BEFORE OUR MEETING WITH Special Agent Ernesto Navarro I was sick with nervous anxiety. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but after my horrible experiences with the FBI so far, I felt like I was walking into a lion’s den. The reality was far less dramatic.
The agent seemed far more interested in his grilled-cheese sandwich than in the evidence Remo was presenting. The three of us took a corner table in the cafeteria at Clinica Abreu. The coast was clear: Ron was at Tomaju and Tony was currently undergoing another operation. Dr. Enrique was removing skin from Tony’s thigh and using it to cover the exposed bone, muscles, and tendons of his lower leg.
Most of the time, the sight of three people huddled together speaking English over lunch would not have drawn much attention in the Dominican Republic. However, Navarro was black, so he was attracting quite a few curious stares. I shifted in my seat nervously as he dabbed grease off his chin.
“Sacco is a huge problem for Peterson,” he said. “You know the way things work down here. The Dominicans aren’t just going to allow Jack to barge into the country and take Sacco out on gambling charges alone.”
“But it’s not just gambling,” Remo countered. He had a zealous gleam in his eye as he recited the list of laws Ron had broken. “There’s racketeering … conspiracy … money laundering … not to mention extortion. Wouldn’t that be enough?”
Navarro coolly raised his hand. He was in his mid-fifties, with graying temples, and carried an air of easy authority. “Now, let me finish. Peterson has no concrete proof that Sacco is even here. There’s no record of Sacco entering the country.”
Remo was visibly deflated. “But I sent all of that.”
“I’m aware of the evidence you presented to Agent Peterson. But I’m telling you, it’s not enough.”
Remo retrieved a brown paper bag from the floor. He presented it eagerly to Navarro, who reluctantly put down his sandwich and peered inside. He pulled out the plastic bag containing Ron’s empty Presidente bottle.
“And just what,” Navarro asked, “is this?”
“Sacco’s fingerprints.”
Navarro burst out laughing. “I guess we’d better put you on the payroll,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. He handed the bottle back to Remo, who had turned beet-red.
Navarro recovered himself. “Look, I’m interested in this case because it involves corruption in the Dominican police force. As the FBI’s liaison officer, I have to deal with these folks on a regular basis, and I need to know who I can trust.”
He looked at me. “Remo tells me you know the names of several high-ranking Dominican officers on Sacco’s payroll.” I nodded. “Well then. I’d really appreciate you telling me who they are.”
“I only know the names of the original group,” I said before I began reeling off the list.
He interrupted me three names in. “Colonel Eduardo Rivera Munoz?”
Navarro shook his head with a tight smile. “That sneaky son of a bitch looked me straight in the eye yesterday and swore that Sacco wasn’t in the country.”
“Rivera used to come to the office every Friday night to collect for all of them.” I reached into my wallet and produced General Hernandez’s business card. I slid it across the table to Navarro. “This man was also directly involved.”
Navarro studied Hernandez’s card, flipping it over and reading the inscription on the back. When he looked up again, something passed between us—an instantaneous acknowledgment that he understood exactly what the general had put me through. I felt my cheeks redden.
“S-some of the officers were transferred,” I stammered, “and new officers took their place.”
“Hernandez was fired,” Navarro said flatly. He glanced at the card again. “Can I keep this?”
I paused. Handing the FBI a business card that tied me to a corrupt general didn’t seem like a smart idea. “I’d rather have it back.”
Navarro returned it without question.
“You ever hear of Sanchez-Castillo?” Navarro studied my face, his eyes boring into me. Under the table Remo gave me a gentle kick. I knew very well who Sanchez-Castillo was. According to Remo, he was the fourth-most powerful man in the country, and an old classmate of Demetrio’s. I shook my head.
“Sacco ever make payments to him?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Navarro nodded slowly, looking relieved. “They tell me Sanchez-Castillo is waging a war on corruption down here. Refreshingly enough, he doesn’t seem to have been compromised himself. At least not so far.”
