by J. B. Turner
‘Can you get hold of it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Christ, they could publish the interview tomorrow.’ Richmond’s mouth curved into a snake-like smile. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why didn’t you stop her before she reached Miami?’ wish the fuck we had. The tip-off from Rachel’s personal assistant, Becky, came too late. By the time we were on her case, she had already checked into the hotel under a false name.’
O’Neill shook his head.
‘What did you want us to do? Whack her there and then in front of everyone?’
‘I don’t have time for this. Goddamn it, I’m in the middle of a campaign—or hadn’t you noticed?’
Richmond leaned back in his seat. ‘There is one bit of good news.’
‘What?’
‘Jones has got part of the story about Joe, but not all of it.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
Richmond smiled, exposing some small, stumpy yellow teeth. With all his money, O’Neill knew it’d be easy for him to get his teeth done, but apparently he had a phobia about dentists. ‘Look, Jack, I could get rid of her for you. You want that?’
O’Neill stayed quiet.
‘Know something? She got lucky.’
O’Neill took another small sip of the wine. ‘She got lucky twice. So the Miami Herald will know the story?’
‘Up to a point. But not the full picture.’
‘I want out.’
‘You know how it works, Jack,’ Richmond said. ‘No one ever leaves without our consent. It don’t happen that way. We’re like a family.’
O’Neill closed his eyes.
‘It’ll blow over. There’ll be a feeding frenzy for the next few days, and that’ll be that, you’ll see.’
The two men went quiet as their main courses arrived.
O’Neill had chosen filet of rare tuna, which he duly picked at.
Richmond had a salad. They finished the bottle of Chablis and Richmond ordered another.
Richmond was normally obsessive about his security, especially in public. He was convinced the Feds were after him. He often left his home, in the same gated community outside Naples where O’Neill lived, in a procession of identical limos. And they all took different routes. It was paranoid to the point of madness, but it seemed to work. Richmond had been allowed to do as he liked for decades, undisturbed. His wealth was immaterial; once you got past the first billion, who counted?
Over coffee, Richmond broke the silence. ‘Jack, I know how you must be feeling, but trust me on this. There was no other way. You know we wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Christ, you’re part of us. Who’s supported you from the very beginning?’
‘Okay, what’s done is done. But I don’t want any more nasty surprises.’
Richmond, as if reading his mind, said, ‘You want us to keep an eye on Jones?’
O’Neill knew at that precise moment that he should’ve walked out and had nothing more to do with Richmond or his organization. But he didn’t. All he could think of was Joe’s killer, walking free. ‘Discreet, you hear?’ O’Neill knew then that he’d crossed an invisible line. ‘Do not lay a finger on her. Keep me informed this time.’
‘Understood.’
O’Neill sipped a Glayva liqueur. The honey-smooth texture of the sweet whiskey felt good. But he still felt as though he was drowning in quicksand, unable to get free, no matter how hard he kicked or screamed.
Richmond took off his sunglasses and smiled at him, eyes black. He patted the back of O’Neill’s hand. ‘You know, you worry too much.’
14
The days following Rachel Harvey’s death were like a blur for Deborah. Sixteen hours straight was the norm. The Herald’s investigation was now bigger than the Versace killing down on South Beach. No breaks were forthcoming for the first forty-eight hours as the team worked like crazy, but then Deborah made a breakthrough.
A hand-delivered package from an anonymous source, addressed to ‘Deborah Jones: Private and Confidential’, arrived in her in-tray. It contained FBI reports on Senator Jack O’Neill and a mobster named John Richmond, also known as Paulie Fachetti. Deborah wondered if Brett was involved. It seemed strange that such information, presumably coming from top-secret FBI files, was leaked at all. If it was Brett, why didn’t he say? Then again, why would he incriminate himself? It had to be him. For that, she was truly grateful, knowing he risked being thrown out of the Feds if it was uncovered.
