Hot Money (22 page)

Hal had gone to Clark’s side and Molly heard him ask if he wanted a lawyer. “I’ll call someone for you,” he offered.

Clark shook his head. “No. It’s over for me. There’s no point in doing anything other than pleading guilty. I can certainly do that on my own.”

Molly figured it would be a new experience since he usually plea-bargained his clients out of paying for their crimes.

Hal turned finally and walked slowly in her direction. Michael looked from Molly to her ex-husband and back again. He gave her shoulders a squeeze and went to explain what had happened to Detective Abrams, who’d just arrived on the scene. Molly was left alone to face her ex-husband.

Pale and clearly shaken, Hal shoved his hands into his pockets. His gaze surveyed her hungrily as if he needed desperately to assure himself that she was really all right. “You’re okay?” he asked, as if he feared his eyes might deceive him.

“Fine.”

“You deliberately led Clark away from Brian, didn’t you?”

“You mean by taking him to the Sheraton?”

He nodded.

“That was part of it. If he had had anything desperate in mind, I didn’t want it to happen around Brian. But to be honest, it was more than that. I also could see he wouldn’t talk where we were and I had to know what had really happened to Tessa.”

“You couldn’t wait to read it in the paper like the rest of us?”

She shook her head. “From the minute I found her body, this wasn’t some news story to me. It was personal. If it could happen to Tessa in the middle of a fund-raiser, then it could happen to anyone.” She drew in a breath and admitted what was at the heart of everything. “It could happen to me.”

His gaze narrowed. “Don’t you see? That’s what terrifies me.”

“I know you worry. I can’t blame you for that. But when I look for the answers behind something like Tessa’s murder or Greg Kinsey’s or Allan Winecroft’s, I feel in control again. I feel like I’m getting an edge up on anyone who might ever try to hurt me or Brian.”

Hal nodded slowly. “I guess I can understand that. It’s a scary world out there these days. We all need to do whatever we can to be in control of our lives. I suppose that’s all I was doing by filing this custody suit.”

Molly stepped closer and touched his cheek, wishing that it had never come to this sad state of affairs between them, but knowing that there was no way to go back. “Maybe there’s a solution for us short of taking this to court. Now that we both understand where we’re coming from, next time, if there is a next time, I will bring Brian to stay with you. That way we’ll both know that he’s out of harm’s way.”

“You’ve never been willing to do that before,” he said, sounding surprised by the gesture.

“Because I was always afraid you wouldn’t bring him back,” she admitted. “Do we have a deal, Hal?”

He cupped her face in his hands and for an instant she was certain he intended to kiss her. Instead he merely leveled an intense gaze directly into her eyes, then smiled faintly.

“We have a deal.” He brushed a kiss on her forehead. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt that you have a cop standing by, if things get really out of hand.” He shot a grudging glance of respect at Michael, who was hovering a discreet distance away. “Take care of her, O’Hara.”

Michael slid his arm around her waist. “She doesn’t need me to do that, DeWitt. She can take care of herself.” He grinned down at her. “Right, amiga?”

Darn right.

Watch for the next Molly DeWitt
romantic mystery,
HOT SCHEMES
.

The deafening music pulsed to a Latin beat at Sundays on the Bay. Molly DeWitt had long since given up any attempts to carry on a conversation with Michael O’Hara, whose attention seemed to be focused more on the horizon than on her anyway. His beer sat untouched, warming in the sun. As near as she could tell, with his eyes shaded by his favorite reflective sunglasses, he hadn’t even noticed the five scantily clad women at the next table. That’s how she knew he was far more worried than he was letting on.

“Still no sign of your uncle’s boat?” she shouted over the music.

He glanced at her briefly, shook his head, then turned his attention back to the water. His it, even in the midst of some particularly gruesome homicide investigations.

Molly understood his concern. It was now after 4:00
P.M
. Tío Miguel should have been back by two o’clock, three at the latest, from his regular Sunday fishing trip. By then he would usually have enough snapper or grouper for the family’s dinner, plus extra to share with friends up and down the block in their Little Havana neighborhood.

