On the car ride home I said to my lawyer, “I’m in deep shit with that urine test, Joe. I tested positive for everything.”
My lawyer shrugged. “Whaddaya worried about? You think I’d steer you wrong? They didn’t actually catch you in the car, now, did they? So how can they prove those drugs were in your system while you were driving? Who’s to say you didn’t walk in the door and take a few Ludes and snort a little coke? And it’s not illegal to have drugs in your system; it’s only illegal to possess them. In fact, I’m willing to bet I’ll get the whole arrest thrown out on the grounds that Nadine never gave the police permission to come on the property in the first place. You’ll just have to pay for the damage to the other car—they’re only charging you with one accident, because there were no witnesses to the others—and then you’ll have to pay some hush money to the woman whose arm you broke. The whole thing won’t run you more than a hundred thousand.” He shrugged, as if to say, “Chump change!”
I nodded my head. “Where’d you find that crazy old judge? What a lifesaver he was!”
“You don’t wanna know,” replied my lawyer, rolling his eyes. “Let’s just say he’s a friend of a friend.”
The remainder of the ride was spent in silence. As we pulled onto the estate, Joe said, “Your wife is in bed, pretty shaken up. So go easy on her. She’s been crying for hours, but I think she’s pretty much calmed down now. Anyway, Bo was here with her most of the night, and he was a big help. He left about fifteen minutes ago.”
I nodded again, without speaking.
Joe added, “Just remember, Jordan: A broken arm is one thing, but no one can fix a dead body. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, Joe, but it’s a moot point. I’m done with all that shit. Done for good.” And we shook hands, and that was that.
Upstairs in the master bedroom, I found the Duchess lying in bed. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, then quickly undressed and climbed into bed with her. We stared up at the white silk canopy, our naked bodies touching at the shoulders and the hips. I grabbed her hand and held it in mine.
In a soft voice, I said, “I don’t remember anything, Nae. I blacked out. I think that I—”
She cut me off. “Shhh, don’t talk, baby. Just lie here and relax.” She gripped my hand tighter, and we lay there silently for what seemed like a very long time.
I squeezed her hand. “I’m done, Nae. I swear. And this time I’m dead serious about it. I mean, if this isn’t a sign from God, then I don’t know what is.” I leaned over and kissed her softly on the cheek. “But I gotta do something about my back pain. I can’t live this way anymore. It’s unbearable. And it’s feeding into things.” I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. “I want to go to Florida and see Dr. Green. He has a back clinic down there, and they have a really high cure rate. But whatever happens, I promise you I’m done with drugs once and for all. I know Quaaludes aren’t the answer; I know it’ll end in disaster.”
The Duchess rolled onto her side to face me, and she put her arm across my chest and hugged me gently. Then she told me that she loved me. I kissed her on the top of her blond head and took a deep breath to relish her scent. Then I told her that I loved her back and that I was sorry. I promised her that nothing like this would ever happen again.
I would be right about that.
Worse would.
CHAPTER 26
DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES
Two mornings later, I woke up to a phone call from licensed Florida real estate broker Kathy Green, wife of world-renowned neurosurgeon Dr. Barth Green. I had enlisted Kathy to find the Duchess and me a place to live while I was going through the four-week outpatient program at Jackson Memorial Hospital.
“You and Nadine will just adore Indian Creek Island,” said a kindhearted Kathy. “It’s one of the quietest places to live in all Miami. It’s soserene and souneventful. They even have their own police force—so given how security-conscious you and Nadine are, it’s another plus.”
Quiet and uneventful? Well, I waslooking to get away from it all, wasn’t I? So how much harm could I create in four short weeks, especially in a place as boring and peaceful as Indian Creek Island? A place where I’d be insulated from the pressures of a cold, cruel world, namely: Quaaludes, cocaine, crack, pot, Xanax, Valium, Ambien, speed, morphine, and, of course, Special Agent Gregory Coleman.
I said, “Well, Kathy, it sounds like just what the doctor ordered, especially the part about the place being peaceful. What’s the house like?”
“The house is absolutely breathtaking. It’s a white Mediterranean mansion with a red tile roof, and there’s a boat slip big enough for an eighty-foot yacht…” Kathy’s voice trailed off for a moment. “…which, I guess, wouldn’t quite fit the Nadine,but perhaps you can buy a boat while you’re down here, right? I’m sure Barth could help you with that.” The sheer logic of her wacky suggestion oozed over the phone line with each of her words. “Anyway, the backyard is fabulous; it has an Olympic-size swimming pool, a cabana, a wet bar, a gas barbecue, and a six-person Jacuzzi overlooking the bay. It’s absolutely perfect for entertaining. And the best part is that the owner’s willing to sell the house, completely furnished, for only $5.5 million. It’s quite a bargain.”
Wait a second!Who said anything about wanting to buy a house? I was only going to be in Florida for four weeks! And why would I consider getting another boat when I despised the one I already had? I said, “To tell you the truth, Kathy, I’m not looking to buy a house right now, at least not in Florida. You think the owner would consider renting it for a month?”
“No,” said a glum Kathy Green, whose hopes and dreams of a six percent real estate commission on a $5.5-million sale had just evaporated right before her big blue eyes. “It’s only listed for sale.”
“Hmmm,” I replied, not quite convinced of that fact. “Why don’t you offer the guy a hundred grand for the month and see what he says?”
On April Fool’s Day, I was moving in and the owner was moving out—skipping and humming, no doubt, all the way to a five-star hotel in South Beach for the month. That aside, April Fool’s Day was the perfect move-in date, given my discovery that Indian Creek Island was a sanctuary for a little-known endangered species called the Old Blue-haired WASP, which, as Kathy had previously indicated, was about as lively a species as the sea slug.
On the brighter side, in between my car accident and the back clinic I’d managed to jet into Switzerland and meet with Saurel and the Master Forger. My goal was to find out how the FBI had become aware of my Swiss accounts. To my surprise, though, everything seemed to be in order. The U.S. government had made no inquiries—and both Saurel and the Master Forger assured me they would be the first to know if it had.
Indian Creek Island was only a fifteen-minute car ride to the back clinic. And there was no was shortage of cars; the Duchess had seen to that—shipping down a brand-new Mercedes for me and a Range Rover for herself. Gwynne had come to Miami too, to look after my needs, and she also needed a car. So I bought her a new Lexus, from a local Miami car dealer.
Of course, Rocco had to come too. He was like a part of the family, wasn’t he? And Rocco alsoneeded a car, so Richard Bronson, one of the owners of Biltmore, saved me the headache of buying yet another one and loaned me his red convertible Ferrari for the month. So now everyone was covered.
With lots of cars to choose from, my decision to rent a sixty-foot motor yacht to get myself back and forth to the clinic became ridiculous. It was $20,000 per week for four smelly diesel engines, a well-appointed cabin I would never set foot in, and a flybridge without a canopy, which resulted in a third-degree sunburn on my shoulders and neck. The boat came complete with an old white-haired captain, who shuttled me back and forth to the clinic at an average cruising speed of five knots.