Everglades df-10

by Randy Wayne White

  I’d been talking on the phone, looking out the window of my lab, when I saw him leave the marina.

  Not my regular phone.

  I’d received a call on a phone that I seldom use, but always keep charged and hidden away in my lab’s galvanized chemical cupboard. I keep it hidden because it is a government-issue, military SATCOM Iridium satellite telephone.

  It is a recent addition. Not a welcomed one.

  SATCOM is a satellite-based, global wireless personal communications network designed to permit easy phone communication from nearly anywhere on earth. Sixty-six satellites, evenly spaced four hundred miles high, make it possible. The phone is equipped with a sophisticated scrambler. The same is true of the phones used by the only two people who possess my access number.

  Its ring is an unmistakable series of bonging chimes. The sound is suggestive of a clock in a British drawing room at high tea.

  When I touched the activate button, I was not surprised to hear the voice of a U.S. State Department intelligence guru named Hal Harrington.

  Harrington belonged to a supersecret and highly trained covert-operations team that was known, to a very few, as the Negotiating and Systems Analysis Group-the Negotiators, for short. Because the success of the team relied upon members blending easily into nearly any society, the training agency provided each member with a legitimate and mobile profession.

  Harrington was trained as a computer software programmer. He’d made a personal fortune in the software industry by sheer intelligence and foresight. Other members of that elite team included CPAs, a couple of attorneys, an actor, one journalist and at least three physicians.

  There was also a marine biologist among them. A man who traveled the world doing research. His specialty was bull sharks, Carcharhinus leucas, an unusual, unpredictable animal that ranges worldwide, in both fresh and salt water.

  We probably would have never met; would have willingly lived the rest of our lives without ever exchanging a word. But, a couple of years back, Harrington’s attractive and precocious daughter, Lindsey, got into some trouble. Through coincidence and good luck, I happened to be in a position to help her. Which is how I happened to meet Hal.

  By then, he was one of the most powerful and influential staff members at the U.S. State Department, specializing in Latin American affairs. It was Hal who made it clear to me that he and I had more in common than I wanted to admit. He knew certain facts about my past that I hoped no one would ever know. He reminded me of certain events that I preferred to forget.

  Unfortunately, once one has participated in a violent, clandestine life, one cannot simply shed it like a skin, or leave it behind like a former job or an old house.

  Harrington also made that clear to me. And, because he did know about my past, he had the leverage to guarantee my at least occasional participation in what he referred to as “vital government service.”

  When I answered the phone, Hal said, “I gather you’re alone, Commander Ford?”

  “I wouldn’t have answered if I wasn’t,” I told him.

  “How’s Lindsey?”

  We talked about his daughter for a while. Lindsey was twenty-five now. She’d been in and out of drug-rehab facilities. Cocaine had a hold on her and wouldn’t let go. It was especially tragic because Lindsey, lean and blond, had it all: brains, looks and humor. She would have been spectacular at anything she chose to be.

  It gave Harrington special motivation when he went after the drug cartel-types. His hatred of them bordered on obsession. So the subject of Lindsey now provided a natural transition.

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m calling, Commander. Three weeks ago, my Number Two contacted you with what I considered a perfect assignment. We had good intel that the brother of Edgar Cordero-Giorgio-was going to spend two nights at South Beach, Miami. He’s looking for dependable mules. Apparently, the heroin and cocaine business is good.

  “Edgar was one of the most ruthless men in Colombia. As far as I’m concerned, he got exactly what was coming to him. Giorgio’s no better, and he’s taken over the family business. You’ve got a personal grudge to settle with those people, but you refused the assignment. Why?”

  I could see Tomlinson swing down off the marina dock, into his dinghy as I said, “Well, Hal, the way I understand it, I’ve been conscripted. Redrafted-however you want to put it, as an active, Special Duty Line Officer, an O-5. Which makes it military. It’s my understanding that the Posse Comitatus Act makes it illegal for me to accept any assignment that requires action within the boundaries of the United States.”

