[Deborah Jones 02.0] Dark Waters

by J. B. Turner

  Published by No Way Back Press

  Copyright © 2010, 2013, 2016, 2017 J.B. Turner

  Cover Design by Stuart Bache

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of events to real life, or of characters to actual persons, is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.

  Praise for J.B. Turner

  "J.B. Turner knows how to put together a great thriller…‌a great addition to the thriller genre, with all the necessary ingredients required to deliver the goods: tension, drama, thrills and a cast of tough, no-nonsense characters."

  Shots Magazine

  "Turner has written a book which combines the paranoid conspiracy of Three Days of the Condor with the relentless action of the Reacher thrillers."

  Crime Fiction Lover

  “JB Turner has really done it…‌A sensational story.”

  Tracey Lampley, Book Mistress

  “Powerful mix of politics, corruption, soap opera, racism, terrorism and sexism.”

  Eurocrime

  “A high-octane tale of international intrigue.”

  Daily Record

  “This is a top class thriller – it ticks all the boxes of the genre: high-stakes plot, fast paced action, intriguing political conundrums – all of which combine to make it a real page turner.”

  Mark Gartside, Author of What Will Survive

  “This book pulls no punches. Every action or inaction adds to a chain of events that keeps on gathering pace. This is a hard-nosed investigative thriller that left me wanting more.”

  Tony's Thoughts Book Blog

  “Well plotted and paced, with an engaging cast thrust into believable circumstances…it looks to be a cracking series.”

  Oz Noir

  “The deeper you get into the story, the web of secrets, lies and cover ups and their reveals builds tension and adds drama…‌A great addition to any crime fiction fans’ bookshelves.”

  Bookshelf Butterfly

  Also by J.B. Turner

  Jon Reznick series

  Hard Road

  Hard Kill

  Hard Wired

  Hard Way

  Jon Reznick novella

  Gone Bad

  Deborah Jones series

  Miami Requiem

  Dark Waters

  For my Mother and Father

  It started just before dawn.

  The man stepped out of his home, unaware he was being watched. He stood on the dimly lit porch and stamped his feet against the November cold. He wore a cashmere coat over his suit and pulled on his leather gloves as he waited for his chauffeur. He looked just like any of the other prosperous Washington DC professionals in the neighborhood. But the observer peering through binoculars from a darkened attic room across the oak-tree-lined street‌—‌who’d tracked his movements for three months‌—‌knew different.

  The observer knew that the man had one daughter, Elisabeth, who had been educated at the prestigious Holton-Arms girls’ college prep school, along with the daughters of CEOs, diplomats, congressmen, and even presidents. Elisabeth was now nineteen and a law student at Georgetown University. The man visited her once a week. Afterwards, always drinking alone, he spent a couple of hours in Martin’s Tavern sipping a few single malts, invariably Laphroaig, before his chauffeur drove him home.

  That was his weak spot.

  And tonight the observer would be waiting…

  • • •

  The smell of crab cakes and Angus steaks lingered in the air as the minutes ticked by while the observer waited for the man. Martin’s Tavern was a Washington institution. It was situated in the heart of old Georgetown, a classic watering hole favored by the movers and shakers in the city. It exuded a timeless charm, its dark stained-wood paneling from a bygone age. That night it was packed, as usual, with journalists, politicians, and assorted hangers-on, drinking freely and talking loudly at their tables and booths.

  The observer sat in a discreet hard-backed wooden booth. On the table in front of him lay his laptop and a Nokia Smartphone that he’d stolen from the handbag of the man’s daughter less than three hours earlier at Mazza Gallerie, an upscale shopping mall in the suburb of Chevy Chase.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, the observer saw the man walk in, shortly after seven p.m., as usual. No one seemed to notice. The man walked past tables of senators, their interns and Capitol Hill correspondents, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his expensive coat.

  The observer stole a glance. He noticed the hand-stitching on the man’s shiny black leather Italian shoes, his expensive suit underneath the coat, the clean shave, his thick neck and the bushy moustache. The man shook hands with Billy, the owner, before he was escorted, as he always was, to the Dugout room, a semi-private recess at the rear of the bar.

  The observer was nursing a bottle of Schlitz, surreptitiously watching everything, just as he had for the last three months.

  Thirty minutes later the man emerged from the Dugout and sat down on a stool at the mahogany bar where Billy poured him a malt whisky and water. The observer tried to listen in but the noise of the buzz, chatter and a Tony Bennett song playing in the background, was overpowering.

  It was time.

  The observer leaned forward and his eyes scanned the myriad wireless networks that his laptop had detected. There were sixty-two in the vicinity‌—‌not surprising‌—‌but the man’s unusual surname jumped out at him.

  Since he was within ten meters of his target, the observer wanted to see if he could, through a glitch in the Bluetooth wireless technology, access the data on the man’s cellphone. It was an illegal hacking technique known as bluesnarfing which would enable him to make a wireless connection to the man’s phone and transfer any data to his. But almost immediately his heart sank. The man’s phone was switched to ‘undiscoverable’ mode, which meant that it would be nearly impossible in such a short time to hack in.

