by J. P. Lane
THE
TANGLED
WEB
J.P. Lane
An International Web of Intrigue, Murder and Romance
“If you like detective work, investigative reporting, long for the azure stillness of the Caribbean and know that under its postcard façade there can lurk a horrifyingly corrupt underworld; if you can relate to the drug violence that has plagued most of Latin America in the last couple decades then this “telenovela” book will intrigue you. It is a well thought out novel that captures a time and place– the “cocaine wars” – with an unlikely cast of supporting lead characters. It’s a great summer read that will transport you into a dangerous zone and then challenge you to think outside the norm.”
Mercedes Soler, Spanish-language TV personality, July, 2010
Copyright © 2010 by J.P. Lane
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010903730
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Maria: Music by Leonard Bernstein, lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, ©1956, 1957 Amberson Holdings LLC and Stephen Sondheim. Copyright renewed. Leonard Bernstein Music Publishing Company LLC, Publisher. Island in the Sun: Music by Irving Burgie and Harry Belafonte.
References: Patrick L. Clawson and Rensselaer W. Lee III, The Andean Cocaine Industry, St. Martins Press, 1996.
Rev. Date: 4/29/2012
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my friend Patrick D. Cooper without whom this book would not have been written. It was Pat who first recognized my potential as a writer and gave me the opportunity to realize it, beginning as an advertising copywriter in Jamaica years ago. Our paths had not crossed for three decades when I called Pat in Austin, Texas in May 2007. During our lengthy telephone conversation, he literally muscled me into writing a novel, a path along which I would not have ventured without his “strong encouragement.” While battling cancer and writing two novels, Pat found the strength and the time to read my manuscript and lend his support.
I’m also deeply grateful to those who read and commented on drafts of The Tangled Web, in part or in whole: my son who knows all about sports fishers, my friend Richard who helped me choose the firearms, Kirk, Marihelen, Bradley, Karen, Marvin, Carl, Ilene, Sharron and all my other family members and friends who gave their input. Thanks also to Tony Aguilera who edited the Spanish dialogue, and Dawn Dayes of the Language Training Center in Kingston, Jamaica who looked over the Jamaican dialect. And my undying gratitude to my dear friends Elaine Pasekoff and Judi Kearney; Elaine for her expert line editing, and Judi for reading draft after draft with an eagle’s eye. Thank you both for your unwavering support and your invaluable input.
DEDICATION
For Dickie, wherever you are, because love has no boundaries.
ONE
Logan Armstrong shut down his laptop as the Gulfstream 200 prepared for its final approach. He peered out the passenger window into the endless dark, broken only by a scattering of moonlit cumulus clouds floating like cotton in the sky. A shadow passed across Armstrong’s face as he thought about the online newspaper article he had been reading with avid attention. It had made front page headlines in the island’s leading newspaper the day before. He knew one of the subjects in the article – not well, but well enough to be disturbed by the news. Armstrong knew it was unlikely anyone would ever know what really happened. Many secrets were buried in the Caribbean, that sea now shrouded by night as he looked down at it from the private jet taking him to the island from New York.
The front page event was much of the same in terms of what had been plaguing the island for too long, except in this case, the incident excited more press coverage than usual. The victims were well known throughout the island, part of the upper set, sons and daughters of the island’s good families. If Armstrong could have seen through the veil that separates the known from the unknown, he would not have been surprised at how the story had actually unfolded.
For the subjects of the news story – Ray and Anne McGuire, their friends Adrienne Cooper, Ian Ferguson and David Whiting – it had been an ideal day to go out to Fisherman’s Key, a sleepy sandbar off the south coast of the island seldom frequented by visitors on weekdays. The sea had been welcoming, hardly ruffled by an accommodating breeze fanning away the heat of the sun as it beat down on the 36-foot Bertram with the party of five on board. Adrienne, oiled from head to toe in sunscreen, reached inside the cooler at the back of the stern.
“Since when did you start drinking beer?” Ian teased.
Adrienne threw him a mischievous grin and guzzled down half the contents of the bottle like a thirsty sailor. “Never touch the hard stuff while I’m at sea,” she belched, the spray from the wake hitting her suntanned face.
Ian couldn’t help laughing at Adrienne’s complete disdain for social graces. But she’d been a rebel for as long as he had known her. She was a good angler too, the only woman on the island to ever have brought in a marlin weighing over three hundred pounds. “Nice day to be going out to the Key,” he said while watching her tilt her head and down the remains of the beer. “Would be nice if we have it to ourselves.”
Up on the fly bridge at the wheel of the sports fisher, their host Ray scanned the water for signs of the big game fish out of habit. There wasn’t a single sign of marlin, but the boat hand he usually hired for tournaments had come out with them, just in case. If there were even a remote chance of spotting marlin, the boy was their best hope. He knew the waters around the island better than any fish.
Ray reached for the Bloody Mary he’d been nursing and turned the wheel with his free hand, veering slightly to port. Less than half a mile away, the Key was now clearly visible. He eased the throttle forward. “Fisherman’s Key ahead!” he bellowed into the wind.
