“The wannabe judges, the lawyers who practice in front of her, are circling like vultures,” he said bitterly. “They openly joke about not scheduling any long trials in her courtroom. They’re taking bets, have a pool, on the date she buys it, and another one on which of them will be appointed to fill the vacancy.”
“You spoke to her at the courthouse?” Venturi frowned. “You’ll probably find the FBI waiting at your front door when you get home. How do you know she still trusts you?”
“She trusts me.” Danny’s gaze was level. He clearly believed it.
“Did you discuss the possibility with her?”
“Hell no, not on the teléfono, but she’s coming to Miami, using an alias, for a monthlong vacation while the bomb attempt is investigated and new security precautions put in place. I may have hinted, but not in so many words, that there’s a way out.”
“She knows you’re married?”
Danny averted his eyes. “What does that matter?”
“Christ! Do I have to spell it out? What if she misinterpreted your offer, thinks you’re inviting her to Miami for a romantic reunion, and that the two of you are going to walk off into the sunset?”
Danny closed his eyes and kneaded the back of his neck, as though his head hurt. His voice dropped. “She knows about Luz and the kids.”
“She’ll bring bodyguards, right?”
“She doesn’t want to. But if she does, she’s smart enough to give them the slip.”
Venturi rolled his eyes and sighed. The whole idea gave him a bad feeling. “There’s a helluva lot more to deal with here than a hostile or accusing press. She’s part of the federal government. The feds…the Colombians. Jesus, I don’t need to tell you how careful we’d have to be.”
“We’re always careful,” Danny said. “Always have been, always will. That’s how we survive.”
“Any ideas?”
“The possibilities are endless. People think of judges as bookish, nerdy types who wouldn’t know how to open a window. Not her. She’s aggressive, athletic, a sports-car driver, snow skier. Swims like a fish, dives, sails, hang glides. Like I said, lots of possibilities.”
“The feds have more efficient, organized ways to protect her,” Venturi pleaded. “She’d be safer with them. If she was a witness, not a judge, she’d be in the protection program in a heartbeat.”
“And how good is that?” Danny demanded. “They still deny that they’ve ever lost a protected witness. We know that’s a joke. I can name three off the top of my head and I never even worked for them. They still claim that no protected witness who followed their rules was ever killed. What a laugh.”
Venturi nodded wearily. He didn’t like arguing with Danny.
“I don’t want to pick up a newspaper and read that the bastards killed her because some bureaucrat screwed up or let her have her way. Like I said, she’s a strong woman. This has to be done right,” Danny said, “by people who understand her and won’t screw up.”
“You know this could go bad, very bad,” Venturi said.
Now he was the one who didn’t want to look his friend in the eye.
“Whenever you need me, Mike, I’m here.”
“I know.”
“We always had each other’s backs, bro.”
“We still do.” How could he refuse? “When do you think this Florida vacation of hers will happen?”
“She’s traveling under the name Marilyn Moya. She’ll be here in forty-eight hours.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Venturi and the dog had returned from an early morning fishing trip, and he was out on the dock cleaning his catch when he heard a car at the gate.
He slipped into the house through the back as Scout raced headlong around the side of the building to confront the visitor.
The car was a sleek silver-green Jaguar convertible. The driver had stepped out and stood at the gate. Long legs, short skirt, young looking. She pulled off a silk scarf and shook out her hair, as dark and shiny as a raven’s wing. It lifted like a banner in the brisk winds spawned by storm clouds on the outskirts of a hurricane out in the gulf. He pushed the button to open the gate so she could drive up to the house.
Scout ran alongside the approaching car, barking his brains out.
If it was the judge, Venturi wished Danny had given him a heads-up. Uncomfortably aware of the blood on his jeans and the fish knife in his belt, he opened the door as she approached on foot.
The big sunglasses shielding her eyes didn’t hide her disappointment. She tilted her head, peering behind him, as though expecting someone else.
“I’m Marilyn Moya. You’re Michael?”
He nodded. Close up, her tawny skin was luminous, her perfect teeth flashed white. She looked younger than her age, which he knew to be thirty-eight. She wore a black cotton eyelet blouse over a slim white skirt. Her high-heeled black sandals exposed bloodred toenails that matched her perfect manicure. Diamond ear studs and a tiny gold cross on a thin chain around her neck were her only jewelry. No wedding ring.
He scanned the road behind her. “Think you were followed?”
“No.” She said it with the utter confidence of a woman accustomed to handing down life-changing decisions to others.
She saw his doubtful expression. “I went shopping. Aventura Mall has three levels with a seven-story parking garage, movie theaters, restaurants, and hundreds of stores. I breezed through a dozen, hit the restrooms, the dressing rooms, and exited through different doors every time. I bought a movie ticket, then left the theater through an inside exit. My rental is still in the mall’s parking garage. I took a taxi to a dealership and picked up my friend’s car, which was being serviced. That’s what I’m driving now. Satisfied?”
“Good,” he said, but stopped to glance back over his shoulder again as they entered the house.
