Chapter 45
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Windsor Island
Flint and Drake were moving before the helicopter’s rotor noise faded completely.
They hustled across the terrace toward the path leading down to the marina.
No running. Nothing to attract attention from anyone who might be watching.
Drake favored his left shoulder as blood seeped through his shirt, but he kept pace without complaint.
Behind them, the estate seemed deceptively calm. From this distance everything looked normal and undisturbed.
The landscaped path wound down the hillside between perfectly maintained palm trees and flowering shrubs. Security lighting cast gentle pools of illumination offering a peaceful evening stroll.
Sirens wailed in the distance, but they seemed to be moving away from the estate rather than toward it.
“How does Cole get away with this?” Drake asked. “A stunt like that should have first responders converging on this place in droves like ants at a picnic.”
“Rich people,” Flint shrugged. “Helicopters come and go from these estates every day. I heard at least two helos while we were talking before Cole arrived. Business meetings. Dinner parties. Weekend trips.”
Drake nodded. “So nobody thinks twice about it.”
“Cole’s helo probably filed a flight plan. Listed it as executive transport,” Flint replied. “By the time anyone asks questions, the paperwork will show Fisher requested the pickup.”
Drake winced as his shoulder protested. “And just like that, three people simply disappear.”
“Happens all the time with billionaires. They fly to Monaco. The Bahamas. Private islands,” Flint said. “Fisher’s staff will think he’s on a business trip.”
“While Cole cleans up the evidence,” Drake said flatly. “No charges will be filed.”
“Nope. Cole owns half the politicians. The other half owe him favors,” Flint said. “In other words, the wealth and power dynamics make Fisher and Cole invisible to normal oversight. No one will be looking for them officially.”
Drake glanced back as they reached the path and saw the same quiet estate as before. “What about the cleanup? Nancy’s blood and whatever else we left behind.”
“Like I said, billionaires have unlimited resources,” Flint replied. “Cole probably has a cleaning crew on standby. If we walked back there, we’d probably find zero evidence.”
A few minutes later, they reached the private pier. Fisher’s boat waited exactly as they’d left it. The crewman in the navy polo stood on the dock, coiling lines to prepare for the next cruise.
As if nothing unusual had occurred, he said, “Mr. Fisher told me I’d be needed to take you back to Terminal Island. Are you ready to go now?”
“Where is Mr. Fisher?” Drake asked. “We need to thank him for the hospitality.”
“I’m not sure. He said he had other business to attend to this evening.”
Flint studied the crewman’s face. Either he was an excellent actor, or he genuinely didn’t know what had happened on the terrace. Hard to tell.
“Let’s go,” Flint said.
They boarded the boat and the crewman cast off the dock lines. The twin diesels rumbled to life and the Viking pulled smoothly away from the pier.
As they left Windsor Island, Fisher’s mansion looked exactly as it had when they’d arrived. Peaceful. Elegant. Undisturbed.
No emergency vehicles. No flashing lights. No signs of crisis.
By the time any legitimate investigation began, there would be nothing to investigate. The gardener and Elsa would report a quiet evening with no unusual visitors. Hell, they were probably on Cole’s payroll, too. Just like Nancy.
Jason Fisher and Lizzy Pace would have simply vanished without a trace.
Fisher would be missed. He had a full calendar every day. He was quirky and brazen and always visible.
On the other hand, Lizzy’s disappearance might fly under the radar. After all, she’d supposedly died twice before.
But Frankie Tantanella would wonder. He might try to find her. If Cole left Frankie alive.
The boat cut steadily through the calm waters of Biscayne Bay, heading back toward Terminal Island. The lights of Windsor Island faded behind them as they traveled in relative silence.
Flint used the time to follow up on Marilyn Baker.
He pulled out his satellite phone and scrolled through his contacts.
Sheriff Milliken’s recent call was still fresh in his mind.
The lab had found male DNA on Marilyn’s skirt, foreign DNA that could belong to her killer.
No CODIS matches, but the sample was clean enough for comparison testing if they got a suspect.
Milliken had wanted to pursue “that Kellerman angle,” but Flint had access to resources beyond what a small-town sheriff could offer. Genealogy databases had solved cold cases before by finding familial DNA matches. Time to try again.
He found the contact number for his preferred DNA lab and placed the call.
“Hey, Lydia. This is Michael Flint. I need to expedite a genealogy database search on a DNA profile from a cold case. I have the lab report with the genetic markers.”
“Flint. Good to hear from you,” Lydia Brimley replied. “I can start with the profile and run it against the major genealogy databases. If I find anything promising, I’ll need the actual sample for confirmation testing.”
