Dead Silence (28 page)

I was nodding, unsure how to handle it, then said, “Okay,” and went out the door.

I fixed the phone lines, then paced, slowing time by checking my watch too often. It was almost noon. Will Chaser had been in the ground for at least three hours, if the photo was authentic. Probably already dead, but if he wasn’t—and if the air system worked, as the kidnappers claimed—I still had twenty hours, maybe a little longer, to find him.

As I paced, I battled the ridiculous notion of returning to the road and seeking mystic insights from the rock, if I could find the damn thing. Had the boy been here? Had he been riding the gray stallion when it was shot?

I fixed my thoughts on a more reasonable hope: If I waited, played nice, maybe Roxanne would come out and answer my questions, including
Which war?

Half an hour later, Roxanne did come out.

I wasn’t imagining the chill in Barbara’s voice when she said, “Did you happen to read a news story about the football player who washed up on a beach near Sanibel? One of my colleagues brought it to my attention. They think he was murdered.”

I said, “No, I don’t follow football,” then told her I wasn’t being a smart-ass, there were more pressing matters to discuss.

Was there anyone in the country who didn’t know of Bern Heller’s recent landfall? It kept me from asking the name of the woman’s colleague. Only the guilty are interested in their accusers.

Barbara replied, “That’s not true. One of Tomlinson’s friends is a coach with the Jets, so I know you follow football. His name is . . . well, I’m positive you told me, whatever his name is. Ask the Tin Man,
he’ll
remember.”

I said, “Mike Westhoff,” in a way to let her know how irritating she could be. I wasn’t going to argue with a woman who argues professionally, although it was grating that Barbara—like almost everyone—was charmed by Tomlinson’s star power and credited the man with virtues that friends and fellow boat bums knew were undeserved. But when people got their asses in a sling, who did they come running to?”

“I stand corrected,” I told her.

I was in my hotel room, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, packing to return to Florida. The dispatcher at Air Transport Services had been even frostier than the senator when I requested a flight to the Gulf Coast. Now here was Barbara going off on tangents rather than cooperating. I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t a coincidence.

Barbara said, “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. I was given the information in confidence.”

I said, “No need to say another word. A secret’s a secret. But back to finding a plane for me—”

“Unfortunately,” she interrupted, “this could have a bearing on our relationship. Doc, just between the two of us—and please stop me if the matter’s already been settled—but police are saying you’re a person of interest. I don’t know the legal definition, but to me when police say someone is ‘a person of interest’ they mean that person had something to do with it.”

Two hours thrashing around in a hotel room did not constitute a relationship, but now was not the time for precise definitions. Or was it? I needed a fast flight to Sarasota, and the lady was unlikely to help unless I dealt with this first.

I said, “I have a friend, a big-time attorney, who keeps her boat at the marina. She says there is no legal definition for the phrase
person of interest
.
Material witness,
yes.
Suspect,
yes. But
person of interest
—according to my friend anyway—is what police use to manipulate journalists. It’s meaningless.”

“I don’t know, Doc. My reputation has taken such a beating in the last twenty-four hours—”

“Barb, what probably happened is, your friend misheard. When a boat goes missing, a lot of times the Coast Guard contacts me. I chart drift patterns in the Gulf of Mexico and keep records. You know, if a boat—or a body—drifts for three days, where’s the most promising area to search? That’s probably why the police are interested in talking to me. They know where the football player was found, but where did he go in the water? I do that sort of consulting a lot.”

There was a long pause. “Are you sure? You can trust me, if you want to talk.”

Like her colleague had trusted her? I said, “Barbara, I’ve spent exactly four hours in Florida since I arrived in New York last week. I didn’t have time to kill a pro football player. We should be talking about: getting me back to Florida. The Sarasota area, but anywhere close will do.”

The woman replied, “So you can spy on Nelson Myles,” sounding chillier.

“No, so I can find William. It’s what I need to do.” I had just told her that I was now
sure
Myles knew something about the kidnapping. She had replied, “As sure as you were last night?”

