Little Palm Island, Florida
Sunday, November 16, 10:01 P.M.
Matt, approaching the entrance to the restaurant’s bar, could see Amanda through the big window that overlooked the patio deck. She was standing with Chad at the bar, and it took a moment before she saw him coming up the tiki-torch-lit path. She said something to Chad, who nodded, and then she walked outside to meet Matt.
Matt went up the short flight of steps to the deck, watching appreciatively as the ocean breeze blew her dress and hair. But then he noticed that there was something in her expression that he couldn’t quite place.
I know she’s upset. But there’s more to it than just that. . . .
He reached the top of the steps.
“Hey, you okay?” he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.
“Chad is ordering our meals now,” she said. “I don’t think I can eat, though. I’m sorry, Matt. I’ve just been sick to my stomach over this.” She paused, glanced out at the ocean for a long moment, then went on: “I know what it’s like to be taken, to be powerless, and cannot get over that that might be happening right now to Maggie.”
She was anxiously flipping the phone in her hand.
He looked at that and said, “I’ve been juggling calls, too.”
“I imagine one was to Jason? Maggie is why he called earlier?”
I knew she’d pick up on that!
I’m not going to lie about it—I don’t want to lie to her about anything.
“Yeah. Something strange is going on with Maggie’s disappearance. He won’t tell me what it is—won’t tell me anything. But he did say he wants to know if we hear from her, which suggests to me that they believe she’s alive.”
“That’s something, I guess,” she said, with no enthusiasm.
“You have any luck with anything?”
“I talked with Mrs. McCain. This afternoon Maggie sent a text to her cousin Emma.”
“They heard from her? That’s good news.”
“I don’t think it helped. Especially since Mrs. McCain is more than a little upset that no one can reach Maggie. She used one of those websites that lets you send anonymous texts and e-mails.” Amanda shook her head. “She may have meant well, but it really backfired with her family.”
“What did she say?”
Amanda thought for a moment, then quoted: “‘Tell everyone I’m fine, I love them, and not to worry. Explain later. Will be in touch soonest. Hugs.’”
“That’s all?”
“That was it.”
Matt grunted. “Pretty damn vague. And doesn’t begin to address what happened at her house.”
Amanda nodded.
“Because the text was sent anonymously,” she then said, “how would they know it’s legit? Couldn’t someone be forcing her to send it?”
“Yeah, there’s always that possibility. But hard to say. What doesn’t make sense is why, if she’s okay, she’s going out of her way not to be reachable. If there was a way to get to her, we could ask for proof of life.”
“What would be proof?”
“A photograph of her holding, say, the front page of today’s newspaper or even holding a laptop with Mickey’s website on the screen with some current news story. Hell, with her story on it. Anything that shows her alive doing something that’s recognizable as right now.”
She thought for a moment, then in a hopeful tone said, “She did begin the text with ‘Spider.’”
“‘Spider’?”
“Mrs. McCain said it’s the nickname Maggie sometimes calls her cousin. It alludes to Emma’s modern dances, to how she moves. And to the spider rolls that are her favorite. They shared one Saturday night at that Rittenhouse sushi place, the one near your apartment.”
Matt shook his head. “Not exactly proof of life. But that could help confirm the message is legit. Not many people know she’s missing. And bad guys, even if they had the cousin’s phone number, would have no reason to contact her, let alone know to call her by a nickname. They’d go right for the big money—her parents.”
“So then that’s probably why it’s being considered legit,” Amanda said. “But it’s clear she’s not ‘fine.’ Not being reached and only sending messages is anything but fine.”
“And that’s been the only communication, just the one text?”
Amanda nodded. “As far as I know. Mrs. McCain did ask me to see what you thought about the police asking if she had any knowledge of Maggie letting girls from Mary’s House stay at her place. That’s suggestive, no?”
Matt nodded thoughtfully.
So, that’s who the ME bagged.
The questions, though, are still: Was she the intended target? Or was it Maggie? Or both? Or someone else?
“What are you thinking, Matt? One of them was there and started it?”
“What I’m thinking is about what Mickey O’Hara said. He was one of the calls I was juggling.”
“What does he know?”
“Not much. He was calling to see what I knew, and I told him what Jason said. But what he did say was that one of the crime-scene guys quietly told him two things. One, that the place was firebombed—”
“Firebombed!”
“Molotov cocktails. Coke bottles filled with gasoline.”
“Oh my God! Then it wasn’t just a home invasion?”
“Doesn’t look that way. At least I don’t think so. And two, that the medical examiner’s van was put in the garage, the door closed, then whoever died in the house was snuck out.”
“A girl from Mary’s House . . .”
“Or girls? But why was it done quietly? And why is Jason not talking?”
They were silent for a long moment. Then Matt exhaled audibly and blurted, “I’ve really had enough of this.”
“What? Enough of what?”
“I’m sorry, baby, but I’m beyond frustrated. And mad. I brought us down here to have a good time. And we were doing that.” He paused and ran his hands through his hair. “But now this has happened, and there’s not a damn thing I can do, even if I knew it wouldn’t make you more upset.”
Amanda stepped toward him and ran her fingertips down his cheek.
She met his eyes.
“I understand,” she said. “I’m torn, too. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Torn? So that’s what I saw in her face but couldn’t figure out.
