by J. B. Turner
‘You better, otherwise I’ll be dropping you for the next game.’
‘I’ll be there, Faith, I promise.’
‘You hear Gloria’s news?’
‘I thought she wasn’t due for another fortnight?’
‘Twins. Can you believe it? Goddamn—Gloria a mother? Listen, the girls are heading across to the South Miami Hospital tomorrow night. You wanna tag along?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good. Anyway, I wanna see you shakin’ what you’ve got tonight. You hear me?’
Deborah laughed. ‘You just watch me.’
She hung up and leaned back in her seat, thinking about Gloria Tillett. She had fought her way out of Overtown, like most of the girls. Previously she’d worked the streets, feeding her crack habit, but after leaving her abusive pimp husband she had put herself through school with some of the money she’d saved and become a successful businesswoman, organizing conferences across south Florida. The previous year she’d got married again, to a funny, kind man called George Manders, who owned a couple of garages in Coconut Grove where they now lived happily together.
Increasingly, Deborah found herself wondering what it would be like to have children. She knew that Sam would be a good father. But she was not at all sure how she would handle things.
She checked her e-mails on her BlackBerry. But there was nothing important. She then began surfing the Net on Jamille’s laptop, killing some time before she headed down to Palmer Park.
Trawling through the New York Daily News website she spotted Pam Molloy’s byline emblazoned on the front page. She had an exclusive on a young boy being gunned down by police raiding a crack den in the Bronx. Having children was a big responsibility. And could bring great pain.
Deborah clicked on to the paper’s archive and pulled up a few articles on the CIA director, Michael Cunningham, in which dire predictions of a ‘twenty-year onslaught’ against Islamic terrorists were made. There was another short piece about a private function in New York at The Waldorf that had been hosted by the Saudi Consulate General.
Her gaze lingered on the black and white photograph taken one month earlier. On the far left of the picture was a man in a formal dinner suit. The Deputy Head of the CIA. His name was Charles Henke.
‘You okay?’ Jamille asked from the doorway.
‘I’m fine. Just thinking about what Robert was saying last night, about disinformation and about the way the CIA works. What if we’re only scraping the surface? What if this whole thing goes deeper within Langley? Maybe a network. A cabal working to their own agenda.’
‘Girl, you really are crazy.’
‘Then I got to thinking about Cunningham. I have been focusing almost exclusively on speaking to him. But what do we know about Cunningham’s number two?’
Jamille crouched down beside the screen. ‘Is that him?’
‘Yup. He’s tipped to take over at the end of the year. He’s the man I spoke to. The man who spun me the line about a spy within.’
‘So?’
‘Now I’m thinking it might be a very good idea to know more about him…’
• • •
Just over an hour later Deborah was sweating profusely under the floodlights at Palmer Park, doing killer relay sprints up and down the pitch.
‘Call that effort?’ Faith barked from the sidelines. ‘Don’t think you’re fooling me, girls. Dig deeper. Come on, let’s see you! You think I do this for the good of my health?’
Deborah gritted her teeth, feeling her calf muscles tighten minute by minute.
‘We might not be the most talented team in the league, but we sure as hell are the fittest.’
Deborah’s heart was pounding as the sprints continued.
‘This is for your benefit. You want the girls from Hialeah to beat us down in the last few minutes? Ain’t nobody stronger than us. And ain’t nobody gonna come close to us this season. Pain? You call this pain? Just suck it up. And you will get stronger, fitter and meaner. You hearin’ me, girls?’
The rest of the session was taken up by passing and moving, dribbling and shooting. Afterwards, mentally and physically spent, Deborah threw her sports bag into the trunk of her car.
‘You gave it your all tonight, honey.’ Faith came over and patted her on the back. ‘Show the same commitment at the weekend and we’ll go, top of the league.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
On the side of the pitch a Lexus pulled up and two thickset men in smart suits stepped out.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ Jamille said as they both flashed their Miami-Dade police badges.
