After a few minutes of waiting, the screen in front of me flickered and came to life, and I could see James Henderson getting situated in front of his monitor, somewhere in the depths of the prison. He looked at me as if he knew me, but shook it off quickly. He was wearing the all-too-familiar one-piece orange jumpsuit. Upon seeing it, I flashed back to the red one I wore during my long weekend in jail.
I was taken aback by just how young he was. I knew he was in college, but he looked more like a high school student. He was just a kid. His hair was disheveled and he needed a shave, but other than that he looked to be in surprisingly good health considering he’d been in jail for a year. He reached for his handset and I picked mine up too.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked before I could say anything. He gave me a hard stare, the look of someone with a lot of anger and very little patience.
“My name is Simon Spero. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
He just stared at me, unmoving.
“No? Doesn’t matter. Anyway, a while back I shot and killed a man during an attempted bank robbery. Since that time, my life has been under attack. I’ve lost my reputation, my business, even my family, I’ve been haunted by nightmares the likes of which would make Stephen King cringe, and been beaten unconscious. My trial starts next week and if things don’t go well, I’ll be right in here with you.”
His gaze softened a bit as I spoke, but he never broke eye contact, and his arms remained folded.
“Why are you telling me all this? I don’t know you.”
“I’m telling you this because I was forced to kill him, James. People threatened my family… my wife, my kids. If I didn’t do what they said, they would have killed us all. They still might. I’m telling you this because I think the same thing happened to you.” He unfolded his arms and sat up taller. “They forced you to shoot up that movie theater, because they wanted someone dead. They threatened you, you or someone you love. And now here you are.”
It was hard to tell through the grainy display of the monitor, but it looked like tears were forming in his eyes. He swiped them away, leaned back in his chair as far as the handset would allow, and exhaled heavily.
“My fiancée,” he said. “She’s pregnant, or was. She must have had the baby by now. I don’t know. She hasn’t come to see me since I was arrested.”
He looked down at the floor.
“I think we can help each other, James,” I said. He lifted his head and looked at me with hope in his eyes.
Chapter 79
Christina walked down the steps leading away from her estate home on Palm Island toward the Olympic-sized outdoor pool. It was an open air pool surrounded by chaise lounges, palm trees, and oversized umbrellas. Guards were stationed around the estate, some in plain sight, others more clandestinely positioned. Wrapped in her dual-layer microfiber robe, a towel draped over her shoulder, she made her way down the travertine steps, enjoying the cool air and the orange sky of early morning. She started each day with thirty laps, nearly one mile, in solitude. Rumor had it, if she didn’t get her thirty laps in first thing in the morning, she was even less pleasant than usual to be around.
As she came down the last few steps of the staircase, her pace slowed, and she knew something was wrong. The closer she got to the pool, the more obvious it became. Instead of a gorgeous clear blue, the water in the pool was a murky green, so dark it was nearly opaque. Christina felt her blood begin to boil as she called out for the closest guard. He appeared from behind a nearby row of Spartan junipers lining the far side of the pool and rushed over to where Christina was. He had fear in his eyes as he stood at her side, waiting.
“Do you want to explain this?” she asked, gesturing toward the pool.
“Umm. I, umm…” he stammered in reply, his eyes locked on the murky water.
“Stop blathering like an idiot and tell me why my pool looks like a fucking swamp!”
“I really don’t… I don’t understand, the pool guy was just here!”
“When?”
“Yesterday! I don’t know how this could have happened!”
“Well, I can’t swim in this shit. Get his fucking ass back out here now! If he doesn’t fix this today, he’s fired! And so are you!”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“And tell Raul to find me someplace to swim. Right now!”
“Yes, ma’am!” With that, he scurried off, happy to be alive and putting distance between himself and her.
Finding the pool guy was not tricky. Posing as a real estate agent with an over-eager buyer, I called the guardhouse on Palm Island and peppered them with questions. When I finally got around to the humdrum task of pool maintenance, I learned that Three Island Pools serviced nearly every pool on Palm, Star, and Hibiscus Islands in Miami. A quick call to schedule an urgent appointment, and Denny was on his way.
We watched him pull out and followed him to make sure he was our guy. Before he got anywhere near the guardhouse that stood watch over the very exclusive Palm Island, we intercepted him. At first, Denny was reluctant to even listen, but I flashed him a hundred dollar bill I’ll pulled from the ATM this morning and that got his attention. I told him what we needed him to do, but he flat-out refused.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “She’ll kill me. She won’t just fire me, she will literally kill me. That pool is her baby.”
“Just a little chemical imbalance is all we need,” Ingo said. “Something to keep her out of the pool, just for the day.” Denny shook his head as Ingo talked, but I peeled off a few more hundred dollar bills and he reluctantly agreed.
“It’ll be okay, Denny, I promise. She won’t kill you. You won’t even lose your job. They’ll give you a chance to fix it, and you’ll fix it. Right?”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, still sounding uncertain.
