Twisted Justice (30 page)

“Ritchie, you tell Carlos I'll take care of it. Ain't nobody gonna finger me.”

“You fuckin' sit tight, let Carlos handle it his way.”

“Right,” said Frank as he hung up the phone. “While I'm sittin' here on my ass till Carlos decides to ice me.”

He paced for a few minutes more, then made a call.

The phone was picked up in a tiny office in downtown Clearwater. Frankie had never been there, but he pictured an empty room except for a desk and phone as per the business card: Mr. Manuel Gonzolas. Financial Consultant. By appointment only. Only address, a P.O. Box. This phone number.

“Yeah, Manny, course I know about the shit goin' down. Reason I called.”

Frankie listened as Manny explained, like he had the last time Frankie'd hired him. He operated as an independent. No ties to nobody. No jobs connected to the organization. Respects Carlos Tosca. Respects Santo Trafficante, Jr.

“You guys take care of your own. That's my motto,” he repeated.

“Look, Manny, this is private. Me. Not the organization. Like the last job. Carlos wants me takin' care of this myself.”

“Sure you cleared this with the boss? I don't need trouble from Carlos.”

“Yeah,” Frankie lied. “And I got the money.”

“Okay, I'm listening. Lay out the job.”

Frankie told him what he knew about a witness who could put him at the Nelson place on Oregon. “Use your connections downtown, my man. Just take this fucker out. Nice and clean.”

Frankie heard Manny whistle over the phone. “Gonna cost you big time, amigo. Prices are up from the last time. My informants are buried deep in Tampa police headquarters. I'm gonna need a hundred big ones. Half to get started. Plus all expenses.”

“Shit, that's way more —”

“Take it or leave it. I gotta lay out ten K just to get my man to open his mouth.”

“Okay, just get on it right away,” Frankie said. “Shit, I ain't got much time.”

“Gotta see the money, touch it, count it,” Manny said.

“I'm good for it,” Frankie tried to keep the tremor of desperation out of his voice. Deal from a position of strength, he told himself. You've got all the money you scammed. Money motivates Manny. “Be a fool to stiff you, right? But just to show my good faith, I'll throw in an extra ten for you.”

“That's one ten, plus expenses — you got a deal.”

“Then you'll get right on it,” Frankie breathed relief.

“Oh, yeah, but I wanta see that money. Half tomorrow. Half when I tell you I'm done, where I tell you.”

Once Frankie hung up the phone, he began to pack a small satchel, checking his Glock before tucking it into his jeans and strapping his money belt into place. He knew that the matching cottage next door was empty and that in its garage was a white Cadillac, several years old with Florida plates. Wearing dark glasses and a baseball cap pulled well over his forehead, he could pass without
suspicion across the two-lane bridge connecting the barrier island to Florida's mainland. Tomorrow night, he'd meet up with Manny Gonzolas in Ybor City. Manny had surefire connections inside the pig world. On the street, he was a real pro — one with a head on his shoulders. As for Nelson, Frank'd take him out in person. The prick was in Michigan at his father's according to the news. No risk of recognition up there. Frank had never stepped foot in Michigan.

At seven thirty Monday morning, a pimply young orderly appeared in Patrick's room. Laura had spent the night in a cot beside his bed and was still wearing the green scrubs Tim had found for her to sleep in. Patrick had already been sedated, and the orderly gently lifted him onto the gurney as Laura fussed with his hospital gown, making sure the IV tubing was not disturbed. As they wheeled her son toward the wide swinging doors to the operating suite, Laura stayed beside the gurney and approached the door as though she'd walk right in.

“That's as far as you go, Dr. Nelson,” Tim said formally as he stopped the procession and gently motioned for her to wait in the family lounge.

“Tim, I can't just wait out here. I need to be in here with him.”

“Honey, there's a whole team in there for him.”

“I won't get in the way, I promise. Just to observe —” “Laura, it's out of the question,” Tim said firmly. “You know we can't do that.”

