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  Laura realized that most men would dote on such charming young daughters, but Steve remained aloof and only she and Steve’s father knew why. Steve, too, had been an identical twin and his daughters were a constant reminder of a horrible childhood scar. At the age of ten — the girls’ age — Steve had uncharacteristically shoved his brother, Philip, during a fight in their tree house.

  Philip had tumbled to the ground, his neck snapping on impact, dying instantly. For months Steve’s mother had been hospitalized with major depression, never resuming a nurturing relationship with Steve, her remaining only child. Her life became recurrent panic attacks, leaving her socially debilitated. It did not matter that the tragedy had been an accident.

  Laura and Steve had been married almost five years before she learned the truth. After this revelation, which came not from Steve but from his Aunt Hazel, Steve refused to discuss the accident. Since the birth of Natalie and Nicole, Laura had repeatedly tried to get Steve to confront the impact of the accident on his feelings toward his daughters, but to no avail. Even after his mother died when the girls were five, Steve would not face it. If only he’d gotten psychological help, things would be so different. Not that Laura had that much confidence in therapists; she’d seen her share of incompetents; but Steve’s mind was locked in concrete and there was no key.

  As these thoughts flooded her mind, Laura wandered through the house, straining to hear a car pull up in the driveway. She tried calling Steve’s apartment several times, but there was no answer, just the answering machine. Where could they be? How horrible, how unforgivable, not to call. Certainly there could be nothing wrong or she would have heard. Repeatedly, Laura tried to tackle the stack of accumulating medical journals on her desk, but she couldn’t focus. Where could they be? Where could they possibly be?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Frank Santiago adjusted the incline of the passenger seat to accommodate his lanky frame. “So, Ritchie, what do you tell your kids when they ask you what kind of business you’re in?”

  Ritchie Noval drove the forest green Lincoln Town Car across Alligator Alley heading for Tampa. They’d just come from a meeting with the big boss, Carlos Tosca, in Miami. Despite the deeply tinted windows, both wore dark wraparound glasses. Ritchie was in his early thirties, a clean-cut Hispanic with massive shoulders, a cherubic face, and jet black hair worn in a neat crew cut. In preparation for the job ahead, he wore dark blue khakis, a short sleeve Polo shirt also in dark blue, and black Rockports.

  Frank, ten years his senior, looked ready for Madison Avenue in a charcoal gray Armani suit — the jacket precisely folded atop the backseat — a baby blue shirt stiffly starched, a silk patterned tie of cobalt blues, and gleaming Bruno Magli dress shoes. His coal black hair worn slicked back off his forehead and the debonair style aptly camouflaged the taut, tough muscles that lay underneath the expensive veneer.

  “They’re too young. Haven’t asked yet,” said Ritchie with a grin. “Whaddaya think I’m gonna say? Your old man’s a soldier in the Mafia?”

  “‘Organization,’ got a classier ring to it,” Frank stated. “Can’t wait for the day I have boys big enough to follow in the old man’s footsteps.”

  “So you’re plannin’ your own family, eh, boss?”

  “Sons, to take over the business some day.”

  “Right. I got two and one little girl.”

  “Girls, you gotta take care of em. Four boys, that’s what I want. The more the better. I got three sisters I took care of till they finally landed their hombres. Shit, thought it would take forever. Boys, they take care of themselves. Once they know what they’re doin, that is.

  “I can see it,” Ritchie nodded. “You’re just the guy to show ’em, Frankie.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “That mean you’re gettin’ married soon or what?”

  “Me and Kimmie.” He paused. “Soon, real soon.”

  Ritchie laughed. “She’s one sweet piece.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Frank grumbled, “and you keep your fuckin’ eyes to yourself. Noticed you couldn’t keep ’em off those twins last night.”

  “Hey, we’re in Miami, there’s not one but two sets of amazing knockers for the taking. Whaddaya expect me to do?” Ritchie accelerated to pass a lumbering eighteen-wheeler.

  “Business comes first, that’s all.”

  “Frankie, man, I am all business.” He stifled a yawn. “So let’s talk business. Like, whaddabout your clothes?”