“Torn about what?”
“We’ve been dodging the issue since we found out that I’m pregnant,” she began softly. “I meant what I said that night at my place. That we’re at a critical time in our lives. That we’ve both been given second chances. That I want us to get this next one right.”
And, he thought, his mind filling with the image of them in the Hops Haus penthouse condominium on the leather couch, I can see you saying it in that stunning sequined dress that shimmered like the ocean is doing right now. You were really in your cups.
“Remember?” she said.
Matt nodded solemnly.
He would never forget her explaining, with uninhibited honesty, that she wanted them to have what Anne Bancroft had said was the key to her happy marriage of a half century to Mel Brooks. Amanda had quoted Bancroft saying that her heart still raced at the thought of her mate, just as it had at the start, because there was both love and excitement in their relationship: “When his tires crunch coming up the gravel driveway, I think, ‘Now the fun begins.’”
Amanda now went on: “Thanks to my dad having been a cop, I deeply understand what it is you do. And why you do it. It’s in your blood, and you do it well, which is a tremendous honor to the memory of your father and uncle. My dad knew them, and you know he speaks highly of them. As does everyone else I highly respect.”
Matt felt his throat constrict.
Amanda inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly.
“But I have to be clear,” she said softly. “You willingly put your life in danger. And you put it on the line for strangers. Damn it, Matt, if you die, the fact remains that it will destroy me. It will destroy our family—but it will really destroy me. And, yes, I know I’m being selfish with all this.”
He cleared his throat and said, “It’s understandable—”
“Let me finish, please,” she interrupted softly. “I could be dead now from the kidnapping. And you have scars from being shot while on duty. . . . It’s a miracle you aren’t dead.”
The door to the bar opened, and she went suddenly silent.
Out walked an attractive couple who looked to be in their fifties. They sipped at cocktails as they held hands. The husband, smiling broadly, quietly said something to his wife that caused her to laugh, then to move in closer and kiss his cheek.
Amanda forced a thin smile as she and Matt stepped aside and the couple passed and went down the steps. They watched them, still hand in hand, start walking the tiki-lined path toward the beach.
Matt then met Amanda’s eyes.
You may know what she’s thinking—“That could be us in twenty years, if you don’t get killed”—but keep your mouth shut, Matty.
That way you won’t have to spend the rest of the night trying to extricate your foot from it.
“’Tis better to remain mute and thought the fool than to speak and confirm it. Again.”
She gathered her thoughts, then went on: “I said I’m torn because I without question believe in what I said about us being given second chances. We can’t lose that. I want a million days like we had today on the boat.”
“Yeah!” he said. “And so do—”
She held up her hand.
Try it again, Matty: Mouth shut!
“I’m not finished. Matt, I never thought I’d say this, but I want you to go back to work. Not for strangers—for Maggie. Find her. But for God’s sake”—she paused and placed his left palm on her dress over her belly—“and especially for ours, promise me that you will be careful.”
Her belly rose and fell with her breaths. He felt its warmth through the soft linen fabric. He looked in her eyes as she squeezed his hand.
Tears were welling as she whispered, “Now the fun begins.”
He leaned in, put his arms around her, and kissed her on the lips softly and slowly.
They had not finished when her phone began ringing. It wasn’t until the fourth ring that she pulled back and glanced at its screen.
Then she handed the phone to him.
“Answer it,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek.
“Who . . . ?”
Matt took it and saw that the caller ID read: MRS. MCCAIN.
She knew this was coming. . . .
Matt cleared his throat, then spoke into Amanda’s phone: “Mrs. McCain? Hello, this is—”
A male’s stern, gravelly voice cut him off.
“Hello? Who is this?” he demanded. “Matt? Matt Payne?”
Matt looked at Amanda. She was watching intently.
“Yes, sir. Matt Payne speaking.”
“Will McCain here,” he went on, his tone impatient. “Listen, it’s been one long, hellish day. I’ll cut right to the chase. I want you to find my girl and get to the bottom of whatever the hell is going on. I’m not getting the answers in the manner I’m accustomed. I was about to hire the best private detectives my people could find. Then I overheard my wife speaking with Amanda tonight, and she mentioned your name. When can you get here?”
Matt was quiet for a moment.
How can I possibly do this outside of the department? Without its resources, I’m at a huge disadvantage.
“Matt? You there? Hello? Hello? Damn these phones!”
“Yes, sir, Mr. McCain. I’m here. I would do whatever I possibly could to help. But please understand that right now there are limits as to what I’m able to do. For one, I’m in Florida—”
“Not a problem.”
“Yes, sir, I agree that’s minor. But there’s more. I’m assigned to the Homicide Unit, and I’ve been taken off the job—”
“I understand that you’re on leave. I just talked to Jerry about that. If he doesn’t have you put on this . . . this situation . . . I told him that I’ll hire you privately.”
No surprise he has a direct line to the mayor.
That’s the way it works at that level. Call in a favor or a contribution—or, if necessary, a threat.
“Sir, as I’m sure Mayor Carlucci could tell you, there are very capable men, detectives with far more experience than I have, who can do a better job—”
“Matt, I’m not one for false modesty,” McCain replied sharply. “Particularly right now, when I need results. Everyone knows you’re not one who’s afraid to get his hands dirty and get the job done. There’s a reason that O’Hara character called you the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line years ago and it stuck.”
