Legally Dead

by Edna Buchanan

  The media descended on South Florida. Entertainment Tonight, Greta Van Susteren, and Larry King all broadcast from South Beach. Geraldo piloted his own boat out to the site south of Grand Bahama Island, halfway between Freeport and Treasure Cay, and described it live as “Errol Flagg’s final resting place, a watery grave not far from Miami, his favorite personal playground.

  “Is Flagg yet another victim of the infamous Bermuda Triangle?” Rivera asked. “Did his own personal demons play a role in his tragic end? Or did the luck of the high-flying rocker simply run out? The truth may never be known. The sea keeps its secrets.”

  Human scavengers bent on salvaging memorabilia battled the Coast Guard, NTSB investigators, and each other over priceless bits of wreckage, as flotillas of weeping fans in bikinis flung flowers into the waves at latitude N 26 32.0, longitude W 078 00.

  Many collided with Coast Guard cutters, members of the press, and each other. Charter captains, sightseeing planes, boats, blimps, and choppers sold out trips to the site, creating a seagoing traffic jam.

  Rescuers initially hoped to find an intact fuselage and the pilot but quickly realized there was no hope of recovering human remains. The Cessna had been shattered, totally destroyed on impact.

  The Coast Guard called off the mission after three days but was kept busier than ever with a record number of arrests, rescues, and medical emergencies as rock fans from all over the world converged for moments of silence at latitude N 26 32.0, longitude W 078 00. Their numbers continued to grow, catching the Coast Guard unaware.

  Aerial shots of flowers floating as far as the eye could see were broadcast all over the world, encouraging even more fans to make the pilgrimage. Some never really had been fans, but the drama of the music star’s tragic and untimely death fascinated them in a macabre fashion.

  His recordings sold like hotcakes.

  Sightseers and mourners dangerously overloaded small boats. Some attempted the trip in unseaworthy craft, using anything that would float: rafts, hang gliders with pontoons, sailboards, Jet Skis, and even a personal two-seat submarine. A growing number even tried to float to the site on inner tubes. If Cubans could successfully flee their homeland and float more than ninety miles to South Florida on inner tubes, fans believed they could surely make it to N 26 32 W 078 00. Coast Guard crews soon found it difficult to distinguish incoming refugees fleeing Cuba from departing Flagg fans seeking the crash site. Nearly all of the latter were inexperienced boaters, many were nonswimmers, and most were under the influence of illegal substances. They swamped and sank, or ran aground on the flats. Small boaters ran out of gas or into each other’s anchor lines, entangling their propellers. A number were injured when they went into the water to cut the lines and free the props. The blood in the water resulted in frightening shark sightings. Circling news and sightseeing helicopters nearly collided on several occasions. A few fans failed to think ahead and parachuted out of small aircraft over the site. A woman on one boat went into labor and had to be airlifted to the States. Others fell overboard, nearly drowned, overdosed, threatened suicide, hallucinated, or became dangerously dehydrated and disoriented. Miraculously, no one died. Many came close.

  Errol Flagg’s last address, longitude N 26 32.0, latitude W 078 00 appeared on T-shirts, hats, and bumper stickers within twenty-four hours of the crash.

  His final words: “Smoke in the cockpit. I think I’m on fire,” were broadcast over and over. Even Errol Flagg wept copious tears upon hearing them.

  Venturi yanked the plug on the TV in order to refocus Flagg on his future.

  An unspoken but real fear among team members was that his fans’ grief and adulation might move Flagg to launch his own resurrection and comeback tour.

  The young airport employee who had fueled Flagg’s Cessna sold the rocker’s last photo to People magazine for big bucks.

  The more the world loved the late Errol Flagg, the more annoying he became to team members. Excited by the prospect of life in Scotland with its medieval castles, ancient battle sites, and the Loch Ness monster, he endlessly practiced his brogue, studied his new look, and posed in front of the mirror. The spiky hair was gone, so were the blond tips.

