temper.
“He was old enough to be peddling poison. To children, Tony.”
Tony had heard enough. Though Krissy apparently thought otherwise, not everything was black if it wasn’t white. Meeting her challenge, he fashioned an argument in his own defense.
“Dino’s barely sixteen years old himself. It was your boss who pushed to have him tried as an adult and refused every reasonable offer my assistant made to bargain the charges down. He was determined to see Dino get the maximum sentence.”
“Why?”
“Dino is Manny Garcia’s nephew. Wells figured he could make some points with the press for hitting at Manny through the kid. I didn’t get involved personally with Dino’s case until Hank figured out that Harper had crucifixion on his mind.”
Kristine leaned back against the cushioned seat, closed her eyes. “Dino Martinez is just sixteen?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t see letting Wells send a sophomore in high school to Raiford just because his uncle is the guy’s favorite whipping boy in his very vocal war against organized crime in Tampa.”
Her eyes opened, and she met Tony’s gaze. “Come off it. Nobody in the state attorney’s office would try to send a sixteen-year-old to a maximum-security prison unless he’d killed someone. I mean direct, out-and-out murder, not slow death by cocaine.”
“Think again. That’s exactly the fate Wells had in mind for Dino. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Yes, but…are you sure he’s just sixteen? I never heard anything mentioned about his age.”
“It wasn’t something Wells wanted to advertise. Dino celebrated his sixteenth birthday two weeks before he got arrested.”
Lightning crackled to the west, barely visible in Tony’s peripheral vision. He waited, mentally counting the seconds between the lightning strike and the thunderclap that would follow.
“Hadn’t we better head back?” Kristine obviously had seen the signs of a thunderstorm, too.
Letting up on the throttle, Tony slowed the boat. “Yeah. Looks like we’re in for a squall.”
Briefly he scanned the area for a likely spot to ride out the storm if it got too bad to make it back. Nothing, unless he wanted to count that little cove less than a quarter of a mile south of their position, west-southwest of the tip of the south Tampa peninsula.
The sky darkened. Thunder rolled. Lightning played against the western sky. What had been a calm, murky bay suddenly began to look like pea soup as the wind churned its surface, making the sturdy Miss Trial lurch like a drunken sailor.
The air, pleasantly salty until now, took on the smell of rotting fish and seaweed as the temperature plummeted by what must have been at least twenty degrees. Tony gripped the wheel, his muscles straining when he wrestled the big boat toward the cove and safety.
Suddenly the rain came, solid sheets whipped in crazy patterns by gale-force gusts that tossed Miss Trial around as though she were a ten-foot rowboat. Raindrops pricked Tony’s face like thousands of tiny needles, chilling him to the bone.
“Go below,” Tony shouted, hoping Kristine could hear him over the howling wind. “I’m heading for shelter.”
No need for her to get soaked, too. Bracing himself for the jolts that came as the boat climbed four-foot and bigger waves, Tony kept going forward. The sight of calmer water beyond a tangle of sea grapes and Australian pines allowed him to let out a sigh of relief. Cutting the engine, he dropped bow and stern anchors before fastening down the canvas and taking refuge in the compact cabin.
* * * * *
Everything seemed to be in place, he thought as he glanced into the head and galley before stepping into the salon. Where the hell was Kristine?
“Krissy?” he called.
“Is the storm over?”
He followed the muffled sound of her voice to a lump under the covers of a bed set into an alcove along the far wall. “No, but we should be safe here,” he told her after he sat down and started to stroke her
“He was old enough to be peddling poison. To children, Tony.”
Tony had heard enough. Though Krissy apparently thought otherwise, not everything was black if it wasn’t white. Meeting her challenge, he fashioned an argument in his own defense.
“Dino’s barely sixteen years old himself. It was your boss who pushed to have him tried as an adult and refused every reasonable offer my assistant made to bargain the charges down. He was determined to see Dino get the maximum sentence.”
“Why?”
“Dino is Manny Garcia’s nephew. Wells figured he could make some points with the press for hitting at Manny through the kid. I didn’t get involved personally with Dino’s case until Hank figured out that Harper had crucifixion on his mind.”
Kristine leaned back against the cushioned seat, closed her eyes. “Dino Martinez is just sixteen?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t see letting Wells send a sophomore in high school to Raiford just because his uncle is the guy’s favorite whipping boy in his very vocal war against organized crime in Tampa.”
Her eyes opened, and she met Tony’s gaze. “Come off it. Nobody in the state attorney’s office would try to send a sixteen-year-old to a maximum-security prison unless he’d killed someone. I mean direct, out-and-out murder, not slow death by cocaine.”
“Think again. That’s exactly the fate Wells had in mind for Dino. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Yes, but…are you sure he’s just sixteen? I never heard anything mentioned about his age.”
“It wasn’t something Wells wanted to advertise. Dino celebrated his sixteenth birthday two weeks before he got arrested.”
Lightning crackled to the west, barely visible in Tony’s peripheral vision. He waited, mentally counting the seconds between the lightning strike and the thunderclap that would follow.
“Hadn’t we better head back?” Kristine obviously had seen the signs of a thunderstorm, too.
Letting up on the throttle, Tony slowed the boat. “Yeah. Looks like we’re in for a squall.”
Briefly he scanned the area for a likely spot to ride out the storm if it got too bad to make it back. Nothing, unless he wanted to count that little cove less than a quarter of a mile south of their position, west-southwest of the tip of the south Tampa peninsula.
The sky darkened. Thunder rolled. Lightning played against the western sky. What had been a calm, murky bay suddenly began to look like pea soup as the wind churned its surface, making the sturdy Miss Trial lurch like a drunken sailor.
The air, pleasantly salty until now, took on the smell of rotting fish and seaweed as the temperature plummeted by what must have been at least twenty degrees. Tony gripped the wheel, his muscles straining when he wrestled the big boat toward the cove and safety.
Suddenly the rain came, solid sheets whipped in crazy patterns by gale-force gusts that tossed Miss Trial around as though she were a ten-foot rowboat. Raindrops pricked Tony’s face like thousands of tiny needles, chilling him to the bone.
“Go below,” Tony shouted, hoping Kristine could hear him over the howling wind. “I’m heading for shelter.”
No need for her to get soaked, too. Bracing himself for the jolts that came as the boat climbed four-foot and bigger waves, Tony kept going forward. The sight of calmer water beyond a tangle of sea grapes and Australian pines allowed him to let out a sigh of relief. Cutting the engine, he dropped bow and stern anchors before fastening down the canvas and taking refuge in the compact cabin.
* * * * *
Everything seemed to be in place, he thought as he glanced into the head and galley before stepping into the salon. Where the hell was Kristine?
“Krissy?” he called.
“Is the storm over?”
He followed the muffled sound of her voice to a lump under the covers of a bed set into an alcove along the far wall. “No, but we should be safe here,” he told her after he sat down and started to stroke her
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