can rule out that much.”
“Plus, if it was .22-caliber, the shot probably would have been fired at close range to penetrate the skull. Like the classic Mafia hit, where the .22 is right up against the skull and the bullet rattles around inside the skull, no exit wound, turning the brains to scrambled eggs.That would have left residue.”
He seemed surprised that Andie knew that—or at least a little chagrined that he hadn’t said it first. “Exactly,” he said. “So with a larger wound and no powder burns at the point of entry, I’m saying it’s not a .22.”
“But if it was a bigger round—say, a .38 or a 9-millimeter—and fired at close range, it probably would have passed right through the skull.You’re telling me it didn’t do that.”
His expression showed less surprise than simple annoyance that Andie was keeping up, or perhaps even a step ahead of him.“Right.
So twenty feet sounds about right to me,” he said.
“Did you find a shell casing?”
“Not yet. Shooter may have picked it up and taken it with him.”
Andie’s gaze drifted back toward the crime scene. She was trying to imagine what it would have been like behind the restaurant after dark.“What’s the lighting situation like here?”
“Just that one street lamp on the west end of the building.”
“Any stray bullets found in the wall or anyplace?”
LAST CALL
89
“No.”
Again,Andie turned her attention back to the Dumpster, mentally placing herself at the scene of the crime. “So the killer fires a single round from twenty feet away in bad lighting. Hits Reems right between the eyes. He’s so confident that it’s a kill shot, he doesn’t even approach the Dumpster to inspect his work. He just picks up his spent shell casing, turns around, and leaves the same way he came.”
“Are you hinting at a professional job?” said Dawes.
Andie shrugged. “At least someone who knew what he was doing.”
“A guy like Reems could know a lot of people like that.”
“That’s probably true,” said Andie.
They watched as the assistants from the medical examiner’s office rolled the gurney toward the Dumpster to collect the body.
Andie said, “The manhunt is over, and now begins the search for his killer.”
“Well, at least your work is done.”
“It’s never done,” said Andie. She thanked him, stepped away from the police tape, and then reached for her cell phone.Their last date had ended with a certain air of finality, but for some reason she still had Jack Swyteck’s number programmed into her directory.
Only just beginning , she thought as she placed the call.
Chapter 13
Theo met Jack at the Latin American Cafeteria, a landmark Coral Gables restaurant that specialized in hot pressed sandwiches made on Cuban bread.An early lunch had been Jack’s idea, and he was waiting at the busy counter when Theo arrived.
Like every other customer but Jack, Theo wanted to dine in air-conditioned comfort and watch the knife-wielding chef carve up the roast pig and cured hams like a skilled samurai. Jack said he needed to speak to Theo in private, however, so they placed their order inside and endured an isolated table in the sunshine.
The outside seating area had lost its shade trees in the last hurricane season, and even though summer was technically a month away, it felt like a sticky August afternoon.The wait for their food came with a view of noisy Coral Way and endless waves of heat rising from the paved parking lot.Theo couldn’t stop wiping his brow with a napkin, but Jack seemed content.They were indeed alone, save for a handful of old Latinos who were dressed in their Sunday guayaberas and standing at the takeout window, sipping tazas of Cuban coffee and arguing about everything from politics to beisbol .
“Where’s Rene?” said Theo.
“The mall.”
“They don’t have one of those in the cocoa region?”
“Yeah, but every time Rene comes to Miami she suddenly feels the urge to barter for
“Plus, if it was .22-caliber, the shot probably would have been fired at close range to penetrate the skull. Like the classic Mafia hit, where the .22 is right up against the skull and the bullet rattles around inside the skull, no exit wound, turning the brains to scrambled eggs.That would have left residue.”
He seemed surprised that Andie knew that—or at least a little chagrined that he hadn’t said it first. “Exactly,” he said. “So with a larger wound and no powder burns at the point of entry, I’m saying it’s not a .22.”
“But if it was a bigger round—say, a .38 or a 9-millimeter—and fired at close range, it probably would have passed right through the skull.You’re telling me it didn’t do that.”
His expression showed less surprise than simple annoyance that Andie was keeping up, or perhaps even a step ahead of him.“Right.
So twenty feet sounds about right to me,” he said.
“Did you find a shell casing?”
“Not yet. Shooter may have picked it up and taken it with him.”
Andie’s gaze drifted back toward the crime scene. She was trying to imagine what it would have been like behind the restaurant after dark.“What’s the lighting situation like here?”
“Just that one street lamp on the west end of the building.”
“Any stray bullets found in the wall or anyplace?”
LAST CALL
89
“No.”
Again,Andie turned her attention back to the Dumpster, mentally placing herself at the scene of the crime. “So the killer fires a single round from twenty feet away in bad lighting. Hits Reems right between the eyes. He’s so confident that it’s a kill shot, he doesn’t even approach the Dumpster to inspect his work. He just picks up his spent shell casing, turns around, and leaves the same way he came.”
“Are you hinting at a professional job?” said Dawes.
Andie shrugged. “At least someone who knew what he was doing.”
“A guy like Reems could know a lot of people like that.”
“That’s probably true,” said Andie.
They watched as the assistants from the medical examiner’s office rolled the gurney toward the Dumpster to collect the body.
Andie said, “The manhunt is over, and now begins the search for his killer.”
“Well, at least your work is done.”
“It’s never done,” said Andie. She thanked him, stepped away from the police tape, and then reached for her cell phone.Their last date had ended with a certain air of finality, but for some reason she still had Jack Swyteck’s number programmed into her directory.
Only just beginning , she thought as she placed the call.
Chapter 13
Theo met Jack at the Latin American Cafeteria, a landmark Coral Gables restaurant that specialized in hot pressed sandwiches made on Cuban bread.An early lunch had been Jack’s idea, and he was waiting at the busy counter when Theo arrived.
Like every other customer but Jack, Theo wanted to dine in air-conditioned comfort and watch the knife-wielding chef carve up the roast pig and cured hams like a skilled samurai. Jack said he needed to speak to Theo in private, however, so they placed their order inside and endured an isolated table in the sunshine.
The outside seating area had lost its shade trees in the last hurricane season, and even though summer was technically a month away, it felt like a sticky August afternoon.The wait for their food came with a view of noisy Coral Way and endless waves of heat rising from the paved parking lot.Theo couldn’t stop wiping his brow with a napkin, but Jack seemed content.They were indeed alone, save for a handful of old Latinos who were dressed in their Sunday guayaberas and standing at the takeout window, sipping tazas of Cuban coffee and arguing about everything from politics to beisbol .
“Where’s Rene?” said Theo.
“The mall.”
“They don’t have one of those in the cocoa region?”
“Yeah, but every time Rene comes to Miami she suddenly feels the urge to barter for
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