by J. B. Turner
‘Now you’re beginning to creep me out.’
‘How difficult do you think it would be for me to hack into Dadeland’s security systems and see what their cameras see?’
Deborah looked up and saw a camera pointing straight at her. ‘You’re watching me now?’
‘You’re wearing a nice watch, silver face. I didn’t mean to scare you, but I can’t take any chances. I’ve got the files and I wanted to hand them over in person, but as it stands that can’t happen today.’
‘Well, I guess there’s not much point in me sitting around, then.’
‘I tried calling you earlier to talk to you, but your cellphone was switched to voicemail.’
‘I never switch my cellphone to voicemail unless I’m in an important meeting.’
‘Then it looks like someone has managed to get into your cell system.’
‘Now you sound real crazy.’
‘Trust me, someone has accessed your cellphone company’s computers and started tampering with your settings. I switched it back so I could make this call.’
‘Why don’t you just e-mail me?’
‘Do you know how easy it would be for the NSA to block that and trace me?’
Deborah finished her cappuccino. ‘Perhaps the NSA is listening in to this call. What do you think?’
The young man sighed. ‘Look, I am not a conspiracy nut. I met you once at a party.’
‘Well, I don’t remember you. What do we do now? Until you give me something—’
‘We’re talking about national security. And the people who are supposed to be protecting us. I’m on the fucking run and my life is on the line. Do you understand that?’
‘Why me? Why not someone at the Washington Post or the New York Times if it’s such an important story? How did you get hold of these files?’
There was a long pause. ‘It’s called social engineering. If you were a hacker you’d know.’
‘Okay, let’s say you’re telling me the truth. Just get the files to me. Can you do that?’
‘I’m sorry. I have to go now I’ll be in touch.’
The line went dead.
6
An hour later, feeling tense and irritable after sitting in an endless traffic jam on the South Dixie Highway, Deborah finally got back to the newsroom.
Rico had managed to secure an exclusive interview with a former employee of the disgraced Miami-Dade Housing Agency. Her team had checked hundreds of project files, federal records, letters from construction firms, and the housing agency’s financial accounts, and had uncovered a shocking scandal.
Multimillion-dollar contracts had been handed out to developers to demolish run-down old homes in exchange for building new ones. Years later, people had lost their poor-quality older accommodation and next to nothing had been built to rehouse them.
On Miami’s northwest side the developers had planned to demolish the barracks-style homes of the Scott Carver housing project and construct more townhouses and single-family accommodation in the area. But all there was to show for it was a vacant wasteland, rubble and boarded-up buildings. While this was a classic case of investigative journalism, the poor in the city still ended up with a pile of dirt, broken dreams and shattered lives.
Just after five p.m., Deborah’s cellphone rang.
It was Sam. ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’ He sounded weary.
‘Hey, where are you?’
‘The usual place.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be heading up to Wyoming tonight?’
‘I was, but you know how it is.’
‘And you want me to drop what I’m doing, right now?’
‘The fresh air’ll do you good.’
• • •
Half an hour later Deborah was picking at her pasta in the late-afternoon sun outside the News Cafe on Ocean Drive. Sam had ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino but no wine. He smelled nice—he was wearing the Calvin Klein aftershave Escape—and was sporting an aqua Hugo Boss silk tie. She had bought both items for his birthday the previous Thursday. Deborah thought the tie matched the color of his eyes. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.
Bass-heavy rap pumped out of a BMW cruising past. The driver, a black guy dripping with gold jewelry, stared belligerently back at them. On the sidewalk the usual assortment of beautiful people and weird South Beachers ambled past.
Stick-thin models with chiseled features and wearing skimpy hot pants chattered into their cellphones while they walked. Young Latin male models in low-slung jeans showed off their heavily tanned six-packs. Tourists soaked up the atmosphere, drank their beers and Pinot Grigio in the shade and watched the world go by.
‘This is very unlike you,’ Deborah said.
‘Epstein told me to ease up a bit.’
‘You don’t normally take advice. I think we should do it more often.’ She took a delicious mouthful of creamy mushroom pasta and sea bass. ‘You’re mad at me, aren’t you? I can tell.’
Sam said nothing and gazed across Ocean Drive towards some kids playing volleyball in Lummus Park.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about the telephone calls, Deborah?’
‘He’s just a screwball. Why should I worry you?’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know for sure. Maybe one of the guys from the housing agency.’
‘Frank said you were working from home this morning.’
‘That’s not strictly correct.’
Sam shrugged.
‘Look, I was supposed to meet up with some guy, some computer hacker, out at the Dadeland Mall. He said you knew him and that he’d met me before. But he didn’t show. Think he got spooked.’
Sam touched the back of her hand as if to reassure her. It felt good. ‘Did he give you a name?’
Deborah shook her head.
‘Look at Sara Romeriz, a few years back,’ Sam continued. ‘She was like you. Good reporter. Ambitious. One night she decides to meet some guy who called the newsroom saying he had a story about the Miami chief of police and some prostitutes. She goes to a bar in Little Havana, and the guy tries to rape her in the parking lot. She was lucky. A couple of regulars knocked the shit out of him before the police arrived.’
