Alejandro’s hand trembled as he reached inside his collar. Hanging around his neck was a gold medallion of the Virgin of Charity of El Cobre, the patron saint of Cuba, a good-luck charm of sorts that Cuban relatives in Miami often sent to their relatives in Cuba to keep them safe on their journey to freedom. He’d worn it on his own crossing of the straits in a rowboat, thirty years earlier.
Sadly, he gave the medallion a kiss and headed home to Key West.
7
I love this car,” said Theo.
Jack glowered from the passenger seat. “It’s mine, and it’s not for sale.”
Theo slammed it into gear, and the car nearly leapt from the pavement.
It was a good four hours from Miami to Key West, three if Theo was driving, and he had insisted on it. Owning a thirty-year-old Mustang convertible had its drawbacks, but a drive through the Keys was something any car lover lived for. Mile after mile, U.S. 1 was a scenic ribbon of asphalt that connected one Florida Key to the next, slicing through turquoise waters and one-stoplight towns that seemed to sprout from the mangroves. Plenty of warm sunshine on your face, amazing blue skies, a sea breeze like velvet. The deal was that Theo would drive down and Jack would drive back. A fair compromise, Jack figured, if for nothing else than the sheer entertainment value of having Theo come along.
“What did you say?” asked Jack. Theo’s mouth was moving, but it was drowned out by the rumble of the engine and whistle of the wind.
Theo shouted, “If you won’t sell your wheels, at least leave ’em to me.”
“What do you mean, ‘leave’?”
“In your will, dude.”
“I don’t even have a will.”
“A lawyer with no will? That’s like a hooker with no condoms.”
“What do I need a will for? I’m a single guy with no kids.”
They exchanged glances, as if Jack’s mention of “no kids” suddenly had a footnote next to it.
“Screw the will,” said Theo. “Take it with you. God would love this car.”
Jack turned back to his reading. Before leaving Miami, he’d jumped on-line and pulled down some background information about the U.S. naval base at Guantánamo Bay, just enough to know what he was talking about when he interviewed Lindsey’s father-in-law. Theo left him alone until they reached the Stockton Bridge, about a mile from Key West International Airport.
“So, you gonna have to go to Camp Geronimo?”
“Guantánamo, not Geronimo. It’s a naval base, not an Indian burial ground.”
“How is it we got a naval base in Cuba anyway?”
Jack checked one of the web pages he’d printed. “Says here we lease it.”
“Castro is our landlord?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Shit, what does a guy like Castro do if you’re late on the rent? Kill your entire family?”
“Actually, he’s never cashed one of our rent checks. The lease was signed long before he came into power, and he refuses to recognize it as valid.”
“Guess he’s not about to try and evict us.”
“Not unless he wants a made-in-America boot up his communist ass.”
“So we stay there for free. But for how long?”
“The lease says we can stay there as long as we want.”
“Damn. Whoever drafted that document must be in the lawyers’ hall of fame.”
They entered the airport off Roosevelt Road and headed toward the general aviation hangars, following the instructions that Jack had gotten over the telephone. A security guard directed them to a fenced parking area. The Brothers for Freedom office was a little box at one of the end hangars that barely had enough room for a desk and two chairs. The man inside escorted them toward the tarmac. A flock of hungry seagulls followed them. Just three feet above sea level, Key West International was notorious for its birds, many of which met the aeronautical version of the Veg-O-Matic with the constant coming and going of prop planes. Jack and Theo passed several rows of private aircraft, everything from seaplanes to Learjets. Finally they spotted Alejandro Pintado tending to his reliable old Cessna. Jack probably could have found the plane without any help at all, as it seemed to be held together by bumper stickers that proclaimed such telling messages as FREE CUBA, NO CASTRO, NO PROBLEM, and I DON’T BELIEVE THE MIAMI TRIBUNE-the latter being a swipe at the “liberal media,” which sometimes criticized the tactics of exiles when it came to fighting Castro.
“Mr. Pintado?” said Jack.
A portly man with silver hair dropped his cleaning rag in the bucket, then emerged from beneath the wing. “You must be Jack Swyteck.”
“That’s right.”
“Who’s your friend here? Barry Bonds on steroids?”
“This is-”
“Mikhail Baryshnikov,” said Theo, shaking hands.
“My investigator, Theo Knight.”
Alejandro did his best to get his chest out, but the belly was still more prominent. “I hear you want to defend my daughter-in-law.”
“I’m considering it,” said Jack. “Can we sit down and talk?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. This isn’t going to take long.”
Jack rocked on his heels. More hostile than he’d hoped. “First of all, I want to say that I’m very sorry about your son.”
“Then why do you want to represent the woman who killed him?”
“Mainly because I haven’t come to the conclusion that she did it.”
“That pretty much makes you the only one.”
“Is there something you can tell me, maybe enlighten me a little?”
Pintado glanced suspiciously at Theo, then back at Jack. “I’m not going to tell you two jokers anything. You aren’t here to help me. All you want to do is get her off.”
“Mr. Pintado, I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve represented some guilty people before. But this is an unusual case for me. I’m being completely honest when I say that I have no interest in representing Lindsey Hart if she’s guilty.”
“Good. Then you should fold your tent right now and go home.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve met Lindsey. She’s raised some serious questions in my mind. Lindsey says she’s being framed. She thinks the NCIS report is a cover-up.”
“She’s been saying that for weeks. What else can she say?”
“So, you don’t buy into the theory that your son may have been murdered by someone with a hidden agenda?”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing. I’m just asking a question.”
“I am sick and tired of people suggesting that my son was murdered because of the life of resistance I’ve led. It is not my fault that my son was killed.”
Jack was taken aback by the defensiveness. “Look, I didn’t come here to lay blame on anyone.”
“I think you did. So let me clear this up right now. I know why Lindsey killed my son.”
A commercial jet cruised overhead, the deafening screech of its engines seeming to punctuate the man’s words. Finally, the noise subsided, and they could talk again.
“You want to tell me why she did it?” said Jack.
“It’s pretty obvious, really, once you know something about me, my family. I came to this country in a rowboat, not a penny to my name. My first job was washing dishes at the Biscayne Cafeteria. Twenty years later I was a millionaire, owner of thirty-seven restaurants. You’ve heard of them, no? Los Platos de Pintado.”
“I’ve eaten there,” said Jack. He knew the Pintado success story, too. It was printed on the back of the menu, including the quaint explanation of how the chain bore a tongue-in-cheek name that harkened back to his humble beginnings as a dishwasher: Los Platos de Pintado meant “Pintado’s dishes.”
Theo said, “Your restaurants are great, dude. But what’s that got to do with your son’s death?”