( 2011) Cry For Justice (12 page)

We both had entered into this relationship promising not to expect anything enduring from it: no commitments and no expectations, nothing but a good time. And when that changed, when time spent together was no longer satisfying or meaningful, then we would be honest, say our good-byes, and move on. No hard feelings. So why did I feel this gaping hole, this sudden emptiness churning and chewing at my insides? Am I not shallow
enough
? Or is she not trivial enough? Why can’t two mature adults endure a relationship without it evolving something else, something contractual, or formal? Like marriage; a path that surely leads to the dreaded basement of existential despair.

I went to the compact cabinet that doubled as a bar, and poured some tequila into a long shooter glass. I fumbled around in the dark and found what I was looking for in the sink: an already squeezed sliver of lime. I downed the fiery liquor and sucked whatever juice was left from the lime. I took another hit. By the time I had a third and a fourth shot, the wedge of lime barely had pulp left, let alone nectar. I prayed the booze would coerce my now overactive and furtive mind into some sort of sleep. Waiting for the alcohol to have its intended effect, I decided to wake up the computer on the small navigation desk. I checked NOAA for the latest forecast and confirmed what I already suspected: the storm was still here and there was a lot more to come. I had another shot of tequila for good measure and shuffled back to bed.

Sleep proved hard to come by. I glanced at the bedside clock: it was almost four. I desperately needed sleep. Nora had somehow convinced me to look into Amy’s messy life, and I had agreed. The main issue was that the person behind the swindle seemed to be someone who‘s interest were best served if Amy were completely out of the picture. The thought of dealing with a man like Evan Robertson brought on familiar but unwelcome feelings I had thought I left behind long ago. Not the kind of thoughts conducive to restful sleep. I fought the onslaught of memories, but it was no use; there was nothing else my mind would rather focus on. My mind kept coming back to Nora: her tears, her hasty exit.

I shuffled back to the bar and this time brought the bottle back with me.

Nine

The whirring buzz of the alarm clock jolted me out of restless twilight. I heard myself moan as I groped to put a stop to the offending racket. I have vowed many times never to take another bottle to bed. The way I felt was not entirely unwelcomed and was way too familiar. There was an eerie comfort to the booze-induced pain.

I held absolutely still, processing the torrent of memories from last night. My head was pounding, and my stomach was full of mating live eels. Between the drumbeats echoing in my ears and the incessant alarm buzzer, it was hard to remember why I had drunk so much. Then I knew: Nora. Her face, the obvious disappointment, the pain. Nora walking away.

The surge of raw memories was quickly eclipsed by a more immediate reflex, a rumbling in my stomach, a volcano about to explode. Springing up from the bed, I smashed the little alarm with my fist in passing and made it, just barely, to the head.

After retching up everything until there was only bile, I almost felt better. Then I remembered Amy and her predicament. I glanced at the shards of the alarm clock, then grabbed the cell phone from my jeans pocket to check the time: 8:23 in the morning. I didn’t quite remember why, but I knew I was already late.

I stumbled into the galley, following the smell of freshly brewed French roast. Thank God for programmable coffeemakers. After splashing my face in cool water from the faucet and drying with a rough paper towel that felt more like sandpaper, I flipped on the computer at the navigation desk. The rain wasn’t hammering on the boat’s exterior as it had all night, but the wind was still stirring things up outside. According to the weather service, the storm hadn’t moved much, and the small-craft advisory was still in effect. That’s when I remembered my now defunct vacation plans. Plans I had made with Nora.

She had driven away in that storm in the middle of the night. I speed-dialed her number, and she answered on the second ring.

“I guess you made it home okay last night,” I said.

“Yes.” She sounded a little surprised. “Yes, I did. Thank you, Jason.”

“Glad to hear.”
Pathetic.
I really didn’t know how to carry on this conversation. I just knew I needed to talk to her. I wanted to hear the sound of her voice.

“How about Amy?” she said, mercifully changing the subject. “Is she okay?”

“I’m sure she’ safe.”

“Jason,” she said, “you don’t sound normal. Are you getting sick?”

That was Nora: always the doctor, nurturing and caring. No wonder she had been taken advantage of the way she had.

