Tuesday
December 30
Chapter 19
1
Sheppard felt as if he were playing a giant connect-the-dots game. It was just him and Nadine now, the two of them awake in the living room, Nadine on the Internet, searching for information, and Sheppard paging through the voluminous file on Dean Curry that he’d printed out from Goot’s laptop.
Had Curry been released from prison? If so, where was he living? Where were his parents, his brother, his sister? And if he was still in prison, then what female in the immediate family or among relatives might seek retribution against Sheppard? Had he had a girlfriend?
After he and Annie had gotten back to the cabin last night, he’d sent an e-mail to his boss and to the bureau’s liaison in the Florida prison system, explaining what he needed. He’d heard from his boss within an hour, advising him to do what he’d done, contact the liaison. But the office of the Department of Corrections wouldn’t open before seven or eight in the morning, and even then, he might not get the information he needed. It was the Christmas holidays, the most difficult time to get anything from a bureaucratic organization.
As Sheppard paged through the file, the summer of 1990 came back to him with glaring clarity.
He was three years into his first run with the bureau, working sixty-hour weeks and beginning to feel trapped. His wife, working part-time as an attorney, complained that he was never around, that they never had any money, and what the hell was the point of it all, anyway? He wanted kids, she didn’t. He hungered for travel, she wanted companionship. No matter what it was, they differed.
Then one night in early June, he’d come home earlier than usual from work and had found his wife in bed with another man. The following day, she moved out with half the furniture, half the dishes, one of the cars, and none of the debt—and moved in with her boyfriend across town.
These were the events that preceded the call on June 9, reporting a hit and run on the Seminole reservation. Sheppard had tagged along with the agent who usually covered the reservation because he was going to retire shortly and Sheppard was to take over his territory.
A chopper flew them out to the site and when they arrived, paramedics were already there, working frantically on a young Seminole woman who’d been biking along the highway. She’d been struck from behind, hurled off the bike and into the air, and had landed on the banks of a shallow canal that paralleled the highway. She died within minutes of their arrival.
The car that had hit her, a black Trans Am, stood in the middle of the highway, the driver’s door thrown open, the inside light still on, the engine still idling. The perp had leaped out of the car and taken off. Four choppers had searched the surrounding sugarcane fields, swamp, and the reservation for hours, but to no avail. Sheppard and his partner called in a tow truck and ground reinforcements with dogs. Sometime later, they had gone to the young woman’s home to break the news to her family.
The car didn’t have a tag, so tracing it through title ownership wasn’t possible. Then forensics reported that they were unable to lift a single viable print from the interior of the car and the serial number that should have been on the vehicle’s engine had been sanded off. Dead end. Armed with nothing except his instincts, Sheppard returned to the crime scene and began to work his way outward, back toward the reservation, the bingo halls, and then out toward the other side of the state.
The car had a nearly full tank of gas, so Sheppard reasoned that if the perp was coming from the west coast of Florida, he had stopped somewhere to fill up. The first gas station was about thirty miles from the crime scene. He obtained the purchase records and security videotapes for June 9, but they’d led nowhere.
He checked dozens of car dealerships between Key West and Jacksonville, trying to trace the make and model to the original purchase date, and finally tracked down the owner, a seventy-two-year-old man living on Miami Beach, who had bought the car in 1987 for his grandson. He located the grandson, then a grad student at the University of Miami; he said he’d sold the car a year after he’d gotten it to a female art student who worked part-time at Blockbuster in Lauderdale. He had the receipt to prove it.
It had taken Sheppard a week to track down the young woman. She supposedly had sold the car to a young man named Dean Curry. It had marked his break in the investigation, but when he’d gone to the address listed on the registration, he’d discovered that Dean Curry’s parents weren’t just run-of-the-mill Miami residents. William Curry was a medical doctor, a researcher and extremely wealthy man who had made the bulk of his money from a cancer drug he had pioneered. He and his wife were pillars of the Miami community.