“But he's my baby —”

“That's exactly why you can't come in.” Tim squeezed her shoulder. “Today, you're a mother, not a surgeon. I'll come out and let you know what's what as soon as I can, but I've got to warn you, it's a long procedure. Could take up to twelve hours. He'll be on the heart/lung machine, we'll have to place a Teflon prosthesis, probably replace the mitral valve. It's complicated, and it'll take time, so try to be calm.” He smiled. “You know, like you tell all your patients' families.”

Laura winced, tears in her eyes. “Of all people, I know how
dangerous this surgery is.” She bent over the small gurney to kiss her sleeping son's head. “Tim, I just feel so totally out of control, like nothing I do matters.”

“Ah, so not true. Your son needs you here, just not in the OR.”

Laura nodded. “You're right. Tim, Patrick's in your hands. Thank you,” she stammered as they pushed the child's gurney toward the bright lights of the operating room. As she turned away and began to walk toward the lounge where she hoped and expected she would soon be joined by her parents and the twins, Greg bounded toward her, a wide grin on his face.

“Laura, I've got good news! The charges against you in Tampa have been officially dropped.”

“What does that really mean?” Laura asked quietly.

“It means you're free to come and go as you please,” he said, smiling. “And that there's a manhunt on for Frank Santiago.”

“But they haven't found him?”

“No, not yet.”

Laura frowned. “That's too bad. I mean, I guess I'm having a hard time believing what you're telling me. That I'm actually free.”

“Little Molly Palmer's story did it. For a young child, she is very sure of herself. I.D.ed Santiago going in before you got there. Of course, she didn't hear the shot, but the timing lines up with the call from the lady upstairs.”

“Thank you, Molly,” Laura breathed.

“She's one strong and credible young lady.”

“So I'm free,” Laura said as Greg gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Greg, does that mean you'll be leaving to go back to Tampa?”

He paused. “Yes, but I'll try to get Carrie to come up and stay with you. Okay?”

“But isn't she working on getting the boys back to me?”

“Carrie's on it. But I don't think you need to worry, especially now that the charges have been dropped.

“Oh, I can't tell you how much I hope you're right. I feel like what's happening is all my fault. That what's happening to Patrick should be happening to me because of what — I did.”

Laura stared at the hands of the large wall clock in the family waiting room. Never had time crept so slowly. Nearly seven hours in the operating room and still no word. Why couldn't they send somebody out with a progress report? They must be having problems. Maybe they couldn't get at the tumor? Maybe the tumor had destroyed the delicate electrical circuitry that keeps the heart beating? Maybe in trying to get it out they damaged the aorta? The pulmonary arteries? The lung? Was it malignant and spread out of control? If only they'd let her in there, she wouldn't have to endure this agony of not knowing. She'd promised not to interfere, not to panic. Now all she could do was pray that Tim would send someone out.

And where were her parents and the twins? Certainly enough time had passed for them to have taken a second flight, in case they'd missed their first, out of Tampa. No sooner had she thought this, when a wonderful, familiar voice rang out from the corridor.

“Mom! Mom!”

Nicole, dressed in a navy and white striped sundress, burst into the room and ran straight for her. Natalie, dressed identically, followed.

“Mom, it's us!” Nicole cried as Laura jumped up and seized them both, her parents right behind them.

“Nicole! Natalie!” Tears streamed down Laura's cheeks as she held them tightly.

“Hi, honey,” her father eventually said. “Patrick?”

“Oh, Dad, Mom!” Laura finally let go of Nicole and embraced her parents. “He's still in surgery. Oh, how can I ever thank you for bringing the girls to me?”

“We can't tell you how happy we were to do it,” said Peg, her arm around her daughter's shoulder as they sat down, each twin seemingly attached to one of her daughter's knees.

Laura beamed, but only momentarily. “It so good to see you — I haven't heard anything.”

A knock on the door distracted them. Tim Robinson walked in wearing a knee length white coat over blood-spattered green surgical scrubs. “I'm interrupting —”

“Tim!” Laura jumped up, leaving the girls with her parents, and rushed over to him. “Patrick?”

