CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The insurance company had not paid yet while they investigated the circumstances of the events that led to the loss of the Toscana; on the other hand they had paid, to a different claim, the loss of the Lear, whose value was a shade of what the new Bombardier 6000 had cost. The Toscana pushed well beyond a quarter of a billion dollars and that would give any insurer pause. Marco had discussed with Ernie and Ian Carlo and now Patricia the wisdom of getting another yacht but the issue was still up in the air. The ease with which the Toscana had been located and disabled by the enemy was something to think about. While it offered a great offshore meeting place, its vulnerability had been exposed. Neither Marco nor Ian Carlo thought it worth the money, not that it counted, or the inconvenience of having a crew around when decisions such as theirs were taking place. Patricia who had really enjoyed the Toscana thought differently but supported whatever decision Marco and Ian Carlo took on this. Anyway, one can charter a mega yacht anytime.
What she really missed was the flats boat. She would go out with Sal to fish early in the mornings, enjoying the solitude of the water, or in the evenings to watch the sun dip slowly into the gulf. She had mentioned that by way of conversation with Marco some time when they were talking up in New York and to her surprise a brand new Hell’s Bay Neptune was rolled up to the house that morning.
It was a 19-foot beauty, custom fitted to the instructions of Luigi and Pete who were the knowledgeable ones in this matter. It had all the gizmos of the one lost on the Toscana, plus an incredible electronics package. The trolling motor was new technology that eliminated the hum that disturbed the fish and now would run so silently they could ambush a dolphin. The electric pole had more extension and the double platforms had reclining rails; but most important, the engine could take the skiff to fifty miles an hour in a few seconds; a tactical detail that had nothing to do with fishing but everything to do with safety. That afternoon, after Luigi and then Pete had played with all the gadgets and tested the skiff to their hearts satisfaction, Patricia said she couldn’t wait to try the boat herself. She insisted that Marco come along and with Pete at the helm and an Allen Security speedboat following at a discreet distance, they headed for the flats in search of redfish.
They reached Manatee River and slowed down to a stop when they were in just a couple of feet of water in an out-going tide. The grass flat was slightly murky but still showed well to the trained eye. Pete poled slowly pushing into the receding tide and keeping his eyes focused on the grassy shore. Soon he saw the telltale bending of the reeds as a fish fed along the edge looking for crabs and shrimp that came out on the tide. He pointed towards the redfish as they pushed water and told Patricia to get onto the forward platform. She took an 8-weight rod loaded with a floating triangle taper line that was armed with a sparkly shrimp pattern that Sal had tied so long ago.
Pete pushed ahead of the fish and turned the boat to give Patricia a better cast. She did a few false casts in a different direction so the line would not disturb the fish, then she turned the cast midair and double-hauled about fifty feet of line, which took the fly to within ten feet in front of the feeding fish. She let the fly sink to the bottom and, putting the tip of the rod near the surface of the water started stripping, pulsating the fly across and ahead of the feeding fish. No action. The fish had stopped to feed on something else. She repeated the cast and this time waited, watching the reeds until she expected the fish to be within sight of the fly. One strip, two strips, three strips, BANG! A fish sucked in the fly and before it could spit it out Patricia had set the hook and the fight was on. The redfish shook its head as it ran for the grass and then turned on itself and headed for the boat. Patricia was stripping like mad to keep up with the fish but again it changed directions and headed away at full speed, evaporating line off the reel in a circular spray of water and accelerating screech from the gear. Then it circled wide around the boat, carrying the line with it. The drag soon tired it and Patricia reeled in the exhausted creature, which surrendered to the net. It was a perfect slab of copper with two black and gold spots near its tail. About ten pounds, estimated Pete. Since it was getting late and Patricia wanted to give Marco a taste of really fresh redfish they decided to go in for the day. Patricia was radiant in the waning light, her hair messed and a smile stamped on her face. Marco was simply mesmerized, which was a state now familiar to him. Maybe one of these days he would try his hand at this fishing thing, he thought, and like reading his mind Patricia told him that he would learn to cast tomorrow. Mind you, she didn’t ask him; she told him. But it wouldn’t happen; at his first attempt at simply waving the rod back and forth Marco yelped with pain as his wound acted up.
That evening the redfish was served Caribbean style, gutted, scaled, washed thoroughly, salted, spiced with paprika and cayenne pepper, and fried in peanut oil, dusted again with a mix of corn and wheat flour, spiced, salted, and again fried lightly in oil and butter. This process assures a moist, tender fish. Squeeze some fresh lime and rain finely chopped cilantro, and serve with deep fried yuca sticks and ratatouille. The wine that evening was Patricia’s favorite, the exquisite, aromatic, fruity Torrontes from the edges of the Atacama Desert near Salta, Argentina. A passionfruit flan with crème Anglaise closed the meal. With a comforting cup of chamomile tea in her hand Patricia started to reminisce about her first fishing experience with Sal.
