[Deborah Jones 02.0] Dark Waters Read online

  Deborah felt every muscle tighten as the session wore on. The sweat poured off her. But it was good to be out training with the girls, listening to them moaning about boyfriends and husbands, cursing their children and generally bad-mouthing anybody within earshot.

  She knew how each and every one of them had dug deep, determined to show their kids that there was a better way‌—‌that a world existed that wasn’t about dealing drugs or selling your body but which involved self-respect, sacrifice and hard work.

  The problem was that a large number of the children were stuck in underachieving schools, with little realistic chance of getting into good colleges unless they won a rare sports scholarship. Deborah had managed to persuade Sam to take on a smart eighteen-year-old boy, Martin Blackwell, the eldest son of the team’s fullback, Amy. She was a former Overtown street hooker who’d turned her life around by getting off drugs and buying a pizza franchise on fashionable Washington Avenue. Martin had already come up with a couple of hard-hitting stories about black-on-black gang violence in the Miami ghettoes and had secured a two-year contract to work as a trainee crime writer, reporting direct to the great Larry Coen.

  Later, as Deborah drove back home in her convertible, crossing the MacArthur Causeway, she felt exhilarated as the endorphins flooded her body. In the inky sky, billions of stars decorated a humid November night.

  The following morning Deborah was awoken by her cellphone.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your vacation.’ It was Rico from investigations.

  Deborah stretched. ‘No problem. I was going to call Leroy later anyway to see what’s going on.’

  ‘We’ve had a woman pestering us since after eight, wanting to speak to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say. She just left her name and number, and asked me to get you to call her. She said she was the sister of Richard Turner. That mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not off the top of my head,’ Deborah lied. Rico gave her the number and she scribbled it down on a piece of scrap paper. ‘Thanks, Rico. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Take it easy.’

  Deborah did not hang around. Michelle Turner answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘Deborah Jones.’

  ‘Thanks for calling back. I really appreciate it. You discovered my brother’s body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We need to talk. This thing has got way out of control. You need to know what exactly John found out.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘He sent something to Richard in an encrypted e-mail. But all his computers have been confiscated.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘I don’t know. I asked the police, but they said it was nothing to do with them. Deborah, have you heard about the missing twenty-eight pages in the September 11 Congressional Report?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Before he died Richard printed out some of the files that John had sent him, as a back-up. He said it was an insurance policy, in case the worst happened.’

  ‘You’re saying a hard copy was made? Do you have it?’

  ‘Deborah, listen very carefully. I arrived in Miami this morning. I had planned to speak to you in person. But I got spooked. I was driving with the friend I’m staying with, and I sensed that someone was following us. I panicked, we headed off the freeway, and I decided to get rid of the documents.’

  ‘You mean you’ve thrown them away?’

  ‘Of course not. Does Opa-Locka mean anything to you? I paid six months in advance. Locker number sixty-two. The passcode to open it is one-five-four-three. You got that?’

  Deborah scribbled down the number. ‘Are you absolutely sure you were being followed?’

  ‘Positive. A white guy. We lost him, I think. I hope.’ Michelle’s voice began to quiver. ‘All I ask is that you let America know what’s going on. I’m sorry, but—’

  Suddenly the line went dead.

  20

  Deborah sat on her balcony, drinking iced tea and staring at what she’d scrawled on her notepad. Locker 62. Passcode 1543. She updated Sam on Michelle Turner but was disappointed by his frosty response.

  Deborah would only get the go-ahead if Byron, the Miami Herald’s legal counsel, considered it okay for her to open the locker without the written permission of Michelle Turner.

  ‘That’s bullshit, Sam,’ Deborah said, ‘and you know it.’

  ‘Maybe it is. But until I hear different, the investigation is on hold.’

