CSI Miami Heat Wave

Chapter 1:Storm Warning Cobalt waves lashed the beach, whipcracking as they broke, the gray sky deceptively placid, accepting of the storm gathering just beyond the horizon. This was a cool time of year for the greater Miami area, but something nasty was coming. Something hot, and not weather.Here and there empty hotels seemed like great tombstones, as if the city were slowly turning into a cemetery, however much the remainder of the skyline greeted the Atlantic with glittering optimism. Tonight, the ocean seemed unconvinced, moving in like a dark-hooded figure with a scythe, the threat of the impending storm growing more absolute by the minute and Miami Beach's neon welcome ever more strained as the sky went from gray to charcoal to now very nearly black.Along Ocean Drive, with only the thin emerald strip of Lummus Park between concrete and roiling water, cars passed in their usual slow parade while the well-lighted line of Art Deco hotels studded the darkening sky with their vibrant pink-blue-yellow geometry. Occasional storefronts in the row of businesses were dark now, gaps in the street's commercial smile, the stiff competition of South Beach killing off the weak. Still, despite the strobe flashes of lightning at sea, a party atmosphere managed to thrive.This was Miami Beach, after all, and there was a reputation to uphold -- not necessarily a good reputation, but a compelling one for the young of all ages.Hundreds of pedestrians, mostly tourists, strolled up and down the west side sidewalk, gawking at menu boards, confronted by hard-bodied, navel-baring, pretty hostesses who hawked their restaurants and hotels (each "the best" along this pastel strip).At every stop, the pedestrians were inundated with pulsing music that poured as easily from assorted sound systems as the liquor in every South Beach bar. Cool jazz rolled from the Tides, reggae from the Breakwater, classic soul from the Leslie, and so on down the row, the only pauses coming as the rubberneckers passed the vacant husks of dead rival clubs.At the Archer Hotel -- a three-story, white stucco building with mint-green-and-pink trim -- both the lobby bar and front dining terrace were jammed with patrons apparently not put off by what the sky might bring. Sixties rock blared from state-of-the-art speakers, and a queue of potential diners stood near the hostess stand on the front walk, seemingly oblivious to the storm knifing toward the coast.The distant rumble of thunder was lost in the prominent bass line of the Spencer Davis Group ripping through "Gimme Some Lovin'." Here and there, diners tapped their feet to the familiar, infectious beat, while a few others tapped silverware on the table, keeping time with the pounding drums. At a square table, at the south end of the open front porch, however, the four men seated there seemed to not notice the music at all.With his back to the window that looked in on the lobby bar, Kurt Wallace gave not a thought to the possibility of getting shot.The burly, well-dressed men seated to his left and right as he faced Ocean Drive were security staff who'd been with him for years. On his right, the pug-faced Cummings watched the street. On Wallace's left, Stevens eyed the restaurant, the watchdog's head seeming to swivel from side to side without the benefit of a neck.A third bodyguard, Anthony, was out of sight inside the bar, but he, too, was a longtime employee, and Wallace trusted the wide-bodied ex-pro footballer (a lineman, of course) to cover his back. The small security contingent's custom-fitted suits -- Anthony's was black, Cummings was in brown, and Stevens's a gray pinstripe -- helped them fit in to the Miami Beach nightlife, even while that expensive tailoring hid the fact that they were heavily armed.One of the best haberdasheries in the city took care of Wallace's boys; as for their employer, tonight he had chosen an Armani suit, tailored espeCollins, Max Allan is the author of 'CSI Miami Heat Wave' with ISBN 9780743480567 and ISBN 0743480562.