Amanda knew he was referring to what the news media had been calling the “Halloween Homicides,” a series of murders involving a vigilante shooter taking out convicted sex offenders and drug dealers who were fugitives.
In the end, Matt had become involved in a shoot-out and then a chaotic foot chase across the massive Interstate 676 suspension bridge-the Benjamin Franklin-that had been broadcast live. Images from that-all invariably showing Matt running and dodging cars with his Colt.45 semiautomatic drawn-soon appeared in every local media outlet from television to print to the Internet with headlines that, in one sensational phrasing or another, screamed: “Bullets Fly as the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line Solves Serial Murder Mystery.” Various national media ran with the story, too.
“You’re being disingenuous, sweetie,” Amanda had replied, pointedly but with a smile. “What you mean to say is that your Uncle Denny ordered you to take the time off so you would be out of sight and mind of the media, not to mention the ACLU. Playing up the story of the wealthy hometown hero with a growing history of shoot-outs sells newspapers-and creates friction for City Hall.”
Matt’s “Uncle Denny” was First Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin. The fifty-six-year-old wasn’t a blood relative, and thus not actually Matt’s uncle. But he was his godfather-having been best friends with Matt’s biological father, who was killed in the line of duty while Matt was still in the womb-as well as second in command of the Philadelphia Police Department.
And it was the mayor himself who had ordered-through Coughlin-that Matt take another “cooling-off period.” With all his shootings having been thoroughly investigated by Internal Affairs and judged to be righteous, the time off wasn’t meant exactly for Matt’s benefit. The periods were instead designed to give the media and the American Civil Liberties Union time to find something else on which to focus their seemingly boundless energy.
Careful, Matty, he thought. Don’t need to pick the scab off that conversation now.
No question Amanda would like for this cooling-off period to become permanent-for me, as she says, “to quit playing cop and get a job where no one shoots at you.”
Her being newly pregnant can’t help but bring that up again.
“I stand corrected,” Matt said, smiling and raising his wineglass. “Either way, I’m off-duty and going toy shopping.”
“And I’ve been waiting to hear what you were going to do with your time off,” Amanda had then enthusiastically announced. “Let’s go together to get your toy!”
“Really?” he said, almost dropping his glass. “You can get away from the hospital?”
“Of course. You need a break from the city, and I personally need a saltwater fix. Diving is out of the question for me right now. But maybe we could get some fishing in. Certainly we can enjoy some nice long walks on the beach.”
Matt’s initial plan was for them to fly from Philadelphia to West Palm and check into the Breakers or the Four Seasons on the beach there. The sports car-which he had already had professionally inspected and the sale paperwork completed by overnight courier-would be waiting when they arrived at whichever hotel Amanda chose. They would watch the Atlantic Ocean’s waves go up and down for a week or so, then drive the 911 back to Philadelphia.
But when Matt outlined that to his stepfather, Brewster Payne offered another idea.
“As I was having lunch at the Union League,” he had said, “Steve Whittings stopped by my table to say he had news that might take the sting out of the storm having sunk the boat.”
The Union League of Philadelphia, with the motto Love of Country Leads, was founded as a patriotic society during the Civil War. It enjoyed an exclusive membership-well heeled and well connected-including such luminaries as the founding partner of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, which was the city’s most prestigious law firm, and the president of Franklin National Bank. The Union League’s impressive brownstone covered an entire Center City block, a brief walk from City Hall and many other political and corporate power addresses.
“He always was partial to the Hatteras,” Matt said, having a mental image of them fishing aboard the fifty-five-foot Final Tort IV.
“That’s because he almost always caught the biggest fish on her.”
Matt chuckled. “He certainly likes beating the Nesbitts. I’m beginning to think Chad gave up fishing and went to those high-performance offshore boats because of that.”
“Would not surprise me. The Nesbitts have always been very competitive. Anyway, Steve told me that his bank was having trouble getting rid of a Viking they’d repossessed after its owner went to jail last summer. He said it really is a buyers’ market, and that if I were interested, the bank was damn tired of having the boat on their books. He said he’d almost intentionally sink his own boat so he’d have an excuse to buy her.”
