Black Horizon (Jack Swyteck Novel)

by Grippando, James

  Neither of them responded. Finally, Vivien said, “I truly am sorry that Noori is dead.”

  “I don’t care if you’re sorry or not,” said Andie. “This is business.”

  “What do you want from us?” asked Rick.

  “I know Dawut paid you fifty thousand dollars. I know he owed you a lot more for getting Rafael to pull this off. I’m here to tell you that we’re not going to pay you. You’re not getting it from me, and you’re not getting it from Long Wu.”

  “First of all,” said Rick, “let’s get things straight. Noori paid Rafael Lopez fifty thousand dollars.”

  “He didn’t pay Rafael anything.”

  Andie held out her hand, illuminating it with a small flashlight. The tattoo above her thumb, just below the wrist, was identical to Rafael’s. Andie noted their reaction, which they couldn’t hide. But Rick still played it cool.

  “A tattoo. So what?”

  “The Eye of Our Lady,” said Andie. “Temporary tattoo. Very high quality, but it washes off easily. Same thing they use in the movies. Same thing you used when you were pretending to be Rafael Lopez.”

  Rick didn’t deny it. “What do you want from us?”

  “My sources tell me that you have been very busy. Not only were you working Dawut to cough up what he promised to pay you. But you’ve also been working the feds to pay for information about the cause of the explosion. We want half.”

  Rick laughed.

  “You think I’m joking?” asked Andie. “Dawut is dead. He can’t be prosecuted for anything. You pay us half, or I go to the FBI and tell them who Dawut was working with.”

  “Tell them what?” said Rick, scoffing. “That Noori was working with Rafael Lopez? You have nothing on us.”

  “Rafael was your pawn,” said Andie. “So was Josefina. You told them that the computer virus from Dawut would make the alarm malfunction in a storm. You didn’t tell Rafael the rig would explode. You told him it would be crippled, floating without power at the mercy of the seas in a hurricane. The entire crew would be evacuated to the nearest shore, which was Key West. It was Rafael’s ticket to be with his wife.”

  Vivien’s expression went cold. The depth and breadth of Andie’s knowledge clearly scared her.

  “I’m right,” said Andie. “I know I’m right.”

  “Maybe we can work something out,” said Vivien.

  “Shut up,” said Rick. “She’s bluffing.”

  “I’m not bluffing,” said Andie, glancing at her tattoo. “You can buy Our Lady of Guadalupe temporary tattoos just about anywhere, but The Eye of Our Lady is pretty hard to find. Only a few online sources sell it. I happen to know that one of those websites shipped to you, Rick.”

  It wasn’t a bluff; the FBI had it. Again, no denial from Rick.

  Andie pressed further. “I also know that you made sure the bank employees saw the tattoo when you opened the accounts in Rafael’s name at New Providence Bank and Trust. You made sure Jack Swyteck saw it after Vivien helped you kidnap him from her apartment. All this was to deflect attention from you, making it look like maybe Rafael Lopez—the man behind the explosion—was still alive. Most important, you made sure Dawut saw it, so when he came looking for the guy who was squeezing him for more money, he wouldn’t think of you. Don’t deny it. I got Dawut’s phone after he died, and I saw the photograph that you e-mailed him—the one of the hand holding the deposit slip, just enough of the hand in the picture to show the tattoo.”

  Andie was sharing information that went way beyond her “girlfriend” undercover role, but she didn’t care. At this point, she had them, and the look on their faces was worth it.

  Rick turned and started to make a run for it, but he didn’t get far. RBPF officers jumped out from their positions of hiding in the neighboring boats, guns drawn, trapping Rick and Vivien.

  “Freeze!” the team of officers shouted.

  The suspects stopped and raised their arms on command, but Vivien quickly cracked.

  “This was Rick’s idea!” she shouted. “I’m just a reporter.”

  “Shut up!” said Rick. “Noori paid Rafael. This was all Noori and Rafael.”

