“Muriel,” she said in an icy British accent. “Send in some coffee, won’t you.” And without pausing she went by the receptionist, opened the door to Acosta’s office, and sauntered in, closing the door behind her.
“That’s Alana Acosta,” I whispered to Debs. “Joe’s wife.”
“I know who it is, goddamn it,” she said, and went back to grinding her teeth.
It was clear that Deborah was beyond any of my paltry efforts at bringing her comfort and joy, so I grabbed another magazine. This one was devoted to showing the kind of clothing you have to wear on boats that cost enough to buy a small country. But I had not even looked at it long enough to discover why twelve-hundred-dollar shorts were better than the kind that cost fifteen dollars at Walmart when the receptionist called to us.
“Sergeant Morgan?” she said, and Deborah shot up out of her chair as if she were sitting on a big steel spring. “Mr. Acosta will see you now,” the receptionist said, and waved us at the office door.
“About fucking time,” Debs muttered under her breath, but I think Muriel heard her, because she gave us a superior smile as my sister stormed by her with me in her wake.
Joe Acosta’s office was big enough to host a convention. One whole wall was taken up by the largest flat-screen TV I had ever seen. Covering the entire wall opposite was a painting that really belonged in a museum under armed guard. There was a bar, complete with a kitchenette, a conversation area with a couple of couches, and a handful of chairs that looked like they had come from an old British Empire men’s club and cost more than my house. Alana Acosta lounged in one of the chairs, sipping from a bone china coffee cup. She didn’t offer us any.
Joe Acosta sat at a massive glass-and-steel-frame desk in front of a tinted glass wall that framed Biscayne Bay as if it was a photo of Joe’s personal cottage in the woods. In spite of the tint, the late-afternoon light came up off the water and filled the room with a supernatural glow.
Acosta stood up as we entered, and the light from the window behind him surrounded him in a bright aura, making it hard to look at him without squinting. But I looked at him anyway, and even without the halo he was impressive.
Not physically; Acosta was a thin and aristocratic-looking man with dark hair and eyes, and he wore what looked like a very expensive suit. He was not tall, and I was sure his wife would tower over him in her spike heels. But perhaps he felt that the power of his personality was strong enough to overcome a little thing like being a foot shorter than her. Or maybe it was the power of his money. Whatever it was, he had it. He looked at us from behind his desk, and I felt a sudden urge to kneel, or at least knuckle my forehead.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Sergeant,” he said. “My wife wanted to be here for this.” He waved an arm at the conversation area. “Let’s sit where we can talk,” he said, and he walked around the desk and sat down in the big club chair opposite Alana.
Deborah hesitated for a moment, and I saw that she looked a little bit uncertain, as if it had really hit her for the first time that she was confronting somebody who was only a few steps down the chain of command from God. But she took a breath, squared her shoulders, and marched over to the couch. She sat down, and I sat beside her.
The couch was apparently built on the same principle as a Venus flytrap, because when I sat I was immediately sucked down into a deep plush cushion, and as I struggled to remain upright it occurred to me that this was on purpose, another silly little trick Acosta used to dominate people, like putting his desk in front of the bright window. Deborah apparently came to the same conclusion, because I saw her tighten her jaw, and pull herself forward with a jerk to perch awkwardly on the edge of the couch.
“Mr. Acosta,” she said. “I need to talk to your son.”
“What about?” Acosta said. He sat comfortably in his chair, his legs crossed, and an expression of polite interest on his face.
“Samantha Aldovar,” Debs said. “And Tyler Spanos.”
Acosta smiled. “Roberto has a lot of girlfriends,” he said. “I don’t even try to keep up.”
Deborah looked angry, but happily for us all she managed to control herself. “As I am sure you are aware, Tyler Spanos was murdered, and Samantha Aldovar is missing. And I think your son knows something about both of them.”
“Why do you think that?” Alana said from her chair opposite Joe. Another trick: We had to whip our heads back and forth to keep up, like watching a Ping-Pong match.
But Deborah looked at her anyway. “He
knows Samantha,” she said. “And I have witnesses that say he sold them Tyler’s car. That’s felony car theft and accessory to murder, and that’s just the beginning.”
“I am not aware that any charges have been filed,” Acosta said, and we both swung our heads back to face him.
“Not yet,” Deborah said. “But they will be.”
“Then perhaps we should have a lawyer here,” Alana said.
Deborah looked at her briefly, then back to Acosta. “I wanted to talk to you first,” she said. “Before the lawyers get into it.”
Acosta nodded, as if he expected a police officer to show that kind of consideration for his money. “Why?” he said.
“Bobby is in trouble,” she said. “I think he knows that. But his best chance at this point is to walk into my office, with a lawyer, and surrender himself.”
“That would save you some work, wouldn’t it?” Alana said with a superior smile.
Deborah stared at her. “I don’t mind the work,” she said. “And I’ll find him anyway. And when I do it’s going to go very hard on him. If he resists arrest, he might even get hurt.” She looked back at Acosta. “It’s going to be a whole lot better for him if he comes in on his own.”
“Why do you think I know where he is?” Acosta said.