“It’s a very hip place, the Delano. You don’t have to go in. Find a place to double-park. I’ll only be a minute.”
She was still looking at him. “When you say that, I don’t believe you.”
The hotel was on Ocean Drive, backing up to the Atlantic. Dan pointed at the valet parking entrance, which swept up under a portico surrounded by high hedges. The valet took a look at Elaine’s Ford sedan, then at Dan and hesitated taking the keys.
She showed him her badge.
The lobby was bare except for avant-garde pieces of furniture placed here and there, red or purple uphostered things on skinny black metal legs. The floors were wood, the ceilings high, and wide doors at the far end opened on the Atlantic. Long, gauzy white panels floated in the breeze coming through the building.
Dan walked straight back through the lobby, then through a lounge area with dimly lit niches separated by more curtains. The people looked up from their wine or their cocktails, staring as Dan and Elaine passed. A maître d’ put himself in their path.
“Sir, may I help you?”
Elaine held up her badge, and the man melted away.
The bar opened to a dining area. Rick was not there. Dan kept walking through the wide-open doors. The terrace was under a white canvas canopy, the tables were draped in white, and the waiters wore white jackets. The back garden of the Delano, with its topiary and long, shallow swimming pool, extended toward the ocean, stopping at a white picket fence. The narrow grounds were dotted with people out strolling and carrying drinks.
Elaine saw them before Dan did, and pointed. There in a vine-covered niche to one side sat three persons. One man he did not recognize. The other man was Rick Robbins. The third person, in a long, slim black dress and her hair in a black cloud, was Martha Cruz. She was smoking a cigarette.
For a moment Dan stopped, putting the image into focus. Martha Cruz and Rick Robbins. Two hours ago she had been covered with dirt, sobbing for the DEA not to kill her.
“That’s Martha,” Elaine said, astonished. “How did she get here?”
“She’s a resourceful girl,” Dan said. He went quickly down the steps from the terrace then followed the path running alongside the pool.
Arlo Pate stepped in front of him. He had been leaning against a palm tree several yards away from the group, and Dan had not noticed him.
Dan said, “I need to talk to Rick.”
“Sorry, man. Martha and I just got here, and she needs to talk to Mr. Friedman.”
“Arlo, let me have a couple minutes with Rick, then I’ll leave.”
“Yeah, well, you have to wait.” He put his hand out, and the heavy fingers lightly touched Dan’s chest.
At the same moment Rick glanced around. He stared at Dan, then spoke to the man next to him. Rick stood up. Martha Cruz remained in her chair. Her lips were deep red, and silver sparkled against her long neck. She put her cigarette to her lips, then turned back to her companion.
Elaine touched Dan’s shoulder. “I’m going to sit over here while you speak with your client.” She walked toward the terrace.
Dan said to Arlo, “Could Rick and I have a minute?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Rick had his hand on Dan’s elbow, taking him farther toward the rear fence. Dan could hear the pounding of the ocean behind it. “What the hell is going on?”
Rick was grinning. “Hey, what a surprise. Where’d you come from? I mean, Martha told me about your run-in out at Miguel’s house. Must’ve been pretty hairy for a while, right? Listen, that guy over there? That’s Joel Friedman, and he’s talking to Martha about a contract. We got him, Dan.”
Dan was staring at Martha Cruz. She was leaning on her arms on the small table, laughing at something Friedman said. Friedman was early forties, pale and pudgy, wearing jeans and a tan jacket, looking slick. For the first time Dan noticed what was on the table—an odd-looking machine resembling a tape player. He took Rick’s hand off his elbow and walked quickly toward Martha Cruz.
He heard Rick’s footsteps behind him. “Dan! Wait up! They’re talking business over there.” Rick tugged his arm. “Hey, listen, I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
Dan looked down at Martha Cruz. “What is this?”
She glanced at Rick, then back to Dan.
Dan hit the eject button. The door fell slowly open, revealing a gray cassette, smaller than the usual size. The label said Party.
He slammed the door shut again and pressed Play. Party noises. Laughter. Voices in the background. Then rock music blared from the little speakers. Mayhem.
Joel Friedman set his drink down and stared. “Who is this guy?”
“He’s my lawyer. Never mind him.” Rick turned off the music then dragged Dan several yards away. “Listen to me. This is her chance. She had to do it. We didn’t have a demo.”
“Had to do what?”
Rick’s nervous laughter mixed with the soft background chatter and the sound of the sea. “You know. Get the tape. It was their party on South Beach last week. The girls recorded it in case we didn’t get the demo tapes from Manatee Studios. Really, you should’ve been at the party. It was a super performance.”
Dan stared at Martha, then back at Rick, who was still talking. “Friedman loved it. I knew he would. We’re gonna find a new bass player—do you believe that Scott guy was DEA? Arlo’s gonna do drums, Bobby’s coming with us, too.”
“Martha took me after the party tape,” Dan said numbly.
Rick said, “Hey, whatever works, right?”
“Where is the Barrios tape?” His head felt off-balance. “Did Martha tell you about the Barrios tape?”
“Well … yes. It never actually existed. Kelly made it up. She had to get the DEA off her back.”
It was starting to make sense. Dan managed to speak calmly. “Okay. Martha knew about me and the Barrios case from you and Kelly. She used a tape that didn’t exist to get me to escort her to Salazar’s place—Correct so far?” Rick nodded. “Because she couldn’t go back herself to get a tape she and Kelly made of a party on South Beach. Right? And I was shot at twice, nearly drowned by a fucking dragline, and only by the grace of God am I standing here now.”