It was William Curry’s understanding that his son had sold the Trans Am in May, while he was completing his first semester at Stetson. Yes, of course Dean would have a record of the sale. Yes, Agent Sheppard could speak to Dean, William would call him immediately. But Dean hadn’t answered his phone, and by the next morning Curry had hired a high-profile defense attorney for his son.
Sheppard remembered Dean Curry as a quiet, handsome young man who sure as hell didn’t fit his concept of a hit-and-run driver. Dean claimed his Trans Am had been stolen the month before and that he hadn’t reported the theft because “whoever had taken it had needed it more than I did.” He and his brother had gone out and bought another car. The ease of wealth. The brother, Keith, who owned a charter boat business in South Miami, had confirmed that he’d gone with Dean to buy a car, but didn’t know the Trans Am had been stolen. He thought Dean had sold it.
Sheppard felt Dean Curry was guilty of something, but wasn’t convinced he’d been driving the Trans Am the night the young Seminole woman was killed. Besides, he had an alibi. An odd man named Ian West, a medium who lived in the village of Cassadaga, claimed he and Dean were having dinner in Orlando the night of the accident. According to West, Dean was studying Spiritualism and West was his mentor. But when Sheppard had pressed him to produce a receipt or a witness to the fact that he and Dean had dined in the restaurant on June 9, West came up short.
Even without a viable alibi, though, Sheppard couldn’t make the intuitive leap that would connect Dean Curry to the crime. He just didn’t fit the profile. He had graduated early from high school, with honors, and had gotten straight A’s during his first semester at Stetson. He professed to be a Buddhist, had spent time at a Buddhist ashram, was described by friends and teachers as compassionate and genuinely caring. But by then, Dean had his high-power defense attorney, the media had decided the case was worthy of attention, and the state attorney was pressing for an arrest. Sheppard’s boss, an ambitious prick who understood how the media game was played and undoubtedly envisioned a promotion in his own future, demanded that Sheppard go for the jugular. Sheppard wanted more time, but the politics had found an enormous momentum and he was overruled.
Since the Department of Corrections was closed for the night, Shep’s first calls were to the number listed in the files for William Curry, the old man, and for the chartering business Keith Curry had owned in Miami. But it had been years, so it wasn’t a big surprise to find that the old man’s number was disconnected. Although someone had answered at the chartering business, Sheppard had been told that Keith Curry had sold out a number of years ago. He had a home somewhere in the Florida Keys, but spent most of his time sailing in the Caribbean.
Sheppard had checked information for the Keys, but didn’t turn up any number for a Keith Curry. There was a brief reference in the case file to Dean’s sister, Allison Curry, a woman Sheppard had seen only once, a knockout brunette who had slipped in and out of the courtroom with the slyness of a rat. In the files it was noted that she was a medical resident at Mount Sinai Hospital in Miami.
“Nadine, see if you can get into a site for the American Medical Association. I’m looking for Dean’s sister, Allison. She was a resident at Mount Sinai thirteen years ago. The AMA should know where she is or have a listing for her.”
“Okay, but first let me print ou
t this stuff I found on the Curry family.”
“Anything on Dean?”
“Nothing significant. But the Internet was barely born in 1990. You calling Mount Sinai in the morning?”
“I’m calling them now.”
“It’s nearly one A.M., Shep.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll get lucky.”
Sheppard had to move closer to the porch doors to get a signal on the cell, and once he did, he called Miami information, punched out the number, and paced as a phone rang at the other end.
He listened to a long menu, realized he didn’t know who to ask for, and pressed 0 for the operator. When a woman answered, he said, “I need to speak to whoever is in charge of the resident program.”
“That would be Dr. Meltroth. But he won’t be in until tomorrow morning, sir.”
“Then I need the number for his answering service.”
