by Diane Capri
Crane didn’t like it, but he backed off. Gaspar figured Crane’s restraint wouldn’t last long.
But it was true that Weston looked bad. When he found out his plan to kill Reacher failed, his fragile strength seemed to evaporate. Gaspar wondered how many times Weston’s vendetta against Reacher had failed before. Weston’s reach was extensive, inside the government and out. Another possible explanation for Reacher’s hiding so far off the grid that not even a bloodhound could find him. At least until Reacher could take care of Weston or something else got Weston first. Which didn’t seem so paranoid right at the moment.
The court reporter announced she was ready.
Judge Carson started the proceedings by opening the record and covering all the legal necessities. She said she’d granted an emergency motion for a recorded statement from Mr. and Mrs. Weston because the FBI represented to her that the statement was essential to an ongoing criminal investigation likely to be harmed if Mr. and Mrs. Weston became incapacitated.
And because Weston’s counsel consented.
Jennifer Lane made a short statement about the limited nature of her legal representation and her clients’ consent. Observers said nothing.
Finally, Crane began his questions. He could have spent the ten minutes he’d been allotted following up on Weston’s plan to kill Reacher, which was the only thing Gaspar was interested in hearing about, but instead his questions focused on Weston’s private security company operating in Iraq. Each question was accusatory and belligerent, Gaspar thought. Maybe a little desperate. But it didn’t matter. Crane was destined to get nowhere.
Weston had exhausted his available energy on Reacher. Now, he was mostly non-responsive. He grunted a couple of times to signal yes or no. He moaned. He seemed to be almost unconscious. Ms. Chernow’s transcript would be mostly a list of questions followed by empty spaces.
After the promised ten minutes, Steven Kent returned to check his patient. “I’m sorry, but that’s it. Colonel Weston isn’t able to continue.”
Crane’s annoyance was on full display. “But we’re not finished.”
Kent replied, “For now you are. You can come back in a couple hours and try again if you want. Or you can call me if you don’t want to make an unnecessary trip.”
Crane opened his mouth to argue again, but Judge Carson said, “Thank you, Mr. Kent. We’ll close the record at this time and resume later this evening or as soon as Colonel Weston is capable.”
Crane said, “Let’s question Mrs. Weston now, then.”
Samantha Weston was in the room’s only remaining bed. A curtain separated her bed from her husband’s. Kent pulled the curtain back and checked her health indicators. He shook his head. “Mrs. Weston is still sedated. She’s not able to communicate at this time, either, I’m afraid.”
Crane’s mouth was set in a hard line. Gaspar watched him fight to control his anger. He was a pouter, this guy. Too soft. When he didn’t get his way, he was whinier than Gaspar’s ten-year-old daughter. The thought made Gaspar smile and Crane glared back as if he might start a fistfight. Gaspar struggled not to laugh. He caught Otto’s eye and saw her reaction was the same as his.
Judge Carson saw the lay of the land. She did what judges do. She wrapped it up. “Is there anything else anyone wants to put on the record at this time?”
No one raised anything. She closed the record and everyone left the room except Ms. Chernow, who stayed to pack up her equipment.
In the corridor, Crane seized the initiative again. “Judge, we’d like to continue in two hours. We’re worried that these witnesses won’t survive the night. If they don’t, our case will be irreparably harmed—”
Judge Carson headed him off before he could get too amped up. “Fine. Ms. Chernow exists on nuts and dried fruit she carries in her purse. On that diet, I’d be dead in a week, and I’m hungry. Anyone want to join me for dinner at George’s Place? No need to change clothes. We can grab a quick bite in the Sunset Bar.”
Because refusing a dinner invitation from the judge on your case wasn’t a smart move, everyone officially interested in Weston should have accepted.
But Crane said, “I need to review my file to streamline my questions. I’ll just grab something from a vending machine.”
Agent Bartos, probably figuring it would be a bad career move to contradict his boss, pulled out his wallet and left for the nearest sandwich.
