Twisted Justice (29 page)

They're to tell no one, absolutely no one, including the police. The only ones who know where they are will be Chuck and me. Just tell the Palmers that it's a safe, comfortable place a few hours away. Okay?”

“Okay, Greg. Makes me feel better, though I wonder if Sally Palmer can possibly keep a secret. In the meantime, Chuck's got people in the street here and in Miami after Santiago.”

“Right. Carrie, here's what I've been thinking: how much danger could Nelson be in? I mean, Santiago did show up at his place, right? After he takes care of Connor, he's thinking that Nelson was Connor's confidant and that she told him things she shouldn't have. What'd he do then? Run it by Chuck, would you? I don't give a shit about the bastard, but he's got Laura's two older sons.”

“Will do. I've wondered about that too. I thought maybe he'd go after Steve Nelson right after it happened —”

“In a jealous rage,” Greg finished her thought. “Wonder how much that had to do with Nelson trekking up to Michigan that night. How much, and what, did he know?”

“Exactly. I'll talk to Chuck about it, and about the Palmers. I'll go see them tonight and arrange for them to leave in the morning. And you'd better get over to the hospital with Laura,” Carrie added. “Sounds like about now, you're all she has.”

“Hey Carlos, it's Frankie. What's shakin' in Miami, man?” Frank Santiago had been waiting by the phone and finally made the call himself. He was barefoot and wore swim trunks with small gold-colored diamonds against a plum background and a matching top as he tried to lounge inside the beachfront cottage. He hadn't even been able to show off his stylish swimwear on the beach. It was Saturday. Tomorrow would be three weeks since the Mexican heist and he was losing patience.

“No matter to you. You where you supposed to be,” a heavily accented Hispanic voice rasped.

“Sweet fucking island, but I gotta get outta here. Saturday night and I'm sitting here doin' fucking nothing. Got business to take care of.”

“Too hot in Tampa,” said Carlos Tosca. He sounded authoritative and annoyed.

For fifteen years Carlos had controlled the Cuban arm of the South Florida mob out of Miami. He was a self-made man, now sixty-three and thinking of his successor. He had three daughters that he'd sent to the Ivies — and that he'd kept isolated from the family business. He had no sons, and over the past year he'd been grooming his captains for the top job. Frank Santiago was one, and nine months ago, Carlos sent him up to Tampa to expand the Ybor City operation into the larger Tampa Bay area.

“They got a manhunt goin' down and you the man,” barked Carlos from his mansion in Miami's South Beach. “Like I don't got nothin' better to do than cover your fuck ups. How many times I tell you. Just you and Ritchie, get to Tampa, do the job, don't make no stops, don't let nobody see you. And whaddaya do instead? Go chasin' after pussy, then you even off the bitch.”

“Carlos, that's not what went down — but the job got done, right? That blow's raking it in now and I gotta —”

“Shut the fuck up,” Carlos sneered. “Listen to me real good. I'm callin' the shots to keep your ass outta the slammer. You stay outta sight, you hear me? Ain't anybody gonna find you there. Sanibel's a quiet, family-type island. Droppin' you by boat at night
means nobody saw nothin' so long's you stay inside. You got that?”

“I'll go loco in this shit of a paradise,” insisted Frank. “I gotta get back to Tampa.”

“Ritchie's takin' over.”

“Ritchie don't know shit. I got stuff all set up.”

“Yeah, you're all set up. That why the pigs crawlin' through Tampa lookin' for you for buryin' that stupid bitch.”

“Shit, I'm telling you that nobody can finger me.”

“That the fact? Then why you got somebody singin' 'bout you, asshole. Word is they gonna drop the charges on that lady doctor. That leaves you in a bad place, so you fuckin' stay put. Down the line we may hafta get you outta the country fast.”

“Drop the charges? What the fuck —?”

“I'm hearing that someone saw you, Frankie. I know you've been like a son to me, but you're not leavin' me too many choices.”

“I swear, nobody saw nothin'.”