  “What about my clothes?” Frank asked, reaching down to his trousers to pick off a trace of lint.

  “Those pretty shoes of yours are goin’ to get all fucked up on this job. And the million dollar suit ain’t gonna look too classy splashed with blood and who knows what.”

  “Nice to know you’re so worried about my threads. I got coveralls in the trunk, we’ll stop at Kimmie’s and I’ll change.” Frank checked his Patek Phillippe. “It’s four now and we’re only fifty miles from Temple Terrace. Plenty of time to make it to the docks by six fifteen.”

  “Carlos ain’t gonna like it,” Ritchie said. “He said to change cars once we got to Tampa and don’ let nobody see us.”

  “Carlos don’t need to know,” Frank said with finality.

  “I hear that, boss. Besides, the point is the fucking Mexicans, right? We’re not taking no shit from those faggots. Show them who’s who, them movin’ in on us. We own South Florida. Once we get our hands on that blow, Tampa’ll be ripe for months.”

  Frank smiled. “That’s the idea. Now lay it out for me again.”

  “Just like we said. We take ’em out on the narrow strip. I got all the stuff in the van. Wait till you see the fake old man, looks fuckin’ real. He’s in these rags, even got a gray-haired ponytail! Gonna look like the old mierda passed out pushin’ his fuckin’ shopping cart across the road, bags and shit falling out. Driver’s gonna have to slow down no matter what, gotta figure out whether to run over the old mierda or go around him. Not a good choice because the road’s so skinny and rutted. We’ll have ’em in our crosshairs.”

  “Nice,” said Frank as he fingered the nine millimeter Glock he’d removed from its holster. “You gotta respect how Carlos gets the inside information on the shipments, right down to the map the faggots are usin’ to get off Hooker’s Point. If they got only one fool ridin’ shotgun, shouldn’t need more than this, but I also got my throwaway.” He reached down and patted the lump on his ankle.

  Carlos Tosca, underboss for organized crime in South Florida, had received word that a shipment of high-grade cocaine was due into Tampa Harbor lined up for some Mexicans. That wasn’t supposed to happen since the “big boss” had brokered deals with Latin drug groups: Costa Rica, Peru, Ecuador, Puerto Rico, and Mexico, to control cocaine coming into the country. But now, just like the Asians, the Mexicans and South and Central Americans were trying to cut them out and go it alone. “Take care of it,” he told Frank. “Fuckin’ ingrates. Take ’em out. That’ll teach ’em to fuck with Carlos Tosca.”

  “Me and Ritchie’ll handle it, boss. No problemo.”

  Frank then charged Ritchie Noval, his second in command, to work out the details to surprise the Mexicans just after they’d loaded the packages and as they headed off Hooker’s Point away from the Port of Tampa. Nobody else was in on the job — just the two of them. They’d stash the stuff, dispose of any bodies, then disappear from the city for a couple of weeks.

  Frank could have assigned the job to his underlings, but he’d come up through the system and liked getting back to basics. Besides, he’d just been in Miami with Tosca for three weeks and was anxious to get back to Tampa. He’d missed Kim Connor. Not that there weren’t plenty of women in the Miami clubs, but just thinking of her gave him a hard-on. Sure, she was a beauty, but so were dozens of others. She just made him feel so goddamned good. He knew that she used to be a drug addict and he admired how she stayed off the dope and went easy on the booze. He’d never known a woman like that, so clas
sy, smart, sexy. Truth was, maybe she scared him a little. And Frank’s reaction to that was — and always had been — bad. With Kim, he kept telling himself, he had to keep himself in control. Maybe he could slap his other women around, but not Kim. He knew it as soon as he’d hit her.

  She’d avoided him the following day, disappearing that night with some story about how she lost her keys. He wanted to believe her, but what about that Nelson prick? The kid at the station saw them leave together, but so what. She came back to the station after she figured out she lost her keys, that’s what happened. Then Frank had to leave for Miami.

  Kimmie. She was different, so different that he’d even discussed some of his plans with her. And, yeah, it was time to take a wife and have sons to take over the business when he got old. Kim Santiago. He could see it clearly — Kimmie and a bunch of little Frankies and Kimmies.

