Dead Silence

22

Roxanne was ignoring me, watching a little wall-mounted TV over the breakfast bar, where a newscaster had just said, “In what is now believed to be a homicide, Florida police say they are seeking ‘a person of interest’ in the drowning murder of Bernard Heller, a former NFL lineman, himself a convicted murderer. Police aren’t releasing the name of the individual, but on Sanibel Island local fishermen think they know who it is and they are talking. More on that story when CNN returns…”

I was thinking, Bernard?, not surprised that police wanted to question me. Bernard made me think of Barney Fife, the funny little deputy on Andy Griffith, not the three-hundred-pound freak who’d spent a lot of time in the weight room but not enough time in the swimming pool.

“You mind turning that thing off?” It was the second time I’d asked, but Roxanne was pretending I wasn’t there, sitting at the kitchen table, while Greta flitted around making tea to cover her own aggravation. Greta was irritated because I kept pressing, rewording my question after she’d already said she hadn’t seen Norvin Tomlinson in more than five years.

“Does that mean Norvin hasn’t been back in five years? Or that you haven’t seen him in five years? A house that size, he could stay for weeks and you might not run into each other.”

Greta had started to answer when Roxanne turned the volume louder, interrupting, “I’m thinking about moving to Florida. Get the hell away from the ice and the insanity. It’s warm enough, apparently, even psychos get out on the water. But wait”-she flashed me a sarcastic smile-“I forgot, you’re from Florida. So maybe I’ll try Grand Cayman instead.”

I said, “Enough. I’m trying to save a boy’s life. Give me fifteen minutes. Do you mind?”

Roxanne had not told Greta about the lab test and wasn’t aware that I knew. Act sympathetic and she would suspect. A smart woman.

Big sigh, but Roxanne touched the POWER button as Greta explained, “Even if Norvin came home for one hour, I would have seen him.” With her accent, it came out I voould hap seen him. “He would not come back and hide from me. I raised those boys! Norvey isn’t affectionate-not like Guardian, who is still so sweet. But he is not rude.”

I was thinking, Tomlinson avoids contact for fifteen years, that’s sweet?

“Norvey would speak to me,” Greta said. “Sometimes he sends cards from far places. Only a word or two, but it shows he still cares. Five years ago, he looked so terrible I didn’t want him to leave. But he went anyway and hasn’t come back.” She turned to Roxanne. “Why doesn’t he believe me?”

Roxanne was holding a jar, reading the label, before spooning honey into her tea, probably already thinking of homeopathic remedies. She said, “You mean, the liar who claimed to be a phone man? The one who’s pretending to be a cop now? Maybe he’s hung up on the truth.”

I nodded, conceding.

She said, “Everyone who comes here lies. Blame this goddamn mausoleum”-she stood and slapped a light switch-“it’s so goddamn dark, only lies can survive.”

Until we’d clashed over the TV, Roxanne hadn’t said much. Here she was in the middle of a personal crisis being questioned by a stranger when all she wanted to do was pack her bags, maybe break a few of Nelson’s personal items in the process, before slamming the door on her Nissan and on her dreams of traveling by Learjet and owning a castle in the Hamptons. She had that kind of temper. It was also possible she was that mercenary.

I was beginning to believe Greta was.

I said, “What about Norvin’s father?” I had asked before but she hadn’t answered me.

Greta said, “Dr. Tomlinson is the executor of the trust. The trust pays me. If I worked for you, would you want me spreading gossip?”

“I wouldn’t mind if it could save a kid’s life. If Hank Tomlinson visits from time to time, what’s the harm in telling me? If it’s true, it’s not gossip.”

She said, “I don’t talk about the personal business of my household. It’s a code in the Hamptons.”

“The service class, you mean.”

“Yes, the service class.”

“You protect your employer at all costs.”

“Our households, we protect. It’s different. They are sacred.”

“The household is like family, so you remain loyal.”

“It’s expected of anyone who takes the job seriously.”

“Are you devoted to the house? Or to the Tomlinson family? There’s a difference.”

“Both. We protect each other. And that is all I have to say.”

The woman was afraid. I saw the look she gave Roxanne.

