Never Too Late (14 page)

"Your
cabin steward reported to the ship's hotel manager that your room had not been
occupied since you left the ship yesterday," her mother explained. "A
further search showed you weren't aboard when it left the island, but all of
your belongings were. The girls listed us as a contact, so the ship's hotel
manager called this morning to tell us. We flew here immediately."

"Well I'm
here, and I'm fine," Andrea said, with irritation, "so you and Daddy
can fly back home. But thanks for dropping in."

"Where's
your husband?" her father asked, pinning her with dark, astute eyes.

"His name
is Jerry, Daddy. Not
that bastard
,
not
your husband
, but Jerry.
J-E-R-R-Y. Jerry. Please try to remember. You've been forgetting it for
twenty-five years."

"Seems
you've been forgetting a few things too," her father said, face hard,
shrewd eyes fixed on her as he waited for her response.

Andrea was
afraid of that look, afraid of what was coming. Her parents had been on the
island long enough for her father to bully everyone into telling him where she
was, what she'd been doing that made her miss the ship, and why she wasn't
sharing a bungalow with her husband. "I don't know what you're talking
about," she said, testing.

"Your
husband," he replied, deliberately ignoring her request to voice Jerry's
name. "Why is he staying in a separate place from you?"

"He
snores," Andrea quipped.

Her father shot
her a look that said he'd reached the end of his patience. His words confirmed
it. "Who was the Dago you were with last night?"

Andrea looked
at her father with a start. Alluding to marital problems was one thing.
Explaining a shipboard love interest while she was on an anniversary cruise
with Jerry was a whole different matter. "If you mean Alessandro
Cavallaro," she replied, assuming he was the Dago her father was referring
to, "Jerry and I met him on the ship and he invited us to join him for
dinner. We were having conch fritters when Jerry remembered he'd forgotten
his... passport at a store and went back for it. I was just keeping Alessandro
company
while Jerry was gone."

"Like hell
you were," her father said. "You were seen holding the man's hand and
smiling at him across the table."

"Where on
earth did you get that idea?" Andrea said, feigning perplexity.

"
From the owner of the dive you were in, and
the people who work there!"
her father bellowed, slashing a hand
through the air. "When I showed them your picture, one referred to you as
Cavallaro's woman, another thought you were a prostitute he'd picked up."

Andrea stood
her ground, meeting her father straight on as she said, matter-of-factly,
"The people lied. I don't know why, but they did. Maybe they heard that
the Ellison Learjet had arrived and hoped to cut a deal—money for keeping their
mouths shut about something that never happened."

"Your
marriage is on the rocks and you're involved with a man," her father said.
"I knew that bastard would drive you to something like this."

"Umm... if
I'm the one you think is screwing around, why is Jerry the bastard?"
Holding her father's glare, Andrea added, "And no, Daddy, you can no
longer send me to my room. I'm already here."

"Andrea,"
her mother interrupted, "I'm sure there's an explanation for everything.
If your marriage is in trouble you and Jerry can get counseling."

"Thank you
for that advice," she said, and added nothing more. She was in no mood to
have her parents run her divorce, or interfere in what was going on between her
and Jerry at the moment, some of which was actually a step forward. At least
what happened on the beach was. It released a whole lot of tension. And right
now she could use another dose of hot and heavy sex. But where was Jerry when
she needed him? When was he ever around when it mattered? Not now to show her
parents they were still a couple. And definitely not the night Scott took off.
It came to her then, that for twenty-five years, Jerry had never been around
when she really needed him, even if it was just for hot sex so she could block
out everything else.

"Your
marriage is in trouble... has been for years," her father said. "I'll
get things rolling as soon as I get back."

"No, you will not get things
rolling!"
Andrea fired back. "If Jerry and I decide to throw in
the towel we'll handle it on our own. That is, if we decide to go our separate
ways. But then, we might stay married for the next quarter century just to
irritate you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to rest. It's been a very long
day." As she opened the door to let her parents out, she found two men
standing in the doorway. One was the customs inspector who'd checked passports
when the ship docked. The other, a man who looked to be in his mid-forties and
who was dressed like an islander—faded batik shirt and khaki trousers—looked at
Andrea, and said, "Mrs. Porter?"

