CSI: Miami: Florida Getaway

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Product Details

* Mass Market Paperback: 288 pages
* Publisher: Pocket Star (August 1, 2003)
* Author: Max Allan Collins
* Language: English
* ISBN-10: 0743480554
* ISBN-13: 978-0743480550
* Product Dimensions: 7 x 4 x 1 inches

Editorial Reviews

Product Description

Lieutenant Horatio Caine leads a crack team of forensic scientists who investigate crimes amid the tropical surroundings and cultural crossroads of Miami. Together, they collect and analyze the evidence to expose the truth and to bring justice to those who often cannot speak for themselves: the victims.

FLORIDA GETAWAY

Thomas Lessor left Las Vegas for Miami to get away from it all -- in fact, he felt certain he was going to get away with murder. But he was wrong, and the Las Vegas PD soon contacted Miami with a warrant for his arrest.

Hot on his trail, the Miami CSIs are called to the scene of his abandoned car...a car that's been abandoned in spirit but not in body. And on a pleasant and secluded Miami beach, a young couple is about to make a gruesome discovery....

About the Author

Max Allan Collins is a New York Times bestselling author of original mysteries, a Shamus award winner and an experienced author of movie adaptions and tie-in novels. His graphic novel ROAD TO PERDITION has been made into a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks and directed by Sam Mendes. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 2: Vanishing Act

Sitting toward the north end of Collins Avenue, the Conquistador was part of a high-rise lineup that included the Westin Miami Beach, the Conquistador, then the Eden Roc, the Fontainebleau and the Four Points. Horatio Caine had been here several times over the years, in his role as crime scene investigator; but that said nothing negative about the hotel. The place had a good reputation; any resort like this would have its share of heart attacks, accidents, and the like. The Conquistador had always been a class act, and the Boyle family -- particularly the late Phillip Boyle -- had a classy rep to go with it.

Two uniformed officers trailing him at a respectful distance, Caine entered the air-conditioned lobby, slipping off his sunglasses, taking in the well-maintained fifties-style ambiance. It was easy to imagine Frank and Dino and maybe Jerry (with or without Dino, depending on the year) moving through this lobby with a fawning entourage, inciting wide eyes and pointing fingers and oohs and ahhs from the tourists.

Matching suits of armor stood sentinel on either side of the generously wide glass front doors, the carpeted path to the front desk red, making a bridge over the expanse of white marble floor. Rich tapestries and paintings adorned the walls, and massive windows overlooked the swimming pool and the beach beyond, with the shimmer of the Atlantic Ocean. Two elderly women sat sipping iced tea and watching the activity of younger generations outside.

Caine crossed to the desk, the cops trailing dutifully, silently, and waited for the only visible clerk to get off the phone. When the phone call ended, the clerk gave Caine a sincere smile. "Terribly sorry for the wait, sir. How may I be of assistance?"

Caine discreetly showed the clerk his badge-in-wallet ID. "I'm looking for one of your guests -- Thomas Lessor."

The man's smile remained but his eyes tightened. "Mr. Lessor isn't technically a guest," the clerk said. "He's vice president. He keeps a suite here, although sometimes he can be found at the family home."

"Is he here or isn't he?" Caine asked.

The clerk seemed suddenly confused.

"It's not a trick question," Caine said. "This is official police business and I need to speak to Mr. Lessor."

"You can't," the clerk said, frowning now.

"Actually, I can. That's one of the privileges of carrying a badge."

"What I mean to say is, he's not here."

"Okay," Caine said. "We've finally established that. Would he be at the family home?"

"No."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes. He was expected here. We were told to make his suite ready for him."

"Expected here? He hasn't arrived?"

"No. And, uh, frankly, Mr. Boyle is a bit concerned."

"Which Boyle would that be?"

"Daniel Boyle. Our manager." The clerk's eyes darted around, as if this important man might appear in a puff of smoke at the mention of his name. "Son of Mrs. Lessor, Deborah Lessor, owner of the hotel."

Caine leaned an elbow on the counter. "Father was Phillip?"

"Yes, sir. He's the son of the late Mr. Boyle."

Caine considered all of this, momentarily. "Have you checked with the airport?"

"I did that myself, sir, personally. Mr. Lessor's plane landed right on time, and he was on it -- the airport confirmed that this morning."

"All right. Then where can I find Daniel Boyle?"

The clerk gestured toward a hallway beyond the chairs to Caine's left. "He's in the lounge now -- working with the talent."

Caine thanked the clerk and started off toward and down that hallway, the two uniformed cops falling in silently behind him like a pair of burly, obedient attack dogs. Old-fashioned, glittery homemade signs along the way touted the Explorer Lounge and the nightly attraction, singer Maria Chacon.

An 8 by 10 black-and-white photo, in a sparkly starburst, revealed the singer to be a strikingly attractive dark-skinned woman, with big black hair, large dark eyes, and a self-confident, sultry half-smile; she had plenty of personality and even more cleavage. Caine kept walking, but the cops openly gawked. Somehow Caine just knew that Maria Chacon would be the "talent" Daniel Boyle was working with.