  The observer didn’t panic.

  He took another sip of beer and picked up the stolen phone. This was his back-up plan. Then he sent a text message to the man’s BlackBerry. It read, ‘Hi dad, don’t work too late.’

  Immediately, the man nursing the malt at the end of the bar lifted up his BlackBerry and looked at the message. Then a rueful smile crossed his face and he winked at Billy. He put his phone away, unaware of the deception.

  Unbeknown to the man at the bar, a Trojan virus, Wipeout, which the observer had developed with a Finnish hacker, had been downloaded and would send the password on the man’s phone back to his daughter’s Nokia.

  The password quickly appeared on the screen in front of him. CLANDESTINE.

  The observer’s heart was pounding hard as he keyed in the password and gained immediate access to hundreds of the man’s confidential e-mails. He sent these to his laptop.

  Satisfied that he had what he wanted, he shut the laptop, picked up the smartphone and walked out of the bar.

  Once out of the door, the observer strode down Wisconsin and into the freezing night. He afforded himself a smile. After three months’ close surveillance, one of the United States’s most senior CIA agents had just been hacked by a twenty-year-old college student.

  1

  A molten sun burned above the horizon, its tangeri
ne rays flooding across Biscayne Bay, igniting a new dawn in Miami. The light sparkled on the waters below like millions of mirrors, glass towers in the distance gleaming all around. It was mid-November, and the beaches would be filling up as they always did, the blazing heat forcing the sun worshippers to cool off among the Atlantic breakers by afternoon.

  Traffic on the MacArthur Causeway heading downtown was moving well, the traffic to the beach virtually non-existent. That would change as tourists, day trippers and locals invaded South Beach across the water as temperatures soared into the nineties.

  Deborah Jones sighed as she glanced east out of the Miami Herald’s fifth-floor newsroom. It was the start of another week. And it wasn’t even seven o’clock. Her schedule was punishing and seemed to stretch ahead forever; assignments, investigations and articles blurred from one month to the next.

  She picked up that morning’s Herald, which was sitting on top of her in-tray, and began reading her team’s latest hard-hitting exposé. It was an undercover investigation of cops taking kickbacks from pimps and drug dealers who worked the fenced-off area around the demolished and once-notorious Scott Carver housing project in Liberty City. It was a typical article for her team. Corruption seemed to be endemic‌—‌from poorly paid police officers taking bribes to turn a blind eye, to high-ranking politicians with handsome holiday homes on the Gulf Coast being rewarded for backing controversial new developments encroaching on the Everglades. And to cap it all there was the dirty money, especially from Latin America, which flowed through financial networks in and around Miami. Money laundering was an increasing problem because of the glut of huge banks in the city. Significant amounts of money, including Colombian, were held in deposits for international customers who nobody knew and who had private bank accounts. Since 2004 this had resulted in nineteen banks facing sanctions from federal regulators who found dirty dollars in the bank vaults of South Florida.

  It sometimes seemed as if everyone was on the take. Perhaps her work had made Deborah more cynical over the years.

  She heard Frank Callaghan shout from across the newsroom and she snapped out of her reverie. ‘Got a wife of one of the corrupt cops on the line for you, Deborah. She’s real pissed at today’s story.’

  ‘Thanks, Frank. Just what I need first thing on a Monday morning.’

  He transferred the call and she picked up the phone. ‘Is this the investigations editor I’m speaking to?’ The caller was a Hispanic-sounding woman.

  ‘Yes, how can I help?’

  ‘Do you know what you’ve done to my family? Do you?’

  ‘Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘Caprice Gomez, wife of Sergeant Jesus Gomez of Miami-Dade Police Department.’

  Deborah closed her eyes for a moment.

  ‘Who do you think you are, huh? My husband barely earns enough to keep us. But you, sitting up there in your fancy office building, think you can libel anyone you want to. My husband is innocent.’

  ‘Ma’am, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you? Are you really sorry? Do you know my kids are crying this morning, not wanting to go to school, because of this story? You’ve wrecked our lives.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry. But it’s your husband who’s been taking kickbacks.’

  ‘You have no idea what he’s like. He’s a good man. He’s worked hard all his life.’

  ‘That’s as maybe. But the last thing Liberty City needs, or Miami for that matter, is another corrupt police officer.’

  ‘You know nothing. I hope you rot in hell, you bitch.’ The woman hung up.

  Deborah leaned back in her seat and watched the sun edge higher in the flawless early-morning sky. Then she closed her eyes.

  ‘Hey, Deborah, another happy customer?’

  Deborah saw Frank sitting on the corner of the desk opposite, a desk usually occupied by Rico Miralles, a talented new member of the investigations team. She raised her gaze to the ceiling.

  Frank smiled. ‘Bending your ear?’

  ‘Chewing it off, more like.’

  ‘Can’t blame her.’ He sat down in the seat opposite. ‘I used to get that kind of abuse all the time when I covered the courts. The wives were always the worst because they didn’t accept what had happened and why their husband’s picture had to appear in the paper.’