Andrea nodded,
while eyeing the man suspiciously.

The man flashed
an ID card, and said, "I'm Inspector Schribe with the Justice Department's
Special Operations Division, and this is Agent Fernandez with U.S. Immigration
and Customs Enforcement. We're investigating one of Italy's largest drug trafficking
cartels and we'd like to ask you a few questions."

"I'm
sorry," Andrea said, "but this isn't a good time."

She started to
close the door, but Inspector Schribe placed his hand against it. "You
don't understand, Mrs. Porter. We can question you here, or you can come with
us to the customs office."

Andrea's father
stepped up to face the man. "What's this about?" he asked.

The man looked
at Andrea's father, and said, "Your daughter's involved with a man we've
been investigating for some time, and we want to ask her some questions."

Carter Ellison
eyed the inspector, dubiously. "How do you know who I am?"

"Your
plane, Mr. Ellison," the inspector said. "We knew who you were the
moment your pilot touched down. We'd already run a background check on your daughter.
So she can either answer our questions here or in the customs office, and we
can either talk to her in private or in your presence."

"She won't
be talking to anyone without an attorney present," Carter informed the man
in the tone he used to intimidate people.

The man looked
directly at him, and said in a voice that clearly said he was in charge,
"We don't work that way, Mr. Ellison. Your daughter can either talk to us
here, or we can take her in. We have enough information to hold her. I suggest
she answer a few routine questions and avoid that. Sometimes it can be a very
lengthy wait."

Andrea glanced
at her father, who was chomping at the bit, but holding his peace. Returning to
the inspector, she said, "I have no idea what you could possibly want with
me, inspector. I was on a cruise with my husband, I ate something that made me
sick and I had to be taken to the medical clinic, and the ship left without us.
But my husband and I will be rejoining the cruise in a couple of days."

The inspector
looked beyond her and into the room, and said, "Where is your husband
now?"

Andrea knew for
certain she did not want to draw Jerry into whatever this was. The less
information her father got from this interrogation, the sooner he and her
mother would be on their way back to Charleston. "My husband could be on
the beach," she said, offhandedly. "We don't spend every minute of
the day together."

"It seems
you don't spend your nights together either," the inspector said.
"But I'm not here to question you about your relationship with your
husband. I'm here to talk about your relationship with Alessandro
Cavallaro."

Andrea looked
at the man with a start. How did he know about her relationship with
Alessandro? Jerry? Was he building a divorce case? But Jerry had little basis
on which to claim infidelity, if that was his ploy. "I have not been
spending time with Mr. Cavallaro," she snapped.

"You spent
the last three evenings with Cavallaro, Mrs. Porter. Two evenings with him in
his stateroom on the ship, and last night with him at The Pirate's Cove here on
the island," the inspector pointed out. "We've been tracking
Cavallaro for some time. We know where he goes and who he spends time with. We
even know the exact time you entered his stateroom each time you were there, and
what time you left. The only thing we don't know is what went on behind the
closed doors when you were in there with him."

"Nothing
went on," Andrea emphasized. "He asked me for cocktails. That's
all."

"Was
anyone else there?" the man asked.

Andrea folded
her arms and glared at the man. "If you've been watching Mr. Cavallaro,
inspector, you should already know there wasn't," she said, refusing to
look at her father, feeling his eyes on her... intense, accusing, staring
daggers.

"You're
right, we did know it," the inspector admitted. "I was testing to see
if you'd admit to being alone with Mr. Cavallaro in his stateroom. Did Mr.
Cavallaro contact anyone when you were there? Make any phone calls?"

"No,"
Andrea said, her eyes shifting to her father's rock-hard face before darting
away. "We had cocktails and talked. That's all."