  • • •

  From her balcony, Deborah stared out at the turquoise waters of the Atlantic. Breakers crashed onto the pristine beach. Life was going on as normal. Families kicking a ball, joggers, sun worshippers, dog walkers, lifeguards, children playing near their mothers. It seemed an age since she’d enjoyed walking along Ocean Drive, doing nothing for days on end except reading a good book, sitting in the shade of a palm tree in Lummus Park, jogging on the boardwalk, doing laps at the swimming pool in Flamingo Park, but most of all spending each and every day with Sam.

  She went back inside, shut the French doors and walked into her bedroom, the air conditioning purring quietly in the background. She sat down at her desk and switched on her laptop.

  For the rest of the day, using the Nexus system, she called up the latest articles from major papers across America, focusing primarily on the New York Times and New York Daily News. She was intrigued to spot the byline of an old Berkeley college buddy, Pam Molloy, who was now a crime reporter on the News. They had been close friends in San Francisco, both of them studying journalism, but had lost touch over the years.

  Pam had done a story on Turner. She seemed to consider that this was the straightforward suicide of an old 1960s dope head. Curious to know if her old friend had any other leads, Deborah decided to give her a call.

  ‘Hey, Miss Molloy,’ Deborah said, ‘congratulations on making it to the Big Apple.’

  ‘Deborah, is that you?’

  ‘Who do you think it is? Beyonce?’

  Pam laughed. ‘And you’re working at the mighty Miami Herald, is that right?’

  ‘I’m investigations editor.’

  ‘Get out of here. And you’ve got all that weather. Well, I have a one-bedroom shithole in Dumbo, Brooklyn. I’m freezing my butt off up here. But I guess, after all this time, you haven’t called about the meteorological situation in New York.’

  ‘That guy who died in the Brooklyn warehouse…?’ Deborah picked her way carefully. The NYPD hadn’t revealed to the press that it was she who had discovered the body.

  ‘Richard Turner.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘You mind telling me why the Miami Herald’s investigations editor would be interested in him?’

  ‘I’ll owe you big time.’

  ‘Okay, I won’t press you. From what we can gather, he suffered mental health problems for years.’

  ‘And police are satisfied about the cause of death?’ Deborah heard the rustling of papers.

  ‘The autopsy was carried out by a Doctor Brent Simmons yesterday morning.’ Alarm bells began ringing in Deborah’s head.

  ‘Look, thanks a million, Pam. That’s fantastic‌—‌I’ve got to go now I’ll be in touch. And if you’re ever in Miami, please let me know’

  ‘You can count on it.’

  Dr Brent Simmons was the name of the Chief Medical Examiner in Miami-Dade, the same man who’d performed the autopsy on John Hudson.

  Deborah keyed in the details of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in New York and hit ‘Search’. It showed that the office was located at 520 First Avenue in Manhattan.

  She dialed the number but didn’t want to identify herself. ‘Hi, sorry to bother you,’ she said. ‘Carla Romez at the Miami Herald. Just wanting to check our facts are correct. Can you tell me where Doctor Brent Simmons is located?’

  ‘I’m sorry Carla, you’ll have to contact the city press office.’

  Deborah groaned inwardly. ‘We’re just doing some fact-c
hecking…’

  ‘I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak to Tom Russo in the press office. He deals with anything to do with the OCME.’

  Deborah hung up and found the number of the mayor’s press office off the New York City website.

  Russo himself answered, his New York accent unmistakable.

  ‘Tom, this is Carla Romez of the Miami Herald. How are you this afternoon?’

  ‘Kinda hectic, Carla‌—‌you know how it gets.’

  ‘Can you tell me, is there a Doctor Brent Simmons working within the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, or employed as a pathologist by the city?’

  ‘Simmons, huh? Let me see…’

  Deborah was put on hold to the soft strains of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. She waited patiently for a couple of minutes.

  ‘Did you say Simmons?’ Eventually Russo came back on the line.

  ‘Doctor Brent Simmons.’

  ‘We got a Doctor Raul Simon working for us out of Queens. But definitely no Simmons.’

  ‘I must have picked up the name wrong.’

  ‘Maybe he worked for us in the past, but definitely not now.’

