J ack kept his promise to Sergeant Paulo. He was back in Miami before sunrise-barely.
Seaplanes were meant to land at five a.m. Government Cut, the man-made channel that connected the Port of Miami to the Atlantic, was like a sheet of glass-no chop, no wakes, no beer-chugging morons showing off their brand-new boats and their total ignorance of the rules of right of way. Jack had managed to catch an hour of sleep on the flight from Nassau, not long enough to refresh him but he took what he could get. The landing was so smooth-or perhaps Jack was just so out of it-that he would have kept right on sleeping had Zack not shouted the operative word.
“Fire!”
Jack shot out of his chair like-well, like a man running out of a burning airplane. He caught his bearings, and when he finally managed to focus, he saw Zack smiling back at him. “Was that supposed to be funny?”
“Sorry, dude. I called your name fifteen times, and you just kept snoring.”
Jack could have rattled off a dozen different ways to wake someone from a deep sleep, none of which induced cardiac arrest, but he let it go. Zack was obviously one of those delightful adults who still thought of wedgies and short-sheeting the bed as a barrel of laughs.
Man, do I miss Theo.
A City of Miami squad car was waiting at the dock. Jack got in the backseat, and they rode straight up Biscayne Boulevard, stopped at the traffic-control checkpoint, and then continued north.
A dawn of early-morning shadows crept across the evacuated city streets. The police presence had grown substantially since Jack’s departure, much larger than Jack had expected. Every conceivable side street had been shut down. In addition to the MDPD and the City of Miami police, Florida state troopers had come onto the scene. Snipers were posted on rooftops. Squad cars and SWAT vans filled the parking lot outside the fast-food restaurant that was now the site of a mobile command center. Police air coverage had replaced the media choppers. As night turned into morning, members of the media and a few curious onlookers were beginning to gather at the police barricades on Biscayne Boulevard.
Seeing all this firepower in the morning hours, and seeing the crowd at the barricades, sent a strange image flashing through Jack’s mind. He was reminded of a certain autumn night in northeastern Florida, outside the Florida State Prison. A group of demonstrators-some supporting the death penalty, others against it-had gathered in an all-night vigil. They crowded as near to the prison gate as the state troopers would allow. A cold fog stirred in anticipation of the warm morning air, as if the sliver of sunshine on the horizon signaled much more than just the dawn of another day. Theo Knight was less than an hour away from his date with the electric chair. His head and ankles had already been shaved to ensure a clean contact for the electrodes that would pass twenty-five hundred volts through his body. Jack had said his goodbyes. It was the closest he would ever come to losing Theo-much closer than any lawyer should ever come to burying a client who was innocent. Back then, it was the state doing everything within its power to put Theo Knight to death. Jack’s own father, Governor Harry Swyteck, had even signed the death warrant. Now, years later, and just a few blocks away from the neighborhood in which a fifteen-year-old Theo had been arrested for murder, an army of police officers had been deployed to save Theo’s life. The executioner this time was not Jack’s father but one of Jack’s clients. The guilty executing the innocent. The ironies were piling up too quickly for Jack to absorb. It was like his abuela used to say in yet another one of those Cuban expressions that her culturally challenged grandson could never seem to remember, but it boiled down to this: Life was full of sharp turns in the road.
Jack wondered if his client-his friend-would beat the odds again.
The squad car drove right past the mobile command center. Jack leaned forward and tapped on the steel grate that separated the front from the backseat. “We just passed it.”
“We’re not going there yet,” the cop said.
“Where are we headed?”
He didn’t answer right away. Jack said, “Paulo said he wanted me there ASAP. Where are you taking me?”
“The mayor needs to speak to you.”
“What about?”
The cop didn’t answer. They turned at the corner and pulled into a parking garage. The squad car stopped. The driver got out and opened Jack’s door. Jack climbed out of the backseat. The cop nodded toward a dark blue sedan parked at the end of the row. The click of Jack’s heels echoed off concrete walls as he approached the vehicle. Jack was two steps away when he heard the power locks release. The passenger door opened a little and then swung out all the way, as if pushed from the inside. Jack climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door.
Mayor Raul Mendoza was seated behind the wheel. “Hello, Jack.”
“Mr. Mayor,” he said flatly.
The mayor laid an unlit cigar on the dashboard. The tip had been chewed flat, as the mayor had been sucking tobacco to work off stress. “We didn’t do so well in our phone conversation last week,” said the mayor. “I was hoping that the personal touch might make a difference.”
“That depends on what you want to talk about.”
He paused, seeming to measure his words. “Look, you and I are on the same side here. I think we can agree on a few simple facts. One, this Falcon character is a nutcase who is fully capable of cold-blooded murder. Two, he has your friend. And three, he wants my daughter.”
“Has he asked to speak to her?”
“Not yet. But he will. And when he does, I want your word that you will not let it happen.”
