Someone Must Die (17 page)

The blare of a honking horn brought Diana back to the present. Back from an old nightmare to the one she was living.

In less than twelve hours, someone was planning to kill Ethan unless she killed Jonathan first.

That was the deal.

She shook her head. The dizziness had passed.

In order to go forward, you needed to destroy. That had been their mantra. Someone must die.

She watched the traffic streaming by on Brickell Avenue, then stood and slowly walked back in the blinding brightness toward Jonathan’s towering building.

Hoping she could think of another way.

C
HAPTER
27

The sun was too bright, almost painful, the angle different from what Aubrey had grown accustomed to in Rhode Island. Here in Miami, the colors were brighter, like a movie shown in high definition.

And yet, the things Aubrey needed most to see remained veiled to her. Her visit to the Simmers’ command post had provided no more clarity. If anything, she had left there even more perplexed, especially by her father’s erratic behavior—his implication, then denial, that he had some idea who was behind the kidnapping.

She turned the corner to her childhood home. Tom Smolleck was leaning against one of the black cars talking on his phone. He signaled to her to wait a minute while he finished up his call. The sun hit him directly, and there was a gleam of perspiration on his forehead just beneath his buzz cut. He ended his call and came toward her, his badge prominent at his waist.

“Do you have a few minutes?” he asked.

She was anxious to get back to her computer research, but he was, after all, the FBI. “Of course.”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

She almost asked what he wanted from her, but decided she’d find out soon enough. Besides, she had questions for him.

“How are you doing with the investigation?” she asked as he drove down the narrow, bumpy street. “Any possible suspects from the crowd scenes at the carnival?”

He turned onto Tigertail. “Your observations about the two suspicious-looking people in the photos were good ones,” he said. “We had also noticed the woman with the sunglasses and the man with the tattoo sleeves. We’re in the process of identifying them.”

“My father told me the K-9 dogs found a napkin with Ethan’s scent on it at the carnival. Were there any usable prints?”

“The only prints we were able to pull were your mother’s.” He stopped at a traffic light, lips pursed as though he were trying to decide something, then he turned to her. “Let’s get something to eat.” Apparently, he was planning to turn this into a long conversation. “Is there someplace near here?”

“I like Scotty’s, but it’s outdoors, so you might prefer—”

“How do I get there?”

She gave him directions, and they made it to the restaurant in a couple of minutes. He pulled into the near-empty parking lot, and they got out. It was hot in the sun, but a breeze was coming off the bay.

He hesitated as he stood beside the car, as though he would have liked to take off his jacket, but he kept it on. He was probably carrying a gun.

They walked along a path to the restaurant, the smell of gasoline from the marina triggering memories of her childhood. Smolleck stopped when they came around to the bay. The water rippled, reflecting the white cloud puffs in the blue sky. The view was the same as from the park where she and her mom had sat the evening before, but she forgot how beautiful it must be to someone not from around here.

They continued to the seating area beneath a white-and-green awning. The lunch crowd hadn’t arrived yet, and only a handful of people, mostly in T-shirts and shorts, were seated. The tables and chairs were plastic, menus held up by large red ketchup containers and salt and pepper shakers.

They seated themselves at a table closest to the dock where the breeze was the strongest. It whipped around beneath her ponytail, cooling her neck. Smolleck unbuttoned the top button on his shirt and loosened his tie. His white shirt was damp beneath his suit jacket. A waitress wearing a baseball cap, green T-shirt, and khaki shorts came by. They ordered conch fritters and coconut shrimp.

“We used to eat here when I was a kid,” Aubrey said after the waitress left. “My mother worked late and hated cooking, but I think we would have come here anyway.”

She looked out toward the bay, remembering those evenings, especially before her parents became strangers to each other: the reflection from the sunset in the clouds to the east, the coolness in the air after the sun went down, how her father and mother would occasionally exchange a look only they understood.

“Sounds like you had a happy childhood,” Smolleck said.

“Happy enough,” she said, wishing she knew him better to say more.

“It’s funny how when we’re in the midst of something, it becomes our whole world, and we can’t imagine anything different.” He had a faraway expression on his face, like when they’d sat on the patio the night before. “Almost as though we’re in a glass bubble and nothing exists outside of it.”