“I gotta go,” rasped Carlos. “Ritchie'll stay in touch. He's in charge now, and you do what he tells you. No more fuck ups.”

Santiago slammed down the phone, grabbed a beer, and walked out into the humid South Florida air, gazing with contempt at the aqua blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico. He detested islands. They made him feel like he was in a prison. Especially this one, accessible only via a toll bridge connected to Fort Myers and, of course, by small boats. He needed to get back to business in Tampa and fast. Before that prick Ritchie dug too deep in his business. Didn't everybody skim a little off the top? But if Richie ever found out, he'd go straight to Carlos. Frankie knew what would happen next. He'd sent his share of bodies to the bottom of Tampa Bay. He went back inside.

There wasn't much time. Frankie began to sweat. He stripped off his shirt. Forced himself to sit down on the bed. Forced himself to think. To list his problems. First, Ritchie. The kid was smart, as in mathematically smart. The money reported to Carlos was light by 3 percent — enough to get him iced. He had to get back before Richie figured this out.

Second, what Carlos said about that night? That somebody saw him at Nelson's shithole? He'd been so fucking careful, parking his Caddy two blocks away. Left no prints. Took the back door out. But somebody musta seen something 'cause they were droppin' charges on the Nelson bitch. He knew the rule. Better to take a soldier out than let him sing inside the joint. Carlos already figured he'd iced Kim and was fucking pissed. He could think of only one way to handle this mysterious witness — Manny Gonzolas.

Finally, there was Steve Nelson. Free as a bird out there. Frankie sank back against the pillows, reliving that night. Tears pricked his eyes as they had off and on since he'd lost Kim. This weird sign of emotion confused him. Tears because he missed her? Or tears of sheer anger? How could she betray him for fucking Nelson? And what did Nelson know about his scheme? He had told Kim, hadn't he? Trying to impress her with how smart and how rich he was. So many pretty woman out there, and he'd finally chosen Kim to be his wife and she —

Frankie wiped away the tears, his face hardening into a tight grimace. Had to be Nelson pointing the finger. Why else would they let his wife walk and the law be out looking for him? Pigs found her right there. Yes, Nelson had to be iced and soon. “And that will be my pleasure,” Frankie said aloud as he stripped down to take a cool shower.

Greg spent most of Saturday at the hotel, either on the phone with Rob or Chuck, or riding up and down elevators to the lone fax machine in the so-called business office of the Sheraton. Laura was across the street with Patrick as the poor kid endured CAT scans, ultrasounds, and other torturous procedures that Greg had never even heard of.

Rob was in the office putting the finishing touches on the motion to persuade Judge Potter to dismiss the murder charge still officially pending against Laura. Sandra Mulloy had been informed, so that when the motion made it to the judge on Monday, the D.A. would not feel blindsided. They were so ultrasensitive to P.R. that Greg thought it best to give them time to evaluate their political options. When the judge dismissed Laura's charges, the D.A.'s office would have to publicly expose Frank Santiago as the new prime suspect. How they handled that would be their problem and that of the police to finally arrest the guy. But it did make Greg feel better that little Molly Palmer would be safely sequestered three hundred miles away on Amelia Island.

In between telephone marathons with Rob and Chuck, Greg had repeatedly tried to call Celeste. Alone in the hotel, he missed her terribly and still had not been able to explain his snap decision to go to Philly with Laura. He'd tried her townhouse in Tampa, his beach house, and then, the Peachtree Plaza Hotel in Atlanta just in case, but there was no answer at either residence, and no message
waiting for him at the hotel. Although Greg knew that Celeste would not object to their using her place, he was anxious to let her know it was happening.

After meeting Laura for a quick dinner in the CHOP cafeteria, he returned to the hotel and headed to the bar. Nursing a glass of tawny port, he wondered whether Celeste's absence was a sign that he should have gone home instead. Sipping the second port, Greg finally begun to worry, not so much about Celeste's safety, but about their relationship. He didn't deserve her, and his decision to go to Philadelphia with Laura just proved it. Back in his room, he called her condo once again. No answer. Celeste had sacrificed her own professional goals to spend the weekend in Tampa with him and he'd stood her up. No wonder she wasn't answering the phone. These were Greg's thoughts as he'd tried to drift off to sleep long into the early hours of Sunday morning.