“Dan, we had no idea Miguel was home, I swear. Then the DEA—”
“We. Meaning you helped her in this?”
Rick hesitated, then said, “This was my last chance for a deal with a major label. I thought I was going to prison, but if I could do this one thing, even if they took it all away—” He forced out a laugh. “But it worked out. Didn’t it? You were great. You saved my life, man. They can’t do anything to me now. Look. They had crooked DEA agents all over the place. Tomorrow with what’s-his-name, Paxton, at the U.S. attorney’s office, I want you to tell the guy, we’re pleading not guilty. Let them take me to court, see what they get.”
Dan grabbed Rick’s lapels and shook him. “You knew. You knew what you were sending me into.”
“He wasn’t supposed to be home!”
“Wasn’t supposed to be?” Dan was screaming. People nearby moved away, then scattered. “They nearly killed me! I could be dead, you stupid son of a bitch.”
Arlo Pate unhooked Dan’s fingers from the front of Rick’s jacket. “Well, you’re not, are you?”
CHAPTER 41
It took awhile to arrange things, but in June, with Josh out for the summer, Dan took him fishing near Islamorada for a week. Dan pulled the old twenty-foot Mako down on a trailer, and they slept in a motel at night, but Josh didn’t seem to mind. He was getting brown from the sun, and he had learned how to handle the new rod and reel Dan had bought him. Dan had not replaced his spearguns and doubted that he ever would. He and Josh had caught a few tropicals with a net, which Dan would take back to Miami and put in his new aquarium.
At the moment Josh was asleep, and Dan lay on the end of the pier behind the motel looking south into the vast blackness of the ocean.
It still surprised him that he was here, and alive, thanks to Vincent
Hooper, who had gone off to South America, though it remained unclear exactly which country, to fight in some other battle. One where the moral ground wasn’t so rocky, if such a place existed.
What surprised Dan as much, if not more, was how easily he had given up the trip to Cat Cay. Dan did not feel defeated, far from it. Being with Josh, catching a few fish and cooking them on the grill in the motel’s backyard—it was enough. He had known that it would be, and he could pinpoint the moment it had become clear to him: when he was underneath that black water in the lake, feeling his way in the ooze, certain he would never see daylight again.
He had invited Elaine to come with him and Josh, meaning it sincerely, but she had declined. You guys go. She would be waiting for him when he got back.
Elaine still had a job, which she had said was a miracle. The newspaper had praised her: Assistant U.S. attorney helps bust DEA killer. This had been a subhead of a splashy story about the successful roundup of two dozen members of the Guayaquil cartel. The office could hardly have fired her after that.
Sitting up, Dan pressed the light on his dive watch: 11:36. If he went back to the room he could see Martha Cruz on Saturday Night Live—the motel had cable TV. But Rick had promised to send him the video clip.
Dan lay back down and locked his hands under his head. He remembered his father’s boat, a little trawler used for shrimping or, in season, taking on lobster traps. They used to go south off Marathon at sundown in the winter, taking the boat out beyond the glow of the city on the horizon, halfway to Cuba, it seemed. They turned off everything but the red and green running lights, but they could see each other clearly by the light of the stars as they baited hooks and tossed them into the sea. They had no radio. They were only a speck on the ocean, so far out that if they signaled no one would ever notice, but Dan had not felt the slightest edge of fear. He saw stars wheel up out of the sea and sweep overhead. Then in the depths of the night a faint yellow glow toward the east, a pale ghost, a slice of moon.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Authors are often asked where they get their ideas. Most of mine are handed to me like gifts when I research a novel. To all of the people who generously shared their time and their stories with me, I say thank you.
For taking me into the music business, I am most grateful to Alex Kane, rock guitarist and songwriter; Mike Carr, Fantasma Tours, Inc., Darlene Delano, Long Distance Entertainment; Pamela Douglas, Warner-Electra-Atlantic; Sean Gerowitz, studio manager and bassist; Glenn Richards, WVUM; Louis Vaiz, tour bus driver for Rancid; and sound engineer Orazio Spagnardi. And thank you, Kelly Chang and James Lane.
For answers to my legal questions, thanks to Beth Sreenan, Richard Gregorie, Milton Hirsch, Richard A. Sharpstein, and Stephen B. Gillman.
Thanks also to Ron Cacciatore, formerly with the Broward County Sheriff’s Office; Charles Intriago for insight on money laundering; Bill Brewer, Arvida Corporation, for the dragline; and Richard A. McMahan, O.S.I, for the advice.
Andrew Geist, diver and spear fisherman, took me underwater; and my sister Laura Parker kept me afloat during the long months of writing.
About the Author
Barbara Parker was trained as a lawyer and worked as a prosecutor with the state attorney’s office in Dade County, Florida, before moving into a private practice that specialized in real estate and family law. Parker earned a master’s degree in creative writing in 1993. Her first legal thriller was Suspicion of Innocence (1994), which was followed by another seven titles featuring two lawyer protagonists, the sometime-lovers Gail Connor and Anthony Quintana. While writing the Suspicion series, Parker also produced Criminal Justice, Blood Relations, The Perfect Fake, and The Dark of Day. Suspicion of Innocence was a finalist for the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America. Two of her titles, Suspicion of Deceit and Suspicion of Betrayal were New York Times bestsellers. Barbara Parker died in March 2009, at age sixty-two.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1997 by Barbara Parker
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2167-8
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Criminal Justice Page 31