Chapter 47
-
Coconut Grove
He glanced at the screen and picked up the call. “This is Flint.”
“Walsh here. Rendezvous coordinates confirmed for this evening.”
Flint’s back protested from the night on the unforgiving surface coupled with fatigue and anticipation. “Timeline?”
Walsh said, “Flight to Santa Barbara. Then helicopter transfer. My submarine surfaces at 1500 hours Pacific time.”
“Copy that,” Flint replied.
“We can pull your gear together on the sub. Tell me what you need,” Walsh said.
“Thanks.” Flint considered the necessary gear for the mission.
“Waterproof communications equipment sealed in protective cases. Diving equipment tested and double-checked. Weapons cleaned and loaded. Everything needs to fit into two compact black tactical bags, organized for rapid deployment in hostile waters.”
“We’ve got everything you need,” Walsh said before he disconnected the call.
Flint climbed off the couch and headed toward the kitchen for coffee. Gaspar was already there. He’d probably been there several hours already. He didn’t sleep because of the pain in his leg from an old injury on the job when he was with the FBI.
Drake emerged from the guest bedroom moving like a man testing his limits.
His left arm was still in the sling, but he was using it, and his right hand was steady and sure.
The pain medication and sleep had restored some color to his face.
His jaw remained set with determination. He refused to be sidelined.
“Walsh says he’s good to go,” Flint reported. “We need to be wheels-up in two hours. Refuel in Nevada. Then on to Santa Barbara.”
“Walsh will have skilled personnel on board,” Gaspar said while refilling his mug with the sweet, syrupy Cuban coffee he preferred. “He’ll provide whatever you need. Just ask.”
“Thanks.” Flint drained the coffee and placed his mug in the sink. “Ready, Drake?”
“Been ready since yesterday.”
Drake tested his shoulder’s range of motion, rotating the joint slowly and gauging his limitations. Movement was restricted but functional enough for what they needed to do. Pain flickered across his features but was quickly suppressed.
“Walsh’s pilot knows the drill,” Gaspar said. “He’s done submarine pickups before.”
“How many times?” Flint asked. It was no job for an amateur.
“Don’t worry. Navy contractor for five years before Walsh recruited him.” Gaspar handed them coffee to go in paper cups with tight fitting lids. “Jimmy Restrepo. Former Coast Guard, knows the Pacific like his backyard.”
Flint’s encrypted phone buzzed while he was reviewing Gaspar’s intelligence files on Cole’s financial network. The caller ID showed his DNA lab contact, Lydia Brimley.
He held up a finger to indicate he needed to take the call and walked into the next room for privacy.
“Michael Flint.”
“Hey, Flint. I have preliminary results on that genealogy search. We found several promising familial matches in the databases.”
Flint set down the financial reports and gave the call his full attention. “What kind of matches?”
“Multiple partial connections that point to the same family tree. The surname keeps coming up as Kellerman. But here’s the thing.
I need the actual DNA sample to run confirmation testing,” Lydia said.
“The genetic profile you sent was sufficient for the initial search, but for definitive results, I need the physical evidence.”
“How definitive are we talking?”
“With the actual sample, I can give you a 99 percent confidence level on familial relationships. Without it, this stays preliminary.”
Flint considered his options. Sheriff Milliken had been cooperative so far, but asking for physical evidence was a bigger step. Destroying the chain of custody could prevent prosecution of the killer.
“How long for the confirmation testing once you have the sample?”
“Twenty-four hours. Maybe less,” Lydia replied.
“I’ll get you the sample.”
Flint ended the call and pressed number one on the speed dial. Katie Scarlett had occupied that position on his phone since forever. She was the closest thing to a sister he’d ever had.
“Don’t even think about telling me you’re gonna bail on taking Maddy to Disney World, Flint,” Scarlett said when she picked up the call. Maddy was her seven-year-old daughter. Flint adored the kid and the feeling was mutual.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Flint replied with a grin in his voice. “But I need a favor. Can you drive to Mount Warren, Texas? Small town, about seven hours from Houston.”
“I know where it is. And I know why you’re aware of the place,” Scarlett said, cutting his explanations short. “When do you need me to go?”
“Today if possible. Tomorrow at the latest.”
Scarlett gave an exasperated sigh that traveled across the miles. “You’re finally looking at your mother’s case. Good. What’s the job you need me to do?”
“Pick up evidence from the local sheriff. A new DNA sample from Baker’s case,” Flint explained. “Play it by ear, but you may need to pose as my forensic consultant.”