The rest of the week Tío Miguel worked nights delivering the morning newspaper door to door, then took out fishing charters, usually wealthy Latin Americans and their Miami business associates.

A small, olive-complexioned man with dark-as-midnight eyes, Miguel García had an unmistakable wiry strength even though he was about to turn sixty-five. Molly had met him several months earlier at dinner at Tío Pedro’s, yet another of Michael’s uncles. She had been instantly charmed by his softspoken blending of English and Spanish and the pride in his voice as he talked of Michael’s accomplishments in Miami.

Tío Miguel and Tío Pedro and their wives—both sisters of Michael’s mother—had preceded Michael to Miami when Fidel Castro overthrew Batista in Cuba. They had left behind homes, family, and once-thriving careers in the hope of regaining freedom. It was to them, via one of the famed Pedro Pan airlifts, that Michael’s mother had sent him, alone at the age of five.

Though Molly had known other exiles, none had touched her quite the way Tío Miguel had. When he talked of his native land, there had been such sadness in his eyes and something more, an anger perhaps, that his homeland was out of reach to him now. Unlike his brother, who owned a flourishing Cuban restaurant, Tío Miguel had never fully adapted to his new land.

Like so many other Cuban exiles who had come to Miami in the sixties, Tío Miguel had struggled with English. Fortunately, he lived in a community where shopkeepers spoke Spanish, where parish priests and government officials spoke his language. He had settled for taking menial jobs to support his family, always with the fragile hope that he would return home to a free Cuba someday. As time passed, hope had faded.

Molly glanced at Michael and saw that his attention was still avidly focused on Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic beyond.

“You’re worried, aren’t you?” she said.

“He’s never been this late before.”

“Does he have a radio on the boat?”

Michael nodded.

“Then he can call the Coast Guard if he’s in trouble. I’m sure he’s okay. He probably found a hot spot where the fish were really biting and didn’t want to come in yet.”

“Maybe,” he said tersely. He stood up. “I’m going inside to make a call. Keep an eye out for him, will you?”

“Of course.”

Though Tío Miguel had invited Michael, Molly, and her son, Brian, to come fishing with him some Sunday, they had never taken him up on it. Brian had brought it up once or twice, but Molly had discouraged him from pressing Michael about it. Now as she watched the endless rows of sailboats, yachts, and fishing boats dotting the water, she realized she had no idea what his boat was named, much less what it looked like. Except for those with billowing sails, they all looked pretty much alike to her, especially from this distance.

When Michael finally returned, if anything he looked more tense.

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing. Tía Pilar said she was expecting him home by now. There was something else in her voice, though, that convinced me I am right to be worried. I called the Coast Guard. They haven’t had any distress calls, but they’re going out to take a look.” He didn’t have to say that he’d called in a favor to accomplish that. He drummed his fingers nervously on the table and took another sip of beer. “Damn, I can’t stand this. Come on.”

“Where?”

“I’ll run you home, then rent a boat. I’m going out myself. I’ve been out with him enough. I probably know better than the Coast Guard does where to start looking.” He threw some money on the table, then slipped between the tightly packed tables along the edge of the marina.

They were nearly to the car, when Molly touched his arm. “Michael, I want to go with you,” she said, unable to ignore his anxiety. She’d learned long ago that Michael was incapable of asking for help, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use a little support from a friend once in a while. Predictably, though, he was already shaking his stubborn Cuban-Irish head.

“No. If there’s trouble, I don’t want you involved.”

“What sort of trouble?” she said.

He just shook his head again, his expression more tight-lipped and obstinate than usual. “You’re going home.”

Molly made up in determination what she lacked in stature. She planted herself in front of him. “Dammit, Michael O’Hara, don’t you pull any of this Latin machismo stuff with me. Two pairs of eyes will be better than one out there. If your uncle is hurt, I might be able to help. You won’t be able to manage him and the boat at the same time.”

Apparently he decided that arguing would simply waste more precious time. That was the only explanation she could think of for his quick, grudging nod. He changed directions.

