Twisted Justice (35 page)

“Okay,” Tracy said into the receiver. “A couple of neighbors saw Carrie and her husband leave their house between nine and nine thirty this morning. Saw at least one piece of luggage. Seemed preoccupied. Not themselves, according to the next-door neighbor who was puttering with her roses. Offered Carrie some, but Carrie pushed right by her.”

“That's it?”

“That's all we have. Except the neighbor did say that the Diamond's daughter was away visiting relatives. She figured they might be going to pick her up, but she was only guessing there.”

Greg remembered what Betty had said about a man with a Hispanic accent calling just before Carrie left the office so abruptly. About enough time for Carrie to drive home, pack, and leave.

Celeste and Carrie. Two women, each so professional, both missing. So unlike them to just disappear.

What was the common denominator?

Manny Gonzolas selected his jobs carefully. He liked technical challenges but refused hits related to the mob. This was his second job for Frank Santiago, a personal vendetta like the last one, and this time Manny demanded top dollar being that it had to come off so quick. So what if the kid was deaf and dumb. Make an easy hit. Sure, if he could find her. Finding them, eliminating them, that's what he did best. He'd find her.

Posing as a deliveryman, he'd gone back to the Palmer's late afternoon Monday and chatted with a few other neighbors on Oregon. Nobody had seen the family all day. A call to Palmer's office, where he worked as a senior accountant, was transferred to a colleague who volunteered that Dirk Palmer was taking time off, claiming sudden illness in the family.

Yeah, right. So where the fuck were they? Manny's gut told him the Diamond bitch would know.

The next morning at six o'clock, he drove up to the Diamond house in a dark blue Mercury sedan with tinted windows. At six thirty, he saw the Diamond woman — the woman he'd seen on the tape he'd lifted — leave the house in a business suit, driving away in a late model silver Olds sedan, the kind with a cloth top. Not five minutes later a dark-haired guy, medium build with a pudgy face, emerged from the front door in jogging gear and headed down Oregon, past DeLeon to Swann. The kid, Manny figured, was not around. Both parents wouldn't leave the house with a kid home alone, and it was too early for her to be in school.

He'd give Diamond enough time to get to her office, maybe stop for coffee or something. Then he'd call her there. It was seven thirty when he parked his car less than a block away from Klingman Law Office and dialed the firm from a pay phone. He simply stated that he was a former client when the receptionist asked his name, and she put him right through to Diamond.

Diamond sounded uptight when she answered the phone. Good, she'd be easy to scare. When he started talking about the kid, he heard a gasp. He said that he knew her daughter was with Molly Palmer, and he knew where they were. He told her that she'd better come and get her kid right away, and come alone. Starting to sob, she'd stuttered something about her husband, but Manny interrupted, saying do it or else, letting his voice trail off before he hung up. Then he waited in the car. When she emerged a few minutes later, he followed her home. Bingo, he told himself, he'd spooked her and now she was gonna lead him to his mark.

He had a good feeling about this job. It seemed simple enough, and then he'd split to his retreat in the islands. After the job, Manny planned an extended vacation. Get the hell out of Tampa until this whole thing blew over. Drive straight to Miami. Charter a flight to Martinique. Spend tomorrow on the beach with his luscious Monique.

But first he had to do the kid.

Manny congratulated himself as he sat in the plush seat of the Mercury. Diamond and the guy in the jogging suit, now dressed in pale blue slacks and an aqua short-sleeve shirt, came out, locking the front door in a rush and loading a large, hard-shell suitcase into the Olds' trunk. Sure that he was unseen, Manny trailed the Diamond car as it headed west on Swann, then north on Dale Mabry to the big-money Carrollwood Lake section. The car stopped alongside the curb in front of a bunch of townhouses set amid a perfectly landscaped lawn dotted with coconut palms and surrounded by clumps of flowers in shades of yellows and reds. Manny's passion was landscaping and he admired the the expensive display of lush plantings as the Diamond woman jumped out of
the passenger side of the car and raced toward the front door of one of the luxury units and frantically punched the doorbell.

