Dragon DelaSangre
Page 16
"What are we going to do about it?"
"Not much right now. I'll call Arturo, have him run a check on white speedboats, but there are probably hundreds of them, like the one they used, within cruising distance. If he's the one, or Jeremy, my call will at least alert them to the fact that I'm not so easily eliminated. After that, I guess the main plan is to avoid standing near windows whenever boats are near… until someone shows their hand and we can get things resolved."
Elizabeth frowns. "You named four humans. If each of them were dead—I doubt we'd have to worry about any windows…"
I shake my head. "My father said, 'Know your enemies before you try to destroy them.' I won't kill people who are useful to me without knowing they acted against me."
"But Santos? He's nothing but a bother…"
Tired of Elizabeth's questions, furious that someone would have the nerve to attack me in my home, I glare at my bride, spit my words at her. "But I don't know enough yet." Elizabeth grimaces and looks away.
"Damn it, Elizabeth! What good will it do us to kill the wrong people? I promise you, whoever caused this will die. We will find who it was." I sit and upend the envelope. A handful of newspaper photograph clippings flutter out, followed by a few sheets of paper stapled together.
I study each picture, then pass them to Elizabeth.
The first shows a woman holding the hands of a young boy and a younger girl as they attend a funeral. In the next, Jorge Santos, no older than eighteen, is pictured handcuffed, being guided into a squad car by two policemen. Santos is pictured alone in the third, older this time, grinning, standing in front of his Hobie Cat accepting a trophy. In the fourth, a group of men pose, dressed like Civil War soldiers with Santos brandishing an antique rifle in their midst. And the last presents a different image, another gathering, but everyone dressed this time in eighteenth-century military garb, Santos lighting the touch hole, firing a cannon in front of an old fort.
I've no doubt the children in the first clipping are Maria and Jorge. Even the old black-and-white picture shows their shared resemblance, especially around their eyes and mouths. The woman, their mother I assume, has the same features. She and the boy look in pain. The little girl seems merely confused. I shake my head and sigh, no longer quite so angry, realizing the further anguish I've brought them all.
I turn my attention to the report. Typed double-spaced on plain paper it bears no letterhead, no salutation, no indication for whom it's intended or who has created it. Not that I would expect Arturo Gomez or Jeremy Tindall to want those things. I pass each page on to Elizabeth after I finish it.
CONFIDENTIAL REPORT
SUBJECT—JORGE SANTOS
TYPE: COMPLETE
DATE: 7/15/98
Full Name: Jorge Miguel Lario Santos
Address: 1213 Drexel Avenue, Apt. 13B, Miami Beach
32128
Phone: (305) 555-7312 Fax: NA E-mail: NA
Age: 27 Height: 5' 10" Weight: 165 Ibs. Eyes: Brn Hair: Blk
Birthdate: 11/16/71 Race/Heritage: Cuban
Education: Coral Gables High School (graduated 1988) Miami Dade Community College (one year)
Occupation: Bartender
Employer: Joe's Stone Crabs (1993-present)
Military Service: None
Family: Father, Emilio (killed 1978 in raid on Cuba) Mother, Hortensia (never remarried) Sister, Maria (reported missing in March of'98)
Relationship(s): Casey Morton (eight months)
Organizations: Hobie Fleet 36, Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, Tucker's Brigade
Hobbies/Interests: Sailing (Hobie Catamarans), Black powder shooting, Reenactor (Volunteer cannoneer at Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine)
Note: This report was compiled through both document searches and personal interviews. While we are relatively sure of the precision of our findings, due to the short period of time we had to accumulate the information and the understandable secrecy we had to maintain during the investigation, we can't guarantee all of our conclusions to be 100% accurate.
History: Jorge Santos, the son of Cuban exiles, was born and raised in Miami. When he was 7, his father, Emilio, died while participating (it's unclear whether he was killed in action or captured and executed) in an exile raid on Cuba. His mother, Hortensia, subsequently raised Jorge and his sister, Maria, by herself, supporting the family by working as a bookkeeper at Joe's Stone Crab restaurant on Miami Beach (where she is still employed).
