Last Call

by James Grippando

  "What was his name?"

  "Whose name?"

  "The guy who raped her."

  "I don't know."

  Theo pulled the trigger and released. Gilford screamed. The bit was through the dermal layer. A spot of blood emerged. "Last chance," said Theo.

  "I swear, man. I don't know!"

  "Cy don't have time to waste here, damn it!" Theo twisted the skinny bit from the drill with his bare hand and threw it at Gilford. Then he went back to the toolbox for a replacement – a much bigger bit this time, quarter-inch diameter. He tightened it into place, returned to Gilford, and rolled him onto his back.

  He pressed the tip to Gilford's forehead.

  "Who is he?" said Theo.

  Gilford was about to hyperventilate, his eyes crossing as they followed the bit. "I don't know. Really. I don't, I don't know!"

  Theo pulled the trigger, the drill whined, and the spiraling tip of the bit tore at Gilford's flesh.

  "Fernando Redden!" he shouted.

  Theo pulled back. "Say it again."

  "Fernando Redden. That's his name."

  "If you're lying to me…"

  "No, no. That's him. Really, truly. I wouldn't make this up." He was blubbering now, tears streaming down his face.

  Theo glared just enough to put the final scare into him. "It's your lucky night," he said, as he put the drill away. "I believe you."

  TRINA DIDN'T KNOW WHERE Theo was.

  Jack called her at home to explain what had happened. Theo was up to something dangerous, and if Jack couldn't stop him, the chances that Trina could talk some sense into him probably weren't any better. But she promised to try. She drove to Theo's town house and was inside waiting when he came through the door. The expression on his face was unlike any she'd seen on him before. It scared her.

  He said, "What are you doing here?"

  It wasn't the warmest of greetings, but it didn't stop her from going to him and hugging him tightly. "Jack told me," she said softly, her lips to his ear. "Do you know anything? Is Uncle Cy okay?"

  The mention of Cy seemed to trigger something inside him. She could feel his initial resistance to her touch fading, and he hugged her back.

  "I'm just tryin' to sort this out," he said. "Gotta do somethin'."

  "Like what?"

  He didn't answer. She slipped out of his embrace so that she could look into his eyes. "Where have you been?"

  He seemed to struggle, as if debating whether to tell her. Then he looked away and started up the stairs.

  Trina followed him to the bedroom. "Theo, talk to me."

  He went to the walk-in closet and flipped on the light. Trina stayed behind, sat on the edge of the bed, and waited.

  People often thought of her as fearless, or at least rough around the edges. Like everyone else, however, Trina had her demons. The last person she'd let herself care about so deeply was her friend Beatriz – not a romantic interest, but a teenage friend that she loved like a sister. Back before the Soviet Union fell, they went from Cuba to Prague on Castro's factory work program. Their plan was to defect, each pledging never to leave without the other. Only Trina made it, and even after all these years, she still bore the scars of survivorship.

  "Theo?" she said.

  He didn't come out, but finally he did answer her from somewhere deep in the closet. "Let me take care of this," he said.

  Trina didn't know how to get through to him in this mode, but she had to say something. She rose and staked out a position in the closet doorway, arms folded, as if daring him to try and pass.

  Theo was kneeling on the floor. He looked up and stopped what he was doing. The corner of the wall-to-wall carpeting had been rolled back, and the secret hatch to Theo's in-floor safe was open. He was holding a black pistol in one hand and several ammunition clips in the other.

  Trina said, "Have you lost your mind?"

  "Maybe," he said, as he closed the safe. "But I ain't gonna lose my uncle."

  He rose, pulled a leather holster off the shelf, and strapped it on. The gun fit perfectly on his left side for a right-handed draw. He selected a lightweight jacket to conceal his weapon.

  He turned and looked at Trina, as if expecting her approval, or at least her acquiescence.

  She said, "You think you can solve this all by yourself?"