“The day we fished the Rio Malleo with Sal on our first fly-fishing experience – I can still feel the excitement of that first trout. When it took the fly and jumped out of the water I screamed with excitement, and although Martin had taught me to set the fly lightly by simply raising the rod, the excitement took over and I struck way too hard, launching my trout out of the water and breaking the delicate tippet. I stood there looking at my line, now flaccid in the current, flyless and lifeless. Downstream, action caught my eye – Sal stood mid-river with water up to his waist, rod held high above his head, fighting a trout that kept taking spectacular jumps into the air, sending flashes in the waning light of the evening. I couldn’t see his face but could guess that look of determination that was so much part of him.”
Marco wondered why this had come up just now. Last time she talked about that day she had skipped the detail and went on to describe the dinner they had enjoyed that night. He listened on.
“Martin quickly tied another fly on my line, dressed it and I was ready to try again. This time we waded a few steps further up river and again waited for all to settle. The rising trout returned, more avidly than before indicating the impending end of the hatch and the anxiety of fish trying to get filled. I cast again to the feeding line and managed a good presentation on my first attempt. Before my fly had floated more than a few inches, an avid trout once again slurped it under. This time I set the hook properly and the fight was on. This fish did not take to the air and Martin said it was a bigger trout and indicated how to give and take line as the fish fought for its life. Minutes passed in eternity. Each time the fish ran my heart seemed to run with it. Time stopped and the sun stood still letting the light settle upon the micro drama of my first fly fishing experience, something that was to become a passion for Sal and I, and which brought us together until the very end.
“Finally the trout tired and Martin scooped it into his net and out of the water in one swift movement. It was a spectacular wild brown trout, a twenty-inch bar of shimmering gold with blue, red, and black jewels along its side. Antonio and Sal, who had seen the fight from downriver, came up to admire the fish. Both men were highly excited to see that my first trout was such a beautiful animal in full maturity; a male beginning to show an extension of its lower jaw as it prepared to battle others for primacy. Martin expertly revived the big brown by holding it gently, head towards the current, flushing oxygen-rich water through its gills and allowing it to regain its strength. About a minute later, and with a dignified swish of its tail, it swam slowly back towards deeper water, giving us a full display of his disdain.
”
Marco understood that Patricia was bringing the past to the present so she could deal with the future. Yes, he understood her internal battle, the same he was having…about the same man.
Ana Meredith woke up at her usual time after a long siesta that she needed more and more every day. She took off her sleeping mask but the room was very dark from the blackout curtains that let little light in. Through the haze she saw something out of place. She had been sleeping in this room for over seventy years since she came here as a young bride and little had changed since then. Maybe she was suffering from the effect of the half pill of Ambien that she had taken with her lunch. It happens, she thought, but the rationalization did not help because the tall dark bulk remained there. Then she heard the low authoritative voice that said, “May God be with you.”
“And with your spirit,” she answered by reflex.
“Why have you deserted him? Has he not given you enough?”
A chill ran through Ana, her palms became sweaty and her voice broke. “What do you mean? What do you want?”
“You and others that call yourselves Catholic have confabulated against him and his prince, allying yourselves with an enemy of the Lord, with a heathen.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Gabriel Angelo, a servant of the Lord and of his church.”
Ana knew now that she was hallucinating. Visitations by angels were not part of her belief, no matter how many times she heard the stories in church. So she decided to get up, take a short shower and get the drug out of her system.
“Stay where you are,” said the hallucination. “We are not finished here,” it said, pushing her back lightly into the bed.
Ana screamed at the top of her lungs and tried to reach a panic button near her bed but was again restrained by soft but firm hand. The scream would not be heard. The room had been soundproofed again recently because of her insomnia. The vision waited patiently until she stopped screaming, now short of breath.
“Why did you stop funding God’s church? Why did you drain his coffers?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked desperately.
“You and the others have taken funds away from the church. Why have you done that?” asked the now more human looking apparition.
Ana, with her wits back, knew perfectly well what he was talking about and that made her mad and made her bold.
“That’s none of your business. I do with my money whatever I want and you can tell Dupree just that. I know who you are, Monsignor, and I’m too old to be afraid of you.”
“Fear me not woman! Fear the Lord thy God that has your immortal soul in his hands and to whom you owe what you call yours and the light you see and the air you breathe,” said Testa, raising his voice with the indignation of those who believe themselves enlightened.
Again Ana tried to get up but this time was restrained in a less than gentle manner. Testa put his hand heavily against her dried up chest and pressed the “insulin injector” to her neck. He delivered two tiny darts into her jugular and held her still while he looked into the old but brilliant eyes drilling him with contempt. In a minute her eyes glazed a bit and her body relaxed and fell further into the pillows. She was awake, and aware of what was happening, but her limbs did not obey and she couldn’t breathe as deeply as she wished. After another minute or two her body did not respond at all. She was virtually paralyzed.
“It is time to pray,” said Testa and took Ana’s will-less hands into his.