  “Rick forced me to do this,” said Vivien. “This man’s a monster.”

  “It was Rafael, you stupid bitch. Nobody but Noori and Rafael.”

  The RPBF officers cuffed Rick first, then Vivien. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Mr. Jeffries,” the Bahamian officer said. “And so are you, miss.”

  “What did I do? It was all him,” said Vivien.

  “All me, huh? Who was in Havana to collect the money?”

  “You see?” Vivien shouted, imploring her arresting officer. “You see how he uses people just to keep from getting caught with his hands in the cookie jar? He’s a monster, I tell you!”

  Andie gave a little salute of appreciation to the Bahamian detective, then watched with satisfaction as the RPBF took them away. She could hear Vivien’s shouting—“It’s him! Not me!”—all the way to the end of the dock, until they finally disappeared into the police van in the parking lot.

  Epilogue

  The news segments could have been written by Jack. All day, the “sad and tragic cause of the Scarborough 8 disaster” played out on American television. Jack watched one final report from the oil-tinged shores of Key West.

  “It has nothing to do with the oil industry,” the reporter said, as cleanup crews toiled behind her. “It has nothing to do with the trade embargo against Cuba, environmental terrorism by the left or right, or industrial sabotage by one corporate giant against another. This was the desperate act of a young man who wanted to get to America to be with the woman he loved. He sabotaged the Scarborough 8, thinking that because the rig was closer to Key West than to Cuba, all those aboard would be evacuated to the United States. Once there, he planned to claim asylum and be with the woman he loved. There was just one problem: his actions caused a massive explosion way beyond anything he imagined possible.”

  Jack turned it off. The Scarborough 8 was officially the worst oil spill in U.S. history.

  And it was a love story.

  He opened the French doors and stepped out onto the deck behind the house. Andie was sitting before her laptop in the shade of an umbrella, typing her final report on Operation Black Horizon. Their golden retriever, Max, lay at her feet, back from his doggie vacation at Mitzi’s Boot Camp, which was originally to have coincided with Jack and Andie’s honeymoon. He was sound asleep, no doubt exhausted from daily swims in the pool and racing in the fields with horses.

  “I get most of this,” said Jack. “But if Rafael was a derrick monkey, how did he get anywhere near the computerized alarm system?”

  Andie looked up from her LCD. “You know I can’t discuss my report.”

  “Surely the answer to my question is going to be public information.”

  She didn’t argue. “Okay. Rafael was probably the most overqualified derrick monkey you’ll ever see. He volunteered for it, but the degree he was working on from the university was in computer engineering. So he hung out with the other engineers and engineering students at meals or in the recreation room. He became their buddy, and they showed him around. He worked the friendships to get access.”

  “Why did he volunteer to be a derrick monkey?”

  “So he could see to Key West. You have to remember, this was—”

  “A love story,” said Jack.

  “A sad one.”

  “Makes me even sadder that Rafael only thought he was seeing Key West. The Coast Guard expert that I brought into court said it was impossible to see that far, even from the top of the derrick.”

  “I’ll bet what he actually saw was the Dry Tortugas. Fort Jefferson is pretty high above sea level at points.”

  Fort Jefferson. Jack could only shake his head at the irony. The old fort was where the doctor who set the broken leg of Abraham Lincoln’s assassin had served his prison sentence.

  “They should reopen it and lock up Viv
ien and Rick there.”

  “That would be too good,” said Andie. “I’m told the Bahamas will seek the death penalty against Rick for the Jeffries murder. Vivien could get life as an accomplice, but hopefully we’ll obtain extradition and the National Security Division will figure out a way to seek the death penalty under antiterrorism laws.”

  Jack wasn’t in the mood for another death penalty debate with Andie. He changed the subject, if only slightly.

  “I spoke to Bianca,” he said.

  “How did she take it?”

