Seven had been back at the Thomasville farmhouse for about a week when his cell phone rang, and the words Joey D. flashed on the screen. “Seven, it’s Joey, how ya doin’?”
“I’m good, Joey, what’s up?”
“Listen, I reached out to a friend in Miami. Officially they can’t let us look at anything from the case. The case is still considered open because your father was never brought to trial for the charges. They had to preserve the evidence in case your father was ever found competent to stand trial. I told them he’s dead, but they still won’t release the evidence.”
“So that’s it, we can’t see any of the evidence from a twenty-five-year-old case with a dead suspect,” Seven said in a frustrated voice.
“Seven, you’re insulting me right now. Listen, I said officially they won’t let us look at the evidence. I stopped giving a shit about anything officially when I left the DEA. Luckily, I still have friends in the department; they’re not all dead or retired yet. You just make plans to meet me in Miami next week and I’ll take care of the rest. Just bring a copy of the death certificate. You’re the only next of kin so if anything gets released, you’ll get it.” Joey D. was not used to people doubting his talents. He chalked it up to Seven’s lack of familiarity with his status as a law enforcement legend.
Five days after the phone conversation, Seven was at the Miami airport. He heard the voice before he saw the sweat suit. Joey D. was standing at the exit ramp, chatting with a gray-haired airport security officer. Joey emitted a growling belly laugh as the two shared something amusing. Seven didn’t hear the story, but he could see Joey reenacting the event with wild body movements and a detailed illustration of a choking technique. Seven smiled as he approached and interrupted the memory.