by J. B. Turner
Published by No Way Back Press
Copyright © 2010, 2013, 2016, 2017 J.B. Turner
Cover Design by Stuart Bache
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of events to real life, or of characters to actual persons, is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.
Praise for J.B. Turner
“J.B. Turner knows how to put together a great thriller…a great addition to the thriller genre, with all the necessary ingredients required to deliver the goods: tension, drama, thrills and a cast of tough, no-nonsense characters.”
Shots Magazine
“Turner has written a book which combines the paranoid conspiracy of Three Days of the Condor with the relentless action of the Reacher thrillers.”
Crime Fiction Lover
“JB Turner has really done it…A sensational story.”
Tracey Lampley, Book Mistress
“Powerful mix of politics, corruption, soap opera, racism, terrorism and sexism.”
Eurocrime
“A high-octane tale of international intrigue.”
Daily Record
“This is a top class thriller – it ticks all the boxes of the genre: high-stakes plot, fast paced action, intriguing political conundrums – all of which combine to make it a real page turner.”
Mark Gartside, Author of What Will Survive
“This book pulls no punches. Every action or inaction adds to a chain of events that keeps on gathering pace. This is a hard-nosed investigative thriller that left me wanting more.”
Tony's Thoughts Book Blog
“Well plotted and paced, with an engaging cast thrust into believable circumstances…it looks to be a cracking series.”
Oz Noir
“The deeper you get into the story, the web of secrets, lies and cover ups and their reveals builds tension and adds drama…A great addition to any crime fiction fans bookshelves.”
Bookshelf Butterfly
Also by J.B. Turner
Jon Reznick series
Hard Road
Hard Kill
Hard Wired
Hard Way
Jon Reznick novella
Gone Bad
Deborah Jones series
Miami Requiem
Dark Waters
For my wife, Susan
Prologue
Death. It was the way of all flesh.
He gazed at the heavens, tears in his eyes, as blood seeped from his neck. Lightning bugs and insects buzzed around the gaping wound. He was staring into oblivion, all alone, just before dawn. Unable to summon help, prostrate on the clay basketball court within Flamingo Park. Every time he tried to shout he swallowed some more warm blood. He felt no pain and did not fear the darkness. Strange. Face to face with eternity and he began to wonder how the headline writers would report his death.
Perhaps, Senator’s Son Slain by Knifeman in Florida Park…
He closed his eyes for a moment and smelled the cut grass in the steamy air—a hint of azaleas. The overhanging palm trees and sodden oaks partially obscured the billions of stars in the darkness. Then the sun winked across the horizon, throwing long shadows over the court. What a way to go.
He felt himself slipping away. The wail of a police siren in the distance split the sultry South Beach night and snapped him back for a few moments. Vivid images of his childhood seared through his fading mind.
Hauling in his first barracuda as a boy while deep-sea fishing with his dad and uncle in the Gulf of Mexico. He remembered the turquoise waters and the proud look on his father’s face when he held the fish aloft for a photo. It was as if he had arrived.
Scoring his first touchdown as the quarterback for St Columba’s Prep, his exclusive private school in West Palm Beach, his father roaring him on from the sidelines. He turned to salute him, and his dad saluted back.
That was the worst part. He’d never see him again. Or his mother who worshipped the ground he walked on. Waves of sadness threatened to drown him in grief.
His breathing grew shallower and his mind switched track. He remembered climbing the park’s perimeter wall with the Cuban girl, less than half an hour ago.
It was strange. In Flamingo Park he felt free. No paparazzi or low-life tabloid reporters around to bug him, as they had for months after his appearance in court. The ‘Playboy Frat Boy’, they’d dubbed him. Just because he liked the girls and a few beers.
Then, all of a sudden, it changed. A man emerged out of the shadows and walked slowly towards them. Then he remembered a serrated knife blade pressed to his throat. Sour whiskey on the old man’s breath. He ordered the Cuban girl to scram and she ran off in the direction of Espanola Way, screaming hysterically, hitching up her skirt and kicking off her high heels to run faster. The man then frogmarched him through the park.
The man was old, tall, and thickly built. He was also well dressed—very conservative, blue suit, white shirt, muted tie. Not like some panhandler begging down the beach. That freaked him out.
He could see the man’s face—lined, handsome. His hair was very short and gray.
He remembered being beaten senseless. Then the man’s cold staring eyes, clenched teeth, before he drew the blade across his throat, the blood spurting onto the man’s white shirt. He froze with shock when he realized what had happened. He dropped to the ground, and the man turned on his heels. But he did not run. He strode out, head held high.
Suddenly, he was staring down at his own body. His eyes were closed. Pools of blood around his matted black hair. Red splatter on his polo shirt, chinos and Top-Siders. His face was swollen, battered black and blue.
Christ, it really was him—the only son of Senator Jack O’Neill.