She took off the dark shades and looked around eagerly. But they were alone. Her dark eyes, sad, bloodshot, and hollow, didn’t appear as youthful as the rest of her.
He poured her a cup of coffee.
She stared at it. “Do you have anything stronger?”
“Such as?”
“Vodka.”
He brought a bottle of Smirnoff to the table, along with small bottles of orange and tomato juice. She never touched the juice. He asked for her car keys and she tossed them across the table. He caught them and moved her car into the shed—behind it wasn’t good enough. He didn’t want it visible from the air. A cursory search revealed no obvious tracking device.
She looked hopeful when she heard his footsteps on the porch, but her smile faded when she saw it was only him.
He asked what kind of security had been sent with her.
“No bodyguards,” she said. “They wanted them, but I insisted that I had to get away alone. I have a gun and go to the range twice a week. I’ve been target shooting since I was a kid at camp.”
“You’re psychologically ready to use it, to shoot to kill if threatened?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. Keep it loaded and close to you until this is over. Even though you declined protection, we have to assume that the local FBI office and police departments have been told that you’re in Miami and have been asked to keep tabs on you.”
“True.” She looked around again. “Is Danny here?”
“No.”
She frowned. “I can’t wait to see him.” She paused to read his expression. “We’re old friends, you know.”
He nodded.
Outside the house the wind began to whine, then whistle, as its strength and speed accelerated. Whenever a thunderstorm blew up, something in the design of the old structure magnified the shriek of a strong wind into a howl that sounded like a chorus of screaming women. Punctuated by fierce lightning bolts and thunderclaps, it electrified the room.
Marilyn Moya, chin raised, listened raptly, as though inhaling the storm’s energy. “It must be wild out on the water right now.” The look in her eyes said she’d like to
be out there.
“Not a place to be,” he said.
She smiled without comment.
He opened a fresh notebook.
“What’s your blood type? Do you have any old fractures or other injuries that would show up on X-rays? What about identifying characteristics? Scars, tattoos, birthmarks?”
“Only fractures of the heart, invisible to the naked eye,” she said, slowly pouring more vodka into her glass. She paused. “A-positive blood. No birthmarks. No scars. One tattoo.” She lifted her eyes and her glass as though in a toast, then brought it to her lips.
“The tattoo on your ankle, that’s it?”
She smiled seductively. “You noticed.”
“I need to photograph it.”
She abruptly removed her high-heeled sandal and lifted her bare foot onto the rough wooden table, exposing her long shapely right leg to the thigh.
“You’re sure this is necessary?” She sounded almost mocking.
“Absolutely.” He picked up the digital camera, wondering if her attitude shielded her fears and uncertainties, or if this was her normal behavior. He could see what attracted Danny to this woman.
She watched, eyes guarded as he shot close-ups from every angle.
A small red heart appeared to dangle from a fine dark chain delicately etched link by link around her ankle.
“It has to go,” he said.
She sighed. “Nothing lasts forever. Can we cover it with something darker, denser, more dramatic?”
“No.”
“Is the removal process painful?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fair enough,” she said almost absently, dark eyes moving hopefully toward the door.
He had hoped she’d refuse, indignantly announce that the tattoo was a deal breaker and that she would choose to entrust her safety to her less-demanding government protectors.
Her eyes shifted back to his. “Can you shave a few years off my age?”
“That can be arranged, within reason.”
She smiled sardonically. “Don’t be alarmed, Michael, I won’t ask to be eighteen years old. Been there, done that. But I’d like to postpone forty for just a little longer.”
The entrance gate bell sounded.
“Is it Danny?” she asked eagerly.
He peered out the front window. Keri’s car. She was punching in the gate’s security code. She’d be at the front door in seconds.
“No, someone else. You shouldn’t be seen.”
He showed her to the bedroom used by prior clients.
“Stay here,” he said, and firmly closed the door.
He stashed the vodka and other bottles and rinsed out her glass.
Keri dashed through the rain from her car. He swung the front door open as she raised her hand to knock and she almost fell into his arms.
“It’s a hurricane out there,” she gasped, laughing as she caught her balance.
“I didn’t expect you.”
She blinked up at him. “Sorry. I should’ve called.” She looked around. “Is Victoria back?”
“No, not until tomorrow.”
Keri’s smile faded and she took a small step back. “I’m intruding.”
“No.”
“I smell perfume, Michael.”
“Perfume?” He smelled it, too.
Tail awag, Scout grinned up at them and, as if on cue, trotted toward the bedroom.
Busted, he thought bitterly, by his so-called best friend.
Keri cut her eyes at Venturi, followed the dog, and opened the door.
Solange was sitting on the bed. “Excuse me,” Keri said, then quietly closed the door, walked past Michael and out into the deluge. The rain had not let up at all.
“Wait a minute.” He followed her into the rain and caught up with her at her car. Her face was red.
“I should have known better,” she muttered, and refused to look at him.
He could let her go, but she knew too much—and irate women can wreak endless havoc. More important, he realized, he didn’t want her to go. He leaned against her car door so she couldn’t open it.