I took a chance. “Greta, which worries you most: that Dr. Tomlinson will find out you have a daughter or that you have a daughter and he will find out he’s not the father?”

Greta got up, saying, “I don’t have to answer that! I’m a domestic, not a slave-” as Roxanne cut her off, saying in a louder voice, “He’s not my father. My father died in the war!”

That silenced the room. Suddenly, I was even more interested.

Roxanne said it again. “My father’s dead, okay? He worked for the Myles family. Then he joined the Army and died. End of story.”

“Which war?”

“Does it matter?”

I said, “It might.”

“I don’t think so, they’re all the same. A bunch of macho guys like you, carrying guns on their belts instead of tools. Is it the sound of metal that gets you off? Like cowboys with spurs. Knights in armor. Grown-ups playing games until… until…” Her voice softened, her attention turning inward. “That’s what men do… play games.”

I said, “What was your father’s name?”

“Billy. Is that a funny name for a man? Billy Sofvia. He was very handsome-smart, too. But not smart enough to realize what a dead end it is working for the Myles family.”

Greta whispered, “Enough, Roxy!”

“Why can’t I talk, Greta? You don’t want them to hear?”

Greta said, “Please, dear.”

Roxanne laughed as she looked around the room, seeing stainless-steel pots hanging above a butcher’s block, the industrial appliances, a double-wide Sub-Zero that cost more than most people made in a month. “You don’t know anything about the service class, Ford. Do you mind if I call you Ford? I’m really not in the mood to call you Doctor.”

Greta was looking at her, asking, “What is wrong with you today?”

Roxanne continued talking, telling me, “The reason the service class keeps secrets is because we have secrets of our own. Isn’t that the truth, Greta? Of course it’s true. My mother and father even dated secretly. When she got pregnant, they kept that a secret, too-”

“Roxanne Sofvia! Be quiet!”

“-because the feudal system didn’t end in the Middle Ages. It moved to the Hamptons, where staff is considered property. They’re expected to remain faithful, particularly attractive females. You would have to grow up in the system, Ford, to understand.”

I said, “As a domestic worker,” to keep her going.

“Or be one of them. Wouldn’t that be more fun?” Roxanne crossed her legs, becoming conversational, as if taunting the older woman. “Becoming one of them, it’s what the daughters of domestics dream of: marrying into the household. Isn’t that the phrase, Greta, marrying in ? Domestics live the wealthy life, Ford. We see it every day. But we’re never more than ornaments or appliances unless we get lucky and marry in. Which never happens, of course. You know the old saying.. . why buy the cow?”

She thought for a moment. “Lucky, hah! That’s a laugh. Domestics grow up knowing the truth about rich families but it doesn’t change the way the families think. They know they’re no smarter than the domestics. They know they’re not as competent, and certainly not as solid, but domestics still hang on to the dream of marrying in. Isn’t that sad? I mean, if you really think about it, how damn sad! Most of them, in fact, are completely crazed fuckups. The Tomlinson family-a classic example-but it doesn’t change anything.”

“That does it, I am leaving!” Greta was getting her purse, looking for her keys.

“No you’re not!” Roxanne said, moving toward the door. “You’ll never leave and you know it. I’m leaving. I’m leaving this house and this sick society and never coming back. I can’t believe I let you talk me into it in the first place.”

Greta’s anger collapsed. “Roxy… why? Did something happen?” “Between me and Prince Charming, you mean? What happened is, I found out it’s true what they say about frogs. I kissed one. You want proof?” Roxanne reached for the lab report but caught herself as she started to hand it across the counter. “Do you mind, Ford? I have something personal I want to share with… my mother.”

I was nodding, unsure how to handle it, then said, “Okay,” and went out the door.

I fixed the phone lines, then paced, slowing time by checking my watch too often. It was almost noon. Will Chaser had been in the ground for at least three hours, if the photo was authentic. Probably already dead, but if he wasn’t-and if the air system worked, as the kidnappers claimed-I still had twenty hours, maybe a little longer, to find him.

As I paced, I battled the ridiculous notion of returning to the road and seeking mystic insights from the rock, if I could find the damn thing. Had the boy been here? Had he been riding the gray stallion when it was shot?

