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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

BOOK: Shattered Trust
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She nodded and watched him exit the house through the back, holding her breath, and gave him the thumbs-up the moment she spotted the familiar, marked truck.
He collected the package without fanfare, and rounded the house with a box. They tore into it like thieves, and quickly shoved the contents into his knapsack.
“Now, we leave,” James said, a slight tinge of annoyance and triumph in his tone that irked her.
“We still need to test the front door like we did that back door,” she said. “If Brother B comes back here for some reason, after we're gone, I can't have anything happen to—”
“I know, I know,” James said, hurrying with her down the street back to the same food vendor. “You ask where you can hook up your laptop, but stay in the store. I'll go do my thing, and will be back in a minute.”
This time she listened, every muscle within her strained to the limit as the slow process of getting served took place. Nothing happened quickly in Jamaica. Everything was done at a leisurely, mind-wracking pace of no worries. Once James left the store, it was all she could do to keep up the pleasant, idle banter, and seem like a casual, American tourist on holiday while her heart slammed against her breastbone.
The sudden sound of a blast made the few milling patrons, the clerk, and Laura shriek, drop everything, and tear out of the small, sparsely stocked store. Billowing black smoke could be seen where she stood, but there was no James in sight. Instant terror made her feet move toward the blaze. Tears filled her eyes—where was her husband?!
Commotion ensued in the street. A jumble of patois-strained voices and shouts to call authorities rang out. Dead, mutilated dogs left in bloodied bits against the curb, parked cars, and in the street almost made her vomit at the sight. But no James.
“Oh, Jesus,” she whispered, swallowing hard, and running in the opposite direction from the horror to find a way to get to the house from a back street. She had to find James's body before the house burned to the ground.
A man stepped out of the alley, yanked her arm, and she screamed—but her voice was drowned out by the sound of the shrieking neighbors and sirens.
“Let's go,” he said, and pulled her nearly off her feet.
It took a few seconds for her brain to sync up with her vision. It was James, their knapsack over his shoulder, and pulling her into an adjacent street with a steel-force grip. He jogged them through several alleys, ditching the gun in one trash can and the bullets deep in a Dumpster a block away, lest neighborhood children accidentally discover the weapon. She knew what he was doing as he stripped the weapon clean, wiped his prints off of it with his shirt, and kept moving, eyes roving. If he'd died in the blast, her soul would have died right along within him. But she didn't have time to think about all of that as he pulled her out onto a main thoroughfare, then flagged down a cab before additional gridlock ensued.
Shaking, she gave the cabbie the location of the cybercafé as though they'd been oblivious to the blast like the cabbie was. They went in the opposite direction of the mayhem, paid their fare, and jumped out onto the sidewalk.
“Get on your laptop; I'll call the house to get our family out of there. You send whatever to Cap and Rick, and we head to the airport in ten minutes.”
 
 
“Oh ... baby ...” Rick whispered as he stared at his Blackberry. “This is a Pulitzer in the making.” He licked his lips quickly, closed his eyes, and forced himself to wait for the right moment, just like Laura had said. “You are still my favorite girl.”
 