  When the women attempted to restore his hair to its natural shade, he had difficulty remembering the color and in his eagerness to assist, inadvertently exposed himself to Keri and Victoria.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t make me kill you,” Venturi warned him, not for the first time.

  “Understood, Michael. No problem. I mean, one’s a doctor, the other’s a worldly woman of a certain age. I didn’t think…didn’t realize…I’m not accustomed to interacting with women who have standards. My apologies. That might be another behavioral issue we should address.”

  Venturi agreed.

  Flagg’s trademark swagger had to go. Vicki spent hours demonstrating how to walk normally, which in itself was hilarious, since she had a pronounced limp.

  “That’s it, that’s it!” she told Flagg at one point. “You’ve almost got it. Now just kill the limp.”

  “No! That’s not it. Walk like a man, like this,” Danny insisted, stomping about like a demented bull.

  Flagg’s accountants and handlers were unaware, he said, of a secret stash of cash he’d squirreled away long ago to buy drugs, or whatever. He turned it over to Venturi for expenses, with the remainder to be wired to an account in a Glasgow bank, in his new name, Andrew McCallum.

  Though his dream since childhood was to be a commercial deep-sea fisherman, Errol Flagg had actually gone fishing only twice in his life. But he loved the fact that Scotland’s fishermen are Europe’s most environmentally friendly. Now he faced reality, the backbreaking work and dangerous life of deep-sea fishermen off the wild Scottish coast. Oddly enough, as he experienced it through virtual reality, he fell even more in love with the challenge. They warned him it was like learning to be a professional boxer before ever stepping into the ring or taking a punch.

  Venturi and Danny mercilessly worked him in the gym. He became stronger and more confident. He didn’t hesitate to jettison his trademark height-enhancing boots, happy to settle for his true height, five feet nine inches tall. The shrinkage helped his transformation. According to Errol Flagg’s official bios and press releases, the rocker stood six feet tall.

  Andrew McCallum wore a brown suit from the Men’s Warehouse on the day he departed, shoes shined, laces tied. He wore blue contact lenses over his brown eyes and carried a newspaper to read on the long flight.

  At the airport he crushed Keri in his arms and startled her with a passionate kiss on the lips. “Good-bye forever, beautiful,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you—but only in my dreams.”

  Victoria cautiously offered her cheek, but he swooped in to score one on her lips, as well.

  He grinned at Venturi. “Can’t kill me now.” He chuckled. “I’m already dead.”

  “Go catch the damn plane,” Venturi said, “or you’ll die twice.”

  The two shook hands.

  McCallum hugged Danny last. “Thanks, mate. I’ll never forget you.”

  “Have fun, fisherman,” Danny said. “Stay away from the sharks this time.”

  Andrew McCallum nodded briskly and marched off to catch his flight.

  “Think he’ll be all right?” Victoria said doubtfully.

  “Sure,” Danny said. “He’ll be fine.”

  They watched his flight depart through the picture windows in the terminal and returned to Venturi’s place with a sense of relief. It lasted only until Danny turned on the news.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Had the killer used a gun, a baseball bat, or his bare hands the story would not have made national news. What made the murder sensational was the weapon: a garrote, a thirty-two-inch nylon cord with wooden knobs, a commando-style tool of death not seen in the United States for more than twenty years, according to the FBI.

  Danny’s relentless channel surfing had paused on a Fox News exclusive,
a man garroted in the stairwell of a four-star hotel.

  “Don’t see many of those these days,” he said thoughtfully.

  The camera focused for a moment on the anguished features of a middle-aged blonde described as the victim’s widow. She saw it, covered her face, and turned away, but not quickly enough.

  Venturi had glanced up from his desk at Danny’s comment. He sprang to his feet.

  “You see that?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “See what?” Danny said.

  “The woman. She looked a helluva lot like Angelo Conte’s wife. Her name’s Celia.”

  He joined Danny in front of the television, studying the screen, willing the woman who was being helped to a car by two young men to turn around.

  She did, just enough for him to see her profile clearly for a moment.