He wanted to cry. But he could not. He thought of his father, hearing the news at their West Palm Beach home. The media descending on the park after the police tipped them off. He thought of his poor mother, realizing that her darling son lay cold in a Miami park.
He slipped away into a sea of darkness, wishing she was with him now.
1
Deborah Jones shifted in her seat, phone pressed to her ear, as ice-cold air blasted out of the new air-conditioning system. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but I haven’t got time to discuss the merits of Ricky Martin’s music.’ She gazed across the bright waters of Biscayne Bay from the fifth-floor offices of the Miami Herald and wondered how many other readers were so enthralled by the Latino heart-throb.
‘Ma’am, I described him as flamboyant,’ she said, drumming her newly manicured fingernails on her desk. She brushed away a loose thread off her honey-brown suit, which matched her skin tone. She noticed a few of her colleagues were even wearing sweaters. In Florida? ‘I didn’t insinuate anything about his sexuality.’ She let out a long sigh. Why did she get stuck with the cranks? ‘I understand you’re a big fan.’
Deborah looked up and saw her managing editor, Sam Goldberg, standing outside his door. He smiled and cocked his head in the direction of his office, indicating that he wanted to speak to her in private. She wondered if there was a
problem.
Was it about an article she had written? She feared the worst—he hadn’t really spoken to her since she’d joined the paper, six months earlier.
‘Ma’am, I gotta go.’ She nodded back at her boss to acknowledge him. She paused briefly as the woman kept her tied up for several more seconds. ‘Yes, if you want, call tomorrow.’
Deborah hung up and blew out her cheeks. It was the third time that morning that the mad woman from Boca Raton had phoned about her stories. Talk about obsessive.
She followed Goldberg into his cluttered office. She ran her hand through her shoulder-length hair and hoped she didn’t look too disheveled.
Goldberg’s desk was a mess. Scraps of paper with shorthand notes, yellow Post-Its, empty mugs of old coffee, readers’ letters, clippings from back issues—despite them being available on-line. She noticed that he kept a space for a color portrait of his late wife, a woman of remarkable beauty, almost Mediterranean in appearance, who had a carefree smile on her face.
Some people found such sentiment old-fashioned. She didn’t. It seemed sweet to want to show others how much their loved ones still meant to them.
‘Shut the door behind you,’ Goldberg said. He slumped into his leather desk chair and loosened his tie.
He looked exhausted, dark rings around his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in a month. Some of the reporters said he was hitting the liquor hard.
He pointed to the seat opposite. ‘Please.’
Deborah sat down. ‘Thank you.’ Her smile was tight. ‘This is just an informal chat, Deborah—nothing to worry about.’
‘Sure.’ So why was she feeling so tense?
‘How are you settling in?’ He sneaked a glance at a CNN live broadcast. Florida’s governor was speaking to a rally of the faithful in Tallahassee ahead of the November 2002 midterms.
‘Just fine, although it’s not a place for the thin-skinned, especially when dealing with the public.’
‘Any gripes?’
‘Apart from the freezing temperatures in the newsroom, I guess the mailroom could be a bit more efficient bringing up letters or correspondence to the reporters.’
Goldberg nodded grimly. ‘The air-conditioning company has people looking into the problem. As for the mail, well, it’s been like that since I’ve been here.’
‘Okay.’
‘Anyway, down to business. I’ve been hearing some good reports about you, Miss Jones.’
Did he say ‘good reports’?
‘They tell me you’re the most promising young reporter we’ve had in years, coming up with stories instead of relying on the features desk.’ He smiled across at her. ‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on your progress. That surprise you?’
‘A bit.’
Truth be told, Deborah was shocked. She thought of Goldberg as a distant man who didn’t take a keen interest in the young reporters. It didn’t bother her as she assumed he would have far more important things to worry about.
Deborah took a good look at Goldberg close-up. She’d been told he was in his mid-forties and had enjoyed a meteoric career on the paper after a successful spell at the Washington Post. His hair was black, although gray at the sides. A small piece of bloodied tissue was stuck to his chin, as if he’d rushed while shaving. His white shirt was creased like he’d slept in it and his tie was loose.
Despite a reputation for seriousness, he was known as one of the good guys—a journalist’s journalist. He wasn’t the type of editor who shied away from controversy. He took on unfashionable stories and confronted vested interests—Miami police corruption or immigrants being used as cheap labor in trendy, overpriced South Beach restaurants. Goldberg backed his journalists to the hilt, despite pressure coming from above.
He was also known to encourage minority reporters like her and spoke out about journalism still being too much of a white preserve.
Goldberg cleared his throat. In the background, the governor droned on about lower taxes and better schools. ‘Okay, down to business.’ Goldberg fixed Deborah with his weary stare. ‘Believe you’ve had a few run-ins with the features editor, Michelle Rodriguez, since you joined.’
