The plane landed in Detroit at noon, right on schedule. Carrying a phony ID, Frank Santiago was the first to disembark and he headed directly for the nearest men’s room carrying a tan canvas overnight bag. He’d checked no luggage, and once behind the bathroom stall door, he removed the plaid shirt and the bulky padding stuffed beneath his vest to create a pot belly. Underneath this extraneous bulk, he wore a light blue pullover shirt that fit neatly over pressed khakis. Next, he yanked off the moustache, replacing it with a trim beard that covered most of his lower face. He changed from the heavy black to wire-rimmed sunglasses. Ten minutes later, he emerged, a trim, neat Hispanic traveler heading out of the men’s room with his hand luggage to the parking deck across from the terminal.
There, as he knew it would be thanks to Manny’s contact, was a black Ford Fairlane with Michigan plates. Glancing around to make sure he hadn’t been followed, he approached the car and deftly slid his hand beneath the driver’s side rear bumper. The keys were there. He opened the car door and using the smaller key unlocked the glove compartment. With a satisfied grunt he removed the weapon, a forty-caliber semiautomatic equipped with a silencer, and slid it into his overnight bag. So far everything was working according to plan, but the tricky part lay ahead. He had to isolate Nelson between the time he arrived at the terminal and the time the flight took off for San Francisco. He’d count on the confusion he himself would cause to allow enough time for a clean escape. Then he’d drive to Chicago, lose himself in the crowd, and board a flight to Orlando. From there he’d have an easy drive back to Tampa.
Manny should have taken out the kid by now, which meant Frank would be free and clear. Mother of God, why did it have to be a fucking kid? Without the kid and Nelson, there was no way they could pin Kim’s murder on him, and eventually, Carlos would ease up. Frank still could not believe Kim was dead. And what the fuck had she seen in that Nelson prick with all those brats of his anyway? She had told him that she did not want kids. Had she lied about that too? Lousy timing. He had showed too late at the station that night, he coulda tailed ’em to Nelson’s and handled them both at the prick’s place. But fuck it, he was here now, ready to take Nelson down.
“Count your minutes, pretty TV boy,” he mumbled. Soon he’d go back inside the terminal to watch the departure monitors. Last time he checked, the Northwest flight from Detroit to San Francisco was still listed as on time.
The head nurse of CHOP’s ICU ignored the rules and allowed Laura to remain at her son’s bedside as the critical care team buzzed about checking his vital signs, adjusting his IVs, monitoring his EKG, checking his urine flow, and examining the wound beneath the bulky gauze bandage that covered staples running nearly the full length of his torso. Other than the huge dressing over the incision, Patrick lay naked and still. The many times Laura had tended to such children, she’d never even come close to realizing the helpless agony of their mothers. Dr. Kamen told her that they planned to keep Patrick sedated long enough to stabilize the cardiac rhythm now displayed on the green fluorescent screen at the head of the small bed. Kamen had told Laura that the priority in this crucial postop period was to minimize the risk of fatal arrhythmias, and she listened intently for every blip on the monitor, praying for the normal sinus rhythm to continue.
As the team moved on, Laura’s mind drifted to Wendy Ruiz, the child she had lost only six and a half weeks ago. It seemed like a lifetime. At least the Ruiz mother had died and didn’t have to suffer through the death of her child. Laura could think of no worse horror for a parent. It must be unendurable, she thought, looking down at her son who lived because of the skill of his surgeons. But what about Wendy’s father? He must be so devastated and — she had let him down, hadn’t she? Wasn’t there something about a lawsuit? Her mind was fuzzy and she pushed these thoughts away. If she’d lost Patrick, she didn’t know what she’d do.
“Okay, Greg, I made it to Traverse City about noon,” Chuck reported after Greg picked up the phone in Detroit. “It’s called Cherry Airport, for God’s sake. Anyway, Nelson had already left for Detroit when I showed up at his father’s place. His father? Not a happy man. Wouldn’t give me any information, but a neighbor said his son left in a wagon crammed with duffel bags, one of those conversion numbers. Had a Budget logo. I’ll have someone check it out. Left about an hour ago. Right now, let’s see, it’s almost one. I held the charter from Chicago in case I missed Nelson here, so I’m heading back to Cherry now. Should arrive in Detroit about two thirty. You name the place.”
