Dark Waters: A gripping political thriller with a killer twist (Deborah Jones Crime Thriller Series Book 2) Read online

  ‘So why don’t you settle down?’

  Deborah took a few moments to compose herself, fearing that she would say something she’d regret. ‘Listen, we’ll do things in our own good time. As it happens, we’ve talked about it, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Look, I don’t think I need to explain myself. We’ve just not got round to it.’

  ‘Please come for Thanksgiving. That’s all I ask. It would make your father very happy.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘The same. Cantankerous to a fault.’

  ‘Be patient with him.’

  ‘Patient? I’ve been nothing but patient with that man for nearly fifty years.’

  Deborah laughed. Her mother had tended to her father, a retired Baptist minister, since they’d first met on a Civil Rights march in the 1960s. They’d been inseparable ever since, even after his stroke had affected his speech. It frustrated him terribly, and occasionally he took his anger out on her mother. ‘I gotta go. Can I let you know nearer the time?’

  ‘Sure thing, honey. But please try. Love you.’

  Deborah got up from the sofa and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the hustle and bustle of Collins below and onward to the Atlantic. The sun was low in the darkening sky. And the air was warm and sticky, the humidity suffocating despite it being November.

  This was her home. Miami. High up in the sky, living alone, seeing Sam for lunch and weekends at his home, soccer with the girls on Tuesday evenings for practice and Saturdays for games.

  She loved her work. But she wanted more out of life. She wanted to live with Sam, despite her mother’s disapproval. More than anything she wanted to commit to Sam. But the truth was that physical intimacy still scared her. Sam seemed to understand and was content to let things take their course. Usually they lay down together, holding each other tight, but both of them afraid to make a move.

  Deborah knew their set-up sounded strange, and some of her girlfriends on the soccer team laughed about it.

  Occasionally she felt as though she was ready to take the plunge and seal their relationship by making love. But then the dark memories would resurface: the leering faces of the boys from Berkeley who’d raped her were still imprinted on her mind, and the deep longing to consummate their relationship would pass.

  But she knew it couldn’t go on.

  Deborah imagined holding a baby‌—‌their baby. Sam had no children, and she knew he really wanted to be a dad.

  Her home phone rang. She picked it up, wondering if it was Sam, if he was finishing early at the newsroom.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was no reply but she could sense someone at the other end.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  A long pause before a young man’s hesitant answer.

  ‘Is that Deborah Jones of the Miami Herald?’

  ‘I’m sorry, who is this?’

  ‘I’d rather not give my name, if it’s all right with you.’

  ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Not personally, although I think we’ve met.’

  Deborah felt ill at ease. She’d been receiving threatening calls lately from a man who usually called her office when he was drunk. What worried her was that only a handful of people, close friends, knew her home phone number.

  ‘You come highly recommended by Sam.’

  ‘You know Sam?’

  ‘He knows me. Has done for years.’

  ‘Did Sam give you this number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how did you get it?’

  ‘I hacked into your phone company’s computer network.’

  ‘Okay, that’s it. I’m going to hang up—’

  ‘No – listen, don’t do that. As I said, Sam knows me, but I can’t talk to him about what I know because he will tell my parents.’

  ‘Is this some sort of joke?’

  ‘This is no joke, believe me. Miss Jones, I haven’t got too much time… Look, I’ve gotten hold of something.’

  ‘So why are you coming to me?’

  ‘You have a first-rate reputation.’

  ‘What exactly are you talking about?’

  ‘Encrypted government secrets. Files so secret you won’t believe. E-mails. Protocols. I have it all.’

  Deborah didn’t respond.

  ‘Look, all I want to do is show you these files.’

  ‘Why don’t you send them to the paper, marked for my attention? Or send them to Sam.’

  ‘I don’t believe they will reach either of you if I send them by mail.’

  Deborah thought he sounded totally paranoid. ‘Well, e-mail them, then.’

  ‘Miss Jones, I need to know that you have the documents in person.’