Deborah fiddled with her pasta but didn’t eat any more of it. ‘So, if I had come to you this morning and told you that some guy who claimed to have hacked into my phone records had a hot story for me, what would you have got me to do differently?’
Sam puffed out his cheeks.
Deborah raised her glass of San Pellegrino. ‘Cheers,’ she said. On the horizon a huge cruise ship was leaving Miami, perhaps for the Caribbean. ‘My mother wants us to come for Thanksgiving—’
‘And that’s supposed to help my blood pressure?’
Deborah laughed. ‘How about we spend a couple of days there, then a couple of weeks in Barbados? The West Coast.’
‘Book it and use my card.’
‘I’ll use my card, and we can split it. How does that sound?’
‘I must be paying you too much.’
Sam’s cellphone rang and he rummaged in his jacket, which was hanging over the back of his chair. ‘Goldberg,’ he said. He listened to the call for nearly a minute, before saying, ‘I’ll be right over.’ He turned to Deborah ‘Look, I’m sorry, that was an old friend of mine from college—Bill Hudson. Just got back from vacation to discover there’s been a break-in at his home.’
‘The lawyer, right?’
‘Had us over just before Christmas. Remember?’
‘Sure. Good party.’
Sam wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up, putting on his sunglasses. ‘I’m really sorry to cut this short. But please book the trip. Will you do that?’ He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I love you, you know’ He placed one hundred dollars under the ashtray. ‘That should cover it.’
‘Why don’t you pop round for breakfast tomorrow?’
‘Might just
do that.’
Deborah smiled and watched him walk up Eighth Street where he usually parked his car. He turned and gave her a wave.
7
Nathan Stone pulled up at the neon-lit gas station and truck stop just off 1-95 near Charlotte, North Carolina. Slowly he climbed out of his car and yawned. He hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours.
Nathan Stone looked just like any of the other white guys milling around, stretching their legs after a long drive. He wore a baseball cap, black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, faded jeans and scuffed cowboy boots.
‘Fill her up, son.’ The attendant duly obliged, nervously wiping his oily hands on a rag. Nathan paid in cash, tipping the boy five dollars. Then he stepped into the restaurant where he took a window seat overlooking the parking lot. He flicked idly through the menu before ordering a coffee and pancakes.
After his meal he headed to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. The smudged mirror reflected his chiseled, tanned features, thick neck and bulging veins. Nathan took half a dozen steroid pills from a little bag in his back pocket and washed them down with the lukewarm water from the tap. The steroids were a habit that had given him the edge since he was a teenager.
Five minutes later he was back in his car and back on the freeway, headed north, feeling the energy surge through his body. He was still five hundred miles from New York, a good nine-hour drive ahead. It was the city he’d grown up in—the Lower East Side, more than forty years ago. But this was no trip back home to see friends and family.
He sped on through the night, the headlights of cars and trucks flashing through his head. The road ahead was long. He’d traveled it a thousand times. He never took the plane. Too dangerous. Too many checks. Traveling on the freeways he was at liberty to move around uninterrupted, minding his own business.
He switched on his CD player, lit up a Winston and dragged the smoke deep into his lungs as the guitar riffs of the Georgia Satellites blared out of his speakers. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and soon he was eating up the miles.
Nathan knew that when he arrived at his Times Square hotel he’d check in under a false name as he always did, not draw attention to himself, and retire to his room for the rest of the day.
When he woke it would be dark again. Then he’d wait some more. That was the way it was. That was the way it would always be. He didn’t mind. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.
Eventually his cellphone would ring. Nathan didn’t know when that would be. That was their prerogative. That was the way they liked to work. But then a familiar low voice would give the name and address of a person he’d never met. He would scribble it down on a hotel pad, then hold his breath waiting for the four words:
Time to play, Nathan.
8
The sun was low in the sky when Deborah awoke. She heard whistling and soft music coming from the kitchen. She was pleasantly surprised to see Sam sitting on a stool at the counter skimming through that morning’s Herald. Two fresh mugs of coffee, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice and a plate of warm croissants were on the table. He had a key to her apartment and she had one to his house, so they could drop by each other’s place whenever they felt like it.
Deborah kissed him on the cheek.
‘Croissants are straight out of the oven from La Provence French Bakery fifteen minutes ago.’
Deborah took a bite. It was delicious. ‘I’m impressed.’ She took a gulp of hot coffee and felt the caffeine hit her system.
‘So, how is your friend after the break-in?’
‘Angry.’
‘What did they take?’
‘That’s the funny thing. It’s a four-million-dollar home, with jewelry and valuable paintings in it, and all they took were five hundred dollars from a bedside cabinet. And a laptop. Police were dusting for prints when I was there, but I don’t think they found anything. And you know the other strange thing? No windows were broken or doors forced. And this place is in a gated community. So someone managed to evade their alarm system, security and cameras, and gain entry. Police are due to interview the housekeeper later this morning. She knew the house would be empty, and she’s got a spare set of keys.’