 
“Yeah, this is Joey,” Scapolini said, walking through his expansive Cherry Hill, New Jersey, home sipping a beer. He stopped in the middle of his kitchen and waited as a rush of information filled his ear.
“But see, this is why friends should come to friends—and only friends, first,” he said as a smile tugged at his cheek. “We wasn't even invited to the party. Is that how you treat friends, after all these years?”
Again, more urgent words filled the receiver, and he opened the fridge, nonplussed, to hunt for some lunch meat.
He stood, growing agitated. “Listen. I don't fuck with the feds—creates tax problems. Especially when there's no incentive.” He waited and listened, still not happy with what he was being told.
“No. That wasn't us. We're not sloppy like that. See, you shoulda come to professionals. Friends who are professionals. Those guys are new to the game. Do shit half-cocked. Ain't our style.”
Joey slammed the refrigerator door. “Now you want us to clean up after them? Look, you guys have a lotta nerve—”
The caller's urgent pleas cut off his argument, and Joey leaned against the center butcher-block island in his white-on-white kitchen, listening to bullshit that was beginning to make the beer in his stomach curdle. Something wasn't right.
“This much I did hear,” Joey said, angling. “You know the network has ears. It didn't involve us, but we heard that some Russian guy's cousin bought it, and they took offense, on account of the fact that their client ordered the job on the jobber. Bad form, if I must say so myself—but you didn't hear that from me... . I'm just saying, word travels, rumors get spread. Anyway, from my take, that's when things got messy. Went ova the top. I'm glad I'm just in the casino business and building trades, ya know. But, a little waste management contract down in the Gulf might help me become more interested in your problems. Capice?”
Joey smiled. The Main Line fat cats were so stupid, for all their political clout. Blessed Mary knew he was-n't about to admit to any involvement over some freaking phone. Pin it all on the Russians. Bastards.
“Laura Caldwell? What's that broad got to do with it?” Joey waited, becoming suspicious. “I ain't heard from that black chick in, what, more than a year ... if memory serves me. Mighta been longer than that. Only time I saw her was when she came to play some blackjack. Your point being?”
Every instinct within him told him to play it cool. George Townsend never called him directly. OK, so they wanted to play games.
“That cop, Carter?” Joey pushed away from the center island slowly. “I'm a law-abiding citizen, George. I try not to mix with cops, unless it's a friendly game of cards down at my establishment. I don't think I can help you on this one. Like I said, neither the cop or the broad have been whispered in my ear as a problem. But shame what happened to Devereaux and Polanski, though. Sutherland, too—a man should be able to serve his time and get back into society, once his bid is done. My condolences to all of Micholi Foundation, on that. Seriously. It's a fucked-up sin that a man can't even enjoy his own home. What's the world coming to?”
He keened his ears, listening for any unusual clicks or hum on the line.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Joey finally said, growing more uneasy. “Tell you what. You ask your people to break Joey off a little waste-removal job, and I'll see what I can do. Does that sound fair, reasonable?” He waited, now more sure than ever before that Laura had told him the truth. “I can't make any promises, since, like I said, not to be redundant and repeat myself, but I just hear things—don't get involved and that kinda business. I'm strictly legit.”
He passed on the bait, and ended the call with professional courtesies. Laura and James owed him, and in a way, he owed them for the heads-up on contracts that would have gone down without him. They could come to terms and settle up later, but not during what he was now sure was a federal wiretap. George Townsend was a dead man walking. Nobody set up Joey Scapolini and got away with it.
 
 
“He didn't take the bait,” the federal officer said, looking at Townsend with an icy glare. “Got any other bright ideas, or people we should call? If your story doesn't check out, you've got hard time staring you in the face, buddy.”
 
 
“Brother B, listen to me carefully and quickly,” James said under his breath from the cybercafé. “Go to the U.S. Embassy.” He cut off the elderly man's words, too hurried to argue politics with him.
“Put Steve on the phone.” James paced as Steve got on the line. “Yo,” he said in a rush. “Get everybody out of the house, they blew the one in town—you're sitting ducks in the bush. Go to the U.S. Embassy. Call in Milton Montgomery, Megan's dad, if you need a witness, and you probably will. Then give 'em Cap's number in the States. You guys go in unarmed, scared, as victims being hunted that need governmental protection. And, you spill the beans—it was Russians, by way of some Main Line boys. Whatever you do, don't mention Caluzo or Scapolini. You're just victims who are scared shitless and fully cooperating, and you don't know shit about where me and Laura are at the moment.”
“Shit,” Steve murmured. “That role won't be hard to play at all.”
 
 
Laura's semi-charged cell phone vibrated on the side of her purse as their cab took its leisurely time to get to the airport. She opened it and stared at it, showing the text message to James:
Watch your back. The feds are in it. GT called from an FBI joint, gut hunch. You owe me. Will settle later. It's all good. Your pal, JS
.
“Oh, shit,” James said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
“It costs to be the boss. Gotta break him off something, anyway,” Laura said, her tone philosophical as she stared out the dingy back window, hoping they weren't being followed. “It's the way of the world.”
Chapter 16
F
ull-blown paranoia strangled her as they waited for the next flight to Grand Cayman within the bustling airport. Each time a Jamaican officer passed, or anyone with a uniform on for that matter, her eyes felt like they would bug out of her head, even though James's contained the command to be cool. The extra sets of phony ID that she'd stashed in her brassiere and underwear were making her sweat bullets. If they didn't get on a flight soon, she was sure that she'd fall dead away from the stress. Now she owed the mob big-time, too?
Her hands were shaking as she used the last of her minimal battery to make a call. She wished that she'd had more time to get a solid charge on the unit, but that was the primary issue—they'd run out of time. She punched in Elizabeth Haines's new cell phone number. She'd only heard it once, but had memorized it instantly. James's eyes held a question, but he didn't say a word as she worked. Their communication had deepened to glances and pure trust.
“Liz,” she said quickly, huddling down to make her muffled words private to the airport throng. “My battery is going. Listen to me carefully. The only way to get your ass out of this sling is to give Scapolini something he wants. Break him off a piece of the Gulf cleanup, somehow, and tell him Laura sent you. That will make him your friend.”
“But—”
“No buts!” Laura said in a tense whisper. “You do it. I have to go.” She hung up and looked at James. “Debt paid in full, I hope. At least that will temporarily keep Scapolini off our asses, and make him know that I heard him. Might even save Liz's sorry ass.”
“Good move, ” James said, impressed. “I just hope Cap worked some magic on his end, before we touch down.”
 
