"It's good to see you too, Daddy," she said. "If I knew you and Mother were coming, I'd have baked a cake. Maybe next time you'll wire first and I will."
"Don't get testy with me," her father said while sweeping past her. "You have some explaining to do." He turned and waited for her response.
Andrea held his heated gaze. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"The hell you don't! Why do you think we're here?"
Andrea shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe to piss me off. You're good at that."
"Andrea!" her mother cut in. "Your father and I are here because we were worried sick about you."
"I'm forty-three years old, Mom. I no longer need a staff of nannies looking after me, or my parents following me around and spying on me!"
"Calm down, honey. We're here because when the ship left the island last night and you and Jerry weren't on it, but all of your clothes were, we got alarmed."
"That sounds like spying to me," Andrea said. "I'm pretty miffed that you and Daddy continue to run my life, no matter how many years I've been on my own, or how many miles away from you I am, even when I'm on an Island in the Bahamas!"
"We're not trying to run your life, honey, we're concerned because you didn't return to the ship with the other passengers last night."
"Which you wouldn't have known unless you were spying on me."
Andrea wondered what else they'd learned about the infamous anniversary cruise. A lot of tongues must be wagging aboard ship if the whereabouts of Jerry and Andrea Porter were being bantered about. Or would that be the whereabouts of Valerie William's sugar daddy and Alessandro Cavallaro's lover?
Her mother placed her hand on Andreas arm, and said, "Your cabin steward reported to the ship's hotel manager that your room had not been occupied since you left the ship yesterday, and a further search showed that you had not returned to the ship when it left the island, but all of your belongings were still there. The girls listed us as a contact, so the ship's hotel manager called this morning to tell us. We flew here immediately."
"Well I'm fine, so you and Daddy can fly back home, but thanks for dropping in."
"Where's your husband?" her father asked, pinning her with dark, astute eyes.
"His name is Jerry, Daddy. Not that bastard, not your husband, but Jerry. J-E-R-R-Y. Please try to remember. You've been forgetting it for twenty-five years."
"Seems you've been forgetting a few things too," her father said, eyes fixed on her as he waited for her response.
Andrea was afraid of that look, afraid of what was coming. Her parents had been on the island long enough for her father to bully everyone into telling him where she was, what she'd been doing that made her miss the ship, and why she wasn't sharing a bungalow with her husband. Deciding to mitigate the confrontation by using reason, she said in a calm voice, "I really don't know what all the fuss is about. I got a touch of food poisoning and ended up in a medical clinic and we missed the ship, and it's as simple as that."
Her father shot her a look that said he'd reached the end of his patience. His words confirmed it. "Who was the Dago you were with last night?"
Andrea looked at her father with a start. Alluding to marital problems was one thing. Explaining a shipboard love interest while on an anniversary cruise with Jerry was a whole different matter. "If you mean Alessandro Cavallaro, Jerry and I met him on the ship and he invited us to join him for dinner. We were having conch fritters when Jerry remembered he'd forgotten his passport at a store and went back for it. I was just keeping Alessandro company while Jerry was gone."
"Like hell you were. You holding the man's hand and smiling at him across the table."
"Where on earth did you get that idea?" Andrea said, feigning perplexity.
"From the owner of the dive you were in and the people who work there!" her father said in a loud, strident voice. "When I showed them your picture, one referred to you as Cavallaro's woman, another thought you were a prostitute he'd picked up."
Andrea met her father straight on, as she said, "The people lied. I don't know why, but they did. Maybe they heard the Ellison Learjet had arrived and hoped to cut a deal, money for keeping their mouths shut about something that never happened."
"Your marriage is on the rocks and you're involved with a man," her father said. "I knew that bastard would drive you to something like this."
"Umm, if I'm the one you think is having the affair, why is Jerry the bastard?"
"Andrea," her mother cut in again, "I'm sure there's an explanation for everything. If your marriage is in trouble you and Jerry can get counseling."
"Thank you for that advice," she said, and added nothing more.