Santos was an unremarkable student, graduating in the middle of his class without earning any special recognition or getting into anything more than normal adolescent trouble. People who knew him at the time report his only memorable trait was his outstanding devotion to his mother and his sister (possibly brought on by the early loss of his father).
In college (Miami Dade Community College) he discovered drugs and was arrested on campus for possession of marijuana (which he was smoking at the time of his arrest). Ejected from college (he would have failed anyway), let off with a warning by the judge, Santos spent the next two years living at home, going from job to job from party to party, graduating from pot to cocaine, barbiturates and Quaaludes.
Finally, confronted by both his sister and his mother, Santos agreed to clean up his act. He began to attend Narcotics Anonymous and looked for steady work. His mother, acting on his behalf, arranged for a job at Joe's, one of the premier restaurants in South Florida. Ironically, they trained him as a bartender.
Making good money for the first time in his life, Santos moved into his own apartment on Miami Beach. (According to his 1987 tax return he declared an income in excess of $38,000 for the year. He probably made much more than that in undeclared tips—all of this income earned in only 7 months, since Joe's traditionally closes their doors from mid-May until mid-October.)
Because of the long vacations each year, he was able to actively pursue his other interests. Santos bought his own sailboat (a 16-foot Hobie catamaran) and sailed and raced it, winning his class in the Miami to Key Largo race three years in a row. He also joined Tucker's Brigade, a group of men who like to dress up in period garb and reenact historical battles, where he learned how to load and shoot replicas of antique, black-powder rifles and pistols.
His interest in reenactments eventually led him to St. Augustine where he became enamored with the big guns at the old Spanish fortress of Castillo de San Marcos. Volunteering to become one of the cannoneers, he spent each summer (from June through August, from 1994 to 1997) in St. Augustine.
Possibly because of the irregular lifestyle his work required, he developed an alcohol problem, entering AA in 1995 and subsequently suffering periodic lapses (the most recent a two-week binge in March of this year). Only his mother's relationship with the owners of Joe's and the tragic disappearance of his sister prevented his dismissal on this last occasion.
He met his current girlfriend, Casey Morton (age 26, a graduate of University of Miami and a staff writer for the business section of the Miami Herald) at an AA meeting in December. Because Morton's an Anglo and a recovering alcoholic, Santos's mother disapproves of the relationship, which has been tumultuous at best.
The disappearance of Santos's sister, Maria, seems to have sobered Santos and drawn Morton and him closer. It also seems to have given his life a focus for the first time. Since his mother called him looking for her daughter, Santos has devoted all of his leisure time to looking for her or, as he loudly says he suspects, her killer. In this pursuit, Morton has been invaluable, both by using the Herald's archives, using her own contacts at the newspaper and her coworkers' contacts with the police to further their investigation.
Santos personally found Maria's car in the parking lot at the Dinner Key docks and has subsequently interviewed every wino and derelict who may have been in the vicinity that night, as well as every apartment owner or hotel guest whose windows overlooked the area.
Two winos, Sam Pratt and Harry Watkins, have told him (and subsequently told the polic
e) that late that night they saw a tall, blond man meet a young woman on the docks and take her away in a wooden speedboat. Watkins described it as a classic, like the one they used in the Fonda movie, On Golden Pond.
(Both men decided, after our operatives interviewed them, that they would be better off leaving town.)
Santos and Morton have visited every marina and dock in South Florida looking for such boats. They've found none whose owners might have been involved with Maria's disappearance.
That is not to say that Santos and Morton have no suspects. Shortly after Maria's disappearance, Santos asked the police to take a close look at Peter DelaSangre. He informed them that his sister had expressed a romantic interest in Mr. DelaSangre and that DelaSangre met the description given by Watkins and Pratt. Adding to that the knowledge (thanks to Miss Morton) that Mr. DelaSangre lived on an island and, therefore, would have to use boats for transportation, Santos insisted he was the most logical suspect.