‘Miss Deborah Jones?’ the older of the two asked. ‘Do you know a Robert Sommers?’
‘Yes, I do. Sorry, is there a problem?’ Deborah said.
The detective’s face remained impassive. ‘Miss Jones, I’m sorry to say that we’re going to have to bring you in for questioning.’
‘Hang on just a minute…What is it?’
‘We’d rather you accompanied us down to HQ.’
‘If you’ve got some questions I’ll answer them in front of my friends, if you don’t mind.’
‘Very well. Did Mr Sommers call you around one o’clock this morning?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘What did you discuss?’
‘An investigation I was working on. I can’t say any more. Why?’
‘Miss Jones, we believe you were the last person he called from his cellphone.’
‘Last person? How?’
‘Robert Sommers is dead. He was found by a maid just over an hour ago in his bathtub at the Hyatt.’
47
The clouds were swollen with rain when Harry Donovan’s flight touched down at Miami. He yawned as he headed home across the causeway for a quick shower and change of suit. He hadn’t slept a wink since his conversation with Jackie. Turning along South Mashta Drive, he saw the huge palms lining the street bending in the wind. He felt knots of tension in his stomach at the prospect of seeing his wife again.
As he glided through the electronic gates and into the driveway of his home he wondered what kind of mood she would be in.
‘Hey, honey, only me,’ he shouted, as he shut the front door.
Harry dumped his briefcase and bags, wondering where his wife was. He checked in the kitchen, then upstairs in the bedroom. He heard the shower in the bathroom. Then he went through to his study. He shut the door behind him and switched on his laptop to check his e-mails. Quite a lot from Juan. He reached over the filing cabinet beside his desk and pulled out the bottom drawer. He flicked through several folders but couldn’t find the budget cuts that Juan was proposing.
Strange. He remembered going over the figures the previous day before he’d left for the airport. He was sure he’d put the file away.
‘Honey,’ he said again as he headed into the bathroom.
Jackie shrieked when he opened the door. She was wrapped in a huge fluffy towel and was drying her hair. ‘Shit, don’t ever do that,’ she snapped.
‘Sorry.’ He pecked her on the cheek. ‘Honey, did you tidy up some of my files by any chance?’
‘Me? Why on earth would I do that?’
‘I don’t know… By mistake?’
Jackie stopped drying her hair and scowled at him. ‘Harry you know damn well that I never touch anything in your study. Only Concheeta.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s off today and tomorrow. Vacation. Even servants are entitled to a short break, Harry. But she knows it’s more than her job’s worth to touch any of your stuff.’
‘I need to go over those figures before I see Juan,’ Harry said.
‘Don’t look at me.’
Harry turned on his heel and stormed downstairs, muttering under his breath. He fixed himself a coffee, wondering if he hadn’t indeed misplaced the file. But after racking his brain he felt sure that the papers had been put straight back in the filing cabinet.
He went through to the liv
ing room and switched on Fox & Friends. John McCain was grinning beside Cindy, his glamorous wife, who was running her hand through her platinum-blonde hair and wearing an expensive lilac suit and pearls. Her smile was rigid. Facelifts were great, Harry reflected, if you just wanted the one expression.
It was common knowledge that the business and political contacts of Cindy McCain’s father had helped John McCain to gain a foothold in Arizona politics, just as Jackie and her family’s extensive contacts had been instrumental in the behind-the-scenes lobbying to help Harry secure the executive editorship of the Miami Herald. Harry’s political beliefs, not too different from McCain’s, had brought him to the attention of those who wielded power, including Michael Cunningham who had longstanding links to the paper, one of the biggest opinion formers in Florida. Big military, low taxes, vehemently anti-Castro—Harry knew he ticked all the boxes, unlike Sam Goldberg who was considered a ‘bit of a crazy’ by Cunningham.
