by Stuart Woods
She did so and climbed up the ladder.
Larry switched off the engine, and while holding on to the ladder with one hand and his duffel with the other, pushed the Whaler under the dock. “Walk, don’t run,” he said. “Hold my hand, and make conversation. Laugh.”
She did as she was told. They walked ashore and to the hotel’s garage.
“Look for something older, something eighties or nineties,” he said. She pointed at an elderly Lincoln Continental, and she followed his directions and got behind the wheel.
It took Larry less than half a minute to hotwire the car. “Back out and go slowly up the driveway,” he said. “Take your first left, then your fi rst right.”
Shortly, they were on A1A, driving south. Larry produced a cell phone and made a call. “Hello, sugar,” he said, “Plan B. Meet me at the place in fi fteen minutes.” He hung up. “That was my wife,” he said. “We’re going to dump this car a few miles down the road, then we’ll head south in our car. We’ll drop you in Florida City, where you can get a cab to Key Largo and your boat.”
“Okay,” she said. “Nobody knows where I am, so I can just say I’ve been on the boat the whole time.”
“That’s the girl,” Larry said.
FIFTE E N MINUTE S L ATE R he said, “Turn right, and drive behind the filling station.” The station was dark, having been closed for months.
She followed his instructions.
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L o i t e r i n g w i t h I n t e n t
“Stop here,” he said, “and flash your lights, then shut it down.”
She did so, and a car across the street flashed its lights.
“You’ve got your money, right?”
“Right here in my bag,” she said.
Larry raised his hand and shot her once in the head, then he opened her bag, removed the money and put it into his duffel. Taking her bag with him, he got out of the car, wiped down the areas he had touched, ran across the street and got into the car.
“Hey, sugar,” he said, kissing her. “Stop at the first Dumpster you see; I want to get rid of something.” A couple of minutes later she did, and he tossed Gigi’s bag away. “Okay,” he said, “let’s head for the Everglades.”
“Is the girl not coming?” his wife asked.
“She didn’t make it,” Larry said. “She knew my name.”
“So does Manny,” she reminded him.
“If he got out, it won’t matter,” he said. “We’ll watch the news for a while before we go home.”
An hour later, they were comfortably ensconced in the little cabin in the swamp.
MANN Y A B ANDO NE D THE car in long-term parking, after wiping it down, and took the bus to the terminal, wheeling the suitcase he had in the trunk.
He approached the AeroMexico counter.
“May I help you, señor?” the young woman asked.
“Are there still seats on the ten o’clock flight to Mexico City?”
She tapped a few computer keys. “We have only one fi rst-class seat,” she said.
“That will do nicely,” Manny said, taking out his wallet. “Oh, God,” he said, sliding the license across the counter, “I’ve left my credit card at home. Will cash be all right?” He slid his fake passport across the counter.
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S t u a r t W o o d s
“Of course, señor,” she replied.
He took some hundreds from the packet of Evan’s money in his inside pocket and counted out the money.
She gave him his change and printed out the boarding pass. “Any luggage to check?” she asked.
“Just my carry-on,” he replied.
“Your fl ight will be boarding in forty minutes, señor,” she said.
“Gate sixteen, to your right.”
“Thank you, señora,” Manny said. He grabbed the handle of his bag and made his way through the crowd. He stood in the security line for ten minutes, then emptied his pockets of everything metal and set his carry-on on the conveyor belt for X-raying. At a signal from the security guard, he stepped through the metal detector. A soft beep sounded.
“Sir,” the guard said, “please step back, remove your shoes, put them on the conveyor belt and step through again. Swearing under his breath, Manny followed his instructions. On his second trip through the metal detector it beeped again.
“Sir,” the guard said, “please remove your jacket and hand it to me.”
Manny did so, then realized the problem. “It was my belt buckle,”
he said to the guard, unbuckling his belt and taking it off. But the guard was already searching his jacket, fi nding his passport and the bundle of hundreds in his inside pockets.
“Sir,” the security guard said, “did you fill out and sign the federal form declaring this cash, which appears to be more than fi ve thousand dollars?”
“Gosh,” Manny said, “I forgot about that. Can I fill it out now?”
“Of course, sir,” the guard said. He beckoned to his supervisor and whispered a few words in his ear.
The supervisor smiled. “Will you come with me, please, sir?”
Manny put on his shoes and belt, collected his carry-on and followed the man. How could he have forgotten about the form?
