by James Swain
“Good morning,” he answered.
“Hi. I just wanted to check in, see how you were,” she said.
“I’m okay. How about you?”
“You sound out of sorts. Are you sure everything is all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“We got an invitation for dinner Friday. I wanted to see if you’d be back by then.”
Friday was two days away. He wanted to say yes, he’d be home, but there was no way to know what the next few hours or days would bring.
“I wish I knew,” he said.
“So it’s no.”
Muriel sounded put out. Like she thought he was letting work kill what little social life they had.
“Can you let them know by tomorrow?” he asked.
“I guess. It’s a barbecue. Nothing fancy.”
“I’ll do everything I possibly can to be there,” he promised.
“Okay. Are you sure everything’s all right? You sound awful.”
Linderman started to tell a lie but got no further. The flashy guy with the South American accent was strolling down the shoulder of the highway toward the marina. Cradled in his arms was a brown paper bag stuffed with groceries. Peeking out of the top was the Tom’s Toffee bag, the silver and red colors lit up by the sun. It was him.
Linderman looked further up the road. Carpenter had come out of their room and was standing in the shade of the motel. He was holding a camera with a zoom lens, and was shooting photographs of the South American.
All the bases were covered.
The South American drew closer. Linderman turned around so as not to stare. He noticed a name printed on the side of the boat. Daddy’s Little Girl.
It was all Linderman could do not to kill their suspect as he came down the dock.
Chapter 59
Daddy’s Little Girl motored out of the harbor and disappeared from view. Carpenter appeared clutching his camera, which he lifted to his eyes.
“Is he going to another boat?” Linderman asked.
“To an island,” Carpenter said.
“Let me see.”
Marathon had several small islands just off its shore, some inhabited, some not. As Linderman watched, Daddy’s Little Girl headed for an island overgrown with foliage. A small dock jutted out from a stand of mangroves.
“He’s right around the corner,” Linderman said.
“Your girl talked to him inside the grocery store,” Carpenter said. “Maybe she found out who he is.”
Vick was waiting outside Linderman’s motel room. She had taken to wearing her T-shirt pulled out and smearing on her lipstick, and looked like white trash. Once inside the room, she explained what had happened.
“I went into the market to buy a soda, and the guy was paying for his groceries at the cash register,” she said. “The owner of the market took the bag of Tom’s Toffee off the shelf, and added it to the bag without being asked. Like it was a pre-order.”
“What else did he buy?” Linderman asked.
“Milk, butter, a five pound bag of sugar, caramel, chocolate.”
Those were the ingredients for Granny’s special holiday cookies. There was no doubt in Linderman’s mind they had found the right person.
“As the guy started to leave, the owner said “See you tomorrow, Humberto’,” Vick said. “When I went outside, he was standing by the door with a grin on his face.”
“Why?” Linderman asked.
“He propositioned me. I laughed and walked away.”
Linderman booted up his laptop and got on the Internet. Using Google, he found a detailed map of Marathon, and located the island where Daddy’s Little Girl had gone. It was the westernmost point of Marathon, and had a name. Manatee Key.
His next stop was the property appraiser’s web site for the Keys. There was enough information there to get him started. Manatee Key had been purchased in 2002 by Excelsior Holdings, Ltd, a Venezuelan-based shipping company. The island was three acres in size, and contained a main house, a guest house, a swimming pool, and a basketball court. It was valued at just under ten million dollars.
Linderman sent an email to the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland, requesting information on Excelsior Holdings. NSA knew more about foreign companies doing business in the United States than any other federal agency, and hopefully would be able to shed some light on the company. His next step was to call the FBI’s North Miami Office, and request satellite reconnaissance photos be taken of Manatee Key. Satellite photos were a common tool within the FBI, and there was always a waiting list. He specified that the request was high priority, and folded his cell.
He went to the window and parted the curtain. He was ready to grab a boat and storm Manatee Key, only he knew how foolish that would be. Danni had survived this long, and if there was a God in heaven, she would survive another day.
He glanced at Vick, who sat on the floor with Carpenter’s dog. It was a playful side to her that he hadn’t seen before, the little girl she’d once been.
“What next?” Vick asked, rubbing the dog’s tummy.
“We sit and wait,” Linderman said.
At five o’clock that night, the satellite photographs of Manatee Key were emailed to Linderman’s laptop. A few minutes later, the NSA report on Excelsior arrived as well.
Linderman printed everything on his portable printer. He was torn as to which to dive into first. He decided to look at the photographs, hoping to find some visible evidence of his daughter which had been captured by the satellite.