  “Like you’d expect. Disgusted by Rick. Overwhelmed by how much Rafael wanted to be with her. Terrible feelings of guilt over the pain and disaster it caused. Not that the lawsuit matters anymore, but of course she knows her case is over. I wish I could have at least kept that fifty thousand bucks for her, but it’s beyond a stretch to make a legal claim to an account that never really belonged to her or Rafael.”

  “Does she even have a job anymore?”

  “Rick’s Café is closed for now, but it won’t take long to find a buyer for a bar on Duval Street. Funny thing, but the reason Theo went to Key West in the first place was to scout out the possibility of buying it with friends. Rumor had it that Rick was looking to sell before I even met him.”

  “In anticipation of a big fat Bahamian bank account, no doubt.”

  “I suppose. Oh, well. Maybe Theo and his friends will end up getting a steal on his bar.”

  “That would be something if Bianca ends up working for Theo.”

  Jack shook his head. “Sometimes I think life would be so much easier if we all just worked for Theo.”

  She caught his drift. “Okay, how much did you lose on this contingency-fee case?”

  “Not sure. But it may pay off in referrals down the line.”

  “You mean from your friend Cassie in New York?”

  “Believe it or not, Luis Candela. He has an oil client who allegedly bribed public officials in Ecuador and might be indicted under the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act. Said he’ll probably be giving me a call.”

  “Great. Another case that you and I will see completely eye to eye on, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah. Candela’s actually a decent guy. I think this could come through.”

  “But until then?”

  Jack shrugged. “Until then, how do you feel about finishing our honeymoon at the Ritz Carlton on Key Biscayne?”

  It was a full eight blocks from their house. “Sounds perfect.”

  There was silence between them. Then Andie reached over and took his hand. “You really okay?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “I think so,” she said with a sad smile. “Wish I could hit the rewind button and go back to our wedding day. But I can’t.”

  Jack looked off toward the bay, thinking of Rafael gazing across the Florida Straits from atop the derrick. “Kind of the way Bianca feels, I would imagine.”

  “Yeah,” said Andie. “I would imagine.”

  The memorial service at sea was on Friday afternoon. It was Bianca, Jack, Andie, and Theo.

  The sun was shining brightly as Jack motored out their rented ski-boat from Key West. Twin outboard engines propelled them in a southwesterly direction for almost an hour. They were in international waters, no land in sight, when Jack cut the engine. Gentle waves slapped against the starboard side, a soothing sound.

  “Take your time,” Jack told Bianca.

  She nodded and rose slowly. The boat was rocking, and it took her a moment to get her sea legs. Then she opened a book to read “El Cisne,” an old poem by Elisa Monge.

  Jack would have liked to follow it aurally, but Hispanic poetry wasn’t easy for the minimally conversant. Bianca had printed out a rough English translation, which Jack shared with Andie and Theo. It lacked the power and rhythm of the native tongue, but against the backdrop of Bianca’s reading of the Spanish original, even the printed translation approached poetry: “In the middle of the waters swayed / a handsome swan of snowy plumage / that sank his head into the foam / and with pleasure dipped it out again.” Bianca read in a soft voice, stopping to collect herself as the woman in the poem returns to the lake and is unable to find her swan, and stopped once more, to choke back tears, when the woman discovers what has happened to him. A particularly long pause punctuated her struggle at the end: “Nevermore would the handsome, majestic swan / so proudly pass over the lake / nevermore would the rays of the silver moon / illuminate his graceful gliding.”

  When she finished, Bianca put down her book of poetry and went to the stern. Three wreaths rested side by side on the padded bench seat. With great care, she lifted the one in the middle with both hands. It was a mixture of colorful orchids and white butterfly jasmine (Mariposa Blanca), the official flower of Cuba. It was for Rafael. She walked to portside, whispered something that Jack couldn’t hear—maybe good-bye, maybe I love you—and dropped it overboard.

  She gripped the chrome rail tightly, her hands shaking.