  “That is her!” Venturi sounded alarmed. “What the hell’s happening? Is that Portland?”

  Danny nodded. “It’s probably not her. You could only see her for a second. You can’t be sure.”

  “Nine and three-quarters on a scale of ten. I relocated him, his wife, and two teenage sons to Oregon almost two years ago. He testified in a major racketeering and public corruption case in Philly.”

  “Holy shit,” Danny said. “If you’re right, this ain’t good news. In fact,” he placed his palm to his forehead and closed his eyes, “my psychic abilities predict that you are about to hear from men in suits who work for the federal government. Time to lie low and circle the wagons, goombah.”

  Fox went to another story. Danny flicked to CNN, then MSNBC. Nothing more on the case. Yet.

  “What the hell?” Venturi looked bewildered. “I don’t get it. What went wrong?”

  “What was that on the television, boys?” Victoria asked affably.

  “Nothing important,” Danny said without making eye contact.

  The two men retired to the war room without further comment as she and Keri stared.

  “That was rude,” Keri murmured.

  “Something’s up,” Victoria said. “If so, we’ll know soon enough.”

  Danny slumped in a chair at the oval conference table. “Think this hit is related to the Minneapolis homicide? Were Conte and DelVecchio both on the same mobsters’ hit parade?”

  “Their cases were totally unrelated,” Venturi said, shaking his head. “DelVecchio and Conte weren’t associates. I doubt they even knew each other. They only had one common denominator: me. I worked with them both.”

  They stared at each other.

  “How many in the Marshals Service had access to their new identities and locations?” Danny asked.

  “Three—four tops. But I worked with different agents and prosecutors on each of those cases. That narrows it down to me.”

  Danny’s expression grew increasingly serious.

  “They were my cases,” Venturi said. “I probably know more about them than anybody in the Marshals Service and more than their immediate families. DelVecchio’s wife, for instance, didn’t know that WITSEC also relocated his mistress to Minneapolis. I should call the office, find out what’s going on, and offer to help.”

  “Don’t do it, man,” Danny warned. “Don’t poke a rattlesnake with a stick or kick a sleeping tiger.”

  “But I need to find out what the hell’s happening. A preemptive strike is better than sticking my head in the sand and hoping it all goes away. Doesn’t a lack of interest make me look more suspect?”

  “Damned if you do and damned if you don’t,” Danny said. “If you do talk to them, they won’t tell you a damn thing. And they’ll twist whatever you say to use against you.”

  “But…”

  “Omertà, man. Silence is golden.”

  “If I offer to unload everything I know about the victims, it might help the investigation.”

  “You have an inflated opinion of your own importance. What do you know? Nada, zilch, zero. You’ve had no contact with either of them lately. Who knows what worlds of crap they got into? Not you. Let’s hope the local cops identify the killers as unrelated badass robbers or trigger-happy hometown hoods who had no clue who they were whacking.”

  “How likely is that?” Venturi said derisively.

  Danny shrugged. “Until we hear different, we can hope.”

  “Hope is disappointment delayed,” Venturi said. “If the press learns that two protected witnesses were hit, the program will be in chaos.”

  “Witnesses sure won’t run to join it. It’ll be a front-page scandal, bro.” Danny shook his head somberly. “News like that can’t stay secret long. The feds are scrambling for a scapegoat as we speak. And man, if no better target pops up on the horizon—tag, you’re it.”

  “Jesus, Danny.”

  “Maybe you should talk to a lawyer.”

  “Oh, sure.” Venturi rubbed his forehead with his palm. “Nothing like lawyering up to make you look innocent.”

  “Sometimes a little legal advice will clarify a situation. Listen to me, man. You know—”

  They stopped abruptly as Keri popped her head into the room. “Gotta go,” she said cheerfully, her smile fading at their expressions. “I’m heading to the hospital.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you later,” Venturi said. He didn’t get up. Danny was preoccupied, pacing.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “I’ll call you later,” Venturi repeated shortly.

  She closed the door quietly without another word.