‘A big-shot city lawyer burgled by his housekeeper. Now that is a story. Didn’t we do a profile of him last year?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Maybe this is industrial espionage? Perhaps someone connected to a case he was working on?’
‘I guess.’
Deborah wiped crumbs from her mouth and the grease from her hands with a paper napkin. Her phone rang and they groaned in unison. She let it ring for a few seconds, thinking it was probably one of her team, before picking it up.
‘Deborah Jones.’
‘Long time no hear, Miss Jones.’ She recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to one of her most trusted sources, Emmett Ferrell.
Sam stood up, put on his jacket and waved to her. ‘See you in the office,’ he mouthed.
Deborah blew him a kiss as he walked out of the door. ‘Hey, Emmett. What’s going on?’
‘I’m feeling neglected.’
‘What do you want, exactly?’
‘I want to talk.’
‘You got a story?’
‘Might have.’
‘Look, Emmett, I don’t have time to play games. You got something or not?’
‘Sure. But not on the phone.’
‘Where?’
‘Usual place, half an hour.’
• • •
The diner on the corner of Washington and 11th Street was packed with bleary-eyed clubbers, tourists, and people like Emmett Ferrell who had just finished their shifts and had trouble sleeping.
Ferrell sat in a corner booth, sipping from a bottle of Red Stripe. He was heavily tanned, sported a short-sleeved white shirt and wore his usual dark mascara.
Emmett Ferrell worked at the city morgue and seemed to know everyone and everything. He lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment on Drexel in South Beach which he’d inherited after his mother died. There was something creepy about him. His gaze lingered too long, the silences were too icy. When he wasn’t working he hung out in gay bars, and he knew all there was to know about the darker side of the city. All he ever seemed to want from Deborah was a beer or two for his tips.
She’d used him for at least half a dozen stories concerning such matters as crooked cops earning kickbacks by turning a blind eye to drug dealing in clubs, and child sex slaves from Eastern Europe and the Middle East selling their bodies in brothels that were protected by Miami police.
She sat down in the booth opposite him. ‘You’re looking well.’
He rolled his bloodshot eyes. ‘I’ve been up all night.’
Emmett was in his early forties. There was a sadness about him that was impossible to ignore. Deborah didn’t know if it was because of the humiliation he had endured after being forced to resign from a previous job at the morgue in the Broward County Medical Examiner’s Office in nearby Fort Lauderdale, hounded out by co-workers who were anti-gay. Or because he always seemed to be drinking, unable to look the real world in the eye. Or maybe it was just the nature of his job as a mortuary attendant, wheeling bodies to and from autopsies.
Deborah signaled to the waiter. She ordered a latte for herself and another beer, along with scrambled eggs and wheat toast, for Emmett.
‘I’m not hungry’ he protested.
‘It’ll do you good.’
Emmett finished his beer.
‘So, what’s going on?’ she asked. ‘How’s the love life?’
‘Non-existent. But not for want of trying.’
‘So, you got something for me?’
Emmett nodded. ‘Yeah, believe I do.’ He went quiet for a few moments, then said, ‘I’ve been doing this job for many years, as you know, and I’ve seen a lot of bad things. Bodies torn to pieces, murder victims, suicides, young drive-by shooting casualties, overdoses, you name it.’
&nb
sp; Deborah felt her foot begin to tap against the leg of the table.
‘But you learn to deal with it,’ Emmett said.
‘You switch off, right?’
‘I just do my job, take my paycheck, and get on with my life.’
Deborah waited patiently for him to get to the point.
‘Just before I finished my shift we got a call to say that they were bringing in a body.’
The waiter returned with the food, beer and coffee. Emmett waited until the man was out of earshot before he spoke again. Deborah smelt his sour breath.
‘A few hours ago, a partially dismembered body of a young white man was dragged out of the Everglades. Apparently some environmentalists were working nearby, studying the types of birds around at night or some shit like that. They came across the corpse, or most of it, floating in the water. But there was something very interesting, and I thought you should know about it. When I wheeled the body into the decomp room at the morgue I noticed some writing on the palm of his left hand.’
‘What sort of writing?’
Emmett took a large swig of his Red Stripe. ‘It was a telephone number.’
‘That’s not so peculiar.’
‘The thing is, Deborah, I recognized it immediately. It was yours.’
9
Deborah rushed to the bathroom and only just made it into a stall before she was violently sick. For the next few minutes she crouched over the bowl, fearing that she would throw up again. But when she was satisfied the moment had passed she stood up gingerly and went over to the sink. After she had thrown some cold water over her face she felt a bit better.
Carefully, she reapplied her lipstick and fixed her smudged mascara. Then, taking a few deep breaths, she regained her composure and went back to join Emmett at his table. He’d ordered another beer for himself and a glass of water for her.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
Deborah drank some water. ‘I’ve felt better.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.’
‘Has the body been ID’d?’