  ‘This is a very recent case. Richard Turner, found dead in Brooklyn a few days ago. I was informed that Doctor Simmons conducted the autopsy. Just wanted to make sure that we’ve got our facts correct.’

  ‘Hold on, Carla, I’ll pull up the autopsy report‌—‌if it’s in the system.’

  Deborah was put back on Vivaldi.

  ‘That’s weird,’ Russo said. ‘Autopsy report 3749933-1. Carried out by Doctor Brent Simmons.’

  Deborah scribbled down the autopsy report number beside Simmons’s name. ‘Is it possible that your Human Resources department might just be a little slow updating their files?’

  ‘I guess it’s possible, Carla. Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll contact the Chief Medical Examiner himself and see if he can shed any light on this.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that, Tom.’

  ‘Gimme your cellphone number and I’ll call you back in a few minutes. How does that sound?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Russo was as good as his word. ‘I’m running into a few problems here,’ he said. ‘The fact is I’m not too sure who conducted this autopsy.’

  ‘Tom, I have it written down in black and white, as given to me by yourself a few minutes ago. Autopsy report three-seven-four-nine-nine-three-three-one for Richard Turner. Carried out by Doctor Brent Simmons. Even though you don’t have anyone by that name employed by the Chief Medical Examiner’s office. Am I missing something here, Tom?’

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry. I can’t say any more. I’d like to help. But I’m absolutely snowed under. Thanks so much for calling.’

  Tom Russo did not wait for Deborah to say another word before he hung up on her.

  21

  The South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center was a maximum-security forensic hospital located in a rundown area northwest of downtown Miami. It was only a twenty-five-minute drive from Nathan Stone’s shabby room in Surfside, just off the Airport Expressway. But it was a journey he sometimes made two or three times a week when he was in town.

  Nathan arrived at the main gate around mid-morning. He showed some ID and was patted down. Then he was allowed inside. Surveillance cameras were everywhere.

  Fifteen minutes later he was sitting in a visitor room, holding hands with his sister who was crying as she usually did when they met. Helen’s mascara was smudged. She wore a loose-fitting gray T-shirt, cargo shorts and new Nike sneakers he’d bought her. She always tried to make an effort for him. ‘I’m sorry I missed my last visit, Helen, but you know how it is,’ Nathan said, bending down to kiss her.

  Helen smiled, her ghostly eyes tired and glazed. It had been that way for nearly thirty of her forty years. ‘You always come back to see me, Nathan. Promise you won’t ever leave me. Promise.’

  Nathan kissed the back of her hand. ‘You know I would never leave you, sis.’ He leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘You’ll never be alone, Helen, not as long as I live.’ He brushed her auburn hair out of her eyes. She smelled of cigarettes and coffee. ‘How are they treating you, Helen? You getting enough exercise? You eating well?’

  ‘They’re kind. I don’t deserve such kindness. They let me watch whatever channel I want. And I can decide what flavor of ice cream I like. Not like in New York. They were so mean up there.’

  Nathan felt his eyes brim with tears. He coughed, and brushed them away. He’d called in a few favors to get Helen transferred down to Miami about fifteen years ago, once it became clear that he was going to be based here.

  ‘And I even have my own room. How great is that?’

  ‘That’s terrific,’ he said. ‘Nurses seem friendly too.’

  ‘Did you know we’re moving soon? I’ve asked for a room with a nice view. I want to see trees, animals, birds. That would be so cool, wouldn’t it?’

  Nathan nodded. He had already checked out the new site. The South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center was moving to a state-of-the-art facility at Homestead, thirty-five miles to the southwest of Miami, right on the edge of the Everglades. He made a mental note to speak to someone and get her the best room in the hospital. It was the least he could do.

  Helen looked at him and smiled. ‘You seeing a girl? Is that why you couldn’t come?’

  ‘I had a meeting. Schedules got mixed up. I’m real sorry.’

  ‘I think they’re working you too hard, Nathan. That’s what I truly believe.’

