese and lox as well as some decent coffee. Her building was locked up tight on a Sunday morning, so she let me in. It was dark and quiet, and the aura of disappointment and fear that pervaded the place seemed to have lifted for the day. She flipped the light on in her office.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t do carbs or something.”

  “I went to school at NYU. I love a good bagel.”

  Score one, Jones.

  She explained what she had as she spread some cream cheese on a bagel, scattered it with capers, and then folded lox gently on top.

  “I spoke with the assistant state attorney on the Cabrini case. He sent over some preliminary discovery items. Mainly an evidence list and scene photos.”

  “Does it normally come in pieces like that?”

  “It can. As they gather more, they send it over. That’s why they usually wait until just before the trial, so they’ll pretty much send everything in one go.”

  I picked up the evidence list. There was more on it than I thought: personal items, things taken from the scene and from Johnny’s garage, and his car.

  “I haven’t seen the video, but the ASA has. He says it shows the victim arriving shortly before the defendant. Then, after a short period, the defendant leaves, making some aggressive gestures as he goes.”

  “Gestures?”

  “The ASA thinks he was shouting at the victim, as if telling him to ‘cop that’ or something like it.”

  “Something like it?”

  “Yes. Anyway, he said there’s no audio or a way to lip-read or even confirm that he spoke, so that’s just the prosecution’s spin on it.”

  “No video of the fight?”

  “No. The attack, as he called it, was outside its field of view.”

  “I’ve seen the camera. It’s over the shop next door, so that sounds right. What’s your feeling?”

  “It’s a strong case, prima facie. But I think there’s something he’s not telling us.”

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t know. Just a hunch. Like there’s something more, something in the works. My radar tells me they’re working up to justify charges.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The arrest warrant was for second-degree murder. That’s not uncommon. If they establish motive they can up it to murder one, or if necessary negotiate down to manslaughter. We would hope to do the latter. I think they’re building a case for murder.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a hunch and I could be wrong, but if they are, sooner or later we’ll find out.”

  “When?”

  “Probably at the arraignment.”

  “In a few weeks? Johnny needs help now.”

  “I’m going to petition for a psych review. If we can’t get bail at the final hearing, maybe we can at least get him situated in a proper facility.”

  “It’s got to be better than jail.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We can’t worry about charges that haven’t been established yet, so no point trying to disprove a motive that hasn’t been presented. But we should look at mitigation. Gather anything that shows his deteriorating state of mind, especially clinically.”

  “You mean from a doctor?”

  “Yes.” She bit into her bagel and made an “mmm” sound that made her blush.

  “I have the surgeon at the university researching the whole CTE thing. He says there’s no doubt there’s trauma and that it is boxing related.”

  “Can we get that in writing?”

  “Don’t see why not, unless there’s some HIPAA thing preventing it.”

  “I’ll get Mr. Cabrini to sign a waiver. You talk to the doctor.”

  As she took another bite, I picked up the folder with the crime scene photos. They weren’t graphic enough to take my appetite away; most of the damage to Ricky the Fudge was internal. What stuck with me was the unnatural placement of the body. A living person doesn’t lie with arms and legs akimbo; they position themselves. A dead person would drop as a function of gravity and momentum and the range of motion of their limbs. Ricky the Fudge looked like he had fallen down the stairs right through the door to the club, like a ghost. His feet were pointed toward the door, and he lay at an angle across the alcove, with his head toward the parking lot.

  I didn’t know Richard Whitecross, and I wasn’t a fan of the way he had chosen to make his living, but I didn’t care to look at the shell of what had once been a small boy with a toothy grin and hopes and dreams. I cared less for the idea that it had been my client who had ended his time on this ball of dirt and gas we call home.

  I told Elissa that I would get onto the things we discussed and let her know, then I stood to leave. She eyed the box of bagels like a cat burglar looking at a diamond tiara.

  “There are five bagels left.”

  “They said a half dozen was a deal.”

  “You don’t want them?”

  “Nah. You share them around here if you need the brownie points. If not, take them home. Enjoy.”

  “Thank you.”

  I walked out with just my coffee and walked over to my office, wondering if an assistant public defender made so little that free bagels were a blessing, or if she was just that New York.

  I was sitting at my desk when I heard Ron roll in. He called out, “Good morning,” so I did the same, then I heard the coffee machine click on. I had already satisfied my one-cup limit.