  ‘I feel sorry for her.’

  Frank smiled and paused for a few moments. ‘You’re looking tired, Deborah. Take my advice: disappear for a couple of weeks. Recharge the batteries. And try and persuade Sam to go with you. For both your sakes.’

  ‘We were supposed to be going away to Bermuda in July, but his sister’s still recovering from a nasty stomach bug. It’s like a post-viral thing now. She’s exhausted all the time. Won’t be dashing back to Egypt in a hurry, that’s for sure. And Sam’s a worrier anyway‌—‌you know how he is. But I guess that comes with the territory.’

  Frank got to his feet. ‘A word to the wise, Deborah. Take a break soon. It’ll do you the world of good.’

  • • •

  Late that afternoon, Deborah drove back across MacArthur Causeway to her condo overlooking the beach, her thoughts turning again to the vast workload she faced. She wondered if Frank wasn’t right.

  It would do both her and Sam a power of good. Perhaps they should head up to Wyoming where Lauren lived, and enjoy the snow and the fresh cold air. Perhaps seeing Sam again would boost his sister’s spirits.

  Fifteen minutes later, Deborah was safely ensconced at home where the smell of fresh orange and beeswax furniture polish still lingered in the air. The new housekeeper was a godsend, allowing Deborah the rest of the evening to herself, the cleaning, dishes, washing and ironing all done. It might feel decadent, but she worked for it.

  After soaking in a bath she lay back on the sofa, gazing at a picture on her mantelpiece. It showed her, Sam and his sisters together with their husbands at a Mexican restaurant in South Beach. It had been taken shortly after she’d unearthed the remarkable story of William Craig, the Death Row Scot, who was a war hero and had been freed in an eleventh-hour reprieve by the governor. That was her proudest moment in journalism. A photograph of Craig, taken outside his home in Scotland by his granddaughter, was in a gold frame on top of Deborah’s TV. Craig wore a pure white shirt, a tightly knotted dark blue tie and a dark suit. His face was pale and kind and he was smiling broadly at the camera. In the background was a beautiful beach which seemed to go on for miles‌—‌Belhaven. Craig was eighty-seven, but he looked like a man fifteen years younger. It was as if his strength and spirit had been restored now that he was back in his home town, Dunbar, a free man, enjoying the winter years of his life in peace.

  Deborah’s phone rang and she looked at the clock on the wall. It was six o’clock precisely. She knew who it was.

  ‘Hi, Momma.’

  ‘You sound tired, honey. Are you sleeping okay?’

  ‘I’m sleeping fine. Just work, you know.’

  ‘Was telling your father that you work too hard. You need to take time out.’

  ‘You sound just like one of the guys at the paper.’

  Deborah felt she needed to prove herself over and over again. She still felt insecure. And, perhaps most of all, she still felt she had to prove herself to Sam, who was not only her boyfriend but also‌—‌as the Herald’s managing editor‌—‌her boss. Her team garnered awards and plaudits by the month, but the constant stress was taking its toll.

  ‘You and Sam planning a visit at Thanksgiving?

  ‘I’m not too sure, although I’m sure Sam would love that.’

  ‘Your father likes him a lot, you know.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘He’s a smart, good-looking man, I’ll give you that. But…’

  Deborah said nothing, waiting for the punch line.

  ‘But he’s a good deal older than you, honey.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘And he was married before.’

  ‘So?’

&nb
sp; ‘So, you weren’t his first love. I was your daddy’s first love. And he was mine.’

  ‘Sam and I are very happy.’

  ‘So why don’t you settle down?’

  Deborah took a few moments to compose herself, fearing that she would say something she’d regret. ‘Listen, we’ll do things in our own good time. As it happens, we’ve talked about it, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Look, I don’t think I need to explain myself. We’ve just not got round to it.’

  ‘Please come for Thanksgiving. That’s all I ask. It would make your father very happy.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘The same. Cantankerous to a fault.’

  ‘Be patient with him.’

  ‘Patient? I’ve been nothing but patient with that man for nearly fifty years.’

  Deborah laughed. Her mother had tended to her father, a retired Baptist minister, since they’d first met on a Civil Rights march in the 1960s. They’d been inseparable ever since, even after his stroke had affected his speech. It frustrated him terribly, and occasionally he took his anger out on her mother. ‘I gotta go. Can I let you know nearer the time?’

  ‘Sure thing, honey. But please try. Love you.’

  Deborah got up from the sofa and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the hustle and bustle of Collins below and onward to the Atlantic. The sun was low in the darkening sky. And the air was warm and sticky, the humidity suffocating despite it being November.

  This was her home. Miami. High up in the sky, living alone, seeing Sam for lunch and weekends at his home, soccer with the girls on Tuesday evenings for practice and Saturdays for games.

  She loved her work. But she wanted more out of life. She wanted to live with Sam, despite her mother’s disapproval. More than anything she wanted to commit to Sam. But the truth was that physical intimacy still scared her. Sam seemed to understand and was content to let things take their course. Usually they lay down together, holding each other tight, but both of them afraid to make a move.