“Sir, I’m not allowed to give out numbers. If you could call back in the—”
He lost it. “Listen, lady. I’m with the FBI. This concerns a homicide and kidnapping. I need Dr. Meltroth’s answering-service number or his home number. And I need it now.”
“If you could leave me your badge number, sir, I would be happy to—”
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Joan. Joan Flanders. If you would please…
Sheppard spat out his badge number and cell number. “If you haven’t called me back in ten minutes, I’ll call the Miami bureau and someone will be at the hospital’s front door before your shift is over, Ms. Flanders. Got it?” He disconnected, squeezed the bridge of his nose, and paced back into the middle of the living room, where Nadine gave him a disdainful look.
“What?” Sheppard exploded. “I’m not allowed to get pissed off? You’re the only one around here who’s allowed to get mad?”
She threw up her hands. “If anger is what it takes to make a breakthrough and find Mira, then go for it, Shep. And just so we don’t have any misunderstanding, my anger isn’t directed specifically at you, but at what you do for a living. That’s what attracted this violence in the first place.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ve been there, done that, Nadine. Let’s leave it alone for now.”
He marched into the kitchen and helped himself to another mug of coffee from the pot Nadine had made to get them through the night. He stood at the kitchen window, sipping it and staring out the window, into the darkness.
“The problem with anger,” Nadine went on, as if there had been no lapse in the conversation, “is that operators aren’t going to put their jobs on the line for some maniac who calls in the middle of the night. And there’s nothing on the AMA site for an Allison Curry. In fact, I can’t even get into the site that lists members.”
He suddenly felt as if his insides had been sucked out and his bones and spinal column were now collapsing. Sheppard sank into the nearest kitchen chair, his discouragement at an all-time peak.
And then his cell phone rang. Sheppard, still clutching it in his hand, pressed the answer button. “Agent Sheppard.”
“This is Dr. Meltroth. Your badge number checked out. Now, just what the hell is it you need to know at this hour of the night, Agent Sheppard?”
“I need to know how to get in touch with Allison Curry. She was a resident at Mount Sinai in 1990.”
“Curry? Was she any relation to William Curry, the cancer researcher?”
“His daughter.”
“My God, his daughter did her residency here? I had no idea.”
“Internship or residency, I’m not sure which one. How long have you been at Mount Sinai, Dr. Meltroth?”
“Two years. But believe me, if any child of William Curry’s had worked here, I would know about it.”
Sheppard suddenly understood how difficult this would be. Allison Curry may have used another name—maybe a married name, maybe a pseudonym—to prevent being associated with her famous father or her infamous brother. Even though William Curry was unknown to People Magazine or to The National Enquirer, he apparently was a legend within medical circles. “Do you have any idea how I can get in touch with William Curry?” Sheppard asked.
“The last I heard—and this isn’t official, you understand—was that he died a few years back. May I ask what this is about?”
“Murder.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No. Would you happen to know about his sons? Where they might be?”
“His sons? No, I’m sorry. I don’t. Let me check with the AMA. If William Curry’s daughter is actually a physician, they probably will know about it regardless of what name she’s using. And if they don’t know, they’ll at least know whether Dr. Curry is alive or dead.”
“He was that big a deal?”
“Absolutely. Before Bill, certain types of cancer were terminal. You got it, your life became finite. Now some patients have a chance. We can extend their lives. We can give them hope. I may not be able to get in touch with anyone before tomorrow morning, Agent Sheppard. Should I call you back at this number?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
He disconnected.
“Well?” Nadine asked.
He told her what Meltroth had said. “Have you tried the Web site for the Department of Corrections, Nadine?”
“Of course I did.” She logged off the computer, shut it down, and got up, stretching. “We’re stymied until the sun comes up. Let’s get some sleep. I’ll be up by five. I’ll wake you, Shep.”
And then she did a strange thing, completely out of character. She put her arms around him, hugging him. “Go to bed.”