  "Ain't nobody else gonna do it," he said, as he stepped past her and back into the bedroom. He checked himself in the full-length mirror and apparently didn't like the noticeable bulge of his handgun. He went back to the closet to change jackets.

  "Jack thinks you should call the cops," she said.

  "Sometimes Jack thinks too much."

  "I don't like this."

  He didn't answer. It was a little too warm outside for a leather jacket, but the bulkier garment seemed better suited to his purposes. He stepped past her and checked himself in the mirror again.

  "I'm talking to you," she said.

  He turned to face her, his arms extended and his hands resting on her shoulders as he looked straight at her. "You have to trust me on this."

  "I don't understand it."

  "If it was you instead of Cy would you understand it then?"

  She didn't know how to answer. She just held him. "I love you," she said. "I think."

  He smiled a little and said, "Me thinks too." Then he pulled away and retrieved a pen and notepad from the nightstand. She watched him jot something down and fold the paper into thirds. Then he gave it to her.

  Theo said, "If something happens, you call Jack, and you give him this name."

  She started to unfold it, but he stopped her. "Just give it to Jack," he said.

  "What is this?"

  "Jack will figure it out."

  She hugged him again, this time with a kiss.

  "I'll see ya," he said, and he walked out of the room.

  Trina sat on the bed and listened to the thud of each footfall on the stairs, the sound of the door opening – and then for a moment there was silence. In her mind's eye she could see him standing in the doorway, maybe rethinking things.

  Then she heard the door close, and Theo was gone.

  Her eyes closed slowly and then she opened them, trying to deal with the confusion on every level. It seemed so obvious that Theo was doing the wrong thing, yet she felt certain that there was nothing else he could do.

  Her hand shook as she unfolded the paper and read Theo's note. Trying to think through her next move rationally would have been pointless.

  She followed her gut, picked up the telephone, and dialed Jack's number.

  Chapter 44

  Two minutes after his phone conversation with Trina, Jack nailed down one thing for certain: Fernando Redden was no Lance Gilford.

  A quick Internet search turned up hundreds of hits. Jack focused on the local media coverage, which was extensive. Redden was the president and CEO of American Dream Development Ltd., a multimillion-dollar company that built housing for low-income families. He was also a south Florida success story, particularly in the Latin community. His name appeared repeatedly in the business section of the Miami Tribune and its Spanish-language counterpart, and the society pages couldn't seem to get enough of him and his stunningly beautiful wife. One photograph, in particular, caught Jack's attention. It was from July 1994, just a few months before Florida's statewide elections. Fernando Redden was smiling widely, and the mere sight of the man shaking Redden's hand made Jack's heart skip a beat.

  It was Governor Harry Swyteck – Jack's father – campaigning for reelection.

  Jack printed the photograph and a couple of other articles of interest, tucked them into his pocket, and grabbed his car keys. Ten minutes later he was at the Coral Gables home of his father and stepmother. Harry answered the door dressed in a terry cloth robe. Agnes was asleep in the bedroom, and it appeared that Harry wasn't far behind.

  "I need to talk to you," said Jack.

  Harry was halfway into a "not now" sigh, but the expression on Jack's face
must have told him it was important. "Sure," he said. Come on in.

  Harry took him to the library, his favorite room in the house. The cherry-paneled wainscoting, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and soft leather chairs were all very reminiscent of the governor's mansion. Harry reached for the Russian-cut carafe on the credenza. "Brandy?"

  "No, thanks," said Jack. "I'm actually in a hurry."

  Harry poured a short one for himself, then settled into the worn leather chair behind his massive desk. As much as their relationship had improved over the years, it bothered Jack that every time he said "Dad, let's talk," Harry still put the old mahogany antique between them – a vestige of the bad old days for a disciplinarian father and his rebellious son.

  "Okay," Harry said. "Shoot."

