Miami Requiem (Deborah Jones Crime Thriller Series Book 1)

by J. B. Turner

  36

  Just before eleven that night, Senator O’Neill padded along the corridors’ exquisite carpeting back to his suite on the fourteenth floor of the Plaza Hotel in New York. He was preoccupied as he thought of his appearance the following morning on NBC. Even a great meal, which he ate alone, a bottle of the finest burgundy and some whiskey could not lift his mood after that day’s headlines.

  The successful tour of his old haunts in Bensonhurst, accompanied by camera crews, had been overshadowed by other matters. No doubt NBC would ask about the latest Miami Herald revelations.

  The exposure of the senator’s part in covering up his son Joe’s excesses and mistakes was a nightmare. Richmond’s Mob connections did him no favors and the picture of him on holiday with Morrison and Wilkinson looked downright strange.

  O’Neill swiped his room card and pushed open the door. His suite was cloaked in darkness. He could have sworn he had left the lights on when he went down to dinner.

  He shut the door and wondered if the maids had been in. This definitely wasn’t how he’d left it. The curtains were now open.

  Had the two double Scotches blurred his memory?

  He fumbled for a switch and the chandeliers and wall lamps bathed the room in a soft glow.

  There was someone in a chair by the huge windows, watching him. His heart nearly seized up.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ Rose said, brandy in hand.

  ‘How the hell did you get in here?’

  She smiled. ‘Thought you’d be pleased to see me, now that I’m out of the hospital.’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  O’Neill pecked her on the cheek. ‘How are you, honey? You should’ve phoned.’

  ‘You should’ve visited me in hospital.’ She leaned back in her seat and sipped her drink. ‘You look exhausted.’ Her green eyes were as beautiful as they’d been the day they’d first met at Harvard Law School‌—‌the bright carpenter’s daughter from Baton Rouge and the rough-and-ready son of a Brooklyn bum.

  He sat down and undid his tie. ‘I didn’t realize you’d got out. I’m so sorry. I should have come.’

  ‘The doctors advised me against leaving. Said I was still depressed. In shock.’

  ‘Rose, I swear I never knew anything about it.’

  ‘That comes as a great comfort.’

  ‘Rose, I’m fighting for my life, don’t you see that?’

  ‘And I’m not? They kidnap a girl from our house, in front of my eyes. Are you insane?’

  O’Neill bowed his head. But his wife was not finished with him yet.

  ‘I had another reporter from the Herald on the phone. Larry Coen. The crime reporter, if you didn’t know. Told me we don’t even own our house. Jack, is that true?’

  ‘The house was a present from Richmond. It’s a technicality for tax purposes.’

  ‘A present? Is that what they call it these days? Sounds more like a bribe, Jack. What did you have to do for that?’

  ‘Rose, please.’

  O’Neill went over to the bar and fixed himself a double Scotch. He walked across to the windows and looked down on Fifth Avenue, crystal glass in his hand. The taxis and people and movement never stopped. ‘It was a thank you for all my consultancy work over the years.’

  ‘All your con-sultancy work.’ She emphasized the first syllable. ‘My, sounds like you’ve had the most fruitful relationship with Mr Fachetti. Or should I say, Mr Richmond.’

  ‘I need your help, Rose. Two days and they’re gonna finish Craig. Just hang in there with me until this is over.’

  O’Neill knocked back his whisky and felt it burn his stomach. ‘You’re so over your head, Jack. Why don’t you cut all ties with Richmond and sort things out?’

  ‘I’ve tried. Believe me.’

  Rose got up and slipped her arm around his waist. ‘You’ve come a long way, Jack, haven’t you…?’

  ‘Bensonhurst was never enough for me, you know that.’

  ‘Jack, I know why you stayed with him all these years. You both grew up there. You both knew the streets. He’s from your backyard. And if it wasn’t thanks to him, you might not have gone to Harvard. You’d still be back on 18th Avenue now, right? Working in a two-bit legal practice, nickel-and-dime clients?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Jack, I’ve never doubted your love for Joe. I felt the same about him. But you’ve got to let go now.’

