Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [93]
Susan called me at seven o’clock the next morning. Her voice had nothing in it to hold on to, just words strung together in formation without emotion or excitement. She said she’d be there to pick me up at eight-thirty, and that was about it. You would not have believed she knew me at all. Maybe she didn’t. I took a shower and got my only suit out of the closet. It was a khaki number I’d worn only once, and it looked a bit wrinkled, but it wasn’t like I was going on a job interview, so I put it on over a light blue shirt and wrapped up the package with a black tie located only after the greatest of difficulties.
Susan’s car was already there when I went outside. It was cloudy, and the streets were wet. She didn’t say anything when I got in beside her, and from this alone I knew it was not going to be a jubilant morning. I wasn’t exactly unhappy with the silence, as I was contemplating dark thoughts of going to the slammer, something I’d told my mother I would always try to avoid. That wasn’t the only area where I’d disappointed her. She had told me once that I should try to make a new friend every day, but a cursory review of the recent past revealed that I had fallen a bit behind schedule on that mission, too.
“What do you think is on today’s agenda?” I asked.
“Your ass, what else?”
A few minutes later, we were in a conference room on the sixth floor of the federal building in a room with an Arthurian-style round table, floor-to-ceiling windows, worn gray carpeting, and about ten cops of all persuasions, none of whom looked particularly glad to see me. Hackbart was there, too. He was standing by the window drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. He saw me come in and gave me his best scowl, perhaps the first of the day. Over his shoulder I watched a squadron of turkey buzzards flying lazy circles around the Freedom Tower to the north and hoped it wasn’t an omen.
Hackbart smiled at Susan and handed her a cup of coffee. I got my own. Then we all sat down around the table. The atmosphere in the room was thick with solemnity and, from my side, fear. We were introduced. There were CIA, FBI, DEA, Customs, coast guard, cops from the city of Miami, and cops from Miami Beach. There were cops of every make and model, and I knew at that moment without a doubt that I was the safest man in the world. I didn’t see anybody from the Justice League of America, however, but for all I knew, Batman was under the table with a tape recorder.
The murmur of voices died down all at once, and every eye turned toward the head of the table, where the district attorney sat. He was a tall, lean black man in his midfifties, with salt-and-pepper hair. His name was Lloyd Caldwell, and his somber face was locked into the deliberate expression of someone who puts people in jail for a living. Caldwell coughed into his fist and pushed the wire-rimmed glasses he wore farther up the bridge of his nose. He studied me for a long moment and nodded. There was a crimson folder in front of him and next to it a yellow envelope. He opened the folder and scanned quickly through the contents, all the while drumming softly on the table with the longest set of fingers I’d ever seen. They were fingers for Chopin. After a few seconds, he closed the folder and leaned back in his chair.
“For those of you who don’t know me,” he said, “my name is Lloyd Caldwell, and I’m the district attorney who’s been asked to preside over this meeting. I want to remind everyone here that what’s said in this room this morning does not go beyond the door.” He looked at me, then at Susan. “Does Mr. Vaughn understand that, Miss Andrews?