I fixed my thoughts on a more reasonable hope: If I waited, played nice, maybe Roxanne would come out and answer my questions, including Which war?

Half an hour later, Roxanne did come out.

I wasn’t imagining the chill in Barbara’s voice when she said, “Did you happen to read a news story about the football player who washed up on a beach near Sanibel? One of my colleagues brought it to my attention. They think he was murdered.”

I said, “No, I don’t follow football,” then told her I wasn’t being a smart-ass, there were more pressing matters to discuss.

Was there anyone in the country who didn’t know of Bern Heller’s recent landfall? It kept me from asking the name of the woman’s colleague. Only the guilty are interested in their accusers.

Barbara replied, “That’s not true. One of Tomlinson’s friends is a coach with the Jets, so I know you follow football. His name is… well, I’m positive you told me, whatever his name is. Ask the Tin Man, he’ll remember.”

I said, “Mike Westhoff,” in a way to let her know how irritating she could be. I wasn’t going to argue with a woman who argues professionally, although it was grating that Barbara-like almost everyone-was charmed by Tomlinson’s star power and credited the man with virtues that friends and fellow boat bums knew were undeserved. But when people got their asses in a sling, who did they come running to?”

“I stand corrected,” I told her.

I was in my hotel room, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, packing to return to Florida. The dispatcher at Air Transport Services had been even frostier than the senator when I requested a flight to the Gulf Coast. Now here was Barbara going off on tangents rather than cooperating. I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t a coincidence.

Barbara said, “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. I was given the information in confidence.”

I said, “No need to say another word. A secret’s a secret. But back to finding a plane for me-”

“Unfortunately,” she interrupted, “this could have a bearing on our relationship. Doc, just between the two of us-and please stop me if the matter’s already been settled-but police are saying you’re a person of interest. I don’t know the legal definition, but to me when police say someone is ‘a person of interest’ they mean that person had something to do with it.”

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.

“They’re sick, I agree.”

“Or detached,” I said carefully.

“Insane, out of their minds,” she replied. “I had the staff tack a copy on every wall to remind them why we’re working so hard. The FBI says the picture is good news in a way. If the shot was taken this morning, William has been alive for”-I was carrying the phone to the bed, yawning, as she did the calculation in her head-“so William has managed to stay alive for thirty-eight hours. Some of the agency people were hinting he was already dead.”

I said, “If the picture wasn’t taken this morning, I would agree.”

“Ruth Guttersen-William’s foster grandmother-Ruth sent me one of his school photos. I have both pictures on the desk in front of me, but I can’t bear to look at the coffin shot for more than a few seconds-” Barbara stopped. “ Detached? Is that what you said?”

I replied, “Impersonal. Emotionally uninvolved, yes. They haven’t changed the deadline?”

“Detached…” She was thinking about it as she continued, “No, nothing’s changed. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, if they keep their word. We’re keeping ours, even though the official line is that we don’t negotiate with criminals.” She paused. “Detached. But you said they were after emotional impact, not financial.”

“Psychological intimidation, then emotional control: It’s a device, a tool interrogators use. Money or power or preserving power-it works on all three.”

“How the hell do you know about things like this?”

“It’s what social animals do. Wolf packs and male dolphins. We’re no different.”

“Then it is about money. That’s why you’re accusing Nelson Myles.”

I said, “I haven’t accused him. I want to talk to him… privately.” She hadn’t reacted to the word interrogator, so I added the next link. “You don’t associate Myles with anything Cuban, just wealth. Is that the problem?”

“No. Money and power, it’s what I think of now when someone mentions Fidel Castro. Until now, I had no idea how wealthy that man had become in fifty years. Favar Senior tried to tell me years ago and I didn’t believe him. Castro may have started as a penniless dictator, but now, even dead, he is an international conglomerate with world holdings worth-are you ready for a number?-worth seven hundred billion dollars. Were you aware of that?”

I wasn’t, but she had finally given me an opening to ask about something more personal. “It sounds like your people completed the manifest list.”

“Not just my people. Every bureaucracy from the CIA to the Park Service’s Department of Archaeology has their hands in it. It’s crazy how long they’re taking.”