“She must be nice. Are you interested?”
“Of course. We’ve never been without a boat. I just don’t have time to go there and check her out. And now that you’re planning on being in the area. .”
Matt nodded thoughtfully. “A Final Tort IV. Why not?”
Two phone calls later-one from Brew Payne to Steve Whittings to explain the situation and get details on the boat, and another call from the banker to the yacht broker, whom Whittings instructed to give Matt a familiarization cruise, then hand over the keys for however long he wanted them, having made the point, “I’ve watched Matt run his father’s boats since he could stand and hold the wheel, he won’t so much as ding the boat”-it was a done deal.
“Matt,” his stepfather reported back to him, “you can get your car in West Palm, then meet the broker in Islamorada. Captain Clyde has the boat next to his at Bud and Mary’s Marina. Take Amanda down to Little Palm and put it on my account.”
[FOUR]
Matt scanned ahead of the Viking with his binoculars as he-off-key but with gusto-sang along with Buffett about a modern-day pirate. After leaving Islamorada, the big boat had been running almost two hours on a southwesterly course, following along the chain of islands and the bridges of the Overseas Highway connecting them. Matt could easily make out Seven Mile Bridge, which ran south of Bahia Honda to Big Pine Key. He saw what was easily a score or more of other vessels, mostly powerboats but some under sail, crisscrossing the area. And, just out at the edge of the Gulf Stream, a cruise ship was headed east, passing a rusty cargo ship riding high with an empty deck and slowly making its way northward.
Matt heard Amanda playfully clear her throat behind him as she approached the helm. He felt her hand reach around him, finding the volume control.
“I hope you’re not planning to use those singing skills to provide for your new family,” she said as she turned it up.
He put the binoculars on the console and turned to her. She had pulled back the front brim of her floppy hat, revealing her face dominated by a pair of big round black sunglasses and an even bigger mischievous smile.
“Thanks a lot,” he said, smiling back. “You know how that part of the vow goes, the ‘for richer, for poorer’ one. .?”
“I think not,” she said, and kissed his neck. “You took advantage of me, and got me in the family way. You’re obligated to make it right.”
His hand slipped to her bikini bottom and gently squeezed her right cheek.
“With pleasure,” he said, then added, “So you like my Pirate Playlist, I hear.”
“Very much. I love all of this down here,” she said, making a grand sweep of the horizon with her left hand. “And I adore what I read about Little Palm Island. How did you say you discovered it?”
“In Scouts. And we really did discover it.”
“Boy Scouts?”
He nodded and pointed toward shore.
“Off Big Pine Key there are a couple of small outer islands once owned by the guy who made a fortune selling wood-refinishing products. The undeveloped one is called Big Munson, which he donated to the Scouts after some government agency wouldn’t let him bui
ld on it. Thirteen or fourteen years ago, Chad and I camped out on it for a week with a bunch of guys from our troop. We played castaways, like Robinson Crusoe, diving the reef, cooking fish on driftwood fires, that kind of thing. Our second day, we were paddling sea kayaks around a tidal flat of mangrove trees when we came out the other side of the island-and almost ran into an enormous yacht. It was moored at a lush little island that was ringed with an immaculately groomed sandy beach. The irony wasn’t lost on us. There we were, a bunch of nasty-smelling sunburned city boys living in mosquito-infested tents next door to a really swank resort accessible only by boat. We didn’t think our kayaks counted.”
She laughed. “Little Palm?”
He nodded. “I like to call it by its old name, Little Munson, just to remind the staff I lived next door before I even knew the place existed. You know, back in the day, Harry Truman and John Foster Dulles stayed there.”
“How nice. And now the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Payne.”
“Huh,” Matt grunted. “I don’t know, baby. I was thinking we’d go native. When was the last time you were in a tent?”