  ‘That’s what my father would’ve done. I’m not like him.’

  ‘I know that. But we have to face the facts. Joe attacked all those women, and you covered it up. This madness has to stop.’

  O’Neill’s mind flashed blood-red images of his son lying naked on the mortuary slab. ‘It’ll stop only when Craig is strapped down and executed.’

  Rose sighed. ‘I didn’t want to do this, Jack, but you’ve left me with no option.’

  He extricated himself from her arm. ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘You haven’t told me everything about this case, have you? About how far you’d gone.’

  O’Neill looked down again on the yellow cabs, the neon lights and the general hustle below. ‘Know something? Me and the boys from the neighborhood used to head up to Fifth Avenue, hustling for dimes.’

  ‘I decided to go through your papers and all the things in your room. Find out what else you were hiding from me. About time, I reckon.’

  O’Neill was dumbfounded.

  ‘I saw more than papers. I saw pictures.’

  ‘What pictures?’

  ‘Us. In Paris, Rome and all over. Pictures of us and Joe.’

  He felt his muscles relax. She was talking about the photos he kept in a shoebox in a cupboard in his study. When he felt low, he brought them out.

  ‘I took them from our albums. Hope you don’t mind. Just sentimental, I guess. Nice memories, though.’

  Rose touched the nape of his neck. ‘You were a different person then, Jack. We were a family, always laughing and joking.’

  ‘It was the 1960s. Everyone was laughing and joking.’

  ‘Can’t remember the last time we laughed together.’

  ‘I’m under pressure, Rose. Pressure I cannot even explain. I’m so tired, Rose. So, so tired of it all.’

  ‘You used to have such a nice warm laugh. Now you just seem angry and bitter. I want to help you.’

  ‘We’ve moved on, Rose. I’ve changed.’

  ‘I haven’t. I still love you, despite everything.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really? Do you trust me?’

  ‘What kind of question is that?’

  Rose paused. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the video?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw it, Jack. The video. The one you tried to conceal. Now I know why.’

  O’Neill’s mind flashed back to his study after his return from the secret trip to Saudi Arabia. The video from Richmond had been waiting for him. How could Rose have stumbled on it?

  ‘What video?’

  Rose stepped forward and slapped his face. ‘You know perfectly well what video. The one lying among all the photos, hidden under the loose carpeting in the cupboard.’

  O’Neill felt his face sting and his neck flush. ‘I told you never to snoop in my study.’

  ‘Well, I did.’

  ‘So where’s the video now? You got it here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t play games, Rose. I need the tape. Hand it over.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I don’t think I know you.’

  ‘What’ve you done with it?’

  Just then, there was a sharp rat-tat-tat at the door. ‘Open up!’ a man’s voice shouted.

  O’Neill looked at his wife. Wait there.’

  He opened the door and his heart sank. Three men wearing dark suits stood staring at him, their eyes dead.

  37

  The following morning, as an ominous gray dawn
broke across Miami, Deborah headed over the windswept causeway to the Herald’s office in her convertible. A Latino FM music station played, but she struggled to hear the songs as the tail end of an offshore hurricane whipped across the bay.

  Her cell phone rang. It was Sam Goldberg.

  ‘Deborah, you’re never gonna believe this.’

  Deborah scrunched up her face to hear as the crosswinds blew her hair in her eyes. She was forced to shout. ‘Believe what?’

  ‘O’Neill’s just blown out NBC in New York. Night editor’s just called to tell me we’ve got a press release from his people saying that his schedule’s been changed.’

  ‘So what’s he doing instead?’

  ‘That’s just the thing‌—‌they won’t tell us. Kinda strange, huh?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Crossing MacArthur. Gimme ten minutes.’

  ‘I’m running late.’ Goldberg sounded as though he had not slept. ‘I’ll see you around seven.’

  Deborah put her foot on the gas and screeched round the quiet downtown streets. A few minutes later, she pulled up at the Herald’s near-empty staff parking lot, under the shadow of the towering cranes that were working on the new Performing Arts Center.

