Randy White - Dead Silence

Two hours thrashing around in a hotel room did not constitute a relationship, but now was not the time for precise definitions. Or was it? I needed a fast flight to Sarasota, and the lady was unlikely to help unless I dealt with this first.

I said, “I have a friend, a big-time attorney, who keeps her boat at the marina. She says there is no legal definition for the phrase person of interest. Material witness, yes. Suspect, yes. But person of interest -according to my friend anyway-is what police use to manipulate journalists. It’s meaningless.”

“I don’t know, Doc. My reputation has taken such a beating in the last twenty-four hours-”

“Barb, what probably happened is, your friend misheard. When a boat goes missing, a lot of times the Coast Guard contacts me. I chart drift patterns in the Gulf of Mexico and keep records. You know, if a boat-or a body-drifts for three days, where’s the most promising area to search? That’s probably why the police are interested in talking to me. They know where the football player was found, but where did he go in the water? I do that sort of consulting a lot.”

There was a long pause. “Are you sure? You can trust me, if you want to talk.”

Like her colleague had trusted her? I said, “Barbara, I’ve spent exactly four hours in Florida since I arrived in New York last week. I didn’t have time to kill a pro football player. We should be talking about: getting me back to Florida. The Sarasota area, but anywhere close will do.”

The woman replied, “So you can spy on Nelson Myles,” sounding chillier.

“No, so I can find William. It’s what I need to do.” I had just told her that I was now sure Myles knew something about the kidnapping. She had replied, “As sure as you were last night?”

Tough to argue that one. Now, being a suspect in a high-profile murder investigation wasn’t helping my cause any.

Barbara asked me, “Why do you have this thing against a man who, by all accounts, is not only respected in New York but in the national community? In fact, the international business community-and that’s not an exaggeration. Nelson Myles’s father was an ambassador, for godsakes!”

I said, “The man buys and sells horses. He’s not a political figure, and liking animals doesn’t make him a saint.”

It was tempting: Give her Roxanne’s number and let the two women talk. I didn’t blame Barbara for her reluctance to risk more embarrassment. But I didn’t expect her to jump to the man’s defense.

“I have colleagues in D.C. who know Nelson Myles personally. They say it’s crazy to suggest he’s capable of kidnapping anyone, particularly a U.S. senator. Give me one good reason why a man with his money and background would choose to get involved with something like this?”

I said, “I don’t think it was a choice. I think he’s being blackmailed,” and realized as I finished the sentence that I couldn’t tell the woman why I believed that was true. Accuse the man of murder next? Then hint that Myles was being manipulated by an interrogator from the Cuban Program, an operation that only people with high-security clearance could confirm existed? I wouldn’t have bought it. So I added a lame explanation, saying, “It’s just a hunch, but I think I’m right.”

“You think you’re right. The FBI has shifted the investigation to Castro sympathizers in Miami and to an Islamic organization in Detroit. But you’re still determined to hound one of the wealthiest men in the Hamptons.”

I said, “ Hound has a negative connotation. I prefer stalk, ” thinking I might hear a smile in her voice. No.

Instead, I listened to several seconds of silence before she said patiently, “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Doc. And I know you’re tired. How much sleep have you had since yesterday morning? You didn’t get any sleep Thursday night, I can testify to that.” Her laughter was ingratiating. Or was it? I found the context odd. She was probing for something… or politely laying the groundwork to distance herself from me.

I said, “There’s something on your mind. What’s wrong?”

“What could possibly be wrong? A boy whose life was entrusted to me has been buried alive. As of this minute, we have”-I could picture the woman in her D.C. office looking at her wristwatch-“eighteen hours until Will Chaser dies, and that’s if the sonsuvbitches are telling the truth about the air system.”

I started to ask about the deadline-“They haven’t changed it… ?”-but she talked over me, saying, “The national press is watching every move I make, which I expected. But the international reaction is a shock, even to me. It’s all about blame. The United States and poor little Cuba. The imperialist giant reaps what it has sown. Justice-finally!-after a fifty-year embargo that started as a pissing match between a president and a banana-republic dictator. This morning, a German editorial came right out and said I invited a kidnapping because I voted to make Castro’s files public. That it’s my fault they got a fourteen-year-old boy instead.”

Quoting someone-I wasn’t sure who-I tried to slow her down, saying, “The power of a dominant nation can be gauged by the sniping of its allies, not the denouncements of its foes.”

“Foes? I’m not sure who the enemy is anymore,” Barbara said. “The American press is just as relentless and even dirtier. Why did I decide to not have children? Did my late husband consider me incompetent? Am I a closet lesbian? And Favar Senior is proving he’s the father-in-law from hell by charging to my defense, saying sweet things like, ‘ Incompetent might be a little strong’ or ‘What’s wrong with a woman giving up motherhood to get what she really wants… or marrying a wealthy man who’s twenty-five years older?’ See what I mean?”

I replied, “You said your father-in-law left Cuba in 1959?”

“ ’Fifty- eight, the year before Fidel marched into Havana.”

“How did he feel about Castro?”

“Despised him, like every Cuban-American I’ve met. Having Sorrento as a surname helped me politically, I admit it. And it got me appointed cochair of my committee, which has turned out to be more like a curse. So, in that way, I understand why Favar resents me. I inherited his son’s money, his office, and I’ve benefited from using the old man’s name… until next election anyway.”

I said, “But even if the man hates you, you still extend his perimeter of power. And you carry on his son’s legacy. Why would he fire such obvious torpedoes? Unless-”

“You figure it out,” Barbara said.

“He’s running against you in two years. That has to be it.”

“There you go.”

“By dropping Sorrento from your name, you’re opening the door for him. You realize that?”

“Of course. But the man is seventy-eight years old, so I’m not that worried. And he hasn’t actually come out and said that he’s running, but… but…”-there was nothing theatrical about her sigh of weariness and disgust-“but… shit, who cares? What I’m going through doesn’t compare to what our boy must be dealing with. When I start feeling sorry for myself, all I have to do is look at that goddamn awful photo. You have seen it? My computer’s set up so the updates are forwarded.”

I said, “It’s on the phone you gave me, I’m using the picture as the… whatever they call the picture you keep on the screen.”

“Then you’ve read the updates? They’re sent on the Signet-D system because of classified information.”

I said, “Not the latest, but about the photo…”

“It’s sickening, isn’t it?”

I said, “Can I finish a sentence? I think whoever took it is more interested in emotional impact than leveraging assets.” I was trying to bring her back to what she’d said about international interests, but she missed my meaning.