“Sir, that’s—”
He felt a nudge and looked at Amanda.
As she mouthed, Say yes, Matt felt his phone vibrating. He pulled it from his pocket, checked its screen, then held it up for Amanda to see. She nodded as she read: DENNY.
“What are you saying, Matt?” Will McCain’s voice came over Amanda’s phone.
“I was saying, yessir, Mr. McCain. I’ll speak with Commissioner Coughlin right now.”
—
Five minutes later, winding up the conversation, Denny Coughlin said, “Be aware, Matty, that Carlucci wasn’t exactly happy with Will McCain’s demand that you be put on the case. He even turned me down this morning when I asked if you could help work it. It’s not that Carlucci doesn’t have faith in you—he is at his core one helluva cop and knows another when he sees one—but he’s also a savvy politician. I think he is worried that the perception of the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line is becoming a bit of a political liability.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, Uncle Denny.”
“Just keep your nose clean. Jason Washington is including you in the conference call tomorrow morning. Seven sharp.”
“Got it. So that I don’t come in completely ignorant, can someone send me what we have so far?”
“Jason is working on that. But for now get some rest. It’s late. What did I tell you a long time ago about fatigue?”
Matt nodded. “That fatigue shuts down the brain when you overwork. ‘Get rest and then you get results.’”
“We all want to get the McCain girl back. But let’s be smart. And safe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good night, Matty.”
The connection went dead.
Matt looked at Amanda as he dialed Tony Harris’s cell phone.
“Well, that’s that,” he said to her, then into the phone said, “Hey, Tony. You awake?”
Matt listened for a moment, then said, “I’ll be quick. I’m now in on the McCain case. Anything I should know before tomorrow morning’s conference call?”
So much for me keeping my nose clean.
He listened for another long moment, and when he heard Harris say that they were coming up with nothing more on Maggie McCain than they had come up with on the other two missing women, Matt thought, Two others? I can’t let Amanda know that. No wonder Jason wouldn’t tell me. He couldn’t.
Matt looked at Amanda as he said, “Thanks. Okay, Tony, now go on back to sleep. Don’t you know what Denny says about fatigue and getting proper rest?”
Matt Payne heard Tony Harris then suggest “with all possible due respect” that Payne should perform on himself a sexual act that was a physical impossibility.
“Yeah, well, same to you, buddy,” Matt replied, but he was smiling. “Sweet dreams.”
He broke off the call. Amanda raised her eyebrows in question.
“Nothing new since Maggie’s e-mail,” Matt said.
Which is not exactly a lie.
But it’s not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. . . .
“Nothing more to do now that’s not being done,” he said. “I’m on it first thing tomorrow.”
“Well, that does make me feel a little better.”
He held out his arm for her to take.
“Let’s go grab dinner. You’re eating for two, you know.”
Players Corner Lounge
Front and Master Streets, Philadelphia
Sunday, November 16, 10:01 P.M.
“I can pull over there under the El and wait, Mr. Gurnov,” the driver of the dark blue Audi R8 sedan said, stopping in front of the Fishtown dive bar. A dusting of snow had accumulated on the bar’s dirty redbrick front. Its blacked-out windows, with silver reflective silhouettes of well-endowed naked women holding martinis and poker cards on them, practically rattled with the music system blaring the Jersey rock band Bon Jovi.
“This won’t take long,” Dmitri Gurnov said, meeting the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
Gurnov, tall and wiry, carried himself with a steel-like intensity. The thirty-year-old had pale skin, sunken eyes, and a three-day scruff of beard. He wore a black leather jacket, a black collarless shirt, blue jeans, and polished black leather boots. He could feel the weight of the compact Sig-Sauer 9mm he carried in the right pocket of his coat.
Gurnov glanced up and down the snow-covered street, then opened the right rear door. He stepped onto the sidewalk that was little more than crumbling concrete. He looked across the street, where an overflowing industrial dumpster sat in front of another old bar. The space was being gutted. A new sign on one of the boarded-over windows announced that a wine café was coming soon.
We can’t keep this shithole bar here much longer with that going on.
Especially with the girls working.
The Fishtown section of Philly, bordering the Delaware River, was beginning to feel the benefits of the gentrification of neighboring Northern Liberties. In addition to NoLibs’ many small independent businesses similar to the wine café, nearby were the two busy casinos overlooking the river and, a dice throw away across the expressway from them, the upscale Schmidt’s Brewery apartments, movie cinemas, and the Hops Haus complex of high-rise condominiums and trendy retail stores and restaurants.
The deterioration of Fishtown had started decades earlier. With the loss of jobs went the loss of community, first the tight-knit families of Italians moving out and then many of the tough working-class Irish who had taken their place following. Some hung on, but the first wave of bohemian outsiders were moving in, buying at affordable prices and pushing the ’hood to rise up, mirroring the success of NoLibs.
With a wealth of new development being planned out on various architects’ blueprints—including, Gurnov knew, ground finally broken on a Diamond Development entertainment complex just blocks away at Jefferson and Mascher—the clock was ticking on the old pockets of Fishtown that remained seedy.