  We convened at my desk. Lizzy took the whole rest-on-the-Sabbath thing pretty seriously, so I didn’t ask her to come, but she volunteered to call in. Somehow she got us on a video call in her Sunday best, right before church. We went through what we knew and didn’t know. The upshot of it all was that we now had two tasks: get Tina Cabrini some money from the fund so she didn’t lose her house, and gather testimony on Johnny’s mental health to both mitigate future charges and support the petition Elissa would file to get him the mental health treatment he needed while in custody.

  “I can call Dr. Abe’s office,” Lizzy said.

  “We need to get the waiver from Elissa first,” I said. “Otherwise Abe won’t be able to give us a bean. Can you call her paralegal tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  “Then there’s the fund. I’ve shaken the tree, so we’ll see if that improves the offer. Do you have any more?”

  “I tracked down the name Fishook. There’s a company called Fishook Financial on the island. The mailing address is the same one as on the fund correspondence sent to the Cabrinis. There’s not a lot of detail because it’s a private firm, but I’m going to get into the state registrations and so on and see where it leads.”

  “I asked around,” said Ron. “My data are more anecdotal.”

  “Always,” I said.

  “Yes, well, it seems Fishook specializes in handling portfolios for foreign nationals who winter in Palm Beach. Especially folks from the Caribbean and Central America.”

  “The British Virgin Islands?”

  “Quite probably.”

  “Okay team, that’s good work, but the clock is ticking. Johnny’s next hearing is in a couple days and we need everything we can to make sure he gets into a psychiatric facility, not just the regular old cells at Gun Club Road. And Tina’s facing eviction if we can’t get her some money.”

  Lizzy left our call. Ron hit the phones and computers. I sat at my desk, reliving the image of Ricky the Fudge lying in the alcove. It gnawed at me. And I wasn’t going to wait for the Office of the State Attorney for the Fifteenth Judicial Circuit to provide the evidence most damning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I took the increasingly familiar route back to the Pugilists’ Club. The hubbub was over, and the crime scene tape and onlookers and cop cars were gone. The lot was mostly vacant but I parked at the rear anyway and walked across the asphalt. The door to the club was closed, and the alcove was dark, so I couldn’t see much of anything. It wasn’t the movies—there were no chalk outlines on the ground. Law enforcement had more technology on their side than that now.

  I wanted to see some of that technology. The evidence list from the state attorney’s office included the surveillance video from the scene, and although Elissa had told me the defense would get access to it in due course, due course felt like a long time away. So like Ponce de Leon, I didn’t wait for it to come to me. I went to the source.

  I pulled open the heavy door at the rear of the payday lender and found a long corridor that led all the way to the front of the store. It was tight and as I walked its length, I assumed behind the wall to my right were offices and maybe a safe full of cash. At the front of the store, I found an empty lobby. The walls were covered in posters telling me that life would be better with a payday loan. Certainly paying for a car to be fixed so I could get to work might make life better, but these guys were suggesting that my next vacation should be funded with money I didn’t have, and that didn’t sit right with me. Besides, I lived in the vacation capital of the world, so where would I go?

  There were four counter sections where a half wall was topped with Perspex, just like in Sally’s pawn shop, but only one of them had an employee behind it. That guy looked bored out of his mind.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Morning.” It was a good start, as I was expecting to be met with a grunt.

  “Not too busy.”

  “We do payday loans—not many people get paid on Sundays. Regardless, it’ll get busier after all the churches let out.”

  “You the manager?”

  “Nah. He doesn’t come in on Sundays.”

  “But you’re the one who opens up.”

  “That’s me. How can I help you?”

  I stood outside the Perspex and looked at his button-up shirt and hairstyle that was messy but possibly on purpose. This was my guy. I didn’t want the manager—they might be a corporate stickler for rules—but I needed a person with some level of seniority.

  “I’m Miami Jones. I’m a PI working on behalf of the State of Florida’s Office of the Public Defender.” I minimized my role and expanded who I worked for because people tended to perk up at words like State and Office of. The guy didn’t snap to attention, but he was listening.

  “I’m investigating the incident that occurred next door.”

  “The dead guy?”

  “That’s right. Did you open up that morning?”

  “Yeah. I showed the cops the video, and my boss sent them a copy already. You didn’t get it?”

  “The police are sometimes a little slow about passing things on.”

  “You’re not a cop?”

  “Office of the Public Defender. Part of the court. Separate from the police.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I’m trying to expedite the investigation. It would be a great help for me to get a look at the video.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re under no obligation. I don’t have a warrant or anything. I can just wait until the state attorney’s office sends it to us, but that might happen after an innocent man goes to jail.”