  She walked briskly past the huge concrete pillars and was glad to get inside the lobby, having discarded her FBI protection.

  She picked up a coffee at a vending machine and was at her desk by six-fifteen. The only other person in the office was Kathleen Klein. The veteran reporter did not look up or even acknowledge her younger colleague.

  Nothing new there.

  Klein strummed her red nails against her keyboard as if contemplating a good sentence. Deborah wondered if she should tell her about O’Neill withdrawing from the NBC program. She was a politics reporter, after all. But she decided not to bother. Klein would have seen it on the wires. Anyway, she wouldn’t thank her because she was always cranky in the morning.

  Deborah switched on her computer and scrolled through the newswires. Sure enough, AP had the story. She leaned back in her seat and tried to figure out what had happened.

  It didn’t seem plausible. Why would O’Neill pull out of a TV show forty-eight hours before Craig was due to be executed and on the day of the election? The guy was being feted and had grown wings. Why change things? Was he ill? If he was, that would’ve been stated in the press release.

  She scanned the latest wire reports. Bombs in Israel, Palestinian incursions, earthquakes in Italy and Al-Qaeda formally linked to a nightclub massacre in Bali. It was deeply depressing.

  Deborah started to read that day’s Herald. The front page was powerful, provocative even. In essence, the paper had asked its readers why the Miami Beach police chief had taken a holiday in Mexico with the tainted senator and the governor. It was probing journalism of the kind she loved. The mysterious photo of the three of them together in Puerto Vallarta was being published for the first time and had sparked, as the Herald pointed out, more questions than answers.

  Larry Coen had done excellent work.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Deborah noticed a white envelope in her in-tray.

  Mail wasn’t delivered until mid-morning to editorial staff. She wondered if it was internal mail. Her eyes scanned the writing on the front. Her name was written in bold letters in black felt pen. Hand-delivered?

  Deborah and Klein were the only people in the office. Deborah ran her index finger along the seal. It seemed intact. Using her thumbnail, she opened the envelope. Two pieces of paper were inside.

  The first was lined paper, a scrawl of handwriting in red pen. It said:

  Deborah, here’s a bank statement attached. Don’t ask how I got it. Checked it out. It’s legit.

  Deborah’s stomach knotted as she unfolded a Bank of Zurich statement‌—‌with rows and rows of withdrawals and deposits. A name at the top left of the statement leapt out at her. Dennis Morrison .

  Further down, highlighted in yellow, was an amount of one hundred thousand dollars, paid into his account on July 6, 1991. The company that deposited the money‌—‌Bensonhurst Inc.

  That was exactly three days after Craig had been sentenced. They couldn’t have been more blatant if they had tried. Was this payback for a botched police inquiry into the activities of Joe O’Neill?

  Deborah rechecked the figures. It was as clear as day. Joe O’Neill’s trial had been sewn up before it had begun. And now she had the evidence to prove it, hidden away in what they assumed was a secret Swiss bank account.

  The fact that the highest echelons of the police in Miami Beach were caught up in the scandal made the situation all the more frightening. Who could you trust?

  Having locked the statement in her top drawer, Deborah began to wonder again who had delivered the envelope in the first place.

  Kathleen Klein was the only other person in the office. She was wearing a pinstriped suit, yellow blouse, three buttons opened, part of her fleshy bronzed breasts exposed. Her heavily made-up face was still and composed as she worked at her keyboard.

  Kathleen Klein was the detective’s ex. Could she have delivered the document? If so, why? Wasn’t she supposed to be the senator’s pet journalist?

  Deborah popped her head above her monitor and Klein suddenly looked up.

  ‘Thanks,’ Deborah said, smiling.

  Klein nodded, poker-faced, as if acknowledging that she knew what Deborah was thanking her for. And that was that.

  • • •

  An hour later, Deborah handed over the Swiss bank statement to Goldberg. ‘Reckon this’ll take some explaining, don’t you?’