‘It’s a difference of opinion.’ Who’d told him? ‘I promise it won’t happen again.’
Goldberg smiled. ‘I don’t usually have to speak to our young reporters about badgering a senior journalist.’
Deborah stayed quiet.
‘She mentioned that you’ve been pestering her to interview William Craig since you started working here.’
‘That’s right.’ Why didn’t she just leave it alone?
‘Helluva brutal case.’
Deborah nodded, wondering where this was going.
‘She also said that you’ve even shown her a dossier on his case, one that contains the court transcripts of his trial and every newspaper clipping. You wanna tell me why?’
‘William Craig’s story is remarkable and I think our readers would like to know a little about him. He’s being executed in their name, after all.’
‘He can’t have long now.’
‘Five weeks and one day.’
‘Is that right? Not a long time to find out about him.’
‘I’ve been at Ms Rodriguez for a shot at this story since my first day on the job.’ Should she come clean on why she really wanted to interview Craig? Should she tell him why, when she was at home in her Miami Beach condo, she watched and rewatched old news clips of Craig?
Goldberg gave a rueful smile. ‘So she says. Look, there are many people you can interview up at the state pen. We’ve had Amnesty call us recently about two guys on death row up in Raiford, cast-iron innocent. Why Craig?’
‘I think what William Craig did deserves closer examination.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean his motivation for killing the only son of a Florida senator after the trial.’
‘Young O’Neill was innocent.’
‘He was acquitted—it’s a different thing.’
Goldberg smiled as if he enjoyed her take on the case. ‘Smart girl, but you haven’t answered my question. Why Craig? Usually journalists try to prove a man is innocent and get him moved off death row. We know this guy’s guilty.’
‘Yes,’ she said, a small frown creasing his forehead, ‘but I think it’d be good journalism. What provoked Craig to exact such revenge for his granddaughter?’ She paused and looked at Goldberg.
He picked up a pen and nibbled the end like he was uneasy. ‘No one’s interviewed him. What does that tell you?’
‘No one wants to touch it with a ten-foot pole?’
Goldberg leaned forward, fixing her with his intense stare. He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve been thinking over the ideas you suggested to Ms Rodriguez. I’ve gotta tell you, a couple of my colleagues said you’re a bit inexperienced to tackle such a story.’
Deborah kept quiet. She had a good idea that Kathleen Klein, the veteran political writer—who used the senator as a source—was one of those who objected to her. Probably because it would jeopardize her relationship with O’Neill. Admittedly, she was a fine journalist but she seemed to despise any new female reporters. Ever since Deborah’s first day in the newsroom, Klein’s steely gaze had seemed to follow her round the room.
‘But I decide.’ Goldberg smiled. ‘I think an interview with Craig is overdue—that’s assuming he grants us one.’
The words skidded across her brain. ‘You’re kidding?’ Goldberg shook his head.
‘And you want me to interview him?’
‘You write clean, crisp copy and you’ve got an eye for a story.’ His gaze seemed to linger.
‘I appreciate your faith in me.’ This was what she had waited for.
Her mind flashed news-footage images of seventy-one-year-old Craig being led away in chains after his trial in the summer of 1991—orange top, baggy pants, sneakers, and short hair.
/> ‘Don’t let me down. Do a good job and the fixed-term contract you’re on could become permanent.’
So he thought she was good enough?
‘There’s something you need to be aware of.’ Goldberg paused for a beat and stared at her like her own father had as she headed off on prom night. ‘You know Senator O’Neill’s a powerful man?’
‘Of course.’
‘He’s got influential allies throughout the country, not just the state. I’ve lost track of the number of times we’ve crossed swords.’
‘Why?’
‘Mostly, he was pissed that I didn’t pull articles criticizing his close links to the big military contractors.’
Deborah knew that from her research. ‘He’s also well connected in the media, isn’t he?’
‘You’ve no idea how well connected that guy is. And he’s fighting an election, too.’
Deborah nodded.
‘The people who mix with him are important—movers, shakers, politicians, judges and movie moguls. Even the governor is close to the senator, and yes, even journalists. He’s the establishment.’
‘I understand.’
Goldberg leaned back in his seat and smiled benignly at her. ‘Look, I don’t want to come across as the hard ass, but you need to be street-smart for an assignment like this. Everyone says you’re a very by-the-book kind of journalist. That’s great. We need ethical people, but I’m looking for you to get underneath this story.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, if Craig speaks I want to know if he’s found God. Has he opted for the chair instead of the needle? Something interesting, something meaty.’
Deborah winced.
‘Does he fear death?’ Goldberg shrugged. ‘That sort of thing.’
‘I understand.’
‘Don’t get all idealistic and harp on about the unfairness of the death penalty—that’s not what this is about. It’s story, first and foremost.’