Florida Getaway

by Max Allan Collins

  “What next, H?” Speed asked. “You heading home, too?”

  “No—I have one last stop tonight….”

  The interview room in the county lockup was even more spartan than the one at CSI HQ—gray concrete walls and simple metal table and chairs that gave the place a cold feeling during even the hottest of Florida summers.

  Caine sat on one side of the table, the palm-size cassette player like a friendly brick in his jacket pocket.

  He watched as a jailer brought Vincent Ciccolini—tall, with a movie-star presence his niece shared. The baby-faced guard uncuffed him and pointed to the chair opposite Caine.

  “Vinnie,” Caine said with a nod.

  The eyes in the handsome face were bright and intelligent and something else…feral.

  “Lieutenant Caine,” Ciccolini said. “You’ll have to ask the kid here to take off my cuffs, if you wanna go another round with me.”

  Caine smiled a little. “No thanks, Vinnie. I don’t think I’d risk humiliating myself again. I don’t imagine you’ve lost too many fights.”

  “No. But then, you’d be surprised how few I’ve ever really had.”

  Caine leaned back, folding his arms. “But a lot of fights have been fought for you, right, Vinnie? By guys like Abe Lipnick, and Tony Rosselli?”

  “I’m a natural leader. What can I say?”

  “And yet you’re taking the fall this time…for a woman.”

  “I’m not taking any fall. And it’s for family.”

  Caine counted—one finger. “We have you as the shooter.” Two fingers. “We can place you at the scene.” Three fingers. “We could convict you three times. You’ll spend the rest of your life on death row, and maybe, just maybe, live long enough to die in the electric chair, or take lethal injection—pick one.”

  “Let me know when you get to where you want me to bust out crying.”

  “I can’t offer you much, Vinnie. In fact, I can’t offer you anything—but I can make a recommendation that will have weight. You can plea-bargain for a life sentence and do your time in the cushiest facility in the state—the country club where the white-collar crooks go.”

  Ciccolini grunted a laugh. “For which I give you what? Tony? Forget about it.”

  “Not Tony. I want Maria. She hired you to do this…or I should say, asked you to do this.”

  But Ciccolini was shaking his head before Caine could even finish. “Lieutenant, if I did this thing—which I didn’t—I woulda done it because some prick was a danger to my sweet little niece. She didn’t put the thought in my head. She didn’t have to fuckin’ hint or nothin’. Nobody has to tell Vincent Ciccolini to whack a scumbag like Tommie Boy Lessor. If I whacked him. Which I didn’t…. This visit’s over.”

  And Ciccolini let the guard know that he was ready to go back to the lockup.

  Soon Caine was watching as a jailer brought Anthony Rosselli in—slumped in his orange jumpsuit. The guard uncuffed the prisoner and indicated the chair opposite Caine.

  The old man sat down across from the CSI; the mob hitter’s goatee seemed more gray than Caine remembered it, and when Rosselli rubbed a hand over his bald head, he seemed very much like a tired old man, not some legendary hit man back in the game.

  “Having trouble sleeping, Tony?”

  Rosselli shrugged.

  “Kinda surprising. What else is there to do in stir but rest?”

  “What do you want, Caine?”

  “Still, I can see it.” Caine made a sympathetic click in one cheek. “Gotta be hard to be in here, your time of life.”

  The old man leveled his gaze at Caine, his eyes sharp and steady. “I got nothing to say to you. I’m here ‘cause it gets me out of my cell.”

  “Fair enough,” Caine said. He withdrew the cassette player out of his pocket and set it on the table between them. “I don’t have anything to say to you, either. But Abe does.”

  Rosselli’s eyes focused on the machine like he was staring down a cobra.

  Caine pushed PLAY and Abraham Lipnick’s (filtered) voice came through the small but clear speaker: “Maria says we should collar the tomcat at the airport. She says he’s usin’ a limo. Oh yeah, and Vinnie says bring Nixon and the sex perv.”

  “That…that’s not Abe’s voice. He was a marble-mouth, since the stroke.”

  “Electronics can work magic. For instance, you can even erase your old cell phone messages, if you know how. Which you don’t, right, Tony?”

  Rosselli’s eyes narrowed. “That…that’s why the warrant, this afternoon.”

  “Bingo. Thanks to you and Abe, we can implicate Maria in this.”

  “Are you going to arrest her?”

  “Yeah, we’ll arrest her. That is, the Las Vegas cops’ll do it for us.”

  “Vegas?”

  “Ms. Chacon recently got her lucky break. Hadn’t you heard? She says she has no intention of ever returning to Miami.” Caine smiled thinly. “But we’ll have a warrant that tells her otherwise.”

  “If you have her…why bother with me?”

  “I think we can convict her on just that answer machine message. But if you were to spell out her role in this, chapter and verse…guaranteed, she’d be held over for an unlimited engagement. At the state pen.”

  A single tear trailed down the old man’s cheek and his hands trembled on top of the table. His eyes went to his hands and he seemed to study them for a long time, almost as if he was trying to memorize them. Finally, Rosselli looked up at Caine. “I’m going to need a deal.”

