‘Oh, yeah. That was bad.’
‘What happened?’ Cab asked. ‘I heard that Drew was really upset about something.’
Garth looked like a train slamming on the brakes before a crossing. ‘Oh, well, who can tell with druggies, huh?’
‘I heard he made threats.’
‘Threats?’
‘Like he was going to blow Birch’s head off,’ Cab said.
Garth laughed, which sounded like the nervous titter of a teenage girl. ‘Oh, that was nothing. Kid was worked up. No big deal.’
‘Except someone did shoot Birch,’ Cab pointed out.
‘I know, crazy, right? What are the odds? It’s a crazy world.’
‘Very crazy.’
Garth checked his phone and fiddled impatiently with the buttons. ‘Well, I gotta run. I’ve got another rub-down tonight. One of the uniform chasers near Macdill. Here’s my chance to find out the latest in navy secrets, right? Nice talking to you, Detective.’
‘Same here,’ Cab replied.
The masseur saluted and shouldered off toward the estate’s main gate at a brisk pace. He looked back and smiled nervously when he saw that Cab was still watching him. He gave a little wave, but Cab thought he couldn’t get away fast enough.
*
Diane was waiting for him in the first-floor study. It was a man’s room in a woman’s house, with wine-colored wallpaper and heavy, dark walnut on a wall of built-in bookshelves. It had a fireplace and wet bar. The armchairs looked weathered and not particularly comfortable. An oil painting of Birch Fairmont above the fireplace made him look like a Rockefeller.
‘Hello, Cab,’ Diane said.
He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He ran his fingers along the spines of the hardback books on the shelves. He could feel her eyes following him.
‘Red or white?’ she asked. She had two bottles of wine open on a silver tray. He didn’t doubt that both were expensive.
‘Red.’
‘That’s what I prefer, too,’ Diane said, ‘but I have to drink white now because of the campaign.’
Cab stopped and cocked his head, puzzled. She laughed and tapped a finger on her lips. ‘Teeth,’ she went on. ‘Red wine stains the teeth. Doesn’t look good on television.’
‘Amazing,’ Cab said.
‘Yes, it’s a different world, but you know that. Your mother faced the same thing all those years.’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘Sit down, won’t you?’ Diane asked. ‘I don’t bite.’
There were two armchairs, decorated in a floral pattern, on either side of the antique table on which Diane placed the wine glasses. His was a large, gently fluted bowl glass, in which she’d poured two inches of Cabernet. Hers was a crystal tulip, and she’d filled it with Sauvignon Blanc. He sat down, and she sat down. The two chairs were angled toward each other, and Cab had to bend his long legs awkwardly so as not to touch her.
Finally, he looked at her. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and her face was flushed from the shower. Or maybe it was flushed because she was remembering when they were last together. She was older now – her skin not as taut, her brunette hair scrubbed of gray – but she was still elegant and attractive. She was casually dressed, but to Diane, casual meant a rose blouse, white satin slacks, and heels. He’d changed into a beige suit and narrow tie.
They clinked their glasses in a silent toast and drank. The Heitz Cabernet was superb.
‘Tarla doesn’t know,’ Diane said. ‘That was your first question, wasn’t it?’
He nodded, because she’d read his mind. He realized that Diane was different now. More confident and mature, more open. The Diane of ten years ago wouldn’t have bulled her way into that particular china shop.
‘Why didn’t you tell her?’ he asked.
‘I figured you didn’t want me to. I assume you didn’t tell her yourself.’
‘You assume correctly.’
‘I hope you don’t feel guilty about what happened between us,’ she said. ‘Or worse, ashamed.’
‘No.’
‘Good. You’ll never know what that afternoon meant to me.’ After an awkward pause, she added: ‘Or how it changed my life.’
There was nothing to say in reply, so again, he said nothing.
‘Anyway, enough of that,’ she said. ‘It’s over and done. We don’t need to talk about it.’
‘Okay.’
