Miami Requiem (Deborah Jones Crime Thriller Series Book 1)

by J. B. Turner

  ‘No one knows how she died. Police say she’s fallen to her death in a tragic accident.’

  12

  Just after dawn, a small team of bleary-eyed journalists‌—‌including Deborah Jones‌—‌assembled in the newsroom of the Miami Herald. It was like a scene from one of Rachel Harvey’s blockbuster films. No one thought her death was an accident. The general consensus‌—‌knowing what the actress had said to Deborah and Sam only hours before‌—‌was that she had been iced in a contract killing. Off-the-record comments from the FBI’s Organized Crime Section in Washington DC confirmed that the senator and Fachetti were tight.

  Thankfully, Deborah had a tape and excellent shorthand notes to prove that the interview had taken place. Both items were locked in a safe in Sam Goldberg’s office.

  Sam Goldberg wanted to know one thing: Was Rachel Harvey pushed or did she jump? ‘World-famous actresses don’t just fall to their death from hotel rooms after having a drink or a pill too many,’ he said. ‘If they did, our papers would be packed with nothing else.’

  A few wry grins.

  ‘Now, I’m not ruling out that it was a tragic accident or suicide, but I think we all agree this stinks. So I don’t want any detail, no matter how small or insignificant, to be ignored. Try not to piss off too many people. Everyone and their dog will want a piece of this, but they’re not having it. This is our story. Don’t mention to anyone that Deborah was the last person to interview her. That’s strictly confidential. Any questions?’

  Larry Coen, the crime reporter, said, ‘Did the night editor come up with anything?’

  ‘A few bland quotes from the duty manager and the police, but nothing from hotel employees or guests. It didn’t amount to much.’ His gaze roamed from journalist to journalist, and lingered on Deborah. ‘Any more questions?’

  There weren’t any.

  Deborah, along with two other younger reporters, was assigned to speak to chambermaids, cleaners, tourists or anyone who’d stayed at the hotel. Two senior journalists stayed in the newsroom and phoned valued sources. Three more streetwise reporters met up in bars with police informants.

  Deborah could see early on that something wasn’t right. She spent just an hour badgering night-shift employees leaving their work, but they all said the same thing. ‘Please speak to the management.’

  Fifteen employees, some chefs, some bellhops, some security, uttered the same words. Someone had laid down the law.

  According to Shaw Walters, a crime reporter around Deborah’s age, it was rare if not impossible for all the employees to give the same response, unless national security was at risk. Some would always speak off the record, but not this time. Even hotel guests, tourists and the like, didn’t seem keen to talk. They weren’t as on-message as the staff, but still, it was disconcerting.

  Deborah was about to head back to the newsroom when she had an idea. What about Brett? He was in the FBI after all. And she figured he owed her.

  It took six rings before his cell phone was picked up.

  ‘Brett Pottinger,’ he said. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach.

  ‘Brett, sorry to bother you. It’s Deborah.’ She took off her sunglasses as another network TV van pulled up.

  ‘Hey, how ya doin’? I knew you’d call. Said to my father you would.’

  ‘Look, Brett, I’m sure you’re busy, but I need a favor.’

  ‘Just name it.’

  ‘I’m working on a story in Miami.’

  ‘Rachel Harvey?’

  Deborah paused and tried to think of what she’d say. ‘Look, I need to get an inside track on this.’

  Brett groaned. ‘That’s against regulations, as you know.’

  ‘No one’s saying a thing down here. I spoke to her only last night. Has the name Fachetti cropped up in the police investigation so far?’

  ‘We’re not strictly involved.’

  ‘You will be.’

  Brett paused for a couple of beats.

  ‘Well, is Fachetti in the frame, or anyone who works for him?’

  ‘I’d love to help Deborah, but I‌—‌’

  ‘You’d be doing me a big, big favor. And you owe me one, don’t you think?’

  ‘I can’t talk just now, but I might be able to help. Not on the phone, though. I’ll be in touch.’

  And he hung up.