Navarro finished the last of his sandwich and waved the waitress over for coffee. “I understand you no longer work for Sacco,” he said, dumping three packets of sugar into his steaming cup.
“Good.” In a tone of voice that floated between patronizing and paternally concerned, he said, “Listen, you both seem like nice kids. So I’m going to give you the advice of someone who’s been dealing with the Dominicans for thirty-two years. Do not do anything to endanger yourselves. It’s not worth it.”
He went on. “You know, Jack Peterson is a hell of a good guy. He took a lot of heat for that botched bust on Information Unlimited. The Dominican government was pissed off about it, and so was his own department.” Navarro lowered his voice. “I happen to know that he faced a disciplinary hearing over that whole fiasco. Jack’s determination to chase down Sacco is bordering on obsession. If you want my opinion, the Dominicans are never going to hand him over.”
Neither Remo nor I said a word. Navarro leaned in close. “So he’s not worth getting in trouble over, okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed, feeling chastened.
“Great!” Agent Navarro stood up, pulled a few bills out of his wallet, and tossed them on the table. “That was good grilled cheese. And I appreciate the information about the local police.” He winked at us. “You know how to get in touch with me,” he said. And with that, he was gone.
The meeting had been a total failure. We both stared at the empty Presidente bottle on the table. “Do you have any idea how nervous I was to talk to him?” I asked Remo absently.
“What a waste of time!” Remo picked up the bottle, eyeing it as if it had somehow betrayed him.
“Am I right to assume that Navarro has no idea that you have Sanchez-Castillo’s business card in your wallet?”
Remo didn’t answer. Instead he set the bottle back on the table, got to his feet, and muttered, “Let’s see how Tony is doing.”
We abandoned Remo’s prized piece of evidence and headed down the hallway toward the OR. Things were looking good for Ron and Tony, I mused. As long as they stayed in the Dominican Republic, apparently the feds couldn’t touch them.
“Can I see that card?” Remo asked suddenly. “Where did you get it?”
“Forget it, Remo.” I took the card out of my wallet and proceeded to tear it into a hundred pieces. It had served its purpose, and keeping it any longer seemed like a bad idea.
“Peterson will get Ron deported. I know it,” Remo said.
I knew how badly he needed that to happen. If Peterson didn’t get Ron, then Remo would never have his trafficking charges dropped. He would be a fugitive for the rest of his life.
AN HOUR LATER, DR. ENRIQUE emerged from the OR and announced that Tony’s operation had been a complete success. X-rays confirmed that the breaks to his arm and femur were healing well, and he believed that Tony would soon be able to support himself on crutches. His ankle, however, continued to be a major cause for concern. Without the metal brace, Enrique told us, Tony’s leg would collapse into his foot.
The compression bandages came off two weeks after the skin graft. Tony propped himself up on his elbows and—for the first time since the accident—announced that he was ready to see his leg.
His thigh bore perfectly symmetrical scars from the skin graft and another scar from the compound fracture, but otherwise looked normal. From the knee down, however, the limb was lumpy and grotesquely distorted. The skin covering it was a Frankenstein-like tapestry, a patchwork of different tones and colors.
“As you can see, I used both split-skin and full-skin grafts to cover the missing tissues,” Dr. Enrique said proudly.
Tony blanched. For the first time he was confronting the true extent of his injuries.
“Are you okay?” I whispered.
Tony continued to stare at the twisted flesh below his knee. He pointed weakly at the metal brace. “Is that thing keeping my foot attached to my leg?”
“In a way, yes. It will have to stay in place for many more months.”
During the car ride back to the office, Tony was unusually subdued. He was finally realizing that he would never be able to use his foot normally again. The bone graft would fill in the missing bone in his ankle, but it would be fused in a fixed position. He might never be able to walk on it.
