CHAPTER 37
I found a Motel 6 in Butner and took a room. I stood in a scalding shower for a long time, letting the hot water massage me, the white-knuckle stress of the past few days washing off my skin like a greasy film.
I set the bedside alarm clock for 8 a.m. and lay back on the bed. I exhaled deeply, releasing what felt like a week’s worth of held breath. I could finally breathe again.
There, alone in the dark room, I reevaluated my relationship with Bob. In every relationship I’ve ever had in my life, even my two marriages, there came a time when one of us realized that things just weren’t working out. Both parties in a relationship need things. For some it’s attention. For others it’s financial support. For others it’s unconditional acceptance. Whatever. Everybody needs something in their relationships, and when they stop getting it, the relationship is doomed.
What was I giving Bob? That was fairly obvious: real estate in my head. But I was also giving him a large amount of attention. His needs were being met.
But what was Bob giving me? An excuse for self-pity? A lazy man’s means for suicide? As odd as it sounds, those had been valuable gifts. I had clung to them. Desperately. Subconsciously, I was grateful to Bob because he allowed me to hide behind him, to define myself through him. I could continue to do so until I eventually became him completely in the instant before my heart stopped beating altogether.
However, I wasn’t so sure I still had the same needs anymore. It happens. Two people come together but grow apart. When they finally part company, they do so as very different people. I was no longer the same person as when Bob had come into my life.
Bob and I were gonna have to talk. It’s not you. It’s me. Should I take him to a restaurant to avoid a big scene? How should I break the news? I decided to wait to do anything, at least until after my visit tomorrow.
The last thing I remembered thinking before I drifted off into a blissful sleep was the absolute absurdity of naming my brain tumor Bob.
* * *
“This is highly unusual, Mr. Garrity.”
“Yeah. I know. I appreciate it.”
“I’m just saying, it’s highly unusual.”
The warden of the Butner federal correctional facility walked me down a stark white hallway. He was in his early fifties, African-American, and carried himself more in the manner of an insurance agent than the head of a prison.
“Wait here, please,” he said, indicating a small conference room. I did as instructed.
The Butner Federal Correctional Complex was situated in rural central North Carolina and consisted of three distinct complexes: a medium-security prison for midlevel and/or dangerous federal crimes; a low-security prison for lesser offenses; and an administrative federal prison hospital, which was secure but designed primarily to treat patients rather than prisoners. With the demise of the manufacturing industry and the current political drumbeat against tobacco, the prison was the backbone of the local economy. The motel where I’d stayed last night caters mostly to visiting family members of the incarcerated.
The administration wing where I now sat was military clean, and the entire operation seemed efficiently run. Of course, I was comparing it quite favorably to the Orange County lockup on a typical Saturday night. No urine was streaming out from under doors here.
Fifteen minutes later the warden returned with a guard whose nametag read GOMEZ.
“Officer Gomez will escort you,” the warden said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“This is highly unusual, Detective. We have official visiting hours. And approved lists. Not being on the list or coming at the wrong time means you have to turn around and go home.”
“But you make medical exceptions.”
“Sometimes. That’s the only reason you and I are still talking.”
I followed Officer Gomez down the hall and through a series of autolock doors until we stepped outside onto a sidewalk that bordered a large open-air courtyard. The courtyard was surrounded by a high electrified fence topped with concertina wire.
Gomez lowered himself into a golf cart and I sat next to him. We drove on the sidewalk around the perimeter of the courtyard. A few prisoners in light blue jumpsuits strolled idly around the courtyard, casting predatory sidelong glances as we cruised past.
Gomez parked the golf cart and grunted for me to follow him. We passed through another set of autolock doors and checked in at a guard station just inside the hospital building. I signed in and followed Gomez down the hall.
We rode a shiny elevator up two floors and exited into what looked, on the surface, to be a typical hospital ward. Upon closer examination, however, I saw that the orderlies wore billy clubs and sidearms.