The Fisher Island Club was one of the most exclusive clubs in all of Florida. Among its world-class amenities were seaside golf, pristine tennis courts, a luxury spa, a breathtaking beach club and marina, a comprehensive fitness center and, of course, a magnificent swimming pool. The Vanderbilt Mansion Pool was kept at a comfortable temperature all year round, was filled with salt water, and offered a relaxing atmosphere. It was an unparalleled swimming experience.
It was also just a short trip from Christina’s estate home on Palm Island. Unfortunately, it was only accessible by water. When we saw her large yacht pull up to the dock, we knew Denny had done his work. Ingo cursed, thrust a twenty-dollar bill at me, and I pocketed it with a smile. I knew Denny would come through.
We waited ten minutes before we piloted the forty-one-foot Meridian yacht we’d rented this morning to the dock. When the tenders had secured the lines, Ingo, Callie Ann and I grabbed our bags, hopped out, and headed for the main entrance. We’d made arrangements to visit as guests of the club, using fake names and out of state addresses, expressing interest in long-term memberships. I had played the wealthy, soon-to-be-retiring doctor on the phone, visiting with my wife and business partner. We checked into our separate rooms, Ingo in one, Callie Ann and I in the other, in order to keep up appearances. We changed into our predetermined outfits, and Ingo met us in our room to go over the plan one last time.
When we’d all reviewed our roles, we headed for the door. My heart was pounding as I pulled out my pistol and drew the slide back just enough to confirm there was a round in the chamber. I returned it to the waistband of my swimsuit, hidden behind my vintage button-down pool shirt.
“Are you ready for this?” Ingo asked, looking me squarely in the eyes.
“As ready as I’m going to be,” I replied, ignoring the urge to vomit.
He nodded and opened the door. We headed for the pool while Callie Ann hung back and waited for her moment. As we approached the entrance to the Vanderbilt Mansion Pool area, two large men stood in front of the double doors, barring our way.
“Sorry, gentlemen. The pool is reserved for the next hour.”
This was expected. The plan was to go sit at the bar until Callie Ann did her thing. Ingo, however, decided to go off script.
“Do you know who this is?!” Ingo asked, pointing at me. “This is one of the most renowned plastic surgeons in the world, and he’s considering membership at this club.” He said the word club with derision and a snooty tilt of his head. “We want to see the pool.”
“My apologies, sir,” the goon on the left said. “Unfortunately, the pool is reserved for the next hour. Feel free to take it up with management if you’re upset…”
“Oh, we will!” Ingo cut in. “You can count on it, buster!”
We turned and headed for the bar.
“What the hell was that?” I asked in hushed tones. “That wasn’t part of the plan. Now they might be suspicious.”
“Simon, they would have been more suspicious if we’d just walked away without making a stink. Now they think we’re just like all the other rich entitled assholes in this place.”
He had a point.
We took position at the bar just around the corner from the pool and waited. The bartender asked us what we wanted, but Ingo dismissed him with a wave. Three minutes later, right on cue, Callie Ann appeared. She was wearing a skimpy, g-string bikini that left little to the imagination.
“Holy fuck,” Ingo gushed.
“Yeah…” I agreed, trying to keep the drool in my mouth.
She walked with purpose over to the two guards by the entrance to the pool, and we could hear her talking sharply, sounding desperate as she asked for their help. The words didn’t even matter. Any straight man seeing her voluptuous form clad in such a revealing bikini would walk through fire for her. Not surprisingly, the two goons followed hurriedly behind her, staring at her bare ass the whole way, as she moved away from the pool area.
“Told you,” I said.
Ingo nodded, dumbfounded by Callie Ann and her stunning physique.
“Let’s go,” I said, and we hopped off our bar stools.
We made our way to the doors leading outside to the pool area, and stopped in front of them. With one hand on the door handle, Ingo turned to look at me. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Say it again.”
“Two guards, one on each end of the pool. One more, he’ll be close to her side.” Raul. “Draw, shoot, and run.”
“And make it look good.”
“Right,” I said, my heart ready to leap from my chest.
“Good. Let’s get in and get out before anyone can call the cops.”
“That’s the least of my concerns right now,” I said, and swallowed hard.
“Here we go,” he said, and pulled the doors open.
Chapter 80
We’d studied the layout of the Vanderbilt Mansion Pool area for hours prior to showing up at the Fisher Island Club. We knew exactly where she’d be, knew how many shots we would take, and had our escape plan already mapped out. There were only a couple of minor details I’d neglected to mention to Ingo. Now I could only pray it didn’t get us killed.
The sunlight hit us in the face as we emerged onto the deck, pistols already up and at the ready.
“Gun!” I heard someone shout.
To our left, Christina was standing in the shade under a large umbrella in a lush white robe holding a tall glass of water with some sort of green object floating in it. A cucumber, probably, but there was no time. Her head whipped around as we burst out onto the deck, and Raul rushed to her side. He was too late. I fired twice, Ingo did too, almost simultaneously. The squibs exploded on cue and several large holes appeared in Christina’s pristine white robe. Covered in fake blood, she fell convincingly hard onto the chaise lounge behind her, arms and legs limp. Raul dove on her to shield her from any further harm. Ingo and I tossed our recently and illegally purchased pistols into the pool and sprinted in their direction, away from the two guards now in hot pursuit. We raced past where Christina and Raul lay and dove through the tight cluster of hedges and palm trees lining the pool area.