As for me, my life had just gotten a lot easier: no more complicated, time-consuming cleanings. Once the bone graft was in place, the risk of infection would be greatly reduced. Tony was over the worst of his catastrophe. One day soon, he wouldn’t need me at all.
He stared out of the window, seemingly a thousand miles away. He’d expected to make a full recovery, and now he was coming to terms with the harsh reality that he would be permanently disabled.
I parked in front of Tomaju. Tony slowly pulled himself out of the car. I felt an overwhelming rush of pity as he hobbled across the street on his new crutches and made his way painfully up the stairs. In just a few unhappy years I had witnessed Tony’s transformation from a vibrant, attractive young adventurer to this broken, disillusioned, and handicapped man.
WHEN I RETURNED HOME, Remo was awake. “You’re working tonight,” I said to him. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“Can’t sleep,” he said.
“Join the club.” I flopped down on the sofa next to him. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a good night’s sleep. “It’s the quiet that’s the worst,” I mused. “On the surface everything seems normal. It’s the waiting, you know? I feel like I’m constantly on high alert for something to happen.”
Remo sighed. “Maybe Navarro was right. Maybe nothing’s going to happen.”
“Maybe. But that’s not all that’s worrying me. Right now Tony’s supporting me. But he’s getting better, and at some point he’s bound to ask me to move back in with him, or give him another chance. When I refuse, he’s going to cut me off and take the car again. What do I do then?”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
I shot Remo a look. He was always the optimist when it came to Tony.
The phone rang. When I answered it, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I recognized the voice immediately as that of Agent Jack Peterson. “It’s for you,” I croaked, handing the phone to Remo. I watched intently as he listened, occasionally nodding or grunting in assent. This was the call he’d been anxiously awaiting. One way or another, it was going to change his life forever.
He replaced the receiver, his mouth open in shock. “The U.S. Attorney is going to approve the request to have Ron deported.”
“Wow. I guess Navarro was wrong!”
“This is huge! Peterson says it’s just a matter of weeks before the request will be formally granted.” “Then what?”
“I get a warning call before he comes down with his men. From that moment on I have to know Ron’s exact whereabouts at all times.”
I couldn’t believe we were going to help the FBI to apprehend Ron Sacco. Remo was right. This was huge. The toughest part of the plan would be keeping Tony away from Ron when the feds arrived. I decided that I had to convince Dr. Enrique to schedule Tony’s bone graft for an earlier date. If we could have Tony safely sequestered in the hospital when the FBI were arresting Ron, then Ron’s lawyers could not deny that the business belonged to Sacco. It helped us to focus on the fact that getting Ron deported would help Tony; it quelled the nagging feelings of guilt we both had that Ron would likely go to jail for many years.
In theory, the plan was well laid. However, the sound of tires screeching in the parking lot the following afternoon was the first indication that things were about to go very wrong. When I got to the window Ron was in the parking lot, calling for me to throw down my car keys. Behind him, Tony was struggling to get out of the Toyota with his crutches.
I ran to Remo’s room and shook him awake. “Get up! Something’s happening!”
I grabbed the keys and dashed downstairs. “What’s going on?”
“Get Justine!” Tony barked, pressing the keys to the Toyota into my hand. “Pack enough stuff for a few days!”
“But I don’t understand!”
Ron was busy pulling stacks of documents out of the truck and carelessly shoving them into the trunk of the Daihatsu. “The police,” he snarled, “were at Horacio’s store, asking questions.” I felt my stomach drop.
“Thank Christ they went to the old place,” Tony said, “and not the one under Tomaju.”
“Still, they went there looking for us.” Ron slammed the trunk closed. “Luckily, someone had the sense to call and warn us.”
My heart was pounding so loud I could barely hear myself ask, “Was the FBI there?”
“Nah,” Ron said. “Locals, as far as we know.”
“Come on! Get Justine and let’s go. We’re going to hide out for a few days, until we figure out what’s going on.”