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L o i t e r i n g w i t h I n t e n t
The supervisor opened a door and ushered him into a small room, where a man in a business suit with a plastic I.D. clipped to the pocket waited. The supervisor gave him Manny’s passport and money, then left. “Sit down, please,” the man said. Manny sat down. “I’d like to fill out the proper form, please,” he said. “My flight leaves in half an hour.”
The man was leafing through the passport. “Let me compliment you Mr., ah, Bernstein,” he said.
“What?”
“This is the best example of a counterfeit passport I’ve seen for some time. Show me some authentic I.D., please.”
Manny sighed, produced his wallet and handed the man his driver’s license.
“Thank you, Mr… . Manfried White?”
“That’s me,” Manny replied. “I can explain about the passport. You see …”
The man held up a hand. “No explanation will be necessary, Mr. White,” he said. “We’ve been expecting you.” He pressed a button under the table and two other men in suits entered the room. “This, gentlemen,” he said, “is the Manny White your colleagues phoned about. Mr. White, may I introduce Detectives Marino and Copeland, of the Florida State Police?”
Manny sagged. “I can explain all this,” he said. The two men stood him up and began handcuffing his hands behind his back. “And we’re looking forward to hearing your explanation, Mr. White,” one of them said. 2 8 7
62
ST O NE S H OO K THE hand of Greta Swenson, Annika’s sister, and walked her to the departures door at Key West International.
“I want to thank you for your courtesy, Stone,” she said. “Annika spoke highly of you.”
“She was a wonderful person,” Stone replied, handing her the package containing Annika’s ashes. “I hope you have a comfortable fl ight home.”
She kissed him on the cheek.
Evan, who was on the same flight to Atlanta, where they would both change planes, shook Stone’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough,”
he said. “I’m sorry I gave you such a diffi cult time.”
“Will you return to Key West?” Stone asked.
“Maybe, eventually. I’d like to spend some time with my grandfather now. We have a lot to talk about.”
“They’ll want you to come back to Miami for Manny White’s trial,” Stone said.
“That will be a pleasure,” Evan replied.
“Have you heard anything from Gigi?”
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L o i t e r i n g w i t h I n t e n t
“No, nor the boat. She’s not answering her cell phone; I’ve left several messages.”
“Good luck to you, then.” They shook hands again, and Evan walked Greta into the terminal.
Stone returned to the car, where Dino was waiting, and got in.
“Nice lady,” Dino said.
“Yes,” Stone replied, “she is.”
“Can Tommy and I buy you a drink?” Dino asked, pulling away from the terminal.
“You certainly can,” Stone said.
THE THRE E O F them sat at the bar at the Key West Yacht Club and raised their glasses.
“To complicated cases,” Tommy said. “They’re the most fun.”
They drank.
“I have news from the state cops,” Tommy said. “This afternoon the cops in Hobe Sound found a woman in a stolen car behind an abandoned service station, one bullet in the head. No I.D., but she fits the description of Gigi Jones Keating.”
“That’s interesting news,” Dino said.
“There’s more: She had an apartment in South Beach, and they searched it. Found a stash of mixed drugs, too much for personal use. They figure that she was in business with Charley Boggs in some way, and that’s how the big stash got left on Evan’s boat.”
“She was a piece of work,” Dino said.
“Sounds like her hit man didn’t trust her,” Stone said. “Any word on him?”
“The state cops tell me Manny lawyered up right away. My guess is he’ll make a deal before he goes to trial, and then we’ll fi nd out who the guy is.”
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S t u a r t W o o d s
Dino shook his head. “Not Manny,” he said. “He knows that at his age he’ll die in prison, deal or no deal. He won’t rat the guy out.”
“By the way,” Tommy said, “the state guys said the only reason they caught Manny was he forgot to take off his belt at airport security, and the buckle set off the metal detector. Except for that, he’d be in Mexico now.”
Everybody had a good laugh.
“Are you guys really leaving tomorrow morning?” Tommy asked.
“At long last,” Dino replied, “though I hate to go.”
“We’ve loitered long enough,” Stone said.
e n d
2 9 0
AU T HOR’ S NOT E
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply. However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable. Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply. When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.
Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fundraising, petitions or 2 9 1
A u t h o r ’ s N o t e
sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it. Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.
Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 98212-1825.
Those who wish to make offers for rights of a literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022. (Note: This is not an invitation for you to send her your manuscript or to solicit her to be your agent.) If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.
If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Rachel Kahan at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others. A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and 2 9 2
A u t h o r ’ s N o t e
can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.
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Document Outline
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Author’s Note
