Another beer at the Café Tropico. Rogan supposed he should be getting tired of hanging out here so often. But he’d decided it was actually the best way to maintain his cover—he’d shared the space with Junior Martinez and his merry band of thugs a couple of times since that near miss and alley chase, and Junior didn’t seem to have noticed or recognized him. And besides, it was an easy enough place to be, especially in the early evening before the crowds showed up. Rogan had never been much about following a routine—it had been a need for more action and variation in his days that had lured him to Miami in the first place. But now that his job provided exactly that, maybe he was learning that having a few things that seemed familiar and routine could be nice. Or maybe he was just getting old. Or maybe he was hoping April—damn, he still couldn’t remember her last name—would walk back through that door one night when he was here.