Sheppard’s eyes squeezed shut against an unspeakable pain. What had happened to Mira was the fallout of a choice he’d made thirteen years ago. I’m responsible.
Nadine stepped away and, because he was so much taller than she was, tilted her head back to look at him. “We’ll get through this.”
Then she wandered off to bed and Sheppard sat in the recliner, hands covering his face, his despair as unspeakable as his blame.
2
Curry and Faye stood in the passenger area at the Panama City airport, waiting for the pilot he’d hired to fly them to the States. Neither of them had said much, which didn’t surprise him. After all, she’d made it clear at dinner last night that she considered him to be a sanctimonious prick and he had made it equally clear that she was a parasite.
He stood near the practically empty bar, watching CNN, and she sat nearby, paging through a book.
Around eight last night, Curry had gotten a call from the general who had arranged the transport; the plane was needed elsewhere. Curry figured it was a lie, that the general was hoping for a big fat payoff. So it went in Panama. Curry thanked the general and immediately started calling pilots that he knew. He finally tracked down an Aussie who would be perfectly happy to fly him and Faye to Atlanta in his boss’s Lear—for eight grand.
Now here they were, with their bags and their silences, and with any luck they would be in Atlanta in about five hours and would go their separate ways.
Curry ordered four bottles of water and two turkey sandwiches to take with him on the flight. While he waited for the bartender to get them, he glanced up at the TV and nearly swallowed his tongue. There stood Wayne Sheppard—older, bearded, looking haggard— giving a news conference about a quadruple homicide in Asheville, North Carolina, and the disappearance of a bookstore owner, Mira Morales, from Tango Key, Florida. On December 27, she had been abducted from a home outside of Asheville, North Carolina. And right then, Curry knew just how far over the edge his sister had gone.
His thoughts raced, stumbled, came to a screeching halt, then stumbled forward again. If he called the feds and they stormed his house with choppers and a legion of cops, the Morales woman would die. He needed to speak directly to Sheppard. Curry would make him understand how important it was to get the woman out of the house before they blasted the place to hell.
If he
tried the 800 number, it would probably connect to a district FBI office. He would be handed off from one office to another, one clerk to another, and might never reach Sheppard. Forget that route, he decided, and quickly punched out Nick Whitford’s number.
The phone at the other end rang and rang, then Curry lost the signal. He quickly moved to the long windows that overlooked the runway, punched out the number again. This time Whitford answered on the second ring. “Yes? Hello?”
“Nick, it’s Keith. Can you hear me all right?”
“Yeah, a bit hollow, but I can hear you. Did you just call before?”
“And lost the signal. Is my sister still at my place?”
“She was out most of the day, but I saw her earlier this evening, maybe around eleven or so, on her way back to the house. We’re supposed to have breakfast tomorrow. She’s one hot ticket, Keith.”
Shit. He’s slept with her “She’s not what she appears to be, Nick. Now listen very carefully. She’s holding a woman hostage in the basement. I need you to lure her out of the house in some way, and then go inside and free this woman. Her name is Mira Morales. Get her to safety and then call the feds. Tell them Allie is armed and extremely dangerous. They should contact Wayne Sheppard at the FBI.”
Silence.
“Nick?”
He exploded with laughter. “This is a joke, right, Keith?”
“No, it’s not a fucking joke. It was on CNN, a quadruple homicide in Asheville, North Carolina. She’s killed four people, Nick. It’s really important that you don’t call the police until you’ve got Mira out of there. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
There was no trace of humor in Whitford’s voice when he spoke this time. “How the hell am I supposed to do that? It’s nearly three in the morning. She’s not going to come out in the middle of the night just because I call her.”
Curry rubbed his aching eyes. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have called Whitford. He was just a guy who owned a bed-and-breakfast and had gotten taken in by a pretty face. “Okay, don’t do anything. I should land in Atlanta in about five hours. It’ll take me awhile to get through customs and drive up there. I’ll take care of it.”
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