Deborah devoured the material in a matter of hours, taking copious notes. The senator was from the same Brooklyn neighborhood as Paulie Fachetti, alias Richmond. O’Neill’s family was poor, but he’d been the brightest in his class. His mother was Italian, his father Irish. He studied law at Harvard and got elected to the Senate in his early thirties. He escaped the Vietnam draft after a letter from a priest said that he did volunteer work with problem kids in Brooklyn. The draft board bought it.
Unfortunately, the files didn’t contain any photographs of the men together. Even so, a picture of their relationship started to emerge.
According to the files, O’Neill, as a rising politician in Florida in the 1970s, was ‘only too willing’ to use his political clout to ensure that controversial projects including upscale condos, shopping malls, waterfront hotels and golf courses in sensitive locations were given the go-ahead. He cited jobs and prosperity. The unions loved the new Democratic senator. He dismissed environmentalist opposition as ‘anti-progress’. In return, serious money poured into his campaigns to ensure that he was re-elected, time and time again. Pension money from labor unions found its way to the most extravagant developments across the state.
With Richmond—who changed his name from Fachetti in August 1988—bank accounts were opened on a regular basis. New companies—bars, liquor stores and restaurants—started up in low-rent areas and attracted government assistance, but as soon as one company opened, another shut down, leaving a trail of bad debts. No creditor ever complained. FBI case officers also believed that Richmond was working in conjunction with the Colombians to use Miami as the staging post to flood the country with cocaine. The money made was channeled back into construction and property across Florida.
The Feds had been investigating Richmond since the early 1980s. Field officers had been assigned. Some had gone missing. Nothing was mentioned in the press for fear of sparking outrage among the American public. They tried to get him under RICO laws on four separate occasions, but nothing stuck. Richmond had the finest lawyers in America and always got off on technicalities. The Feds said in file notes that they believed some Supreme Court judges were in his pocket. It was a mess, but no one seemed able to do anything about it.
• • •
A week after Rachel Harvey’s death Deborah was in the office, watching live TV coverage of the actress’s funeral in LA. A procession of limousines dropped off A-list movie celebrities including Tom Cruise, Julia Roberts, Robert Redford, Jane Fonda and Anthony Hopkins.
A horse-drawn funeral cortege made its measured way to Rachel Harvey’s final resting place amid the manicured lawns and alabaster statues of Forest Lawn Memorial Park. It overlooked the studios of Universal, Disney and Warner Brothers.
Deborah looked out over the MacArthur Causeway—linking Miami with the beaches—which was strangely quiet, sealed off for the filming of Bad Boys 2. The blood-red skies made the city look like the surface of Mars.
Suddenly her phone rang. It was Craig in his new deathwatch cell, thirty feet from the execution chamber. He was obviously making use of his social-calls privilege with less than three weeks to go.
‘You watching the TV?’ he asked brusquely.
‘Yeah, real sad.’
‘That should be a warning to you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re in danger. You should back off from this story.’
‘Mr Craig, I appreciate
your concern, but—’
‘But nothing. Listen to me, Deborah, your investigation is leading only one way and that’s to deep trouble.’
‘I’m not backing off.’
‘It’s not going to stop here.’ Craig’s voice softened. ‘Deborah, I don’t want you getting hurt.’
Deborah looked up and saw Frankie Callaghan hold up his phone to indicate that a call awaited her. ‘Mr Craig, I gotta go. We’ll talk soon. A lot of good people are thinking about you and praying for you. We’re gonna do our utmost to get this story out.’
Craig hung up.
And the call from Callaghan was transferred. A man’s voice came on. It sounded Deep South gruff.
‘A young lady in Key West asked me to call you,’ he said.
‘Look, sir,’ Deborah said, not wishing to say his name on the line, ‘no disrespect, but I don’t know who you are. Can you give me a clue?’
‘Jenny Forbes. Happy?’
‘Thank you.’ Deborah had checked through the newspaper’s archives and had found that the lead investigator was Detective Richard Manhart.
