The Darkness Gathers (12 page)

The sun was heading toward the horizon, and the umbrella that shaded Lydia from its rays would have to be moved if it was going to protect them until sunset. But as she was about to get up to adjust it, Jeffrey returned with two margaritas. He handed them to her, moved the umbrella to block the setting sun, and sat beside her. He put a cool hand on her hot skin, shiny and slick with sunscreen; she handed him back one of the drinks.

A dark quiet had come over her after the murder she had witnessed, and he remembered the days when she used to pull away from him when she was afraid or sad. Some of the taut stress he had seen in her face when he had picked her up from the police station had faded, finally, after nearly two days. He had wanted them to leave Miami that next morning. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She was sure now that the disappearance of Tatiana was tied into something really big, really ugly. And getting her to leave would be nearly impossible. He was inclined to agree with her; the machinations of some sinister force were clear to him, too, even without the benefit of Lydia’s intuitions. But it made him want to take Lydia and return to New York, back to the quiet life they had lived over the last year. He felt homesick for that, afraid that they might not get back to it for a long time.

“You’re looking better,” he said. She was beautiful in her red Moschino bikini, her pale skin growing gold from the sun. Her thick black hair was swept up in a French twist and held in place with a black jade hair clip.

“I’m feeling better,” she said, and smiled without much conviction.

“It’s nice here … on the beach,” he said. “I could get used to this.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

“So,” she said, “who do you think killed Valentina Fitore?”

He thought on it for a second. They hadn’t discussed the incident yet. He hadn’t pressed it, knowing that she was still processing what had happened and trying to cast the horror of it from her soul before she could analyze it with her brain.

“Someone who was uncomfortable with what she knew and what she might tell you.”

“Someone who doesn’t want us to find out where Tatiana is? Or what happened to her?”

“That implies that Valentina knew.”

“Maybe she did.”

“If she knew, then why wouldn’t she have just written that in the letter, instead of being so cryptic? Or delivered an anonymous tip to the police?”

“So if she didn’t know, then why would someone kill her?”

“Maybe because she didn’t know what she knew.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, maybe she had information that she didn’t understand the significance of, but that you might have. Or that the police or the FBI might have. Maybe her murder had less to do with Tatiana and more to do with Sasa. Less to do with the disappearance of a little girl and more to do with Sasa’s involvements.”

Lydia considered this, turning over the possibilities in her head. She stabbed at her margarita with the straw, then removed it from the plastic cup and began to chew on its end. Jeffrey knew it would only be a matter of days before she bought a pack of cigarettes, though she hadn’t smoked in over a year.

“Or both,” she said finally.

Jeffrey nodded his head thoughtfully. “Or both,” he agreed.

“So we have a missing girl,” she said, thinking aloud, “widely believed to be a runaway, even by her own mother. We have a maid, sister of a suspected mobster, who probably sent me that tape and letter implying that there was more to Tatiana’s disappearance than meets the eye. And who was then murdered for a reason still unclear to us. Since we’ve arrived, we’ve been followed, had our hotel room broken into and our bags searched, albeit respectfully. Detective Ignacio is at the end of his rope, feels he is being watched. There is pressure on him to solve Tatiana’s case, but the powers that be are limiting his area of investigation. And we have a parallel FBI investigation into Sasa Fitore and the Albanian mob, as well as a rumored snuff ring that interferes with, rather than facilitates, the search for Tatiana.”

The towering cumulous clouds over the ocean displayed a Technicolor light show of fuchsia, lavender, and tangerine as the sun crept toward the horizon. The temperature had dropped, but the humidity still raised sweat on Jeffrey’s brow. He was lying on his tight stomach, leaning on his elbows. He wore a baggy pair of navy blue Ralph Lauren bathing trunks and nothing else. From where she sat just above him, she could see the scar left by a bullet he had taken through his right shoulder. She reached over and touched it with fingers cool and moist from the sweating plastic cup she held. He took hold of her hand and rolled over onto his back, displaying his enviable abs and pecs, which were becoming just a bit softer as he approached his forty-second birthday. He kissed her fingers.