Manny couldn't see everything, just enough to make out that the woman who opened the door was tall, slim, and had long, dark hair. He could see that she wore a baby blue bathrobe and that her hair looked all messed up, like she'd just climbed out of bed. After a brief conversation, Diamond disappeared inside.

Parking the car, Manny waited.

Celeste Marin was surprised at the unannounced visit of Greg's associate. Had he actually sent someone from the office to check on her? She'd met Carrie Diamond only briefly during a few office social occasions and liked her immediately. She remembered telling Greg that she'd like to get to know her better. Based on everything Greg had told her, Carrie was a bright, talented attorney, but what was she doing here, seeing her so unkempt, still unshowered, hair uncombed, no makeup?

“Carrie? Come on in,” Celeste greeted her before registering the clear anxiety etched on Carrie's face. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“I … I'm so sorry to bother you, Celeste,” she blurted, “but I really need your help.”

“My help,” Celeste echoed. “Did Greg send you here?”

“No. And please don't tell him I came. You see, I'm just so scared,” she stammered, “and only you can help me.”

“Me? How? Let's have coffee. I just put on a pot. Gosh, I'm sorry I look so awful.”

Carrie ignored the comment, still standing, beginning to wring her hands. “I don't have time. I just pray that you can help me.”

“But what is it you think I can do? Here, sit down and tell me.” She led her over to the brocade sofa.

In a rush, Carrie told Celeste about Molly Palmer. How she had encouraged the child to talk to the police, to identify the man she'd seen go into Steve Nelson's apartment at the time of Kim Connor's shooting.

“But wasn't that the right thing to do?” Celeste asked. Her kind, inquisitive eyes searched Carrie's suddenly blotchy face.

“I thought so, yes. But now I'm just scared for Elizabeth.”

“Who's Elizabeth?”

“My daughter.”

“I'm afraid I'm not following.” Celeste reached for Carrie's hand, unable to fathom what she could do to alleviate this woman's distress. “You were telling me about a Palmer child? And your daughter?”

“I'm sorry, I'm not making much sense I guess.” Carrie paused to take a breath. “When Greg and Chuck decided to take the Palmers to a safe place — it was my idea actually — I never thought the Palmers would ask to take my daughter too. You see, they're both deaf, Molly and Elizabeth, and the Palmers wanted to bring Elizabeth as a companion for Molly. My husband and I didn't want to let them take our daughter, but since I'd gotten Molly involved in all this we thought it only right. And Chuck promised tight security.”

“Chuck? Chuck Dimer?”

“Yes, he's the P.I. working on the Nelson case with us.”

“I know Chuck, and I'm sure the girls are perfectly safe. Chuck is very good at what he does.”

“I know. But this morning I got a call from a strange man.” Carrie withdrew her hand from Celeste's and reached into her purse for a wad of Kleenex. “I got scared. I … I just want to go get my daughter. I think I made a horrible mistake.”

“Oh, Carrie, I can understand. I just don't know why you're telling me all this?”

“Because, well, I thought you knew.” Carrie gulped and blew her nose. “The Palmers and my daughter are at your condo on Amelia Island.”

Celeste gasped. “What?”

“They needed a safe place, and Greg said you wouldn't mind. The firm will reimburse you, of course,” she added quickly.

“Uh, that's fine. But your child's there and you don't have the address?”

“No, for security reasons, they said. But Celeste,” Carrie looked at her wide eyed. “I need to find my daughter. The man on the phone sounded so threatening.”

“Carrie, I'm sorry. I'm not a mother, so I can only imagine how you feel. All I can really do is tell you how to get to the condo,” Celeste decided. “But you must promise me that once you do, you'll let Greg and Chuck know immediately. This is obviously quite serious.”

“I will,” promised Carrie. “I'm just so glad you understand. They never would. Besides, they're so tied up with the Nelson case. I can't imagine what more could happen to that poor woman. What she's been through. It's unbelievable.”

Celeste nodded as she wrote out directions and then led Carrie to the door. “It's ten thirty now so you'll be there by five at the latest. Drive carefully,” she said perfunctorily, as her mind was already on Greg.