  Theo then rose, walked to the back of the boat, took another wreath, and dropped it over the side. It was for Josefina. Together, Jack and Andie dropped the third wreath for Sicario.

  The water buoyed each of them, and the line of wreaths drifted away from their boat, a floral flotilla. Jack put his arm around Bianca, holding her close as they watched in silence. The wreaths were getting smaller, farther away, and then they all saw it.

  When the wreaths had drifted about twenty yards from the boat, a gentle swell rose up, and the water flashed with ironic and ambivalent beauty. It surrounded all three memorials like a halo, framing them in an assortment of colors more brilliant than the blossoms that made up the wreaths, colors that set this solemn place apart from the deep-blue ocean around them. For an instant, it was like a rainbow floating on the ocean’s surface.

  It was the sheen of Cuban petroleum glistening in the Florida sun.

  Acknowledgments

  It’s been twenty years since Jack Swyteck made his debut in The Pardon. I am forever grateful to Richard Pine, still my agent, who pitched Jack to HarperCollins, still my publisher. I didn’t write that first Swyteck novel thinking it would become a series, so special thanks go to my editor, Carolyn Marino, who, after our fourth novel together, had the good sense to ask, “What ever happened to Jack?”

  I do my own research, so the mistakes are all mine, but I’m grateful to many who shared their knowledge and expertise, including Rex Hamilton and his incredibly helpful friends at the Everglades Foundation; Gwen Keenan, director of Emergency Response, Office of Emergency Response, Florida Department of Environmental Protection; and Jacqueline Gonzalez-Touzet, for her insights into Cuba and, in particular, Cuban architecture.

  I’m also grateful to Carolyn’s editorial assistant, Amanda Bergeron, and to my volunteer beta readers, Janis Koch and Gloria Villa. They do much more than copyedit. They make me a better writer.

  Congratulations to John and Samantha Murphy, who lent the name of John’s father (Jim Murphy) to a character in Black Horizon. The generosity of the Murphy family at a “character auction” will benefit the children of St. Thomas Episcopal Parish School. The tradition of character auctions in Jack Swyteck novels started with Beyond Suspicion (Swyteck No. 2), and I’m happy to say that we’ve now raised over $50,000 for charity.

  Finally, to Tiffany. Jack Swyteck came to life twenty years ago, and I feel like I did, too. Happy anniversary. I love you.

  About the Author

  PHOTO BY MONICA HOPKINS

  JAMES GRIPPANDO is a New York Times bestselling author whose novels are enjoyed worldwide in twenty-six languages. Black Horizon is his twentieth novel published by HarperCollins, the eleventh in the acclaimed series featuring Miami attorney Jack Swyteck. He is also the author of Leapholes for young adults. James was a trial lawyer for twelve years before the publication of his first novel in 1994 (The Pardon), and he is now counsel at one of the nation’s leading law firms. He lives and writes in south Florida.

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  Also by James Grippando

  Blood Money*+

  Need You Now+

  Afraid of the Dark*+

  Money to Burn+

  Intent to Kill

  Born to Run*+

  Last Call*+

  Lying with Strangers

  When Darkness Falls*+

  Got the Look*+

  Hear No Evil*

  Last to Die*

  Beyond Suspicion*

  A King’s Ransom

  Under Cover of Darkness+

  Found Money

  The Abduction

  The Informant

  The Pardon*

  And for Young Adults

  Leapholes

  * A Jack Swyteck novel

  + Also featuring FBI agent Andie Henning

  Credits

  COVER DESIGN BY ERVIN SERRANO

  COVER PHOTOGRAPHS : © JASMIN SANDER / PLAINPICTURE (TREES) ; © U.S. COAST GUARD PHOTO / ALAMY (SMOKE)

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BLACK HORIZON. Copyright © 2014 by James Grippando. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Grippando, James.

  Black horizon / James Grippando.—First Edition.