Due to Mr. DelaSangre's standing in the community (not to mention his political clout), the police refused to target him without any further evidence. Likewise the Herald and all the other media refused to carry any stories about the police's refusal to investigate him. Furthermore, Herald management has assured us that Miss Morton has been cautioned to cease using newspaper assets to help further their quest.
The lack of support has done little to dampen Santos's zeal to bring his sister's abductor to justice. He's been very open in expressing his doubts that the system will do anything to support him. His intent is to administer justice himself.
Toward this end, at a gun show in April, both he and Morton took and passed a concealed weapons course and applied for concealed weapon permits. Records show they purchased a nine millimeter Clock semiautomatic pistol, a two-shot forty-five caliber Remington derringer and a thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson snub-nosed revolver.
Sources, who've observed them practicing at Tamiami Gun Shop's indoor target range, report that Santos wears the Clock on an ankle holster on his right leg and the Remington on an ankle holster on his left leg. Miss Morton carries her S&W in her purse. Both are passably decent shots.
Peter DelaSangre has become something of a fixation for both of them, Miss Morton gathering information on him from any source she can (unearthing, by the way, DelaSangre's connection with LaMar Associates) and Santos calling LaMar Associates on a daily basis thereafter, seeking an interview with Mr. DelaSangre. Santos also has made attempts to spy on Blood Key, Mr. DelaSangre's island.
After we received complaints that an ultralight seaplane buzzed the island four days in a row, we investigated and found that Santos had paid Tony Ribini, of Tony's Seaplanes on the Rickenbacker Causeway, to overfly the island with him onboard as passenger. Ribini said Santos had expressed disappointment that overhanging trees had prevented him from seeing the entire harbor. Mr. Ribini also agreed (after conversation with our operatives) it would be unwise, should he be asked again, for him to participate in any more such intrusive overflights.
We would caution Mr. DelaSangre that these people represent to him, at minimum, a threat of serious annoyance (including possible legal harassment) and, at worst, a threat of major, possibly deadly, harm. If he continues to insist on meeting with them, he should be advised to take utmost care (up to, and including armed bodyguards) in his dealings with them.
After I finish, I put down the report and pick up the clippings again. It's hard for me to see much danger in Santos's face. I see too much of Maria in him. I shake my head and grin. The man has passion. I respect that. Maria deserves nothing less.
"Why are you smiling?" Elizabeth asks. "The man wants you dead. He may already have tried."
"If he did, he failed," I say, thinking how angry Santos would be if he knew how little I fear him. "Read the report again. This man wants to look me in the eyes before he kills me. I doubt he was on the boat. I hope he wasn't. I want to see how it plays out with him… how he chooses to confront me. But"—I shrug—"if he was the shooter, he'll die. Remember, with one word, I can have him and his girlfriend destroyed any time I want."
"If it wasn't him, who was it?"
"In due time we'll find out," I say. "In due time, whoever it was will die."
I return to the clippings, study Santos's face and wonder what he'll say to me Friday morning. I find myself looking forward to meeting this man.
As comfortable as power and wealth are to possess, I've found they make life far too easy and far too predictable. Most humans can either be bought or intimidated, but not Santos, I think. Leaning back in my chair, I continue to study his pictures and luxuriate in the pleasure of not knowing what to expect of him.
* * *
Chapter 18
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Though I suggest otherwise, Elizabeth insists on accompanying me to my meeting with Santos. She promises to wake early, to be ready to leave whenever I wish. The night before, after we hunt across the Gulfstream over the back roads of Bimini, she emphasizes her intent by changing to her human form and lying beside me in my king-size bed.
I welcome her company. Each night since we've arrived, we've retired to our separate beds after lovemaking, my dragoness remaining in her natural state, preferring to sprawl and doze in her bed of hay while, across the room, I choose to sleep under sheets, on a mattress, in my human form. I've missed the intimacy of the slumbers we shared on our voyage home but I must confess, I've been as unwilling as she to give up my preferences.