She glanced at the painting of Birch with emotions he couldn’t read, and she drank more Sauvignon Blanc. ‘So.’
‘So.’
‘Tarla tells me she’s trying to set you up with Caprice,’ Diane said.
Cab rolled his eyes. ‘Well, you know my mother.’
‘I do. You could do a lot worse, Cab. Caprice is brilliant, beautiful, driven. What we’ve done at Common Way is mostly thanks to her. Really, it should be her on the ticket, not me.’
‘I don’t exactly see myself as a politician’s courtesan,’ Cab said.
‘Oh, with Caprice, I suspect you’d enjoy the experience,’ Diane replied, smiling. ‘However, it’s your choice. You don’t need all these middle-aged women interfering in your love life. Speaking of which, how is it for you having Tarla close to you again?’
‘Challenging,’ Cab said.
‘So I gather. She has some choice words for your girlfriend. What’s her name? Wawa?’
‘Lala,’ Cab said. ‘No, they don’t exactly get along. Lala met us for breakfast after Mass a couple months ago. Tarla said the Catholic Church should change its name to IHOP. International House of Pedophiles.’
‘Your mother does speak her mind,’ Diane murmured.
‘Yes, she does.’
‘She thinks you’ve spent your life running away from her.’
‘No, just running,’ Cab said, ‘but she has a point.’
‘So why do you do it?’
Cab sipped his wine. He had no intention of answering, but it was a good question. He usually avoided self-reflection the way he avoided yoga and Michael Bublé. He could have blamed Catch-a-Cab Bolton on Vivian Frost, the lover who’d betrayed him, the lover he’d killed; but the truth was, it had started long before her. He could have blamed Hollywood. He could have blamed Tarla, or his father, who didn’t even exist for him. Any of those were easier than blaming himself.
‘Are you planning to run away again?’ Diane asked, when he ignored her question.
‘My lieutenant in Naples would probably be happier if I did,’ Cab said, smiling.
‘Hiding behind jokes. Just like your mother. She loves you, you know. You have no idea how abandoned you’ve made her feel. You two have only each other, yet you chose to keep yourself thousands of miles away from her for years.’
Cab felt an urge to snap back at Diane. That was probably what she wanted. Instead, he tightened his grip on the wine glass and settled back into the chair. ‘It’s really supposed to be me asking the questions here.’
Diane laughed. ‘Sorry. There I go again. It’s just that she’s my best friend.’
‘I know. I love her, too, you realize.’
‘Of course, you do.’
‘Unfortunately, for Tarla, being a part of my life means trying to control me.’
‘Well, rather than running away, you could try saying no.’
Cab smiled. ‘Yes, I could.’
Diane had already drained most of the wine in her glass, and she refilled it. He knew she was nervous, even if she didn’t show it. She lifted the bottle of red, but he shook his head. After she took another swallow – a large one – she put down the glass and gripped the arms of the chair a little too tightly.
‘Caprice tells me you’re looking into threats against me,’ she said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Is this real, or just an excuse for her to seduce you?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think she needs an excuse,’ Cab said. ‘As for whether it’s real, I suppose she showed you the note.’
Diane nodded. ‘She
did. Am I supposed to take it seriously? I really can’t believe the Liberty Empire Alliance would be so bold as to try this again. It’s gracious of you, Cab, but I think you’re wasting your time. I have security. We have a very able police force, not to mention the FBI. I’m sure if there were any genuine threat, they would know about it, and they’d be able to deal with it.’
Cab felt as if he were being dismissed. ‘You may well be right.’
‘That’s not to say I don’t like having you around. I’m sure Caprice feels the same way.’
Her words had gotten faster, as if she were racing for a conclusion she didn’t want to admit openly. She wanted him to stop investigating. She wanted him to quit.
‘I do have some questions,’ he said.
‘Such as?’
‘Do you really believe that the Liberty Empire Alliance killed Birch?’