Jennifer Lane seemed torn by indecision. If she stayed, she could keep an eye on Agents Crane and Bartos, but she’d have to stop watching Gaspar and Otto. Not to mention ticking off the Judge on her case. If she went to dinner, though, Crane and Bartos would remain unsupervised and who knows what mischief they’d get up to without her to restrain them.
Gaspar stifled his smirk and glanced over toward Otto, who pretended to yawn, probably to cover amusement.
“I’m in,” Jess Kimball announced.
Otto said, “Me, too.” Who knew why? Her motives were usually a mystery to Gaspar.
No mystery at all regarding Gaspar’s motivation for accepting Judge Carson’s invitation. She’d offered to buy and he was hungry. Simple as that.
11
Judge Carson’s Mercedes CLK convertible zipped along Bayshore Boulevard like a homing pigeon on its return flight. Jessica Kimball’s SUV followed. Gaspar brought up the rear in the rented sedan.
George’s Place was the only five-star restaurant in South Tampa, as far as Gaspar knew. He’d never eaten at another one. Which might not mean anything. He didn’t come to Tampa often and he wasn’t a big foodie. A good Cuban sandwich was good enough for him. And any dessert made with guava.
The effortless drive from Tampa Southern to the Plant Key location was as beautiful tonight as it had been earlier in the day. Bayshore Boulevard beribboned the water’s edge along the miles in both directions. The full moon and lighted balustrade created a warm, magical picture his daughters always loved.
“How about a quick recap?” Otto asked, as if she were actually giving him an option.
“Sure.”
She ticked off her conclusions raising one finger at a time as if they were facts. Which they probably were. “Weston put the word out and staged his attendance at this memorial because he wanted to lure Reacher. He believed Reacher would try to kill him. He made himself a human target. Then his bodyguards would kill Reacher. His purpose was to exact revenge on Reacher.”
Gaspar didn’t argue. Suicide by cop. Maybe a bit pedestrian for a Machiavelli like Weston, but not a rare motive among those angry and feeling persecuted by law enforcement.
“Weston planned to kill Reacher for sixteen years. Don’t you think that’s bizarre?” she asked.
“I do.” No real reason to argue. Cold revenge and all that. Besides, he was hungry and didn’t want to prolong the discussion. He rolled the window down, got a good whiff of the exposed plankton at low tide, and promptly filled the hole with glass again.
Otto’s speculation started next.
“The Boss knew of Weston’s plan and thought it might work,” she said. “He knew Reacher could show up. The memorial was well publicized. Reacher might have learned about it, depending on where the hell he’s hiding at the moment. The Boss knew we could get caught in the crossfire.”
Gaspar shrugged. “Probably.”
“You don’t care?” she asked, pugnaciously as usual.
He could feel her anguish, but none of his own. He had no illusions about their Boss. This assignment had almost killed them both more than once already. Why should today be different?
“Doesn’t matter whether I care or not, Sunshine.”
Her shoulders slumped as her steely defiance melted. “He knew, and sent us in anyway,” she said. “That’s the worst part.”
“It is what it is. You know that. Stop expecting him to change.” Gaspar had twenty years to go and no alternative career he could fathom. But Otto was ambitious. She had plans. Options. She should move on before this assignment got her killed or ruined her life,
whichever came first. She should have moved on already. But he knew she wouldn’t. So he said nothing more.
After a couple of seconds of silence emphasizing Otto’s malaise passed between them, she asked, “Did you see Reacher anywhere?”
Gaspar remembered the glint in the sniper’s nest, but wagged his head. “Weston’s delusional. So’s the Boss.”
She seemed to feel slightly better when he voiced what amounted to confirmation that Otto hadn’t been derelict somehow and missed Reacher when he was right there, larger than life.
Gaspar said, “Our flight’s at midnight. We’ve got maybe four hours left to kill before we’re stuck here. We can have a decent dinner, find out what that reporter knows about Reacher, go back to the hospital for Weston’s statement, and then head out.”