Would she ever care so much about another? Or have a daughter of her own? These were questions she'd considered all weekend.

Life had taken an unexpected turn for Celeste Marin on Friday night. South Florida was being hit with the aftermath of a tropical storm and her flight from Atlanta to Miami had been a living nightmare. Under the best of circumstances, she hated flying, but the horrendous turbulence that threw the 727 around like a giant roller coaster in a sky ablaze with lightning had completely petrified her. Trapped in that terrible reality with her fellow passengers, she'd stopped breathing, felt everything go black until the plane again lurched and its bottom seemed to drop out in a violent downward spiral. Surprising herself, she began to pray, a prayer so deeply enveloping that she was not even aware of the plane landing until the woman next to her, drenched in vomit, tapped her lightly on
the shoulder. Theirs was the last plane to land before all planes were grounded, to her relief, so she'd stayed at one of those airport hotels overnight.

She called Greg, but there was no answer. In the morning she rented a car and drove across Alligator Alley to U.S. 41 North to Tampa. She'd called Greg again, first at her townhouse, where they were to meet, then at his beach house. She'd assumed that he was upset with her for ruining their weekend plans and had probably just gone home and turned off his phone the way he did when he was working too hard, trying to meet a deadline. He'd sounded so sweet last Thursday night — it would be just them and the stars and the moon. Twice Saturday morning, she'd tried his office, but no one answered.

She arrived in Carrollwood at one Saturday afternoon, arranged for the return of her rental car, and looked around the apartment for a note from Greg, assuming he'd been there waiting for her the evening before. Nothing. He must have really been angry. She tried his office again. No answer, and no answer at his place. Impulsively, she left her townhouse and headed for the Courtney Campbell Causeway connecting Tampa to Clearwater.

Celeste had her own key to Greg's spacious house situated on the expansive sandy beaches of Palm Harbor. This was his sanctuary, far enough away from the city and a beautiful commute across Old Tampa Bay. She'd offered to help him with interior design several times, but he'd politely refused, preferring to keep the dated furnishings of the former owners. Though the house was large and comfortable with a pool and cabana off to one side, the furniture and interior design details, although expensive, were outdated and not up to par with Celeste's discerning taste. Certainly nothing of the decorative splendor she'd lavished on her own condo. They often joked that when they got married, they'd have to get rid of both places and build their “compromise” house. But would they? She knew that he loved her and she him. She knew the demands of a law practice and she knew she loved her job. And, she knew that if
neither compromised in a lifestyle change, they would never get to the point of a “compromise” house. Nor to what they both wanted, but were maybe afraid of — a family of their own.

Again Celeste searched for a note, some sign from Greg to let her know he was nearby, but there was none. Where was he? This was all her fault. She decided to sit tight and wait for him to come home. She changed into a bathing suit and stretched out on the deck. The Gulf was still pounding from the tropical storm that had delayed her last night. Getting up only to fix herself a Swiss cheese and lettuce sandwich and pour herself a glass of chardonnay, she stayed there well past a glorious sunset off the west Florida coast — all brilliant reds, oranges, pinks and purples.

Finally she got up, showered and changed into one of the sheer nightgowns she kept there along with a scattering of casual clothes and beachwear. It was warm, and she walked outside, strolling along the perimeter decks. Had Greg stayed in Michigan for reasons unknown? The soft breeze off the Gulf of Mexico seemed to speak to her, to urge her to explore something inside herself in this uncommon solitude. When she finally left the moonlit skies and went inside to lie down on Greg's king-size bed, she fell immediately into a deep sleep with only blackness, without dreams.

In the morning, Celeste awoke early with an awesome sensation she could only describe as peace. A sensation so unusual it was alien, really. She could only marvel that something inside her had subdued the usual blinding ambition that had driven her every day from the moment she awoke. Over the next two days, she simply walked in the warm granular sand along the Gulf, and at night she read from the poetry collections Greg kept in the bedroom's bookcase. She did not turn on the television, call her office in Tampa, or the client's office in Atlanta. She felt paralyzed to do so. She did not even call Greg's office again.