“Visitor for 303,” Gomez mumbled at the nurse/guard desk.
The male nurse crinkled his thick brow at us. “Who’s he?”
“Visitor,” Gomez elucidated.
“He ain’t on the list,” the nurse said.
“Medical exception,” Gomez said.
The nurse shook his head in annoyance. “Never tell me shit.” He turned to me. “You got fifteen minutes.”
“Okay,” I said.
Gomez planted himself in a hallway chair and closed his eyes. I followed the nurse down the hall to room 303. The nurse shook his head and muttered to himself as we walked. When we reached 303, he fumbled with a set of keys and finally unlocked the door. The tiny window in the door was obscured by a sliding shade.
“When you want out, pound on the door. If you wanna guard outside, tell me now.”
“Do I need one?” I asked.
The nurse snorted. “You tell me.”
He swung the door open and revealed an old, frail man lying motionless in a bed. Oxygen tubes ran over his ears and under his nose. His thin, white hair hung limp around a blotched, pink scalp. I heard his labored breathing even across the room. His eyes twitched toward us, a motion that seemed to take all his strength.
“I’ll be fine,” I said, and stepped into the room. The door thunked shut behind me. With the exception of the locked cell door, this looked like any private hospital room. A large picture window sat in the center of the opposite wall, allowing warm sunlight to flood in. A television sat on a wall-mounted stand. A telephone rested on the bedside table.
“Hello, Juan.”
He wheezed slightly louder, which I assumed was acknowledgment of my greeting.
I came around the bed and pulled a chair up next to him. I sat in the pool of sunlight and considered him for a minute before continuing. He considered me right back.
“You remember me?” I asked.
He nodded.
“You know why I’m here?”
He made a shaky, one-shouldered shrug, a gesture that implied he knew but wanted me to tell him anyway. So I did. I explained how his son, Juanito, had made some bad business decisions, extended credit to the wrong guy. Despite efforts to stay out, I got mixed up in it. I told him how they kidnapped my daughter and threatened to hurt her if I didn’t do what they wanted. I informed him that I found their money, plus an extra ten large for the trouble. That should have been it. That was business. But Juanito doesn’t understand business. He made it too personal. He gave me no assurances of my daughter’s safety. I did what any father would have done. But I embarrassed Juanito. I explained that I was afraid that Juanito didn’t think it was over.
Alomar said nothing for a moment, just struggled to get air in and out of his lungs. As I watched him labor to breathe, I had a vision of myself, one year from now, lying in a bed just like this, cancer swirling throughout my body. My breath coming in ragged gasps.
“You,” he rasped, “… betrayed me.”
I was about to respond.
Alomar held up a pale, trembling hand. “I’m dying.… What … what do you … want from … me?”
I leaned close to the bed. “I want your word. As a businessman. As a father. I want your word on the lives of your children. This is over between your son and
me. He got his money, plus consideration. As a businessman, you understand that. You respect it. I did what I had to do to protect my daughter. As a father, you understand that. The slate is clean. From this moment forward, if I happen to notice someone followin’ me or catch someone peekin’ at me over a newspaper, then I make sure your wife and your daughters all get audited by the IRS every year for the rest of their lives. And if anything happens to my daughter—if I even think something might happen to my daughter—I’ll make it my life’s mission to hunt down and kill your only son in the most painful manner possible. He stays away from her, he stays away from me, he stays away from everyone I know. Everyone I ever met. He stays away, or he’s a dead man.”
Alomar sucked in a long, rattling breath. “I heard … you’re sick.… I heard … you’re dying.”
I leaned in close to him. “Not anymore.” I fixed my gaze on him. “That’s what I want. Your word that it’s over. You call Jersey or wherever you need to make sure Juanito knows it’s over.” I pressed a hand on his shoulder. “Do I have your word?”
He glared at me and held his breath. The room became eerily silent.