“Find anything surprising?” If my name was on a list of licensed U.S. assassins, it was no wonder she wanted to cut me loose.

Instead of answering, Barbara covered her phone. I listened to a muffled exchange between the senator and someone who had come into her office. Male… British accent? I couldn’t be sure, but I was picturing Hooker Montbard standing in her doorway, dapperly dressed. .. or wearing khakis, which he often did on weekends.

“Doc, I’ll call you back in five minutes. No more than ten, promise.”

I said, “But if I don’t nail down a flight-”

“Read the newest updates. We can’t really talk unless we’re both on the same page, now can we?” The woman hung up.

I zipped my carry-on closed, checked the room and headed down the hall toward the elevator, telling myself there was no reason to be suspicious of my pal Hooker. But it was okay to call him. We were friends, right?

I dialed. No answer, and I didn’t leave a message. Next, I did what the lady suggested and opened the updates. SIGNET-D Communique (Level: Classified + Secret + Brown) Summary Report #12, Prepared by staff of Hon. Barbara B. Hayes-Sorrento, United States Senate, 1 Billings St., Washington, D.C., 24 January, Saturday, 11:00 EST. SUBJECT A: William J. Chaser, minor male, missing as of 22 January, Thursday, 16:00 EST SUBJECT B: FBI Addendum issued 10:00 EST SUBJECT C: NYPD Addendum issued 10:30 EST…

It was a typically staccato rendering, but it didn’t take long to get to something interesting. As I pushed through the lobby doors headed outside, I was reading: SUBJECT H: Jettisoning of Superfluous Chattel Properties of the late Castro, Fidel A., via Military Aircraft over an area yet to be designated…

Jettisoning? It was government-speak for delivering the ransom. Castro’s much-coveted personal files had been officially redesignated as trash. The military didn’t know where they were dropping the stuff, but the cover story had been established.

I didn’t smile, but it brightened my day despite the concrete chill of another New York afternoon. With any luck, it would be my last for a while. One way or the other, I was returning to Florida. If I couldn’t arrange a special flight, I would have to fly out of Kennedy International ninety minutes away.

I told the concierge desk I needed a cab, then skimmed the text, finding other interesting tidbits. SUBJECT H/Para. 4: Transport of Superfluous Materials: Aircraft: H130 Hercules Cargo Aircraft, USAF, has been assigned as Disposition Platform. Crew is on standby, Dulles Air Base, three watches, 8-hour rotation. The H130 was assigned despite the small amount of Superfluous Materials because the disposal area has yet to be designated. Aircraft range: 1800 nm+/- (BRC) with refueling aircraft on station. Status: Alert Orange…

SUBJECT H/Para. 11: Superfluous Materials consist of three (3) Industrial Cartons containing approximately 2.3 metric tons. Loading of Superfluous Materials is being finalized pursuant to variables of an undetermined disposal area…

SUBJECT H/Para. 14: Industrial Cartons have been mounted on skids and fitted with LALO parachutes for wet drop or dry drop. Final Go Confirmation expected by 1900 hours EST. FBI awaiting contact with Civilian Clients via VHF Marine Radio or electronic mail and will then advise USAF crew…

Civilian clients were the kidnappers. Castro’s possessions had been loaded on a long-distance aircraft and rigged for a parachute drop. Everything would be packed and ready to go by five p.m., which was fifteen hours in advance of the deadline. Good!

Or was it…?

I thought about it as I waited for a cab. What suddenly bothered me was that several normally inefficient bureaucracies had hammered this package together, meshing all the complicated pieces, in an extraordinarily efficient way.

Had I ever heard of a joint project being completed ahead of schedule? Hell, I had never even heard of a project that was finished on time.

Weird.

A few minutes later, sitting in the back of a cab, headed west on the road out of the Hamptons, my phone began buzzing: Barbara.

Barbara told me, “Castro was a neurotic, that was my first surprise-I’m talking about surprises in the last day or so. He was insecure when he took power in ’fifty-nine and the man never changed.”

