The Shop (19 page)

“So you’re saying they’re Cardamone’s people?” Frank asked. He’d recovered nicely, after a glass of Remy, especially after Agent Salter told him he knew Frank wasn’t responsible for the dead men in the bench seats.

“If we’re correct, their allegiance is to Mike Cardamone.”

“And Cardamone’s people are watching me? And Grace?”

He nodded to a bench seat. “There’s your proof.”

“But they weren’t here to hurt me?”

“We don’t believe so, no. Not at this juncture. But that could change.”

Frank ducked his nose into the snifter and inhaled. Swirled the glass, took a small sip. He still had the headache, but the Remy seemed to have quieted it somewhat. “So you’re saying if I fired my security, I’d have less people to worry about.”

“Fewer.”

“Fewer?”

“Fewer people to worry about.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry, grammar was never my strong suit. I can’t believe you know all this.”

“We’re the FBI.”

“Well, that explains it. Mike was number three at the CIA, you know. He thought the Fibbies were like the Keystone Cops. But now I’m getting the idea it’s the CIA that’s incompetent.”

“That would be a dangerous assumption to make,” Special Agent in Charge Salter said.

“So the whole cousin thing—you made it up? You posed as Nick Holloway to get on this boat? So Nick Holloway isn’t my cousin after all?”

“Oh, he’s your cousin, all right. We intercepted your e-mails.”

“You can do that? Wait, of course you can.” Talk about irony. “Our lawyers had to construct new language to make that happen—it was pretty fancy footwork, let me tell you—a real bitch to do. Jesus, that’s ironic. So Nick meant it when he said he was busy. When he first wrote me back.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Why the charade? I don’t understand—”

“We wanted to see if Cardamone was keeping tabs on you. As it turns out, he is. It’s clear he sent these two men to keep an eye on you.”

“Whatever he’s involved in, I have nothing to do with it. We’re friends, and that’s the extent of it.”

“You’re more than that. We have the wiretaps to prove it. We’ve been monitoring Cardamone for some time.”

Franklin had been a prosecutor for a long time. He knew the outlines of a potential plea bargain when he heard it. Time to lay the groundwork. “You know none of this was my idea—what Cardamone and the president were doing.”

“I didn’t think it was. So to review, it was just you three who knew about the program. Cardamone, President Baird, and yourself.”

“That’s right. Just the two of us now that Baird is dead.”

“Then it comes down to you or Cardamone.”

“That’s right.”

Special Agent Salter let it sit there between them for a minute. Then he said, “You could be a big help to us.”

“Turning state’s evidence, right?”

“It’s a good deal.”

“But there’s my reputation to think of. I was the Top Cop. The attorney general of the United States of America. It would kill Grace.”

“Better than the alternative.”

“What alternative?”

The special agent said nothing.

Frank shuddered. “He’d kill all of us.”

“You’re the only witnesses. You and Grace.”

“But Riley’s innocent. And my dad—”

“You know Cardamone. You think that will stop him?”

All of a sudden, the Remy didn’t taste so good. Frank swirled the glass again, his heart speeding up. He did know Cardamone. He knew what the man was capable of. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. They’d been standing up, off and on, for the last week. But still, it was impossible for him to grasp this concept completely. “How would he get away with it?”

“How did you get away with Brienne Cross?” Salter looked down at his notes. “The Egyptian professor from Berkeley—?”

“Okay, okay, I see your point. But won’t Cardamone suspect something if I fire all my security?”

Salter said, “I’m sure you can finesse it. This is going to happen fast. If you can get him to come down here—”

“I can get him to come down here, don’t you worry about that.”

“
If
you can get him to come down here,” he repeated, “we’ll take it from there.”

“You’d be putting my family in danger.”

Salter just stared at him.

“My family’s already in danger.”

“Correct.”

“You have people there now?”

“We have the island under surveillance.”

Frank sighed. “Any way you look at this, I’m lucky if I escape jail time.”

Salter’s face was impassive.

