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Bacall or Kate Hepburn style, and
added big sunglasses. For a split second I could imagine my
grandmother looking down at me—from wherever she and her old
cronies played their nonstop bridge rubbers—with love in her eyes
and a smile on her pale-pink lips, nodding in approval. I looked
the part and was now completely wind resistant.
    Jack grinned, and I had little doubt he was
thinking exactly as I, despite never knowing my grammy. There were
moments when he and I connected in ways I didn't understand, and
this was one of those.
    We were on the road and checking out the
early street scene as we headed for Miami Beach and the water. The
day was fast approaching the trolling hour, and a
little later when the streetlights came on avenue by avenue, we'd
see the hipsters converge, merge, and urge each other into sleek
bars and trendy restaurants. We were on the cusp of the evening's
magic moment when the marathon clubbing and dining commenced. The
fact it was a Thursday didn't make much difference. The scene would
have been familiar any other night of the week too, but weekends
naturally heralded even bigger crowds and wilder
spectacles.
    I simply wanted food.
    "Jack, can we stop
somewhere for a late lunch." I looked at my watch. "Or, I guess,
early dinner?"
    "Soon. I thought we'd
check out Wynwood first."
    Wynwood was once an
industrial district. Thanks to the art crowd, it had been
transformed into their personal Mecca and was known for the monthly
gallery walk. But, alas, a flick of my phone told me tonight did
not show the gallery crawl on the art scene agenda. So why were we
headed there? I raised my voice to be heard over the street and
wind noise. "Got a tip I should know about, Jack?"
    "In a mo'. Want to check
out a source," he shouted back. "See if we can find any connection
to Simon."
    It hadn't been that long ago Frommer's too
often commented in their Miami guides about how the city lacked any
reputation as a cultural center, but reputations were made to be
reversed. The beach city's artistic street cred had changed in a
progressively upward movement during the last few years. With the
milder winter climate, Miami started playing host to international
events and created liaisons with other esteemed art fairs. When
Switzerland's Art Basel hit Florida each winter for its days in
December, the city parlayed the connection into other events for
art snowbirds, and the Miami cultural reputation made its slow but
steady rise.
    So I was not surprised Jack already had a
potential lead to follow, and I mentally reviewed the Fendi's stash
of costume jewelry in case I needed to upgrade the bling of my
ensemble. A couple of blocks farther on our journey and the city's
design district opened up. Nearby, south of Wynwood, sat the CIFO,
the private museum founded by money that originated from Ella
Cisneros having once been married to the namesake media group. One
of my favorite museums, chiefly because of the location just blocks
away from the bayfront and the Miami Art Museum pavilion. The city
was changing in a good way.
    Yet the set of Jack's jaw told me wherever
we were headed in the art scene was not likely all glitter and
lights. Didn't surprise me but didn't make me happy either.
    When I noticed how the silver Honda behind
us kept making every turn we did, well, the knowledge pushed
happiness even more distant. In my peripheral vision I noticed Jack
straighten a bit and knew he'd spotted the car too. Not, of course,
that I ever doubted his observation skills for a second.

CHAPTER THREE
     
    I wanted to make a joke, ask Jack if he
needed me to drive, say that I could lose them. But the gravity of
the situation wasn't lost on me. The Honda was coming up fast, and
the expression I read in the side mirror of the guy riding shotgun
increased the tension. A second later, he raised his right hand to
the dash and sunlight flashed on the metal object he held.
Damn!
    Jack must have seen the same thing in the
rearview. I watched him