Diane’s jaw hardened. She looked offended. Or her offense was a convincing political act. ‘That’s your question? I watched one of their soldiers murder three people. Including my husband. It could have been me, too, and it could have been your mother, in case you’ve forgotten.’
‘I haven’t,’ Cab said.
‘Then clearly, my answer is yes. I was there. I saw it happen.’
‘I’m sorry. I realize how horrible it was. If it’s possible that the same person could be focused on you, then I want to follow any avenue to know who really pulled the trigger that night. That means finding out everything I can about the Labor Day murders.’
Diane shrugged. Her body language wasn’t designed to encourage him.
‘I’ve tried to talk to Tarla about the shooting,’ he went on, ‘but she won’t say anything. I think she’s keeping something from me.’
‘Why do you think that?’ Diane asked.
‘I know my mother. Do you have any idea what it could be?’
‘I don’t. She and I don’t talk about that night. We never have.’
‘Tarla’s meeting me at the Bok Sanctuary tomorrow afternoon,’ Cab added.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Sometimes being back in a place where something bad happened will jar memories.’
‘Maybe some memories are best left buried,’ Diane said. ‘I’d forget that night if I could.’
‘Tell me something: was Drew there with all of you that night?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I was wondering if your son was on the dais, too.’
‘No, he wasn’t.’
‘Where was he?’ Cab asked.
‘Drew? He was home. He wasn’t well. What does this have to do with anything?’
‘Nothing. I just wondered how the trauma affected him. Were he and Birch close?’
Diane frowned. ‘No.’
‘Stepfather and stepson. It’s never easy.’
She didn’t respond well to his sympathy. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘I heard that Drew had a bad episode shortly before the murders.’
‘My son had drug problems for most of his life, Cab.’
‘Yes, I know that. Was there anything that triggered that particular episode? Did something happen?’
Diane stood up, cutting him off. ‘Addicts don’t need triggers, I’m afraid. Look, Cab, I hate to be abrupt, but can we cut this short? I’m tired. The campaign is exhausting. I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help. It’s nice to see you again. Really.’
‘It is.’ Cab stood up, too.
‘As I said before, this whole thing is probably a waste of your time. Caprice’s heart is in the right place, but I wish she’d talked to me before hiring you. I would have told her not to bother.’
‘I actually hope you’re right about that,’ Cab said. ‘That would mean you’re safe.’
She led him to the front door, and the parting was awkward. They didn’t embrace. They didn’t shake hands. She acted as if she couldn’t wait for him to be gone, and she closed the door immediately behind him.
He found himself alone in the garden. It was night now. At the base of the steps, golden lanterns on white pillars illuminated the sidewalk, leading him away from the house. He made his way to the main gate, which was elaborately sculpted in wrought iron, with designs of herons and tree branches. The security guard let him out. Cab noted with satisfaction that the man was observant and tough, but he was only one man, and there were plenty of ways to breach the wall.
Cab stood outside in the midst of the dark urban neighborhood. The weather forecast was right. The night had changed. A west wind was blowing, and the air pressure had dropped. He could taste rain on his lips. He’d lived in Florida long enough to know that a storm was coming.
He studied the houses around him and felt uneasy. Some had lights, others didn’t. The yards were a maze of fences and mature trees, all black in the darkness. Cars were parked along the curbs, leaving wide spaces between them. He couldn’t see far, but he spent several minutes waiting and listening.
Eventually, he crossed the street to his Corvette, but it didn’t change what he felt.
Somewhere around him were the eyes of a stranger. He was being watched.
16
He put down his binoculars and melted into the cover of the trees. The cop was smart; the good ones had a sixth sense when someone was spying on them. He watched the red Corvette scream away from Diane Fairmont’s estate, and he wondered if the cop was going to be a problem.
He didn’t want more death, but sometimes it was necessary. Like the girl who’d broken into the foreclosure house. Tina. Young, pretty, sweet. After he cut her throat, he’d dumped her body in a park near the Gulf shore. Eventually, they would match the blood on the carpet in the house and realize she’d been there, but by then, it wouldn’t matter.
