by Pat McKee
I cursed out loud. As I cranked up the stalled-out truck, one rear wheel propped on the side of the road, the other dangling over the ditch, I looked over toward Placido, his head in his hands, oblivious of our near crash. He looked up and attempted to continue.
“Let me explain. I—”
“Hell, no. I don’t have time for any more Milano games.”
Placido exhaled deeply and for a moment I wondered if he was going to breathe again, but he drew in sharply.
“Hector is my son, Melissa’s brother.”
“I can’t believe—Cabrini?”
Now back on the road, all I could do was stare straight ahead. A few minutes passed while the only sound I heard was the truck’s ancient transmission laboring through the gears, its wheezing carburetor sucking in the fetid swamp air. Placido gathered his thoughts, continued.
“Hector’s mother, Maria, was my lab assistant, a brilliant Greek girl. She’d been married, divorced when she came to work for me, keeping her married name of Cabrini.” He gave a slight shrug of the shoulders, a resigned shake of the head. “It’s the same old story. We spent long hours working together in the lab, an older accomplished man, a younger beautiful woman. Hector was the result.
“Maria and I never had a chance for a normal relationship. I eventually found her another suitable job in the company. While I didn’t acknowledge Hector, I supported him and his mother—still do, his mother, that is; she directs one of our labs at a very generous salary. Maria and I speak on occasion and have remained on reasonable terms. Not so with Hector. I didn’t tell him of our relationship.”
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t a father—”
“We were at a crucial point in our AIDS research. I thought it would put all that at risk. In hindsight . . .”
A stray thought crossed my mind, and I struggled not to break into a grin. I had always thought Cabrini was a bastard, and Placido confirmed it. Placido continued, oblivious to the thoughts floating through my mind. I made a mental note to refrain from referring to Cabrini by that epithet as I’d done in the past, not to spare anyone’s feelings, but to keep from busting out laughing.
“When Hector was a teenager, I gave him a summer job in my lab alongside Melissa, hoping to be able to have some positive influence on his life. He’s as brilliant as his mother, and he got her good looks as well.
“Nothing goes as planned, and my vision for us to work together happily went awry. Hector and Melissa grew close, romantically so, and before events got out of hand the only thing I could do was to let Hector go, and I told Melissa she couldn’t see him anymore. Melissa didn’t know Hector was her brother, and I couldn’t risk telling her for fear her mother would find out. She thought I’d broken up their relationship because he was poor and she was rich. Hector has resented me from that moment on. With time Melissa forgave me. Of course, now she knows the full story. I’m certain that at some point Maria told Hector the secret, which only made matters worse. All my efforts at reconciliation were rebuffed. Hector continued to pursue his interest in science, which had been kindled in the lab that summer. He became a chemical engineer before getting his law degree and developing a specialization in patents. When Anthony sought to enlist Hector in his scheme to wrest the company from my hands, Hector was more than ready for the job.”
This story didn’t square with what Melissa had told me, or had I imagined that she acted like she hardly knew Cabrini? I’d gone over everything from that evening so many times that much of it had faded into fantasy. Now I was not sure what I’d heard. I pressed Placido.
“Who’s behind SyCorAx?”
“SyCorAx was created by Hector and funded by Anthony. Anthony was the source of all of the patent data from Milano. SyCorAx exists only on paper and has never done any business other than file the lawsuit. All the information you were provided in the litigation was fabricated, from office and employees to the computer system. They posed SyCorAx as a precocious start-up, gambled that its lack of history wouldn’t cause concern.
“Once I figured out Anthony’s scheme, I couldn’t contact you or your firm because Anthony had already attempted to murder me, and he thought he’d been successful. Had he found out that I was giving you information, he would’ve finished the job. Anthony kept Melissa close to him as the ultimate hostage, appearing to all the world the concerned brother and uncle, yet quite ready to kill her if I breathed a word to anyone. And now, despite all my efforts, I may have failed Melissa. You have to help.”
I’d heard that last line before, thought it was somewhat less persuasive coming from a grizzled old man impersonating a wino. As Placido talked about Maria, he had been staring out the windshield, like he was talking to himself, but now he turned directly toward me, signaling another revelation.
“I told you Maria had been married and divorced before I met her. Sycorax is her maiden name. Hector named the corporation SyCorAx, Ltd., I assume because he wanted me to be sure he knew.”
I still wasn’t buying it.
“So, how are we, how am I, supposed to trust Cabrini with everything that’s happened? He was the knowing and willing instrument of Anthony’s scheme to divest you of Milano. He lied to me, and he lied to the court. What you just told me could get him disbarred if not locked up—both of which would make me happy as hell, by the way.”
“Hector figured out he’d been lied to and manipulated by Anthony, and to continue in his service would hurt Melissa, the only one in the family he’s cared for throughout this whole affair. Hector approached Melissa with his suspicions and, after becoming convinced of his good intentions, she put him in contact with me. Hector wants to reconcile, and so do I. And now that Hector knows Melissa is in danger, he feels responsible and thinks he can help.”
Lied to and manipulated by the Milano family. Cabrini and I have something in common.