A dive bar like the Players Corner Lounge was but one example of what the changing demographics would eventually push north into the harder hit areas of Kensington and Frankford, sections that long had been—and likely would continue to be—in a really bad way.
—
The moment the car door shut with a thunk, the Audi pulled a quick U-turn.
The dive bar’s dented metal door was set back in what would have been the corner of the old three-story building. As Gurnov started toward it, a SEPTA train on the Frankford-Market El loudly rumbled and screeched overhead. He briefly looked up at the brightly lit railcars, then down at the Audi parking beneath the El and killing its headlights. He grabbed the metal bar that served as the door handle and pulled. The loud thrumming music poured out as if it had been trapped in the small confines of the dusky, dank room.
It took a moment for Gurnov’s eyes to adjust. The lounge was mostly dark except for dimmed lighting behind the wooden bar that was along the left wall and a pair of bright red and blue floodlights harshly illuminating the stripper pole on the small stage to the right. An olive-skinned brunette, with obvious stretch marks on her pudgy belly, was hanging upside down near the ceiling from the chromed pole, pumping her arm to the beat of rock star Jon Bon Jovi belting out It’s! My! Life!
Of the twenty tables filling the floor, only five or six had anyone sitting at them, the patrons all males except for one young female clinging to her hipster date at a back table. Near the stage, Gurnov saw a table of four who looked like they were college kids, probably fraternity brothers. Another stripper, a platinum blonde Latina down to only a T-back thong, was working their table, vigorously rubbing her ample hip against one of the drunken guys as she tried to sell lap dances . . . and more.
None of the customers paid the tall, wiry man any attention as he moved across the room in the direction of a half dozen electronic poker machines.
He came to a dusty gray curtain on the wall at the end of the bar.
“Yo, bro, you call about a girl?” a rough-looking woman Gurnov hadn’t noticed behind the bar called out loudly. “You can’t go back there!”
She was in her thirties, short and dark-haired, wearing tight white shorts and a black low-cut T-top. Tattoos covered both arms and her entire chest. She was pouring vodka into a shot glass that was on the bar. Beside it a cell phone was lit up with an incoming call.
“The hell I can’t,” Gurnov snapped, pulling back the curtain.
She stared at him, tossed back the shot, and, pouring another, said, “Yeah? Fuck it, then. You deal with whatever happens.”
Gurnov uncovered a swinging door with NO ADMITTANCE stenciled on it in large letters. He swung it open inward and entered a short hallway. It was lined with cases of cheap alcohol and mixers stacked along one side and led to another door at the other end.
He found that the second door, stenciled with ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE!, was shut. But when he tried the knob, it was unlocked.
Moron! Gurnov thought. I’ve told him over and over the office stays locked!
He shoved that door open—and was greeted by the sight of very large, very brown, and very hairy male buttocks.
He quickly looked around the small dirty office. With minor differences—the very large brown hairy buttocks notwithstanding—he noticed nothing had really changed since a week, if not a month, ago.
It held an old steel safe and a battered wooden desk, the latter’s top strewn with various papers and forms, a couple of matchbox-sized clear plastic packets containing white powder, a black laptop computer, a small box holding used cell phones, and a small digital camera. There were two chairs, one with the seat covered in old newspapers. A dim light came from a lone bare lightbulb hanging overhead from a short length of electrical cord.
The large brown hairy buttocks were thrusting rhythmically with the mechanical moans of a skinny bleached-blonde teenaged girl. She had a young, pretty face, somewhat childlike, and was bent over the wooden desk, her black and white checked skirt hiked up, and a pair of high heels beside her bare feet. Her white shirt was unbuttoned, her tiny breasts pressing on the desktop. She licked at a white powder residue on her index finger.
“What the fuck, Ricky?” Gurnov announced from the open door.
Ricardo Ramírez—a chunky five-foot-eight twenty-seven-year-old Puerto Rican with a pockmarked face—quickly glanced over his shoulder as he continued the thrusts. His dark, hard eyes were glazed.
When he recognized who it was standing in the doorway, he stopped. He slapped the girl’s left buttock.
“Want some of this, man? It’s new.”
Are you kidding me? Gurnov thought.
The teenaged girl jerked her head around. Her hollow eyes were also glazed.
“You done yet, Ricky?” she said, her voice sleepy.
Ramírez shrugged as he looked at the girl, and went back to thrusting.
Gurnov shook his head, more than a little disgusted and annoyed.
He felt the weight of his Sig in his jacket pocket.
I should pistol-whip the bastard—one good whack.
But then I’d have to get the blood off.
He crossed the dirty office to the chair that was stacked with tabloid newspapers. He saw they were old copies of Philly Weekly. He rolled up one, then marched over and smacked Ramírez across the back of his head.
“Knock it off! I have dogs better behaved than you.”
Then Gurnov looked at the girl, who was looking over her shoulder to see what the loud noise had been.
“You,” he ordered, “get the hell out of here!”
The girl then looked at Ramírez, who was backing away, shuffling his feet while reaching down to pull his jeans up from his ankles.
“Do what he says, Summer,” Ramírez said, zipping his pants. “Go on up front. Talk to Ashley. See if any work’s come in for you. Tell her the room in the basement’s open.”
Dazed, Summer stood, dropped her black and white checkered schoolgirl skirt back in place, and tied the front of her shirt in a knot. She grabbed one of the plastic packets of cocaine while working her feet into the high heels, then wobbled on them toward the door.