“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”
Ana tried to follow but her voice did not come. She heard the other voice…“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done”…she felt tears rolling down along the crevices of her old cheeks and leave her forever as they fell on the pillow…“and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those”…yes, forgive me Lord, forgive me…and those were the last human words that crossed Ana Meredith’s mind at the end of her ninety years of life.
Raymond the butler noticed that Mrs. Meredith had not come down from her room at the usual time and was in fact an hour late for her “office stint,” as she called the time spent in her studio attending to the many communications received that invariably required her approval or comment. He sent Nadia, the Lithuanian maid, to see why. Minutes later the chilling scream of the maid propelled him up the stairs and into his mistress’ room. Literally hanging from the rafters was the body of Ana Meredith; the sleeping gown soiled and a puddle of disgusting liquids pooled underneath her. Apparently she had taken her own life and tied the curtain rope while standing on the bed and had jumped off. She had a rosary in one hand and a note in the other.
When the police came the cop was convinced that it was suicide but the medical examiner later pointed to the one odd thing in the room. The crucifix that had hung over Ana’s bed for decades was on her pillow. While it was something she might have done in an altered state of mind it was out of place enough for the inquiry to be done more thoroughly. And so happened that homicide detective Amiable Manning, yes, that is his name, looked carefully at the scene and concluded that the length of the rope did not correspond to the suicide scenario simply because it was too long. She could not have jumped from the bed because if that was the case and the rope had been long enough to reach the beam from the bed, her feet would have hit the floor before the rope stretched her neck and here there was at least a foot between the floor and the tip of Ana’s feet. Conclusion…murder!
Soon the Kansas City crime scene unit was crawling all over the place. Detectives were interviewing the butler and the maid since apparently there was no one else in the house at the time of death. The kitchen was never used except to make breakfast, as all other meals were catered in from a variety of health food restaurants so there was no kitchen staff.
“Oh boy,” thought Amiable, finally after twelve years on the force and five in homicide, he had a case where he could raise his voice and pompously point his finger and say “The butler did it!”
There were no fingerprints other than those of Ana, her son Edward who was away on business, the butler, the maid, and Ana’s massage therapist who came once a week on Mondays. The maid was too small to lift Ana and the butler was a stretch but barely possible, so…“The butler did it!”
As the investigation progressed and neighbors were interviewed, a new possibility presented itself. The gardeners from an adjacent property had seen a Latino man of average height leave by the front gate and depart in a silver or gray car. This was about the time at which Ana Meredith had breathed her last. Maybe…“the butler didn’t.”
By 5:00 p.m. the world knew. The governor, the mayor, the police commissioner, the two senators from Kansas, two from Missouri, and about seven congressmen were demanding action. Roadblocks were up, airports furled, trains delayed, news networks looking for talking heads that could say something, anything at all about the murder of the richest woman in two states. The cardinal, the bishop, the parish priest, a cadre of nuns were all demanding to be present with the body of the most Catholic of their now to be impoverished domains. Ana’s son Edward was flying in from Chicago with Senator Archibald Mason, a close friend of the deceased.
The medical examiner was ordered by all who mattered to do an immediate autopsy, but the results of the thorough job that was needed would not be available for at least 24 hours. By then every tabloid in the country would have their own conclusions. Those would range from government plots to aliens punishing the head of a multinational that was raping the earth.
That night, Senator Mason and Edward Meredith drank their Irish whiskey and discussed in low voices what they knew as soon as they received a description of the crime scene. Dupree had done this…and they knew why. They had called Lord Humphrey and several more of their alliance and all were coming in to meet and pay last respects to their matriarch. Among them was Terry Taylor, congressman for the seventh electoral district of Texas, and married to the daughter of the late Joseph Delany and his also departed w
ife. Absent from this conclave and who had interests in its outcome would be Sheik Faruk Al-Enezi.
Computers in Bogotá, Lugano, and New York picked up on the news and promptly Francisco Lujan, M&M, and Special Agent Joseph Delany Jr. were digging through all possible information on the matter and all of them focussed on one particular mail from Edward Meredith to Lord Humphrey: “The cardinal killed my mother. Come ASAP, Edward.”
Promptly Marco and Patricia were informed by Francisco and Ernie. The opportunity to act had come without notice and a plan was beginning to form in Marco’s mind. It could be the time to truly defeat or at least seriously debilitate their opponents when obviously there was a deep rift between them.
Ian Carlo and Tommy Lee were discussing their business at Ruth’s Chris Steak House in Vegas. The place had practically been invaded by them and their security details and their booth had been isolated so that they could converse without being overheard.
“Gucci, are you telling me that I can have ten tons of prime Mexican weed at eighty percent of what the market is today?”
“That is exactly what I’m telling you. I can also include a few kilos of top quality snow with about ninety five percent purity.”
“To what do I owe this generosity.” asked Tommy who never took anything without expecting to pay its price, one way or the other. Life had taught him that much.
“It’s no gift, Tommy; I’m just giving you a few weeks advance on what the price is going to be.”
“What are you telling me, Gucci? Are we gonna have a flood a weed or what?”
The Carducci Convergence Page 19