Legally Dead (19 page)

“Thank you, darling girl, for this chance,” Marian said. “My time here with you has been a blast. I'll never forget it. Please be careful. Get home safely. You're like a daughter to me. I wish you were mine.”

“I am,” Keri whispered. “I'll think fondly of you every day for the rest of my life.”

“Unlike my own children.” Marian laughed wryly. “You'll always be in my prayers.”

They hugged gingerly.

Keri got to her feet, picked up Marian's oversized handbag, her straw bags of souvenirs, and walked to the door in an excellent imitation of an older woman's gait.

“
Bon voyage
, baby,” Venturi said. “You know what to do. Be careful.”

“I love you all,” she said, eyes fixed on Venturi, then closed the door behind her.

Five minutes later, and two blocks away, she climbed into Marian's waiting taxi. The driver flipped over the meter. “Back to de ship, lady?”

“Yes,” she said, in her best imitation of Marian's voice.

Back at the dock, she swiped Marian's cruise-ship identification card, paused as though it hadn't registered, then swiped her own. She reboarded among a throng of fellow passengers. A few smiled in recognition. She nodded back, then blew her nose, keeping her handkerchief in front of her face.

She went straight to Marian's cabin, unpacked the souvenirs, read the letters Marian had written on ship's stationery, then relaxed until dinnertime.

She ordered an early meal in her room. A butler brought champagne first and set it up next to a table on her stateroom's small terrace while she remained seated at her desk as though writing.

The meal, poached salmon with a salad, arrived a short time later and was served on the small outside table so she could dine while watching the sun set.

After the waiter left, she hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, showered, washed off the makeup, then cleaned the shower stall and changed back into her khaki slacks, T-shirt, and sandals, which had been rolled up in the straw bag. She pulled on rubber gloves then drank a champagne toast to Marian and her new life.

She sat, marveling at the sunset, surrounded by endless sky and sea, wondering in amazement what the hell she was doing here sipping champagne in someone else's cabin. This had to be the craziest thing she'd ever done, and she wondered why it felt so good. She put down the glass and went to work. She used Marian's digital camera to shoot half a dozen photos of the setting sun, then flushed half the meal and some of the champagne down the toilet, careful not to stop up the plumbing. She left a small amount of champagne and the remaining food so it would appear as though the cabin's occupant had consumed half her dinner.

Then she gently tipped over the table and chair on the terrace, spilled the food, and knocked over the champagne bottle. She dropped the camera nearby. By then it was dark. A boiling black sea filled the horizon, and she was glad that they had overruled Danny about going over the side. She took Marian's blood from the tiny stateroom fridge and stained the railing.

One of the souvenirs in her straw bag was a coconut with a silly face painted on it. She saturated the coconut with blood, cried out, then hurled it off the terrace with all her might. She thanked God for good aim when it struck the lifeboat hull below and bounced off into the sea, leaving a bloody splotch behind.

Most passengers on that deck had already gone to dinner. Swiftly and silently, she locked the room, left the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and went to her own cabin without seeing a soul. She quickly dressed for dinner. She wore a stunning black ensemble, lipstick, mascara, and dangly earrings to the bar.

She danced with several men during the evening and seemed to be in full vacation mode, lighthearted and enjoying herself. After retiring to her stateroom, she called Michael's home phone to leave a message.

“Wanted to say good night,” she said, her voice dreamy. “It's so relaxing out here on the water. Having a wonderful time. 'Nite, Mikey. Sweet dreams.”

He and Vicki heard it when they arrived back in Miami a few hours later. Elated, they called Danny with the news.

No one missed Marian Pomeroy until morning, when someone saw blood on the lifeboat hull and looked up. They knocked, then checked her stateroom. What they found was alarming.

Keri, in a two-piece mint green swimsuit, her fair skin slathered with sunscreen, was lounging near the pool with a good book when passengers first became aware that something might be wrong.

The ship was searched from top to bottom. When no sign of Marian Pomeroy was found, the ship's captain alerted the Coast Guard, the Jamaican authorities, and the FBI. The ship heaved to and retraced its course, searching the waters cruised shortly after Marian Pomeroy's last meal was served.

The evidence seemed clear. The missing passenger, an elderly woman, weary after going ashore, had dined alone in her room. She'd consumed much of her meal. The champagne bottle was nearly empty.