“What if I tell you I saw Cabrini talking with Anthony in a bar on Frederica Island right after the trial?”
“Hector told me he’d confronted Anthony shortly after the trial with what he’d been able to put together. Anthony denied all of it. That was just after he spoke with Melissa.”
“When I talked with Melissa, she acted as though she barely knew Cabrini.”
“She was following instructions. We couldn’t let you know everything until we determined we could trust you. It seems you were quite capable of figuring out much of it on your own. I was concerned, to protect your own reputation, you’d immediately go to the court and expose the trial for what it was. I couldn’t risk that, not while Melissa is in Anthony’s control.”
“Well, it looks like you have nothing to worry about on that count. I’ve blown all to hell any good reputation I may’ve had.”
I thought of that night with Melissa and the events that started everything in motion.
“Why do I have the feeling I’m still being lied to, that you and Melissa haven’t told me everything?”
“I have told you everything, Mr. McDaniel, because I need your help to rescue Melissa.”
I kept my silence. If there was a time when Placido could earn my trust, it was now.
“You no doubt have been puzzled by how I was able to find you and communicate with you wherever you were on the run, yet the entire federal law-enforcement apparatus was unable to do so. Ariel was able to identify and communicate with your laptop, which you fortunately threw in the back of your car. You have no idea how powerful Ariel is. She’s able to navigate through all existing communications and computer networks by all available media: cable, radio, microwave, cellular, without regard for encryption, firewalls, or other security devices. She can monitor millions of cell phone conversations simultaneously and identify callers by voice recognition.
“Identifying and tracking your getaway was a rather simple matter given the GPS signal from your 911. Ariel sent me a feed showing your progress in eluding detection
; going 125 miles per hour one moment, then 3 miles per hour the next. Had Ariel not momentarily blinded the Black Hawks’ heat detection systems during their flyovers, you’d most certainly be in jail now, but Ariel knew we needed you. Ariel followed you all the way to a cabin deep in the Georgia wilderness, and I had her send you a message as soon as you tried to get into your firm’s email.
“The only thing that thwarts Ariel is simplicity, basic electrical circuits not controlled by computers. She cannot track a vehicle like this one, so old it has no computers on board. Had you not kept your laptop with you, Ariel would’ve only been able to follow you by using traffic cameras—Placido pointed above us as we passed through an intersection—to identify your facial features as you pass by them, but that’s only dependable if there are cameras to track you. As ubiquitous as they may seem, they’re not everywhere.”
“So, if you could do all this, why couldn’t law enforcement track me?”
Placido just smiled. I knew it was a stupid question as soon as I asked it.
“Well, that leads me to something I mentioned to you in our communication. I believe there may be a way to prove your innocence, but you’re going to have to tell me everything that happened, exactly like it happened.”
“Why do you think I’m innocent? My finger prints are on the two weapons that killed three people. As soon as my firm can distance itself from me, and I think it already has all it needs to do so even without suggesting I’m a murderer, I’ll be identified as the prime suspect in every media outlet in the country.”
“I don’t believe you’re capable of killing anyone. This may be a serious handicap in rescuing Melissa, but based on her assessment of your character, I’m certain you didn’t murder those three men on Frederica Island.”
“I didn’t.”
“So tell me what happened.”
I wanted to. I really wanted to. But here was my dilemma: every lawyer who’s ever represented a client, civil or criminal, tells their client not to talk to anyone about his case.
Civil cases are simple: You talk to your buddy at a bar about your lawsuit. After a couple beers and a bit of bravado, you tell your friend you weren’t really badly hurt in that wreck; it’s just an act to get some cash. Maybe your buddy won’t betray you, but the server is pissed that you two high rollers didn’t tip him better. And lawyers have ways of finding that bartender.
Criminal cases are a little more complicated. A defendant has a constitutional right not to answer questions that might incriminate him, unless, of course, he’s already waived that right by gabbing about his case to friends and acquaintances. That was my dilemma. I knew this. And I didn’t want to waive my constitutional rights in case I was prosecuted. But those rights are only of value in the context of legal proceedings. It doesn’t matter much if you’re running for your life and hoping to prove your innocence without an indictment.
“OK. Here is what I know.”
I went through the evening with Melissa, the dinner, the revelations on the beach, and our plans to rescue him. It all culminated in the morning when I learned the judge was dead and figured out his death was likely a murder rather than a suicide. I confronted Fowler, and he admitted to having the judge eliminated and to killing Oliver. He then tried to kill me and was shot in the struggle. Placido listened to all this with clinical detachment.
“He told you he’d disabled the microphones and cameras in the study?”
“Yes, but he said the microphones in the kitchen were live and picked up the shot that killed Oliver.”
“What we need to do is get the audio from the other microphones, particularly those in the kitchen. Those should’ve picked up anything said in the study. I’m going to put Ariel on it.”
“Why are you so confident the kitchen microphones picked that up? The kitchen is on the opposite side of the house.”
