Page 12 of The Witness

So far, so good.

The big leaves of the banana tree acted as camouflage when I climbed over the fence into her backyard. I crouched in the deep shadow next to the wood fence and scanned the premises. Nothing looked to be out of place, and the lines of sight from the front to the back were nonexistent because of the trees and more privacy fencing.

Her yard was cute. A nice gas grill and a smoker were under the covered patio, and herbs grew in dozens of mismatched clay pots scattered around. Apparently, the chef had a green thumb based on the abundance and variety. I’d killed a cactus once, er, twice. So her skills impressed me.

I located the cabana bathroom door, the one with a jalousie window at the west end of the house. Last night we decided it would be the best one for me to use. Not like she had a set ofkeys to give me since she’d left her purse at the diner, so I’d be breaking in.

The old lock was easy to jimmy open with the bump key I’d brought along. This was not my first break-and-enter. Added bonus, I didn’t need to worry about disarming the alarm as she’d given me the code last night before she went to bed. I typed the number into the pad next to the door and sighed in relief when the system stopped beeping.

The mint green mid-century bathroom was tidy and clean. As I’d expect for someone with her occupation—everything in its place, a place for everything. I found an overnight bag under the sink and piled in a selection of stuff from a hairbrush to skincare and makeup.

Having your own things when your life was fucked made it a little easier. I remembered a woman I’d helped with an immigration problem; she’d go online and order the oddest things from the UK like apple-scented shampoo and tea cookies because she swore it made life in Florida easier. That woman’s problems had been far less daunting than Sabrina’s.

In the main bedroom, I located a big duffle and filled it with a collection of clothes. I tried not to look at the pretty lace underwear as I stuffed it in the side pocket, but I was a dude and women’s lacey underthings were an enormous temptation. I valiantly resisted. Mostly.

In her closet, I also added a few pairs of shoes, since at the moment she had none, and a selection of clothes. I picked things from the front that looked like they might be favorites.

Bags packed, I headed into the rest of the house. It was neat and tidy. The living room had a large bookshelf filled to overflowing with cookbooks and food magazines. Most had tabs, bookmarks, and receipts sticking out from between the pages with handwritten notes. Her archive.

I leaned close to a trophy being used as a bookend and read the inscription on the base: “Winner – Food Truck Fabulous season three.” The television network’s logo and a mini food truck topped the gold trophy. I was sure I’d seen a few episodes of the show in reruns. The first chance I got, I was going to binge the entire season and watch Sabrina in her element.

On a middle shelf in a place of pride was a photo of a teen girl at a farmer’s market. I picked up the frame for a closer look. The girl looked like a younger version of Sabrina. In her hand, she held a purple shallot, like the one in Sabrina’s tattoo. The photo was obviously important. How had this girl not made the list of significant people Sabrina gave me last night? It didn’t add up. I tucked the framed photo into a side pocket of the bag on my shoulder.

I walked down the hall to the other side of the house. The first room was a teen girl’s bedroom. On one wall, a cork board held more photos of the same girl with friends. In the open closet, I saw rows of neatly hung clothing.

I’d ask Sabrina about the girl as soon as I got back to the office. I’d missed something.

The kitchen, unlike the rest of the house, had been remodeled. It was damn near professional grade with gleaming stainless-steel appliances and white subway tile. I took the black fabric knife roll that was open on the counter and filled it with the knives from the butcher’s block. I’d always heard chefs had special attachments to their knives, so it seemed like the right thing to do.

Next to the six-burner stove was a tattered notebook with Viande scrawled on the cover. I flipped it open to a handwritten recipe for fish chowder that would feed fifty. There were notes in the margins on both sides. Part of the page was near transparent, where drips of what had to be butter had soakedinto the paper. The notebook went into the bag on top of the knives.

I took a last look at the superfunctional but still cozy place and imagined Sabrina in the kitchen, pots bubbling and pans sizzling. An expensive bottle of wine open, maybe some music playing as she tasted, chopped, and seasoned. It fit her or the version of her I’d met last night over wine and cake. The other version, the scared and guilt-ridden witness, was a different woman altogether.

I went out the same way I came in, resetting the alarm. On my return trip, I hoisted the duffle over the fence before popping over myself. It had been a successful home invasion. I got what I’d come for and a bit more. Thoughts of the teen in the photo gave me a bad feeling that made me worry about all the things I didn’t know about Sabrina.

The duffle in the back seat, I cranked up the SUV and circled the block, stopping at the corner for a few moments to snap pictures of the guys in the gray Ford and their license plate. It was likely a dead end, but it was worth the time. Smith would circulate it to some of his shadier connections in the criminal underground of Miami. He might get lucky. I had contacts in the less salubrious parts of the city as well, but mine were restricted to the local motorcycle clubs. Smith’s were wider ranging.

As I was about to stick my phone in the cup holder, a black sedan pulled into Sabrina’s driveway and two guys in FBI windbreakers got out. I cranked up the zoom on my phone’s camera and nabbed photos of them, too.

Cell phone cameras were one of the most useful items ever invented for a guy in my line of work. Back in the day, I’d have been scrambling for a sheet of paper and trying to write down license plate numbers or pulling out a camera, hoping it had film and trying to sneak a shot. I pulled away from the intersection, a smile on my lips.

My good mood didn’t last.

“This is Steel.” I answered the incoming call on the hands-free system in the SUV.

“It’s Kennedy.” Noah Kennedy was one of the ex-military guys at the Smith Agency. He had a bit of a playboy attitude but was solid when shit got real. “That restaurant space in the design district you put two guys on last night?”

“Yeah.” My gut knotted in anticipation of the bad news.

“It got ugly this morning. Four vehicles rolled up and shot the shit out of the place. Tried to burn it down too. Our guys put out the fires after the shooters left and before PD or fire was on scene. It was all they could do. Our two men were outgunned and outmanned. This crew laid down a barrage of automatic weapon fire like from a Schwarzenegger movie.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m on my way.” I pounded the dash with my fist and hit the accelerator.

“Ah, Smith said, don’t tell the woman.”

“What now?” I clenched the steering wheel so tight my knuckles cracked. It was wrong to keep this information from Sabrina. Smith liked to play his cards close, but come on.

“He said, don’t tell the witness about the vandalism.”

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