I pressed his shoulder harder. “Do I have your word?”
He nodded and exhaled a wet, gurgling breath. A terrible weariness seemed to descend on him like a fog. He nodded again and closed his eyes.
I stood and moved to the door, pounding on it to call the guard.
Alomar’s wheezing snagged somewhere in his chest, and he erupted into a racking coughing fit. His frail body convulsed with each spasm. Thin lines of blood stretched from his lips to his starched white linens. The door opened and the nurse stepped in. Alomar continued hacking, blood and spittle dotting his gown and sheets.
“Jesus,” the nurse said, and strode into the room. He pulled an oxygen mask from a nearby tank and held it over Alomar’s nose and mouth. After a moment, the coughing subsided. Alomar collapsed back on his pillow, his bony chest heaving up and down as he sucked in the oxygen.
I turned and walked out of the room, looking only where I was going, not gazing back. I kept my focus forward even as I drove away, refusing to even glance in the rearview mirror.
CHAPTER 38
“Check it out, G.” Jim Dupree slid a manila folder across the booth table at me.
I opened it and whistled. “Damn.”
We sat in an Orlando Denny’s four days after my visit to Butner, drinking coffee and eating breakfast. Big Jim had two softball-sized banana-nut muffins on his plate. I had yogurt and fruit.
“It hits the news later today,” Big Jim said.
I held an Orlando Police Department Internal Affairs report. In it were listed three officers who were on the new Alomar payroll, including the deputy chief. There was also evidence that Mr. Day-Glo’s claims of federal graft were also true. If I had gone to the cops when Jennifer was kidnapped, the deputy chief would definitely have been in the loop, and Jennifer would now be dead. I suppressed a shudder at the thought.
Before I’d left North Carolina, I’d called Jim and told him the whole story. I gave him everything I could, including fingering Mr. Day-Glo as Eddie’s likely killer. I spent much of the first two days of my return giving statements and being interviewed, as did Jennifer and TJ.
Apparently, OPD Internal Affairs already suspected that one or more officers had been compromised, but didn’t have specifics. My story clicked a few tumblers into place and unlocked their investigation. They nailed one of the dirty beat cops and leaned on him. Within twenty-four hours he gave up his partner and the deputy chief. Later today, the story would become a public scandal that would probably last for months.
Big Jim told me that Alomar and his entire operation had vanished. Juanito’s mother and sisters were still in town, but they claimed no knowledge of his whereabouts. Naturally, Mr. Day-Glo had also disappeared. The theory was that they knew the heat would be on after the stunt with Jennifer, and they’d planned all along to pull up stakes. But they needed their money first. The conventional wisdom was that Alomar and his crew went underground in San Juan. Alomar Sr. still had a loyal network of contacts back in Puerto Rico who could help Juanito hide and also continue to allow him to run his operation. As long as the boys in Jersey got their cut, they probably didn’t care where he was. Besides, after screwing up in Central Florida with Eddie Sommerset, the boys in Jersey were likely eager to move Juanito out until things cooled off.
The dude I had been calling Mr. Day-Glo was almost certainly Victor Karidakus, a second-generation Greek American from Staten Island. Victor’s father owned an import/export business that allegedly fronted for the Angelino crime family. Young Victor was introduced early into the business and rose quickly through the ranks as a ruthless enforcer of Angelino policies. He had been around a long time and was a trusted member of the Angelino inner circle in Jersey. Nobody was surprised to learn that Victor had been dispatched to Florida to clean up Juanito’s mess.
The FBI was working the case now, as well as ferreting out which agents, if any, were on the take. No one was particularly optimistic that they could make a murder charge stick to Victor. He was suspected in at least a half dozen other executions over the past ten years, and none of those crimes had produced enough physical, or even circumstantial, evidence to arrest him. The investigation strategy was to go after Juanito. He was impulsive, and that made him vulnerable. The Feds’ main fear was that the Angelinos would neutralize him themselves before the FBI could get to him.