“How is that my department?”
“I’m not saying that the City of Miami Police Department is a sieve, but I am the mayor. I’m told that Falcon wants to talk to you. And if he plays ball and gives up something in return, they’ll agree to put you on the phone.”
“They want me to negotiate with him?”
“‘Negotiate’ might not be the right word. I’m sure that your dialogue will be scripted, or at least highly coached. But yes, they are going to let you talk to him.”
“I’m okay with that, I guess.”
The mayor flashed a sardonic smile. He took the cigar from the dashboard and tucked it into the corner of his mouth. “That’s very nice,” he said, the cigar wagging as he spoke. “But this isn’t a pep talk, pal. It’s about ground rules. My rules.”
“Your rules?”
“Yeah.” He removed the cigar and said, “When you get on that phone, I’m sure that Falcon is going to demand to speak with Alicia. I don’t care how much you want to appease this guy, or what Paulo tells you to say. I don’t care if Falcon puts a gun to your friend’s head or if he threatens to blow up the entire building. Do not hand that phone to my daughter. Period.”
“Well, wait just a second. As I told you when we had our little telephone conversation about Falcon’s bail, I’m sympathetic to a father’s concerns for his daughter. But I intend to do what the negotiators tell me to do.”
“Do you want to get your friend killed?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then listen to me. Vince Paulo has this enormous set of balls that makes him believe that a face-to-face talk with a hostage-taker is a good idea. That’s what happened last time, when everything literally blew up in his face. Now he’s blind, and this time he’ll need someone to take him by the arm and walk him into another death-trap. I’m not going to let that person be Alicia.”
“Just because we put her on the telephone doesn’t mean that she’s headed for an up-close and personal talk with the gunman.”
“It’s the first step. Clearly, Falcon is obsessed with my daughter. For crying out loud, he stole her lipstick and sent her that sick ‘It’s only out of love that I seek you’ e-mail.”
“You need to check your department sources, mayor. They’re not so sure it was Falcon who did either of those things.”
“Are you denying that this guy has a thing for my daughter?”
Jack remembered his first meeting with Falcon, the look in Falcon’s eye when they spoke about Alicia. “No. I don’t deny it. But she’s a cop, and if letting her talk to Falcon can get a hostage released, I’m all for it. I think we should trust the negotiators on this.”
“I trust nobody, all right? Do you-” He started to say something, then stopped. At first, Jack thought he was trying to control his anger, but it seemed that some other emotion was at work. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to lose-”
Jack waited for him to finish, but again the mayor stopped himself. The mayor was looking straight ahead, toward his own reflection in the windshield, making no eye contact with Jack as he continued in a solemn voice. “I don’t talk about this very often, but Alicia’s mother is my second wife. I was married once before. Had another daughter.” He paused, then added, “She was eight years old when she died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“September sixteenth, nineteen seventy-four. Isabel and her mother were in a pastry shop in Buenos Aires. They had been out shopping, had their bags and packages with them. They decided to stop for something sweet before coming home. They were just sitting there at the counter, having a perfect little mother-daughter day.”
Jack was watching him, but the mayor was still looking through the windshield, staring out at nothing.
“And out of the blue,” the mayor said, his voice starting to quake. He swallowed hard to regain his composure. “Out of the blue, there was this huge explosion. A bomb. Some crazy terrorist son of a bitch had decided to blow up a bank branch right next to innocent shoppers. Can you imagine anyone doing such a thing?”
Jack could, but he wished he couldn’t.
“About forty bombs were exploded around the country just on that day alone. My wife was dead at the scene. Our daughter died in the hospital, two days later.”
“I had no idea. I truly am sorry.”
The two men sat in silence. Jack wasn’t sure what to say. Would it really have mattered if he had promised to do everything in his power to keep Alicia out of the hostage negotiations? Or was the mayor simply trying to close old wounds-trying to convince himself that, this time around, he was doing everything he possibly could to protect his daughter, even if his demands on Jack were not entirely reasonable, even if his fears for Alicia were not completely rational? Finally, the mayor leaned over the console, reached across Jack’s torso, and grabbed the passenger-door handle. The invasion of personal space made Jack uneasy.
“Keep my daughter out of this,” the mayor said as he pushed the door open for Jack. “Or we may both regret it.”
It had almost sounded like a threat, but the situation was too delicate, too ambiguous, for Jack to challenge him on it. Jack offered a little nod, wanting to give the man something, if only out of pity for what had happened to the Mendoza family more than a quarter-century ago. Then he climbed out of the car and closed the door.
The engine started, and the mayor drove away.
I t was still dark in Nassau when Riley returned home from the Greater Bahamian Bank amp; Trust Company. He was exhausted, annoyed, and determined to get another two hours of sleep before meeting with the bank’s attorneys about the safe deposit box matter. He was forced to deal with lawyers far too often to suit his own preferences. Probably the only thing that wasn’t secret about the offshore banking industry was that the secrecy regulations and the endless challenges to them had made plenty of lawyers rich.