Hide out? My face was splashed in every local magazine and my commercial still ran on all the local channels. Where would I hide? I couldn’t. And I couldn’t let Tony run off with Ron. Where would they hide out? They weren’t exactly inconspicuous either.
Tony’s cell rang. He listened intently, then hung up. “Rivera,” he said. “He knows nothing about it. I believe him, too. He sent his kid to work today.”
This news panicked Ron further. “We need to get out of here, now!”
“Go upstairs,” Tony told me.
“Get Justine.” “No,” I said. I took a step backward. “Tony, don’t get in that car. Stay here with me.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Tony’s voice cracked. “Get Justine and let’s go! Just until we can figure out what’s going on!”
My mind whirred. I had to stop him from getting in the car with Ron. “Tony, I’m begging you. Stay here with me. I’ll hide you. I—I need to take care of your leg.”
Tony’s face darkened. “Do you want me to go to prison? Go upstairs, get Justine, and get in the fucking car!”
I shook my head. “I can’t, Tony. I’m sorry.”
Ron grabbed Tony’s shoulder. “We’re wasting time.”
“Get in the car. Please!”
My eyes filled with tears. Tony stared at me in disbelief as I shook my head, turned, and walked away from him.
Remo had almost finished packing by the time I got upstairs. “Peterson double-crossed me!” he spat.
“No!” I grabbed Remo to stop him. “It’s not the feds—it’s local. Rivera said so.”
“No way.” Remo shook his arm free. “That bastard promised to warn me. He’s trying to bust me as well.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Remo. He wouldn’t risk losing track of Ron now. You have a deal. Call him.”
But Remo could not be swayed. He zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. He was facing years in prison and was petrified. Minutes after Tony and Ron left, Remo bolted downstairs with his duffel bag and vanished.
I knew that the police would be looking for Tony and Ron in a brand-new silver truck and that they would confiscate it once they found it—regardless of whether or not anyone was driving it. To keep this from happening, I brought the truck to the Toyota dealership and requested a service. I hoped that the truck would be safe there until I retrieved it. I took a taxi home. Once there, I tried to convince myself that I had nothing to worry about. I was divorced, the apartment was in my name, and I was no longer involved with the operation. I had all my proper permits, and had every right to be living in the Dominican Republic.
The evening passed without incident. Rosa made dinner and we sat down to eat just as we would on any normal day. Afterward I played with Justine, bathed her, read to her, and put her to bed. Later, Rosa and I sat glued to the TV, flipping through the local channels for news. I tried Tony’s cell phone several times, but it was out of range.
Later that night the phone rang. “Anything happening?” Remo sounded surprisingly calm.
“No,” I said. “Nothing’s on the news. How are you?”
“I talked to N,” he said. “I’m still waiting to hear from P.”
As serious as the situation was, I had to chuckle at Remo’s cryptic way of speaking. “Where are you?”
There was a long pause. “The lost city,” he answered.
“I’m on my way.” I hung up before Remo could protest.
Atlántico was as busy as ever. My heart pounded in anticipation as I contemplated seeing Demetrio for the first time since that awful fight. I searched the sea of faces in the club, looking for him. Someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder and I came face-to-face with Remo’s girlfriend, Laurette. She motioned for me to follow her, and we headed past the bathrooms toward an unmarked door, which she opened and closed again behind me. I found myself in a stairwell. I climbed upward with the muted echo of the music all around me.
In a quiet office, I found Remo sitting with his feet propped on a desk. “Where’s Demetrio?” I asked him.
“Miami,” Remo grunted. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”
My face fell. “When is he coming back?”
Remo shook his head disbelievingly. “I told you to forget about him, Marisa.”
I pulled up a chair and sat down in a huff.