  Goldberg didn’t seem interested in the figures. He was miles away.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Goldberg shook his head. ‘A year ago today my wife died.’ He shrugged. ‘Believe it or not, it’s completely escaped my mind in recent weeks. Never smoked, drank only moderately and didn’t eat junk food in her life. Go figure.’

  Truth was, Sam Goldberg needed a few weeks off. Maybe even a few months. The pressure of the job, coupled with his heavy drinking, had put years on him. He bore a heavy responsibility. But Deborah admired him more than ever.

  ‘Self-pity hasn’t got a lot going for it, has it?’ Goldberg said.

  ‘I know the feeling. It’ll pass. I promise.’

  ‘Okay.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Where were we?’

  He focused on the figures in front of him. ‘Jesus. Unbelievable. Money going into a top cop’s account from the Mob?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘It doesn’t get much more blatant than this. How did you get your hands on this?’

  ‘I never reveal my sources. You know that.’

  Sam grinned and shook his head. ‘You’re starting to worry me, Deborah. What is it with you and exclusives?’

  She laughed, enjoying the compliment.

  His phone rang and he picked up on the first ring. ‘Goldberg.’ He frowned as he listened. Then he barked into the receiver, ‘Get in here right away. This story’s going nuclear.’

  He hung up and looked across at Deborah, his face flushed. ‘That was Larry Coen. Just been woken up by one of his top FBI sources. Apparently, Senator Jack O’Neill is under arrest and has been taken to a secure location for questioning.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Last night in New York. At the Plaza.’

  ‘That’s got to be a good thing for Mr Craig, right?’

  Goldberg leaned back in his seat and rubbed his eyes. ‘Maybe. But I wouldn’t count on it.’

  ‘Why not? Surely this peels away any semblance of credibility that the senator might’ve had. The governor has got to move Craig off death row.’

  ‘Larry said he’d phoned them five minutes ago. Said the execution was still on.’

  ‘That’s insane.’

  ‘We’ve a mountain of evidence piling up, O’Neill
’s in custody and Craig is still gonna be executed. What’s that say to you?’

  ‘Perhaps there’s more to this case than money,’ Deborah said.

  Goldberg got up and walked across to the window, his hands in his pockets, and stared out over the city. ‘Work on the Dennis Morrison story. Have it on my desk by three this afternoon.’

  ‘They’re gonna kill Craig whatever I write.’

  Goldberg said nothing.

  ‘What else can we do?’

  Goldberg gazed at her with sad eyes. ‘Pray.’

  38

  The Gulfstream was cruising at forty-one thousand feet over Virginia. Five FBI special agents, three crew members and Senator Jack O’Neill were on board.

  ‘You’re in deep shit, Jack,’ Special Agent Joachim Vanquez said as he sat opposite him. ‘Your friend John Richmond is crazy. What’s a nice guy like you getting messed up in this for?’

  O’Neill leaned back in the luxury seat, restrained at the waist. He had to speak to Rose. Secure the video. ‘Why can’t I see my lawyer?’

  ‘You can, but first we’re making sure that nothing’s gonna happen to you. We’re taking you to a secure location. Look, Jack, you better play ball, otherwise you’re facing federal charges of conspiracy to commit bribery and taking illegal gratuities.’

  O’Neill stared at Vanquez, one of the team that’d arrested him at the Plaza. ‘I want to make a phone call.’

  Vanquez shrugged as if enjoying O’Neill’s discomfort. ‘Depends who it is.’

  ‘I need to speak to my wife. She’s worried about me.’

  Vanquez looked at him long and hard. ‘Guess there’s no harm in that, right?’

  ‘Appreciate that.’

  Vanquez pulled out a phone, hooked up to the side of his seat, and handed it over. ‘Go ahead, it’s all yours.’

  ‘I need to tell her where you’re taking me.’

  ‘Then it won’t be a secret, will it? Just say you’re safe and well and helping us with our inquiries.’

  O’Neill pulled the tangled phone cord nearer and punched in his home number in Naples. Rose picked up immediately.