  Harrington is not known for his patience. “That’s bullshit, Doc, and you know it. That’s easy to get around; a simple matter of procedural formality. And let’s be honest. It never stopped you before.”

  As Tomlinson puttered closer, I could see that he was holding a strand of his sun bleached hair in his fingers, chewing at it-a nervous mannerism.

  Something was bothering him.

  I listened to Hal add, “Which brings us to another subject. Those paychecks the department’s been sending. Our records show you’ve never cashed them.”

  I said, “When I feel like I’ve done something to earn the money, maybe I will. Not until then.”

  “Okay, then, here’s your chance. We have hard intelligence that the successor to Sabri al-Banna, head of the ANO, is going to be vacationing in the Leeward Islands in late summer or early fall. Under a false passport, of course. His name is Omar Muhammad. Mr. Muhammad’s got a new hobby. He likes to scuba dive. The house he’s reserved is on St. Martin, the French side. It has a coral reef right off its own little private beach. Out there in the water, that might be an interesting place to introduce yourself, Commander. Find out how well Mr. Muhammad can swim.”

  I said, “Omar Muhammad, huh?”

  Abul Nidal Organization, or ANO, has carried out terrorist attacks in dozens of countries, killing or injuring thousands of people. Targets have included the United States, the United Kingdom, France, Israel and even moderate Pales tinians. They like bombs. The ANO is responsible for putting a bomb aboard Pan Am Flight 103 that blew up over Lockerbie, Scotland. Other major attacks included the Rome and Vienna airports, the Neve Shalom Synagogue in Istanbul and the hijacking of Pan Am Flight 73.

  The terrorist organization’s founder, Abu Nidal, was found dead inside his Baghdad home in August 2002, but the organization continues to spread mindless terror. They have small, secret cells in countries throughout the world.

  I felt Tomlinson’s dinghy bump against the pilings of my house as Harrington said, “The snake has a new head. We need to chop it off before the group gets active again. Interested?”

  I said, “Know what? Yes. That one’s a real possibility. I wouldn’t mind meeting Mr. Omar,” and meant it, even though I felt a nauseating tension in my stomach, thinking about it. Then I said, “Hal? I’ve got a friend coming up the steps. I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “You’ll give it serious consideration?”

  I said, “I already am.”

  As I locked the phone away, I could hear Tomlinson calling, “Hey, Doc? Doc, it’s me.”

  I met Tomlinson at the screen door to the lab. Opened it to let him in, but he just stood there, looking at me with his haunted, haunted eyes.

  Immediately, I said, “What’s wrong? Someone’s hurt. Who? ”

  Tomlinson doesn’t always need words to communicate, and I’ve known the man a long time.

  He said, “Let’s go in the house and sit down.”

  I touched my palm to his chest; could feel in my spine the neuron burn of panic. “No, tell me now. Is it Ransom? Did something happen to her? Or Dewey. Who?”

  I noticed that Tomlinson’s hands were shaking as he combed them through his hair. “I just came from the marina. Mack had the news on. Someone broke into Sally Carmel’s house last night, or early this morning. Millionaire heiress missing. It’s making the headlines. The house was robbed, and there’s a statewide s
earch.”

  He followed me into the lab, and I sat heavily in my old office chair. “Goddamn it! Frank was supposed to be watching her. How could someone get past-”

  “That’s the worst of it,” Tomlinson interrupted. “So far, anyway. The cops found Frank in the trunk of his own car. It was parked in Sally’s driveway. Him and someone else, another man. They haven’t released his name yet. They’re both dead. Shot execution-style-the reporter’s words.”

  I said, “ Two men? But why would Frank be with-” I stopped talking, thinking about it, my brain slowed by shock.

  I remembered Frank calling me at the marina, then talking to him from my home phone. I remembered Frank saying, I’m calling ’cause I need someone I trust. I need a favor.

  He suspected that Sally was being followed. Unlike the police, he believed that someone had been breaking into her house. He wanted me to help him set a trap for the guy.