“You were right, this has nothing to do with the feds,” Remo said heavily. “Navarro knew nothing about the bust. Apparently, this is just another shockwave from that 60 Minutes interview. It pissed off a bunch of people in Washington, and they’re threatening to cut off aid to the country if Ron isn’t apprehended. Sanchez-Castillo finally got around to putting a task force together. He couldn’t even tell his own men where they were going until the last minute, because Sacco has half the local police on the payroll.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “And then they went charging over to the wrong place.”
“Yeah. The only lead they had was that clip on 60 Minutes showing the Commerciales Vargas sign. The police went to the old store, only to find out that there was no second story. By the time they figured out that there was a second store, everyone at Tomaju was long gone.”
“So what happens now?”
Remo shrugged. “Navarro offered to assist the Dominicans with the investigation, but of course they want to handle it themselves. Marisa, do you have any idea where Ron and Tony might have gone?”
I had been pondering this all evening. “My best guess is the North Shore. They could blend in with the tourists in Puerto Plata.”
“Tony isn’t going to be blending in anywhere,” Remo snorted. “Not with that metal thing sticking out of his leg.”
The phone rang. As Remo went to answer it, I realized that the recording device I had found in his room was hooked up to the phone. He made a shushing motion before picking up the receiver. I listened as he cheerfully updated Peterson on everything that had happened. I heard Peterson on the other line, pleading, “Don’t let Sacco slip through our fingers.”
“Jack, I need you to tell the Dominicans that I’m working for you. Otherwise, I’m liable to get arrested myself.”
“I can’t do that.”
Remo’s face fell.
“Look, we never managed to get permission from the Dominican government to launch this investigation,” Peterson went on. “They’ve made it very clear they don’t want our help. I can’t come down officially until the Dominicans ask me. I’m sorry, Remo. But I’m working on it. Ernesto Navarro is trying to get permission to go down as an observer.”
The men said goodbye and Remo hung up the phone. “Why are you taping the FBI?” I asked him.
“You think I trust them? I’ve taped every conversation I ever had with Peterson. I have all his promises to drop the charges against me on record. Insurance, you know?”
It made sense. “Now what?”
“I’m going to Cabarete first thing in the morning. I’m getting out of here until this is resolved.”
“What about the card from Sanchez-Castillo? Wouldn’t that protect you?”
“Marisa, I was grading at Tomaju last night. It’s all too close for comfort. I gotta leave town. Hey—” His face brightened. “Come with me. We can all go—you, me, Rosa, and Justine.”
“I’m staying.” I had no ties to Tony or Ron anymore. Running would make it look like I had something to hide. We tried Tony’s cell one last time, but he still didn’t pick up. I stood up to leave.
“Good luck, Marisa,” Remo said, as I headed out of the office.
IT WAS WELL AFTER midnight by the time I climbed the stairs to my apartment. The adrenaline rush of the afternoon’s drama had long since ebbed. I was overcome with exhaustion. I dragged my feet up the last flight of stairs and rounded the corner. Then I froze.
Outside of my door, fast asleep, was a plainclothes policeman. His body was slumped against the wall, his gun tucked into his belt. My heart began to pound. I backed up, taking a deep breath, and slipped off my shoes. The secret police had undoubtedly checked the apartment and knew I wasn’t inside. This man was waiting for me to come home so he could drag me down to the police station for questioning. Another guard was probably stationed outside the maid’s entrance.
I peeked around the corner again. He seemed to be in a pretty deep sleep. I realized that if I could just sneak past him and into the apartment, I’d be able to stay there with Justine and Rosa until the police captured Ron. I took a cautious step forward. Then another. And another.
I was standing right over him now, listening to his steady, even breathing. Never taking my eyes from his slumped form, I slid the key, bit by agonizing bit, into the lock. I turned it slowly, until I heard a gentle click.
The guard grunted and adjusted his position. The fingers of his left hand twitched slightly. I froze. I was so tantalizingly close to safety …
I began to turn the doorknob, watching his every move. Then I nudged the door open, inch by inch …