PHILADELPHIA, ATLANTIC CITY, NEW ORLEANS, BILOXI
The boats in the pack were of a variety of sizes and styles-but all designed for speed. A few had simple solid-color hulls. Most, though, like the Marauder, featured wild graphics covering their enormous decks and hulls-everything from stylized U.S. flags to skull-and-crossbones to racing motifs with black-and-white checkered flags and circled numbers. The boat running directly ahead of Perez’s resembled a giant can of the energy beverage NRG!
As the pack of go-fasts-most of which also had attractive young women aboard-followed the island chain northward, Perez had the Marauder running not even at half throttle. The speed readout in the corner of the Global Positioning Satellite screen indicated forty-six miles an hour.
With three 1,075-horsepower Mercury Racing engines, the Marauder could hit a cruise speed of seventy-five miles an hour and a top speed of 124. In addition to the cockpit seats, the area below deck had room for another eight passengers. The nicely furnished cabin, heavily insulated and air-conditioned, resembled what one would expect to find aboard a private jet aircraft, complete with plush leather couches, a high-end entertainment system, and a flat-screen television.
In the cabin were two sunburned, balding, olive-skinned, middle-aged men, both wearing khaki shorts and baggy Cuban guayabera shirts that didn’t conceal their paunches. Each sat with an attractive twenty-something bikinied blonde in his lap. They all were watching the Poker Run on the TV as a bikinied redhead poured them more frozen pina coladas from a blender.
Perez grabbed the handheld and keyed the mic.
“Go, Tin Can.”
“Just saw your first wave of boats pass. Over.”
“Roger that. I’m running near the middle of it. And L-Five is about ten minutes back in the second wave. Over.”
“Got it. I’m tracking your positions on GPS. We just started the first off-loading. Should be complete in twenty. What about the Red Stripe? Over.”
Perez sighed, then keyed the mic again.
“Stand by, Tin Can.”
Jorge Perez then said impatiently into his Motorola radio: “Lucky Five, Lucky Five. Lucky One. Did you copy Tin Can? Over.”
Lucky Five was Perez’s cousin Carlos, a diminutive thirty-year-old who Perez occasionally taunted by accusing him of having a Napoleon complex. He was at the helm of a forty-eight-foot Fountain Express Cruiser, one of the Poker Run boats without any graphic design. Its low-profile deep blue hull practically blended in with the sea.
Riding with Carlos was just one twenty-something, an amazingly attractive brunette whom Perez said he was sending along “so you won’t look like a fucking maricon-despite your pingita.”
Carlos had wondered if the girl spoke, or at least somehow understood, Cuban-she had smirked at Perez’s accusation that he might resemble a homosexual with a tiny prick-and that was only compounded as she wordlessly spent the day sunning and sipping the French champagne she found in the galley of the luxurious cabin.
Being ignored really pissed him off.
“L-One, L-Five,” Carlos replied, sounding annoyed. “I heard it. No problem hooking up with Tin Can in twenty.”
“But will you be alone?” Perez said pointedly, letting his Latin temper slip. “What the hell is up with Red Stripe? Over. .”
Red Stripe, the beer brewed on the Caribbean island of Jamaica, was one of Perez’s favorites. He had a case of it iced down, along with a variety of other imported cervezas, in the aft cooler. But “Red Stripe” also was the code name that Perez had picked to mean any United States law enforcement asset, in this case particularly that of the U.S. Coast Guard, which emblazoned its boats, helicopters, and airplanes with its crossed-anchor logo within a crimson-colored forward-slanting stripe.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Lucky Five had radioed-somewhat hysterically-that just as his pack of ten go-fasts droned past an idling Coast Guard SPC–LE-a thirty-three-foot-long aluminum-hulled “Special Purpose Craft-Law Enforcement”-the boat had immediately throttled up and begun chasing the pack.
And chasing him. Or so Carlos had feared.
Lucky Five was running at the back of the pack, which was some fifteen minutes ahead of the third group of ten that brought up the rear of the entire line of thirty-one Poker Run boats.
Perez really had had no choice but to order that Carlos keep the Fountain at the back, because there it would attract the least attention. But it also made Lucky Five the easiest to cull from the herd if, for example, the Coast Guard wanted to perform what Perez derided as a “courtesy inspection.”