“And we have Nathan Quinn,” she continued, “heir to a real estate fortune, Yale-educated, entrepreneur, philanthropist. I found an article relating to the Albanian pyramid scheme that Quinn Enterprises had a hand in, at least as far as giving VC money to the company responsible. He called it a ‘bad investment,’ though he made nearly a hundred million dollars. And he wound up starting a foundation to help Albanian refugees in America. He
spun
it. He turned himself into a hero,” she said with a laugh, moving off her chair and sitting next to Jeffrey. “An entire country was destroyed because of one of his ventures and he came up smelling like a rose. Someone, somewhere, has to be pissed about that.”

Jeffrey sighed, watching the colors in the sky grow darker … lavender to deep purple, tangerine to flame.

“Or maybe Nathan Quinn is what he seems,” he said. “No more guilty for the Albanian thing than any investor unwittingly involved in a bad deal. Maybe Tatiana
did
run away, a spoiled rich kid who didn’t get cable in her bedroom and had a hissy. Maybe Valentina was hit by one of Sasa’s enemies. Maybe there’s nothing here and we should just go home, get married, and start a family. You can write mystery novels. Make up the bad stuff and leave the real crime to someone else, let it poison and destroy someone else’s life. And we’ll just live happily ever after off the proceeds of your books.”

She looked at him with a sudden bright smile and laughing eyes. She reached out and pinched him hard on the thigh, then leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. She was back. He was afraid he’d lost her a bit after the trauma of watching Valentina die. But she’d bounced back stronger. She was stronger and healthier emotionally than she’d been a year ago, and he was relieved to see that.

“Yeah, right,” she said with a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes. “Imagine that.”

Both of them knew he was only half-kidding.

chapter thirteen

D
etective Manny Ignacio should have headed home hours ago, but he couldn’t face it. He just couldn’t end another day with nothing to show for it. So when he’d pulled out of the precinct parking lot, instead of turning right and going to his wife and daughter, where he belonged, he turned left. The maroon interior of his Taurus was filthy: dust on the dash, crumbs wedged into the crevices of the parking brake, a spot of chocolate on the passenger’s seat, a cigarette burn on the floor. It still smelled vaguely of smoke, though he’d quit over a year ago.

He’d quit because his daughter had asked him to. Clarabell, his little pal—he’d called her that ever since she was born. She wasn’t a beautiful girl in the frightening way that Tatiana was, and part of him had always been glad for that. Too much responsibility goes along with that for a little girl. For her parents, too. She was pretty, though, in a fleshy, innocent way, with round green eyes and full pink lips. And she was her father’s daughter, knew just how to turn him around inside. Knew that she was the light and love of his every day. He was proud, because he knew that kind of love from her father gave a girl confidence, made her strong. She was smart and knew what she was worth, and no man would ever be able to tell her differently, because her father had showed her how she deserved to be treated. Just by loving her and loving her mother and never making a secret of it, he had given her that. Not that either one of them was very happy with him right now, feeling neglected since he’d been working the Tatiana Quinn case. He’d make it up to them. He always did.

He pulled into the parking lot of Jonah’s, a bar owned by a retired cop and frequented by a clientele made up of 90 percent cops. He didn’t generally find himself in places like this. He was a family man and believed his free time belonged to his wife, daughter, and his parents, not to a bunch of his drunken comrades in arms. But tonight, he had a fierce need for a tequila shot with a Corona chaser. He had a case of the mean reds, where he was so angry and frustrated with this case and every ugly thing about it that he didn’t want to take that kind of energy into his home. He needed to wind down a bit, have just one drink.

He was washed in the smell of smoke and the sound of laughter when he pulled open the bar’s door. The bar was only moderately crowded, with plenty of empty tables. At first glance, he saw at least five familiar faces. He lifted a hand in general greeting but took a seat alone at the bar. His reflection in the mirror looked even more beaten down and tired than he felt, if that was possible. He had always prided himself on being a relatively handsome man, one who looked younger than his years. But fifty wasn’t looking good on him tonight. He thought it might be time for a trip to Puerto Rico, away from the crush of Miami and into the quiet of the place he’d known as a boy. Just a few more weeks and he would put in for the time, take Clarabell out of school for a week. The three of them needed the time together anyway.

