The Girl in the Glass Box by James Grippando

Author:James Grippando
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-02-04T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 37

Assistant State Attorney Phillip Arnoff was in his office that Tuesday afternoon when he got the phone call he’d been hoping for. It was from Miami-Dade detective Danny Barnes, who was heading the Duncan McBride homicide investigation.

“We got our break,” said Barnes.

The bouncer on duty for Safari Night at the Club Cheek-ah had told Barnes that McBride went to his car at least twice to “liquor up,” and a comparison of tire tracks from the club parking lot to tracks outside McBride’s apartment confirmed that his car had been there. Safari Night was the last time anyone had seen McBride alive, and no one had seen his silver Honda sedan since then. Anytime a vehicle went missing in a homicide case, Miami-Dade Police kept a sharp eye out along the Miami River. Stolen cars and the incriminating evidence they contained, along with tons of other stolen goods, could easily disappear forever on one of the Venezuela-bound freighters that set sail from Miami every day.

“You actually found McBride’s car?” asked Arnoff.

“You bet we did,” the detective said.

“Don’t inventory it until I get a warrant,” said Arnoff.

“We don’t need a warrant to inventory a stolen vehicle.”

“I know. But I got Simone Jerrell and ICE breathing down my neck in that deportation case that McBride was part of. Feds do everything belt and suspenders.”

“Fine, I’ll wait,” Barnes said, grousing. “We’re at Seabird Terminal B, just down the street from the Miami River Rapids Mini Park.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

The shipping area near Miami River Rapids Mini Park was upriver, closer to the airport and well away from the upscale riverfront development in downtown Miami. Many of the older sketchy cargo terminals had been shut down and rebuilt in Miami’s effort to compete with Savannah and other East Coast ports for the ever-increasing imports from China. Still, the seedy underbelly of commerce continued to flow through South Florida, some of it as polluted as the river itself. Huge cranes worked around the clock, hoisting mountains of metal containers onto Caribbean-bound freighters. Some carried electronics and other dry goods. Others carried vehicles with the VIN scratched off. Trucks and four-wheel-drive vehicles were in particular demand, as any Miamian who used to own a Range Rover would attest.

The State Attorney’s Office was next door to the criminal courthouse, and in less than ninety minutes Arnoff had a warrant. He drove quickly to the Seabird Terminal B and parked along a chain-link fence that was topped with military-grade razor ribbon. The pair of Dobermans on the other side of the fence provided a second line of deterrence to would-be thieves. A uniformed MDPD officer led Arnoff to the crime scene tape that encircled the team of investigators and McBride’s silver Honda. The doors on both the passenger’s side and driver’s side were wide open. Barnes was inside and already searching the vehicle, with his flashlight aglow.

“You didn’t wait for the warrant,” said Arnoff.

“You didn’t move fast enough.”

“I told you that ICE—”

“Fuck ICE,” said Barnes. “We don’t need a warrant.

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