On hearing Ray’s announcement, Ian left Adrienne at the stern and sidled around to the fore. He squinted in the direction of the Key. “Looks like somebody beat us to it,” he shouted up at Ray.
Ray had also seen them, though they were still too far away to identify.
“Can you tell what kind of boats they are?” Ian yelled.
Ray grabbed the binoculars. “Looks like three Cigarettes,” he yelled back.
Right then, a deafening roar came out of nowhere, drowning out the throttle of the Bertram’s engines. Startled, Ian looked up to see a seaplane directly above. An unsettling feeling swept over him as he watched it nearly skim the aquamarine water before soaring into the sky. He scurried back to the stern and scrambled up to the fly bridge. When he got there, Ray was uneasily watching the plane circling back.
“Maybe we better forget about the Key,” Ian ventured.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yep. If I had any doubts, they’re gone now I see what’s heading toward us.”
“She’s sure moving.”
“She sure is.”
“Know what, my friend? I don’t like this. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Adrienne grabbed the rail to stop herself from falling as the Bertram made a sudden about turn. “What on earth is going on?” she yelled as she clutched the rail for dear life. The
words were hardly out of her mouth before she saw the answer slicing through the water toward the Bertram, leaving a churning white path in its wake.
“Why did we turn around?” It was Anne McGuire who had hastily emerged from the cabin where she and David Whiting had been playing cards. She too was wondering why the Bertram had suddenly changed course. Now standing beside Adrienne, she followed her gaze. The sleek blue and white craft was gaining on the Bertram fast.
“That boat is sure coming at a clip,” David Whiting observed as he moved unsteadily to the other side of Adrienne.
Adrienne frowned. She was no teetotaler, but it was not yet noon and David already reeked of rum. She edged away from him discreetly, at the same time wondering where the seaplane had disappeared. Ian, who had now come down from the fly bridge, joined the group staring at the approaching Cigarette. “Why did we slow down?” she asked him.
“It was pointless trying to outrun it,” Ian shrugged with a nonchalance he did not feel. “No way a Bertram can outrun a Cigarette. Besides, it’s probably somebody we know.”
Ian was right. Within a minute, the Bertram began rocking furiously as the Cigarette boat pulled up alongside them with a deafening chugging of its engines. There were three men in it. One looked up and yelled something unintelligible.
“What’s that? We can’t hear you!” Adrienne shouted back.
He cupped his mouth with his hands and shouted louder. “I said we’re out of ice! Can you spare us any?”
“Hold on and I’ll throw you a bag!”
“We don’t have a whole bag to spare,” Anne grumbled, “See if they have something they can put some in.”
“Let’s just give them a bag and be done with,” Ian quickly interjected. He didn’t want to prolong the encounter with the strangers.
“Then we won’t have enough ice to last the day,” Anne persisted.
“Let me handle this, Anne,” Ian said in exasperation. “Hold on there,” he shouted down to the man. “I’ll get you a bag.”
As he turned to get the ice, he heard David call out, “Have you got a cooler?”
Ian stopped in his tracks. “Why are you asking if they have a cooler? I said I’d give them a bag of ice.”
“Why are you being so abrasive? In fact, why don’t we just invite them for a drink?”
Before Ian could protest, David shouted to the men, “Come on up, you guys! Throw us your line, I’ll get it.”
With tightened lips, Ian watched as David unsteadily caught the mooring line. He watched as, one by one, the three men hoisted themselves onto the deck of the Bertram. He found himself wondering if Ray kept a gun on the boat.
The man who had asked for ice swaggered over to Ian. “Thanks. Sorry to impose on you like this,” he apologized.
“No problem. Glad we could help. I’ll get the ice.”
“That’s quite a boat you have there. She must be at least forty feet,” David said by way of conversation.
“She’s a bit over forty,” the man confirmed with a quick glance at his two companions who stood silently at a distance from the rest of the group.
Adrienne noticed no introductions had been made, though David seemed oblivious to this as he remarked, “You were coming at quite a clip there. What’s her speed?”
“She’ll go up to one hundred and sixty,” the man smiled affably.
His eyes strayed to the rods baited with lures and ready. “Look’s like you plan on doing some fishing.”
“Don’t know if McGuire has fishing in mind for later. We were just heading out to the Key for a swim.”
“I know some McGuires. They live out in the country somewhere. Which McGuire is he?”
Somehow, Ian didn’t buy that. His fears were mounting by the minute. First the seaplane, and then being chased down by a Cigarette that could do one hundred and sixty. He didn’t like profiling, but the truth was there was there were few reasons to have a boat that went that fast. He took charge before David had a chance to respond. “Raymond McGuire,” he answered, observing the man apprehensively.
The man looked thoughtful. “Raymond McGuire! I’ll be darned. Been a while since I’ve run into Raymond!” he exclaimed at last.
Ian’s mouth went dry. It was obvious the man didn’t know Ray from Adam. He caught Anne McGuire’s eye. She was thinking the same thing. No one knew Ray as Raymond. He had been called Ray by everyone since the day he was born.
