Heart of the World (11 page)

I gave the driver the address and settled into the back seat. The cab was faintly air conditioned, the hum like a lullaby, but I was too wound up to doze.

If I was wrong, I'd waste time and money, but I wouldn't jeopardize Paolina's recovery. Mooney would handle the cop routine, finesse the FBI. Roz had promised to monitor the phones. Gloria would ride herd on Moon and Roz both.

Clients who paid me to retrieve runaways said they felt better once they'd hired me. Once they'd signed responsibility for finding their missing child over to me, they felt somehow released, freed to go on with some skeletal semblance of their lives. No way could I sign this case over to someone else. I had to go with my gut, and my gut said Miami. It said Thurman W. Vandenburg.

Years ago, when I'd gotten a mysterious package of cash in the
mail—special delivery from Paolina's real father to my little sister— Thurman W. Vandenburg, Esquire, had served as go-between. I'd refused to accept it at first, on the grounds that it was drug money, dirty money. But the more I pondered, the more it seemed that money was money, that the cocaine had been paid for and consumed, that Roldan's money, dirty or not, could buy Paolina and her family out of the projects.

I stared out the window at streets lined with low shops and stucco houses, the signs in Spanish as often as English, the colors—bright reds, hot pinks, shades of orange—hothouse and exotic. I cranked the window and the cabbie glared. I was spoiling the AC, but I didn't care. I wanted to smell a breeze that floated in over a blue ocean instead of an icy gray-green sea. After this is cleared up, after it's over, I promised myself, Paolina and I will come here and soak up the sun on a sandy beach. I'll buy her the best strawberry ice cream cone in town.

When the cab pulled up in front of a three-story cement-and tinted-glass structure, I hauled my duffel out onto hot pavement, tipped the driver, and checked my watch. Twenty minutes to spare.

The landscaping was elegant; the palms and colorful broadleafed plants meticulously pruned and groomed. Entering the lobby felt like entering a cold-storage locker. Inside the frosted-glass doors, the parquet flooring and wide stairway were guarded by a grandfatherly rent-a-cop. I threw him a smile and asked to use a bathroom. He grinned back like I'd made his day and ushered me toward a corner door.

I splashed cold water on my face and made an attempt to tame my hair. The humidity had done its work, making it wilder than usual. I found a clip in my backpack, wound my hair into a curly mass, and plunked it on top of my head. As I held a damp paper towel to the back of my neck, the eyes of a woman who hadn't slept in days stared at me from the mirror.

I signed “Janice Ford” in the logbook at the desk. Grandpa beamed and asked whether I'd like to leave my duffel with him. When I declined he said fine and nodded me toward the stairs without bothering to search my belongings. He didn't check my name against any list of appointments or phone to see whether a Ms. Ford was expected.

Haley, Briggs, and Associates, on the second floor, was the formal name of Vandenburg's firm. As I climbed the steps, I wondered how
many associates worked there and what the nature of that work might be. If they all labored for drug cartels, I'd have expected more than Gramps in the way of security.

The waiting room smelled like money—spacious, with fresh flowers and plush gray carpet. I gave my phony name to the tanned receptionist. When I use an alias I often pick a last name suggestive of family wealth.

“He'll be with you as soon as he's available,” she said automatically. She was a little too young, a bit too flashily dressed for the surroundings.

The oil paintings on the walls didn't look like reproductions, misty sea scenes with romantic sails in the distance, hints of tropical lushness echoed by gleaming plants and polished mahogany.
Architectural Digest
and
Travel and Leisure
sat on the coffee table like invitations to a never-never land of the idle rich.

There were two squishy blue sofas and three print chairs, but I was the only one waiting. Five minutes passed. Ten. A famous actor I'd never heard of owned a massive house in Malibu constucted of sheet metal, old rubber tires, and blue glass. Twenty. I was contemplating breaking in on Vanden-burg and ousting his client or tossing his lunch out the window when the receptionist approached, apologizing for the delay. I followed her through a paneled doorway and down a long cool corridor. She knocked at a door on the right, waited for a low, “Come in,” before turning the brass knob.

The receptionist gave my phony name, nodded, and closed the door.

