W. Griffin: The Last Witness

“A hundred and thirty miles an hour? That’s insane. Why?”

“‘Healthier- Faster! ’ That’s the marketing slogan. The boat’s been wrapped in custom vinyl to make it look like a giant can of the stuff. But simple answer? Chad’s come to love go-fasts after hanging out with Antonov. And because he’s got a big hand in the promotion, he gets to pick where they throw money. He said there will be race car promos, too. Guess I’ll have to change his name from the Soup King to Speed King.”

“Antonov? The casino guy?”

Nikoli Antonov was general manager of Philly’s year-old Lucky Stars Casino amp; Entertainment, an enormous five-story complex that offered cavernous areas for gambling-2,500 slot machines, 100 gaming tables-fine dining, and performances by top music artists. Despite the competing casino that was nearly next door, Lucky Stars was said to sell the highest volume of alcohol in all the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Both casinos were just off the I-95 Delaware Expressway and overlooked the Delaware River, not far from Amanda Law’s luxury high-rise condominium building in Northern Liberties.

Matt nodded. “Nick Antonov has a couple of boats promoting the casino. One is supposed to be out there with Chad and the others. But I think Chad said someone other than Nick is running it.”

“And they’re doing this why?”

“Some children’s charity. I forget which one. Entry fee is maybe fifty grand, a drop in the bucket considering the cost of feeding a go-fast. But the quiet big money, just like with college and pro ball, is bet in Vegas and on the side. There are guys at Lucky Stars right now watching these boats on the betting TVs in between pulls on the slots. Not to mention the mob bookies in South Philly are running the odds. Which reminds me: the guy who was head of the Philly mob and just got out of the slam after ten years, Tony the Fixer?”

“What about him?”

“He now lives in Palm Beach. Says he’s just working on his tan.”

“I take it you don’t think so?”

Matt shook his head. “A condition of his release is that he can’t associate with any wiseguys-which is all he knows in Philly. Otherwise he’s back to jail. But it’s all BS. Fact is he can run the mob from down here, from anywhere, just as he ran it from the slam. And there were plenty of mob hits while he was in there.”

“Do you think he’s involved with this race?”

Matt shook his head again. “Not directly. Only with those South Philly bookies taking bets. There’s no racing involved here. It’s a Poker Run. Basically, the boats make five stops, drawing new cards at each one. They started this morning from a marina in the Conch Republic-”

“Key West?”

He nodded. “The whole thing is filmed-that was what that helicopter was doing. At each stop, other cameras show the hands as they get played. Then the boat with the best hand wins something like a new Mustang that’s donated by the local Ford dealer. Meantime, the charity gets a fat check.”

Amanda considered that for a moment, then said, “I think I’ll settle for just writing a check directly to the Shriners while sitting on this nice boat and watching the scenery drift by.”

In Philadelphia, Amanda could see the Shriners children’s hospital across the street from her office at Temple University Hospital.

Matt smiled.

“That’s the woman I love,” he said, as his cell phone began ringing.

Amanda saw that the caller ID read THE BLACK BUDDHA.

“What do you think Jason wants?” she said, looking at Matt. “I thought you were off-duty.”

Lieutenant Jason Washington was Matt’s immediate boss in the Homicide Unit. He was enormous-six-three, two-twenty-five-articulate, impeccably tailored, and had very dark skin. He also was one of the best homicide detectives on the East Coast, from Maine to Miami, and did not take any offense at all to being referred to as the Black Buddha.

“No disputing the fact that I’m black,” he said, “and a Buddha by definition is a venerated and enlightened individual.”

Amanda grabbed the phone, smiling at Matt as she put it to her ear.

Matt shook his head, but he was grinning.

“Well, hello, Jason!” she said. “I do hope this is a social call. How is Martha?”

Amanda’s father, before being offered retirement while recovering from a bullet to the hip from the robber he’d ultimately shot dead, had worked with Washington in Northeast Detectives a decade earlier. Charley Law and Jason Washington had become close, and Martha Washington long had served as a sort of protective aunt toward Amanda.

It was no secret to any of them that Amanda-who said she’d grown up worrying that every day she saw her father leave for work would be the last she’d see him alive, and then he did get shot-would be the polar opposite of upset if Matt were suddenly to find an occupation that did not involve hazardous duty.

After a pause, Matt heard Washington’s sonorous voice. Then he saw Amanda’s eyebrows go up behind her big round dark sunglasses.

“Thank you. Of course. Here he is,” she said, and handed the phone to Matt.

“Hey, Jason,” he said, watching Amanda watch him. He smiled. “Is the department falling apart without me?”

“Matthew, my apology for interrupting your romantic getaway,” Jason said, his deep tone sincere.

“Always happy to hear from you. You know that. What’s up?”

“This is delicate, but I need you to do something for me. Discretion is paramount.”

“Anything.”

“I’m going to mention a name, and I do not want you repeating it during our discussion right now.”

“Okay. .” Matt said, reaching down to adjust the autopilot as an excuse to turn his face away from Amanda.

“As soon as absolutely possible-and without it triggering further questions-I need you to figure out a way to work Margaret McCain into a conversation with Amanda, asking if she has heard from her lately. And, if you can manage it without her becoming suspicious, also ask if any of her other friends or associates have.”

Maggie McCain? Matt thought, fighting the automatic urge to glance at Amanda.

What the hell is that about?

“You got it, Jason. Can I ask why?”

“No, you cannot. I’m sorry. Call me when you have an answer, Matthew.”

Latitude 25 Degrees 44 Minutes 71 Seconds North

Longitude 81 Degrees 58 Minutes 58 Seconds West

The Straits of Florida, Southeast of Key West

Sunday, November 16, 4:15 P.M.

“Lucky One, Lucky One. Tin Can, over,” Jorge Perez’s handheld Motorola radio crackled with the voice of Miguel Treto as he maneuvered the sleek fifty-foot Cigarette Marauder at the back of a pack of ten other high-performance boats.

A wiry, tall thirty-four-year-old, Perez had been born in Miami of Cuban parents six months after they fled the Communist island-nation. He was deeply tanned and had short black hair and a goatee. His intense brown eyes were shielded by dark polarized sunglasses. He wore khaki shorts, a dark blue linen shirt with a white tropical flower motif, and tan leather deck shoes.

The open cockpit had seven high-back deeply padded leather seats. Perez was at the helm. The other six seats were filled with stunning blondes and brunettes with bronze tans, the girls all in their twenties, all more or less clad in the tiniest of bikinis. Two were sunning themselves topless.

On both sides of the white Marauder’s long hull and on its foredeck were images of a giant pair of rolling red dice and the wording:

MORE WINNERS, MORE MONEY!

LUCKY STARS CASINO AND ENTERTAINMENT