He only needed a few more days.
He thought about Justin Kiel. Justin was smart, too, like the cop. He’d put two and two together in a way that no one ever had. It could have been a disaster, but Justin had made the mistake of following him and trying to learn more. He was easy to spot, easy to trap.
All these years, his secret had been safe. Buried. Hidden. Until now. He should have expected it. Once the dirt was scraped off an old grave, there was always the risk that someone would stumble across it.
What’s happening?
Why is there so much blood?
He squeezed his fists, pushing down his emotions. It was déjà vu. Ten years had changed nothing. All he could do was keep going.
He felt his throwaway phone vibrating in his pocket. He knew exactly who was on the other end of the line. He checked the neighborhood, and he was alone. He answered the phone: ‘Do you have it?’
The man replied: ‘Yes, I can get what you want. It isn’t a problem.’
‘Good.’
‘This is serious firepower, friend,’ the man said.
‘Yeah, so?’
‘I want to make sure this doesn’t come back to haunt me.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘I’m someone who worries. Do you have the money?’
‘Yes.’
There was a long pause. He could almost hear the calculations in the man’s mind. Risk assessments. Greed. Eventually, greed always won out.
‘Let’s say Tuesday then,’ the man said. ‘The Picnic Island pier. After dark.’
‘I’ll be there.’
He hung up the phone. Everything was coming together now. Soon it would be Independence Day. Soon Chayla would roar like an animal across the land. The storm’s violence would protect him. He would strike again, the way he had once before. And then they would finally have what they’d always wanted.
Power.
PART TWO
SOMETHING BAD
17
Cab expected the Pilot House at the Tampa Yacht Club to be crowded for Monday lunch. Instead, the room was empty. Attorney General Ramona Cortes sat alone at a table tucked into an oval cubbyhole at th
e back of the dining room. The walls around her were paneled in light oak and decorated with sailing flags. The bay windows were blocked by wooden shutters. Through the slats, he glimpsed the water.
Ramona put down her copy of the Tribune and got to her feet as he approached. ‘Cab,’ she said. ‘What a pleasure to see you again. Thank you for coming.’
Cab smiled. ‘I didn’t think it was optional.’
‘It wasn’t. Not really.’
‘No campaign aides?’ he asked. ‘Just us?’
‘I like my privacy on certain matters.’ Ramona gestured at the empty dining room. ‘The restaurant is closed today, but they make an exception for me when I’m in town. I work out, and then I have lunch and dial for dollars. Fundraising is a never-ending process. Order whatever you want. I’m having tomato basil soup and grilled cheese.’
‘That sounds delicious.’
A waiter hovered. Ramona held up two slim fingers, and he nodded and disappeared. A fresh iced latte sat in front of Cab’s place setting. Apparently, his tastes were predictable. Ramona sipped club soda with a squeeze of lime from a highball glass.
The Attorney General was polite, but with a no-nonsense demeanor. When she smiled, it was with her lips; she didn’t grin. She was in her early forties, small, with delicate hands and a trim physique. If there was any gray in her bobbed black hair, she’d erased it. She had a V-pointed chin and hooked nose, and her dark eyes were sharp and confident. She wore a tailored charcoal suit, which looked every bit as expensive as the one Cab was wearing.
Ramona had been extremely successful in two careers. She’d started as a private attorney in one of the state’s largest law firms and then made the transition to the rough-and-tumble world of Florida politics. She had money, she had intellect, and she had the courage of her convictions. However, Cab had seen her on television, and he knew that she wasn’t a gifted campaigner. She appeared aloof in public. Detached. She relied for her appeal on no-nonsense toughness. Her campaign slogan reflected the kind of person she was: Ramona Cortes for a Strong Florida.
‘How’s Lala?’ she asked.
‘She’s fine. Busy with an assignment.’
‘The two of you should visit me in Tallahassee sometime. A pool party around the holidays, maybe. Lala is my favorite cousin, you know.’
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