  ‘A man’s got to work. Bills have to be paid.’

  Helen stroked his hair, and then touched his cheek softly. It felt good. ‘Got any cigarettes?’

  ‘Gave them to Nurse Stevenson…outside.’

  ‘Thank you, Nathan. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Helen stroked his cheek again. ‘Someone’s scratched you. Have you been fighting again?’

  Nathan pulled away. ‘It’s nothing. A guy was being disrespectful to a lady in a bar, and I intervened.’

  ‘Why are people so mean?’

  Nathan shrugged and said nothing.

  ‘Well, I’m glad that there are still good people around to stand up to bullies.’

  For the next hour, Nathan sat and listened to her prattle on about the minutiae of her daily existence. The anti-psychotic drugs she was on, the clinical supervisor who was a great salsa dancer and seemed to have a crush on her, even the art classes she attended as part of her therapy program.

  Nathan smiled and nodded. His heart was breaking.

  Helen was the same little girl he’d looked after all those years ago in that rat-infested dump on the Lower East Side, cooking beans on a camping stove in the empty living room, tucking her up at night, while their father Al stayed away, drinking, and then sleeping all day. The only time they saw him was when the money he’d stolen had run out. One morning he came home in a blind fury and started hitting Nathan with his belt.

  Nathan remembered tasting his own warm blood, and then seeing his sister‌—‌she was ten at the time‌—‌plunging a pair of scissors into his father’s back. He watched Al collapse before Helen proceeded to stab him in the eyes and face, drenching herself in their father’s blood until he stopped moving.

  That morning was imprinted forever on Nathan’s brain, and on Helen’s. The doctors who examined her said that she was paranoid schizophrenic. She talked of hearing the voices of angels who had told her to do it.

  Nathan started wetting the bed from the moment they were parted. He wanted to be with Helen. But they wouldn’t allow it.

  The days and weeks and months that followed were a succession of foster parents in and around the Tri-State Area, all unable or unwilling to deal with Nathan’s violent mood swings.

  The sound of his sister singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ snapped Nathan out of his reverie. He took hold of her hands. ‘I’ll never leave you.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘I promise.’

  As
Nathan walked out of the hospital he was relieved to feel the warm sun on his skin and see blue skies above. His sister would forever remain trapped in the past. And so would he.

  22

  The Joseph H. Davis Center for Forensic Pathology was located in downtown Miami. The Chief Medical Examiner’s department was right across the street from the Jackson Memorial Hospital’s Ryder Trauma Center.

  Deborah crossed the stifling street and walked through lushly landscaped gardens to the building.

  Inside, huge windows allowed natural light to flow in and the air conditioning was a welcome relief. Oak trims were everywhere and smart carpets and artwork adorned the lobby. The centerpiece was a three-storey staircase that led to an atrium, with a huge skylight above.

  Deborah introduced herself to a freckled receptionist.

  ‘Just take a seat. Dr Simmons will be with you in a minute.’

  Deborah chose a brown leather sofa and wondered how long she’d have to wait. Twenty-nine minutes ticked slowly by. She flicked through that day’s Herald. So much about Afghanistan. Stories about CIA black sites, the death of a Fort Lauderdale soldier, and more horrendous suicide attacks.

  ‘Miss Jones.’

  Deborah looked up. Standing before her, wearing an immaculate gray suit, white shirt and maroon tie, was Dr Simmons, a name tag round his neck. She stood up and shook his hand. ‘Good of you to see me at such short notice, sir.’

  ‘No problem.’ His smile reminded her of her father’s.

  They took the elevator to the second floor, engaging in small talk about the insufferable humidity in Florida.

  The floor-to-ceiling windows in Dr Simmons’s office had a panoramic view of the Miami skyline, glistening in the morning sun. Simmons sat down behind his desk while Deborah took out her tape recorder, notepad and pens. ‘You don’t mind if I keep a record of this conversation, I hope?’ she asked.

  ‘No problem, Miss Jones.’