Chapter 28
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Coconut Grove
“Cuba,” Flint said, leaning back in Gaspar’s desk chair when they arrived at his Coconut Grove home. “That’s where Tom Murphy went. That’s where he saw something that got him killed.”
Drake paced the cramped office. Computer screens glowed from every surface, casting blue light across stacks of equipment.
Gaspar said, “And you think Frankie Tantanella not only had something to do with it, but he’s also been hiding in Cuba all these years?”
“Makes perfect sense. Cuba has no extradition treaty with the US, so we can’t get him back here to stand trial.
Cash economy over there. Plenty of Americans living off the grid he can pal around with,” Flint said, thinking through the operational challenges.
“Murphy takes a group of students on a skydiving trip to Cuba. Some fluke puts him in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Okay. I can buy that. What was wrong about it?” Drake asked.
“Dunno.” Flint shook his head. “But whatever it was, he comes home scared. Gets himself killed soon afterward. That tracks for me.”
“The connection is pretty thin,” Drake said. “And Helen was certain Tom wouldn’t have made a mistake with his equipment, but we both know that’s the most likely explanation.”
“I’m betting on Cuba. Unless you’ve got any better leads?” Flint asked.
Drake and Gaspar both shrugged.
“We know Murphy was driving the bus that killed Lisa Peterson. Two questions came up instantly. First, what happened that caused Murphy to change his name and run?” Flint said, thinking aloud.
“Something we haven’t discovered yet. And once he’d found a solid hiding place, the killer didn’t know where to find him,” Drake said. “Simply put, the killer couldn’t find Wilson earlier. If Frankie killed him and got away with it, he got lucky.”
“Frankie sounds like an inordinately lucky guy, don’t you think?” Flint asked sardonically.
“The second question is more difficult, though,” Gaspar said as if Flint had actually voiced it. “Why did the killer wait so long to eliminate Tom Murphy?”
“He didn’t,” Drake nodded slowly like a dim pupil catching up on last week’s math lesson. “He killed Murphy shortly after he discovered Murphy’s location.”
“Helen Murphy believes her husband’s death was connected to Lisa Peterson’s accident. We should rule that out, at the very least,” Flint said firmly.
“Go to Cuba, you mean?” Drake replied.
“Cuba is our only lead to Frankie Tantanella at the moment.” Dark circles under Flint’s eyes betrayed his restless night and the adrenaline crash. “We could wait for him to leave Cuba, but it makes more sense to do this now.”
Gaspar offered them steaming cups of Cuban coffee. The rich aroma filled the room.
“Any new insights from what Helen told us?” Drake asked as he reached into his pocket for his phone. He glanced at the screen. “This is my DEA contact. I’ll be back.”
The call was brief. Afterward, Drake stepped in from the balcony, phone still in hand.
“And?” Flint asked, preoccupied.
“Harry Fisher’s DEA handler died in a car accident a few weeks after the Fisher house fire. Internal Affairs suspected he was killed in retaliation, but they never proved it.”
“Which tells us DEA knew the handler was dirty. And protected him anyway,” Flint said flatly.
“Money talks,” Gaspar said.
Drake settled again into one of Gaspar’s leather chairs. The worn material creaked softly under his weight. “And you think Tom Murphy recognized Tantanella from their time in Illinois?”
“That’s likely. Ravenswood is a small town. Murphy was local. He might have known Tantanella by sight, but he would certainly have recognized Lisa Peterson unless her face was horribly disfigured by the impact.” Flint opened his secure laptop.
The screen cast a blue glow across his face as the encrypted system hummed to life. A soft electronic whir accompanied the startup.
“Question is whether Murphy tried to confront Tantanella or blackmail him or something else,” Drake said. “Either way, Murphy ended up dead.”
“And we need to find out why.” Flint pulled up an encrypted list of private contacts he knew he could rely upon and scrolled to find the one he wanted. “Cuba’s not exactly a tourist destination for American private investigators. We’ll need official permission to travel there legally.”
“How are we going to manage that?” Drake asked.
Flint found the number he needed. “I have a contact at the State Department who owes me a few favors.”
Drake leaned forward. “Nothing that makes you a target, I assume.”
“Kept his son out of federal prison three years ago. Drug charges that would have ended the kid’s career before it started.” Flint found the number he needed. “Ben Hayes. Deputy Assistant Secretary. He can expedite travel authorizations for us.”
The call to Hayes took fifteen minutes of careful negotiation even though Hayes remembered the favor clearly. His son was now a successful attorney in Dallas with a spotless record and a stellar reputation. Hayes had not forgotten that it was Flint who made that possible.
“We’ll say you’re on an academic research mission. Historical investigation of Cuban American family connections,” Hayes explained over the secure line. “That’s your cover story. You’re investigating genealogy for American citizens with Cuban heritage.”
“Perfect. How long will it take to get authorization for travel?”
“I’ll arrange for the embassy to issue travel documents tomorrow morning.
Cultural research gives you legitimate business there and freedom of movement on the ground.
As long as you don’t make any waves, you should be okay,” Hayes explained bluntly.
“But if you draw the wrong kind of attention you’ll be arrested, and I may not be able to get you out. ”
“We’re looking for a witness. We won’t be there long enough to get into trouble,” Flint assured him.
