The time was somewhere close to 10 a.m. and I sat at the house table in Amantes, the supper club of which I hold one-third ownership. The cleaning crew had scrubbed the place, and only a petite Guatemalan named Emma remained. She did a hurried wipe-down of all the woodwork, packed her supplies away, and left the room. I poured myself the last ounce of café Cubano from an insulated container I’d filled in the hotel cafeteria that morning. Then the side door through which the cleaning crew had exited opened, and a medium-height man with white hair, white Van Dyke mustache, and wearing a stunningly white suit walked in. He carried a brown satchel. Following closely behind was Tom Buckley of the Miami Police Department. He wore a brown suit and a teal shirt with a button-down collar. A tawny skinned man about my size followed several steps behind Buckley. He had on a well-tailored, khaki military suit. He moved slowly, his eyes scanning the room, as if he expected to find peepers in the shadows.