 
The flight seemed interminable, even though it was a short hop by flight standards, island to island. Yet the fact that it was nearly dusk when they landed didn't improve her case of the jitters. This situation was so different than the smooth operations they'd pulled in Philly so many years ago. This job had death-trap written all over it, and she hated not being in full control with a stacked deck. All of it was high-risk, high-stakes poker with an unknown wild card in the mix. This evening, she wasn't inclined to be a betting woman.
The moment she saw what was clearly a plainclothes officer waiting by the Customs area, both she and James bristled. His line of vision went directly to them. Two more men in khaki suits were with him. His face was vaguely familiar. Tall, lean, handsome, dark brown complexion ... where did she know him from? He had cop oozing from his pores; it was the no-nonsense grit. James had clearly seen it, too.
“Be cool,” he told her under his breath, and handed off their forms to be stamped at the desk. “We walk by, nice and slowly. They're looking for someone, might not know who, exactly, and you just smile, lean on me, and chill. We're weary travelers. We do this like Union Station.”
She nodded, but her instincts told her that the thin plan wasn't going to work. Her hunch was corroborated the moment they cleared Customs and three detectives advanced.
“A word, Mr. and Mrs. Carter,” the man in the lead said, not waiting for them to respond. He flashed an official shield, causing a mild stir of interest from onlookers.
James nodded and complied, and they crossed the small airport to get into a police minivan parked outside without a struggle.
“I'm Detective Hayward,” the man who'd accosted them said. He nodded to the driver. “That's Officer Dowell, and the man beside you is Officer McFadden.”
Three sets of serious eyes greeted Laura and James within dark brown, deadpan faces.
“I've seen you before,” Laura said, trying to wrap her brain around the authorities that held her, and gain insight into their position.
Hayward nodded. “It's always a surprise when you meet people out of context, isn't it, Mrs. Carter?” His glare held quiet fury. “You put my family at risk.”
Instant memory soaked into her brain. “Mr. and Mrs. Melville ...” She glimpsed James, whose jaw muscle was working overtime in his silence.
“My elderly cousins who would have been at that house—”
“Which is why we sent them away,” Laura said, leaning forward. “Ask them.”
Hayward sat back in his seat and looked ahead, carriage erect. “We'll discuss it all down at headquarters.”
 
 
Three very skeptical officers sat on the edges of desks and took to folding chairs in a small interrogation room as a very ornery-looking captain remained unreadable. James kept a close eye on each man's body language. He knew cop unspoken language well, and was fluent in it.
Laura produced her laptop for them to inspect. “I have a missive from a person with State Department contacts. You have word from a police captain and the FBI in Philadelphia. See for yourself,” she added, theatrically, turning her laptop toward them. “All these men have been in business together for years. You have a copy of the original will, the more updated ones, and can see how me and my family were put at risk because of it.”
Hayward finally nodded. “I can see that much with my plain eyes. But what I don't understand is this—why would they need to be so bold, create so much havoc, when they could have easily sent a messenger to threaten you into their position? This is the part that we cannot fathom.”
“Nor can we,” Laura said flatly.
“Listen, man,” James said, speaking slowly, his eyes going to each man in the room, but finally settling on the one who had the most at risk, since his family had narrowly escaped tragic involvement. “I'm proposing a sting, Hayward. We need to do that to bring your case to a close and seek justice for those two officers that got killed. I used to be a cop, too—and we both know good and damned well that it ain't over till it's over, once they've killed one of our own. They got two of yours.”
“You got dat right,” their captain said. “Not on my island.”
James eyed the man who'd finally spoken, and then sent his gaze back to Hayward, negotiating hard. “Me and Laura
have
to do it, to get the bounty off our necks.” The two men's gazes locked in silent struggle. “Even if you just send us up the river to tidy up your paperwork, and to make it look good for the people on Grand Cayman, me and Laura will still be working to solve this crap from behind bars with a time bomb ticking over our heads.”
“Send us up the river, make us have to await trial, if you want to ... but how do you know whether or not they'll send a cleanup crew after anyone who's been in our house, might have seen anything, might have been in our employ—like your cousins?”
“All right!” Hayward shouted and stood. “What do you propose?”
Strained glances fell on Laura and James.
“We use the chaos of Carnival to see if they still have a gunman on our asses,” James said in a flat tone. “You put us in a downtown hotel, near the action, with a wire, and several men walking point. You take any bastard down that comes for us—with a tranquilizer gun—and then lean on his ass, if you get him. We're gonna need a trust factor between us, though.”
“So, if we agree to your proposal, you're talking about a possible incident in a crowd of tourists,” the captain said, shaking his head. “We depend on tourism as one of our primary industries, and it is already bad enough that there's even been a hint that terrorism has reached our beautiful island!”
“That's why you don't do any blind shooting into crowds and only use tranquilizers to numb any target you profile,” Laura said, her voice straining with urgency. “Correct the bull in the media with a leak, stating that it was an unsavory Russian-inspired business deal gone down, linked to something in the U.S., not terrorism, so people can rest easy and think it's gone back from whence it came. Give them a shred of the truth to go on; two Cayman officers simply got in the way by accident. Meanwhile, if you do capture an aggressor, tell them he's being shipped back to the States so all can go back to normal here. But, ultimately, James and I are going to have to get back to Philadelphia to set up the ones behind this.”
“We're not allowing you to leave here without assurances that you two aren't more directly involved. The deaths happened here, thus, justice will be served here.”
James gave the men around him a disgusted scowl. “You want us to take lie-detector tests? Whatever.”
Laura allowed her tone to become more civil. “Listen, gentlemen,” she said coolly. “We'll take whatever tests you want, and you can work out the details of dé-tente with our stateside authorities, even if that's a hand-off from you all to them, with a guarantee of our return here, should things not pan out.” She glimpsed James. “We're heavily invested in the Caymans, as I'm sure you know by now. I'm also sure you can seize our assets as a good-faith gesture, to ensure our return, if you haven't already.”
She held Hayward in a steady, serene gaze, and then turned it on his captain. “Besides, think of the feather it will be in your respective caps to have solved an international crime that involved a senator from the States, several VIPS, a gun battle in the streets of Washington, D.C., and a filthy U.S. foundation ... as well as your unfortunate officers—who were simply victims that were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but due to Hayward's shrewd observance, didn't die in vain. That gunman was killed on the spot, justice served neat, from his revolver,” she said dangling the career-enhancing options before all the detectives in the room. “Even our local police and FBI in the U.S. couldn't solve it alone, nor could Jamaican authorities, which experienced incidents on their island. You can send a clear message to the people of Grand Cayman that your expert involvement was the lynchpin that cracked the case here, and that will go out over the BBC. I have friends in the U.S. media, trust me.”
Laura sat back, folded her arms over her chest, and waited for the tender offer to sink in. James didn't move a muscle.
“Fine,” the captain said, finally standing with the others. “But if you die trying, it will not be on our heads.”
 