She was in no mood to have her parents run her divorce, or interfere with what was going on between her and Jerry at the moment, some of which was actually a step forward. At least what happened on the beach was. It released a whole lot of tension. But where was Jerry when she needed him? When was he ever around when it mattered? Not now to show her parents they were still a couple, and definitely not the night Scott took off. It came to her that for twenty-five years Jerry had rarely been around when she really needed him most.
"Your marriage is in trouble… has been for years," her father said. "I'll get things rolling as soon as we get home."
"No, you will not get things rolling!" Andrea fired back. "If Jerry and I decide to throw in the towel we'll handle it on our own. That is, if we decide to go our separate ways. But then, we might stay married for the next quarter century just to irritate you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to rest. It's been a very long day."
When she opened the door to let her parents out, she found two men standing in the doorway. One was the customs inspector who'd checked passports when the ship docked. The other, a man who looked to be in his mid-forties and who was dressed like an islander, wearing a faded batik shirt and khaki trousers, looked at her, and said, "Mrs. Porter?"
Andrea nodded, while eyeing the man with wariness.
The man flashed an ID card. "I'm Inspector Schribe with the Justice Department's Special Operations Division, and this is Agent Fernandez with U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. We're investigating one of Italy's largest drug trafficking cartels and we'd like to ask you a few questions."
"I'm sorry," Andrea said, "but this isn't a good time."
She started to close the door, but Inspector Schribe placed his hand against it. "You don't understand, Mrs. Porter. We can question you here, or you can come with us to the customs office."
Andrea's father stepped up to face the man. "What's this all about?"
"Your daughter's involved with a man we've been investigating for some time and we want to ask her some questions."
Andrea's father eyed the inspector, dubiously. "How do you know who I am?"
"Your plane, Mr. Ellison. We knew who you were the moment your pilot touched down. We've already run a background check on your daughter, so she can either answer our questions here or in the customs office, and we can either talk to her in private or in your presence."
"She won't be talking to anyone without an attorney present," Carter Ellison III informed the man in the tone he used to intimidate people.
Schribe looked directly at him, and said in a voice that clearly said he was in charge, "We don't work that way, Mr. Ellison. Your daughter can talk to us here, or we can take her in. We have enough information to hold her. I suggest she answer a few routine questions and avoid that. Sometimes it can be a very lengthy wait."
Andrea glanced at her father, who was chomping at the bit but holding his peace. Returning her focus to the inspector, she said, "I have no idea what you could possibly want with me, inspector. I was on a cruise with my husband, I ate something that made me sick and I had to be taken to the medical clinic, and the ship left without us, but my husband and I will be rejoining the cruise in a couple of days."
Schribe looked beyond her and into the room. "Where is your husband now?"
Andrea knew for certain she did not want to draw Jerry into whatever this was. The less information her father got from this interrogation, the sooner he and her mother would be on their way back to Charleston. "My husband could be on the beach. We don't spend every minute of the day together."
"It seems you don't spend your nights together either, but I'm not here to question you about your relationship with your husband. I'm here to talk about your relationship with Alessandro Cavallaro."
Andrea felt a rush of adrenaline. "I have not been spending time with Mr. Cavallaro."
"You spent the last three evenings with him, Mrs. Porter. Two evenings in his stateroom on the ship, and last night at The Pirate's Cove here on the island. We've been tracking Cavallaro for some time. We know where he goes and who he spends time with. We even know the exact time you entered his stateroom each time you were there, and what time you left. The only thing we don't know is what went on behind the closed doors when you with him."
"Nothing went on," Andrea emphasized. "He asked me for cocktails. That's all."
"Was anyone else there?" Schribe asked.
Andrea folded her arms and glared at the man. "If you've been watching Mr. Cavallaro, you should already know there wasn't," she said, refusing to look at her father, feeling his eyes on her, intense, accusing, staring daggers.
"You're right, we did know," Schribe replied. "I was testing to see if you'd admit to being alone with Mr. Cavallaro in his stateroom. Did he contact anyone when you were there? Make any phone calls?"