‘You find what you were searching for?’ Jackie came into the living room, resplendent in a sleek pale yellow suit.
‘I’ll have a look later.’ Harry switched off the TV with the remote.
They went through to the kitchen together. ‘Good trip?’ she asked.
‘Had better.’
‘You eaten?’
Harry picked up the copy of that day’s Herald and studied the front page. Syria, city corruption charges and the suicide of a nightclub boss. ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
As his wife put on a fresh pot of coffee and made some toast, he suddenly realized how quiet it was.
‘Where’s Roxy?’ he said, referring to the family Doberman which was usually around.
‘I don’t know—I just got up. I assumed he was down here.’
‘So where the hell is he?’
Harry’s cellphone rang, abruptly interrupting the conversation.
‘I have some interesting news for you.’ It was the educated voice again.
Harry indicated to his wife that he was heading upstairs to take the call and she nodded back at him.
‘I’m tired of these games,’ he said, slightly out of breath as he slumped in his leather study chair, shutting the door behind him. ‘I want you out of my life.’
‘All in good time. We just wanted to make sure that you hadn’t forgotten our little talk.’
‘You said you had some news for me.’
‘I believe Sam Goldberg is going to be released from hospital tomorrow. You know what that means? He’s going to want this investigation to proceed. And he’s going to wonder why his attractive investigations editor isn’t allowed on the premises.’
‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘I don’t think you understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
‘I’m not convinced you’ve got the message. About just how serious we are. Do you want me to tell you what we found in the middle of the night?’
‘Found?’
‘In your home. While you were gone.’
Harry sat bolt upright.
‘Relax. We just wanted to show you how easy it would be to get to you. Or to your wife. Or anyone dear to you, if this proceeds.’
Harry dreaded what he was going to hear next.
‘I’m just reading these projections for 2014/15 at the Herald. Very ambitious plans. If this was leaked to the Sentinel, I don’t know—’
‘This is stopping. And it’s stopping right now.’
‘This is the last time I will ever call you. I just wanted you to be aware that any attempt to resurrect this investigation, or to contact the police or even the feds, will not be tolerated.’
Harry took some deep breaths to calm himself down. Then he went downstairs and relayed the conversation to his wife who was staring fixedly out of the window.
She didn’t look round.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Suddenly, Jacqueline put her hand to her mouth and started screaming.
Down below, floating on its side in the pool, was their dog, blood trailing from its neck.
48
The gurney bearing the black body bag that contained the bloodstained body of Robert Sommers was wheeled out of a side entrance of the Hyatt by uniformed cops. Parked diagonally across the street was Nathan Stone, his shades on and New York Mets hat pulled down low. He pretended to read his paper but couldn’t keep his eyes off the van with the blacked-out windows.
As the van pulled away he followed at a safe distance.
Nathan lit a cigarette as he tailed the morgue van. From Coral Gables it wound its way in bumper-to-bumper traffic along the South Dixie Highway to the downtown towers. He pulled up close by the three-building complex which comprised the state-of-the-art Joseph H. Davis Center for Forensic Pathology, which was located at the edge of the sprawling Jackson Memorial Hospital and the University of Miami Medical School campus.
Nathan’s cellphone rang.
‘The networks are calling it suicide,’ the familiar voice said. ‘You done good.’
‘What else are they saying?’
‘Exactly what we wanted them to say. Robert Sommers killed himself after being caught with a Cuban call girl. Tragic.’
Nathan took one last drag of his cigarette and dropped the end out of the window.
‘Did he say anything before he died?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like how many copies of the fucking documents are still kicking around?’
‘Said he had seen a hard copy Deborah had but didn’t have a clue where it was being kept. He took a long time just to tell me that.’
‘Shit, Nathan. How did you allow him to get so close?’
‘He fooled me. I didn’t have a clue which train he was going to take until it was too late.’
‘We’ve got a decision pending. And it’s going to be made in the next twelve hours.’