  Early in the afternoon, when Deborah returned to the office, Goldberg filled her in on developments. Apparently, two stringers in New York had independently verified that Rachel Harvey had been raped many years ago in Manhattan. They’d faxed over medical reports from her past – after getting copies from the same ‘amenable’ hospital administrator. Goldberg was confident of running with her story tomorrow or the day after. But first they had to give a statement to the Miami police. They seemed satisfied, but the day wasn’t over.

  • • •

  Shortly after five P.M., Deborah and Goldberg were summoned to the office of the executive editor, Harry Donovan. He sat behind his polished desk and stared morosely at his laptop. He wore a dark blue pinstriped suit, white shirt, and pink tie. His sand-colored hair looked like a wig.

  Deborah and Goldberg took a seat.

  Donovan cleared his throat and leaned back in his black leather seat. ‘So, Deborah, what the hell happened last night?’ She felt uncomfortable, aware that he knew all about the past that she had been desperate to conceal.

  ‘What happened was, I interviewed Rachel Harvey, first in the bar, then in her suite. I called Mr Goldberg for guidance because her allegations were so extraordinary. He came up and heard the allegations himself. Several hours later, I learn she’s dead.’

  Donovan picked up a pencil and chewed the end. ‘So the two of you were the last people to see her alive?’ He shook his head. ‘How did she seem to you, Sam?’

  ‘Slightly tipsy, but genial. Cogent.’

  ‘Slightly drunk?’

  Goldberg shrugged. ‘She knew exactly what she was saying.’

  ‘Did she talk about taking her own life?’

  ‘No. She wanted the story on Joe O’Neill to get out.’

  Donovan arched his eyebrows. ‘And this was all recorded, right?’

  ‘You wanna hear it?’

  ‘I’ve seen the transcripts. Although I haven’t read the whole thing.’ Donovan leaned forward, elbows on the desk. He steepled his fingers. ‘I had a rather interesting call this morning. Some Miami chief of police I’ve never heard of wanting some help from us.’

  ‘We’ve given statements to the police already.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but seems like they want a whole lot more.’

  Goldberg shrugged.

  ‘Sam, they want access to last night’s tapes.’

  Goldberg flushed crimson. ‘I hope you told him to go to hell. Haven’t they heard of the First Amendment?’

  ‘Sam, I understand perfectly well that journalists don’t hand over tapes, notepads or whatever. I know that. But think about it. Rachel fucking Harvey is lying on a mortuary slab and nobody knows why.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn who it is,’ Goldberg said. ‘We don’t give up sources or confidential material.’

  ‘You have no sources. Harvey is dead.’ Donovan sighed. ‘We should consider it. It could provide clues for the police investigation.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’ Goldberg was having difficulty controlling his anger. ‘Harry, we go back a long way, but I don’t ever recall you taking such a line. And just so you know, I’d refuse to obey a federal grand-jury subpoena if it ordered me to hand over the tapes.’

  Donovan banged the table with his fist and made Deborah jump. ‘In the circumstances, I understand where the police are coming from.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind, Harry? Who phoned you? Look, I’ll speak to them and take the heat. Gimme a name.’

  ‘Dennis Morrison.’ He shrugged. ‘That mean anything to you?’

  ‘He’s top dog down
the beach. What the hell’s downtown got to do with him?’

  ‘Never mind, but he wants those tapes bad.’ Donovan paused for a few moments. ‘Sam, we’re not talking about ethics. We’re talking about people’s lives. Deborah’s tapes could hold the key.’

  Donovan had been in the job for just a year. He was, according to some on Metro, a ‘steady, dependable’ type of journalist. He had got the job despite the protestations of staff unimpressed by his tenure as managing editor. Goldberg had been the newsroom choice when he was passed over, five years earlier, apparently because of his relatively young age.

  Donovan didn’t have much of a track record sniffing out stories. Not like Goldberg. Sam knew what a story was. And he wasn’t afraid to put a few noses out of joint. He liked to make the analogy, according to a senior journalist Deborah respected, of a dog who peed against a lamp-post. He said that was how journalists should treat politicians. Not with respect, but with contempt.

