Trapped (22 page)

“Absolutely,” says Shane.

“Totally,” I say.

“Okay then. Here goes.” Healy produces a small

notebook, flips it open. “Item number one. Follow the money.

We checked and there have been no recent large transfers of

funds from any of Edwin Manning’s private accounts. At

least not those we have been able to identify. Whether or not

something has been fiddled on the other end, the business

end, our forensic accountants can’t make that determination.

Lots of money flows in and out of Merrill Manning Capital

Fund. Many, many millions. Brokers and bankers buying

and selling every day, it will take a while to sort that out, and

as you know, former-agent Shane, private investment funds

don’t have the same disclosure obligations as publicly traded

funds. So, to sum it up, we’ve got nothing showing on the

money front, but we can’t be certain nothing is happening.”

“It was a long shot. Thanks for trying.”

Healy flips a page. “Item two, Manning’s interests in South

Florida. Substantial. Public record makes him the owner of

a brand-new four-million-dollar condo on Brickell Avenue.

That’s the financial district, not the beach, by the way. Pent-

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169

house with a helo pad, although he doesn’t presently own or

lease a helicopter. Also, Merrill Manning Capital Fund is the

primary investor in the new Nakosha gaming and casino com-

plex. Can’t be certain the exact dollar figure, but the accoun-

tants say the fund has, at minimum, a hundred mil directly

invested, and another three hundred leveraged offshore.”

“Indian casino?”

“Native American,” he says, correcting Shane. “Other

than gaming rooms at racetracks, all the freestanding casinos

in Florida are owned and operated by Native Americans.”

“How come I’ve never heard of the Nakosha?”

Healy shrugs, his handsome eyes slightly hooded. “Because

they didn’t get full tribal status until about ten years ago?

Because compared to the Seminoles and the Miccosukee

they’re a small tribe? I can’t speak to what you don’t know. But

what you really do need to know—and take this to the bank—

is that the Nakosha have official legal status as a sovereign,

domestic dependent nation, and no, repeat, no treaty arrange-

ments with federal enforcement agencies. None whatsoever.”

“You’re serious,” Shane says, looking concerned.

“Deadly,” says Healy. “And since you seem so keen on that

bit of information, I might tell you we have enforcement ar-

rangements in place with the Seminole and the Miccosukee,

but not the Nakosha. Legally they’re obliged to enforce fed-

eral statutes, but as a practical matter the enforcement has

been, shall we say, problematic. Bottom line, they run their

own show. We do not step over that line—that is, we do not

set foot in Indian country—absent a directive from the AG.

Who is not, as far as I know, a personal pal of yours.”

“Never met him,” Shane admits.

“So you need to forget the casino connection, stay away

from the tribe.”

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“I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Do I detect sarcasm?” Healy says, flipping a page in his

notebook. “Here’s the good part. My boss had me write it

down and instructed me to read it to you, word for word.

Ready? Is everybody attentive?”

“We’re listening,” says Shane.

Some guys, the calmer they get, the more you pay atten-

tion. Randall Shane is one of those guys. Healy knows it but

he can’t help himself, he keeps pushing.

“Here we go.” The agent makes a show of clearing his

throat, starts reading. “‘Agents of the FBI and the Justice De-

partment, whether active or retired, have no independent au-

thority on Nakosha tribal lands, and if they do violate

Nakosha tribal lands or interfere in Nakosha tribal business,

may be found in violation of federal statute and subject to

arrest.’” Healy pauses, gives Shane a triumphant smile.

“Would you like me to repeat that?”

Shane smiles back. “I’ve got it, Special Agent Healy.”

“Good, because that’s all I’ve got. We’re finished here.”

Healy leans back as the waitress delivers his melty thing on

a hot plate, with enough fries on the side to stop a healthy

young heart. He grunts happily as he reaches for the ketchup,

dismissing his audience.

We stand up to leave.

“Oh,” says Healy without lifting his head, “there is one

other thing. Edwin Manning is in the house.”

“Yeah? Like Elvis?” Shane responds.

“Exactly like Elvis. Manning arrived in Opa-locka on a Gulf-

stream charter flight two hours ago, went directly to his condo.”

“Alone?”

Healy shakes his head, slurps a fry. “Guys like that never

travel alone. He’s got a security detail with him.”

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171

“Bald head, arm in a sling?”

For the first time the agent looks surprised. “Careful,” he

says, chewing with his mouth open. “You got big shot friends

can call in favors, I’ll grant you that. But you’re no longer a

law enforcement officer, pal. You get in trouble, call the cops.

Maybe they’ll call us. We’ll open a file, get this party started.”

Shane herds me to the exit before I can comment on Mr.

Healy’s table manners.

7. Stinking Badges

Have I mentioned that my father was a cop? Have I men-

tioned my father at all? There’s a good reason for that. File

it under secrets to be revealed later, if ever. And no, I wasn’t

sexually abused, so put that out of your dirty mind. Anyhow,

my dad was New York State Police. A trooper. The black

knee-high boots, the peaked hat, holstered sidearm, the whole

six-foot package designed to impress and intimidate. As a

small child I assumed that being a trooper meant he was not

allowed to smile, not even when he was off duty. Later, after

he was transferred to warrants, he rarely wore the uniform,

although it was always ready in the closet, carefully draped

in plastic. I was twelve before I realized that “warrants”

meant arresting criminals and that he was, in fact, engaged

in a dangerous business. Maybe that explained his dark view

of the human race, or maybe the sour attitude was just his

nature. My mother said he was different when he was young,

and he must have been, for her to marry him. It wasn’t

because she had to marry him. I came along five years later,

at a time, she later confessed, when she was considering

divorce. Years after that, after the final ugliness, I asked her

what happened, what was wrong with my father, and she

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shrugged and said he changed. People do, she told me, and

not always for the better.