“And back off the blow, bitch,” Ramírez said, taking the packet from her hand as she went through the door. “You need to start making money tonight to pay your bill!”
Ramírez closed the door.
“Lock that damn thing,” Gurnov snapped. “I tell you that over and over.” Then he added, “Another ‘Summer’? How old is that one?”
“Eighteen,” Ramírez immediately said, grinning at his automatic lie. “She’s good. She’ll earn her keep. She’s already in the hole almost a grand, countin’ her bed and rubbers and shit. Everything. And, yeah, Summer, April, whatever—you know dudes love bitches named that.”
He reached for a black laptop computer on the desk. Its scratched plastic case was covered in liquor advertisement stickers. He opened it and pointed to the screen as it flickered to life.
“Here. Check out her ad I put online today,” Ramírez said, trying to focus on the screen. “She’s a ‘private massage therapist’ with ‘best hands in the business.’ I got really creative.”
Photographs showed the body of the young girl. She wore the same schoolgirl outfit and high heels. The white top was tied up tight, revealing her midriff and accentuating her breasts. The black and white checkered skirt also was tight on her curves, and short enough to reveal the bottom edge of her buttocks. There were close-up shots of her youthful hands and thighs and chest. Everything but a photograph of her face.
“I wrote here ‘I like what I do and so will you. In call, out call.’ And that she loves to travel and to please. That’s true, too.” He grinned. “Anyway, she said she’s from Bucks County, and out on her own. Tried to get in that flophouse up in Frankford. Lighthouse Life? They were full up and I got the call from Tony. Cost me a hundred bucks for that. Now, a little of Cuzzin Héctor’s hydro, at worst some coke, and she’s good to go.”
Gurnov bristled at hearing Héctor’s name and the hydroponic weed. He already regretted fronting Ricky any money. And he really was pissed when Ricky loaned Héctor—who really wasn’t Ricky’s cousin; he was a Ramírez from Cuba—the twenty-five grand to set up the house in Kensington. Growing pot indoors, using artificial lighting, guaranteed a steady nearby supply of the highly potent marijuana to move. Gurnov recognized that it also was one more thing that could blow up in his face. Héctor was already on the run after someone ratted out the grow house he’d worked near Miami.
“The girl looks sixteen,” Gurnov said.
Ricky shrugged. “I got ID saying she’s eighteen.”
The bastard never learns, Gurnov thought.
This is what caused the problem in the first place.
They’re too damn young—and too stupid to not talk.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “What’re you on? You look like shit, Ricky.”
“A little blow. And some E to stay awake. Last night was rough.”
Gurnov thought Ramírez looked like he’d need at least Ecstasy to have been up the whole time.
“Look, I’m serious. You need to be careful. Tell me what happened last night.”
Ramírez’s expression changed.
“I’m . . . I’m really sorry, man. I thought I had that fuckin’ thing under control. Really!”
What?
“What do you mean by that?” Gurnov said, his tone ice cold. “You take care of it or not?”
Ramírez avoided making eye contact.
“I shot that puta Krystal, man,” he said, nervously kicking his shoe tip against a desk leg. “In the back of the head, behind the ear, just like you said to.”
“What about the other . . . ?”
Looking at his shoe, Ramírez slowly shook his head.
He then said: “Damon thought Krystal was it, man. So he threw the Molotovs. We had to get out.”
“Damn it, Ricky!” Gurnov blurted. “Tell me you got the books back. I don’t care about the other shit.”
Ricky silently shook his head.
Gurnov inhaled deeply, then exhaled, trying to keep his composure.
“You know there’s gonna be hell to pay for this,” he said. “Mr. Antonov does not like surprises. Especially one like this.”
And that’s why I never told him about any of it.
I knew better than to let Ricky drag me into his running drugs and girls.
The damn money was just too easy to pass up. . . .
Ramírez looked up. There was terror in his eyes.
“I know! I know! I’m sorry, man. I’ll find her. Promise. I’ll get the books and the money back.”
“You’ll find her?” Gurnov exploded. “Where’re you looking? Up some little whore’s ass? What the hell are you thinking?”
Ramírez’s hazy eyes were tearing. He rubbed them.
Gurnov shook his head.
Fuck! This cannot get back to Nick.
It’s probably time to shut this place down. . . .
“No, Ricky. I’ll take care of it. You . . . you get the girls out of town as planned.”
Washington Dulles International Airport, Virginia
Sunday, November 16, 10:17 P.M.
“Just one more second and we should be done,” the gray-haired, plump female American Airlines desk agent said helpfully, smiling as she tapped keys on the computer terminal. “You really should consider joining our frequent-flyer program. It keeps all your information handy to speed up this process. Plus you get miles toward trips, so as you zip right through the process, eventually you’ll travel for free!”
The woman looked up and smiled broadly at the nicely dressed young woman with the pleasant face, intense green eyes, and, under a GEORGETOWN HOYAS ball cap, chestnut brown hair that fell softly to her shoulders. There was a backpack hanging by one strap over her right shoulder.
Will you please just hurry up and get me on the plane!
“Perhaps later,” the young woman said.
The agent nodded, then turned her attention back to the computer terminal.