He laid the photos on the bed. Each was an overhead shot of the property that had been taken at thirty-second intervals. The island was overgrown with towering palm trees and bamboo which obscured most of the grounds. There were no visible signs of Danni, or for that matter, any other female. The only person caught by the satellite was a grossly overweight man in a Speedo lying on a recliner by the swimming pool. With a fat cigar in one hand and a tall drink in the other, he was the picture of the good life.
Vick pointed at a photo showing the rear of the house.
“I see three pairs of shoes,” she said.
Linderman brought his head down for a better look. From above, the shoes looked like footprints in concrete.
“Good catch,” he said.
“Any sign of your daughter?”
“No. To be honest, I didn’t expect to see her.”
“They’re keeping her inside.”
“Yes. At least during the day.”
“Guess what?” Carpenter sat cross-legged on the floor reading the NSA report, his dog’s head resting in his lap. “The guy who bought the toffee isn’t your daughter’s captor.”
Something dropped in the pit of Linderman’s stomach.
“He isn’t?” the FBI agent said.
“No. That clown was just a gopher. Your daughter’s captor is a fat cat named Oliver Maldonado. You need to read this.”
Linderman took the report from Carpenter and began to read. Oliver Maldonado was a fifty-five year old self-made millionaire, and the president of Excelsior Holdings. Back in 2001, he’d gotten into hot water with the Venezuelan authorities. A pretty waitress had gone missing from a discotheque in Caracas. The police got a tip that she was being held captive at Maldonado’s home, and went to investigate.
When the police tried to enter the house, they were met with gunfire. They stormed inside, and arrested Maldonado and three employees. The waitress was on the patio with a gunshot wound to the abdomen. An autopsy revealed that the bullet was not from the police’s guns, nor from any weapons found inside the house.
At Maldonado’s trial, his defense attorneys claimed the police shot the waitress, who was at the house under her own free will. The prosecutors couldn’t prove otherwise, and Maldonado was found not guilty. He left the country a short while later.
Filled with disgust, Linderman tossed the report to the floor.
“He’s a cold-blooded murderer,” the FBI agent said.
“Yes, he is,” Carpenter replied.
“We can’t let him kill Danni.”
“No, we can’t.”
Carpenter rose from the floor without waking his dog. He looked directly at Vick, who leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. A knowing look registered in Vick’s face, and she pushed herself off the wall.
“I’m thirsty. You guys want anything to drink?” she asked.
Both men declined. Vick left, shutting the door behind her.
“What’s your plan?” Linderman asked.
“It’s pretty simple,” Carpenter said. “We shoot Maldonado and whoever else is on that island before they harm your daughter.”
Chapter 60
Daddy’s Little Girl returned to the marina the following afternoon with the flashy Humberto at the wheel. Pulling up to the dock, Humbero threw the rope to Linderman to be tied up, hopped out, and engaged in some harmless chit-chat. Then, he headed down the shoulder of the highway toward Mel’s Grocery with a spring in his step. If he’d sensed he was walking into a trap, he didn’t show it.
Humberto never made it to the grocery. Vick sauntered out of her motel room and struck up a conversation. Wearing pink shorts and heavy makeup, she looked particularly trashy. Humberto acted smitten.
Carpenter joined Linderman on the dock. He’d been hiding in the bushes with his dog, and was munching on a piece of beef jerky.
“The old honey trap,” Carpenter said.
“Whatever gets the job done,” Linderman replied.
They watched Vick and Humbero go into the motel room. Thirty seconds later, Linderman’s cell phone vibrated. It was Vick.
“We’ve got him,” she said.
“Did he put up a fight?” Linderman asked.
“Yeah. It took three police officers to hold him down.”
“Nice going. Keep him in the room until we get back.”
“Will do. Good luck, Ken.”
“Thanks, Rachel.”
Linderman folded the phone and climbed into a rented boat tied up to the dock. Carpenter cranked up the outboard motor and soon they were on open water. The boat was filled with fishing gear, poles, a plastic pail filled with live bait, and cooler for their catch. Jack’s dog sat in the bow, wearing a bright red bandana. It filled out the picture, and made them look like a pair of old hippies, a common sight in the Keys.
A mild chop was blowing from the east. Linderman rode with one hand holding the rim of his Marlins’ cap, the other clutching the Glock in his pocket. He should have been apprehensive, maybe even a little scared, but he wasn’t. He had waited six years for this day, and felt relieved to have finally reached the end of his long journey.
A patrol boat sitting in the bay tooted its horn. The four Mexican-American FBI agents who made up the rest of their team were onboard, ready to follow them onto the island. Taking off his cap, Linderman waved to them.