I like to think that all the good in me, whatever warmth

and humor I inherited, it all comes from my mother. Plus the

little thumbprint dimple on her chin. The one thing I did get

from my father is a temper. The difference is, Dad was more

or less always in a bad mood, whereas I’m reasonably

cheerful most of the time, and it takes a lot to set me off.

When I do lose my temper (once or twice a year—really, it’s

that rare) I become another person, a darker version of me.

As Kelly once observed, after seeing me get ugly with a

doctor who hadn’t bothered to read her file, my passive gets

aggressive. I seethe, rage, lose control to the point that it

scares me. Witnessing it for the first time, people who know

me tend to be shocked by the transformation.

Shane gives no indication of shock. Possibly because he

saw a hint of it when I vented on Edwin Manning. Whatever,

he apparently notices the telltale signs—my face getting red,

my eyes getting huge—and he hustles me out of Denny’s

before I can explode in the general direction of Special Agent

Sean Healy.

“You have to calm down,” he urges, steering me toward

the rental car. “Do you need the paper bag? Are you hyper-

ventilating?”

In full fury I yank my arm away and start raging about

Healy, his obvious inadequacies, his piglike mental state, his

animal rudeness. How it will be his fault if Kelly is dead out

there in the stinking swamp, because all the effing FBI cares

about is opening official files and scoffing disgusting food

and staring at my breasts. How the lowlife bureaucratic bully

represents all the stupid and evil things in the world and

makes me so angry I want to explode or die. Then I start

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173

bawling and banging my hands on the hot fender of the

Crown Vic.

In the past, some men have responded to this kind of

display by attempting to hold or hug me. Bad idea. Human

grenades don’t want to be held. Shane has good instincts. He

doesn’t touch, he gets Kleenex from the car, then says, with

great confidence, that he’s convinced that my daughter is

alive and that we’ll find her.

“That’s what you’re thinking, right?” he wants to know.

“That the worst has happened? It was seeing the Everglades.

Somehow that made you think she was dead.”

Astonishment makes me stop sobbing and stare at him with

watery eyes. How could he possibly know what I was thinking?

“It was the look on your face,” he explains. “Unmistakable.”

“The look?”

“Like you’d hit a wall, suddenly lost hope. I thought a

meeting with Special Agent Healy might put things right. My

bad.”

“He really is an idiot.”

Shane shakes his head. “I seriously doubt that. There’s a

special test for new recruits, it weeds out the idiots.”

“You’re making a joke.”

“A bad one, apparently. Can’t say I warmed up to Mr.

Healy, but understand he’s in a difficult position. Guys in the

trenches, they always resent it when word comes down to do

something off the books. They hate getting their strings

pulled. Young guys like Healy, they’re aware the agency has

a bad history of being manipulated by the powers that be. He

thinks I’m using the agency, trying to get leverage on Edwin

Manning for my own purposes, and he’s right.”

“We’re trying to find my daughter.”

Shane nods. “And one of our best sources is Manning, if

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only we can persuade him to share what he knows, or at least

confirm what we suspect. So we
are
looking for leverage any

way we can get it. And absent a ransom call, a witness, or

physical evidence of abduction—none of which we have—

the agency protocol is to assume Kelly left home of her own

free will. ‘Missing of her own volition’ is the phrase.”

“She’d never do that, not without telling me.”

“Agreed, but Healy has convinced himself that we’re

misusing agency resources to locate a headstrong teenager

who ran off with her boyfriend. He thinks that because

ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that’s what happens.”

Shane pauses, lets his summary of the situation soak in, then

adds with a wry smile, “Plus he’s a mouth-breathing moron

who should be crucified.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Did I say that? Crucified?”

“I believe the phrase was ‘nail the bastard to his stinking

badge.’”

“Really?”

Shane glances at the restaurant. “He’ll be licking his plate

about now,” he says. “I suggest we leave before he decides

to have us for dessert.”

A few minutes later we’ve exited the parking lot unscathed

and are blending into traffic. Stinking badge? Where did I get

that? Then it hits me.
We don’t need no stinking badges,
is a

phrase Kelly used for a while when she was in the hospital.

Something she picked up from TV, or from the oncology

nurses, who were always trying to be humorous with the

kids, making jokes and feeding them lines as well as medi-

cation. Out of the blue Kel would say “we don’t need no

stinking badges” in a bad Mexican accent, then erupt in

giggles at her own cleverness. I think she was acting out a

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175

part, pretending to be someone who wasn’t sick. If you’re

laughing you can’t be dying, right?

“Where are we going?”

“The first motel that looks decent,” Shane says. Reacting

to my quizzical look, he adds. “We need a base of operations.

Somewhere I can recharge my laptop, take a shower, make

a few calls, decide what the next move should be.”

“You said you had a plan,” I remind him.

“Seth’s father is in town,” he says. “That changes things.”

“You think he’s here to make a payoff?”

“I do, yes,” Shane admits. “A payoff or some other contact

with the abductor. Either way, we have to find out exactly

what he’s doing, where he’s going, who he’s seeing. If he

finds Seth, we find Kelly.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It won’t be,” he says. “But Manning in Miami, that’s

good. It means he’s convinced that his son is alive.”

We drive for a while. I’ve no idea what road or street

we’re on, anything other than a vague sense we’re traveling