 
“This is a loosely constructed, raggedy-assed plan, if ever I heard one, Laura,” James grumbled, changing into a bright red Polo shirt as she slipped on a bright red dress. “We've got targets on our backs,” he muttered, referring to the bright colors they wore so they could be easily spotted in the street crowd that was growing below the balcony of their hotel.
She didn't immediately answer him, but simply listened to the steady calypso beat that thrummed through her as the noise of revelry cascaded through the closed sliding glass doors and windows. “We go downstairs, blend into the crowd, buy a rum and coke, and sip it calmly at a very open, outdoor café,” she said flatly, picking up her purse.
“And if the hit man puts a neat bullet in our skulls?” James folded his arms over his chest.
“Then we died fast and quietly,” she said picking up her purse. “And nobody else we love gets hunted or hurt.”
“That's bullshit,” he said, following her out of the room. “These guys down here ain't used to high drama, SWAT maneuvers, or anything else!”
“I know,” she said coolly, walked down the exit staircase, undaunted. “That's why they probably won't catch anyone, if there's still anyone tracking us, and we'll get a free pass home to wrap this up old school.”
 
 
James kept his eyes moving on the passing crowd of partying tourists and native revelers. Masks, giant floats, and colorful costumes moved like a sea of liquid human color. His wife was insane, so were the Cayman authorities. This plan had failure etched all over it, but as crazy as Laura was, she did have a point.
She was ice-cool. He observed the way she took a sip of rum and coke, glanced up at rooftops, windows, and then through the throng, her motions steady, unflinching, like a spider waiting to trap a fly. Suddenly, without warning, she leaned across the table to kiss him, and he lifted his drink between them to salute her.
Instantly, the glass shattered in his hand. Pandemonium broke out. They were on their feet, screams shattered the festival, and people ran like roaches scattering in the light. A blur of costumes and halted floats almost made the filled thoroughfare impassable. Café tables overturned, shouting officers and sirens blared. Chaos was in full effect.
Breathless, they took cover in a restaurant, rushed through past tables and shrieking patrons, hit the kitchen unsettling angry chefs, and ran out a back alley exit into the darkness. Unsure of which way to turn, they hesitated, and another shot hit a Dumpster and a trash can. James pulled her into a darkened doorway, and then they both made a flat-out dash to another building, hiding beneath the fire escape.
Police vehicles careened by both ends of the alley, flashing lights and making the crowds disperse and run like fleeing lemming in all directions. More shouts from authorities, and then several plainclothes men rushed past them. Within moments, the two-way that James wore squawked. “We got him!”

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