  ‘Look, I’m kinda busy, why don’t we—’

  ‘Do you know Dadeland Mall?’

  ‘I don’t even know who you are. Why would I—’

  ‘Please listen to me. And trust me. Sam really does know me.’

  ‘I only have your word for it.’

  ‘Meet me at Dadeland Starbucks tomorrow lunchtime, at midday, when it’s nice and busy. Everything will become clear. But come alone. And don’t tell a soul. Not even Sam. That’s important.’

  ‘I think I’m going to hang up.’

  ‘All I ask is to see you, to hand over these documents. You won’t be sorry’

  ‘What if I don’t turn up?’

  A long silence ensued before the young man spoke again. ‘I think you will.’

  2

  When she awoke the next morning Deborah still hadn’t got the young man’s voice out of her head. He sounded educated, with a hint of Florida twang, but most of all he sounded genuine.

  In many ways it should have been an easy decision to make. She should just have forgotten the call. Besides, if she was to head out to the mall, she was supposed to heed the paper’s safety guidelines for journalists and tell a colleague where she was going, and why.

  Just after eight a.m. Deborah called Rico, one of her investigations team, to tell him that she wouldn’t be in until that afternoon because she was working from home. If anyone needed to contact her they should try her cellphone. Like most inquisitive journalists Rico asked what she was working on, but she just said that she needed to tie up some loose ends concerning the police-corruption investigation that had dominated the previous day’s Herald.

  By 10.30 a.m. she was alone in her Mercedes convertible, driving back across the causeway, shades on, the radio playing a manic Latino song, as the wind whipped up the dark blue waters of Biscayne below.

  Deborah loved Miami, especially South Beach. It was now her home, a tropical, concrete, man-made paradise of high-rise condos and Art Deco hotels, built right in the middle of what had once been a wilderness‌—‌a sandbar infested with rat snakes, poisonous cottonmouths and mosquitoes.

  She turned away from the Herald’s building overlooking Biscayne and onto 1-95 S and then to the South Dixie Highway, past Coral Gables, heading in the direction of Dadeland Mall in the suburb of Kendall.

  Her cellphone rang. It was Leroy Johnston, her deputy on the investigations team. ‘Hey, Deborah, Rico was telling me you won’t be attending the morning news meeting. Is that right?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Can you sit in for me?’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘Thanks, Leroy. There’s a red file on my desk which should have everything you need.’

  ‘But anything I ought to be aware of before Sam starts firing questions at me?’

  Deborah laughed. ‘The housing-agency scandal is ongoing. Rico’s on top of that, and you’re doing sex offenders working in Miami-Dade schools. How’s that shaping up?’

  ‘Talk about depressing. I’ve uncovered at least two teachers, both of whom underwent Board of Ed background checks. You believe that?’

  ‘Nothing surprises me anymore.’

  Deborah spotted the modernist main entrance of the Dadel
and Mall, fringed by palms, and turned off the expressway. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘That’s it, Deborah. I’ll catch up with you later.’

  She ended the call and pulled up at the parking lot by Firestone Tires. She got out of her car, briefcase in hand, and did what she usually did. She checked her reflection in a side window; she was looking smart in the new black Prada suit she’d bought on Washington Avenue the previous week. Her obsession with always dressing the part came from her father, who wouldn’t leave their house in Jackson without a starched white shirt, immaculate suit and clerical collar, and black shoes polished to a deep shine. He thought it was about pride. Pride in one’s appearance gave one pride in oneself, and it fostered respect.

  Deborah was early, so she took her time and did some desultory window shopping. She had at least an hour to kill before midday.

  She wondered if the mystery caller wasn’t already in the mall, watching her movements from afar.

  The smell of scented candles wafted out of a shop, then the aromas of warm chocolate and, finally, coffee.

  Deborah saw the Starbucks sign and the kiosk, a handful of tables and the distinctive dark green umbrellas. No one else was there.

  She ordered a cappuccino and a blueberry muffin and sat down to read that day’s Herald, wondering if and when her mysterious caller would make an appearance.