"No," Andrea said, her eyes shifting to her father's rock-hard face then darting away. "We had cocktails and talked. That's all."
"That might be correct for the first night," Schribe said, "but the next night you went to Mr. Cavallaro's stateroom as soon as you returned to the ship after having dinner in Nassau with your husband, and you remained there until four the following morning. I have to assume you and Mr. Cavallaro were doing more than just sipping cocktails."
"Then you assume wrong!" Andrea cried.
"And your husband?" Schribe pressed. "Where was he while you were staying overnight in Mr. Cavallaro's stateroom?"
"I suppose he was in his own stateroom," Andrea replied.
"Then you acknowledge that you didn't share a stateroom with your husband while on the ship and that you spent at least one night with Mr. Cavallaro in his stateroom?"
"Yes," Andrea admitted. She glanced at her mother and saw a face frozen in disbelief. How could it not be? Her mother was witnessing the annihilation of her daughter's self-respect.
"Then your husband didn't object to your spending the night with Mr. Cavallaro?"
"I did not spend the night on purpose!" Andrea said, in a frantic voice. "I fell asleep on his bed after having a cocktail. I hadn't eaten much dinner that night, and since I don't drink often, the liquor went to my head. As for my husband, we have complete trust in each other."
"Enough that he doesn't worry about his wife being alone in a stateroom all night with a man she'd only just met?" Schribe asked. "Or perhaps you've known Mr. Cavallaro for some time before the cruise?"
Andrea had no idea what the man was after, but the fact that government agents were tracking Alessandro was not something she should take lightly. "I assure you, inspector, I only just met Mr. Cavallaro the first day on board the ship."
"Was Mr. Cavallaro with you in bed the entire time you were asleep?"
Andrea bristled. "You continue to imply that I was having sex with Mr. Cavallaro when I was not. I can't explain what happened, but after I had a drink I got drowsy, and I simply fell asleep. When I woke up I was still on top of the bed, fully dressed, and Mr. Cavallaro was not there, but he left a note saying he was in the casino. That's all there is to it."
To Andrea's relief, the man's face softened, and he said, "I believe you. It matches a pattern. So that leaves the issue of your handbag. Could Mr. Cavallaro have had access to it while you were asleep?"
"My handbag?" Andrea looked at the inspector, baffled.
"It's important. Could Cavallaro have had access to it?"
"I suppose he could," Andrea said, remembering that her handbag had not been where she'd left it before she fell asleep. She distinctly remembered hanging it on the back of the chair when she arrived, but when she woke up, it was on the seat of the chair. "What would Mr. Cavallaro want with my handbag? I only carry traveler's checks, cosmetics, and the usual things women carry."
Schribe stroked his chin. "We'll get to that in a minute. I have a few more questions about your husband."
Andrea glanced at her father and caught the look of awareness on his face and in his eyes. She could almost see the wheels turning. He was hoping Jerry would be hauled in for something, anything to get him out of her life for good. "What about my husband?"
"The woman whose stateroom you're sharing on the ship, Valerie Williamson. She spent some time with your husband. Do you have any reason to believe Miss Williamson is involved with Mr. Cavallaro?"
At first Andrea was at a complete loss for words. All she could think of was the storm that was brewing inside her parents, first, her staying the night with some Italian named Alessandro Cavallaro who was being watched by the government, then a woman named Valerie Williamson getting it on with Jerry, all the dirty laundry from the cruise hanging out to dry in front of Mr. and Mrs. Carter Ellison III. Every sickening sordid, humiliating piece of filthy laundry their daughter and that bastard she'd married had left piled in a heap on the cruise ship.
But on the beach with Jerry, with the warm waves washing over their bodies, and the soft pearly sand beneath them, and the hot Bahamian sun beating down on them while they relieved the tension that had been building for months, for that brief moment in time she'd thought all the dirty laundry had been washed clean and she and Jerry might have a chance to make a new start. But that had been an anomaly. Their explosive coming together had been brought on by sun and surf and the sudden awakening of a dormant need she thought she'd lost.