I'd never met Vandenburg, but we'd spoken on the phone and I recalled his unctuous voice. A smooth operator, a genial shark, that's how I'd envisioned him. Now he rose from behind his imposing desk, a man who'd probably played a little college ball, a good-old-boy, go-along-get-along guy with the easy smile that would get him into the right fraternity, the polish to impress the right people. A fall of blond hair drooped boyishly across his forehead. His suit was charcoal, his smile dazzling, his handclasp firm. The airy office was filled with sleek furniture, healthy plants, and photos of blond children so perfect they might have been issued along with the silver frames. No wife in evidence.

He indicated a plush armchair and waited for me to sit before resuming his throne. His desk was the size of a substantial dining table.

“What can I do for you, Miss Ford?” I wondered whether he'd been in a meeting or on the phone; no client had been ushered out through the waiting room, but his office had a second door that could be used as
an escape hatch. I let my eyes wander slowly over his diplomas and awards. There was a collection of framed non-family photographs, men in suits shaking each other by the hand. The place looked like a respectable lawyer's office. No bulletproof vests, no metal detector.

“I thought you might recognize my voice,” I said.

He smiled his brilliant smile, not flirtatious, but well on the way. “I'm sorry. I'm sure if we'd met before I'd remember.”

“We have a mutual friend. Carlos Roldan Gonzales.”

Underneath the golfer's tan, he might have turned a shade paler. He'd never used his client's name when we'd spoken on the phone, always said “the man” or “our friend.”

“My name isn't Ford. It's Carlyle.”

“Boston,” he said. “No, I'm lying. Cambridge.”

“Good for you; good memory. What the hell does Roldan think he's doing?”

Vandenburg flashed his shark smile. “No idea what you're talking about.”

“You've been at it again, forwarding letters, sending packages. Directly to the daughter this time.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, “but I don't do that sort of thing anymore. I mean, I never—” He stopped himself and grinned to cover his lapse. “What I'm saying is, I never involve myself in such matters.”

I'd brooded about the best way to approach Vandenburg through two airline baggies of salty peanuts, a Pepsi, and a Bloody Mary. Asking for the information was definitely my first choice. I glanced around, but unless someone had an ear to one of the doors, no one was listening. Vandenburg didn't point at a painting or a potted plant to indicate that his office might be bugged. He hadn't lowered his voice.

Neither did I. “I need to talk to Roldan. If you don't help me find him, you may have a long time to regret it.”

“Excuse me? Are you threatening me?”

“I'm assuming that before you got in touch with me about that first package, you checked me out. You know I used to be a cop. You know I'm still in the cop business.”

“I know you were.”

“I try to stay in touch. For example, DEA's Group 26 works out of Miami, right? Jerry Hillier still in charge?”

“No. Uh, no, he's not.” His right hand touched the knot of his pink-flecked tie.

The man kept up to date on who ran 26. Why bother if he no longer had any drug connections?

“Doesn't matter,” I said. “It's not about individuals once you get those guys involved. They love getting their hands on Americans who stooge for the cartel players. Lawyers are their favorite snack food.”

“I am no longer in communication with that man. I never knew what his business was.”

“Tell it to Hillier's replacement,” I said, “or tell me how to reach him.”

“You working for DEA?”

I explained about Paolina because I thought it might work; he had pictures of his kids on his desk. While I spoke, Vandenburg's eyes settled on the door as though he'd like to use it.

I said, “You've built a nice practice here. Shame to bring it tumbling down.”

“I heard he was dead.”

“We both know that's not true.”

“I don't know where he is.”

“Too bad.”

“It's the truth.”

When lawyers insist they're telling the truth, watch out. I said, “I'll bet you know somebody who knows.” “You don't know what you're getting involved in,” he replied. “I need a way to get to Roldan, and I will mess up your life if I don't get it.”

He chewed his lip for a while. I waited. He stared at his diplomas, the pictures of his kids. I glanced at my watch.

He lowered his voice. “I might know someone who might be able to get a message to the man. I might be willing to give you that name, as a goodwill gesture.”

“Terrific,” I said. “But don't send me on a wild goose chase. I'm an impatient woman and I might find myself wandering over to 26 if I don't get quick results.”

