Nick Stone: The King of Swords

But it hadn't really worked out that way. Boukman's attitude-his resignation to his fate and the certainty, his cast-iron faith that he'd escape the inevitable-had unnerved and even undone him. He was suddenly conscious of the sweat running down his temples, of the uncomfortable feeling in his gut that maybe-just maybe, in some impossible way-Boukman might even be right about the way things were going to turn out.

Eldon felt beaten. Powerless. Insignificant.

Without saying a word to the prisoner, he put the tapes back in the envelope, stood up and banged on the door for the guard.

'I thought so,' Boukman said, his voice suddenly at his ear.

Eldon turned around sharply, expecting to see him standing right behind him, but he hadn't moved from the table. He was smiling broadly at Eldon, showing a set of strong white teeth and, between them, the curled, pointed tips of his splayed tongue.

As the door opened and Eldon stepped out of the room he heard Boukman laugh behind him. It wasn't a loud laugh, more a snigger, but a hard, contemptuous one which reminded him of hailstones on a tin roof.

The laughter stayed with him, not in his ears, but in his brain, embedded in his memory, swirling around and around in his head as it followed him out of the prison and into his car. It was with him as he drove to Gainesville Regional Airport and caught the flight back to Miami. And then, once he was airborne, it got marginally louder and significantly harsher, especially when he tried to concentrate on the business he had before him that evening-a meeting with the Mayor, to discuss his imminent promotion to Deputy Chief, and how he was going to help clean up the police force and make Miami great again.

5 November 1982 'How did it go?' Sandra asked Max after he'd sat down next to her on the sand. It was early evening and the sun was going down, bathing the beach in a deep coppery glow. The holidaymakers were all packing up and drifting away back to their hotels, while the gulls were circling the trash they'd left behind like vultures. Soon the junkies and the homeless bums would be marking out their turf for the night.

'It went,' he said. It had been his third and final day on the witness stand in the trial of Solomon Boukman, and he was dead beat, drained to the last dregs, good for nothing but some idle small talk, a couple of hours of mindless TV and a good long sleep.

'His lawyer chew you up today?'

'No.' Max shook his head. 'He left his teeth at home. Again.'

Boukman's public defender was one of the worst lawyers he'd ever encountered-if not the worst. Or should that be the best? A half-decent lawyer would have at least tried to cast a shadow of doubt over his and Joe's testimony: they never actually saw who pulled the trigger on the cop, never positively IDed Boukman behind the wheel of the cab (which was never recovered after the riot); they could, theoretically, have been chasing the wrong man. And then there were all those injuries Boukman had sustained-three broken ribs, a busted nose, a fractured cheek and a dislocated jaw-which Max didn't even get cross-examined about. Not that the predominantly white jury would have bought into Boukman's innocence anyway: the press had already blamed him for starting what was now known as the 'Little Haiti Riot' when he'd killed Otis Mandel, an honest, hard-working patrol cop who'd left behind a wife and daughter; and no lawyer could argue with forensics and fingerprint evidence. Boukman was going down. No doubt about it.

'So why are you upset?'

'I'm not.' Max smiled at her. 'I'm just tired.'

'Something's bugging you. Something's got under your skin.' Sandra looked at him with her big brown eyes that saw everything.

'Can I tell you later?'

'Nothing wrong with now.'

'Everything's wrong with now.' He looked out at the sea and the family in front of them-a couple and their two young children, a boy and a girl in matching yellow floppy hats.

Sandra was frowning at him. 'I insist.'

'I've…I've decided to leave the force. I'm not gonna be a cop any more. I don't wanna be a cop any more. Not this way.'

He thought she'd be pleasantly shocked, but she was merely pleased.

'I knew you weren't happy there,' she said.

'Why?'

'After you brought Boukman in, you just stopped caring.'

'You noticed?'

'Oh yeah.'

Yeah, he had stopped caring, but it had nothing to do with Boukman.

First Joe had left last October. He'd transferred out to Vice. Half the girls he'd busted in his first six months on the job had once worked for Carmine and Eva Desamours.

Then Eldon had been made Deputy Chief, to much press fanfare. He was hailed, in some papers, as 'Miami's best shot at salvation'. He'd immediately expanded and reorganized MTF into individual units, all reporting to him.

Max got promoted to Lieutenant and put in charge of MTF's Robbery and Homicide division. He hated it. MTF may have been reorganized, but that simply meant it had become more proficient at doing what it had done before. Evidence was still planted, people were still framed or killed, and judges and juries lied to: the wrong bad guys got convicted and the right ones walked. 'Make it fit and make it stick' became MTF's unofficial motto. There was no point in talking to Eldon about it, because it was the way Eldon had always done things, and the way he'd always do things.

And as for Max, he could either put up or pack up.

He'd lived that way, one foot out of the door, one foot in, right up until the start of the Boukman trial.

When he'd been called to the witness stand and placed his hand on the Bible to give his oath, he'd remembered his swearing-in ceremony, when he'd first joined the police. He'd really believed in what he was doing then, really believed that he could make a difference. And then he'd remembered how he and Joe had tracked Boukman, on their own, working out of that garage in Overtown. It all seemed to have happened to someone else.

And that was when he'd made his decision.

'I don't know what I'll do,' Max concluded.

'We'll think of something. Don't worry. It'll be all right. It'll be more than all right. You'll see.'

'You think?'

'I know. What does your gut tell you?'

'If I stay it'll just get worse,' Max answered. 'But if I leave, it can only get better. Me and Eldon may have history, but this is about the future.'

'There you go,' she said. 'I never did like Eldon. Those brief times we met, in the hospital, and when you made Lieutenant…something about him wasn't right. Something didn't fit and didn't stick.'

'Anything specific?'

'Instinct.' Sandra shrugged.

'That's what you get from livin' with a cop. A little of our sixth sense rubs off.'

'Oh, I've always had it, baby.'

'Then you should've been a cop.'

They laughed and after the laughter they let the sound of the waves take over for a while.

Sandra watched the family in front of them. The father was holding the girl up and making her squeal with laughter as he pulled faces and growled. This made Sandra smile, the way Max had noticed she always did when she saw happy children-or children generally. It was her private, daydreaming smile, the one she never shared with him; the one she had when she was seeing her hopes and dreams being projected through others.

She put her arm around him and leant her head on his shoulder.

'You know,' she sighed, 'I'm really looking forward to spending the rest of my life with you.'

He smiled at that. He thought of something appropriate to say in return, and the words came to him quickly.

But as he opened his mouth to speak he felt a sudden chill shoot down his spine and his body spasmed and shook.

Sandra sat up and looked at him worriedly.