I said, “Neurotic, hmm,” listening to the woman avoid discussing Nelson Myles by sharing revelations about the Castro Files. She hadn’t mentioned who interrupted our conversation either. Why was she being evasive?

“Castro kept two bags packed with collectibles, ready to go, in case he had to escape in the middle of the night. Valuables ”-her smile was audible-“is not the right word for what that man had squirreled away. It’s treasure, the pirate variety. I’d heard that he formed a team to salvage shipwrecks around Cuba. Now we know it’s true. There are some beautiful pieces from the seventeen hundreds: Spanish gold crosses, emeralds and jade. Small, not too heavy. Probably worth millions, and all of it easily converted into currency. There’s an emerald necklace-my God, you’ve got to see it.”

I said, “Spanish treasure, that’s always interesting.” She couldn’t avoid discussing Myles, or getting me on a plane, forever.

“There are some political shockers, too. Three boxes of files on Meyer Lansky and what was called the Jewish Mafia. They controlled most of the gaming in Havana. If the documents are made public, some of our Middle Eastern friends are going to be upset about how Israel was financed in those early years. Everything’s being photographed, of course. Still, without the original documents…”

She let me figure out the significance and moved on. “The Catholic Church takes a big hit. There are documents that prove-well, that suggest anyway-that some priests entered into an alliance with Castro

… a sort-of covenant. But I can’t go into specifics, sorry.”

I didn’t need specifics. Barbara was referring to a secret meeting that took place in Havana in 1966 between ten activist priests and Fidel Castro. In return for Castro’s political blessing, the priests activated a plan to encourage and fund Socialism in Central and South America. Over the next two decades, newspaper readers in the United States would puzzle over the political assassinations of nuns and priests in the region. It seemed outrageous to a citizenry that knew nothing about the covert wars going on worldwide, so they suffered with mental images of murdered Flying Nuns and kindly Bing Crosbys.

I said to Barbara, “A covenant with the Catholic Church, that is a surprise. Was it around the time of the Bay of Pigs invasion… or the assassination?”

She thought she was being properly evasive, replying, “We found documents our intelligence agencies aren’t going to like. One or two people could face prosecution. Men in powerful positions who betrayed us, their country… I mean, if the information’s accurate.”

I said, “Bay of Pigs. An informant gave Castro’s people the landing date and time. Didn’t the informant go by a code name? I’m trying to remember…”

Barbara said, “Why do you do this? Instead of manipulating me to get information, why not come right out and ask?”

“Okay,” I said, “who was the traitor?” If it was Tinman, would she have even mentioned it?

The woman said, “I can’t tell you.”

“Lady, you can be so frustrating-”

“Not on the phone. There were two informants. At least two-not related to the assassination, so don’t assume that please. But there is something very interesting I learned about the day Kennedy was shot.”

The woman had lowered her voice. She was enjoying this, I realized, which I found heartening because it reminded me that I was still her confidant… and probably always would be her confidant. We shared an ultimate secret, the secret of her blackmail video. Barbara Hayes-Sorrento might try to distance herself from me, but if she slammed the door she would lose the one person in the world to whom she could say any damn thing she wanted to say with no fear of retribution.

“Castro kept the phone logs from the morning President Kennedy was shot,” Barbara said, her voice still low. “There were more than two dozen calls to his residence within twenty minutes.”

I wasn’t just listening now, I was interested. I waited a few seconds before I said, “And…?”

“And,” she said, “that’s all I can tell you right now.” Her tone became more formal. “Besides, I thought you called to ask for a favor, not chat about the files. We’re busy here, you know.”

The woman was maddening.

I started to say, “You’re the one who went off on a tangent,” but dropped it, saying instead, “Okay, fine. I need transportation to Florida… Sarasota, ideally. What can you do for me?”

“I thought you agreed to stop pestering Mr. Myles.”

“No, you suggested it. I didn’t agree.”

“But you expect me to back you? After the hoops you made me jump through to exhume those two dead horses? Waking up judges, calling in favors-for what? And you’re still not convinced!”

I started to say, “You’ve got to trust my judgment on this-”

“I want you to stay away from Nelson Myles,” she interrupted. “The man has been patient so far, but you will put both of us in a dangerous position if you keep pushing. On nothing but a hunch? I’m sorry.”