  “I can recommend no death sentence.”

  That only made him smile, albeit sadly. “We’re all under a sentence of death, young man—I’m just looking at a shorter one than you. That’s not the kinda deal I need.”

  “I don’t know what else I can say.”

  He swallowed thickly. “Maria was supposed to take care of Rebecca for me. You know—be there for her, help her through this. That was part of the deal—the little bitch wasn’t supposed to run off to Vegas before we even went to trial.”

  “Deal,” Caine said. “Tell me about the deal.”

  The old man shook his head. “Look, Lieutenant—Abe’s dead, and at this age, a life sentence is short time for Vinnie and me. But I have a wife. I love her. How many years we got left together? I don’t want to be without her. And she needs me.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you came outa retirement.”

  “Wait and see how Medicare treats you, smart-ass. Here’s how it’s gotta lay: I cop to manslaughter, and you put me under house arrest. They put an ankle bracelet on me and I don’t leave my home except to go to the doctor’s and funerals and shit. You talk to the DA about that idea—and I’ll give you chapter and verse. Soon as you bring me my deal.”

  “No guarantees.”

  The old man shrugged. “Guess it all comes down to how bad you want Maria. I might even throw in clearin’ up all those old kills on the Jersey books, if I get immunity.”

  “See what I can do, Tony.”

  Rosselli nodded. “Hell of a thing, though.”

  “What is?”

  “Goin’ out of this life a fink. A guy in love’ll do a lot of goddamn dumb things.”

  “I’ve met your wife. She’s a lovely lady.”

  “You shoulda seen her in the Copa line. I still do—every time I look at her.”

  And Anthony Rosselli was led back to his cell.

  By the time Caine was ready to call Catherine Willows, he was dressing to go into work bright and early the next morning. The team would be in, trying to wrap up the case in a big red bow for the DA’s office, where the Rosselli plea bargain was already in the works.

  He speed-dialed Catherine’s number.

  Casino sounds could be heard behind the familiar voice: “Catherine Willows.”

  “Horatio, Catherine. We’re back where we started, only this time I need you to pick somebody up for me.”

  “Glad to, but I’m at a crime scene right now.”
>
  “No rush. I’ll fax you the paperwork.”

  “Who’s the pickup?”

  “A singer named Maria Chacon. She was Thomas Lessor’s other mistress.”

  “…Someone put you up to this? Did Warrick—”

  “No,” Caine said. “This is straight up, Catherine. I need you to get her for me; I’m not sure where she’s staying, but it’s likely the Oasis—”

  “The Oasis is where I am now,” Catherine said, her voice oddly measured. “In the lounge.”

  Caine hesitated. There was something in her tone….

  “And we are picking her up, Horatio…just not the way you mean.”

  Dread swept over Horatio Caine like a dry desert wind.

  He gathered his team in the layout room. Calleigh looked wide awake, Delko and Speedle both clasped coffee cups like they were lifelines, and Alexx sat in the corner, a cup of tea in her hand.

  Caine said, “Thanks for dropping everything and getting right here. I just wanted to let you know that the Maria Chacon aspect of the Lessor/Ortega case is closed.”

  “Why?” Calleigh asked, a frown creasing the brow of the perfect face. “There’s nothing wrong with our evidence—”

  Overlapping her, Speedle blurted, “But Vegas was gonna bust her for us!”

  “Maria Chacon landed in Vegas, went straight to the Oasis Hotel and Casino, where a courtesy room awaited her. She changed and went down to the lounge to rehearse with her band for her new gig—opening tonight. She was in the middle of her rehearsal when Deborah Lessor walked onto the stage, said, ‘Welcome to my husband’s hotel,’ and shot her three times in the chest.”

  Stunned silence draped the room.

  “Maria died within minutes. Deborah Lessor sat at her feet, with a gun to her own head, crying. The band members did not have the courage to try to take the gun away from her…”

  “Can’t blame ’em,” Speedle said.

  “…but the first officers on the scene were able to take the weapon away. Mrs. Lessor did not harm herself.”

  “She didn’t do herself any favors,” Calleigh said numbly.

  “No, she didn’t,” Caine said. “Or us, either. I would have preferred to take Maria Chacon into custody to face whatever justice the system might offer her.”

  Reeling, Speedle said, “I didn’t even think Mrs. Lessor knew about Maria and Tom Lessor.”

  “Nor did I. Daniel Boyle said he didn’t tell his mother, but maybe he lied to me. Every other time he talked to us, he lied, after all. Or he may have called her after I spoke to him.”

  “She used to live here,” Calleigh said, meaning Deborah Lessor. “A friend could have called.”

  “You taking Maria in for questioning,” Delko said, “was all over the media, last night—including CNN.”

  “A mistake on my part,” Caine said curtly. “Okay—we’ve cut a deal with Anthony Rosselli, but Vincent Ciccolini is still in line for Murder One. He’s a bad man who’s been waiting a long time for a real reckoning…so let’s get all our ducks in a row, people.”

  Speedle, Delko, and Calleigh filed out, looking a little shell-shocked, and went their separate ways to finish their work. His plan was to cut them loose after lunch—they deserved and needed the break.