“I don’t want Grace exposed.”

“I can’t promise anything. You know that. But if we can get Cardamone to admit what he’s done…we may not need her.”

Frank had a truly lucid moment. He looked straight at Agent Salter. “That’s bullshit.”

Salter stood. “Your choice. Somebody’s going to pay for all those deaths. Conspiracy’s a federal crime, and the death penalty
will be enforced
. We’d rather it be Cardamone.”

Frank’s future was bleak, any way you looked at it. There was very little wriggle room. He would have to convince Cardamone to come down here. He would have to get him to talk. Never easy—the guy was wary as an ibex.

Maybe there was a way out of this, but right now he couldn’t think of one. There were two dead bodies aboard, and the FBI knew about it. He didn’t think he could have killed them—that just wasn’t part of his makeup—but he couldn’t account for a few hours. He’d had something to drink, and he supposed he
could
have blacked out. It was within the realm of possibility.

At any rate, they were here, on his boat.

For a while now he’d been afraid that Cardamone would come after him, and worse, he’d come after his family. Special Agent Salter offered a way out, and he’d damn well take it.

For now.

By the time Landry and Franklin were through with their talk, it was going on eleven p.m., and Landry had some things to do. He decided to anchor out in the bay just off Panama City and put in to Cape San Blas early in the morning. One reason for this, Landry anticipated trouble when Franklin fired his security team. There might be unpleasantness. No one enjoyed losing a lucrative contract. Unlikely it would come to anything, but the one important lesson Landry had taken from his Boy Scout years was the motto, “Be prepared.”

He wasn’t tired, but he wasn’t at his best, either.

Franklin was still feeling the effects of the drug. The triptascoline, in combination with the Remy Martin, rendered him incoherent. He seemed content to drift off. Good for him and good for Landry.

Landry went up on deck and made his nightly phone call. For the call he used a throwaway cell phone he’d bought at Target for $29.95 plus tax—it didn’t have to be expensive to preserve his anonymity. A friend of his, a fellow racehorse owner who was also a tech genius (he’d named one of his horses Phreaker), had created an invisible voice mailbox for him. The mailbox was situated inside a major phone system, but no one knew of its existence. Landry’s contact number remained the same, but the box had been designed to erase itself every twenty-four hours, then migrate to a different location. Even Landry had no clue where the voice mail was. It could be in Vegas. It could be in Keokuk. All he knew was that it worked. It was the perfect way for him to contact the Shop every night without revealing his location.

Usually, he received an automated response. “There is nothing at this time. Please check back tomorrow. Thank you, and have a nice day.”

The “have a nice day” line was a little over the top in Landry’s opinion.

But tonight, he did not receive that message. Tonight, the message was different.

He closed the phone and thought about it for a minute. It was a beautiful night. Warm, but there was a breeze. Panama City stretched out before him like a diamond-studded crescent. He looked east, toward Cape San Blas, a black spit of land that jackknifed out into the Gulf and created the bay. He could see a smattering of lights there too, up to where St. Joseph State Park started and the private houses ended.

He didn’t spend time pondering the deeper meaning of the message. Right now he needed to make arrangements. He opened the phone and called his younger brother.

Gary answered on the second ring. “Did you
see
him? Eleven and a half lengths! Jesus! Rafael was wrapping up on him at the end. Could have been twelve, thirteen lengths if he’d let him go.”

“The foot okay?”

“Colder than Cruella De Vil’s titties. Did you see the way he exploded when Rafael asked him? Did you
see that
? Holy Jesus take-me-to-the-ballgame-and-buy-me-a-fucking-hotdog
Christ
, he’s the real thing. The Kentucky Derby, man. The First Saturday in May.”

For a moment, Landry let that hang in the air. It was like the notes of a distant trumpet calling soldiers to battle, sweet and pure.

A thrumming started up in his gut, a combination of excitement, anguish, and desire. The First Saturday in May was like the Holy Grail, except the Holy Grail wasn’t anywhere near as good.