“Hostilities?”
“None. The sheriff’s cooperative. He’s expecting someone from my team.” Flint paused. “This one’s important, Scarlett. If we can identify this guy, we might be able to solve Marilyn Baker’s murder.”
“I’ll leave within the hour. Text me the sheriff’s contact information and what exactly I’m picking up.”
“Copy that. And Scarlett? Handle this one personally. Don’t delegate,” Flint said. “And it should be obvious, but don’t discuss this with anyone else.”
“Understood,” she replied before she disconnected.
Gaspar and Drake gave Flint an inquisitive look when he returned, but he didn’t explain. They knew nothing about Marilyn Baker and, for now, Flint intended to keep it that way.
“Eighteen hours maximum before this becomes an international incident,” Flint replied as if there had been no interruption in the conversation.
Gaspar nodded. “Fisher’s disappearance is already generating media attention. Questions are being asked.”
Flint nodded. “We need to move.”
“Car’s waiting outside,” Gaspar said, gesturing toward the front door. “Cuban kid who doesn’t speak English and won’t remember your faces.”
They headed for the door through Gaspar’s hallway, past framed photographs of old Havana and vintage maps of Miami. No time for lengthy goodbyes, even if they’d been prone to offer them.
The drive back to the Pilatus took twenty-two minutes through early morning traffic. The Pilatus waited on the sun-baked tarmac like a sleek metal bird.
Drake performed the preflight inspection methodically despite his injured shoulder, while Flint dealt with the paperwork. The morning sun beat down mercilessly on the concrete and sweat beaded on their foreheads as they worked.
“Fuel stop in Nevada,” Drake said, settling carefully into the co-pilot seat and adjusting his sling. “Then straight through to California.”
Flint started the engines, contacted the tower for permission to take off, and then taxied onto the runway.
The Pilatus lifted off smoothly into the pale dawn sky, banking west as Miami’s sprawl fell away beneath them. The city’s concrete and steel gave way to the endless green expanse of the Everglades and then the sparkling waters of the Gulf.
The flight to Nevada was scheduled for four hours. Flint kept the aircraft at thirty thousand feet and speed steady.
They touched down at a private Nevada airfield Flint had used before.
Twenty minutes on the ground for refueling and a chance to grab sandwiches and coffee from the weathered FBO building that looked like it had been baking in the sun for decades.
Which it probably had. But it provided basic services, fuel desk, restrooms, vending machines, and gallons of coffee.
Flint checked the news on his phone, scrolling through financial websites and business channels, while he waited for the fuel to fill.
“Fisher’s people are starting to ask questions,” he told Drake. “Stock price is down three percent on ‘uncertainty about CEO whereabouts.’”
“How long before authorities get involved?” Drake asked.
“Not long.” Flint finished the fueling and replaced the hose. “We’ve got a few hours to find Fisher before this becomes too big to contain.”
They were airborne again quickly. The Pacific Ocean eventually appeared on the horizon like a blue promise. Soon enough they began their descent into Santa Barbara.
The private airfield near Santa Barbara nestled between rolling hills covered in chaparral and eucalyptus trees, a single runway surrounded by hangars and palm trees that swayed in the ocean breeze.
The Bell 412 helicopter wouldn’t arrive for a while yet. The operational delay gave them time to have a decent meal and make a few calls before they headed out to meet Walsh.
When they returned, the Bell sat waiting on the tarmac, painted in civilian research colors. White with blue stripes that suggested legitimate scientific operations.
The pilot, Jimmy Restrepo, stood beside the aircraft checking his flight gear with the methodical attention of a man whose life depended on details. Mid-forties, weathered face lined by years of coastal flying, steady hands suggested countless successful missions over hostile waters.
“Flint and Drake? Jimmy Restrepo. Captain Walsh says to give you guys whatever you need.” His firm handshake and careful once-over was the quick assessment of an operator evaluating a new team. “Ready to launch? There’s a storm out there. We should be okay but get a wiggle on.”
They climbed into the Bell. Restrepo ran through his preflight checklist, checking instruments and controls with the kind of attention that kept helicopters in the air and passengers alive.
“Walsh is moving into position for an on-time connection,” Restrepo said, adjusting his headset as he coordinated with Walsh via encrypted radio. “Weather’s good. Seas are calm so far. Here we go.”
The Bell lifted off. Restrepo banked west toward the Pacific, leaving California’s golden coastline behind as they flew. Below them, the ocean stretched endlessly toward the horizon. Mist shrouded the Pacific as they flew west toward open ocean.