‘Listen, I’ve got something you may be interested in.’ Deborah picked up a pen.
‘You still tryin’ to piece together this story, ain’t you?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. How do you know?’
‘Still see my ex who works with you. You might know her. She’s a professional ball-breaker.’
‘Who?’ Deborah looked over at Kathleen Klein. She too was on the phone, running a hand through her blonde highlights. ‘Does she use Senator O’Neill as a regular contact, by any chance?’
He gave an eerie laugh. ‘You got it.’
‘Why haven’t you called until now?’ Deborah asked.
‘You want my help or not? I ain’t got time for no bullshit.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘You’ve got to promise that you won’t divulge this conversation to anyone, y’hear?’
That was a given for any journalist. Deborah prized her contacts and kept their names and phone numbers in her Palm, which she kept locked in her top drawer.
‘Of course.’
‘Name Jimmy Brown mean anything to you?’
‘No—should it?’
‘Lives in a trailer park outside Naples.’
‘Sorry—what relevance does this have to my story? Anyway, how do I know you are who you say you are?’
‘Shut up and listen. Jimmy used to be the senator’s chauffeur. If you play your cards right, he could get things moving again.’
‘How?’
‘Rachel Harvey’s not the only one with a little secret. Jimmy’s got one as well.’ His voice went quiet, as if he was covering the mouthpiece of his phone. ‘We’re talking about a cover-up. Only… only the Miami Beach police and the senator would rather you didn’t get to hear about it.’
15
Sam Goldberg leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and took a long, hard look at Deborah. She was dog-tired, shadows under her dark eyes. The whispers from Capitol Hill were that O’Neill was ‘bombproof’. It followed an investigation by the Washington Post into the links between military contractors, the procurement people within the Pentagon, and the politicians with the muscle to get a slice of the action. Despite revealing kickbacks involving defense contractors and senior politicians, Senator O’Neill came out of it smelling of roses.
Requests by the Miami Herald to interview Governor Wilkinson at length about William Craig’s case were denied. Goldberg wondered if he was wary of getting sucked into the mire, following the sudden death of Rachel Harvey. He knew the governor was a clean-cut modern politician who talked enthusiastically about e-commerce and the ‘Information Superhighway’. He wanted technology to revolutionize lives. But in many ways, like most politicians, he was old hat. He seemed to have perfected the art of saying everything, yet saying nothing. And, all the time, he loved soft-focus People magazine-style features—dreamy photos of him and his pearly family posing as a unit in the front row of church, or cooing over his latest child, or talking about the importance of God in the world, or his college-sweetheart wife showing the reader round the governor’s Tallahassee mansion.
‘So, tomorrow you’re going to see what this is all about?’ Goldberg smelled that great perfume of Deborah’s again.
‘I’m planning on heading across to Naples tonight, stay in a motel, and get out to the trailer park in the morning.’
‘A motel. Is that such a good idea?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Look, you’re going to be in the backyard of the senator. I don’t mean to get you alarmed, but I’d be a lot more comfortable if you stayed at the Ritz-Carlton on Vanderbilt.’
Deborah smiled. ‘Isn’t that going to knock a big hole in my expenses?’
Goldberg remembered being stung for three thousand dollars after a three-night stay with his wife in a deluxe room. The bill had included breakfasts, meals and booze, but still, he had rechecked the extras to make sure they were counting correctly. ‘It was a favorite of ours. Check in there and I’ll be a lot happier.’ He didn’t say out loud that the thought of her staying in some cheap Naples motel, with dodgy locks and lax security, didn’t fill him with confidence, especially after what had happened to Rachel Harvey.
‘Thanks for that.’ Deborah knew exactly what he meant. ‘I’ve not had a chance to speak to you in person since our conversation about what happened to you.’
Deborah gazed at the floor.
‘I’d like to say that I’m very sorry.’
Tears welled in her eyes and Goldberg wondered if he should’ve kept his thoughts to himself.