When she didn’t reply, he said, “You’re such a foodie. I figured you’d be thrilled about our dining experience, Susie Wong. You’re in for a treat.”
“It’s about time you took me to a decent joint, Chico,” she replied, a small grin lifting the corners of her lips.
Which was also true. So Gaspar laughed and he felt good when she joined in, for once.
12
Before the traffic light at the intersection of Bayshore and Gandy Boulevard, Carson’s convertible pulled into the left turn lane and stopped briefly before crossing the eastbound traffic lanes to reach the Plant Key Bridge. A simple two-lane track lying flat above the shallow Hillsborough Bay. One way on and one way off the private island. Which was probably both the good news and the bad news, depending on the traffic and whether one was inclined to feel trapped.
Carson rushed into the surprisingly crowded parking lot at the front entrance.
The red brick building fairly twinkled in the gathering dark. Indoor lighting spilled cheerfully through the windows. The rest of the place was bathed by floodlights around the perimeter. Smaller light streams punctuated the darkness and the steel minaret on the roof.
Gaspar lost track of Carson and Kimball while he searched for an open parking space.
“This place is amazing,” Otto said.
“What? Doesn’t your Michigan house look exactly like that?”
“I thought it looked familiar,” she said, which made him feel better. She’d emerged from her mood, at least.
“First time I came here,” he said, “I was told the place was built as a private home. Can you imagine living in a place like this? Servants and horses and such, of course.”
“Pretty idyllic setting for a restaurant, too,” she replied, still taking everything in. “Now I really feel underdressed.”
By the time he settled the sedan appropriately, Carson and Kimball must have already entered the building. Gaspar stopped to stretch when he got out of the sedan, like always. He acted like he was just being lazy. But the truth was that if he didn’t stretch out his right leg, he’d fall flat on his face when he tried to move.
Otto watched and waited. “Kimball says she knows everything about the murder of Weston’s family. Since Reacher was the investigating officer at the time, she may have some Intel or maybe a couple of leads helpful to us. Let’s be sure we don’t leave here without it, okay?”
“I’m driving. Can’t drink. So I won’t have anything better to do,” Gaspar said and then set off at as quick a pace as he could manage. But Otto kept up easily. Which was how he judged himself and knew he was moving at glacial speed.
13
Kimball was waiting at the hostess station inside the front entrance. “Judge Carson said she’d be right back and we should look for a booth in the Sunset Bar.”
“Lead the way,” Gaspar said. He’d been inside the building before, but its old-world charm was no less impressive this time. Spanish influence was heavy, dark, massive, and spacious. He imagined gaslights and servants roaming the halls. Maybe his ancestors had served in such a place in Cuba.
The Sunset Bar was a much more casual eatery than Gaspar expected. A television, booths, a well-stocked bar that hugged the entire side of the room opposite the west-facing windows. Gaspar imagined magnificent sunsets could be enjoyed nightly.
Against all odds, there was one empty booth. The bad news: it was surrounded by listening ears and watching eyes. Which meant less opportunity for intelligence-gathering than Gaspar had hoped.
Kimball slid across the bench and Gaspar settled in next to her on the outside so he would have more room to stretch his right leg unobtrusively. Otto probably noticed. She noticed everything. She slid across the bench on the opposite side facing Kimball and leaving room for Carson opposite Gaspar.
Kimball leaned in and said quietly, “Those two guys over there?” She tilted her head to her right, indicating which ones she meant. “They get around. I saw them at the memorial service today. I noticed because they were also at the execution of the killer of Weston’s family. A third guy was with them both times.”
Impressive memory, Gaspar thought. Probably came in handy for a reporter.
Both men were Weston’s age. Latin. Heavy-set. Casually and expensively dressed. They didn’t look exactly like mobsters, but they weren’t ordinary businessmen having an after work drink, either.
Otto was sitting upright now. In a conversational tone, she asked, “Do you know who they are?”
“That’s one of the things on my list to find out.”
“What did the third guy look like?” Gaspar asked, although he suspected he already knew.