Enforcing maritime law on the high seas-from looking for drug smugglers to counting life jackets-was a mission of the Coast Guard. Captains whose vessels were stopped and found to be in compliance would suffer only a short delay, generally from a courteous but professional boarding crew.
Perez more or less sneered at the thought of the Coast Guard SPC giving chase. Powered by three 300-horsepower outboards, the lightweight SPC would have to run hard to catch the fast Fountain. And the Marauder, with triple 1,075-horsepower engines, would easily leave the SPC in its wake.
But not for long.
Perez was acutely aware that all that the Coast Guard had to do was call in for support-including scrambling aircraft, if necessary-and there would be nowhere for anyone to run.
Perez had made sure that, like his Marauder, Carlos’s Fountain was completely in compliance with all laws.
If only for the moment, he thought.
It was common knowledge that if the cops really wanted to stop him-or, for that matter, any vessel operating in U.S. waters-they only had to declare that the vessel was operating in an unsafe manner.
The Coasties could easily board his boat with any excuse. They could say they saw the shitter discharging overboard, then tell him, “Guess it’s okay after all. Better safe than sorry. Have a nice day.”
But if they pick up on his nervousness, and keep an eye on him, we’re totally screwed.
“L-One, L-Five,” came Carlos’s reply after a moment, his tone sounding relieved. “All clear. Red Stripe turned toward shore. Looks like he’s headed for Looe Key.” He added, “Maybe some tourist got a snorkel full of water on the reef. Over.”
Perez grunted. He shook his head as his eyes scanned the speedboats in his pack, then the waters beyond the pack where the coral reef was. He did not see the Red Stripe.
Looe Key? You better hope not.
That’s close to where we’re headed, you fucking idiot!
“Stay focused!” Perez snapped. “L-One standing by.”
Perez dropped the handheld into its holder beside where the in-dash VHF radio was mounted. Wedged in the lip of the VHF faceplate were four playing cards, a pair of diamonds and a pair of kings. The readout screen on the faceplate cycled, showing the radio was monitoring channel 16-the international frequency for distress and general calls-and channel 79.
The display then locked on 79, and the loudspeaker came to life with an excited young female voice.
“Attention all Poker Run captains,” she announced, her tone over-the-top chipper. “Headquarters station calling. Wave one is about to arrive at our fifth stop, Lost Key Resort, where boats get their last playing cards. Wave two is approximately ten minutes behind, and wave three, the last wave, left Key West fifteen minutes ago. So far only one boat’s dropped out, due to a mechanical problem. Keep safe out there! HQ headed for Lost Key and we’re standing by on channel 79. . ”
Perez sighed, then reached to the helm and turned down the volume on the VHF. He looked back and watched the lumbering cargo ship fading into the distance.
Ten minutes later, Carlos picked up the handheld radio and said: “Visual made. Coming up on my two o’clock. Should overtake in five-repeat five-minutes. Over.”
“L-Five, Tin Can. I see you on-screen. Understand five minutes.”
Carlos glanced at the gorgeous brunette as he reached for the Fountain’s throttles. She was napping, her empty champagne cup tipped o
ver in her lap.
He retarded the three big diesels slightly. The speed indicator on the dash and on the readout on the screen of the Global Positioning Satellite receiver both dropped from fifty to thirty-five mph.
The pack quickly pulled away from the Fountain. When he was about a hundred yards back, Carlos looked over his right shoulder, saw no other boats, and turned the wheel to the right. Then, lining up the cargo ship with the tip of his bow, he bumped the throttles up until the speed indicators read sixty-five.
He glanced back to his left. The high-performance boats cut across the water, their frothy white V-shaped wakes scoring the deep blue surface.
No one seemed to notice that their pack now numbered nine.
Six minutes later, Miguel Treto’s voice crackled over the radio: “L-Five, Tin Can. Approach at the stern, starboard side. No lines. My crew will hold you alongside.”
“Got it.”
Carlos saw a white thirty-foot-long center console fishing boat come out from the far side of the Nuevo Dia, crossing in front of her bow. There looked to be maybe ten aboard-young men and women-plus a burly, shirtless captain with dreadlocks.