  Of course, she’d have to quit her television job. And change her mind about having kids.

  Kim lived in a modest two-story townhouse in Temple Terrace, on the outskirts of Tampa. All the houses looked alike — creamy stucco with green shutters and red tile roofs – but they were all nicely maintained and the neighborhood looked safe and pleasant.

  “Here we are, boss,” Ritchie poked Frank, disturbing his reverie. “Ain’t that where she lives?”

  Frank scowled. “Yeah, that’s it. Where the fuck is her car? Just keep driving till you find a pay phone.”

  “Right now? I mean, we got business —”

  “Right now means right now. Quit your bitchin’, I’m just gonna leave a message on her fuckin’ answering machine.”

  After he’d left a phone message, Frank and Ritchie drove on according to plan and exchanged the Lincoln for a white unmarked van at the designated warehouse. There, Frank carefully removed his clothes and shoes, donned a pair of coveralls and sneakers, and they headed down to the Port of Tampa on Hillsborough Bay. Since it was a Sunday and the location remote, they would make the hit shortly after the blow had been unloaded from the ship into the panel truck. There’d be the driver and one, or maybe two, security guys. Using the dummy to confuse the driver, they’d simply spray them to pieces. Ritchie would drive the truck to a warehouse nearby, and then they’d both disappear.

  “Let’s do it, Ritchie.” Frank Santiago’s voice sounded like steel. “There’s the fuckin’ panel truck, just like Carlos said. Fuck, they won’t even know what hit ’em.”

  Ritchie grunted. Each man, one on each side, stood under cover of the thick palmettos that encroached upon the deserted road at its narrowest point.

  The gray panel truck slowed to a stop in front of an overturned grocery cart blocking its way. An old man in ragged clothes lay sprawled on his side next to the cart — only the form was a mannequin. Strewn around him were half-open plastic garbage bags that had presumably tumbled out of the cart. As the bewildered driver focused on the body in the road, Frank stepped forward, his eyes locked on the man in the passenger seat who warily swung his gun in an arc around the perimeter of the cab. Glock in hand, equipped with silencer, Frank fired point black at the swarthy passenger’s head. There was a pop, and the man’s head exploded into pieces. On the driver’s side, Ritchie had already leapt onto the road before firing at the driver. Then the two men jumped into the truck just long enough to assure themselves that there was no one in the back with the blow. Frank shoved the dead passenger to the floor, went back out, and hastily hauled the dummy over to the truck and tossed it inside while Ritchie pushed the dead driver to the side, engaged the gears, and pulled out. By that time Frank had jumped back out of the truck.

  No way should Frank stop before returning the van to the warehouse, but he was filled with a nasty feeling about Kim — a nagging, sick premonition that he couldn’t shake. Why wasn’t her yellow Firebird parked out front of her place like it always was? Had she come back and picked up his message that he was going to come by just for a few seconds for a quick kiss? Then he clenched the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. What if the little bitch thought she could walk out on him? If she ever tried that, what choice would he have?

  Frankie felt the rage build in that familiar way and he shook his head from side to side. Part of him wanted to beat the shit out of her. The other part warned him not to lay a hand on her. With an up-and-down nod of his head, he made up his mind. No matter what, he’d promise her everything. Hell, they could get married right away. They’d leave right away, go to a safe place while things at the Port of Tampa cooled down. Yes, he nodded his head more vigorously now. Vegas would be perfect.

  When Frank pulled up to Kim’s place, heart beating excitedly with this new plan, he felt his body lurch forward in the seat. He arrived just in time to see Kim climb into her Firebird and drive away. He followed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  By six o’clock Sunday, Laura’s frustration was uncontained. The phone hadn’t rung all afternoon. Even though she was not on call, someone from the hospital or some patient’s relative usually got through the switchboard, something that would distract her from her missing children and defiant husband, but nothing.

