Big Trouble

As they turned into Garbanzo Street, the couple in the Lexus was arguing. They had been arguing for two hours now, since the start of their dinner at the Italian restaurant in Coral Gables. The issue was whether to stay in Miami, where the husband had been transferred by his bank a year and a half ago, or move back to Cedar Rapids, where they were both from. He thought that, for career reasons, they should stay; she wanted to go.

They were arguing so heatedly that the husband almost ran into the large man standing in the street, waving his arms. The man seemed to be wearing a uniform, but it was filthy and drenched in sweat, and there was blood running down his arm, which was ... handcuffed to some big, mangled piece of metal, which was ... my God, it was handcuffed to another man, a strange-looking man, off to the side there. With a big dog.

"I think we should get out of here," the husband said.

"They look like they need help," the wife said.

"OK," said the husband, "but we stay in the car."

Keeping the car in gear, the husband pressed the power-door-lock button and lowered his window two inches.

"Listen," said the large man. "I'm a Miami police officer, and I need you to ... "

"GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN!" said the strange-looking man.

"SHUT UP!" said the large man. Turning back to the couple, he said, "I need you to ... "

"SHE WANTS YOUR SOUL!" said the strange-looking man. He was pointing at the dog, who sniffed his finger, then barked.

"I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP GODDAMMIT!" said the large man, shoving the big metal thing hard, knocking the strange man over. 'THAT IS NOT ELIZABETH FUCKING DOLE!"

The husband pressed the accelerator. The car shot forward, tires squealing.

"NO!" screamed the large man. "COME BACK!"

The husband drove three blocks before speaking.

"OK," he said. "You call the movers."

17:01

"You know this guy?" Baker asked Greer. They were standing with Henry, who was watching three police officers and two paramedics unwrap Daphne from Leonard, who had regained consciousness. So had Daphne's owner, who was being formally taken into police custody and had already been handed business cards by four personal-injury attorneys who happened to be on the scene.

"Oh yeah," said Greer, "I know Henry from the old days, in Jersey. I used to interrogate him alla time, back when I worked organized crime."

"Wasn't that organized," said Henry. "Which is why I got out of it."

"You're saying you're retired now?" asked Greer. "Workin' on the stamp collection? Drinkin' Ensure?"

"More or less," said Henry.

"Sure," said Greer. "Listen, much as I would enjoy hearin' you explain to these officers why you come to their airport wearin' a piece on your ankle, I got important federal business, OK?"

"Real good chattin' with you," said Henry, turning back to Leonard.

"OK," said Greer, to Baker and Seitz. "These are assholes, but not the right assholes. I need to talk to somebody in charge."

"That guy there, I'm pretty sure he's the head airport cop," said Baker, pointing to a white-haired man in a shirt and tie, talking on a cell phone and holding a walkie-talkie, which was emitting a drumbeat of messages and static. Greer walked over.

"No, nobody got hit," the white-haired man was saying. "Just the snake." He listened for a moment, then said, "I don't know what kind. A big snake."

Greer was holding his badge wallet in the man's face.

"FBI," he said.

The man waved the wallet away.

"We don't need any help," he said. "We got this."

"No," said Greer, "I need somethin' from you."

"Well, it's gonna have to wait," said the white-haired man, turning away.

Greet stepped a few paces away. He pulled the odd-looking phone from his pocket and pressed a button on it. He waited for two seconds, then spoke for about twenty. He pressed another button and put the phone back in his pocket, then walked back and stood next to the white-haired man, waiting. The white-haired man, ignoring him, continued talking on his cell phone for about thirty seconds, then stopped and listened.

"What?" he said. He looked up at Greer. Greer showed him his badge again.

"Yes," said the white-haired man, into the phone. "He's right here." He listened some more, frowning.

"But ... " he said, then listened some more.

"OK," he said. "I got it." He shut off his phone, looked at Greer.

"My name's Arch Ridley," he said. "Tell me what you need."

"I need you to find out if anything else unusual has happened in this airport in the last thirty minutes," said Greer. "Besides this mess here."

"Lemme call the security office," said the man. He dialed a number, waited, and said, "Doris. Arch. Listen, is there ... What? Oh, Jesus. When?"

"What?" asked Greer. Ridley raised his hand, indicating wait a sec.

"No, that's not your fault," he was saying, "all this radio traffic. So what else did they ... OK ... OK ... shit. OK. Keep the phone line open. I'll call right back." He shut off the phone.

"What?" said Greer.