The passengers were quickly moving under a cover at the front of the boat as it picked up speed and headed toward land.
Carlos deftly maneuvered the Fountain into the shadow of the Nuevo Dia, nudging up against four rubber bumpers hanging on either side of the boarding ladder. A pair of long aluminum poles with hooks reached down and held the boat secure against the bumpers.
Carlos glanced at the brunette, who now craned her neck looking up to the top of the ladder. He did, too, and saw that an attractive young blonde in a sundress had already started down the rungs.
He crossed the cockpit, preparing to help her step from the ladder onto the Fountain. He looked up again and grinned. He had a perfect angle right up her dress-and saw she wore no panties.
The brunette led the last of the girls into the cabin as the long aluminum pole next to Carlos started being pulled upward. About a minute later, it reappeared with the handles of an enormous black duffel bag looped around its hook. The pole lowered the stuffed duffel to the deck of the Fountain, then pulled back up and lowered a second one.
Carlos dragged them to the transom, opened a hatch there in the deck, and dropped the bags into the dry-storage hold below.
As the Fountain began drifting away from the cargo ship, Carlos spun the wheel and gave the port engine about twice the throttle of the others, causing the Fountain to turn clockwise almost in its own length. He then started to straighten up the wheel as he added more throttle to the other two engines, balancing out the rpm’s. Then he pushed all three throttles at once. The Fountain practically leapt forward, and in almost no time was hitting sixty-five mph.
Five minutes later, as a few of the girls were coming out of the cabin and sipping champagne from clear plastic cups, he spotted the last pack of boats in the Poker Run. He made turns to put his bow a little ahead of the pack, then bumped up the throttles to wide open.
Carlos pretended not to notice that the wind with the higher speeds was causing the brunette’s champagne to slosh all over her.
II
[ONE]
Office of the First Deputy Commissioner
Philadelphia Police Headquarters
Eighth and Race Streets
Sunday, November 16, 3:05 P.M.
“Yes-to answer the question that I’m sure has been on everyone’s mind-I’m damn well aware that this is a highly volatile situation,” the Honorable Jerome H. “Jerry” Carlucci, mayor of Philadelphia, all but growled. “To a large degree, the department has been lucky to keep quiet and compartmentalized the disappearance of the first two caseworkers. But with the McCain girl now gone missing, it would appear that that luck just ran the hell out.” He waved his right hand in the direction of the muted flat-screen television that was tuned to a local newscast. “Especially when the goddamn media gets wind of it.”
Five men, all standing, watched Carlucci pacing along the curved wall of bookshelves in the large third-floor office. Built in a circle design, the decades-old four-story “Roundhouse” was said not to have a straight wall anywhere, including in its elevators.
The men were First Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin, whose office it was; Captain Francis Xavier Hollaran, Coughlin’s assistant; Chief Inspector Matthew Lowenstein; Captain Henry Quaire, the head of the Homicide Unit and who reported to Lowenstein; and Quaire’s number two, Lieutenant Jason Washington. All were in plainclothes.
Carlucci was a massive-large-boned and heavyset-sixty-two-year-old with intense brown eyes and dark brown hair graying at the temples. He wore the suit he had put on for church that morning, a pin-striped gray woolen two-piece with a light blue dress shirt with white French cuffs and collar, and a red silk necktie with a matching silk pocket square.
Before becoming mayor, Carlucci had spent twenty-six years in the Philadelphia Police Department, holding, he was quick to announce, every rank but that of policewoman. He spoke bluntly and did not suffer fools-period. When he reached across the proverbial political aisle, it usually was with an iron fist. That certainly had made him more than a few enemies, but he didn’t give a damn. He enjoyed the respect of far many others-ones who appreciated his ability to not only confront seemingly impossible problems but, more times than not, to effectively fix them.
Carlucci stopped at the window near the big wooden desk. He turned to Coughlin, who stood behind the desk, next to the high-back black leather chair that showed years of use. Coughlin, tall and heavyset, with a full head of curly silver hair and eyes that missed nothing, projected a formidable presence.
“Denny, where the hell did you say Ralph was?”
“He’s the keynote speaker at the National Chiefs of Police convention.”
