“I’m okay. How about you?”
“You sound out of sorts. Are you sure everything is all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“We got an invitation for dinner Friday. I wanted to see if you’d be back by then.”
Friday was two days away. He wanted to say yes, he’d be home, but there was no way to know what the next few hours or days would bring.
“I wish I knew,” he said.
“So it’s no.”
Muriel sounded put out. Like she thought he was letting work kill what little social life they had.
“Can you let them know by tomorrow?” he asked.
“I guess. It’s a barbecue. Nothing fancy.”
“I’ll do everything I possibly can to be there,” he promised.
“Okay. Are you sure everything’s all right? You sound awful.”
Linderman started to tell a lie but got no further. The flashy guy with the South American accent was strolling down the shoulder of the highway toward the marina. Cradled in his arms was a brown paper bag stuffed with groceries. Peeking out of the top was the Tom’s Toffee bag, the silver and red colors lit up by the sun. It was him.
Linderman looked further up the road. Carpenter had come out of their room and was standing in the shade of the motel. He was holding a camera with a zoom lens, and was shooting photographs of the South American.
All the bases were covered.
The South American drew closer. Linderman turned around so as not to stare. He noticed a name printed on the side of the boat. Daddy’s Little Girl.
It was all Linderman could do not to kill their suspect as he came down the dock.
Chapter 59
Daddy’s Little Girl motored out of the harbor and disappeared from view. Carpenter appeared clutching his camera, which he lifted to his eyes.
“Is he going to another boat?” Linderman asked.
“To an island,” Carpenter said.
“Let me see.”
Marathon had several small islands just off its shore, some inhabited, some not. As Linderman watched, Daddy’s Little Girl headed for an island overgrown with foliage. A small dock jutted out from a stand of mangroves.
“He’s right around the corner,” Linderman said.
“Your girl talked to him inside the grocery store,” Carpenter said. “Maybe she found out who he is.”
Vick was waiting outside Linderman’s motel room. She had taken to wearing her T-shirt pulled out and smearing on her lipstick, and looked like white trash. Once inside the room, she explained what had happened.
“I went into the market to buy a soda, and the guy was paying for his groceries at the cash register,” she said. “The owner of the market took the bag of Tom’s Toffee off the shelf, and added it to the bag without being asked. Like it was a pre-order.”
“What else did he buy?” Linderman asked.
“Milk, butter, a five pound bag of sugar, caramel, chocolate.”
Those were the ingredients for Granny’s special holiday cookies. There was no doubt in Linderman’s mind they had found the right person.
“As the guy started to leave, the owner said “See you tomorrow, Humberto’,” Vick said. “When I went outside, he was standing by the door with a grin on his face.”
“Why?” Linderman asked.
“He propositioned me. I laughed and walked away.”
Linderman booted up his laptop and got on the Internet. Using Google, he found a detailed map of Marathon, and located the island where Daddy’s Little Girl had gone. It was the westernmost point of Marathon, and had a name. Manatee Key.
His next stop was the property appraiser’s web site for the Keys. There was enough information there to get him started. Manatee Key had been purchased in 2002 by Excelsior Holdings, Ltd, a Venezuelan-based shipping company. The island was three acres in size, and contained a main house, a guest house, a swimming pool, and a basketball court. It was valued at just under ten million dollars.
Linderman sent an email to the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland, requesting information on Excelsior Holdings. NSA knew more about foreign companies doing business in the United States than any other federal agency, and hopefully would be able to shed some light on the company. His next step was to call the FBI’s North Miami Office, and request satellite reconnaissance photos be taken of Manatee Key. Satellite photos were a common tool within the FBI, and there was always a waiting list. He specified that the request was high priority, and folded his cell.
He went to the window and parted the curtain. He was ready to grab a boat and storm Manatee Key, only he knew how foolish that would be. Danni had survived this long, and if there was a God in heaven, she would survive another day.
He glanced at Vick, who sat on the floor with Carpenter’s dog. It was a playful side to her that he hadn’t seen before, the little girl she’d once been.
“What next?” Vick asked, rubbing the dog’s tummy.
“We sit and wait,” Linderman said.
At five o’clock that night, the satellite photographs of Manatee Key were emailed to Linderman’s laptop. A few minutes later, the NSA report on Excelsior arrived as well.
Linderman printed everything on his portable printer. He was torn as to which to dive into first. He decided to look at the photographs, hoping to find some visible evidence of his daughter which had been captured by the satellite.
He laid the photos on the bed. Each was an overhead shot of the property that had been taken at thirty-second intervals. The island was overgrown with towering palm trees and bamboo which obscured most of the grounds. There were no visible signs of Danni, or for that matter, any other female. The only person caught by the satellite was a grossly overweight man in a Speedo lying on a recliner by the swimming pool. With a fat cigar in one hand and a tall drink in the other, he was the picture of the good life.
Vick pointed at a photo showing the rear of the house.
“I see three pairs of shoes,” she said.
Linderman brought his head down for a better look. From above, the shoes looked like footprints in concrete.
“Good catch,” he said.
“Any sign of your daughter?”
“No. To be honest, I didn’t expect to see her.”
“They’re keeping her inside.”
“Yes. At least during the day.”
“Guess what?” Carpenter sat cross-legged on the floor reading the NSA report, his dog’s head resting in his lap. “The guy who bought the toffee isn’t your daughter’s captor.”
Something dropped in the pit of Linderman’s stomach.
“He isn’t?” the FBI agent said.
“No. That clown was just a gopher. Your daughter’s captor is a fat cat named Oliver Maldonado. You need to read this.”
Linderman took the report from Carpenter and began to read. Oliver Maldonado was a fifty-five year old self-made millionaire, and the president of Excelsior Holdings. Back in 2001, he’d gotten into hot water with the Venezuelan authorities. A pretty waitress had gone missing from a discotheque in Caracas. The police got a tip that she was being held captive at Maldonado’s home, and went to investigate.
When the police tried to enter the house, they were met with gunfire. They stormed inside, and arrested Maldonado and three employees. The waitress was on the patio with a gunshot wound to the abdomen. An autopsy revealed that the bullet was not from the police’s guns, nor from any weapons found inside the house.
At Maldonado’s trial, his defense attorneys claimed the police shot the waitress, who was at the house under her own free will. The prosecutors couldn’t prove otherwise, and Maldonado was found not guilty. He left the country a short while later.
Filled with disgust, Linderman tossed the report to the floor.
“He’s a cold-blooded murderer,” the FBI agent said.
“Yes, he is,” Carpenter replied.