Mid-Life Friends and Illusions

by Jeffrey Freeman

  An hour later, Bruce returned. Samuel heard the front door open and close. He kept his eyes closed, pretending sleep. Bruce stopped next to Samuel for a moment before reporting to Rhodes in the kitchen. They spoke in low voices but Samuel could make out most of it.

  “What took you so long?” Rhodes asked suspiciously. “Stop for a drink?”

  “No,” he answered emphatically. Then, more sheepishly, he added, “I missed the turn.”

  She blew out her disgust in a long breath.

  “But, hey, I found it,” he said quickly. “Long, low bridge over a lake.”

  “And you tossed it?”

  “Yeah, sure. It was easy. Low guardrails. No superstructure. I just threw it out the window.”

  “Over the top of the car?”

  “Yeah.”

  She glared at him with that look.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You couldn’t have stopped the car, walked out, and made sure it went in the lake, not on the bridge or something.” It was more of an accusation than a question.

  “There was no place to pull over,” he answered defensively. “And it’s a narrow bridge. You want I should get hit by a truck or something?”

  She smiled.

  “Fuck you, Rhodes. Besides, I heard it hit the water.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “No, I made the whole thing up. I got it right here.” Bruce patted his back pocket, a not-so-subtle gesture that she could kiss his ass. She might be in charge but he was fed up with her thinking him to be incompetent and it showed. “I’m going to hock it later for gas money.”

  Samuel’s heart sank. He feared his last hope of being found had sunk with the phone. He wasn’t at all certain that they really intended to let him live. The idea of being eaten by alligators sent painful shivers down his spine.

  “I’m going to bed,” Rhodes announced.

  The two of them walked to the living room, stopped, and looked down at Samuel.

  “You want me to tie him up?”

  Again, she gave him the look.

  “One of these days you’re going to push me too far,” he warned her.

  She patted the pistol inside her jacket and walked toward the stairs.

  “I’m going to have a drink first,” he called after her. He went to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of scotch and a glass. He sat in a leather recliner, sipping twenty-five year old booze and staring at a helpless United States senator.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was two in the morning when Sara pulled her car into Logan’s darkened parking lot. She picked a spot near a light post in the sparsely filled lot. She checked all the locks. Better safe than sorry, she told herself. She shut off the engine, reclined the seat, and scooted down, pulling her coat over her. It was always coldest before dawn and the wet air from Boston harbor made her shiver. She cursed herself for hastily grabbing her fall jacket instead of a winter coat.

  The ringing of her cell phone made her jump.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “Sara, it is Howard,” came the response.

  “Have they found him?”

  “We are working on it. My friend at the FBI has a friend at Homeland Security who has a friend at NSA. They tracked his office cell.”

  “Oh, thank God!”

  “Well, yes, I suppose.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, Howard?” she demanded.

  “There has been an accident. The Highway Patrol is investigating.”

  “Daddy? Is he all right? Is he hurt?”

  “We are still waiting for their report.”

  “Mommy knows?”

  “Of course. And I will let you know as soon as I know. So there is really no need for you …”

  She cut him off. “I’ll be in Tampa by nine-thirty.”

  “If you insist but you might want to make it Orlando instead. The accident was on I-95 north of Orlando, not far from Daytona.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Yes, of course. I have spoken to Jean. She will be in early so I can catch the first flight.”

  “Meet me at the airport?”

  “Of course. I will be on jetBlue arriving at nine twenty-two. Call me when you have booked a flight. Where are you, by the way?”

  “In my car.” She shivered. “Wish you were here. It’s chilly.”

  “Yes, well,” he stammered. “Oh, there is one other thing you should probably know. We, ah, well, Beth is still missing.”

  “Beth? What? You think there’s a connection?”

  “Probably not. It may be just coincidental.”

  “But you don’t believe in coincidences,” she reminded him.

  “Sometimes I am wrong,” Howard admitted.

  She giggled in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “Why Mister Mills, I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say that.”

  “And you likely will not ever again Miss Winters. Stay warm. Call me.”

  “Good night, Howard.”

  “Good morning, Miss … Sara.”

  She snuggled down, warmed by the knowledge of Howard’s concern for her daddy’s safety and her. The warm feeling didn’t last long. The outside temperature was dropping.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Orlando Airport looked bright and shiny and new; it wasn’t but it was open and spacious and well maintained. On the top of three levels, the concourse with its ultra-high ceiling was huge, allowing travelers to crisscross one another’s paths going to or from the TSA security checkpoints, the red or blue luggage claims escalators, or the long corridor of shops, all of which were closed at this hour.

  Howard kept one eye on the large overhead screen announcing arrivals and the other on the tram exit. She wasn’t hard to spot in the crowd of business travelers and vacationers. She looked exactly like someone who had spent the night in their car trying to sleep—bloodshot eyes, uncombed hair, rumpled clothes. Sara spotted him at the same moment. She walked swiftly, throwing her arms around his neck the instant they met. She held him tight; he less so her. She kissed quickly on the lips before letting go.