‘I had no right to say that you should have declared that to me beforehand.’
Deborah curled some hair behind her ear. ‘I’d rather not speak about it.’
‘Listen to me,’ Goldberg continued. ‘Don’t beat yourself up over Rachel Harvey’s death. You weren’t to blame.’
‘I feel bad.’
‘I feel bad, too. That’s natural. But what we need to do is focus on where we’re going with this.’
Deborah nodded.
‘Be careful,’ Goldberg said.
‘I can look after myself.’
‘And keep in touch.’
Deborah left his office and shut the door.
Goldberg had been in journalism too long to ignore the warning signs of a reporter who was obsessed with a story. It had its advantages. He’d done the same thing, a decade earlier. One time, a black guy called Leroy McKenzie was going to be fried in ‘Old Sparky’ at Raiford for setting fire to a house in which his ex-girlfriend’s daughter had died. Goldberg had found out that the little girl who was killed had several weeks earlier tried to set fire to a hedge outside her home in Jacksonville. But despite Sam’s efforts, and despite doubts remaining about the man’s guilt, he was fried anyway.
Goldberg had become so obsessed with the case that it was all he talked about. He bored friends in bars, his wife and his sister in Wyoming whom he’d phone nightly. They were all sympathetic, but they thought he should let it go.
Goldberg knew they were right, and gradually he moved on. In a way he’d compartmentalized the state execution. If not, he’d still have Leroy McKenzie’s crazy red eyes staring back at him through the glass, burned into his psyche.
And that was what was worrying him about Deborah Jones’s fixation with William Craig. She was getting deeper into a story as dark and inhospitable as the Florida swamps.
He turned to look at the picture of his wife and closed his eyes. He couldn’t be bothered with the hassle anymore. The long days and the longer nights. All he wanted to do was go home and fall asleep in his quiet house, not having to worry about the responsibilities that went with his six-figure salary. The bullshit from Harry Donovan. The grind of getting enough good stories to fill the paper each night.
All he wanted to do was turn the lights
off, listen to his wife’s treasured Beatles albums until dawn, and get lost in whiskey and sweet memories.
But Goldberg knew that he’d be back tomorrow, sitting behind his desk, talking about stories that mattered, holding the elected representatives of the people to account, hoping beyond hope that some of the readers cared enough as well.
16
The following morning, Deborah pulled up at Pitch 582 at the Sunshine Hitching Post, outside Naples, after an overnight stay at the Ritz-Carlton on Vanderbilt. Jimmy Brown’s rust-encrusted trailer was the one located furthest from the entrance. Deborah knocked twice and waited for a reply. Loud country music filled the glue-like air. A few snowbirds lounged in plastic chairs outside their homes. Dogs barked several lots away and a couple shouted at each other about who should take out the trash. She smelled old garbage and disinfectant from a nearby bathhouse.
Deborah knocked again and wondered if Jimmy Brown was out working.
Still no answer.
She knocked three more times. She was starting to get cold feet. What had she got herself into? She didn’t know this man Jimmy Brown, if indeed he even existed. It was insane to travel across to Naples at the behest of a detective who used to be in charge of the Craig investigation. She was taking it on trust that it really was Manhart. For all she knew the whole thing could be a set-up.
Maybe she should phone Brett. He would know what to do. Probably tell her to haul her ass out of there. But she didn’t have time to make a call.
The handle turned, and the door opened.
Standing before her was a tall black man with sad eyes. He looked to be around her father’s age. Spots of white shaving cream were still on his face. His huge torso was bare and his belly hung over his scruffy jeans. He held a towel in his right hand.
‘I’m looking for a Mr Jimmy Brown.’
His unfathomable eyes—like oily water—scrutinized her face. ‘Who wants to know?’
Deborah smiled. ‘I do, sir.’ He kept on staring as if he was not used to visitors. ‘Name’s Deborah Jones.’ She flashed her credentials.