So he knew about bubbles. “Have you ever felt that way?” she asked.

“A few times.” He rubbed the indentation in his eyebrow. “I was in with a bad crowd when I was in high school. We cut classes, did a lot of drugs, and didn’t give a shit about the rest of the world.”

“Something happened?”

He picked up the bottle of ketchup and scraped the crud off its neck with his thumbnail. “My mother died from breast cancer in my senior year. It happened very quickly. So quickly, I hadn’t accepted she was dying, and then it was too late.”

“That must have been very hard on you.”

“And of course I felt guilty, as though my lifestyle had caused her cancer. So I stopped doing drugs, cut my hair, and joined the marines. Spent some time in Afghanistan.”

“What was that like?”

He shrugged. “I had thought in the military I’d be taking control of my life, but I ended up in a different kind of bubble. No thinking. No questioning. Just following orders.”

Not so different from what she’d been doing up until recently.

“Is that why you joined the FBI? So you could question things?”

He gave her that half smile. “Something like that.”

A small, noisy motorboat backed into the dock space, roiling the water.

“So is the FBI working out for you?”

He stared out at the rippling water. “I would say I’ve grown more self-aware. I know people are subject to getting caught up in their environments. The FBI is no exception.” He turned back to her. “What about you? Do you ever feel like you’re trapped inside some airless space?”

She thought about Jackson. How she almost couldn’t breathe when he and Wolvie first left. It was nothing compared to what she was experiencing now. “Losing Ethan feels like being trapped in a nightmare.”

He nodded. “Of course it does.”

The waitress put two waters down on the table, then went to take an order from the people who’d gotten out of the boat.

She reached for her glass of water. In the midst of all the anxiety relating to Ethan and her mom, it was a relief to have someone to talk to.

She had misread Smolleck. His tough FBI-agent act was a cover.

“We checked into your boyfriend,” he said.

His unexpected change in direction startled her, causing her to spill the water. Apparently Smolleck was uncomfortable with the soft talk and had needed to return to his professional persona.

“He’s not a suspect,” Smolleck said, his voice gentler, as though he were sorry he’d shaken her.

“I didn’t think he was.”

He scratched a knuckle. What was he procrastinating about?

“Why are we here?” she asked. “You obviously have something on your mind.”

“I spoke with Judge Woodward this morning.”

Her cheeks grew warm. She hadn’t seen that coming. If her mother had talked to Jonathan about the note, he may have told Smolleck about it.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

She needed to feel out how much Smolleck knew. “Jonathan’s possible nomination could be connected to Ethan’s disappearance.”

“It could,” Smolleck said. “But is there something else going on?”

She put her hands under the table so he wouldn’t notice the giveaway tremor. “What do you mean?”

“Judge Woodward was unusually concerned about your mother.”

“She’s his fiancée. Of course he’s worried about her.”

“But Judge Woodward seemed convinced the kidnapping was related to her. Why wouldn’t he also consider that the kidnappers’ target could be the Simmers, or your father, or even your brother and his wife? Or, for that matter, since there’s no ransom demand, that some child predator has taken Ethan?”

Her mother must have told Jonathan about the note, and now the FBI suspected its existence because of Jonathan’s awkward behavior.

The waitress put their food on the table. It gave Aubrey a minute to compose herself and think of a response, but as soon as the waitress left, Smolleck continued. “Obviously if there were a ransom demand, it would help us tremendously. We would know who the kidnappers have targeted and what they want. Without it, we’re forced to go in a dozen different directions, and we’re losing valuable time.”

He was right. The more the FBI knew, the more likely they’d be to find Ethan. She realized his purpose in bringing her here was to persuade her to tell him of the note’s existence. Perhaps to shake her from what he may have perceived as the bubble she and her mother were sharing. But she worried the kidnappers would act on their threat and kill Ethan if the FBI was told.

Smolleck reached for one of the coconut shrimp and took a bite. “These are good,” he said. “You should eat something.”

She had no appetite, but she picked up a conch fritter.

“You know, Aubrey, most ransom notes specifically say not to contact the authorities, or the victim of the kidnapping will be hurt.”