“Law offices of Youngman, Polk, and Allen. They’re in Wayne. It’s close to the airport so you’ll get here about three. By then we’ll have a better idea if the legal system is going to help us out.”
“Got it. Too bad I couldn’t get here an hour earlier. I’d rather grab the kids in a less public place than an airport, but at least we know where he’s heading, flight number and all. So, is Laura with you?”
“I convinced her to take a three o’clock. It’ll be tight, but we’ll make it work.”
“Got it. So what’s going on with Carrie? Still AWOL?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“Betty at your place filled in Tracy at mine, so I got a guy checking on her pronto. Haven’t heard back, but that’s my next call right after we get off the line,” said Chuck. “As for the condo on Amelia, I’ve got a contract guy on surveillance — a bodyguard, really. That security slash concierge service they’ve got there won’t let anybody unauthorized up.”
“Tell me about it. I forgot my keys once —”
“I think one guy on the inside is enough,” Chuck went on.
“Talked to the Palmers a few minutes ago. Everything’s fine down there except the girls can’t understand why they can’t go down to the beach.”
“Carrie’s being missing still bothers me,” Greg mused.
“Well, she can’t be there, right? She doesn’t know the location. Not from our conversation anyway —”
“And not from mine either. Except that it’s on Amelia Island.”
“Lot of condos on Amelia Island. It’s a big golf resort. Right?”
“But she does know it belongs to Celeste.”
“Still. Yeah,” Chuck ventured, “how is Celeste about us using her condo again?”
“Uh,” Greg said sheepishly, “I haven’t told her yet.”
“What?”
“I’ll handle it with her,” Greg said quickly. He didn’t want to tell Chuck that she’d refused to answer her phone all weekend. Chuck was a real fan of Celeste’s and had often warned Greg to “tie the knot” before she got away. “She’s in Atlanta finishing a big design project. I’ll let her know. Don’t worry about it.”
Chuck grunted. “Yeah. Sure wish they’d find El Creepo Santiago and soon. Put him away so the Palmers can go home. And Carrie’s kid. You know how she is about that kid. We’re not going to be able to keep her away from Elizabeth for long.”
“So call me when you land in Detroit.”
“Oh Greg, one more thing. Forgot to tell you this morning.
Detective Lopez had my office track me down — as in, urgently. So I call him. He wants to talk to Steve in the worst way. I figure that’s good, so I let him in on Steve’s plan to take off tonight.”
“Got his attention, hmm?”
“Completely.”
“Any details?”
“Nada. Gotta go, boss. My plane’s takin’ off.”
Until now, Greg had avoided calling Celeste at the Atlanta design firm. He suspected that she’d waited for him Friday night after flying through that torrential storm in some tiny plane. Once she’d gotten over that trauma — she hated flying, even in large planes in good weather — he imagined she’d refused to answer her phone when she realized he’d stood her up and then gone back to her job on Monday as planned. Or maybe she was so mad she’d spent the weekend elsewhere, but Celeste was not the moody type and certainly not given to histrionics. Actively avoiding him for f
our days now was out of character. He’d inquired about her earlier today with his secretary, yet Betty Harmon said she hadn’t spoken to Celeste since last week. But why hadn’t Celeste checked back into the Peachtree? Greg was truly worried now, and the reality of needing to let her know that he’d co-opted her condo, without her permission, pressed. That’s all he could tell her, he realized as he dialed the phone, he couldn’t even tell her who was staying there.
“May I please speak to Celeste Marin,” he asked politely as the receptionist answered in a sugary drawl. “She’s a consultant designer out of Tampa, Florida.”
“One moment, sir.”
A male voice came on the line. “You’re calling for Celeste Marin?”
“Yes. This is Greg Klingman. Is she available?”
“I’m afraid not. Can I take a message?”
“Well, yes. Will you tell her I need to talk to her? Tell her it’s urgent. To call my office and have my secretary put her through to me.”
“I’m not sure when she’ll be able to return the call,” the unidentified voice hesitated. “Can I help you?”