Around nine in the morning, Greg's phone rang.

“Carrie calling,” she announced as he said ‘hello.'

“Morning. What's up, Carrie?”

“Well, I need your opinion on something. It's important.”

“Shoot.”

“It's the Palmers. Chuck and I set it up to get them to the house on Amelia Island this morning as we discussed. The thing is, they want to take Elizabeth as a companion for Molly seeing they'll be so isolated. Don says it's up to me whether to let her go. What do you think?”

“I see.” Greg paused. “Carrie, the truth is I really don't know what I'd do if I were you. She's your daughter, only you can decide. What I can tell you is that we'll make sure Chuck takes every conceivable precaution in terms of security, but in the end I guess it boils down to how you feel. Do you know?”

“I feel that I got Molly into this and that it wouldn't be right if I didn't let Elizabeth go with them. But still, I'm scared.”

“I don't blame you. You know, not to change the subject, but I
really need to get back to Tampa. If Elizabeth goes with the Palmers, I wonder if you'd be able to replace me here, stay with Laura for a few days. I hate to leave without one of us here.”

“Let me see, Greg. There's so much up in the air, I'll talk to Don about it.”

“Good. Let's talk later then,” he said, hanging up the phone.
Where was Celeste?

From his resort prison on Sanibel Island, Frank Santiago finalized his plan Sunday morning. In the middle of summer, Sanibel was a sleepy, family-type place known for its perfect seashells. Kids chased each other in and out of the surf, the usual Florida crowd of grandparents nearby. It looked like every generation on the planet collected buckets of those stupid shells from the endless supply the sea dumped onto the wide, white beaches. Watch it happen for one more day and Frank knew he was gonna lose it.

Fact was, Carlos was going to hand Tampa over to that fucking Ritchie if he didn't get back there. Well, he'd worked too hard to let that happen. Besides, Ritchie couldn't hold a candle to him. All because of Kim, he could lose everything. Back and forth, Frank paced the humid living room as Channel Eight News reported the Nelson update like they had a fucking exclusive, making as much as they could of their former anchors, Kim Connor, now dead, and Steve Nelson, soon to be dead — if Frank had his way.

He'd just had a call from Ritchie Noval. Carlos was gettin' more uptight. This stupid island was bad enough, but what if he had to leave the country, like Carlos had said? Columbia? Costa Rica? That unnerved Frank more than the fucking Tampa manhunt. Cops in Tampa had turned up the heat, crawling all over his haunts in old Ybor City, hell-bent on finding him, asking questions about Kim, about him and Kim.

Frank's bowels loosened. Fucking Nelson. First, the fact that Kim had actually fucked him. And now, the actuality that Kim coulda blabbed that shit he'd told her. Why had he introduced her around? He knew the answer: because it felt so good to have a
gorgeous, intelligent, sexy lady on his arm to show off to the fucking world.

“Carlos wants to know what Nelson knows about our operation,” Ritchie'd accused.

“Nothing,” Frank told him. “Prick don't know nothing. Why's Carlos talkin' to you about this shit? Why don't he call me?”

“Cause I'm callin' yuh. I'm in charge now 'cause you fucked up.”

“Nobody fuckin' saw me. How many jobs we do together? I'm a pro, you asshole.”

“Yeah, that's why every pig in Tampa lookin' for you, man. Fact is, somebody saw you goin' into that guy's house. My brother-in-law, Remy, got ties into the D.A.'s office. Positive ID, he said, but he don' know who fingered you. Pigs keepin' it real quiet. Gonna drop the charges on the Nelson bitch, that's why they lookin' for you. Carlos probably gonna be wantin' you in Columbia sooner than later.”