Randy White - Everglades

I said, “Omar Muhammad, huh?”

Abul Nidal Organization, or ANO, has carried out terrorist attacks in dozens of countries, killing or injuring thousands of people. Targets have included the United States, the United Kingdom, France, Israel and even moderate Pales tinians. They like bombs. The ANO is responsible for putting a bomb aboard Pan Am Flight 103 that blew up over Lockerbie, Scotland. Other major attacks included the Rome and Vienna airports, the Neve Shalom Synagogue in Istanbul and the hijacking of Pan Am Flight 73.

The terrorist organization’s founder, Abu Nidal, was found dead inside his Baghdad home in August 2002, but the organization continues to spread mindless terror. They have small, secret cells in countries throughout the world.

I felt Tomlinson’s dinghy bump against the pilings of my house as Harrington said, “The snake has a new head. We need to chop it off before the group gets active again. Interested?”

I said, “Know what? Yes. That one’s a real possibility. I wouldn’t mind meeting Mr. Omar,” and meant it, even though I felt a nauseating tension in my stomach, thinking about it. Then I said, “Hal? I’ve got a friend coming up the steps. I’m going to have to call you back.”

“You’ll give it serious consideration?”

I said, “I already am.”

As I locked the phone away, I could hear Tomlinson calling, “Hey, Doc? Doc, it’s me.”

I met Tomlinson at the screen door to the lab. Opened it to let him in, but he just stood there, looking at me with his haunted, haunted eyes.

Immediately, I said, “What’s wrong? Someone’s hurt. Who? ”

Tomlinson doesn’t always need words to communicate, and I’ve known the man a long time.

He said, “Let’s go in the house and sit down.”

I touched my palm to his chest; could feel in my spine the neuron burn of panic. “No, tell me now. Is it Ransom? Did something happen to her? Or Dewey. Who?”

I noticed that Tomlinson’s hands were shaking as he combed them through his hair. “I just came from the marina. Mack had the news on. Someone broke into Sally Carmel’s house last night, or early this morning. Millionaire heiress missing. It’s making the headlines. The house was robbed, and there’s a statewide search.”

He followed me into the lab, and I sat heavily in my old office chair. “Goddamn it! Frank was supposed to be watching her. How could someone get past-”

“That’s the worst of it,” Tomlinson interrupted. “So far, anyway. The cops found Frank in the trunk of his own car. It was parked in Sally’s driveway. Him and someone else, another man. They haven’t released his name yet. They’re both dead. Shot execution-style-the reporter’s words.”

I said, “ Two men? But why would Frank be with-” I stopped talking, thinking about it, my brain slowed by shock.

I remembered Frank calling me at the marina, then talking to him from my home phone. I remembered Frank saying, I’m calling ’cause I need someone I trust. I need a favor.

He suspected that Sally was being followed. Unlike the police, he believed that someone had been breaking into her house. He wanted me to help him set a trap for the guy.

I remembered him saying, I’ve got to have someone who knows how to take care of himself. A guy who can bust a head or two if things get tough.

I was his first choice. His second choice, apparently, hadn’t been a reliable one.

I also remembered him saying that whoever was following Sally was very, very good.

To take down someone of Frank DeAntoni’s caliber, the man or men had to be more than good. They had to be professionals.

I looked at Tomlinson. I felt sick, disgusted and horrified by the possibility that my inaction had contributed to the murder of two men. One of them was a man I’d come to consider a friend in a very short time. I said, “Frank called me on Wednesday and asked me to help him work a surveillance on Sally’s house. I refused. Did the news say anything else about the second man? Was he a Hialeah cop?”

I was clinging to the irrational idea that, if the second dead man was in law enforcement, a trained professional, I was somehow exonerated, and my conscience could be clear.

“Doc, one thing you can’t do is blame yourself for this in any way-”

“Damn it, just answer the question! Did they say anything else about the other guy?”

“No. That’s all. That’s all I heard.”

I stood and began to pace. “We’ve got to do something. I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to go over there. We can take my truck.”

“And do what? Sit outside Sally’s empty house with a bunch of television journalist types? I don’t see the point.”

“I’ve got information that’s pertinent to the case. I need to find out who’s working the case and talk to them. Frank’s dead? Jesus Christ-I can’t believe it. If Sally’s missing, you know what that means, don’t you?”

Tomlinson said, “I can’t bear to let myself think about it. If you’ve got information, you need to call them on the phone. Call them now, Doc.”

I did.

I find it as surprising as I do heartening that law enforcement continues to attract top-quality people despite the daily, predictable critical hammering that law-enforcement professionals take from the media, the public and from special-interest groups of all types.

It took me awhile to find the right agency. The two main ones are the Miami-Dade Police Department and the City of Miami Police. The City of Miami Police was handling all matters relating to the disappearance of Mrs. Sally Minster, and the murder of Frank DeAntoni, licensed private investigator, and seventy-six-year-old Jimmy Marinaro, former carpet salesman and current manager of Pink Palms Apartments, Miami Springs.

I groaned inwardly when I heard that.

The dispatcher put me right through to the Homicide Division when I asked. When I told the on-duty detective why I was calling, she said, “Squad C’s handling that one. You need to talk to Detective Fran Podraza. He’s heading the investigation. I’ll give you his cell-phone number.”

Petty bureaucrats devise unnecessary barriers to delay and frustrate outsiders. They prefer inaction because action requires thought. This woman, though, didn’t hesitate to make a subjective decision. I sounded credible. That was enough for her. It suggested to me that the Miami Police was a top-notch organization.

I got a voice mailbox when I dialed Detective Podraza’s number. I left my name, my number, the marina’s number, and added that I was a close friend of the missing woman and had information that might be helpful in the investigation.

Then I began to pace again. I couldn’t sit still; couldn’t seem to concentrate on any single subject for more than a minute or two. I tried to force myself to review what should have been a simple series of connecting data, but my brain continually misfired.

DeAntoni’s voice kept interrupting basic thought patterns, echoing in my skull: I’m calling ’cause I need someone I trust. I need a favor.

There was Sally’s voice, too. Telling me why she’d instinctively come to me when she needed help. Being with you, being in this house, it gives me the same feeling Sanibel gives me. I feel safe.

I felt as if I wanted to run around in circles and bang my head against the wall.

Tomlinson was sitting out on the porch. Sat in one of the deck chairs, but with his palms turned upward as if meditating. I grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, went outside and took the chair next to him.

I said, “Do you ever feel like you’re going nuts? Like your head’s going to explode because you just can’t take it anymore?”

My voice seemed to startle him, as if he were in a trance. Then he turned to me with his wise, bloodshot blue eyes, and said, “I passed insane years ago. I’m now on the outer limits of emotional dysfunction. They’ve yet to define whatever it is I have. Simple psychosis would mean I’m on the path to recovery. I sometimes long to hear the voices of animals speaking to me once again.”