  I remembered him saying, I’ve got to have someone who knows how to take care of himself. A guy who can bust a head or two if things get tough.

  I was his first choice. His second choice, apparently, hadn’t been a reliable one.

  I also remembered him saying that whoever was following Sally was very, very good.

  To take down someone of Frank DeAntoni’s caliber, the man or men had to be more than good. They had to be professionals.

  I looked at Tomlinson. I felt sick, disgusted and horrified by the possibility that my inaction had contributed to the murder of two men. One of them was a man I’d come to consider a friend in a very short time. I said, “Frank called me on Wednesday and asked me to help him work a surveillance on Sally’s house. I refused. Did the news say anything else about the second man? Was he a Hialeah cop?”

  I was clinging to the irrational idea that, if the second dead man was in law enforcement, a trained professional, I was somehow exonerated, and my conscience could be clear.

  “Doc, one thing you can’t do is blame yourself for this in any way-”

  “Damn it, just answer the question! Did they say anything else about the other guy?”

  “No. That’s all. That’s all I heard.”

  I stood and began to pace. “We’ve got to do something. I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to go over there. We can take my truck.”

  “And do what? Sit outside Sally’s empty house with a bunch of television journalist types? I don’t see the point.”

  “I’ve got information that’s pertinent to the case. I need to find out who’s working the case and talk to them. Frank’s dead? Jesus Christ-I can’t believe it. If Sally’s missing, you know what that means, don’t you?”

  Tomlinson said, “I can’t bear to let myself think about it. If you’ve got information, you need to call them on the phone. Call them now, Doc.”

  I did.

  I find it as surprising as I do heartening that law enforcement continues to attract top-quality people despite the daily, predictable critical hammering that law-enforcement professionals take from the media, the public and from special-interest groups of all types.

  It took me awhile to find the right agency. The two main ones are the Miami-Dade Police Department and the City of Miami Police. The City of Miami Police was handling all matters relating to the disappearance of Mrs. Sally Minster, and the murder of Frank DeAntoni, licensed private investigator, and seventy-six-year-old Jimmy Marinaro, former carpet salesman and current manager of Pink Palms Apartments, Miami Springs.

  I groaned inwardly when I heard that.

  The dispatcher put me right through to the Homicide Division when I asked. When I told the on-duty detective why I was calling, she said, “Squad C’s handling that one. You need to talk to Detective Fran Podraza. He’s heading the investigation. I’ll give you his cell-phone number.”

  Petty bureaucrats devise unnecessary barriers to delay and frustrate outsiders. They prefer inaction because action requires thought. This woman, though, didn’t hesitate to make a subjective decision. I sounded credible. That was enough for her. It suggested to me that the Miami Police was a top-notch organization.

  I got a voice mailbox when I dialed Detective Podraza’s number. I left my name, my number, the marina’s number, and added that I was a close friend of the missing woman and had information that might be helpful in the investigation.

  Then I began to pace again. I couldn’t sit still; couldn’t seem to concentrate on any single subject for more than a minute or two. I tried to force myself to review what should have been a simple series of connecting data, but my brain continually misfired.

  DeAntoni’s voice kept interrupting basic thought patterns, echoing in my skull: I’m calling ’cause I need someone I trust. I need a favor.

  There was Sally’s voice, too. Telling me why she’d instinctively come to me when she needed help. Being with you, being in this house, it gives me the same feeling Sanibel gives me. I feel safe.

  I felt as if I wanted to run around in circles and bang my head against the wall.

  Tomlinson was sitting out on the porch. Sat in one of the deck chairs, but with his palms turned upward as if meditating. I grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, went outside and took the chair next to him.

  I said, “Do you ever feel like you’re going nuts? Like your head’s going to explode because you just can’t take it anymore?”