I wonder what she’d say if she knew I’m a platinum-level member and have enough miles banked in my account for probably ten first-class tickets.
“You also should seriously look at getting yourself a passport,” the desk agent added helpfully. “It’s not required for Saint Thomas—your valid driver’s license is all the ID you need—but it does speed the process, too.”
Got one.
But sirens would probably go off if you scanned it.
“You’re just going to love the Virgin Isles,” the agent went on. “Hurricane season is as good as over, and you’re there right before the high season starts, mid-December, when it gets really expensive.”
I know. I was just there for two weeks.
“Do you like living in Philadelphia? So much history.”
And crime. Can’t forget that.
Just like our nation’s capital.
The young woman looked as if she were trying to be patient. But the talkative agent, who seemed to be attempting to single-handedly deliver friendly customer service for the entire airline, unfortunately was coming across as increasingly annoying.
Okay, I’ll play along.
“I prefer living here on the Hill much better,” the young woman said. “I don’t know what I’ll do when my internship ends, but Georgetown Law sounds like it might work.”
“Politics. Now, that must be exciting. You know this airport was named for John Foster Dulles, who was secretary of the State Department.”
Now she’s giving a history lesson? Ugh.
Can I just get my ticket, please?
I guess she means well.
Well, except for when I told her I needed the card to sign declaring that I’m checking a firearm.
She about wet her pants. “You have a pistol? And you travel with it?”
Then it really made her mad when I corrected her by quoting the regulations, telling her it was okay to have both the unloaded gun and its ammo in the same bag, as long as they were in a locked case.
“I looked it up on the Internet.”
She practically hissed, “Well, we’ll let our friends at TSA clear that.”
She wasn’t quite so chatty after hanging up with them, having learned that I was right.
The American Airlines desk agent held out a paper ticket.
“Okay, you’re all set,” she said, her tone now professional. “Your first leg, I have you ticketed to Miami on flight six-eight-eight with a connecting flight, five-oh-four, the first flight out to Saint Thomas. I have your bag checked all the way through to your final, SST.” She pulled back to show the back of the ticket. “I’ve stuck your bag tag here, on the back of your ticket. And your inbound”—she paused and glanced at the young woman—“that’s your return flight, I have you booked for next Thursday.”
“Thank you very much,” the young woman said, smiling warmly as she took the ticket. “You’ve been most helpful. I do appreciate it.”
The desk agent smiled back.
“And here’s your ID and debit card,” the agent then said, her tone again cheerful. “Have a nice vacation.”
Well, that seems to have mended the bridge.
“Thank you again very much,” the young woman said.
“Oh, and by the way: Happy birthday, Miss Stewart!”
The young woman looked up. “Excuse me?”
“That’s okay. I see you’re being shy. But celebrate life! Congrats on turning twenty-one last week. It should be a happy, exciting time!”
Yes, it should, she thought, carefully placing the ID and prepaid Visa debit card in her leather clutch near the zippered pocket that held the IDs and debit cards of two other young women.
I’d share that with Alexis Stewart, if she hadn’t stumbled back to Mary’s House and overdosed last month, having never gotten over those years of being raped in foster care.
And with Krystal and all the others . . .
“Well, thank you,” the young woman said, forcing a smile. “It is. This trip actually is a birthday gift. I’m just a bit harried right now.”
“Don’t you worry. You’ll figure out this travel stuff soon enough. You’re young. Have a nice flight.”
Southwest Chop House
Two Yellowrose Place, Dallas
Sunday, November 16, 9:30 P.M. Texas Standard Time
“We can structure the funds, base them anywhere from Delaware to the Cayman Islands,” Miguel “Mike” Santos, chief executive officer of OneWorld Private Equity Partners, said, looking between Rapp Badde and Bobby Garcia. “Our preference, of course, having the majority of our investment products there, is the Caymans.”
They were in the posh high-ceilinged lounge of the five-star restaurant. It was about half full, but there was high energy coming from the lively crowd.
Ten white-linen-covered tables with deep, high-backed, U-shaped leather seating, each capable of holding six or eight comfortably, lined the walls on either side of a black marble-topped bar in the center of the room. A grand piano was in one corner. At the table nearest the piano, Santos sat opposite Rapp Badde, Santos with a view of the entryway between the bar and restaurant and Badde with a view of the nice-looking crowd—mostly women, including the three who had floated past the SUV—ringing the bar. Bobby Garcia sat between them, with a view of both.
Their waitress, young and attractive, had just delivered their second round of drinks.
Earlier, Badde had been first to order, requesting a Jameson Irish whisky and club soda, and then Garcia and Santos had said yes when the waitress asked if they were having their usual. Badde didn’t know what that was, but both of their cocktails were clear liquid with bubbles and a lime wedge. He guessed vodka, or maybe gin, with either tonic or soda water.
“Politically,” Badde now said, a bit arrogantly, “it would be a good idea to use Delaware. What with Wilmington being right down the road from Philly.”
Santos and Garcia exchanged a glance.
“Well,” Santos then said, turning to look at Badde, “you’re right. There is good reason why so many—sixty percent, in fact—of Fortune 500 companies incorporate in Delaware. Their laws are better geared to corporations than most other states. But as friendly as Delaware can be, Cayman keeps everything quiet.”