  Jack had to stop and think about where to begin. The kidnappers' warning made it best not to say anything about Uncle Cy – at least not until Theo decided to involve the police. Jack didn't have time for all that background anyway. His needs were very specific. He laid the printed copy of the old newspaper photograph atop the desk.

  "Do you know this man?" said Jack.

  Harry examined it. The recognition wasn't instant, but it finally came to him. "Yeah. That's Felipe Redden. No – Fernando Redden."

  Jack did not yet fully understand why, but it relieved him to see that Redden obviously wasn't one of his father's closest friends. "How do you know him?"

  "We've met. That's about all I can say."

  "Was he one of your supporters?"

  Harry's chest swelled, as if a deep breath would trigger some recollection. "As I recall, he really wanted to jump on board. I talked with him when my campaign was down in Miami. That's when this photo was taken."

  "Did you accept his money?"

  "Well, let's not be too cynical here. Beyond being a Miami player with plenty of dough, he was the kind of guy you wanted to like. He was born in Cuba in the 1950s – Bejucal, the same town your mother was from."

  "Interesting coincidence."

  "It got my attention. And his story is a good one. Whole family fled to Miami after Castro took power. Grew up with five cousins in a two-bedroom apartment in Hialeah, worked his way through law school, learned the ropes of local government over the next decade, and eventually landed a job as chief counsel to the mayor of Miami-Dade County – another 'kid done good' from the old Hialeah neighborhood."

  "So, you liked him?"

  "At first. But my antennae told me to stay away from the guy-

  "What do you mean?"

  "Can't really describe it. Just my political instincts."

  "Had to be something."

  Another big sigh. Harry was digging deep into the memory bank. "It was his business dealings. Something didn't add up for me.

  "Something illegal?"

  "Jack, you're asking me to go way back on a guy I spent maybe a couple of hours with on the campaign trail. As a candidate, you get a feeling about people, and you go with your gut. Redden had lots of friends in county government, which is not necessarily a bad thing. What troubled me was that his development company kept getting fat contracts for public housing projects – one after another, as if Redden was the only developer in town."

  "Projects in Miami?"

  "Yeah. Mostly Overtown."

  Overtown. Mere mention of it hit Jack like an electric current. He wasn't ready to connect the dots in ink just yet, but he had the distinct feeling that things were starting to line up like bullet points on the printed page. His most recent conversation with Andie was suddenly echoing in his mind – in particular, Jack's "conspiracy theory" about her getting pulled off the investigation into the murder of Theo's mother for "jurisdictional" reasons.

  Jack said, "Can I get your honest opinion on something?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Is Fernando Redden the kind of guy who could get the FBI to back off an investigation?"

  Harry groaned. "Jack, that's-"

  "I know, it's purely speculation. But you said yourself that you've always trusted your instincts. So I want to know what your gut says about this one. Does Fernando Redden have that kind of pull?"

  "Why do you need to know?"

  "I just need to."

  Harry wrung his hands. Speculating was against his nature, but Jack was giving his father little choice in the matter. "I can't say for sure," said Harry, "but let me put it this way. If Fernando Redden called the White House right now, I'd bet money that his call would go through."

  Jack smiled just enough to show his appreciation. "Thanks," he said, rising.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I wish I could tell you."

  Harry followed him out of the library, down the hall to the front door. There was concern in his eyes. "Does this have anything to do with your FBI friend – Andie Henning?"

  "It might," said Jack.

  Harry nodded knowingly. "Your grandmother told me about you and Rene. I don't ever get involved in that stuff, but-"

  "Dad, this is really not a good time," said Jack, reaching for the doorknob.

  Harry held the door shut. "Just hear what I have to say okay? Thirty seconds of your time. Please."

  Jack wanted to fly but the quickest way out was always just to let his father have his say." Okay I'm listening."