"That may
be so for the first night, Mrs. Porter," the inspector said, "but the
next night you went to Mr. Cavallaro's stateroom as soon as you returned to the
ship after having dinner in Nassau with your husband, and you remained there
until four the following morning. I have to assume you and Mr. Cavallaro were
doing more than just sipping cocktails."

"Then you assume wrong!"
Andrea cried.

"And your
husband?" the inspector pressed. "Where was he while you were
overnight in Mr. Cavallaro's stateroom?"

"I suppose
he was in his own stateroom," Andrea replied.

"Then you
acknowledge you didn't share a stateroom with your husband while on the
ship," the inspector said, "and that you spent at least one night
with Mr. Cavallaro in his stateroom?"

"Yes,"
Andrea admitted. She glanced at her mother and saw a face frozen in disbelief.
How could it not be? Her mother was witnessing the annihilation of her
daughter's self-respect.

"Then your
husband didn't object to your spending the night with Mr. Cavallaro?"

"I did not spend the night on
purpose!"
Andrea insisted. "I fell asleep on his bed after having
a cocktail. I hadn't eaten much dinner that night, and since I don't drink
often, the liquor went to my head. As for my husband... We have complete trust
in each other."

"Enough
that he doesn't worry about his wife being alone in a stateroom all night with
a man she'd only just met?" the inspector asked. "Or perhaps you've
known Mr. Cavallaro for some time before the cruise?"

Andrea had no
idea what it was the man was after, but the fact that government agents were
tracking Alessandro was not something she should take lightly. "I assure
you, inspector, I only just met Mr. Cavallaro the first day on board the
ship."

"Was Mr.
Cavallaro with you in bed the entire time you were asleep?"

Andrea
bristled. "Mr. Cavallaro was not in bed with me at all, inspector,"
she emphasized, annoyed with a line of questioning that continued to imply
she'd had sex with Alessandro Cavallaro, when she had not.

"Then,
where was Mr. Cavallaro while you were asleep?"

"I don't
know, inspector. I was asleep!" Andrea said in a sharp voice. "But I
was not in Mr. Cavallaro's bed. I was on top of it, fully dressed!"

The inspector
didn't seem completely convinced, confirming it when he said, "During the
time you were with Mr. Cavallaro, did he have access to your handbag, maybe
while you were... umm... distracted, perhaps in the bathroom...
afterwards."

"Afterwards?"
Andrea glared at the man. "You continue to imply that I had sex with Mr.
Cavallaro. I assure you, nothing of a sexual nature took place!"

"Actually,
Mrs. Porter,
your
insisting you didn't have sexual
relations with Cavallaro leads me to believe you were in his stateroom for other
reasons."

"And what
would that be?" Andrea snapped.

"That's
what we're trying to find out," the inspector said.

"Everything
is exactly as I told you," Andrea contended. "I had a drink, became
drowsy, and fell asleep. When I woke up early the next morning, Mr. Cavallaro
was gone, but he left a note saying he was in the casino. I spent the night on
top of the bedspread, in my clothes, and apparently alone. That's all there was
to it."

To Andrea's
relief, the inspector's face softened, and he said, "I believe you, Mrs.
Porter. It matches a pattern. So that leaves the issue of your handbag. Could
Mr. Cavallaro have had access to it while you were sleeping?"

"My
handbag?" Andrea looked at the inspector, baffled.

"It's
important. Could Cavallaro have had access to it?"

"Well... I
suppose he could have," Andrea said, remembering that her handbag had not
been where she'd left it before she fell asleep. She distinctly remembered
hanging it on the back of the chair when she arrived, but when she woke up, it
was on the seat of the chair. "What would Mr. Cavallaro want with my
handbag?" she asked. "I only carry traveler's checks and cosmetics
and the usual things women carry."

Inspector
Schribe stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger, and said, "We'll
get to that in a minute. I have a few more questions about your husband."

Andrea glanced
at her father and caught the look of awareness on his face, and in his eyes.
She could almost see the wheels turning. He was hoping Jerry would be hauled in
for something, anything to get him out of her life for good. "What about
my husband?"