‘Sam Goldberg is the key. If we keep him in our sights, then we’ll have her.’
‘Is it getting too much for you, Nathan? You want a vacation?’
‘Not now. I’m starting to enjoy myself. Just like the old days.’
‘It is important that you stay completely focused.’
‘Once this business is over I’ll take off for a couple of months. But until then I’m your man.’
Nathan stared across the street as a large car pulled up outside the morgue bureau. Out stepped a good-looking gentleman in a well-cut dark suit. Nathan allowed himself a wry smile.
Dr Brent Simmons was carrying a briefcase.
49
Sam was dressed and ready for Deborah. He was sitting in an easy chair beside his bed. His face looked pinched and his clothes were hanging off him. Sam’s sisters hugged Deborah tight when she arrived.
‘You both need to slow down, honey,’ Lauren said. ‘You’re killing yourself with this investigation.’
‘Sam said you fancied Barbados, Deborah,’ Miriam added. ‘I know a great retreat on the west coast.’
‘Maybe once this is all over.’ Deborah smiled as she crouched down beside Sam and held his hand before kissing it lightly. ‘You made it, tough guy’
Sam nodded. ‘Not so tough. But I got the all-clear. Doctor says I’ve got to take it easy for a little while.’ To her surprise, Deborah found herself in tears.
• • •
Later in the afternoon Deborah and Sam were picked up by Thomas McNally with two of his men in tow. They headed for McNally’s place on Fisher Island. Deborah strapped herself into the back seat of the SUV—Sam was in the front—as they drove at high speed, with several counter-surveillance U-turns along the way, until they got to the ferry terminal beside the Macarthur Causeway. From there it was only a seven-minute journey across to the exclusive island home of the superrich. A huge cruise ship was just docking at the port.
Deborah turned to McNally as they reached the gatehouse. ‘Are you sure this is okay with your wife?’
‘Andrea? Are you crazy? She’s already got your rooms ma
de up—they overlook the water. New laptop for you, Deborah, and for Sam, so you don’t have to head into the office. You should have let me know earlier.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Happy to help.’
The barrier lifted up and the guard saluted as they drove through. Huge palm trees shrouded the entrance to the white stucco house. A beautiful woman dressed in pale pink was waiting at the top of the gravel drive.
‘Call me Andrea,’ she said, kissing Deborah on the cheek. Deborah noted the expensive perfume. Then she hugged Sam.
‘This is all too much,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘Nonsense, Sam. You’re guests, so you’ve got the run of the whole house. Anything you want, just holler.’
It was cool inside. Terracotta floors, modern art on the whitewashed walls, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the moonlit water.
Deborah’s room had a waterside view. Gleaming luxury yachts bobbed in the heavy swell. The decor was cool beige throughout and there were starched white cotton sheets on the bed with a large lamp on either side. A new laptop was already switched on.
‘You won’t be bothered here unless you want to be,’ Sam said.
‘I need to work. You know that.’
‘Can’t you just take it easy for once?’
‘You know what I’m like.’
Sam smiled and held her close. She could feel how he had lost weight, and there was a fragility to him that made her ache with tenderness.
Andrea fixed them a chicken salad with French fries and a couple of bottles of Diet Coke. Then they all sat outside on the deck.
Deborah held Sam’s hand and immediately felt better. McNally fixed himself a large Jack Daniel’s and his wife a white wine spritzer. Deborah noticed Sam casting a wistful eye at the whiskey. But, dutifully, he swallowed his Diet Coke.
‘Helluva face the guy left you with,’ McNally said.
Sam laughed. ‘You don’t think it makes me look more rugged?’
‘Just makes you look more of any ugly bastard than you were in the first place.’
They sat for a while in a companionable silence. The air smelled sweet.
‘Deborah, I believe you or Sam or both of you were probably being followed,’ McNally said eventually, ‘and it is possible that part of the problem was your cell-phones.’