Even though he didn’t come here to Jonah’s often, he knew Trisha, the big-breasted, bleach-blond bartender. Her hair looked like spun gold, soft and fluid, and her blue eyes were wise and kind, turned up just bit at her temple, like a cat’s.

“Hey, there,” she said cordially, although giving him a concerned once-over. “It’s been a while, Manny. Everything all right?”

“Can’t complain,” he answered with a smile he hoped was more convincing than it felt.

“What can I get you?”

“A shot of Patrón and a Corona chaser, with lime.”

She gave a nod and turned to fill his order. He watched her for a second to make sure she took the bottle of Patrón from the top shelf; he didn’t want well tequila. He already had a headache. As he took his eyes away from her, he scanned the reflection in the mirror, checking out the people behind him—mostly men, straddling their seats the wrong way, as if sitting in a chair properly wasn’t masculine enough. Most of the men wore their weapons in plain view, even though they were off duty, having removed their jackets in the warmth of the bar. They felt safe surrounded by their own. Maybe that’s why he’d come tonight.

Trisha brought him his drinks, along with an extra slice of lime and a saltshaker. He noticed that her nails had a perfect French manicure; he liked a woman who took care of herself. It couldn’t be easy to keep nails like that when working behind the bar. He licked the web between his thumb and his forefinger and sprinkled salt there, then licked it off. Then he shot the tequila, followed it by sucking on the lime slice, and then washed it all down with the Corona. He felt a rush of heat as some of the tension left his shoulders and neck. He closed his eyes a second, and when he opened them again, he saw two figures in the mirror, one tall and lean, with light slicked-back hair; one just a bit shorter and broader, with a bald head. They were making their way into the dim hallway that led to the men’s room in the back. He noticed that one or two of the cops behind him had followed the men he saw in the mirror with their eyes. Even in the brief second he’d seen them, he knew they weren’t cops. Something about the big guy.

He sucked down the last of his Corona and sat a second, trying to figure out what was bothering him about the men he’d seen, why he felt a sudden unease. Finally, he rose, left a ten-dollar bill on the bar, and walked toward the back. As he rounded the corner, the sound from the barroom was cut in half. He unsnapped the holster on the Glock at his waist and took off the safety, then made his way toward the men’s room. He pushed the door open slowly and was greeted by the aroma of urine. He stood there a second and regarded the empty urinals, listening to a toilet run and watching water drip from a faucet. He could see his own reflection in the mirror and recognized his game face, his “Don’t fuck with me” face.

He paused a minute and took a breath before entering and letting the door close behind him. Bending down toward the filthy tiled floor, he saw two pairs of black-booted feet standing side by side in one of the stalls. He removed his gun from the holster and stepped toward the stall. He stood waiting, trying to control his labored breathing and the adrenaline he felt begin to pump. After a second, the leaner man stepped out of the stall first, followed by the stockier man. Manny saw an earring and a deep scar on the face of the big guy, saw a Rolex and a Sig in the hand of the leaner guy. In his other hand, he held what looked like a Polaroid.

“Gay bar’s down the street, girls,” said Manny. The big guy moved forward but was stopped by a hand to his chest. In that moment, Manny recognized him as the man from the surveillance photo, the alleged Greyhound bus driver.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Manny said, leveling the Glock. “Let’s go have a talk back at the station.”

“Let’s not,” said the leaner man, his voice low, hard. Manny noted the same slight accent that he heard in Jenna Quinn’s voice. His eyes were blue and heavily lidded, and in them Manny saw malice and amusement. He wore a black wool gabardine suit that was clearly tailored to his body. A royal blue shirt that picked up the color of his eyes was open at the chest, exposing golden hair and the edge of a tattoo that Manny couldn’t quite make out. But Manny knew the man he was looking at. It was Sasa Fitore.

Manny regarded him and his 9-mm Sig-Sauer for a moment, then reached out for the photograph Sasa held out to him with his free hand, his curiosity getting the better of him. He kept the gun pointed at Sasa as he glanced at the photograph.