No foul play was suspected. Her purchases, her identification, her money and passport were all in her stateroom, along with several letters ready to mail. None appeared to be a suicide note. In one she wrote:

In a separate letter to her attorney she was more clear:

As the ships and planes called off their fruitless search at dark, Claire Waterson's flight was landing at Heathrow. Newly blond, professionally made up, and wearing a brilliant blue suit, she boarded a train to her destination.

Investigators boarded the cruise ship, examined the scene, inspected Marian Pomeroy's camera, and concluded that the avid amateur photographer had climbed up on her chair in order to focus from a wider angle. She may have suffered a dizzy spell due to a stroke, exhaustion, or champagne-induced high spirits. Whatever the reason, she tumbled over the railing. Her body glanced off the lifeboat hull then plunged into the sea.

Few passengers recalled speaking to the missing woman. One couple on the deck below recalled hearing a cry at sunset but assumed it had come from fellow passengers engaging in horseplay during happy hour by the pool.

The young doctor from Miami, taking a break from her busy practice, did not recall meeting or even seeing the wealthy widow from Manhattan.

The ship's security cameras yielded a few glimpses of the missing woman, always alone, both before she went ashore and after her return with the bag of souvenirs found in her stateroom. Marian Pomeroy's body was never found.

When her photo, shot by the ship's photographer, was released to the media, many in Miami recognized her instantly: Marian Pomeroy, the missing cruise ship passenger, was the kindly grandmother who gave away big bills to strangers, as her shipboard letter confirmed.

Psychological profilers who studied the case and the letters to her children found no signs of depression or suicidal tendencies, despite the fact that she had in recent days divested herself of most of her assets.

The conclusion, after an inquest, was that she climbed on a chair, then lost her balance while trying to snap a more dramatic picture of the sunset. She struck her head on the lifeboat and was most likely dead or unconscious before she hit the water.

The blood on the railing and the splotch on the hull matched the missing woman's DNA.

Marian Pomeroy was declared legally dead due to a regrettable accident.

Venturi's hotline rang as he broiled burgers for him and the dog.

“You watching CNN?” Danny asked.

“No.”

“Homicide in Minneapolis. A guy whacked and dropped off a bridge into the river. Somebody wanted to make a statement, to tell the world, ‘Look what I did!'”

“So? There've been six murders here in six days.” Venturi opened the packet of cheese slices to top the burgers.

“Yeah, but my spook hotline says the Minneapolis victim didn't exist. His ID didn't check out. He was somebody else, somebody in the witness protection program.”

Venturi turned off the broiler. “Did you hear a name?”

“He was initially identified as Louis Messineo, operated a trucking business in the Twin Cities.”

Venturi dropped into a kitchen chair, as though the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Thought I'd give you a jingle,” Danny said casually, “in case he was one of yours.”

“Christ, Danny! He is. He was. He's one of my cases! I was his contact agent. Real name, Dominic DelVecchio. He testified in a string of extortion and conspiracy cases over in Jersey. What the hell happened?”

“CNN and Fox say he was shot multiple times, then thrown off a bridge into the Mississippi. Get this: no fatal bullet wounds. Shot in the kneecaps, elbows, shoulders; alive till he hit the water.”

Venturi sprang to his feet and walked the floor, running his hand through his hair. Scout plodded behind him. “How did they find him? What did he get himself into? Last time I checked, when I was still on the job, he looked like he was on the straight and narrow, though that doesn't mean a damn thing.”

“Let's see WITSEC claim again that they never lost a protected witness. It'll be interesting to hear what they say when the press starts asking questions.”

“I can tell you right now,” Venturi said. “They'll blame DelVecchio. They claim they never lost anybody who followed the rules. What they don't say is that one of the rules is ‘Don't get killed.'

“Damn! The Marshals Service will probably want to talk to me. I'm the one who relocated him to Minneapolis and had the most contact with him. Maybe I should call them. I should offer my help. But given the circumstances when I left…”

“Don't kick a sleeping tiger, bro. Don't ask for grief from men in suits. If they really need you, they'll find you. Look, we need to talk, ASAP, about something important. I can stop by or you can come for dinner. Bring Vicki if she's home.”

She wasn't. She was out apartment hunting with a pushy realtor whom Venturi strongly disliked.

He felt comfortable in the house, decided to buy it, and was about to close on the sale. He'd improved the roof and the security gate. Vicki had planted a garden. He hoped she'd stay.