Tough to argue that one. Now, being a suspect in a high-profile murder investigation wasn’t helping my cause any.

Barbara asked me, “Why do you have this thing against a man who, by all accounts, is not only respected in New York but in the national community? In fact, the international business community—and that’s not an exaggeration. Nelson Myles’s father was an ambassador, for godsakes!”

I said, “The man buys and sells horses. He’s not a political figure, and liking animals doesn’t make him a saint.”

It was tempting: Give her Roxanne’s number and let the two women talk. I didn’t blame Barbara for her reluctance to risk more embarrassment. But I didn’t expect her to jump to the man’s defense.

“I have colleagues in D.C. who know Nelson Myles personally. They say it’s crazy to suggest he’s capable of kidnapping anyone, particularly a U.S. senator. Give me one good reason why a man with his money and background would choose to get involved with something like this?”

I said, “I don’t think it was a choice. I think he’s being blackmailed,” and realized as I finished the sentence that I couldn’t tell the woman why I believed that was true. Accuse the man of murder next? Then hint that Myles was being manipulated by an interrogator from the Cuban Program, an operation that only people with high-security clearance could confirm existed? I wouldn’t have bought it. So I added a lame explanation, saying, “It’s just a hunch, but I think I’m right.”

“You
think
you’re right. The FBI has shifted the investigation to Castro sympathizers in Miami and to an Islamic organization in Detroit. But you’re still determined to hound one of the wealthiest men in the Hamptons.”

I said, “
Hound
has a negative connotation. I prefer
stalk,
” thinking I might hear a smile in her voice. No.

Instead, I listened to several seconds of silence before she said patiently, “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Doc. And I know you’re tired. How much sleep have you had since yesterday morning? You didn’t get any sleep Thursday night, I can testify to that.” Her laughter was ingratiating. Or was it? I found the context odd. She was probing for something . . . or politely laying the groundwork to distance herself from me.

I said, “There’s something on your mind. What’s wrong?”

“What could possibly be wrong? A boy whose life was entrusted to me has been buried alive. As of this minute, we have”—I could picture the woman in her D.C. office looking at her wristwatch—“eighteen hours until Will Chaser dies, and that’s if the sonsuvbitches are telling the truth about the air system.”

I started to ask about the deadline—“They haven’t changed it . . . ?”—but she talked over me, saying, “The national press is watching every move I make, which I expected. But the international reaction is a shock, even to me. It’s all about blame. The United States and poor little Cuba. The imperialist giant reaps what it has sown. Justice—finally!—after a fifty-year embargo that started as a pissing match between a president and a banana-republic dictator. This morning, a German editorial came right out and said I invited a kidnapping because I voted to make Castro’s files public. That it’s my fault they got a fourteen-year-old boy instead.”

Quoting someone—I wasn’t sure who—I tried to slow her down, saying, “The power of a dominant nation can be gauged by the sniping of its allies, not the denouncements of its foes.”

“Foes? I’m not sure who the enemy is anymore,” Barbara said. “The American press is just as relentless and even dirtier. Why did I decide to
not
have children? Did my late husband consider me incompetent? Am I a closet lesbian? And Favar Senior is proving he’s the father-in-law from hell by charging to my defense, saying sweet things like, ‘
Incompetent
might be a little strong’ or ‘What’s wrong with a woman giving up motherhood to get what she really wants . . . or marrying a wealthy man who’s twenty-five years older?’ See what I mean?”

I replied, “You said your father-in-law left Cuba in 1959?”

“ ’Fifty-
eight,
the year before Fidel marched into Havana.”

“How did he feel about Castro?”

“Despised him, like every Cuban-American I’ve met. Having Sorrento as a surname helped me politically, I admit it. And it got me appointed cochair of my committee, which has turned out to be more like a curse. So, in that way, I understand why Favar resents me. I inherited his son’s money, his office, and I’ve benefited from using the old man’s name . . . until next election anyway.”