“We're not finished yet, but so far, all is okay,” he said. “We're going to be able to resect the whole tumor, it's just taking longer than we expected. Dr. Kamen is personally doing the surgery. I'll fill you in on all the details later. But right now, are you ready for some really good news?” He barely paused for a reply. “I just got back from pathology, checked it out myself. The tumor is a benign cardiac fibroma. Totally benign. Okay?”

As the relief spread across Laura's face, he smiled. “Now I've got to go scrub back in. It'll be another few hours before we close. See you then. Here's to the good report, huh?”

“Oh, Tim. Thank you.”

Laura's mind raced through her checklist. The girls, now safely with her. Tentative, but good, news on Patrick. No malignancy, but would they be able to repair the physical defects caused by the tumor? Would he have a fatal arrhythmia, or end-stage heart failure? Mike and Kevin were physically well, but totally alienated from her because of Steve. Greg would help protect her against him. For a moment, Laura saw nothing. There was nothing — at the moment — she could do to stop Steve.

Marcy Whitman returned to an empty house. In all the years she'd
worked for the Nelsons, living in the apartment over their garage, she'd never been totally alone. Steve and Laura rarely vacationed, and when they did, she'd invite her sister over from St. Petersburg. After the girls left that morning with their grandparents, she'd tidied up the house and treated herself to a movie. Last year's academy award winner,
Annie Hall
, starring Diane Keaton. She didn't care for it, but figured she was just too set in her ways. When she returned home, she fixed linguini and clams and made a small salad. After cleaning up, she decided to watch
Charlie's Angels
on the big screen TV in the family room of the main house. All five kids loved this show, but it depressed Marcy as she glanced around at the kids' toys neatly shelved in the room.
Star Wars
stuff. Matchbox cars. Matching Baby Wet and Cares. Maybe music and a book would be more relaxing.

Marcy got up, switched off the TV mid-episode and headed to the stereo. What to choose? Not Elvis, she heard too much of that when Laura was home. She and all the kids groaned when either Laura or Steve decided to listen to their enviable collection. She smiled at the Eagles's
Hotel California
. Not her cup of tea, but Mike was getting into them and the Bee Gees. She chose Barbara Steisand's
Evergreen
, but as she went to place it on the player, she noticed a shadow lingering outside the nearby window. Low, maybe a big dog? Or was it her imagination? Nothing was there now as she looked more closely. Shivering in the air conditioning, she put on the music, adjusted the temperature, and picked up a fat book that Laura had left on the coffee table.
War and Remembrance
. She hoped that Laura wouldn't be peeved if she'd read it first. Marcy had so loved
The Winds of War
.

Settling on the couch, Marcy twisted and turned, trying to get comfortable with the heavy book. “That's it,” she finally announced. “I'm going to my place.”

When she went back to the stereo to turn it off, she peered once more out the window. Nothing.

The tome tucked under her arm, she checked the lock on the
front door and went out the back, remembering to lock the door, remembering how she'd always had to remind Steve and the kids to lock doors and turn off lights.

Not wanting to waste electricity, she walked in the dark, looking back once when she thought she heard a rustle. She did not see the figure, all in black, lurking behind the rose trellis off to the side of the back porch.

“Steve, don't do it,” Jim Nelson said. “It's never good, running away.” Together they'd cleared the dinner dishes Monday night and stacked them in the sink before Steve asked his father to sit down at the kitchen table for a cup of coffee.

“I've got the tickets, Dad. We're leaving tomorrow.”

“Son, work it out with Laura. Don't take the boys right now, don't do anything you may regret. Think about it, Nicole and Natalie need a father too. I know I haven't been much of a role model, but you —”

“I have thought about it. I just can't forgive what Laura did.”

Jim slumped in his chair. “Now, Steve. What about you? With that woman who was killed?”

“A mistake. I've said it a hundred times. But Laura — after all these years.” Steve ached to share his real fears with his father. His fear of Frank Santiago. The wrenching feeling that he had to get as far away as he could. What had possessed him to let things get out of hand with Kim that night? She had warned him that Santiago was dangerous, that he was insanely jealous. Even if the cops ever found Santiago, would he ever be safe? No, these were things he could not share with his father.