“Do you know where I can reach her? I’m her fiancé. It’s very important.”
“Oh, Mr. Klingman, I didn’t realize. I’m Larry Foster. I’m responsible for the project she’s doing here. In fact, maybe you can help me. Celeste left in the early afternoon last Friday. She said she’d be back Monday morning, but so far, no show. No phone call. No Celeste. We’re at a critical design phase here and —”
“She hasn’t even called?” Greg checked his watch. It was one twenty-five. “Celeste is always so fastidious about keeping her commitments.”
“I checked with her hotel,” said Larry. “She never checked out, but she’s not there either. This is just not like Celeste. She knows the pressure we’re under.”
“No, this isn’t like her at all,” Greg muttered. “Let me give you my temporary phone number here in Michigan, and my office phone in Tampa. Please call me immediately if you hear from her. Okay?”
“Fine. And if you talk to her first, please tell her to get in touch.”
“Where the hell is she?” Greg said aloud as he hung up the phone. Sure, she had a right to be pissed off at him, but to blow off her job? Where the hell could she be anyway? She could be hurt, ill, any number of things could have happened. A woman, traveling alone. God, why had he let this go on this long? Immediately, he thought of Chuck. Even though he was still in transit, Tracy, his assistant, should be able to handle this.
“Mr. Dimer’s office,” the cheery voice announced. “Tracy Epstein speaking.”
“Tracy, Greg Klingman here. Listen, I just talked to your boss. He’s on his way to Detroit and I plan to meet him there, but in the meantime, something else has come up.”
“Of course, Mr. Klingman. How can I be of help?”
“I’d like you to arrange for one of your agents to check out someone very special to me. Discreetly, of course, but immediately. Urgently, really. It may be nothing, but I just want to make sure. She’s not where she’s supposed to be.”
Greg gave Tracy the necessary information on Celeste, omitting the part that he’d stood her up over the weekend. While not a licensed P.I. herself, Tracy coordinated the office activities of Dimer Investigations and assigned the most appropriate agent to each client.
“No problem, Mr. Klingman, I’ll take care of it.”
“I appreciate it. Celeste, being my fiancée, well, I don’t want this to look like I’m spying on her.”
“I understand. But, Mr. Klingman, while I have you. I know how closely you and Chuck are working on the Nelson case. I got a call a few minutes ago. Let’s see. It came in at one twenty. A woman named Carmen Williams. Said she had Chuck’s business card, that he had questioned her about Kim Connor and Steve Nelson a couple of times. She was a friend of the Connor woman.” Tracy hesitated. “I promised to keep the call confidential, but she sounded pretty scared.”
“Go on,” Greg urged.
“Well, there was not much else than that. She really wanted to talk to Chuck.”
“But she wouldn’t say about what?”
“Just that she had information Chuck would want. Information about Steve Nelson was all I could get out of her, but —”
“Leave a phone number?”
“Nope. Refused when I asked,” Tracy said with an air of professional competence. “Anyway, I told her to try back later, but, of course, Chuck won’t be here.”
“Shit. Well, whichever of us talks to Chuck first, better let him know. One more thing, Tracy,” Greg went on. “What’s the news on Carrie Diamond?”
“Hold just a minute, and I’ll get you the latest.”
In the silence that followed, Greg’s mind lingered on the comment about Steve. What had scared Williams enough to make her call? Was it Santiago? Or was it Nelson? Did that jerk know something potentially dangerous to Santiago? Maybe that was why he was in such a rush to take off for Alaska. Maybe he really was afraid, rather than just vindictive.
“Okay,” Tracy said into the receiver. “A couple of neighbors saw Carrie and her husband leave their house between nine and nine thirty this morning. Saw at least one piece of luggage. Seemed preoccupied. Not themselves, according to the next-door neighbor who was puttering with her roses. Offered Carrie some, but Carrie pushed right by her.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all we have. Except the neighbor did say that the Diamond’s daughter was away visiting relatives. She figured they might be going to pick her up, but she was only guessing there.”
Greg remembered what Betty had said about a man with a Hispanic accent calling just before Carrie left the office so abruptly. About enough time for Carrie to drive home, pack, and leave.