  He was bemused by her appearance. He slipped the backpack off her shoulder. “You look like …”

  “Shit? Thank you very much. When was the last time you slept in a freezing car?”

  “I was going to say like something the cat dragged in.”

  “Oh, that’s a lot better,” she chided him.

  “All set?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He guided her toward the escalators. “I have a rental.”

  “Are you driving?”

  He caught the implication. “There is no snow in Florida.”

  “Where are we going?”

  They stepped onto the long down escalator.

  “The scene of the accident. About an hour north.”

  Her stomach growled.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “We could grab something here.”

  “Later.”

  As they stepped off the escalator, he said, “We found Beth. Or more precisely, she found us.”

  “Where? When?”

  “This morning. She was injured, apparently trying to help your father.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Not sure. She called from a hospital in Jacksonville. She has been shot.”

  “My God!” Sara exclaimed.

  They walked briskly from the Hertz rental desk across the drive to the parking garage. Sara slipped off her jacket.

  “Wow,” she said, “what a difference. It’s really warm in Florida. This is beautiful.”

  “Your first time?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Now you understand why there are so many snowbirds.”

  “I do.”

  He smiled to himself. He thought about telling her if she had been here a month earlier she probably would have found the ninety-degree temperatures and high humidity a bit much. He thought about it but didn’t.

  Howard and Sara zipp
ed along I-95 at seventy-five in the rental car. Traffic was moderate. Cars were shooting past them.

  “Can’t you speed up?” Sara demanded more than asked.

  “It will not do to get stopped for speeding,” he replied.

  A tractor-trailer passed by them close and fast, rocking their compact car. Howard increased the speed to eighty. Fewer cars passed them.

  His cell phone rang from inside his jacket pocket. “Can you get that?” he asked.

  Sara smiled. “Why Mister Mills, are you asking me to reach inside your clothes?”

  He blushed. “Just my pocket.”

  “Hello?” she said, holding the phone so they both could hear.

  “Hello,” came a female voice. “Who is this?”

  “This is Sara Winters. Who is this?”

  “Ah, Sara. This is Beth Ware. I work for your father. Is Howard there?”

  Sara looked at him for confirmation. “He’s right here. He’s driving at the moment. Where are you?”

  “Thank you,” Beth said to someone not on the phone. Then, “I just picked up my car. I’m leaving now. Tell Howard I’ll meet you at the Daytona exit.”

  An hour later, Howard and Sara met Beth at the scene of the accident and shootings. It was easy enough to spot. Yellow tape emblazoned with the words, “Police Line Do Not Cross,” cordoned off the area.

  The first words out of Howard’s mouth when he saw Beth were, “You are not a blonde.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” she retorted. “This is where it happened.” With her left hand, she pointed at the muddy scene. “They forced your father’s car off the road and shot the driver. I was just freeing your father when they shot me.” She gingerly touched her right shoulder. “I got lucky. It went straight through.”

  “My God!” Sara exclaimed. “Poor daddy.”

  “Poor Carlos,” Beth lamented. “He was a good guy.”

  “You knew him?” Sara asked.

  “Yes, of course. He worked for Martín Czeiler.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sara said. “Who?”

  “Mister Czeiler is a Miami businessman,” Howard explained.

  “He was suspicious of Walter Bensen,” Beth added. “He suspected that your father’s meeting with him might not be kosher. So he sent us to watch over things.”

  “Who is Walter Bensen?” Sara asked.

  “A very powerful man with interests in Florida transportation,” Howard answered.

  “Especially railroads,” Beth added.

  “You and Carlos were both working for this Czeiler guy?” Sara asked.

  “Walter Bensen and Mister Czeiler are both interested in high-speed rail for Florida but for very different reasons,” Beth explained. “My employer thinks it could be good for business. Walter knows it could seriously hurt his in Orlando.”

  “Okay, I’m not up on all my father was doing. You have to lay it out for me,” Sara said.

  “All right, look, Walter is heavily invested in local transportation in Orlando. Between the hotels, the airport, the theme parks, the convention center. If light-rail was built, his buses, taxis, and limos would lose a lot of money. He’s also afraid that high-speed rail would draw tourists away from Orlando to Miami, costing him more money.”

  “Did you know all this?” Sara asked Howard.

  “No, not really. I just knew that Senator Ramirez asked me to put in a good word in hiring her.”

  Sara looked at him, eyebrows raised, her look demanding more of an answer.

  “My family has known Senator Ramirez’s for two generations. I went to college with one of his grandsons,” he explained.

  “So you were working for Mister Czeiler and my father at the same time?” Sara quizzed Beth.

  “Walter Bensen is man who always gets his way, even if, well, you can see.” Beth again touched her shoulder. “Mister Czeiler thought it best if your father had some protection.”

  Howard smiled at Sara. “Bensen does not know whom he up against. In Miami, they call Mister Czeiler, ‘delfi´n toro.’”

  “Which means?” Sara asked.