Garcia, who was stirring his drink, looked up and added, “That’s why it’s called the Switzerland of the Caribbean. Its confidential Relationships Preservation Law, Section Five, has criminal penalties—imprisonment and cash fines—for anyone who even attempts to offer to divulge confidential information. They don’t so much as report who the officers of a company are, never mind where the money comes from or where it’s going.”
Santos nodded. “You can’t accomplish that anywhere in the States. So we’re not being political. We’re talking business.”
Badde met his eyes, then nodded.
Got it.
And maybe some money can find its way into a confidential account in my name.
“The Caymans have more than five hundred banks,” Santos went on. “While financial markets everywhere have been melting down in the last few years, not a single one in Cayman went out of business. In fact, they were providing trillions of dollars in cash infusions to cash-strapped countries.”
Badde nodded thoughtfully as he sipped his Irish whisky and club soda.
“Let me ask you this . . .” Badde then began.
“Of course.”
“. . . where does Yuri base his?”
Santos raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry. But I’m sure you’ll understand that we do not discuss anything about our other clients.”
Then why the hell did you bring him up driving here?
“It would violate our client confidentiality,” Garcia put in. “Which we’re sure you can well appreciate.”
“Not a problem,” Badde said. “I can ask him.”
I can . . . but I won’t.
“What we can tell you,” Santos said, “is that our Focused Investment Niche Strategies are Cayman-based funds. They’re highly diversified, including many EB-5s. And, as your PEGI records will show, all OneWorld investment vehicles for Diamond Development are FINS.”
Why the hell didn’t Jan tell me that before I came down here?
I wonder if she knew.
He took another sip of his whisky, then nodded.
“I knew that, of course. That Diamond had FINS. I just didn’t realize the fine print of FINS being in Cayman.”
Listen to me. I’m already talking like them.
Not bad for the son of a South Philly barbershop owner.
But I’m not really sure exactly where Cayman is. Maybe near Puerto Rico?
Too many little islands down there.
“I know you’ve heard all this,” Santos said, “but please let me just lay it all out.”
“That’s why I came,” Badde said, smiling broadly. “Have at it.”
“As I said, FINS is diverse,” Santos then began. “We create vehicles—these specialized instruments known as funds—that invest in everything from oil and gas to cruise lines, resorts, restaurant chains, and much more.
“Some domestic money is there, but it’s tight. There is, however, significant foreign money out there. For OneWorld, Asian investments right now are biggest, followed by Central and South American monies. Accordingly, that’s where the EB-5 monies originate.”
The what? “EB-5 Central and South American monies”?
So much for talking like them.
“EB-5?” Badde said. “Didn’t you say you have one yourself, Mike?
Santos nodded. “Yes, as you know, the EB-5 is a visa designed for immigrants of serious means. It’s nothing like the well-known specialty occupation H-1B and -2 visas, which the United States Citizenship and Immigration Service also administers.”
Well, now I know.
And you don’t know that I didn’t.
“For starters,” Garcia said, “while there’re only ten thousand EB-5s available each year, the U.S. has never issued the entire lot of them. Compare that to ‘specialty occupation’ visas. Those are gone by mid-year, and they run in the six figures.”
“The H-1B and -2,” Badde said.
“Right,” Garcia said. “H-1Bs are architects, doctors, engineers, university professors, all sorts of computer types—hell, even fashion models. Their stay is only good for three years, with a three-year renewal. So, six tops. And if they quit their sponsoring employer, or get fired, they have to find another or leave the U.S.”
“Not that they always do,” Santos added. “Plenty overstay their visas illegally. But then if found, they can be deported. Same with H-2B visas, the seasonal jobs, like agriculture.”
“But not EB-5. It’s golden,” Garcia said, then smiled. “No pun intended.”
“You said ‘serious means,’” Badde said. “How much we talking?”
“Each EB-5 requires at least a million dollars,” Garcia said.
Badde nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s the other main difference,” Santos said. “You cannot buy an H-1B or -2. But, as long as you meet the requirements, a foreigner can buy as many EB-5s as he can afford.”
“Up to ten thousand,” Badde said, a little loudly.
He grinned, then took a long drink of his whisky.
Santos and Garcia chuckled, then exchanged a brief knowing glance.
Garcia drained his drink, and Santos discreetly motioned for the waitress’s attention. Badde saw her look over, then smile and nod. She started toward them, carrying fresh drinks.
Now, that’s service!
She was keeping an eye on us, and didn’t even have to be told to have the bartender pour us another round.
“For the million dollars,” Garcia said, as the waitress put the drinks before them, “the investor gets fast-tracked to permanent residency—a green card for himself, for his wife, and for his kids under twenty-one. In order to keep that status, the investment must create and maintain at least ten jobs for existing Americans, plus ones for himself and his family. These can be directly and indirectly created. For example, a hotel creates direct jobs—from the front desk to the restaurant staffs to housekeepers—as well as indirect ones—vendors who wash the sheets and towels, landscapers, valets. It’s not hard to do.”
“And it’s extremely lucrative,” Santos said.
“How so?” Badde said.
“These foreign investors mostly want to become permanent residents,” Santos explained. “That’s their focus. So while a typical investor would expect seven, eight, even ten percent return on investment, these immigrants are content with, say, two percent. Additionally, if you’re the one borrowing the money, you’re paying less interest, so your profits are higher.”