He and Scout went to Danny's. The kids were delighted. Luz seemed quiet. Her pregnancy was beginning to show. Warm and delicious aromas wafted from her kitchen.

Danny wore a
DON'T TASE ME, BRO
T-shirt.

They ate chicken with yellow rice, peas, and sweet plantains.

Aware that Keri was out of town, Luz had invited Mirta, the well-endowed nurse, to join them.

Danny took Venturi back to his study, leaving Luz and Mirta cleaning up and putting the kids to bed.

“Hope Luz doesn't think we're dissing her and her friend,” Venturi said.

“Don't worry about it,” Danny said. “Did you ask her to procure you a woman? Neither did I. She knows you're seeing Keri.”

“Everything all right with you two?”

“Sure.
No problemo.
” Danny put down his beer, pulled a chair up close, and lowered his voice. “We're gonna crash a plane, bro.”

“That so? And who is ‘we'?”

“You and me. ‘We' is us, amigo. I have us a new client. You're gonna love this guy. He needs our help and can afford to pay his own expenses.”

“At least it's not a woman,” Venturi said.

Danny ignored the remark. “You ever hear of Errol Flagg?”

“No.”

“Man, what planet did you fall from? In what century do you live?” He picked up his beer and took an impatient swig. “Ever watch MTV?”

“Nope.”

“Read
People
magazine?”

“Nope.”

He gave a huge sigh and shook his head. “You've gotta move into the twenty-first century, man. Remember I said I worked private security for a while? Errol Flagg was one of my clients.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“Only a rock star. You should only have his groupies,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I had to beat them off him with a stick. I needed a stun gun, a cattle prod, and a baseball bat to protect his bod from hot babes who wanted it.”

“And he finds that a problem?”

“He's got a shitload of problems, all basically because he's a damn nice guy, too nice for the world he's caught up in. He's got it all, and it makes him miserable.”

“He could quit.”

“That is the problem. The music biz is like the mob, you can't quit. When he was young, starting out, and trying to make it, he signed ironclad contracts. He's tied to a bunch of unscrupulous managers, greedy agents, and recording executives. They'd sue his ass from here to kingdom come if he tried to renege.

“He lost his wife, his childhood sweetheart, to the lifestyle. He can't quit. But she could, and she did. He's been caught up in the treadmill of touring, the drug culture, lawyers, agents, stalkers, groupies, tabloids, and hangers-on for fifteen years. He's exhausted, has had enough, but he's committed, tied up for life.

“He wants out, big time. In the beginning it was all about the music. He loved it. Now he doesn't care if he ever sees a guitar again.

“He's been busted for drugs and drunk driving, has been in and out of rehab at least twice. He's clean now, but knows he'll never stay that way if he goes back on tour, which he is contractually obligated to do.”

“Did he have kids with that childhood sweetheart?” Venturi asked. “Can't he just square things with her and make it work?”

“They had no kids when she bailed. She's got several now. Married a guy who comes home at the same time every night without having to fight off a thousand different temptations, from booze to drugs, to rock 'n' roll sex.”

“Does he have another lifestyle in mind?”

“You'll love this—you'll goddamn relate to it, man.” Danny gestured like an orchestra conductor. “His dream is to be a deep-sea fisherman.”

Venturi smiled. “He can't be all bad. But does he have enough brain cells left to pull it off? Can he stay off the drugs and alcohol?”

“Yeah, but since you seriously doubt my judgment these days, why not talk to him? See what you think.”

“I don't doubt your judgment, Danny.”

“Don't tell me that. It's obvious, ever since Solange. You know I could've found a way onto that cruise ship the other day. Could have done the job, and slipped off,
no problemo
. Instead, you let Keri take the risks.”

“The risks were fewer. That's the point, Danny. That plan was a thing of beauty. It all came together so smoothly, no heroics, no life-threatening stunts required. She walked on, then walked off the ship, as opposed to you being retrieved at sea in the dark, with twelve hundred possible witnesses and more shit than you can think of that might go wrong. Sure, you coulda done it. But why, if you didn't have to? Save the risks for the big one, when there is no other recourse. You're just sulking 'cause you couldn't be a hero.”

“You don't get it, Mike. This stateside spy-versus-spy shit can be so goddamn boring that sometimes I feel like I can't breathe.”

“Tell me about it. I miss the action, too. But you're too important to Luz and the kids to take unnecessary risks. Why ask for trouble? Which, unfortunately, reminds me—you mentioned a plane?”