She hadn't wanted Jerry since Scott died, but it all came back on the beach: what he did to raise her physical senses to a need so potent she had to have him, beyond all reason, just as she had to have him when she dropped out of college and ran off and married him. But the sensual part of their relationship, that, she could never explain to her father. How could she tell Carter Ellison III that his son-in-law turned his daughter into a brazen, lustful, hussy who had no inhibitions when aroused by her husband, that she'd do anything to keep him doing all the zany, outrageous things he did that left her clutching her sides with laughter, and breathless with passion, and afterwards, feeling completely satisfied while in the arms of the man she loved.
Nor could her mother understand. Especially her mother. Andrea looked at her then, perched on the edge of the sofa, back stiff, hands folded in her lap, face a mask of contradictions. Anger showed in the way her nostrils flared. Incredulity from her tightly pressed lips. Disillusionment in the hurt in her eyes. If Andrea had announced that she and Jerry were getting a divorce, her mother would have accepted it, bearing in mind the visits home Andrea had been making of late, but never would her mother have considered the reality of what she was witnessing now, of learning that her beloved only child, and the man she ran off to marry against both her parent's wishes, were swingers! At least that was the perception.
Her father, on the other hand, understood perfectly from his perspective. The bastard who lured his daughter away from a family who loved her and a father who could provide all the comforts she could possibly want in life, was dragging her down the same sewer he grew up in.
"Mrs. Porter?" Schribe's voice seemed far away. "Do you have any reason to believe Miss Williamson is involved with Mr. Cavallaro?"
"Inspector," Andrea said, with irritation, "I have no idea where this is leading, but no, I have no reason to believe Miss Williamson is involved with Mr. Cavallaro. According to her, she had sex with him once, a long time ago, but that was all."
"That may be," Schribe said, "but since you and your husband appear to have an open marriage, you must be aware that Miss Williamson went to your husband's stateroom on two occasions."
"If you have questions about my husband you'll have to ask him directly. I have nothing more to offer. Mr. Cavallaro and I had cocktails on two occasions and dined together on another. There's nothing more to it."
"Very well," Schribe said. Andrea was certain the man would leave, but instead, he said, "When did you first start feeling ill?"
She had not expected that question. It seemed irrelevant. "Why do you ask?"
"We have reason to believe you were poisoned. Nothing life-threatening, just enough to send you to the medical clinic. There have been other incidents similar to yours, other women who spent time with Alessandro Cavallaro and became ill after dining with him while the ship was in port. The report from the lab will disclose any poison. You can thank your husband for insisting blood be drawn."
"Why Alessandro Cavallaro?" she asked, still shocked that Alessandro was being tracked by government agents. "The person mixing the drinks could have done it, for whatever reason."
"We're almost certain Cavallaro did," Schribe said. "Although we don't have enough evidence to arrest him, we know he's the king pin in a major drug cartel that's responsible for laundering millions of dollars in criminal proceeds."
Andrea looked at the man, stunned. "But he seemed so sincere, so charm—" she stopped short, feeling like the fool Jerry pegged her to be.
"Charming?" Schribe completed her sentence. "He is. Men like Alessandro Cavallaro are masters at what they do. But we're closing in on him. We have attachés and agents in Rome who are helping to identify and track down this criminal enterprise in Italy. They've arrested several cell heads and significantly disrupted the infrastructure. Those indicted have been charged with crimes that include murder, racketeering, conspiracy to kidnap, conspiracy to kill, drug trafficking, and money laundering. In the case of Alessandro Cavallaro, he takes the ill-gotten gains and uses it to buy rare stamps from corrupt dealers. The stamps are then sold in other countries to corrupt dealers, who sell them to collectors who don't ask questions. Money from illegal operations is moved around the world undetected this way, with rare stamps as receipts. Your brief involvement with Cavallaro might be what finally brings him down. If the blood tests from the clinic show poison in your system, all we'll need is the stamp, and we've got him."
Coming To Terms Page 9