He stared longingly at the door again, finally decided that no one was going to come to his rescue. “Drew Naylor.”

“Who is he? How do I find him?”

“He makes promotional films for business clients. Works half the year here and half in L.A. Very swanky, very exclusive. Thinks he ought to get nominated for an Oscar.”

He sounded resentful; I hoped he wasn't siccing me on a deadbeat client.

“Where do I find him?”

The lawyer flashed his shirt cuff and consulted a gold Rolex. “You don't find him.”

“I'm not sitting around waiting for a call. Where does he live?”

“I wouldn't want him to know—”

“I'm not here to make trouble for you; I'm here to find a way to get to Roldan.”

Vandenburg rubbed his hands like he was warming them over a hot stove. “Look, Naylor's throwing one of his parties tonight. I'll try to talk to him. He might give me a phone number, a conduit, but—”

“Where's the party?”

“Naylor wouldn't want me to—”

I said, “You have a date for this party?”

His face relaxed into a smile. “Naylor's parties—you go there to meet women, you don't bring them.”

“But tonight's an exception,” I said. “I'd love to go.”

He stared at me with his mouth open, ready for rebuttal. I could see him considering his options.

He nodded at my duffel. “You have something in there to wear to a Coral Gables fling?”

“Underdressed is always elegant. What time? Where does he live?”

“Where are you staying?” he countered. “I'll pick you up.”

I gave him my cell number and requested his.

When he handed me his card, he couldn't resist adding some advice. “I wouldn't bother threatening Naylor with DEA if I were you.”

“And why is that?”

“I wouldn't threaten him in any way.” His voice stayed as level as the low Florida ground, but he stood to emphasize that the interview was at an end.

I stood as well; I didn't like him staring down at me. “Wouldn't it be easier to give me an address? I won't use your name.”

“Ms. Carlyle, we do this my way or not at all.”

I wanted to grab him by his tailored lapels and shake him, make him understand that Paolina, my Paolina, my golden girl in the photo frame, was slipping away with every delay, with every wasted hour. His eyes were cold; the good-old-boy smile long gone.

“If I find him first,” I said, “the deal's off.”

“I'll pick you up at eight.”

In other words, there was a greater chance of a sudden Miami blizzard than of me locating Naylor under my own steam. Vandenburg marched across the carpet and held the door to his escape hatch wide. He looked like he'd go on standing there, stern and mute as a guard at Buckingham Palace, till I gave up and departed.

He shut the door on my heels; I didn't even get the chance to slam it.

CHAPTER 9

A discreet staircase led from Vandenburg's escape hatch
to the lobby where Gramps, happy to take a break from guarding the parquet, called for a cab. When a dirty white Ford with
HANK'S
T
AXI
S
ERVICE
boldly lettered in red on the side door pulled up, I checked the driver's ID on the visor while ducking into the back seat. The driver's name wasn't Hank, but his face matched the photo, so I told him to drop me at a motel, requesting cheap but not sleazy, mentioning that I piloted a Boston cab in the hope that he'd select wisely for a fellow member of the community. His bloodshot eyes met mine in the rearview mirror and he hung a sudden left.

“Got a daughter your age,” he said gruffly. “Whatcha wanna drive a hack for?”

I shrugged and he accepted it as a reply, which was a good thing because I wasn't in the mood for a discussion. Vandenburg hadn't shut me down completely; it was a relief, but hardly a comfort. Naylor's party might prove a dead end. And worse, it wasn't till evening, long hours away. I watched the traffic, resisting the temptation to order the cabbie to take me to the airport so I could keep an eye on every departure lounge with a scheduled flight to Colombia.

I couldn't watch the flights from New York, I told myself. Or the Delta departures from Atlanta.

The driver abandoned me in front of a low slung
L
-shaped building
with instructions to tell the guy on the desk that Frankie G. had sent me. The clerk turned pleasant when I mentioned the name, and told me I was lucky they had a vacancy the way the weather sucked up north. The place had a kidney-shaped deco pool and a room worth the price: the carpet soft, the bed firm, the sheets fresh. There was a scratched wooden desk for my laptop and a phone directory tucked away on the top shelf of a cramped closet.