  Harry glanced down the hall toward the bedroom, then back at Jack. "Your stepmother and I have been together forever, and I love her very much. But once upon a time, I was a young, blue-blooded college student with political aspirations. I was doing everything right at UF. Just got tapped into the Florida Blue Key Honorary Society and was lining up support to run for student-body president. Even had my eye on the president of Tri-Delt sorority. Then I came down to Miami on break and met this beautiful Cuban refugee who was working as a waitress and spoke English like a female Ricky Ricardo."

  Jack had to snicker.

  Harry continued, "She was completely wrong for me. I was night, she was day. This was back in the day when Miami was still called 'My-amma,' for Pete's sake. But you know what? I could not stop thinking about her."

  Harry went quiet. Jack said nothing. Over the years, they'd had surprisingly few conversations about Harry's first wife – Jack's mother. As much as Jack's abuela liked to tell him that he had the heart of his Latina mother, he was still a Swyteck, and there was no end to the list of things that went unsaid between men.

  Harry said, "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "I – I'm not sure. You think Rene's like that for me?"

  "No – no," he said, making a face. "I'm talking about Andie."

  Jack wasn't sure how to respond. Not since Jack's divorce had Harry Swyteck weighed in on the women in Jack's life. "Did Abuela ask you to say something about this?"

  "Not at all. This all occurred to me months ago, when you first dated Andie. I never really got to meet the girl, but Theo told me you were pretty taken with her after just two or three dates. And then you broke it off, apparently for no good reason. I don't know what happened, but here's an old geezer's two cents. Andie's an FBI agent; you're a criminal defense lawyer. I was a police officer before getting into politics, and Lord knows you and I have had our differences over the years. Maybe that… that lawyer-cop incompatibility is in the back of your mind. But give some thought to what I'm saying about your mother and me. People don't have to be cut from exactly the same cloth to be right for each other."

  Jack was speechless. He and his father were close now, but there was a time – back when Harry was Florida's law-and-order governor and Jack defended death row inmates – when they couldn't even speak to one another. The rift: went back much further than that, however, with roots in Jack's childhood and Harry's remarriage to a good woman with a terrible weakness for gin martinis. A lot of history with a sad bottom line: Jack and his father didn't have many moments like this one.

  "Thanks," was all Jack could say.

  Harry opened the door for him, seemingly pleased that Jack took his meaning. "You're welcome."<
br />
  Jack went to his car and gave his old man a mock salute as he backed out of the driveway. He was less than half a block away, headed down Alhambra Circle, when he dialed Andie Henning on his cell. He wasn't sure if his father's words had actually prompted him to make the call, but he knew it was the right thing to do. He apologized for the hour but let her know right away how serious this was.

  "I need your help," he told her.

  "You mean the FBI's?"

  "No," said Jack. "Just yours."

  "What's wrong?"

  He could have started with Uncle Cy, but again he was mindful of the kidnapper's warning about calling the cops. "It's Theo," he said.

  "What happened?"

  "I think he's on self-destruct."

  "What does that mean?"

  Jack wanted to explain, but he needed her sworn assurance that he was lining up her alone, not the entire FBI. That was a difficult maneuver by telephone. "I need to meet with you. Tonight. It's important."

  She hesitated for half a second. "Okay. We can talk here at my place. You know the way."

  That he did. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. And just to give you a heads-up, you might want to start checking on something."

  "What?"

  "Dig up whatever you can on a guy named Fernando Redden."

  Chapter 45

  Twenty minutes later – traffic was worse than expected – Jack was in Andie's Coconut Grove apartment, seated on Andie's overstuffed couch. It still had the stain from the glass of red wine he'd spilled the first time they'd really kissed, but he held that thought for only an instant. He was about to tell her what happened to Cy, but she had some information of her own for him.

  "Redden's quite a character," said Andie.

  "In what way?"

  "I made a phone call and hit the jackpot. Can't share everything I know. But I can tell you what will be all over the newspapers before long. The guy has taken millions of dollars in public money to build housing projects in low-income neighborhoods, and he's built absolutely nothing. Unless you want to count the four-million-dollar mansion he built for himself in the Ponce Davis area."