  3

  Sam Goldberg leaned back in his leather chair in his office in the Herald building, his right shirtsleeve rolled up, a blood-pressure cuff wrapped round his upper arm. It was his annual check-up.

  ‘No difference from the last time,’ Dr Manny Epstein said, loosening the cuff.

  Sam winced.

  ‘Borderline dangerous.’

  ‘But I don’t drink any more.’

  ‘That’s good. But what about exercise? What about your workload?’

  ‘My work is my exercise.’ Sam stood up. ‘You know how it is.’

  Dr Epstein carefully stored the blood-pressure kit in his black bag. ‘Listen to me, Sam. We’ve known each other for a long time. But no one’s immortal. Now, I really am delighted you quit drinking, but you need proper exercise. Walk on the beach, have a swim, spend some time with your girlfriend. Don’t get so fixated on your damned paper.’

  Sam rolled down his shirtsleeve and did up the button.

  ‘You don’t win any prizes when you’re six feet under.’

  Sam gave a wry smile. ‘I must remember to mention that to my executive editor when he’s going over the circulation figures.’

  After the doctor had gone, Sam reflected that it was all very well being blasé in your twenties. But once he’d hit forty, and certainly when he’d lost his wife, he’d felt increasingly conscious of his own mortality.

  There was a knock at the door and Frank Callaghan walked in. ‘Got a minute, Sam?’

  ‘Sure.’ Sam slumped back in his seat and Frank sat in a matching leather chair on the other side of the desk.

  ‘You’re not gonna like this. I’ve just heard from the new guy on Investigations…’

  ‘Rico.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, Rico. Look, I don’t want you to overreact but…’

  ‘Spit it out, Frank.’

  ‘Apparently Deborah has been receiving threatening phone calls.’

  ‘Related to one of her investigations?’

  ‘We don’t know, but she’s stepped on quite a few toes. Cops, pimps, politicians, you name it.’

  ‘So why are you only telling me now?’

  ‘I only just heard it myself. What worries me is that this guy, according to Rico, has also threatened to have her killed.’

  ‘Did he cite any articles?’

  Frank shook his head.

  ‘No wonder I’ve got fucking high blood pressure. I’m telling you, Frank, I’m going to have some words with her. I need to know these things, goddamit.’

  Sam glanced up at the TV. CNN was showing the aftermath of a car bombing in Iraq. ‘I know it’s not your fault,’ he said to Frank, ‘but I don’t want to hear about death threats second-hand.’

  Sam’s eyes flicked back to the TV. Burning cars, pools of blood, screaming people, smoke billowing into the Baghdad sky.

  4

  Harry Donovan, executive editor of the Miami Herald, donned his sunglasses as he stepped onto Crandon Beach’s white sands, his son, Andrew‌—‌carrying a new Adidas soccer ball‌—‌by his side. Under his left arm Harry carried an icebox, a blanket under his right. In the icebox were dozens of ham sandwiches that he’d made up earlier, packed neatly in Tupperware boxes, along with five huge bottles of still water.

  ‘Now remember, plenty of sunblock like Mom said, okay?’

  Andrew rolled his eyes. ‘Dad, gimme a break. You sound like my teacher.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not joking. It’s gonna be high eighties today.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Harry picked a shaded spot under a clump of huge palms, partially shielded from the blistering sun. He put down the blanket. Then he smeared the sun cream over his son’s face, torso and legs before he adjusted the junior Miami Dolphins baseball cap.

  ‘Go play,’ Harry said.

  He experienced a surge of happiness as Andrew kicked the ball down the beach. He was lucky if he saw his son once a week. This was a rare day off for Andrew from his private school, Random Everglades School in Coconut Grove. The boy, his spitting image with wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes, occasionally turned round and grinned at his dad, showing off his newly acquired soccer skills. And all around, scores of families as far as the eye could see, some Latino, some as white as the sand they were playing on, chilled out, ate picnics, listened to some music, or stared out at the pale blue waters off Key Biscayne.