I said, “But even if the man hates you, you still extend his perimeter of power. And you carry on his son’s legacy. Why would he fire such obvious torpedoes? Unless—”

“You figure it out,” Barbara said.

“He’s running against you in two years. That has to be it.”

“There you go.”

“By dropping
Sorrento
from your name, you’re opening the door for him. You realize that?”

“Of course. But the man is seventy-eight years old, so I’m not that worried. And he hasn’t actually come out and said that he’s running, but . . . but . . .”—there was nothing theatrical about her sigh of weariness and disgust—“but . . . shit, who
cares
? What I’m going through doesn’t compare to what our boy must be dealing with. When I start feeling sorry for myself, all I have to do is look at that goddamn awful photo. You have
seen
it? My computer’s set up so the updates are forwarded.”

I said, “It’s on the phone you gave me, I’m using the picture as the . . . whatever they call the picture you keep on the screen.”

“Then you’ve read the updates? They’re sent on the Signet-D system because of classified information.”

I said, “Not the latest, but about the photo . . .”

“It’s sickening, isn’t it?”

I said, “Can I finish a sentence? I think whoever took it is more interested in emotional impact than leveraging assets.” I was trying to bring her back to what she’d said about international interests, but she missed my meaning.

“They’re sick, I agree.”

“Or detached,” I said carefully.

“Insane, out of their minds,” she replied. “I had the staff tack a copy on every wall to remind them why we’re working so hard. The FBI says the picture is good news in a way. If the shot was taken this morning, William has been alive for”—I was carrying the phone to the bed, yawning, as she did the calculation in her head—“so William has managed to stay alive for thirty-eight hours. Some of the agency people were hinting he was already dead.”

I said, “If the picture
wasn’t
taken this morning, I would agree.”

“Ruth Guttersen—William’s foster grandmother—Ruth sent me one of his school photos. I have both pictures on the desk in front of me, but I can’t bear to look at the coffin shot for more than a few seconds—” Barbara stopped. “
Detached?
Is that what you said?”

I replied, “Impersonal. Emotionally uninvolved, yes. They haven’t changed the deadline?”

“Detached . . .” She was thinking about it as she continued, “No, nothing’s changed. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, if they keep their word. We’re keeping ours, even though the official line is that we don’t negotiate with criminals.” She paused. “Detached. But you said they were after emotional impact, not financial.”

“Psychological intimidation, then emotional control: It’s a device, a tool interrogators use. Money or power or preserving power—it works on all three.”

“How the hell do you know about things like this?”

“It’s what social animals do. Wolf packs and male dolphins. We’re no different.”

“Then it is about money. That’s why you’re accusing Nelson Myles.”

I said, “I haven’t accused him. I want to talk to him . . . privately.” She hadn’t reacted to the word
interrogator,
so I added the next link. “You don’t associate Myles with anything Cuban, just wealth. Is that the problem?”

“No. Money and power, it’s what I think of now when someone mentions Fidel Castro. Until now, I had no idea how wealthy that man had become in fifty years. Favar Senior tried to tell me years ago and I didn’t believe him. Castro may have started as a penniless dictator, but now, even dead, he is an international conglomerate with world holdings worth—are you ready for a number?—worth seven hundred billion dollars. Were you aware of that?”

I wasn’t, but she had finally given me an opening to ask about something more personal. “It sounds like your people completed the manifest list.”

“Not just my people. Every bureaucracy from the CIA to the Park Service’s Department of Archaeology has their hands in it. It’s crazy how long they’re taking.”

“Find anything surprising?” If my name was on a list of licensed U.S. assassins, it was no wonder she wanted to cut me loose.

Instead of answering, Barbara covered her phone. I listened to a muffled exchange between the senator and someone who had come into her office. Male . . . British accent? I couldn’t be sure, but I was picturing Hooker Montbard standing in her doorway, dapperly dressed . . . or wearing khakis, which he often did on weekends.

“Doc, I’ll call you back in five minutes. No more than ten, promise.”