“No, nothing like that,” I said. “I’m okay. Didn’t sleep so well. Maybe something I ate last night.”

“This ‘something you ate’ was it distilled in Cabo San Lucas?”

“Yeah.” She knew me too well. I had to grin. “Something like that.”

“Jason...”

I could feel it. Whatever was coming next was weighing heavily on her, and it wouldn’t be welcome news.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

“We should talk,” I said.

“Not right now,” she said in a nice, even tone. I could feel the distancing, the detachment, already building. “I need time. There was a lot said last night.”

“Not by me so much.” I somehow felt compelled to defend myself. “You did most of the talking... and then you left.”

“I know. And I’m sorry,” she repeated. “But I had no choice. I needed to be alone.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Jason, promise me something, will you?”

“What’s that?

“That you won’t be mad at me, please?”

“Deal. What about our vacation?”

Silence, then “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

And there it was: the hard, cold reality. What had been so desirable just a few hours ago somehow becomes unwanted and unwelcome after the break up. She was slipping away like rainwater through my fingers. And there was little I could do to stop it.

I must have remained silent for some time.

“Jason, will you take care of yourself?”

“Always.”

“And...” Her voice was halting a woman on the verge of an emotional breakdown. “Please don’t hate me for ruining our vacation plans.” I heard a muffled sob. “I just need to figure some things out for myself. That’s all. I need time.”

I said nothing. I wondered how long she would need. Eternity long enough?

“I don’t know how long. I really don’t. I’m sorry.”

Sometimes she scared the shit out of me. It was as if she were tuned in to some of my most private thoughts.

“I’ll call you soon,” she said.

“You do that,” I replied.

“Take care of yourself, Jason.” The phone clicked off.

The day had just begun, and I couldn’t imagine it getting any worse. I put the phone down on the desk and lurched back to the galley. The seismic activity in my stomach had calmed down for the moment, and I risked having some coffee and dead toast for breakfast. Outside, the patter of rain on fiberglass became white noise, something lost in the fog of pain. I knew when I finally went outside the muted sunlight of the stormy day was going to feel like a hollow point slug to the brain. My cell phone rang. Caller ID read “Sammy.”

“Yeah?”

“Guess what, chief?” he said in his customary cheery tone.

“First tell me about Amy,” I said. “I just want to make sure no one can trace her to wherever you have her stashed.”

“Aw, J. J.,” he replied, “a little faith. Do I ever disappoint?”

I hated being called “J. J.” almost as much as “chief.”

“Humor me anyway.” My head still throbbed, and my stomach still felt like a bubbling tar pit I didn’t feel like indulging anyone right now. “And thanks for covering my six last night.”

“Entirely my pleasure, Kemo Sabe.”

“What about Amy’s mother’s estate anything new?”

“I have Nilka now working on it while I focus on Robertson.”

Nilka Sotomayor was Sammy’s business associate and de facto second in command when he was away from the office. A twenty-year veteran with the West Palm PD, she had been a robbery-homicide detective. Nilka was an extremely capable investigator in her own right. She was as qualified as Sammy, if not more, when it came to digging into someone’s financial affairs, and she was a lot easier on the eyes.

“Fine. How about Robertson. Anything on him?”

“Now I will most certainly disappoint, chief,” he replied. I could hear papers being shuffled in the background. “My INS contact could not find any entry visas under the name Evan Robertson fitting the description of our guy anywhere.”

Why wasn’t I surprised?

“If this guy is truly a foreigner, then he’s here illegally or the name is fake. You ask me, I’m going with fake name.”

“What else?” I asked.

“I’ve called in a few favors with some old contacts up in D.C.”

“And?”

“I have someone running the picture Amy gave us through facial recognition software. But don’t expect too much on that end, chief. The quality of the old Polaroid is not the best. Still, I’ve seen worse, so who knows? Maybe we get lucky.”

“How about checking outside the U.S.? See if he’s got a record elsewhere.”

“Way ahead of you, chief. I’m also checking with a contact at Interpol just in case. You never know, right?”