Halfway down the marina, a middle-aged fisherman was just unloading his catch. He greeted Michael with a nod.
“Hola.”

Michael began talking to him in Spanish. The only thing Molly understand for certain was Tío Miguel’s name, but the man’s head bobbed in agreement.

“He’ll take us out,” Michael told her, already following the man onto the boat. He held out his hand to help Molly aboard. “He and my uncle are friends. He saw him just this morning. He went out as usual about dawn.”

“Does Tío Miguel usually fish in the same place?” Molly asked.

“More or less. We might have to do some cruising around though. I assume you don’t get seasick. The water looks a little choppy today.”

“Let’s just say it’s probably best if we don’t put the idea into my head,” she said just as the powerful engine started throbbing beneath them. Her stomach lurched, then settled a bit as they eased out of the dock and into open water. Fresh air replaced gas fumes as they chugged out of the harbor. She tried to ignore the thick, dark clouds gathering in the west and the threat they represented.

“You okay?” Michael asked. “You looked a little green there for a minute.”

“I’m fine now.”

“I want to get up front to help Raul watch for the boat. You’ll be okay back here?”

Molly nodded. “What the name of the boat? I’ll watch from here.”

“The Niña Pilar.”

She reached out then and touched his hand. “We’ll find him, Michael.”

“I hope so,” he said and turned abruptly, but not before she’d noted the tense set of his jaw and the deepening worry in his eyes in that instant before he’d slipped his sunglasses back into place.

Not only was he Tío Miguel’s namesake, but the two shared a special bond because of Michael’s young age when his mother had sent him to America to live with his aunt and uncle. That, combined with the fact that Michael had never known his own Irish-American father, had cemented their relationship. The closeness was not something Michael ever spoke of, but she had learned over the last months to read the emotions in his eyes, even when his words revealed nothing. If something had happened to Tío Miguel, Michael would be devastated, as would the rest of the close-knit family.

Under the glare of the midafternoon sun, a fine mist of salty water dried on Molly’s skin almost as soon as it landed. As the boat chugged into deeper seas, the water turned from a glistening silver to a murky green, then purple, darkened from above by the bank of nearly black clouds rolling in, dumping sheets of rain in the distance and hiding the land from sight.

Whether it was due to the afternoon storm itself or Michael’s anxiety, Molly grew increasingly uneasy as the boat rocked over the choppy waves. All the other boats were making for land, while they continued to head out to sea.

No longer able to stand being left alone, she made her way forward on the slippery deck, clinging to the metal railing as she climbed up to join Michael and Raul. While the middle-aged Cuban man steered against the powerful northerly currents, a huge cigar clamped between his teeth, Michael kept a pair of borrowed binoculars trained on the horizon.

Molly clung to a railing as the wind ripped at her clothes and tangled her hair. “Any sign of him?”

“Nothing. Raul’s heading south.”

Molly’s uneasiness mounted. “South? Toward Cuba?”

Michael nodded.

Suddenly dozens of stories about ill-fated missions against Castro by fanatical exiles flashed through her mind. “Michael?”

He slowly lowered the binoculars and turned toward her, his expression grim.

“You don’t believe he went fishing today, do you?”

“I hope to God I’m wrong, but no.”

“But surely he wouldn’t …”

“He would,” Michael said tersely. “The goddamned fool would. He’s been involved with some underground group for years. I looked into them once for Tía Pilar. I decided they were harmless enough. I thought that eventually he’d see that there are better ways to end Castro’s dictatorship, especially with the fall of communism in the rest of the world.”

“But why now, after all this time?” Molly said, unable to imagine the sheer folly of what Michael was suggesting. “You must be wrong. I’m sure he just got caught in a squall or something. He wouldn’t try to invade Cuba on his own, for heaven’s sake.”

“You don’t understand what it’s been like for him. You can’t. Cuba—the Cuba he remembers anyway—is in his soul.”

The sadness, Molly thought. That explained the sorrow that perpetually shadowed Tío Miguel’s eyes. And Michael was right. It was something she had no way of fully understanding.

“Would he have gone alone, though?” she asked. “Wouldn’t there have been others?”