  He turned to notice Alexx, still sitting in the corner, a Greek chorus that hadn’t spoken yet, her white coat a striking contrast against her dark skin. She sipped her tea and waited for him to give her his full attention. After a long moment, she said, “It isn’t really necessary, you know.”

  “What isn’t?”

  Slowly shaking her head, she said, “Horatio, who do you think you’re talking to? You don’t have to beat yourself up over Maria’s murder.”

  He said nothing.

  “Maria set this entire chain of events in motion by plotting to kill Thomas Lessor.”

  “Vigilante justice isn’t justice. Revenge isn’t justice.”

  She shrugged elaborately. “Not even close. Deborah Lessor committed murder, just like Maria Chacon did when she manipulated those old boys into killing her lover. Her actions also caused the death of a very innocent individual named Felipe Ortega.”

  “I could have prevented Maria Chacon’s murder with a phone call.”

  Alexx laughed. “If Deborah Lessor wanted to murder Maria Chacon, do you really think your phone call would have stopped it?”

  “There wouldn’t have been an opportunity.”

  “Horatio. Truth is, if somebody is determined to murder somebody else…there’s precious little any of us can do to stop it.”

  “We have to try.”

  “Of course we do. And when we can’t stop it from happening, the least we can do is make sure something like justice happens, afterward.”

  His eyes tensed. “Something like justice….”

  She came over and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m just sayin’, Horatio—you don’t have to beat yourself up over this.”

  He nodded, managed a tiny smile for her, and she gave him a big warm smile as she walked out.

  When she was gone, his smile vanished and he quietly said to no one but himself, “Yes I do.”

  Author’s Note

  I WOULD AGAIN LIKE to acknowledge the contribution of Matthew V. Clemens, my assistant on these novels.

  Matt—who has collaborated with me on numerous published short stories—is an accomplished true crime writer; he helped me develop the plot of Florida Getaway, and worked up a lengthy story treatment, which included all of his considerable forensic research, from which I could work.

  Matt also took a research trip to Miami, returning with extensive photographs and notes on locations and plot ideas for future C.S.I.: Miami stories.

  Once again, criminalist Sergeant Chris Kaufman CLPE—the Gil Grissom of the Bettendorf Iowa Police Department—provided comments, insights and information that were invaluable to this project. A big thank you also to Victor Murillo, firearms section, Iowa DCI Criminalistics Laboratory.

  Books consulted include two works by Vernon J. Gerberth: Practical Homicide Investigation Checklist and Field Guide (1997) and Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures and Forensic Investigation (1996). Also helpful were Scene of the Crime: A Writer’s Guide to CrimeScene Investigations (1992), Anne Wingate, Ph.D, and The Forensic Science of C.S.I. (2001), Katherine Ramsland. Any inaccuracies, however, are my own.

  Again, Jessica McGivney at Pocket Books provided support, suggestions and guidance. The producers of C.S.I.: Miami were gracious in providing scripts, background material and episode tapes, without which this novel would have been impossible.

  Finally, Anthony E. Zuiker, Ann Donahue and Carol Mendelsohn are gratefully acknowledged as the creators of this concept and these characters. Thank you especially to Mr. Zuiker for allowing us to briefly incorporate characters from C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigation into Florida Getaway; as the author of the C.S.I. novels, it was important to me to establish that these stories take place in one world. Our thanks to the other writers for C.S.I.: Miami, whose inventive and well-documented scripts inspired this novel and have done much toward making C.S.I.: Miami the rare spin-off worthy of its predecessor.

  A MYSTERY WRITERS OF AMERICA “Edgar” nominee in both fiction and nonfiction categories, Collins has been hailed as “the Renaissance man of mystery fiction.” His credits include five suspense-novel series, film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets and movie/TV tie-in novels, including In the Line of Fire, Air Force One and the New York Times bestselling Saving Private Ryan. His many books on popular culture include the award-winning Elvgren: His Life and Art and The History of Mystery, which was nominated for every major mystery award.

  His graphic novel Road to Perdition is the basis of the acclaimed Dream Works feature film starring Tom Hanks, Paul Newman and Jude Law, directed by Sam Mendes. He scripted the internationally syndicated comic strip Dick Tracy from 1977 to 1993, is cocreator of the comic-book features Ms. Tree, Wild Dog, and Mike D
anger, has written the Batman comic book and newspaper strip, and several comics mini-series, including Johnny Dynamite and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, based on the hit TV series for which he has also written a series of novels and a video game.

  As an independent filmmaker in his native Iowa, he wrote and directed the suspense film Mommy, starring Patty McCormack, premiering on Lifetime in 1996, and a 1997 sequel, Mommy’s Day. The recipient of a record six Iowa Motion Picture Awards for screenplays, he wrote The Expert, a 1995 HBO World Premiere; and wrote and directed the award-winning documentary Mike Hammer’s Mickey Spillane (1999) and the innovative Real Time: Siege at Lucas Street Market (2000).

  Collins lives in Muscatine, Iowa, with his wife, writer Barbara Collins; their son Nathan is a computer science major at the University of Iowa.