“Right, Sammy,” I said as I peeked out the window at the space between my boat and the Rybovich 60 Sportfisherman, or “yacht,” as its status-conscious owner reminded me at every opportunity. It stood moored in the next berth, separated from the
Bold Ambition II
by a mere five feet of wooden planks and rubber bumpers. Not so high above, angry gray clouds streamed by, steered by strong winds.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Glad you asked,” Sammy continued. “You’ll be happy to know I have a recent location for our perp.”

“How recent?”

“As recent as a few days.”

Sammy remained silent, obviously waiting for me to grovel as he spoon-fed me information. It was his usual way of getting me to acknowledge his vast network of connections. I wasn’t in the mood for it.

“I get it, Sam. Your sources are the best. Now, where the hell is he?”

He must have noticed something in the tone of my voice. “Everything okay, chief?”

“Peachy.” I wasn’t in the mood to get into such a conversation right now. “Where is he?”

The brief hesitation in Sammy’s response also told me he wasn’t buying my act. But he went on anyway.

“I traced the cell number Amy gave us. If Robertson is the person using that phone, he’s in south Florida, chief, and has been there for the past two weeks.”

“Where exactly?”

“Not too far,” Sammy proudly proclaimed. “Naples and I don’t mean Italy.”

Ten

A few minutes after nine, Sammy pulled up in front of the gangplank leading to my boat and honked twice.

The rain had picked up again, so I grabbed a slicker and went out to face the elements. I got in the front passenger seat of Sammy’s black Denali SUV. We were heading west to Naples, hopefully to find Evan Robertson.

After stopping at the outskirts of Naples for a late lunch along Route 84, I asked Sammy to point out on a map where Robertson’s cell phone had been used recently. The ten-block area where most of the calls had originated was on the west side of town, near the beaches on the Gulf all prime real estate. For someone like Evan Robertson, this was certainly a promising area, an area filled with lots of wealthy marks.

The section of town triangulated by his cell calls was still fairly large too big for the two of us to canvass easily. Moreover, residents in these upmarket neighborhoods tended to be leery of door-to-door salespeople, lurkers, loiterers, or anyone else who doesn’t seem to belong.

Sammy’s cell phone buzzed. He glanced at it and said, “My contact at DMV.”

“This is Sammy Raj,” he said into his phone with a sterile, semiformal air.

He listened for a moment. “Fantastic. I owe you one, partner,” he said, and ended the call.

“Good news, chief,” he proudly announced as he slurped down the last drop of coffee from his mug. “It seems Robertson traded in one of his dead wife’s cars a few days ago at a dealership near here.”

We left the restaurant with a plan: Sammy would visit the dealership and question the salesman. I would drive to the area were Roberson had used his cell phone last and just have a look around. You never knew with luck, I might even run into him. Maybe I’d buy him a drink. I asked Sammy to drop me off at the nearest car rental office.

I opted for an “ultraluxury” rental: a brand-new black Cadillac Escalade with plush off-white leather interiors, gleaming wood accents in all the right places, a sound system that rivaled some of the best home systems, and even a backup camera, right on the GPS screen, that came on every time you put the car in reverse. Driving this behemoth, I wouldn’t look too out of place.

The area I wanted to scout, between First Avenue South and Eighth Avenue, and from Gulf Shore Boulevard eastward to Sixth Street South, was home to some of the most expensive real estate in Florida. Not a small plot, to be sure, but unless Sammy was able to come up with anything more specific, this was where I would begin the search. I really didn’t know what I was looking for. All I had was a copy of an old, fuzzy Polaroid and a vague description. Even magnified almost three times, Robertson’s facial features were not all that discernible. The snapshot had been taken from a distance, and scanning, cropping and magnification had produced quite a bit of noise and distortion in the enhanced image. Still, I knew that if I ever came across the man, I would instantly recognize him. It was that baleful, cold, lifeless look.

I spent nearly two hours driving up and down the well-tended streets of west Naples, burning a lot of gas in the process. There wasn’t much to see. It was still raining, and except for the occasional meandering Mercedes Benz, Bentley, or high-end SUV, the residential streets were pretty much deserted. People just didn’t venture out in this weather. And just stumbling across something that would provide a clue to Robertson’s whereabouts was not very likely. After all, most of these enormous mansions sat shrouded by lush landscaping, gigantic ornate gates that cost more than the average house, security cameras and call boxes all very effective barriers against prying eyes and unwanted visitors.