He tried not to think about it. “Hey. You like Ocala?”

“Ocala?”

“You want to go to Ocala and check out the stud farms? All expenses paid?”

Skepticism crept into his brother’s voice. “What are we talking here?”

“All you have to do is fly in to Panama City and rent a car.”

It took him a moment, but then he said, “Sure, I can do that.”

“Use the Amex. Try Orbitz first. You have to be in Panama City by four p.m. tomorrow at the latest. Don’t forget to use—”

“Your driver’s license, gotcha.”

“The one for Peters. That’s important, it’s got to be under that name.”

“Hey, bro, haven’t I done this before? I know what I’m doing.” A pause. “So, what kind of car? It’s a long drive to Ocala.”

His brother. Always pushing the envelope. “Anything you want.”

“A Hummer?”

“Almost anything you want. I’m paying for the gas, so be considerate.”

“A Caddy, then. I guess I could get away. A week?”

“If you want.”

“Shandra won’t be happy.”

“Take her with you. All I’m saying, use a different card for her.”

“Nah, she’s got something going. It’ll be just myself, I guess.”

They had breakfast at anchor in the bay. Franklin cooked—eggs Benedict, chopped red potatoes with onions, and a garnish of fresh fruit. Frank took his breakfast cooking seriously. He wore a barbecue chef’s apron with a drawing of a spatula and a barbecue fork.

Landry was impressed by Frank’s resilience. In fact, he enjoyed Frank’s company, once the unpleasantness was out of the way. Landry was surprised by this. As one of the architects of the Shop, Franklin would pay the ultimate price. It was clear Frank thought he was going to ace this, that he would come out unscathed, once he delivered Mike Cardamone to the FBI. Landry let him think that. It made for an interesting hour of wide-ranging conversation, not to mention delicious victuals.

Frank stood over him in his chef’s apron, holding a real spatula, which looked a lot like the one emblazoned on his chest. “You like the eggs?”

“I love the eggs.”

“There’s more. Want another?”

“Absolutely.”

“The hollandaise is an old family secret. That lemony zing? Do you taste it?”

“I like the zing.”

“Thought you would.” Franklin replaced Landry’s plate with a fresh one filled with more eggs Benedict and cottage potatoes, and sat opposite him. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. Landry’s mother would call that bad manners, but times had changed and even Landry put an elbow on the table now and then.

“You really think this is going to work?” Frank asked.

“If you can get Cardamone here.” The hollandaise really was zingy. He’d have to remember to get the recipe.

“And he’ll end up in supermax?”

“That’s my guess.”

“Good. He’s a dangerous guy. Not only is he a spook, but he was special forces. You know how those guys are. They’re nothing but glorified assassins. I’ve heard that once they get a taste for it, they can never go back.”

Landry shrugged.

“What I’m really worried about is Grace. She’s not part of this.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“You see, she was just being supportive. You know how husbands and wives talk about everything? It was like that. Are you married?”

“I have a wife and a daughter.”

“Then you know what I’m talking about. I’d really like to keep her out of this.” He paused. “You know what it’s like to love someone, really love someone? That’s how I feel about Grace. I imagine that’s how you feel about your wife. More strawberries? There’s plenty.”

“No, thanks. But I like this hollandaise.”

“It’s good, isn’t it? But you see, Grace, she’s the love of my life. I don’t know about what it’s like, your marriage, but with Grace it was always me wanting her. Even though I was the attorney general of the United States, even though I have a law degree from Yale and she was just a local girl who only went to two years of junior college, I think—I’m pretty sure—I love her more than she loves me. Not that that’s a bad thing. Every marriage is a balancing act, right? Kind of like a teeter-totter.”

Landry wasn’t sure why Franklin was telling him this. It didn’t seem important in the scheme of things. But Franklin’s time was growing short, so Landry decided to be polite and listen. Plus, Frank was a tremendous cook. And he had a way about him. Charming at times. He liked the fact that Franklin remained upbeat in the face of adversity. A glass-half-full kind of person. The eternal optimist.