“Like he’d been to hell and didn’t make it back. What you’d notice about him first was a black eye patch covering an empty eye socket. Scars from a healed head injury.” She hesitated a second. “Something wrong with one of his hands, too, but I didn’t see it well enough to describe.”
“That sounds like the fellow who shot Weston this morning. What did Crane say his name was?” Gaspar searched his memory for the name but before it came up, Otto supplied it.
“Michael Vernon.”
Kimball nodded slowly as if she was searching her internal hard drive for data on Vernon and coming up empty. Which Gaspar figured was a ruse of some sort. Surely she’d found a way to get a look at the shooter earlier today. If so, she’d have already made this connection. Not that she owed him anything, but what other information was she holding back?
A waiter appeared at the table with menus and took drink orders. All three ordered coffee. Kimball and Otto ordered black. Gaspar requested café con leche, the rich, Cuban coffee heavily laced with heated milk.
“What’s the best dinner on the menu?” Otto asked.
“You can’t go wrong,” the waiter replied. “George’s Place has the best chefs in the city. The food here in the Sunset Bar is the same you’d get in the dining room.”
Otto said, “What did you have for dinner?”
He grinned. “My favorite is the Thomas Jefferson Roast Beef. Hands down.”
“I’ll have that,” Otto said, handing the menu back.
“I’d add the pear salad with gorgonzola,” he said.
“Sold.”
“Make it two,” Kimball said.
“Three,” Gaspar said.
“You got it,” the waiter replied, before collecting their menus. “Be right back with the coffee while you wait.”
When they were alone again, Kimball said, “Like you, I’m handicapped a bit because I don’t know Tampa all that well. We can ask Judge Carson who those guys are. She might know, if they’re regulars. Or if she doesn’t, she can find out, since her husband owns the place.”
Otto’s eyes popped open a little wider, but Kimball had been watching her quarry and didn’t notice.
Gaspar played white knight for Otto and pupil for Kimball at the same time. “I didn’t know Carson’s husband owned this restaurant. His name must be George?”
Kimball returned her gaze to Gaspar and Otto and her lips turned up in the most natural grin Gaspar had seen from her yet. She had a pretty face when she wasn’t scowling. Which had been rarely so far.
&n
bsp; “Let’s give the Cuban dude a cigar,” she said. “Speaking of which, Willa Carson smokes Cuban cigars. You probably didn’t know that, either, did you?”
This time, Gaspar did laugh out loud. The flamboyant Judge Willa Carson was becoming more and more interesting. Too bad he wasn’t posted to the FBI’s Tampa field office. Sounded like a lot more fun than Miami.
“I’ll be sure to ask her if she’d like an after-dinner smoke if we have the time.” Cuban cigars were illegal, but the tobacco was now being grown in places like the Dominican Republic. The best ones were hand-rolled, of course, and aged until just the right flavor was to be experienced. Gaspar hadn’t enjoyed a quality cigar since he left Miami and he missed them.
He’d have asked more questions, but Otto interrupted the foolishness. “So those two guys and the shooter killed today must be locals. These two must also know Weston. Might have known the Weston family shooter, too, if they got permission to attend his execution.”
Kimball said, “Makes sense to me.”
“So whatever connection all five men have must relate back in time, at least, to the murder of Weston’s family,” Otto continued.
If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was simply musing out loud. But she’d already reached conclusions and was just polishing them.
Gaspar said nothing.
“Makes sense,” Kimball replied. “I can’t confirm that, based on my investigation so far, but it’s a good working hypothesis and probably true. You’re FBI agents. You could ask them. It’s illegal to lie to a federal agent.”
“You said Weston owed money to a gang that he didn’t pay,” Otto said. “You said that’s why his family was killed.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of gang? Drugs? Human trafficking?”
Kimball shook her head. “The gang itself was probably involved in all of that. But Weston’s vice was gambling. Got in way over his head, as gamblers often do.”
“Back then, when Weston’s family was murdered, gambling was mostly illegal here except for Greyhound racing,” Gaspar supplied for Otto’s benefit.