Danny's eyes brightened. “A jet. We can bring it down in the Atlantic where the water's too deep to retrieve the fuselage. Errol Flagg flies his own plane. You know, like John Travolta, JFK Jr., and lotsa other celebrities. Beats flying commercial. I flew his Cessna Citation a few times myself, took over while he was busy doing the mile-high thing. Lands like a dream, all you need to do is watch the horizon.

“I miss flying, Mike. Can't wait to fly the Osprey. You know the one. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it a chopper? Can't wait to pilot one of those babies.”

Venturi had heard about the new military aircraft that takes off and lands like a helicopter but when airborne converts to a turboprop plane after the rotor, transmission, and engine nacelles rotate ninety degrees forward.

“I thought they were still experimental,” he said. “With problems. Heard they were widow makers.”

“Don't believe the media, Mike. The first squadron is already in Iraq, deployed last month. The Osprey flies faster and farther. The cockpit's got night vision and missile-warning systems, and it's nuclear, biological, and chemical warfare protected. I can't wait to fly one.

“Look, just meet Flagg, decide for yourself. I'm betting it's a go. You're gonna love him.”

Errol Flagg wasn't as tall as he looked in the photos Venturi found on the Internet. Probably because most were taken from below, as he spun around up on stage in the spotlight's glare, with his guitar, band members, backup singers and dancers.

Vicki was in the kitchen when Flagg arrived. Venturi had told her that Danny and a friend were coming for lunch.

Errol Flagg arrived first, driving a silver Porsche.

As he and Venturi shook hands, Vicki appeared with a salad bowl. She paused, her expression startled. “Errol Flagg,” she said, matter-of-factly, without hesitation. “I'm a great fan of yours.”

Her instant recognition did not surprise Flagg but did take Venturi aback. Maybe he
was
anchored in a different century.

Flagg's hair was spiky and blond tipped. He wore skintight jeans anchored by a big silver belt buckle and looked hollow-eyed, too pale, and too thin. “Where's Danny?” he asked.

Everybody always asked him that, Venturi thought, annoyed. He wondered himself. He had hoped Danny would arrive first, with the latest on the murder in Minneapolis. According to the news, investigators suspected that DelVecchio had been abducted from outside his home. They knew where he lived! What went wrong? Where the hell was Danny?

A buzz from the gate answered his question.

Danny and the rocker greeted each other like old war buddies.

“We've been through hell together,” Flagg explained gravely.

“I know the feeling,” Venturi said. He offered Flagg a whiskey, impressed when the man declined.

“I'm fresh out of rehab, the third time,” Flagg said candidly.

“Third time's the charm,” Danny said reassuringly.

“I guess Danny's told you what it's like,” Flagg said. “I'm sorry he left the business. I miss him. He was a good influence, did a lot to keep me straight.” The timbre of Flagg's speaking voice and his worn expression exuded the weary resignation of a troubled Shakespearean actor.

“It's tough to explain. No one understands,” he said earnestly. “I can't go anywhere, do anything. The paparazzi create a traffic jam if I go out for a beer and everybody, including waiters, waitresses, and the people who deliver room service, tries to sneak pictures with their cell phones to peddle to the tabloids. It's a bummer to never have a private moment.”

“Wouldn't you miss playing music, being in the spotlight?” Venturi said.

“Not the spotlight, I've had my fill of that. Someday, maybe, I might pick up a guitar again, but only for my own enjoyment. No band, no amps, no screaming crowds.

“To disappear forever,” he said longingly, “would be an impossible dream come true. Like finding a girl who wants sex with you because she cares, not so she can tape the deed and sell it to the highest bidder.”

“
You
wouldn't disappear,” Venturi said. “Errol Flagg would. He'd be legally dead and gone, with an obituary and a death certificate. He'd no longer exist.”

“Dying young would be excellent,” Flagg said fervently. “Traditional. Rock stars die young. Did you know they live to an average age of forty-two in the USA and thirty-five in Europe?

“Buddy Holly, Elvis, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain. Good company,” he said jauntily. “Who am I to buck tradition? I've beaten the odds so far.” His smile faded. “But not much longer. It's either that, or your way.”

Danny explained his idea.

“The impact would be in deep water, so deep that the plane breaks up and the fuselage—where you are—can't be recovered,” he concluded.