Frank licked his lips. “Thing is, what I’m worried about, is she’s got this connection to a church. The Victorious Redemption Spiritual Church. Have you heard of it? It’s been in the news a lot.”

Until recently, Landry had paid no attention to the news. But when he became interested in Frank, he had researched him on the Internet—be prepared. He knew where Frank was going with this. Grace’s association with the church had taken up the whole first page of Google. Since talking about it was clearly cathartic for Frank, Landry pretended interest. It was the least he could do.

“The reverend there is…well, he’s kind of off-the-wall. He’s a…ah, I don’t know quite how to put this—he’s sticking his pecker in a lot of hornet’s nests. I know there have been death threats. And there’s at least two investigations into his dealings—”

“There are.”

“There are?”

“There are two investigations. There
are
.”

“This is the second time you’ve corrected my grammar. You used to be an English teacher before you joined the FBI?”

“Let’s get on with the story. What kind of investigations?”

“Bribery. Money laundering. Something hinky going on there. Gunrunning, maybe, to the Congo. The minister, his name is Mister Wembi, and that’s what they call him, with the Mister always before the name, like it’s a second language or something. He’s white, but he spent a lot of time in Africa hunting witches—can you believe it? He was a ‘witch identifier.’ Even took the African name, which I think is weird. Probably a marketing ploy. Grace has donated a lot of money to the church, and she’s on the board—she’s, well, religious. It’s the one thing I don’t like about her. Well, that, and all the money she spends on the horses.”

“What kind of horses?” Landry asked, suddenly interested.

“Arabians. And Hackneys. She drives them.”

Hackneys. Some people.

“We’re not as rich as we used to be,” Frank mused. “I’d say we’ve lost about thirty percent of our wealth, which, when you think about it, isn’t too bad. But Grace doesn’t like the way we look to outsiders. Like we’re obscenely rich. She wants me to get rid of this boat, but I won’t. This is my baby. She’s got her horses and her church, and I’ve got the Hinckley.”

“Understandable,” Landry murmured.

Frank took both ends of his linen napkin and began twisting it in his fingers—an annoying distraction.

Landry said, “So what do you want from me?”

“I’d just like to keep that aspect—the church—quiet. It has nothing to do with any of this. The Shop. Nothing at all. I’m worried that if this guy, this reverend, gets wind of it, he’ll set her up to take the fall.”

“For the gunrunning and money laundering? How deep is she into this? It doesn’t sound like she’s just on the board.”

“It’s…the church is an obsession. I just don’t want her hurt. Those people—on some level, I think they’re dangerous. He is. He’s scary. A charismatic leader, kind of like the guy with the Kool-Aid, Jim Jones.”

Landry had had enough of this conversation. “Consider it done. We’ll keep that under our hat.”

“Good.” He was back to cheerful again. “That’s a big load off my mind.”

“No problem.”

“I was wondering…”

“What were you wondering?”

“Are those two men—the ones who were killed—are they still on board?”

Landry nodded. “I put them on ice, though, that’s why there’s no smell.”

“Ah, I see.” He thought about it. “The ice from the bait well?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really need them? Couldn’t we weigh them down and throw them overboard?”

“You know I can’t do that. That would be tampering with evidence. Besides,” he added, “they’re not eating anything.”

“I guess,” he said at last. “I just thought I’d give it a shot.”

Landry nodded, then got up and started clearing the table. “Can you write out that recipe for me?” he asked.

“Tell me about Danehill Security,” Landry said as they approached Indigo Island.

Franklin shrugged. “Not much to tell. I hired them a month ago when the shit started hitting the fan. Grace wanted me to go the cut-rate route, so we compared prices. They’re not exactly the A-Team. I’d say they’re more like the E-Team. Or even worse than that.”

“Oh?”

“These guys don’t have any discipline. It’s just a job to them. But you have to understand—I’m spoiled. As the attorney general, I had a topflight security detail.”