  ‘Look, I agree the tapes are important.’ Goldberg was trying to be conciliatory. ‘But they’re ours and we’re not giving them to the police. Who the hell would want to be interviewed by us in the future?’

  Donovan looked at Deborah, long and hard. ‘What else did Rachel Harvey say?’

  ‘It’s all there in the transcripts, sir. She was raped by Joe O’Neill. That’s why she contacted me after reading my story.’

  ‘Where ‘s the corroboration?’

  ‘If I can just interrupt for a minute.’ Goldberg handed over the two faxes. ‘Two stringers in New York, independent of each other, faxed Larry Coen copies of medical reports which back up her story.’

  Donovan speed-read the information. ‘This doesn’t mean shit. It could’ve been anyone who attacked her.’

  ‘You think Rachel Harvey made this up?’ Deborah said.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Donovan undid the top button of his shirt and looked at Goldberg. ‘What’s the latest on our investigation into Harvey’s death?’

  ‘Not much. But an Australian tourist in the suite below‌—‌he was attending a computer convention‌—‌said he’d heard a struggle just after midnight. Some screams.’

  ‘Did he report it?’

  ‘Thought it was high jinks.’

  Donovan pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Fox News just reported that police sources are talking about suicide. If she’d been drinking, that’s possible.’

  Goldberg said, ‘No way. I don’t buy that.’

  ‘We can’t rule it out.’

  ‘I disagree, Harry,’ Goldberg said. ‘And not only that, we’ve got to decide how to run with the story for tomorrow.’

  ‘It’ll just have to be a straightforward “mystery surrounds the death of actress” line.’

  ‘Harry, that’s stating the obvious. The police have buttoned down this story good. No leaks. Nothing. We, though, have got a fresh line. We’re sitting on a classic story.’

  Donovan shrugged. ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘Let’s do the right thing, Harry. Let’s publish and be damned. We’ve got the tapes, we’ve had confirmation from the stringers and I think we should splash on Deborah’s story about the rape tomorrow.’

  ‘O’Neill’s lawyers will rip us apart.’ Donovan looked at Deborah and smiled bleakly. ‘This story of yours on this death-row Scot is turning into a bit of a headache for us, Miss Jones.’

  ‘I’m sure that Rachel Harvey would’ve swapped a headache for her fate, don’t you?’ Deborah replied.

  ‘Miss Jones, you’re only just in the door at the Herald. I’d strongly advise you to be less headstrong. What would you say if I told you I wanted you to pass the tape on to the police?’

  ‘The same as Mr Goldberg, with respect, sir.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Deborah saw Goldberg grin like a proud father.

  ‘That might not be such a great career move.’

  Deborah smiled, but inside she seethed. ‘This is not about my career, Mr Donovan. It’s about principles. It’s about truth.’

  ‘Okay, Miss Jones, if that’s your last word on it, so be it. Sam, seems like you’ve left me with no choice. Since the tapes aren’t being handed over, which I think is a perfectly reasonable request under the circumstances, the rape story is on the back burner. I’m pulling rank on you. And that’s my last word.’

  Goldberg looked dumbstruck. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Deadly. The story’s dead until you come up with something more substantial.’

  13

  That night, in a town nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains‌—‌seventy miles west of Washington‌—‌a limo pulled up outside an exclusive restaurant and country retreat. Senator O’Neill stepped out and was greeted by hotel staff as if he were an old friend.

  ‘Would you like to relax in the lounge before being seated for dinner?’

  O’Neill nodded and was escorted into a two-story sitting room. A huge portrait of the French bon vivant and writer Brillat-Savarin hung over a marble fireplace. The senator sat in his usual leather chair and faced away from the window.

  For the next ten minutes O’Neill sipped a champagne cocktail and munched on nuts from a silver dish.

  He had had little sleep after Richmond woke him to tell him about Rachel Harvey. He’d taken the call in shocked silence as Rose slept, unaware, but he could see this was way out of control. It had to end.