“Agreed. I’ll send you the report now. Rush priority.”
“Should have preliminary results within twenty-four hours. Maybe sooner,” Lydia promised.
Flint ended the call and put the phone away. After more than thirty years, technology might finally reveal who killed his mother.
About ten minutes later, the boat slowed as it approached the private pier. Terminal Island looked different at night, Flint noticed. Fewer people. More shadows.
“Thanks for the ride,” Drake said to the crewman as they stepped onto the dock.
“My pleasure. Have a good evening.”
They walked quickly away from the pier, footsteps echoing off the concrete. Drake’s shoulder was worse now. Blood had soaked through his shirt and started to show through his jacket.
“How’s the shoulder? It’s looking messy,” Flint said.
“Been worse.” Drake winced briefly when he tried to move it. “I’ll live.”
“Maybe. But you won’t be much use if you pass out from blood loss,” Flint teased. Drake rewarded the effort with a weak grin.
Flint pulled out his satellite phone and called Gaspar. The phone rang twice before connecting.
“Drake needs a doctor,” Flint said when Gaspar answered. “One who won’t ask questions.”
Gaspar didn’t ask for details. Plausible deniability was a skill he had long since mastered. “What kind of medical attention?”
“Gunshot wound. Through and through. Shoulder,” Flint replied. “He’ll be fine. Just needs some stitches.”
“Dr. Ana Vega. Completely trustworthy.” Gaspar gave him an address in Little Havana. “I’ll call ahead. She’ll be expecting you.”
“Got it. Thanks.” Flint ended the call and looked at Drake, who was leaning against a lamppost as if he might need the support. “Little Havana. Twenty minutes.”
Flint flagged a taxi. Drake climbed in on his good side. Flint gave the driver Dr. Vega’s address. If he noticed Drake was injured, he gave no indication. But he meandered through the less traveled streets like a pro.
The clinic was in a converted house on Calle Ocho. The smell of Cuban coffee drifted from neighboring buildings. A middle-aged woman with steady hands and no questions answered the door.
She took one look at them, told Flint to wait and turned to Drake. “Follow me.”
After they disappeared into an exam room, Flint walked outside into the warm Miami night and pulled out his satellite phone. He needed help from an expert who could keep secrets, and he knew who to call.
FBI Special Agent Kim Otto answered on the second ring. “Flint. How can I help?”
He grinned. He’d worked with Otto before and he appreciated her straight up, no nonsense style.
“You know who Devon Cole is?” He replied.
“Who doesn’t? Self-made billionaire. Owns dozens of businesses. Started out selling shoes and now he’s one of the richest men in the country,” Otto said. “Rumors say his is the usual story with billionaires. Where there’s a fortune, there’s a crime.”
“I need everything the FBI has on his current operations,” Flint said, straight to the point. “Any chance?”
“Why do you think we have anything at all? We’re not in the habit of investigating the country’s richest citizens.
They have too much power.” Otto said quietly, as if she might be overheard.
“It’s that old joke. If you shoot at the king, you’d better not miss.
Agents die that way. Careers are killed that way, too. ”
“Yeah. In this case, I’m sure there’s fire beneath all this smoke,” Flint replied. “This guy is as dirty as they come. Has been for at least three or four decades. I’m betting folks inside the Bureau know all about it.”
“Suppose that’s true. Why do you care?” Otto asked carefully, as if she didn’t want to know too many details.
Flint filled her in. The Fisher home fire. Lizzy Pace and the three Fisher kids. The Windsor Island operation. Nancy’s murder. The helicopter extraction.
“Sounds like a carefully orchestrated operation,” Otto said when he finished. “Military contractors, you think?”
“Likely,” Flint replied.
“If we have anything going on here and if I can share it with you, when do you need to know?”
“Not long.”
“Twenty-four hours?”
“Maybe less.”
“Our mutual friend might be faster,” Otto said. “But I’ll see what I can find out. Real-time intelligence. Satellite feeds. Whatever I can get.”
“We’ll need it,” Flint replied just before he disconnected and walked back inside. She was right to suggest Gaspar, though.
Through the examination room door, Flint could hear Dr. Vega working. The clink of medical instruments. Drake’s voice, steady despite the pain. A few moments later, Drake emerged from the examination room with his arm in a sling, looking pale but alert.
Dr. Vega handed Drake a small bottle of pills.
“Two types. One for pain, but it will make you drowsy so take it before bed. Nothing stronger than Tylenol otherwise,” she instructed. “And antibiotics. Keep the wound clean and dry.”
Drake nodded. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Be more careful,” she said as they headed out. “Both of you.”
Outside, Drake asked, “Now what?”