Motor Mouth - Janet Evanovich [78]
“Did Rodriguez say anything about the chip buyer? Who it is? Why the chip is so important?”
“No,” Hooker said. “Just that the buyer was arriving at nine. For all I know, he could be selling his fancy-ass battery to the battery bunny. Or how about this, maybe the chip is a homing device for an alien probe.”
“You got that from Star Trek.”
“Yeah, that was a great movie. It had whales and everything.” Hooker plugged the key into the ignition and cranked the motor over. “Let’s drive out to the airport. I want to see who’s arriving tonight.”
THIRTEEN
Hooker was stretched back in his seat, hands locked behind his head, eyes closed against the ambient light from the terminal.
“Surveillance doesn’t actually work if you keep your eyes closed,” I told Hooker.
“Are your eyes open?”
“Yes.”
“Good enough.”
We were parked to the side of the Signature terminal, and there wasn’t a lot of activity.
“The plane’s late,” I said to Hooker.
“If they’re coming from out of the country, they have to go through customs and immigration, and it’s in a different part of the airport. After they clear customs, they’ll get back into the plane, and the plane will taxi them over here. I’ve been through the process at this airport, and it usually goes pretty fast, but the plane still has to get from point A to point B.”
At nine thirty-five, three men in suits and two men in uniform exited the terminal. The men in uniform and two of the suits carried luggage. Three small rolling suitcases and a computer case. They were traveling light. The third man was luggage free. They were all Caucasian. The uniformed men were young, in their twenties. Flight attendants. The three men in suits were forties to fifties. I didn’t recognize any of them. That didn’t say a lot because I never recognized anyone. Okay, maybe if Brad Pitt walked by. The Russian premier, the queen of England, our own vice president (what’s-his-name), the ambassador to Bulgaria, were all safe with me.
“Do you think this is our man?” I asked Hooker.
“Seems to be the only plane with a nine o’clock landing.”
“Do you recognize any of these guys?”
“No. They look like average middle-management businessmen.”
A six-seat limo pulled up, the luggage was loaded, the three suits got into the limo, and the limo pulled away with us a couple car lengths behind. We followed the limo south on Route 95 and then east on 395, across the MacArthur Causeway. The lights of South Beach were directly in front of us. Four behemoth cruise ships parked at the Biscayne Bay cruise ship docks were to my right. I’d expected the limo to take Collins and head for Loews or the Delano or the Ritz. Instead, the limo right turned onto Alton.
“He’s going to the boat,” I said to Hooker. “What does that mean?”
“I’m guessing no one’s told him about the missing Ray.”
The limo pulled into the marina lot and stopped at idle in front of the walkway leading to the piers. Lights still on. Motor running. Hooker cut his lights and slid into a shadowed slot at the back of the lot.
Two uniformed crew members came running from dockside. They were followed by someone who was also in uniform but clearly was higher on the food chain. Maybe the captain or purser. The limo driver got out and popped the trunk. The three suits got out, and after a brief conversation, the luggage was turned over to the crew members, and everyone headed for the boat. The limo driver got into his car and drove away.
“Looks like these guys were invited to stay on the boat and the invitation stands,” Hooker said.
Hooker and I got out, quietly closed the car doors, skirted the lot, and found a dark bench on the marina boardwalk where we could watch the action. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be any action to watch. The three men had disappeared into the bowels of the ship and all was quiet.
“This is sort of boring,” Hooker said. “We should do something.”
“What did you have in mind?”
He inched closer to me.
“No,” I said.
“Do you have any better