Celeste and Carrie. Two women, each so professional, both missing. So unlike them to just disappear.
What was the common denominator?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Manny Gonzolas selected his jobs carefully. He liked technical challenges but refused hits related to the mob. This was his second job for Frank Santiago, a personal vendetta like the last one, and this time Manny demanded top dollar being that it had to come off so quick. So what if the kid was deaf and dumb. Make an easy hit. Sure, if he could find her. Finding them, eliminating them, that’s what he did best. He’d find her.
Posing as a deliveryman, he’d gone back to the Palmer’s late afternoon Monday and chatted with a few other neighbors on Oregon. Nobody had seen the family all day. A call to Palmer’s office, where he worked as a senior accountant, was transferred to a colleague who volunteered that Dirk Palmer was taking time off, claiming sudden illness in the family.
Yeah, right. So where the fuck were they? Manny’s gut told him the Diamond bitch would know.
The next morning at six o’clock, he drove up to the Diamond house in a dark blue Mercury sedan with tinted windows. At six thirty, he saw the Diamond woman — the woman he’d seen on the tape he’d lifted — leave the house in a business suit, driving away in a late model silver Olds sedan, the kind with a cloth top. Not five minutes later a dark-haired guy, medium build with a pudgy face, emerged from the front door in jogging gear and headed down Oregon, past DeLeon to Swann. The kid, Manny figured, was not around. Both parents wouldn’t leave the house with a kid home alone, and it was too early for her to be in school.
He’d give Diamond enough time to get to her office, maybe stop for coffee or something. Then he’d call her there. It was seven thirty when he parked his car less than a block away from Klingman Law Office and dialed the firm from a pay phone. He simply stated that he was a former client when the receptionist asked his name, and she put him right through to Diamond.
Diamond sounded uptight when she answered the phone. Good, she’d be easy to scare. When he started talking about the kid, he heard a gasp. He said that he knew her daughter was with Molly Palmer, and he knew where they were. He told her that she’d better come and get her kid right
away, and come alone. Starting to sob, she’d stuttered something about her husband, but Manny interrupted, saying do it or else, letting his voice trail off before he hung up. Then he waited in the car. When she emerged a few minutes later, he followed her home. Bingo, he told himself, he’d spooked her and now she was gonna lead him to his mark.
He had a good feeling about this job. It seemed simple enough, and then he’d split to his retreat in the islands. After the job, Manny planned an extended vacation. Get the hell out of Tampa until this whole thing blew over. Drive straight to Miami. Charter a flight to Martinique. Spend tomorrow on the beach with his luscious Monique.
But first he had to do the kid.
Manny congratulated himself as he sat in the plush seat of the Mercury. Diamond and the guy in the jogging suit, now dressed in pale blue slacks and an aqua short-sleeve shirt, came out, locking the front door in a rush and loading a large, hard-shell suitcase into the Olds’ trunk. Sure that he was unseen, Manny trailed the Diamond car as it headed west on Swann, then north on Dale Mabry to the big-money Carrollwood Lake section. The car stopped alongside the curb in front of a bunch of townhouses set amid a perfectly landscaped lawn dotted with coconut palms and surrounded by clumps of flowers in shades of yellows and reds. Manny’s passion was landscaping and he admired the the expensive display of lush plantings as the Diamond woman jumped out of the passenger side of the car and raced toward the front door of one of the luxury units and frantically punched the doorbell.
Manny couldn’t see everything, just enough to make out that the woman who opened the door was tall, slim, and had long, dark hair. He could see that she wore a baby blue bathrobe and that her hair looked all messed up, like she’d just climbed out of bed. After a brief conversation, Diamond disappeared inside.
Parking the car, Manny waited.
Celeste Marin was surprised at the unannounced visit of Greg’s associate. Had he actually sent someone from the office to check on her? She’d met Carrie Diamond only briefly during a few office social occasions and liked her immediately. She remembered telling Greg that she’d like to get to know her better. Based on everything Greg had told her, Carrie was a bright, talented attorney, but what was she doing here, seeing her so unkempt, still unshowered, hair uncombed, no makeup?
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