They neared Manatee Key. The waters were crystal clear, filled with coral and colorful fish. Carpenter killed the engine, then grabbed a paddle and started to row.
“Current’s strong. Give me a hand,” he said.
Their boat was drifting away from the island. Linderman felt the thrush of panic and grabbed the other paddle. He rowed like there was no tomorrow, and propelled the boat through the water to the dock. Their bow banged on a piling.
“We’ve got company,” Carpenter said.
One of Maldonado’s men came walking down the dock. He was another flashy dresser, and wore a billowing red silk shirt and white linen pants, his spiked hair standing straight up. He pointed a sawed-off shotgun at their boat.
“Leave,” the man said.
“Can you spare a gallon of gas to get us back to the mainland?” Carpenter asked.
“You can row,” the man replied.
“The current’s murder. My friend almost had a heart attack.”
Linderman felt the man’s suspicious gaze. He looked up and smiled feebly. It seemed to soften him.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” the man said.
The man turned around and started to leave. Carpenter hopped onto the dock, and drew a 1908 Colt Pocket Hammerless from his pants, which he stuck in the man’s back.
“Put your gun on the dock. Then turn around. Do it real slow,” Carpenter said.
The man did not lay his shotgun down. Instead, he pointed the barrel at the ground, and slowly turned around. Linderman drew his Glock and stepped out of the boat.
“FBI,” he said.
“Where is your warrant? You have no right to come here,” the man said.
Linderman pulled the search warrant from his back pocket and waved it in the man’s face without taking his eyes off him. “Lay your weapon on the dock.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“I won’t tell you again,” the FBI agent said.
The shotgun came up fast. Linderman shot the man three times in the chest. The bullets shredded his pretty shirt, and he flew backwards over the dock into the water, sinking to the bottom with air bubbles pouring from his mouth. Standing on the edge of the dock, Linderman waved to the patrol boat that it was safe to join them. The sound of a sputtering engine echoed across the water.
“Sounds like they’re stalled,” Carpenter said. “You want to wait for them?”
“No. Come on.”
They ran down the dock and stepped through a tall hedge into another world. The island was as lush as a jungle, the shaded ground noticeably cooler. The path they were on went two ways. Carpenter pointed to his left, where the pool and guest house were.
“I hear singing,” he whispered.
Linderman heard the music as well. It sounded like bad karaoke.
“I’ll deal with this guy. Go find your baby,” Carpenter said.
Linderman sprinted up the path in the other direction, which led to the main house. Carpenter’s dog ran ahead of him. He turned to make sure Carpenter was okay with it, but his friend was already gone.
The path led to a one-story Spanish Colonial with a screened lanai filled with orchids and beautifully plumed Macaws and Cockatoos free of cages. Water trickled down a man-made waterfall, the sound as sweet as music.
He gained entrance through a screen door. The birds began to flap their wings and squawk nosily. The dog crossed the lanai to silence them.
“Get back here,” Linderman said.
The birds continued to complain. A glass slider opened, and a grossly overweight man wearing a black Speedo stepped onto the lanai. He was a poster boy for indulgence, his skin so darkened by the sun that it looked radioactive.
“Enough,” the man said to the birds.
“Oliver Maldonado?” Linderman asked.
Seeing him for the first time, the overweight man stepped back in alarm.
“That is I. Who are you? And why is that dog here?” he asked.
“I’m with the FBI. You’re under arrest,” Linderman said.
“You have no right to be in my home. Leave!”
“Put your hands where I can see them.”
“I will do nothing of the sort.”
Gunfire echoed across the property, followed by a man’s hoarse scream, then the sound of a body hitting water with a loud Smack! The birds let out a chorus of high-pitched screams. Maldonado seized the distraction and vanished inside.
“Get him,” Linderman said.
The dog gave chase. Linderman followed and entered the house. He stood inside a high-ceilinged space filled with dark furniture and plush leather couches. The trappings of wealth were everywhere — a sixty-inch plasma TV, a giant aquarium filled with exotic fish, a bar befitting a posh nightclub, the walls covered with electric guitars autographed by famous musicians — but no Maldonado.
“Where is he?” Linderman asked.
The dog ran to a bookcase which covered one wall, and began to frantically scratch its base with his front paws. Linderman followed, the feeling of panic again taking hold. He had not come this far to lose Danni.
> The books were fake, and glued together. He pulled the bookcase away from the wall and sent it toppling to the floor. Behind it was a darkened passageway.
He ran down it with the dog.
At the passageway’s end was a locked door. He kicked it down, then stepped over the door and entered a narrow hallway with a skylight. Maldonado stood at the hallway’s end, holding a gun by his side, his entire body trembling.