Riley climbed the front steps to his townhouse slowly. The sprawling tropical canopy over his front yard blocked out the glow of the street lamp, and he’d neglected to turn on a porch light before rushing out the front door to meet Swyteck and the others at the bank. The door was unlocked, just as he’d left it. Crime wasn’t exactly unheard of in the Bahamas, but something about island living seemed to encourage unlocked doors and open windows, as if to deny, or at least defy, the existence of evil in paradise. Riley entered the foyer and tried the wall switch. The room remained dark. No great surprise. Power outages were a way of life in his neighborhood. He closed the door and waited for his eyes to adjust before trying to cross the room. He was about to take his first step when, from the other side of the living room, he heard the distinctive cocking of a revolver.
“Stop right there, Riley.”
He froze in his tracks. The voice was familiar, though he might not have recognized it so quickly if he hadn’t just spent the night dealing with box 266. “News must travel pretty fast.” He was trying to sound breezy, but he couldn’t conceal his nervousness.
“It’s a small world, Riley. Even a smaller island.”
“That it is, mon.” Riley’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness, but the man was still just a shadow in a black corner of the room. Not that Riley would have recognized him. In their past dealings, he had only heard the man’s voice, never seen his face. The fact that he’d cut off the electricity at the circuit breaker signaled his clear intention to keep it that way.
The gunman said, “I hear that someone finally cleaned out box two sixty-six.”
“You hear correctly.”
“Who was it?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
The man’s chuckle was laden with insincerity. “Good answer.”
“It’s the only answer I can give you.”
“I can live with that,” the man said, and then his tone became sterner. “So long as it’s also the only answer you can give to the police.”
“That’s up to the bank and its lawyers.”
“Wrong answer.”
Riley waited for him to say more, but there was only a long, uncomfortable silence. Several strands of speculation began to race through his mind, and none of them ended in a very happy place. Riley could not escape the conclusion that the man was simply debating whether to shoot him here, in Riley’s own living room, or to take him somewhere else and do the job.
“Here’s my problem,” the man said finally.
Riley’s throat was dry, and he had to force his response. “Yes?”
“Police are such nosy bastards. If you tell them who cleaned out the money, what do you think their next question is going to be?”
“I-I don’t know, mon.”
“Think about it.”
“I’m having a little trouble concentrating right now. I’m sorry. I’m sure the bank’s lawyers will have an answer.”
“Screw the lawyers. You ask them for a straight answer, they’ll give you six wishy-washy ones and bill you for twelve. Let’s keep this simple. I’ll answer it, and you tell me if you agree with me. All right?”
The gun made it difficult for Riley to disagree. “Sure, mon.”
“When the police find out who took the money, they’ll have just one question: How the hell did all that cash get there in the first place?”
Riley said nothing.
The gunman continued, “Don’t you agree?”
“I suppose so,” said Riley.
“Stop being coy with me. Do you agree or not?”
“Yes. I agree.”
“Now, here’s something else I’m sure we can both agree on. If the police unravel this money trail all the way to its source, things are going to get very ugly for you.”
Riley said nothing.
“Can we agree on that, Riley?”
Riley swallowed hard. He wanted to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t move. He was too afraid of saying the wrong thing.
The man said, “I need your agreement on that, friend. Because if I don’t get it, I’m going to have to kill you right here and now.”
Riley could hear himself breathing. He’d dealt with some unsavory characters in his time. Bank secrecy had its dark side. But no one had ever threatened his life, at least not in such a matter-of-fact tone. There was no doubt in Riley’s mind that the man meant every word of it. “Okay,” he said, his voice little more than a peep.
“Okay what?” the man said.
“No one will ever find out where that money came from.”
“Good answer, Riley. That’s a very good answer.”
He rose from the chair, a silhouette in the darkness. The face was obscured in shadows, but Riley could detect the faintest outline of a gun.
“On the floor,” the man said. “Face down.”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice cried out, begging Riley to resist. He tried to ignore it, but he continued to hear the warning over and over, as he lowered himself to the floor and laid his cheek against the rug. The man approached, and Riley could feel the vibration of each heavy footfall. The man stopped, towering over him, and Riley could see only the tops of his shoes.
He imagined that the gun was pointed directly at the back of his head, and tomorrow’s headlines quickly flashed through his brain: “Banker Found Dead in Home, Shot Execution-Style.”
“Count to a thousand, out loud,” the man said. “Don’t even think about getting up before you finish.”
Riley started counting.
“Too fast. Slower.”
Riley started over again. One, two, three. The man walked away. Nine, ten, eleven. The front door opened. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Riley heard it close. He didn’t move a muscle, but his voice was shaking.
He didn’t stop counting until the first signs of daylight shone through the slatted wooden shutters.