“Enjoy yourself. I’ll be getting room service and a massage in one of those thatched-roof cabanas oceanside that I saw in the photographs.”
He chuckled. “Fine. Be high maintenance. Dinner with Chad is at seven. He texted earlier to confirm.”
He then pointed to a pack of maybe ten high-performance boats that had appeared to the south of them. The boats, moving fast, were kicking up tails of white spray. A helicopter kept pace with the pack, then picked up speed and moved up the coast.
“That’s probably him playing with his buddies in their go-fasts,” he said. “He’s running the company’s new boat.”
Chad Nesbitt was being groomed to one day take over Nesfoods International, just as his grandfather had groomed Chad’s father. Chad recently had been promoted to vice president and put in charge of developing new brands at the Philadelphia headquarters.
“Oh, yeah,” Amanda said. “The boat you said that’s promoting their NRG! drinks.”
Matt nodded. “That caffeine-packed sugar water is making a helluva lot of money. He told me his new NRG! boat cost a cool million-and that’s for a forty-two-footer that only seats maybe eight. Its twin Mercury Racing engines pump out more than two thousand horsepower. Top speed is around one-thirty.”
“A hundred and thirty miles an hour? That’s insane. Why?”
“‘Healthier-Faster!’ That’s the marketing slogan. The boat’s been wrapped in custom vinyl to make it look like a giant can of the stuff. But simple answer? Chad’s come to love go-fasts after hanging out with Antonov. And because he’s got a big hand in the promotion, he gets to pick where they throw money. He said there will be race car promos, too. Guess I’ll have to change his name from the Soup King to Speed King.”
“Antonov? The casino guy?”
Nikoli Antonov was general manager of Philly’s year-old Lucky Stars Casino amp; Entertainment, an enormous five-story complex that offered cavernous areas for gambling-2,500 slot machines, 100 gaming tables-fine dining, and performances by top music artists. Despite the competing casino that was nearly next door, Lucky Stars was said to sell the highest volume of alcohol in all the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Both casinos were just off the I-95 Delaware Expressway and overlooked the Delaware River, not far from Amanda Law’s luxury high-rise condominium building in Northern Liberties.
Matt nodded. “Nick Antonov has a couple of boats promoting the casino. One is supposed to be out there with Chad and the others. But I think Chad said someone other than Nick is running it.”
“And they’re doing this why?”
“Some children’s charity. I forget which one. Entry fee is maybe fifty grand, a drop in the bucket considering the cost of feeding a go-fast. But the quiet big money, just like with college and pro ball, is bet in Vegas and on the side. There are guys at Lucky Stars right now watching these boats on the betting TVs in between pulls on the slots. Not to mention the mob bookies in South Philly are running the odds. Which reminds me: the guy who was head of the Philly mob and just got out of the slam after ten years, Tony the Fixer?”
“What about him?”
“He now lives in Palm Beach. Says he’s just working on his tan.”
“I take it you don’t think so?”
Matt shook his head. “A condition of his release is that he can’t associate with any wiseguys-which is all he knows in Philly. Otherwise he’s back to jail. But it’s all BS. Fact is he can run the mob from down here, from anywhere, just as he ran it from the slam. And there were plenty of mob hits while he was in there.”
“Do you think he’s involved with this race?”
Matt shook his head again. “Not directly. Only with those South Philly bookies taking bets. There’s no racing involved here. It’s a Poker Run. Basically, the boats make five stops, drawing new cards at each one. They started this morning from a marina in the Conch Republic-”
“Key West?”
He nodded. “The whole thing is filmed-that was what that helicopter was doing. At each stop, other cameras show the hands as they get played. Then the boat with the best hand wins something like a new Mustang that’s donated by the local Ford dealer. Meantime, the charity gets a fat check.”
Amanda considered that for a moment, then said, “I think I’ll settle for just writing a check directly to the Shriners while sitting on this nice boat and watching the scenery drift by.”
In Philadelphia, Amanda could see the Shriners children’s hospital across the street from her office at Temple University Hospital.