  My voice seemed to startle him, as if he were in a trance. Then he turned to me with his wise, bloodshot blue eyes, and said, “I passed insane years ago. I’m now on the outer limits of emotional dysfunction. They’ve yet to define whatever it is I have. Simple psychosis would mean I’m on the path to recovery. I sometimes long to hear the voices of animals speaking to me once again.”

  I felt like bawling, but Tomlinson got the reaction from me he wanted. I chuckled, feeling the pressure dissipate slightly. “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I feel utterly helpless.”

  He replied, “Have you noticed? In the last year or so, you’ve begun to react to events in an emotional way rather than an analytical way. I know how painful that must be. But I think it’s a good thing for you as a person.”

  “Oh yeah? I don’t. I think it’s silly, childish and irrational. What we need to do right now is talk about Sally, not me. And Frank, too.”

  In a musing tone, Tomlinson said, “Did you know that the outdoor temperature can be estimated to within a couple of degrees by timing the chirps of a cricket? You count the number of chirps in a fifteen-second period, and add thirty-seven to the total. It doesn’t work in winter. Anytime else, though, the result will be very close to the actual Fahrenheit temperature.”

  “If that’s supposed to mean something, you’ve completely lost me.”

  “It means you’re right. It’s time to be analytical. Time to start counting the chirps. There has to be some way we can help them now.”

  So we drank our beers and discussed it. Tomlinson said perhaps the first thing we should do is contact any family members we could find and offer our assistance.

  That made sense.

  DeAntoni had told me that he lived alone, not even a cat, but he’d also had an aunt who lived in New Jersey.

  I said, “Presumably, she’s already been notified or they wouldn’t have released Frank’s name. When I talk to the detective, I’ll ask for her number. We can call and offer whatever help she needs. A guy like him, he’s got to have a lot of friends. People are going to need to be contacted; a funeral arranged.”

  I also knew that Sally had a cousin she was very close to. Belinda Carmel was her maiden name, but she’d married and moved to Big Pine Key.

  Tomlinson said, “You find out about the aunt. I’ll go back to the marina and hunt around on the Internet. I should be able to track down the former Belinda Carmel. If someone hasn’t been screwing with my system again.”

  At the marina, Mack keeps a little office where the liveaboards can plug in their computers.

  I said, “Someone’s been using your iBook?”
>
  “No. I’ve been hacked. Someone got my password. Now I’m getting all this weird right-wing mass e-mail crap. How to build bombs. I’m suddenly on the mailing list of blasting cap manufacturers. Greenpeace and Aryan Nation bullshit.”

  A joke, I told him.

  He said, “If it is, I don’t find it very funny.”

  Detective Fran Podraza called me about an hour later. I was impressed by his professionalism and his attention to detail. After I told him who I was and what I did for a living, he asked for confirmation info-address, Social Security number and mother’s maiden name-before he gave me the phone number for Frank’s New Jersey aunt.

  Then he said, “So we’ve got a double homicide and an apparent kidnapping. Right now, we’re working on the premise that it was probably a robbery that went bad. We know that Mr. DeAntoni was a licensed private investigator, contracted by an insurance company. We know that Mr. Marinaro was Mr. DeAntoni’s landlord.”

  Which is when he gave me the additional data about Marinaro-a seventy-six-year-old man with no law-enforcement experience.

  I felt like throwing the phone across the room.

  Podraza continued, “Other than that, we don’t have a lot. So any information you can provide might be helpful.”

  I told him everything I knew. Started with how I knew Sally, how I met Frank, about the break-ins she suspected and about Frank calling me on Wednesday, asking for help setting up some kind of trap.

  “Why would he call you if he’d only known you for a week?”

  “I guess he thought I was the dependable type.”

  Podraza said, “Any idea what kind of trap it was he had planned?”

  “He talked about doing some kind of long-distance surveillance. But that was if I agreed to help. With a man as old as his landlord, I have no idea how he would have tried to work it. Knowing Frank, though, he wouldn’t have put an older guy in harm’s way. My guess is, Frank would have left Mr. Marinaro in the car while he staked out the house. Maybe inside, maybe outside.”