He was as much as telling her he knew, but she had to be careful that what she said would help, not hurt, Ethan.

“You said Jonathan seems unusually concerned that my mother is the target of the kidnappers,” she said. “If you think it’s because of a ransom note to that effect, wouldn’t it make sense to pursue that possibility even without confirming that the note exists?”

He threw the shrimp’s tail down on his plate, a look of disgust on his face. She was surprised she felt bad about disappointing him with her hedged response.

“Assuming my mother is the target,” she continued, “is it possible someone from her college years is behind the kidnapping?”

“What interests me is why you think that’s the most likely possibility.”

“I didn’t say it was most likely.”

“But it’s the one you’re directing me to.”

“You’re right,” she admitted. “I think there is something there. But you’re the one who brought up my parents’ past to me, so I started doing my own research.”

“Okay. Fair enough,” he said. “Tell me why you think there’s a connection to Ethan’s kidnapping.”

“I believe my parents had some kind of involvement with a revolutionary group in college. Is it possible someone believes they had something to do with the 1970 explosion, which killed several students, and kidnapped Ethan out of revenge?”

“We’ve been looking into members of Stormdrain who may have had ties to your parents.”

So the FBI was considering this theory as well. Finally, she was getting some information. She steeled herself against what he might reveal about her parents.

“One is a man named Jeffrey Schwartz,” Smolleck said. “He went underground after the explosion, then was involved in a fatal bank robbery a few years later. We haven’t been able to locate him.” He ate another shrimp, as though he were sharing bureaucratic details, not revelations that might turn her world upside down.

“The interesting thing is that around twenty years ago, a man claiming to be Jeffrey Schwartz marched into an FBI office insisting he had secret information about the 1970 explosion.”

“What information?”

“He said the brownstone explosion hadn’t been an accident, and he knew who had blown it up.”

This man knew who blew up the brownstone? She shuddered at the possible significance. But if her parents had been involved, Smolleck wouldn’t be talking to her so matter-of-factly.

“Did he tell you who did it?” she asked.

Smolleck shook his head. “No. He didn’t know anything. We checked out his story. He wasn’t Schwartz, and he hadn’t been anywhere near New York at the time of the explosion. Turns out he was psychotic, suffering from a delusional disorder. He was apparently obsessed with the incident and wanted to get himself in the limelight.”

An idea nagged at her.

Twenty years ago her parents had had a major fight. Earlier today, Kevin had said he believed it had been about a friend of his, because he’d overheard Mama say, “Jeff’s going to be the end of us.” What if her parents had actually been arguing about
this
Jeffrey? Or was that too much of a stretch?

“And the real Jeffrey Schwartz?” she asked. “What happened to him?”

“We’re trying to find him, as well as a woman named Linda Wilsen. She was badly burned in the explosion. She’s also off the radar.”

“People just disappear?”

“All the time,” he said. “They go to Canada or Mexico, or even hide in plain view with a new identity.”

A breeze brought a strong fishy smell into her nostrils. “What about BBM? Is it possible someone from the company is taking revenge on my parents?”

“BBM? Why are you bringing them up?”

“Baer Business Machines was started by Prudence’s grandfather.”

“We know that.”

“I saw several BBM employees at the Simmers’ command post.”

He frowned, his gray eyes becoming eerily light from the angle of the sun. “Why does that concern you?”

“Because Prudence’s grandfather, Emmet Baer, was on Columbia’s board of trustees from 1965 through 1970.”

He had stopped eating. “I’m listening.”

“Stormdrain was active on campus from 1969 to 1970 and would have been a major thorn in the administration’s side.”

“What does that have to do with BBM?”

“I watched a documentary that was filmed in 1969 of a student takeover of several university buildings. In the documentary, the voiceover claimed that Columbia University was hooked into big corporations who were financing the war machine. One of the corporations they mentioned was Baer Business Machines.”

“So you think there may be some residual anger toward members of Stormdrain from that period?”

“I have no idea what to think. I don’t know what my parents had to do with Stormdrain. I’ve looked them both up on the Internet but found nothing on either of them.” She swallowed. “Tell me. The FBI knows things the public doesn’t. What did my mother or father have to do with the brownstone explosion in April 1970?”