Matt smiled.
“That’s the woman I love,” he said, as his cell phone began ringing.
Amanda saw that the caller ID read THE BLACK BUDDHA.
“What do you think Jason wants?” she said, looking at Matt. “I thought you were off-duty.”
Lieutenant Jason Washington was Matt’s immediate boss in the Homicide Unit. He was enormous-six-three, two-twenty-five-articulate, impeccably tailored, and had very dark skin. He also was one of the best homicide detectives on the East Coast, from Maine to Miami, and did not take any offense at all to being referred to as the Black Buddha.
“No disputing the fact that I’m black,” he said, “and a Buddha by definition is a venerated and enlightened individual.”
Amanda grabbed the phone, smiling at Matt as she put it to her ear.
Matt shook his head, but he was grinning.
“Well, hello, Jason!” she said. “I do hope this is a social call. How is Martha?”
Amanda’s father, before being offered retirement while recovering from a bullet to the hip from the robber he’d ultimately shot dead, had worked with Washington in Northeast Detectives a decade earlier. Charley Law and Jason Washington had become close, and Martha Washington long had served as a sort of protective aunt toward Amanda.
It was no secret to any of them that Amanda-who said she’d grown up worrying that every day she saw her father leave for work would be the last she’d see him alive, and then he did get shot-would be the polar opposite of upset if Matt were suddenly to find an occupation that did not involve hazardous duty.
After a pause, Matt heard Washington’s sonorous voice. Then he saw Amanda’s eyebrows go up behind her big round dark sunglasses.
“Thank you. Of course. Here he is,” she said, and handed the phone to Matt.
“Hey, Jason,” he said, watching Amanda watch him. He smiled. “Is the department falling apart without me?”
“Matthew, my apology for interrupting your romantic getaway,” Jason said, his deep tone sincere.
“Always happy to hear from you. You know that. What’s up?”
“This is delicate, but I need you to do something for me. Discretion is paramount.”
“Anything.”
“I’m going to mention a name, and I do not want you repeating it during our discussion right now.”
“Okay. .” Matt said, re
aching down to adjust the autopilot as an excuse to turn his face away from Amanda.
“As soon as absolutely possible-and without it triggering further questions-I need you to figure out a way to work Margaret McCain into a conversation with Amanda, asking if she has heard from her lately. And, if you can manage it without her becoming suspicious, also ask if any of her other friends or associates have.”
Maggie McCain? Matt thought, fighting the automatic urge to glance at Amanda.
What the hell is that about?
“You got it, Jason. Can I ask why?”
“No, you cannot. I’m sorry. Call me when you have an answer, Matthew.”
[FIVE]
Latitude 25 Degrees 44 Minutes 71 Seconds North
Longitude 81 Degrees 58 Minutes 58 Seconds West
The Straits of Florida, Southeast of Key West
Sunday, November 16, 4:15 P.M.
“Lucky One, Lucky One. Tin Can, over,” Jorge Perez’s handheld Motorola radio crackled with the voice of Miguel Treto as he maneuvered the sleek fifty-foot Cigarette Marauder at the back of a pack of ten other high-performance boats.
A wiry, tall thirty-four-year-old, Perez had been born in Miami of Cuban parents six months after they fled the Communist island-nation. He was deeply tanned and had short black hair and a goatee. His intense brown eyes were shielded by dark polarized sunglasses. He wore khaki shorts, a dark blue linen shirt with a white tropical flower motif, and tan leather deck shoes.
The open cockpit had seven high-back deeply padded leather seats. Perez was at the helm. The other six seats were filled with stunning blondes and brunettes with bronze tans, the girls all in their twenties, all more or less clad in the tiniest of bikinis. Two were sunning themselves topless.
On both sides of the white Marauder’s long hull and on its foredeck were images of a giant pair of rolling red dice and the wording:
MORE WINNERS, MORE MONEY!
LUCKY STARS CASINO AND ENTERTAINMENT
The Last Witness boh-11 Page 3