  After waking on the sofa that morning, Laura had changed into a pair of faded cutoffs and her favorite, tattered “Michigan” T-shirt. She’d splashed cold water on her face, but hadn’t wanted to chance missing a call by taking a shower. All day she’d done nothing but pace back and forth from the kitchen door to the front door, climb the stairs to again and again check the empty rooms, and open and shut the refrigerator, taking nothing out. Accelerating fear competed with blinding rage as Laura paced, unable to sit, unable to think. Could they have had a horrible accident? No, of course not. Somebody would have notified her. Steve was doing this just to aggravate her, the selfish bastard. Had they really come to this? How hopeless, draining, depressing.

  She called his apartment again. That stupid answering machine. Another hour. She looked up at the clock on the kitchen wall over the refrigerator. She went back to her desk. Sat down. Got up. She went back upstairs and made her rounds of the bedrooms once again, stopping to straighten Mike and Kevin’s room. She thought about fixing something to eat, but decided on donuts instead. Three chocolate donuts that she didn’t even taste.

  At seven with fumbling fingers, Laura flipped through the Tampa phone book’s white pages searching for Kim, or Kimberly, Connor. No such listing. She called information. Learning that Kim had an unlisted number, Laura pushed herself to call George Granger. She desperately needed to find her kids.

  “Hello, George,” she said, trying to sound calm when he picked up on the first ring. “It’s Laura Nelson. How are you?”

  “Well, what a surprise, Laura. I’m fine.”

  “And Melanie?”

  “Oh, she’s great. She was able to catch up and finish fourth grade with her class. You’d never know she’d been that close to — well, Laura, we owe you everything.”

  Laura knew quite well that Melanie had fully recovered. She was on the same Little League team as her own girls. “She’s such a lovely child, George.”

  “Thank you. You know, I wanted to talk to you about Steve. I knew he’d take it hard, and I told him I’d try to help any way I could. I hope you understand that with Kim moving to Atlanta, we really couldn’t keep him on as anchor. The decision was out of my hands.”

  “You did what you had to do, George. I understand. He’ll just have to pull himself together and find another job.”

  Laura didn’t know whether George was aware of their separation or about the night with Kim Connor. She’d called him impulsively, not knowing how she’d approach him to get Kim’s number. Her stomach began to hurt.

  “Whatever I can do, Laura. Just let me know.”

  “Actually, George, I do need a favor. Steve asked me to call Kim and ask her to drop off some photographic equipment she’d borrowed.” Laura felt her body stiffen, a reaction to the blatant lie. “He’s away for the weekend and I thought I’d get on this. Could you give me her
home phone?”

  “You just hang on while I get it,” George said. A few moments later, he read off the seven digits. “She’s moving, as you know. It might be this weekend.”

  “Great. Thanks, George, and give my love to the family. See you at softball one of these days. Your Melanie and my Nicole take the game much more seriously than my Natalie.”

  He chuckled. “I know what you mean. Okay, Laura. Nice talking to you.”

  “Same here. Good night now.”

  Laura took a breath and dialed the number. It was seven fifteen. Could Steve actually be at that woman’s house with her children? It’s not possible, she thought. Laura assumed that Kim had no use for kids, but she might act like she did if she wanted Steve badly enough.

  “God, I just don’t know what else to do,” she said aloud.

  Three rings. A click. Of course. Like Steve, Kim would have an answering machine too.

  “Hi there. Sorry I can’t take your call right now, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you just as soon as I can.” No identification, but it was Kim’s voice all right, her sexy public voice.

  “Kim, this is Laura Nelson. I’m looking for my husband.” Laura didn’t know what else to say. “Listen, I don’t want you anywhere near my children. I’m warning you. Stay away from them.”

  She hung up, glancing for the hundredth time out the front window. There was still plenty of light for the late June evening as Marcy’s car pulled into the driveway and headed toward the garage. Should she tell Marcy the kids still weren’t home? No, she decided. Surely they’d be home soon. She called Steve’s again. The damn answering machine. She slammed down the phone.

  That was it. She was going over. Marcy could keep an eye out for them in the meantime. She picked up the receiver and dialed the phone once more. “Hi, Marcy.” She struggled to sound cheerful. “Have a nice day in St. Pete?”