  “Bull dolphin,” Beth explained. “In a match between a shark and a dolphin, the shark usually wins. But sometimes, a large male dolphin can butt a shark hard enough to chase him off, especially if he’s protecting young ones.” She smiled. “Mister Czeiler has never let sharks feed in his waters.”

  “Your father is a little confused,” Howard interrupted. “He thinks that Ramirez does not support high-speed rail.”

  “You see,” Beth added, “Walter appears to support it so he won’t be suspected of trying to undermine it but Ramirez can’t appear to support Walter who’s an outsider. We get a little testy when people come into our state and try to tell us how things should be run. Everyone who is anyone in Florida knows that Ramirez supports Czeiler’s position. It’s just people in Washington who don’t know.”

  “This is very confusing,” Sara asserted.

  “Agreed,” Howard stated. “But this we do know. NSA confirmed your father’s phone was here before the police took it as evidence.”

  “We should get going,” Beth urged. “We don’t think Walter would take your father to his beach house. But we know he owns another not too far from here.”

  Sara looked at Beth’s right arm in a sling. It looked painful. “Why don’t I drive your car? You can fill me in.” She shot a suspicious glance at Howard. “On everything.”

  “I will follow you,” Howard stated. “Where are we headed?”

  “It’s a small town on a lake. About an hour’s drive. It’s called Pinnacle Point,” Beth said.

  Driving in the car, Sara asked, “So, okay, you’re obviously not a secretary. What are you?”

  “I can type,” Beth stated.

  “Come on, give. I’m a reporter, remember?”

  “Precisely why I don’t want to tell you.”

  “Off the record, promise.”

  “You swear?”

  “Swear.”

  “I’m a professional bodyguard.”

  Sara shot a look at her. “No kidding? You could be a model.”

  “Too short. Thought about acting but this is much more exciting.”

  “A bodyguard. Wow.”

  “Defensive driving. Expert with pistol. Black belt. All the usual stuff. Normally I’m assigned to protect women but Mister Czeiler thought this was a special circumstance.”

  “Do you work for him often?”

  “Whenever he calls. He and my father were business partners in New York years ago, before I was born.”

  “Tell me more.”

  Beth studied her momentarily, trying to decide. Finally, she said, “My father and Mister Czeiler remained friends when they moved to Miami.”

  “Are your parents alive?” Sara asked.

  “Not my mother. My father is in assisted living in Miami. My brothers and I offered to let him live with one of us but he’s a proud man. He wants to maintain his dignity, his independence as much as possible.”

  “It must be expensive,” Sara suggested.

  “It is but he did well in business and Mister Czeiler is a good friend as well. When it comes time, my father can move across the compound to the nursing unit.” Beth brushed a tear from her cheek. “He has days when it’s hard for him to remember things.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It happens to all of us.” Beth dug a tissue from her purse and blew her nose.

  “So, Mister Czeiler?”

  “He grew up in New York with my father and my uncle. My father never talked much about it but my mother would tell me stories. I guess they were pretty wild in those days.”

  “So your families both came from New York?”

  “No, my parents escaped from Cuba. They were boat people.”

  “Wow, no kidding?”

  Beth shot her a look that said, “How naïve are you?”

  Sara the reporter ignored the message. “So they must have landed in Florida. How did they get to N
ew York?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sara took a different tack. “What about Mister Czeiler?”

  Beth laughed. “We call him the ‘Cuban Jew.’”

  “What?” Sara asked smiling.

  “His parents came Hungary after the war. Can you imagine living in Hungary back then as a Jew? It’s pretty much a miracle they lived.”

  “Okay, I understand the Jewish part. What about the Cuban part?”

  Beth’s face turned serious again. “My father, Oscar, and my uncle, Martín, used to hang out with Martin. Mister Czeiler’s real name is Martin. Anyway, one night there was some trouble with an Anglo policeman. My uncle didn’t like the way he was talking to them so he wised-off. There was scuffle. The policeman’s gun went off. My uncle died. After that, Mister Czeiler took to calling himself Martín.”

  They rode in silence until Sara asked, “How’s does Senator Ramirez figure into this? I mean, I know he’s from Miami but what’s the real story?”

  Beth smiled again. “They call him ‘the Godfather.’ He’s very proper, very old school, Castilian.”

  “Is he connected?”

  “You mean like to the mob?”

  Sara nodded.

  “No, not that I know of. He just seems to know everyone. He gets things done. He helped Mister Czeiler and my father get started in Miami.”

  “But your father didn’t stay partners with Mister Czeiler when they came to Florida?”

  Beth took a breath and looked out the window. “I think that’s more than you need to know.”

  A few minutes later, Sara exclaimed, “Wow,” as they descended a two-lane road into town. “Who knew they had hills in Florida?”

  “Oh, we have everything in Florida, except ice and snow.” Beth let the sarcasm show in her face as well. She had heard of Howard’s driving experience.

  Sara chose not respond to it. She momentarily forgot her missing father, glancing periodically out at the houses and trees lining the street. A large tree with rust-red leaves and yellow flowers in its circular crown caught her attention. “Do the trees turn color here?” she asked.