Shots rang out behind us and we could hear bullets striking palm fronds and whizzing by.
“Jesus!” Ingo exclaimed. “That sounded real!”
I said nothing as we pushed through the vegetation and made our way to the outer wall that surrounded the pool area. We slid to our right, the brush scraping against our backs, until we found it. We’d positioned the rope ladder an hour before Christina and company ever arrived at the club, knowing no one would ever see it from the inside behind all the greenery. I grabbed the sides and put a foot on the highest rung I could reach when a bullet struck the wall just inches from where Ingo stood.
“Jesus!” he shouted again. “What the fuck, Simon?!” he asked and glared at me.
“Let’s go!” I shouted. I scurried up the ladder and threw myself over the wall. Seconds later Ingo appeared and dropped down on the dirt next to me. He pulled the ladder over with him and dropped it as we sprinted to the water fifty yards away where Ingo’s sixteen-foot Bayliner Element was anchored on the back side of the island. We heard distant screams coming from the other side of the wall as resort guests began to realize what had happened. We jumped into the boat, Ingo in the driver’s seat, and fired up the engines. He put pulled up the anchor, slammed it in gear, and as we sped away, Callie Ann popped up from the backseat where she’d been hiding.
“Hello, boys,” she shouted cheerily over the wind, leaning between the two front seats. “I trust everything went to plan.”
“No. It did not,” Ingo snapped, shooting daggers at me.
“What do you mean?” Callie Ann asked, all cheer now gone from her voice. “What happened?”
“Those were live rounds they were shooting at us, Simon. What the fuck? This was supposed to be a staged hit. Why the fuck were those assholes shooting at us for real?”
There was no easy way to tell him, and I wasn’t looking forward to how he would react when I did. I tried to come up with something that would soften the blow, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins made it difficult to think clearly.
“In order to maintain the illusion, and for word of her death to spread, Christina wanted as few people as possible in on the set up.”
“What the fuck does that mean? Who knew and who didn’t know?”
“Only Christina and Raul knew,” I said with a gulp.
“You mean those assholes were really trying to kill us?”
I just sat there and stared at the shoreline, breathing deeply and hoping this conversation would just go away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he shouted, now sounding more betrayed than angry.
I turned to look at him. “Because I didn’t want you to try to stop me. This had to be done, and I needed your help. I had to make it seem like the whole thing would be easy. I knew you’d stop me if you thought there was a chance I’d get shot.”
“You’re right! I would have!” he shouted.
“But I didn’t get shot. And neither did you,” I submitted.
“That was dumb fucking luck, Simon. That’s all that was.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I turned away and stared out at the horizon.
“Do me a favor,” he went on. “No more secrets. You want my help, you tell me everything. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said. I put my head back against the rest, closed my eyes, and quietly rejoiced that we made it through the morning without getting shot. Then I prayed we wouldn’t get shot tomorrow.
Chapter 81
We made the hour-long drive from Miami north to my hotel in Boca without incident. No one appeared to be following us, but we were still intensely watchful of any car that came near us. Only a very select group of people knew what we had done, but we were confident Raul would not send the ones who di
dn’t after us. Now that Christina was “dead,” he would be calling the shots. At least temporarily. And when the police eventually found the yacht we’d left behind, they’d discover nothing but the phony name and ID used at the rental agency, and no fingerprints inside. They’d also find no prints in our rooms and no serial numbers on the guns we’d tossed in the pool. We were home free. I hoped.
By the time we pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, there were already reports of the shooting on the radio, bursting with speculation on what happened and why. Once inside the room, we turned on the TV to see much more comprehensive coverage. There were cop cars and news vans surrounding the Fisher Island Club. Lights were flashing and people were gathering as reporters could only speculate as to what could have happened inside one of the most exclusive clubs in Florida.
We flipped through the channels and discovered that one lucky news crew had somehow made their way onto the grounds of the club. Their cameras showed the pool area to be a flurry of activity as cops combed the place, setting numbered yellow a-frames over shell casings, blood spatters, and any other evidence they found. There was a large, yellow tarp draped over the chaise lounge where Christina had fallen. What was under it, we couldn’t be sure. Raul could be seen talking to police, streaks of fake blood smeared across his bare chest. I also caught a glimpse of Agent Stamper huddling with a colleague and pointing at the spot in the vegetation through which Ingo and I had fled. We expected the FBI to be involved, but it was impressive just how quickly they had arrived on scene.
“Looks like things went well,” we heard from our right. James Henderson was sitting at the desk in front of two computer monitors, right where we’d left him before we left for Miami. He had shifted in his seat, his body angled toward us and the TV screen, his arm draped over the back of the chair. Thanks to an extremely generous donation from the Christina Escalante revenge fund, I was able to pay James’s bail and get him out. I’d never seen a million dollars in cash before, but when she granted my request, it was clear she was committed and willing to do whatever it took to get Enrique and Gustavo.
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