The man glanced up at the fly bridge where Ray was standing barely visible at the wheel. “Is that him up top?”
No one answered. It had even dawned on David that something wasn’t right.
It all happened so quickly they had no chance to defend themselves. No sooner had the stranger disappeared up to the fly bridge to allegedly say hello to Ray than Ian found himself staring incredulously into the muzzle of a Sig Sauer. The reality of what was unfolding barely had time to sink in before the third man whipped out his gun. “Go stand with your friend over there,” he snapped at David who was frozen to the spot.
Adrienne gripped Ian’s hand so tightly he flinched. “Oh my God, they’re going to kill us,” she trembled.
“Shut up!” the man holding the Sig Sauer barked. He turned to his companion. “Let’s take them below and get this over with.”
From that point on, everything seemed to unfold in slow motion: being herded down the steps at gunpoint; Anne McGuire’s legs giving way, Ian reaching out to steady her, his own terror reflected in her eyes; cold sweat washing over his body; David’s voice weak and pleading, “Look, I don’t know why you’re doing this. We haven’t done anything to…” And then the crack of a shot up on the fly bridge followed by the soul-shattering sound of Anne McGuire’s scream carrying across the water in a wail that seemed as endless as the waves. “Nooooo! Ray! Oh my God! Ray! He shot Ray!”
After that, the two men moved fast, taking Ian and David at the same time. As if in a dream, Adrienne watched Ian reel as the bullet from the Sig Sauer ripped through his chest. She watched as he collapsed beside David, their bodies lying side by side in a bizarre brotherhood of death. She screamed. Then she saw no more. It had all taken place in less than a minute.
Still gazing out the window of his plane, Armstrong could see the island now, or rather he could sense it. Though lit by brilliant moonlight, only lights twinkling down the mountains to the harbor were visible from the air. It always amazed him how much subliminal energy this island had. He could almost hear it rising from the earth like the distant beat of rasta drums. It had been more than twenty years since it had been his permanent home, but now, as his plane prepared to land, he had that familiar feeling of coming home. It always felt good to be back, though this time would be different.
The Gulfstream swooped to a perfect landing and taxied down the runway to the terminal. Armstrong quickly disembarked and walked briskly through the arrivals section of the terminal, his travel-worn leather carry-on slung over his shoulder. It didn’t hold nearly enough for his stay, but there was always something he could fall back on up at his cottage in the mountains. He checked his watch. It was already after 1:00 a.m.
A grinning Trevor was waiting at the curbside with the Range Rover idling when Armstrong stepped out into the moist warmth of the tropical night. “Hello, Mr. Logan, had a good trip, sir?”
“Good enough, Trevor, but never mind that. How are you?”
Trevor’s wide smile faded. “I’m okay, sir, but things are getting worse every day. It’s bad.”
“I’ve heard.”
Without further comment, Armstrong slid into the back seat.
The Range Rover cruised out of the airport and turned onto a two-lane highway flanked by the harbor on one side and the ocean on the other. Armstrong lowered his window, taking in the salty breeze off the sea. Over the purring of the engine, he could hear the rhythm of the waves crashing on the pebbly beach that stretched for miles adjacent to the road. He looked out the other window toward the city glittering like a diamond necklace aroun
d the harbor and up into the mountains. The breathtaking view belied the reality. Things were not as they appeared at first glance. Armstrong wondered if they ever were. He reached for his mobile.
“I’m here.”
“Where are you exactly?”
“On my way from the airport.”
TWO
Mike Graham studied himself in the bathroom mirror. Not bad for a man in his mid-forties, he mused. Just an extra inch or so around the middle, but still no grey hairs. None to speak of anyway. Most of his friends, particularly the married guys, weren’t holding up as well in his opinion. He’d never been one for working out, so he was thankful he was still in fair shape thanks to the blessing of good genes.
A troubled frown creased Mike’s brow as he quickly ran a comb through his hair. Few things bothered him for long, but he’d been feeling uncharacteristically unsettled over the past two days. That nasty business he had been told about was weighing heavily on his mind. Once again he shrugged off making a decision on whether or not to take action. He pulled on some clothes and went to the car.
Mike drove leisurely through the sleeping suburbs and headed for the nearby mountains, changing into third gear as he navigated the first upward curve. He knew every foot of this winding mountain road like the back of his hand, though lit by a full moon as it now was, it would have been easy enough to navigate without knowing every curve and rut intimately. Mike glanced at his car clock. He was running a few minutes late, but he figured Logan probably was too. He estimated it would take Logan at least an hour to arrive from the airport.
Despite his attempt to empty his mind of his problems, Mike’s thoughts quickly returned to his immediate dilemma. He had every reason to fear the person who confided in him would be jeopardized if the police were told. The truth, if anyone cared to face it, was the guy wasn’t alone in doing what he had done to make ends meet. It had become a common enough thing. The fact was nobody could have anticipated it turning out the way it did. It was insane. Mike sighed heavily. He had always adhered to the philosophy never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes. He had never hurt for money himself. And, unlike the poor bastard who had dumped the awful secret on him, he didn’t have a family to support.