When I wake in the morning to the heat of her breath on the back of my neck and the weight of her legs tangled with mine, I smile. When Father lived I still spent many hours each day alone, time enough to know the bleak despair of loneliness. Elizabeth's presence on the island has changed all that. Even when she remains asleep in our chambers as I go about my chores elsewhere in the house, I feel her presence and the knowledge of her nearness warms me, keeps me content. As irritating as she can be, as headstrong as she is, she makes my life complete and I love her for that.
But I care little for the small struggles our relationship brings each day. Elizabeth never wakens easily before the afternoon. Promise or not, this day is no different. When I turn, take her in my arms and whisper, "Elizabeth, it's time to get up," she shrugs my arms off and turns away.
"Later," she mumbles.
"The appointment is at ten." I spit my words as I disengage from her and scowl as I get up. "I plan to be early, with you or without you."
Elizabeth doesn't answer until I give up waiting for her. Only then, after I've turned my back on her, laid out my clothes for the day and begun to put on my pants, does she sit up. "Of course it will be with me," she says, hurls her pillow at me and laughs when it hits her mark. "And I expect you to show me around Miami after the meeting ends."
While Elizabeth dresses, I search my drawers for Derek Blood's slip of paper with Claypool and Son's address on it. She comes to the dresser just as I find it. I show it to her. "I promised your father a gift of gold. As long as we're going to the office anyway, I thought I'd bring it along, have Arturo send it out to your family's agents. If you want to write to Chloe or any of your family, this would be a good time to do it. I could send it in the same shipment."
My bride shakes her head, reaches for the gold necklace she left the night before on top of the dresser. "I'm no good at it," she says putting on the necklace. "Why don't you write something for me?"
I shrug, say, "Sure."
Elizabeth flashes a smile, pirouettes in front of me so I can admire her new yellow silk dress. I make a show of examining her, but, as much as I want to smile, I can't keep from frowning at the gold, four-leaf clover charm dangling from her necklace, the emerald inset in its center.
"What?" Elizabeth says.
"I'd prefer you didn't wear that today," I say pointing to her necklace.
She touches it with her hand. "But I always wear it. You gave it to me."
"Santos will notice it. I took it from his sister."
"I do," I say. "We're having this meeting with him to see if we can ease his suspicions, not raise them. You can wear something else for one day."
"No," she says. "Not for a human…"
"Elizabeth…" I sigh.
"I'll tuck it in for you," she says, lifting the chain, dropping the charm inside her bodice so all that shows of the necklace is a glint of the gold chain. "But I won't take it off for him."
"Fine," I say. "Just as long as he doesn't see it." I turn my attention from her, take a moment to write a quick note to her family telling them that all is well and then go downstairs to the treasure room.
It takes a few minutes for me to decide between the gold coins in the treasure chests or the heavy gold bars stacked near the wall. Deciding Charles Blood would be most pleased to receive some of Father's ancient gold ingots, I heft one and grin at its weight. Just four bars would be far more than twice my bride's weight. Five, I think, wrapping the bars in burlap, should keep the old monster happy.
But not Elizabeth. She frowns when I carry the bars to the boat, and asks, "Why so much?"
"We can afford it, Elizabeth. It's for your family."
"It's for my father," she says. "Trust me, none of the rest of my family will benefit from it at all."
A uniformed guard, armed, one hand on his holstered pistol, opens the door to the Monroe building's lobby when we approach. Inside, three other armed-and-uniformed guards—each one anxiously examining the burlap bundle in my arms, cautiously touching his pistol grip—watch us enter. I grin at the increased security, look toward the video cameras located near the ceiling in each corner of the room and nod, sure that Arturo is watching.
One of the armed men escorts us to the private elevator that will take us to LaMar Associates' executive offices. After we enter it, he stands guard in front of the open doors and waits for them to close. Arturo meets us when we arrive, yet another security guard standing behind him.