  Sweat trickled down Harry’s back, dampening his white linen shirt.

  This beach was a favorite of his, the pace and ambience a far cry from the touristy haunts of South Beach. Crandon was regularly named among the top ten in the US, and it was safe, protected by an offshore sandbar. Nevertheless, lifeguards kept watch from thirteen elevated towers along the two-mile stretch.

  Andrew dropped the ball at Harry’s feet and wrapped his arm around him. ‘Dad, can I tell you something?’

  ‘Course you can.’

  ‘I don’t know if I should say…’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Well, Mom has met someone. She showed me a picture of him.’

  Harry smiled and stroked his son’s hair. ‘I know, she told me. Look, Andrew, you’ve got a great mom and she’s entitled to a life, just like I am.’

  ‘Don’t you love her?’

  ‘Of course. But it’s complicated.’

  ‘Dad, I don’t want to meet this new man. I just want to be with you.’

  ‘Andrew, what have I always said?’

  Andrew shrugged.

  ‘Didn’t I say that I’ll always be your dad, no matter what?’

  Andrew nodded, but there was confusion in his eyes. ‘Come on,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll be in goal. Penalty shoot-out.’ And then his cellphone rang.

  Checking the caller display, his heart sank. It was Juan Garcia, the paper’s publisher, making his daily call from somewhere in Peru where he was hiking along some ancient Inca trail.

  ‘We need to talk, Harry.’ The line was cutting up. ‘I can’t go on with Sam acting the way he is.’

  ‘Juan, I’m not in the office today. Long weekend. Remember?’

  Juan took no notice. ‘I will not stand for Sam’s insubordination much longer. Who the hell does he think he is? Five minutes ago I mentioned, really nicely, that he still hadn’t come up with sufficient savings in the newsroom. Ten per cent is all. And you know what he said?’

  ‘I’ve got a fair idea.’

  ‘He told me that the newspaper was as lean as he could make it without compromising quality. Harry, that’s complete bullshit, and he knows it. The newspaper industry is facing tough
times and we’ve gotta reduce the workforce. It’s painful but essential. He knows as well as I do that it can be done by eliminating open positions and voluntary buyouts. Shit, we have a really generous severance package.’

  ‘Let’s go over the plans, line by line, next week.’

  ‘But that’s what we did last month. And the month before that. I’m banging my head against a brick wall here.’

  ‘Look, cutbacks are a very sensitive area. But I agree with you, savings can be made. I’ll have a word with him.’

  ‘Set up a meeting for the day I get back. I want this resolved before the holidays.’

  Juan hung up.

  ‘Sorry Andrew,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ He dialed another number while his son attempted to keep the ball in the air with his right foot. ‘You okay to talk, Sam?’

  ‘Thought you were putting your feet up on the beach.’

  ‘I’m trying. Look, Juan’s not happy. We need to resolve the rationalization issue once and for all.’

  ‘He called you on your day off for that? Is he nuts?’

  ‘I’m serious, Sam. We have to cut costs.’

  ‘Not at the expense of the paper. Shit, they’re even talking about outsourcing archiving and the production of the international edition to India. What the hell is that all about?’

  ‘We both know that Juan has got this figure of ten per cent in his head, so we’ve just got to deal with that, okay? The figures I showed you the other week for advertising revenue are grim. It’s time to get real. In the past we’ve avoided large-scale layoffs, I know, but things are different now.’

  ‘He’s an asshole, Harry. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it until I’m blue in the face. He is not a proper newspaperman. He doesn’t know what it’s like.’

  ‘He wants the paper to succeed.’

  ‘We all want the paper to succeed. But I can’t allow him to destroy everything we’ve built up just so he can satisfy the shareholders. I’m not accountable to them.’

  ‘But you’re accountable to me. Look, this problem is affecting everybody. The New York Times and Washington Post have been wielding the axe. We aren’t entitled to any special dispensation.’