Landry stayed in the old man’s room longer than he’d planned to, drawn in by the strange conversation between the old man and the female cop. The dynamic intrigued him.
He went outside and took stock of the situation. First thing, he blocked the causeway west of the gatehouse by parking Frank’s two Suburbans crosswise. That took care of land. But he still had to deal with air and sea.
He glassed the boats in the bay. A couple of fishermen were out early. The people he was worried about could be on those boats now, pretending to be fishermen. It was what he would do. There was no other sign of movement in the air, sea, or land, except for the dogs. They fell in with him as he scouted the island, following him back to the octagon house. He brought them inside and went to the kitchen on the first floor. There was some meat in the freezer. He defrosted it in the microwave, led the dogs outside, and fed them. He fed them a little at a time. He’d go back inside, get more meat, and call them with, “Come dogs!” By the third time they came running. By the fifth time, they were camped outside the front door.
The dogs would alert them if anyone came their way—an inexpensive alarm system.
Then he found the right spot in a lushly vegetated patch of garden with a good view of the water and the road. High enough to see the two obvious points of entry—a good place to set up as a sniper.
He settled on his stomach in the dark shade of a royal palm and looked through the sight once again at the boats. The fishermen, if they were fishermen, were fishing. But while it was still bright and sunny, he could see the chop on the water and clouds massing when he looked toward the Gulf. There were more boats when he looked again, drifting in, and he wondered if there were a lot more on Cardamone’s team than just four.
55
Jolie tried to find a way out of her grandfather’s room, but they were locked in. The basement windows were too narrow to get through. Whatever their captor had pushed up against the door was too heavy to move.
She wondered why he didn’t just kill them.
She would have.
Jolie went through his actions so far. He had shocked them by throwing the chair through the window. He’d taped them up quickly, paying particular attention to her because he knew she was a cop.
Control and intimidation.
Everything he did from the moment he broke through the window had been calculated to keep them off balance, cowed. He wanted them to depend on him, and only him.
Which meant he wanted them for something.
Jolie glanced at Franklin, who sat against the wall, his feet out in front of him, his head pressed into the corner. Riley beside him. She’d stopped crying, stopped talking. Maybe she was in shock. As Jolie watched, Riley burrowed herself deeper into her father’s body, so he had to raise his chin and rest it on the top of her head.
Jolie wondered if Franklin knew their captor. Something in his body language. A certain…familiarity. She thought back to the scene between Riley and the man in black, the way she talked to him.
There was something in her voice—resentment?
No. She was affronted.
Riley told her father to order their captor to leave, but Frank did nothing.
Could this have been planned? Done for their benefit? Like a play?
Ridiculous thought, but it nagged her. What if it was for their benefit, and then it went wrong?
She needed to get Frank talking. There was plenty to talk about, so she started with the subject that brought her here.
“Franklin, what happened to Nathan Dial?”
He didn’t respond. But Riley glared at her.
“Franklin? Did the vice president kill Nathan Dial?”
“Leave my dad alone!”
“Franklin?”
He looked at Jolie with the eyes of a resentful child. “What do I care? My life is over. My wife is dead, I’ve failed my own family…” He stared at the floor, every line in his body saying,
“No, you haven’t, Daddy. It’s
Jolie would have loved to hear Riley’s take on why it was her fault. “Just tell me, Franklin. For the family’s sake. Did the vice president kill Nathan Dial?”
He gave her a look of annoyance. “What difference does it make now? That’s all water under the bridge.”
“Not for his family it isn’t.”
“Who cares? He was a godless homosexual.”
“His family cares. Did it ever occur to you, Franklin, that all of this might be connected?”
Kay said, “Jolie, what are you talking about?”
“You heard him. The vice president killed a young man named Nathan Dial.”
“Vice President Pintek? You can’t be serious! I don’t believe that for one minute. Is that why you came with me? You didn’t want to help with Riley, you wanted to sneak in here and interrogate my uncle!”
Franklin said to Jolie, “What do you mean, connected?”
“The VP is dead, Frank. Grace is dead. Somebody wants to cover this up. More than you already did.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” But there was something in his voice that told her she was close to the truth.
“What did you do, Franklin? Take your boat out in the middle of the night? Chain him to an anchor and dump him in the bay?”
Kay clapped her hands over her ears. “Shut up! Shut
“Frank, is there more I don’t know?”
“There’s nothing.”
“Why now? Why did the VP die now? You had it all covered up—”
“I’m not talking to you.”
“You leave us alone!” Riley shouted. “You’re just jealous because we never wanted you, we—”
Jolie tried to keep her voice level. “A boy was killed, Frank.”
Kay glared at Jolie. “I don’t believe you! Frank wouldn’t do that.”
“What about the guy who took us hostage, Franklin? Is he a part of the cover-up?”
“How would I know?”
“I think you know him. I think you planned this.”
“You’re crazy.”
Something jabbed her shoulder. A crooked finger, ending in a yellowed nail.
Her grandfather, the senator. His hawk nose was inches from her face, eyes like shiny black beetles. “I’ve been stewing about this for a long time, and I just can’t let this go.”
Jolie opened her mouth to reply, but he was ahead of her. “How could you
“Granddad,” Kay said, her voice unusually high. Alarmed. “Granddad, that’s not Dorie, that’s your granddaughter, Jolie, remember? She’s grown up, she’s a policewoman…”
He ignored Kay and grabbed Jolie’s shoulders. He launched into a tirade, spittle flying from his mouth, a jumble of angry words. For a moment Jolie couldn’t comprehend what she was hearing.
Then she understood.
56
Landry kept watch on the causeway and on the bay. Several cars went by on Route 30, but none slowed near the turnoff to the causeway. But when he looked into the bay again, there were more boats. A flotilla of them—and they weren’t fishermen. They were photographers.
A car door slammed, the sound carrying across the water—a Channel 7 news van parked on Cape San Blas