“Which is where?”
“Vegas.”
Carlucci’s eyebrows went up. “Of course he gets to go to tony Las Vegas. I think the nicest place-and I use that loosely-that I went as commissioner was Newark.”
There were a few chuckles.
Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariana was the department’s top cop-the last position Carlucci had held before his retirement and being elected mayor. Both the commissioner and the first deputy commissioner served at the mayor’s pleasure, although they were appointed to their jobs by the city’s managing director. The seven thousand policemen they commanded-the country’s fourth-largest force-were all civil servants.
Carlucci was neither surprised at Mariana’s absence nor was he angry. It was no secret that Mariana-a natty, stocky, balding Italian with four stars on his white uniform shirt-served as the face of the police department, while it was his three-star, Denny Coughlin, who effectively saw to the day-to-day running of the department.
And it was His Honor the mayor who ultimately called the shots.
The brass in the room had a long history-certainly professional but also to varying degrees personal-with one another. When young Philadelphia police officers showed promise, a “rabbi” quietly mentored them as they rose in the ranks, preparing them to take on greater responsibilities. Jerry Carlucci, for one example, then a captain and head of the Homicide Unit, had been Denny Coughlin’s rabbi.
Carlucci looked from Coughlin to the others.
“The department has run out of luck because Margaret McCain’s father. . you are aware of who the McCains are?” he said rhetorically, continuing before anyone could answer: “For everyone’s edification, allow me to share. They’re among the Proper Philadelphians-the founders-right up there with the Whartons and the Pennypackers and the Rittenhouses. There’s the story that Michael McCain, one helluva clever lawyer who later became governor, banged heads with Ben Franklin over the way various parts of the Declaration of Independence were worded. And Will McCain, Margaret’s father, is a chip off that old block-the old man also was six-foot-something and had a hot Scottish temper. Would not surprise me if, like the old man, Will carries a gun
everywhere. Hell, the McCains once owned the land that’s now the Radnor Hunt Club. So, understanding that background explains why Will does not take no for an answer. He’s like General George Patton-also a Scot-in that he gets what he wants. And what he wants right now are answers about his daughter.”
“I sympathize with her father and his frustration,” Chief Inspector Lowenstein offered. “The McCain girl has gone to great lengths trying to become untraceable-and done so remarkably quickly. His fear is grounded, and that is without the benefit of knowing anything about the other missing caseworkers.”
The ruddy-faced Lowenstein, who was Jewish, had a full head of curly silver hair. He was barrel-chested, large, and stocky.
“The damn fact of the matter,” Carlucci said pointedly, “is that we essentially don’t know a thing about what happened to those two women.”
The room was silent for a long moment. Then Coughlin came to Lowenstein’s defense.
“It’s certainly not for lack of effort,” Coughlin said evenly, the frustration in his tone evident. “Since those first two went missing last week, Matt has had an entire unit in Special Operations quietly running down every lead.”
Carlucci nodded.
“I of course understand that, Denny. As well as the frustration. Yet now we’re looking for three.” He turned to Lowenstein. “It sounds as if you’ve decided that Margaret McCain is a willing participant in her disappearance.”
“I don’t know if the word ‘willing’ is entirely accurate,” Lowenstein said, waving a sheaf of papers. “But it is looking like she could be the one making the decisions. What she’s doing seems almost planned.”
“What’re those papers?” Carlucci said.
“The initial responses to our electronic queries. I’m thinking that because of her job keeping track of the kids at Mary’s House, she became quite knowledgeable about electronic tethers-credit and debit cards, cell phones, E-ZPass, et cetera. She’s being careful. There’s been no signal from her personal cell phone, which could mean she has intentionally turned it off or that it has a dead battery. Her Land Cruiser’s GPS unit either is not working or has been disabled. When we queried the Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission, her E-ZPass account came up with no active travel through any tollbooth in the last forty-eight hours.” He paused, then went on: “And there were only two charges on any of her half dozen credit cards. Both to the same PNC MasterCard. One was for forty bucks and change at a Gas amp; Go near the airport. The other was made a half hour later, at two o’clock this morning, at a Center City pharmacy for more than three hundred dollars.”
The Last Witness boh-11 Page 4