“Don’t make me regret this, Flint.” Hayes was accustomed to cutting through bureaucracy. “Cuba’s not a place for freelance operations. You can die there, and the US government might not hear about it for decades.”
Flint replied, “We’ll keep our noses clean.”
“You’d better. One embarrassing international incident and you’ll be persona non grata for the rest of your career, even if I can extract you,” Hayes said. “The Secretary is not amused by rule breakers, regardless of whether your mission succeeds or doesn’t.”
After Hayes disconnected, Flint began making operational assessments. Equipment they could carry. Cash they’d need. Local contacts they could trust.
The familiar ritual of mission planning settled over him like an old coat. The methodical process of risk assessment and contingency planning had kept him alive through three tours and countless private operations.
“So what’s the plan?” Drake asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“We treat this like any other hostile territory operation.” Flint closed the laptop. “Minimal footprint, maximum preparation. Get in, get out, nobody gets hurt or compromised.”
The office door opened. Gaspar’s careful gait reflected his damaged body. “I heard you talking to Hayes. Cuba’s tricky territory. I’ve been across a few times over the years.”
“What do you know about current conditions?” Flint asked.
“Travel is easy enough when it’s allowed, but you’ll have limitations.
No weapons. Constant surveillance. Communications monitoring.
Throw litter on the street and you’re asking for severe sanctions.
” Gaspar’s voice of experience came over the soft hum of cooling fans and multiple computer systems providing background noise. “What’s the mission?”
“We’re tracking Frankie Tantanella,” Flint replied.
“Cuban authorities don’t cooperate with US law enforcement, but they don’t like harboring wanted criminals either.
If you want to bring Tantanella back, they probably won’t help you.
Depends on the crime and the Cuban government’s whims in the current political climate.
” Gaspar flipped through the screens on his tablet.
“I know a guy in Havana. Former asset. Runs a private investigation firm now. He can provide local support if you need it.”
“Good. What about equipment restrictions?” Flint asked.
“Forget weapons. Cuban customs will search everything. Bring cash. Lots of it. American dollars work best.” Gaspar sipped what was probably his tenth cup of sweet Cuban coffee that day. “You sure this lead is worth the operational risk?”
It was a reasonable question. They’d been attacked already. Trained killers with sophisticated and pricey equipment. Helen Murphy had been targeted simply for talking to them.
The stakes had escalated rapidly for reasons that were not altogether clear.
But Tantanella was the only connection they’d located so far to any of the missing Fisher kids. After more than twenty years, Jason Fisher wanted answers and Flint agreed with him.
“Tom Murphy is dead. Operatives tracked us to his widow’s house,” Flint said, meeting Gaspar’s gaze. “That tells me we’re on the right track.”
“The right track to what, though?” Gaspar asked.
“Good question.” Flint made his decision. “But if Tantanella’s alive, he could be the key to finding those kids. If Tantanella’s not there, we’ll come back. Nothing lost but a few hours of our time, which Jason Fisher can well afford to subsidize. We’re going.”
“Then you may need more support.” Gaspar’s fingers rapid-fire clicked on his keyboard as he worked multiple databases simultaneously. “I’ll need to make some calls.”
Flint gestured to Drake, and they left Gaspar to his work.
On the patio, Drake said, “We’ll need equipment, and Gaspar says everything we bring along will be inspected.”
“And we assume they’ll know our travel plans as well.” Flint leaned against the garden wall with his hands resting in his pockets. “Whoever’s behind the attacks on us has resources. Government connections, possibly. International reach, most likely.”
“Speaking of which, how did they find Helen Murphy so fast today?” Drake asked. “That tactical team arrived pretty quickly.”
Flint agreed. The timing was too precise. Either they’d been monitoring Helen continuously or they’d tracked Flint and Drake directly to her.
“Suggests they’re better equipped than we initially assessed.”
“Which means what?”
“It means we assume they are monitoring our coms and plan accordingly.”
Drake’s expression hardened. “Assume real-time surveillance. They’re listening to everything.”
Flint weighed the options. Abort and lose their only lead to the Fisher children. Continue and walk directly into a trap prepared with unlimited resources.
“We change everything. Different timeline, different route, different communications protocols.” Flint opened a fresh satellite phone and sent encrypted messages to alternative contacts. Clean phones. Alternate travel arrangements. Counter-surveillance protocols.
Drake was planning equipment modifications. “How do we communicate once we’re there?”
“We’ll start with Gaspar’s contact in Havana. Face-to-face meetings only.” Flint powered down the fresh phone and dropped it into his pocket. “We go dark starting now.”
“And if Cuba is a trap?” Drake asked.
“Then we spring it on our terms.”
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across Gaspar’s garden like geometric fingers reaching toward Biscayne Bay. The water sparkled beyond the palm trees in orderly patterns of blue and white.
“They’ve made mistakes. They tried to stop us three times already. We assume they know more about Tantanella in Cuba than we do.” Flint gave Drake the first genuine smile of the day. “Tantanella’s probably exactly where we think he is.”
Flint imagined the streets of Havana where answers waited among the shadowy brutality of the Caribbean dictatorship. He wasn’t going in blind. He’d been there before.