  Danny stopped pacing, sat on the corner of Venturi’s desk, and lowered his voice. “So, where were you, man, when somebody used DelVecchio for target practice then dropped him off a high bridge? What’s your alibi, bro? Isn’t that about the time you took a little day trip to Jamaica? What do you say when they start asking questions about that? And now Conte. Your alibi is that you were driving who to the airport?”

  “You’re right,” Venturi said. “I’d jeopardize us all.”

  “Only use prepaid cells to call anybody, especially me, from now on.”

  “Right.”

  “And watch your back.”

  Danny rumbled out of the driveway on his Harley a short time later.

  That evening, for the first time, Venturi encouraged Victoria in her hunt for an apartment. She responded calmly, but he saw the hurt in her eyes. He had nearly persuaded her to stay on. They were like family. They were family.

  Her son, Sidney, had somehow posted bond and was now harassing her with angry calls. He was demanding that she return to New York, that she drop charges, that he speak to Venturi. “He’s irrational and furious,” she said.

  Venturi had more important problems than Sidney to think about and simply suggested she stop answering his calls.

  It was midnight when Scout began to bark. The buzzer at the gate sounded moments later.

  “It’s me,” Keri said over the intercom. “I’m sorry it’s so late. But I have someone I want you, Vicki, and Danny to meet.”

  “Danny’s been gone for hours. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  There was a painful pause. “No,” she finally replied. “There may not be one.”

  None of this is her fault, he told himself, and what she said made him curious. “I’ll make coffee. Drive on up.”

  At the sound of voices, Vicki stepped out of her bedroom wearing a bathrobe. Her eyes looked puffy.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Keri’s back. Someone’s with her.”

  “I wasn’t asleep, dear.”

  “Can you join us? I’m making coffee.”

  “Make mine decaf. I think there’s some pie left, and a banana loaf in the freezer.”

  The woman with Keri was slightly built, young and dark-haired, with huge, frightened eyes and a silk scarf wrapped around her throat, almost to her chin.

  Keri introduced her as Maheen. As they settled around the kitchen table, Keri explained that a hospital administrator had helped bring Maheen to Miami from New York and had arranged a job for her in the records department. But now s
he was unable to go to work.

  “Maheen’s family is Iranian,” Keri said. “And her parents still cling to the old ways, the traditions of their homeland. Many of those traditions are against the law here, but they practice them nonetheless.”

  The girl took a single sip of coffee but did not touch the pie Vicki offered. Eyes downcast as Keri spoke, she bit her oddly puckered lower lip, her hands folded in her lap.

  “Maheen is American,” Keri continued, “the only member of her family born here. She went to high school in Paramus, New Jersey. Her parents didn’t allow her to attend dances, proms, pajama parties, or football games. She was forbidden to date or learn to drive. They insisted she quit school at age sixteen. She rebelled at that. She wanted to graduate with her class and hoped for a college scholarship. She didn’t want to wear a head scarf like her mother and older sister. Her family situation became more tense when she took a job at a department store, at the cosmetics counter. When she was eighteen she met a boy, an American boy, and began seeing him, despite her parents’ often violent objections.

  “They demanded she quit the job and forbade her to see the boy again. She said she was American and wanted to live like an American girl. The clash of cultures was inevitable.” Keri sighed and reached for the girl’s hand.

  “On a freezing night last January, her boyfriend drove her home from work so she wouldn’t have to take a bus. Her parents and older brothers were waiting. The boy, a premed student, was beaten so severely that he was comatose for three weeks.”

  Tears flooded Maheen’s eyes and began to spill over.

  “The young man survived,” Keri said, “but he’s severely brain damaged. Maheen’s family dragged her into the house. Her mother and oldest brother held her down while her father tried to disfigure her with acid.”

  Victoria gasped.

  “He tried to throw it into her face and eyes, but she struggled so violently that it splashed onto her throat and breasts instead,” Keri continued.

  She gently murmured something in the girl’s ear. Maheen nodded, then sat motionless, without lifting her eyes, as Keri unwrapped the scarf from her throat.