I slid the file back to Jim and sighed, sipping my coffee.
“So, G,” Jim said. “Whaddaya gonna do now? I know this case got your juice flowin’ again. I tole you I been keepin’ your desk warm.”
“Thanks, bro. But I think I’m done bein’ a cop.” I stirred a spoon in my mug. “You know I haven’t thought much about long-range plans lately.… But, who knows? As I was drivin’ back from North Carolina, I actually had an idea. I thought I might apply for a PI license.”
“What?” Big Jim put down the fistful of muffin that was halfway to his mouth.
“Yeah.”
“Doin’ what? Peepin’ at husbands gettin’ some strange? Videotapin’ worker’s comp claims? Damn, G … you’re better than that. We need you doin’ real police work.”
“Well, I’m not gonna worry about it now. I’m focused more on short-range plans.”
Big Jim nodded. “Yeah … you just take care of business now. Then we’ll talk. Till then, I’ll just keep my ass on your desk.”
I chuckled. It had been a long time since I had laughed in any capacity, and this small chuckle felt strange, like seeing an old friend I barely recognized.
“You do that,” I said.
The waitress appeared and asked if we wanted more coffee. Jim nodded.
“No thanks,” I said. Then to Jim: “I gotta go.”
“Whay-uh?” he said, his words muffled by the huge bite of muffin rolling around in his mouth.
“Executive Airport. A friend of mine is goin’ on a trip.”
* * *
It was a surprisingly subdued group who waited in the leather-appointed passenger lobby of Executive Charters Inc. Holden and Ben were planted in front of a big-screen TV, playing some sort of NASCAR video game.
Miguel was standing by himself, hands in pockets, looking out the window at the tarmac. When I came in, he turned. Realizing it was only me, he offered a small, sad smile and turned back to the window.
A half dozen other Global Talent and record-label staffers milled around the free buffet. I walked up to Miguel. We stood in silence for a moment, watching a stark line of gray rain clouds recede across the brilliant blue sky, like a sodden blanket being slowly pulled away.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
Miguel nodded. “I don’t know how you did it.”
“I didn’t. It was my daughter. Jennifer. She can be very persuasive.”
“She must really be something.”
> “Yeah,” I said.
I felt a big hand on my shoulder.
“Mikey,” George Neuheisel said. “Glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I replied.
George pulled me aside. “Listen … he’s coming, right?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“If he doesn’t…,” George muttered to himself. Then, back to me: “Eli has started shifting the promotion to TJ’s big farewell tour. Y’know, come and say good-bye. Advance ticket sales have already gone up. The kids are eating it up.” He looked at me expectantly.
“That’s nice,” I said.
George reached into his back pocket and awkwardly produced a sealed envelope. “Here. Your payment.”
“I thought Eli canceled the deal.”
“Nah. He’s a hothead, sure, but he’s thrilled you came through. He keeps his word.” A shaky smile. “You did come through, right?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“Right…” George shoved the envelope into my hand.
At that moment the door swung open and in walked TJ and Arlene.
The open doorway seemed to suck the air from the room. For an instant there was absolute stillness. Even the video game became mute.
“You’re late,” Ben said, barely glancing up.
“Yeah,” TJ said, running a hand through neatly cropped hair. “Sorry about that.”
The air and noise rushed back into the room, and several staffers descended upon TJ with papers, forms, itineraries, schedules, interview requests, and whatever else was necessary before a concert tour.
I caught Miguel watching the scene, pain hidden behind his eyes, but visible if you were looking for it. For just an instant—a half second, maybe—TJ glanced up and caught Miguel’s eye through the crowd of people. In that instant TJ gave him a wink and a lopsided grin. I was a few steps away, but I thought I heard Miguel’s breath catch in his throat. He turned back to the window suppressing a smile of his own.
As I was watching this, I felt another hand on my elbow. A smaller hand. A softer hand.
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