“My scientists designed them. When it was announced the G8 was coming to Frederica Island, the Department of Homeland Security sent out requests for proposals to select contractors to develop the security system for the island. It wasn’t something Milano usually did, but our scientists wanted to take a shot, just to prove they could do it. Milano designed all the security for the island, from the ground up. That’s how Milano got interested in the technology which led to Ariel. I know the microphones we designed are omni-directional and sensitive enough to pick up a heartbeat at fifty yards. If Fowler had whispered in your ear in the study, the microphones in the kitchen would’ve picked up what he’d said as if he’d announced it over the public address at a high school football game.”
“Well, I’m sure Fowler made certain no recording was made, even if the microphones picked up the conversation.”
“We designed the microphones and cameras to transmit audio and video to a central monitoring facility in McClean, Virginia. I suspect you’re familiar with the organization. I doubt the function was continued once the G8 was concluded. But more important, I had a duplicate signal sent to a lab at Milano and recorded, just as a backup, and I haven’t disabled it. That’s something no one outside the lab knows but me—me and a bright young lawyer who’s about to help me rescue my daughter.”
Sixteen
“Hector owns a place here on Key Biscayne. We’re due west of the Milano family island in Bimini where Anthony is holding Melissa. It gives us a staging point.”
In a few minutes we turned onto Morasgo Way and pulled our beat-up truck to Number 12, a Palladian façade of cut coral stone, broad lawn, and royal palms, partially hidden behind a walled entrance, iron gates flung open anticipating our arrival. I was still skeptical, my mind still balking, still unwilling to accept Cabrini as an ally after years of open warfare. I parked in front of the five-stall garage across a courtyard, hoping to look like the landscape crew, not attracting attention. We went around to the side rather than to the main entrance.
Cabrini met us at the door and silently embraced his father. Cabrini and Placido held their embrace and kissed each other on the cheek, a scene made all the more poignant by Placido’s wizened appearance. When Cabrini finally stood back from his father, he extended his hand to me in what was the first sincere action I’d ever seen him take. No one had spoken a word. I broke the spell.
“Well, we have a lot of work to do and not much time. I suggest we get to it.”
Placido nodded toward Cabrini. Cabrini led us through his personal office into the library, a two-story room in the center of the ground floor, to a table in the middle spread with nautical charts.
“Placido, based on the information you gave me about the island, I’ve been doing some checking.”
Cabrini’s library, unlike Fowler’s cramped study, had shelves up to the rococo molding that set off the coffered ceiling thirty feet above, and a walnut spiral staircase leading to a cantilevered walkway around the circumference of the room, giving access to the upper level. The shelves were filled with rows of books in perfect order, sets of matched, gilded vellum bindings, covering every available space. Cabrini may well have bought the entire room from a European estate. But there were hints of personal taste scattered about, contemporary novels, histories, legal thrillers, evidence that Cabrini did in fact read rather than merely collect exquisite sets and fine bindings. I was impressed.
The room and its contents weren’t lost on Placido either; his eyes lit up and danced around the room when he entered, a kid on Christmas morning with his first glimpse of the toys spread under the tree. Placido said nothing; his face said it all. I wondered whether Cabrini’s ostentatious literary display fulfilled a personal love of books or was an attempt to emulate the father that circumstances had denied him.
Cabrini stopped at the table and smoothed out the charts. The three of us leaned over a map of the Straits of Florida, showing Miami to the west, north to Bermuda, and south to Puerto Rico, the infamous Bermuda Triangle. In the middle lay the islands of Bimini, the wester
nmost islands of the Bahamas, the inspiration for Hemingway’s “Islands in the Stream,” where he wrote “To Have and To Have Not.”
Cabrini pointed. “Here’s Key Biscayne. The Milano island, South Cat Cay, is just south of the main island of Bimini. It’s a straight shot east from here, a little more than 50 nautical miles, a short, easy trip even in a small craft, so long as the weather holds. I’ve been to Bimini dozens of times diving in the reefs and fishing off the ledge. We can easily make the trip in less than an hour.”
“Fast boat.”
“The only people I know who have faster boats are the drug runners, and they won’t be bothering us.”
Still arrogant even when on a mission of mercy. I decided to stay on task and queried Placido.
“Now that we’ve got that covered, what’re we going to do when we get there? I don’t suspect we’ll just pull Cabrini’s boat up to the dock and let Melissa jump in.”
“That’s not exactly what I had planned.” But Placido, rather than volunteer further, coaxed Cabrini. “What have you come up with?”
“Well, I can get us there and back, but since I’ve never been on the family island, we have to depend on you to figure out where on the island to meet up with Melissa and what kind of security we’re going to run into.” It was Cabrini’s turn to be sarcastic, and he purposely twisted the knife, giving just the right inflection to “the family island,” leaving no question that bitterness toward Placido still bubbled just below the surface of his calm expression.
I wondered whether the three of us could work together for anything, even for Melissa. What moments ago appeared as a touching scene of family reconciliation and resolved enmity was fast degenerating yet again to skirmishing egos, pushed together by a common concern, pulled apart by inherent mistrust.
“The island is almost completely undeveloped.” Placido jumped in, working to diffuse the building tension, indicating a narrow piece of land central to the island.