As they neared the double doors to the Explorer Lounge, the thumping bass of the band rolled out to meet them and he could feel it in the pit of his stomach and even in the bottoms of his feet. When he pulled open one of the doors, the volume increased to just below ear-bleed level and the bass now pounded against Caine's chest, like an external heartbeat.

The tiered room had banquettes arranged in ever-widening C-shapes with aisles down either side, stadium-style seating, the middle one aimed at the barely raised stage. The banquettes' open side faced the entertainment and Caine guessed the place probably seated about five hundred. The floor bore that same red carpeting with the coats of arms -- the Conquistador consistently rolled out the red carpet for its guests. The lounge was empty but for a fourteen-piece Latin band onstage, fronted by Maria Chacon, and one man down front in the center banquette -- presumably, Daniel Boyle.

On the stage, the woman looked even more beautiful than she had in the photo -- in the same skimpy sparkly dress -- and she seemed electrically charged as she danced around the stage.

That dress looked to be constructed entirely of silver sequins, what there was of it, cut low and high at the same time -- low on top and high on the bottom. The pastel-colored lights favored her dark skin and black hair, making for an even more high-voltage performance, as the sequins reflected like countless tiny mirrors. Behind her, the band pounded away. Caine counted bass, two guitars, keyboard, drummer and two other percussionists, four horn players, and two backup singers, encouraging the vocalist with their choruses of "Shake your bon bon, baby." Maria Chacon, doing as instructed, brought the count to fourteen, as she flounced across the stage.

Immersed in his work as he was, Horatio Caine often felt bewildered by the gaiety he encountered in Miami. Didn't these people know that murders were happening out there? What was there, exactly, to sing and dance about?

As the song wound down, Caine led his little posse up the center aisle. Just as the music ended with a flourish, the man Caine assumed to be Boyle rose and walked to the foot of the stage, where he talked quietly with Maria Chacon. Caine could see that she'd noticed his presence, flicking her eyes toward him occasionally as she spoke to her oblivious boss; but she said nothing as the three officers came up behind him.

"...and don't be shy about shaking that moneymaker a little more during that last chorus," Boyle said -- his voice was like good whiskey, smooth but with a bite. "Hey, it's not like you're going to break it."

Maria rolled her eyes. Up close and in person, she was even more beautiful than the starburst 8 by 10 indicated. Her eyes were dark but flashed under the stage lights. "Jesus, Danny! I'm a singer -- not a stripper!"

"Hey, honey," he said, raising his voice just a little. "You sing great -- but they'll think you sing really great if -- "

Before he could finish, Caine stepped forward. "Sorry to interrupt -- Daniel Boyle?"

"I'm Daniel Boyle and this is a closed dress rehearsal," the man said as he turned, before seeing the uniformed cops.

Boyishly handsome, the thirtyish Boyle had high, wide cheekbones, close-cropped dark hair that was starting to recede a little, springing out in unruly cowlicks here and there. His slender frame was encased in an expensive black cashmere sweater, gray slacks, and black Bruno Magli's. His clothes said "money," and his attitude did too.

Caine flashed his badge. "Miami-Dade Police, Mr. Boyle. We understand you're concerned about Mr. Lessor not showing up here at the hotel."

Boyle frowned. "I didn't call anything in. Anyway, isn't it twenty-four hours before you can report a missing person?"

"That's a myth, sir. But do you consider him missing?"

"Well, he's not here. What would you call it?"

Boyle's gray eyes were sharp and intelligent, but carried a hint of weariness; the presence of Caine and the two cops wasn't the only thing in this life that didn't impress him much.

"We're looking for Mr. Lessor ourselves," Caine said. "I was hoping maybe you could help us."

Boyle looked impatient, but he said nothing to Caine. Instead, he turned back to the singer and the musicians. "That's all for now! Maria?...We'll talk later."

The singer gave him a blank look that nonetheless struck Caine as most expressive; then she took a few discreet steps away and accepted a white hotel towel from one of the backup singers. As she moved off, Boyle turned back to Caine again, but remained silent.

It occurred to Caine that Maria Chacon could probably still hear them, as she dabbed at her sweaty hair; he didn't particularly care, but wondered if she were purposely positioning herself to eavesdrop.

Caine said, "Thomas Lessor is, I believe, your stepfather."

"Yes he is," Boyle said noncommittally. "What does that have to do with him being missing?"

On stage, the band was beating a hasty, murmuring retreat into the wings. In the end, only Maria Chacon remained.

Caine pressed on with this mildly hostile witness. "Wasn't your stepfather supposed to come to the hotel after his plane landed last night?"

Shrugging, Boyle scratched absently at one of the cowlicks. "That was the plan, but he doesn't always come straight here."

"Where else would he go?"

"He's a grown-up, Mr. Crane. He goes where he pleases."

"It's Caine. He isn't staying in your family home?"

"That's where I live. He'd be welcome, of course, but Tom prefers a suite here at the hotel. What's this about, anyway?"

Keeping his cards close, Caine said, "We need to talk to him about an ongoing investigation."

"What the hell 'ongoing investigation' could there be? Tom hasn't even been in Miami in..." Boyle's voice trailed off. "This is about that supposed murder in Vegas, isn't it? They're not still trying to pin that Hardy thing on him, are they? Jesus!"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

The hotel man...