  His diary was full. He was up at five for a six o’clock breakfast with his advisers, before flying to Washington. He listened to dire warnings from hawks in the administration giving reasons why Iraq had to be invaded following the routing of the Taliban in Afghanistan. And all the time he heard reports on CNN and Fox about the bizarre death of Rachel Harvey. To cap it all, his driver got snared in heavy traffic on the Beltway.

  A waiter asked, ‘Sir, are you ready for dinner?’

  O’Neill looked up and nodded. He was ushered to a table at the rear of the dining room.

  The lighting seemed dimmer than usual, plum in color. The atmosphere was French and convivial. He saw that four other tables were occupied by out-of-towners in suits, accompanied mostly by attractive young women.

  O’Neill couldn’t abide infidelity. Reminded him of stories about his father leering at barmaids, or impregnating an eighteen-year-old schoolgirl, back in Brooklyn.

  His mother had been a quiet Italian lady, keen that her son should concentrate on his studies. Should’ve left that Irish bum before she was too tired to run off. He remembered saying that, but she had just laughed. She went to church and told the priest her woes and applied a little make-up to cover the bruising from her husband’s drunken beatings. The church made her feel better, at least for a few hours.

  O’Neill spotted the table, tucked away in an alcove. He sat down opposite a frail old man who wore dark glasses. He looked like he’d lost a lot of weight, the cream linen suit hanging off him.

  John Richmond looked ill.

  Neither spoke as glasses of the restaurant’s finest Chablis were poured.

  When the headwaiter retreated a safe distance, O’Neill spoke. ‘What’re you trying to do to me? It’s all over the media.’

  ‘Know something? I don’t give a damn. Anyhow, it was an accident.’

  ‘That was no accident. Talk about attracting unwanted attention.’

  ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job. We dealt with a problem, okay?’ Richmond jabbed a finger in his direction. ‘You deal with the politics, we’ll deal with the shit.’

  Silence prevailed as a tray of nibbles was brought to their table. Richmond took a bite-sized biscuit with ham.

  O’Neill ignored the food. ‘The police aren’t stupid,’ he said. ‘And they sure as hell won’t buy the notion that Harvey fell to her death accidentally.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Things have got out of hand. I want nothing to do with you anymore, y’hear?’

  Richmond wiped the crumbs from his cracked lips with
the back of his bony hand. ‘Jack, we go way back… You can’t forget who we are or where we came from. Christ, I visited your home on the day you were born. On the day you were born. And I’ll never forget your sweet mother, who I loved like a sister, saying it was the happiest day of her life. She was so proud of you.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that you and me can never, ever be separated. I love you like a son, always have. Look, Jack, you’re upset, but you’ll come round and see I’m right.’

  O’Neill sipped some wine. He thought back to his early days as a child in Brooklyn, remembering meeting Uncle Paulie, as he was then known. Uncle Paulie would give him candy, ruffle his hair, and take him for walks in Central Park along the Upper East Side where he had an apartment. On these walks they were always accompanied by fearsome-looking men. O’Neill was a bright kid, and kind Uncle Paulie had paid his fees at Harvard. A few years later, once he’d become established as a hotshot lawyer, his uncle pulled a few strings to get him nominated on the Democrat ticket in Florida. All he knew about the man who would one day call himself John Richmond was that he was just a neighborhood ‘import-and-export guy’ who wanted to help a ‘local’ Brooklyn boy better himself.

  O’Neill didn’t ask any questions when obscene amounts of money poured into his campaigns. Perhaps he was naive. Perhaps he just didn’t want to know. But when, in the late 1970s, he did find out where it all came from‌—‌criminal connections and Teamster pension dollars‌—‌it was too late. Way too late to extricate himself from Richmond’s clutches.

  ‘You didn’t have to do this.’

  ‘Oh, but we did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Harvey spoke to someone before we could get to her.’ O’Neill felt sick to the pit of his stomach. ‘How do you know that?’

  Richmond picked at some arugula glazed with olive oil. ‘We are persuasive people. But it’s not so much a question of what she said as who she said it to.’

  ‘Deborah Jones? Anyone else present?’

  ‘Sam Goldberg.’

  O’Neill groaned inwardly.

  ‘Something else you need to know, Jack. The conversation was taped.’