“That’s damn cheap capital, Rapp,” Garcia said. “And it’s capital that may have left the country and now has an avenue back to create opportunity here.” He made a sweeping gesture around the lounge with his hand. “You’re sitting in an example.”
“How do you mean?” Badde said.
“Yellowrose is one of four significant companies in the hospitality market owned by China Global Investments. We packaged Yellowrose, then sold it to them and continue to help them expand it.”
“The Chinese have all these new high-rises?” Badde said, his tone not concealing his surprise. “I thought the yellow rose had something to do with Texas.”
“It does,” Garcia said. “The Texas War of Independence. It’s legendary. There was even a hit song in the 1950s about it. Mitch Miller’s ‘Yellow Rose of Texas.’”
“So then what’s the connection with the flower?” Badde said.
Garcia looked toward the bar. “See that long-legged filly in the tight black dress? One of the three we saw earlier?”
Badde stole a look, then turned back to Garcia. “Oh, yeah. Beautiful woman. That creamy light chocolate skin is incredible.”
“In the day, that was called ‘high yellow.’ Legend is that a high yellow mulatto by the name of Emily West—she was an indentured servant who got herself captured when the Mexican army took Galveston in 1836—seduced General Santa Anna. My mother’s side of the family is descended from Santa Anna, which makes this story not one of our prouder moments.”
“What was wrong with being seduced?”
“The problem was Santa Anna became so enamored with the beautiful half-breed that her distraction allowed General Sam Houston’s Texas Army to win the decisive Battle of San Jacinto. And ol’ Sam trounced Santa Anna. It was really an ass-kicking—the whole thing lasted only eighteen minutes. When the dust settled, six hundred Mexicans were dead. That’s—what?—more than thirty killed every minute. Houston lost only nine men. Santa Anna was taken prisoner and, being president of Mexico, signed a peace treaty. And so began the Republic of Texas—thanks to the Yellow Rose of Texas.”
“Damn!” Badde said, impressed. “The power of . . . women, huh?”
Garcia and Santos chuckled.
Santos said: “That the company name, as you note, Rapp, suggests local ownership doesn’t exactly hurt, either.”
Garcia nodded. “Right. And as I was saying, in addition to this development, there are twenty-five Yellowrose luxury hotels and resorts around the world. New York City, London, Paris, Tahiti, the Caribbean, Uruguay, Cabo San Lucas. This Dallas complex was in part financed with EB-5 funding that we at OneWorld put together. Every worker here counts toward the jobs needed to qualify.”
Badde glanced around the room, nodding appreciatively.
“For securing the approval of Immigration Services,” Santos said, “which designated OneWorld an elite regional center because of our history with them, we get a transaction fee of ten percent. Plus of course management fees for the investment vehicles themselves.”
Rapp Badde picked up his drink and sipped as he started to do the math. Feeling the effects of the alcohol, he gave up calculating after coming up with a hundred thousand for each million dollars invested.
If a building gets a hundred million, their cut is a cool mil just in fees.
Who knows what they bring in for management fees . . . ?
“Rapp,” Mike Santos said, “when Bobby here said earlier that we know where to find money, he wasn’t kidding. We have a long list of investors in our various funds. Among them are those already preapproved by the Immigration Service for EB-5 visas.”
“More than two thousand waiting,” Bobby Garcia added. “And another thousand in the process leading up to preapproval. Our goal is to use up all those ten thousand available visas before anyone else.”
“What’s the holdup?” Badde said.
“We need approved projects. Immigration Services has to sign off on the investments to ensure that the jobs are in fact created. You happen to know anyone who might be looking to build something?”
Badde looked between Santos and Garcia, then grinned broadly, flashing his bright white-capped teeth.
I could tear down all of North Philly and build new!
“Like maybe a new hotel?” he said, then held up his cocktail glass.
Garcia and Santos touched theirs to it.
“Rapp, assuming the project meets requirements,” Santos said, “and from what I’ve seen, it does, we’re prepared to put up a hundred mil, for starters. How does that sound?”
Badde looked between them for a moment, then smiled.
“I’d say it sounds like a deal.”
“All right. Let’s talk about something more interesting!” Santos announced, then glanced at the bar ringed with women.
Badde’s eyes followed his, then he smiled and again held up his glass.
After they clinked, Badde drained his drink.
Garcia and Santos did the same with theirs.
These guys can drink! Badde then thought.
Screw it. I’m feeling good. What’ve I got to lose asking?
“Those beautiful women who got off the plane?” he said. “Where did they go?”
A busboy appeared at the table and whisked away the empty glasses. Immediately behind him was their waitress with fresh drinks.
Garcia and Santos exchanged glances.
“Interesting that you asked, Rapp,” Garcia said, and pulled out his cell phone. He started thumbing a text.
“They went to join others at the hotel across the street,” Santos said. “They’re in the hospitality industry, usually working with the casinos and hotels. What’s called Guest Services.”
I knew it! Badde thought smugly.
The casino was why the plane stopped in New Orleans!
“Bobby’s having a few who’ve been in town awhile come join us. Some are from the Ukraine, some from Belarus. They’re all in the States as seasonal workers.”
“They came on those H-something visas?”
“Yeah,” Santos lied.