I said, “Dangerous legal position?”

“Yes! But also in terms of public opinion.”

“Public opinion,” I said. “Is that code for getting reelected?”

“Don’t get smart, Dr. Ford.”

“One of us needs to. What happened, Barb? Why are you suddenly scared of Nelson Myles?”

“Power, that’s why,” she said. “It doesn’t scare me, but I respect it. Let’s don’t even get into the damage it could cause to some of my working relationships. But if I doubled my fund-raising schedule starting today, I still couldn’t compete with the kind of money Myles and his friends have. Even if I had ten years left in my term, instead of only two. Plus-and this is the absolute goddamn truth-I respect the opinions of colleagues who know the man.”

I was tempted to say, “ Respect -another political euphemism for power?,” but instead I asked, “Are some of your colleagues Yale graduates? Members of Skull and Bones maybe?”

“The fraternity? What does it matter? The point is, all I care about is getting the boy back alive, and you’re wasting time.”

I said, “If you’ve made up your mind, there’s nothing I can do. I’m open to suggestions.” I was going to Sarasota no matter what, but why tell Barbara and risk putting the man on alert?

“Doc,” she said, “I value our friendship.” There was nothing phony about the way she said it, but I didn’t reply.

“The best thing for you to do-for both of us, in fact-is to stay close to me. I need your moral support more than anything, so let’s let the FBI handle it, okay? I can’t sleep, I’m a ball of nerves.” She let that settle, then added,

“You’re maybe the only man in the world who really understands how hard it is for me to relax.”

Nothing phony about that either, nor was there any bawdy subtext. The woman was in trouble, isolated by her own office as much as by the anxiety associated with the kidnapping. That fast, I liked her again.

I said, “How about this? I’ll go home from here, spend a few days, then we can get together after this is done.”

Her reply surprised me. “How far is Busch Gardens from Sanibel, a couple of hours? Could we meet there tomorrow night?”

“What?”

“I wanted to fly Mr. and Mrs. Guttersen into D.C. at my expense. You know, to be near them until this is over, but Dan O’Connell beat me to it by inviting them to tour Busch Gardens. His family has a winter home near there.”

She added, “The Guttersens are meeting him in Tampa tonight-both of them, hopefully, if Ruth isn’t coming down with the flu. It will be good for all of us, to see this thing through together. Plus the military base at Tampa is our primary intelligence center. It can’t hurt to be within driving distance.”

“Senator Dan O’Connell?” I said.

“From Minnesota. He was the friend who asked me to meet William at the airport and take him to the UN. Dan’s got a place on the beach, a house and a couple of guest cottages. I won’t stay with him, I’ll book a suite of rooms nearby. My staff will communicate by phone and Internet. Can you meet me there?”

My brain was scanning for a way to work it to my advantage. I needed a reason why I had to return to Florida this afternoon, not tomorrow. I said, “I’d love to see you, but I’ve got so much catching up to do at my lab. But… if I could find a faster way home to Sanibel-”

“You’re doing it again, trying to manipulate me,” she interrupted. “I’ve made the offer. I need you, Doc. But you’ll have to fly commercial just like everyone else. If you change planes in Atlanta, you might run into the Guttersens. Otto Guttersen is a real character, Dan told me. A military background, a real tough guy… You two would hit it off.”

I was trying to picture the ex-pro wrestler Outlaw Bull Guttersen plowing his wheelchair through sand on some Gulf beach, as Barbara added, “Dan was just here, that’s why I had to call you back. Mr. Guttersen has been through some really bad times in his life, but nothing’s hit him like this.”

I said, “I was surprised by how emotional he sounded on the phone,” still scanning for a way to finagle a special flight. If I flew out of JFK by three, I could be in Florida by dusk.

“It would mean a lot to me, Doc, if you were there. It would be good for the Guttersens, too. Give Mr. Guttersen someone to talk to. In Florida, at least, he and his wife can get outside instead of sitting around going stir-crazy waiting for news. Dan told me it’s been freezing cold up there. Something like fifteen below in Minneapolis… not counting windchill.”