“The woman’s a new client,” he said. “You know, like the couple we don’t mention. Her situation is complex and dangerous. I didn’t want you involved, for your protection, in case things go wrong.”
“Shouldn’t I decide that?” She squinted up at him as the hard rain pelted her face. “I’m already involved.”
The relentless downpour pounded them, soaked their clothes, and ran down their faces.
“It’s wet out here,” he finally said.
“I noticed.”
“Come back inside,” he said.
“Only if you include me. Remember, we said no more secrets.”
He nodded.
“Now, what’s her story?”
He put his arm around her shoulders and they dashed back to the house, skidding on wet grass and splashing through mud.
She vaguely recalled news reports about the judge and her murdered family.
They were using towels to dry each other’s hair when Solange emerged from the bedroom, tired of waiting.
“When will Danny be here?” She spoke in the imperious tone of a no-nonsense judge demanding to know why an attorney is late.
“I’m not sure,” Venturi said, his voice edgy. “But he knows you’re in good hands.”
He introduced Keri. “She’s a friend,” he said, “who may be able to answer your question.” He turned to her. “How painful is it to remove a tattoo?”
Keri rolled her eyes and frowned. “I’m not sure,” she said, her voice chilly, “but it’s definitely not as uncomfortable as childbirth.”
“Thank God for small favors,” the woman muttered.
Solange was staying in the empty apartment of a trusted friend, an old college roommate whose car she was driving. Venturi instructed her to return the next day using similar precautions to avoid being followed. He warned her to keep the Jaguar in a locked garage so no tracking device could be planted. “It would help,” he said, “if you drove something a little less conspicuous.
“One other thing,” he added, almost casually. “We’ve come up with a tentative plan and need a pint of your blood. Now.”
Keri did not look surprised that he had the necessary items ready.
“I don’t like needles,” Solange complained, as Keri tightened the rubber tubing around her arm.
“Well, you certainly survived quite a few when that tattoo was done,” Keri said cheerfully. “This little procedure won’t take anywhere near as long.” She snapped her finger against the woman’s forearm to locate a vein she liked.
Keri seemed to be enjoying herself.
Solange looked the other way to avoid seeing her blood flow into the bag.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Keri said, when the bag was full. She applied a sterile gauze pad to the site and instructed the patient to hold it there for a few minutes.
“Do you have some orange juice for her, Michael?”
“We may need to do this several times,” he said, handing Solange a glass of juice. “Make sure you don’t have anything to drink next time you’re here. And never, ever, come walking out of that room or any other until I invite you. You had no idea who was here. A mistake like that could risk the whole operation.”
Her eyes and body language made it abundantly clear that she was unaccustomed to being spoken to that way, but she nodded.
“I understand that you’re a good sailor.”
She shrugged. “I’ve sailed all my life.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning go to the nearest busy marina, rent a sailboat, and take it out off the beach for a few hours. The winds we’re having should make it interesting. Make sure you ask for and keep the receipts and any other paperwork.”
The rain had stopped. He backed her car out of the shed. Then he and Keri watched Solange pick her way in high heels through the muddy yard to the Jag.
“Was that our Danny that
she asked about?” Keri inquired.
He nodded and tried a quick diversion, catching her around the waist. “Now, let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
“They know each other?” She looked troubled.
“Years ago, before he met Luz. I’m not too crazy about it, either.”
Danny called later, after Keri left.
Venturi peered out the front window, phone in hand, to make sure he wasn’t in the driveway.
“How does she look? Is she all right? Did she ask about me?” He sounded like a lovesick teenager.
“She looks fine, was disappointed you weren’t here. She’s sad. Her tattoo has got to go. In fact, I’m thinking we need to change more than just her hair, clothes, and cosmetics. Remember Gordon, that plastic surgeon we met in Somalia? The one from Medecins sans Frontières? Doesn’t he practice down here somewhere?”
“Boca, I think. Charging the rich and not-so-beautiful big bucks for facelifts, nose jobs, and tummy tucks,” Danny said. “A long way from Doctors without Borders in Africa, when he was sewing burn-and-bomb victims back together and operating on babies with birth defects.”
He sighed. “It’d be a damn shame to change a hair on that woman’s head,” he lamented.
“In Boca? Think Gordon Howard will be glad to see us?”
“Why not?” Danny said. “We saved his life.”
“We took some blood from her today.”
“We?”
“Keri took the blood. It’s in my refrigerator.”
“So Keri’s in?”
“She happened to be here.”
“Is that good?” Danny didn’t sound happy about it. “Sure we can trust her?”
“You tell me, you’ve known her longer. Afraid she’ll tell your wife?”
“The reason Luz doesn’t know much about what I do is to protect her and the kids. The less they know, the safer they are. And she has her hands full with the house, the little ones, and another one on the way. I don’t want her to worry.”
“I agree. Glad to hear you to say that. Make sure you don’t give her anything to worry about, Danny. I’m serious.”
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