Goodbye Girl, page 1
Dedication
For Tiffany.
Thirty years, three kids, and three goldens later, you are still the LOML.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by James Grippando
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Swarms of no-see-ums, millions of tiny insects, hovered over the mangrove-covered coastline, glistening like dust mites in the orange-and-magenta twilight. Nearly all of the 173,000 acres that made up Biscayne Bay National Park lie in shallow waters warmed by the Gulf Stream and subtropical climate. FBI Special Agent Andie Henning was north of the Florida Keys, where fresh water from the Florida Everglades flowed into the bay to create an estuary-like mix of fresh and salt water. Her flats boat cruised at the deliberate speed of a hungry but patient crocodile eyeing an egret. Along the shore, hundreds of pink flamingos, ankle deep in the shallows, stood on one leg and watched the passing boat, as if to wonder what the FBI was doing there.
“This is starting to feel like the proverbial needle in a haystack,” said Andie.
Fellow agent Grace Kennedy had one hand on the throttle. At such a slow speed, the outboard engine purred like a sewing machine.
“It’s a million-to-one shot that we find anything before dark,” said Grace.
Andie peered through her binoculars, her gaze sweeping the tangled, exposed root system of a shadowy mangrove forest.
Homicides were not typically within the jurisdiction of the FBI, but a dead body in a national park was not strictly a matter for local law enforcement. The circumstances surrounding this apparent homicide were of keen interest to Agent Henning. A man identifying himself as the killer had called a local reporter to say his victim could be found at low tide in Biscayne Bay National Park. As a rookie agent, Andie had made a name for herself infiltrating a cult in Washington’s Yakima Valley, and by the time she’d transferred to south Florida, she had more experience in the multijurisdictional tracking of serial killers, domestic terrorists, and other homicidal maniacs than anyone in the Miami office.
“How was your date with Perry Mason?” asked Grace. It was an abrupt change of subject, but after two hours of swatting mosquitos a diversion was a good thing.
Andie lowered her binoculars. “You mean the lawyer who asked me out? His name’s Jack. Jack Swyteck.”
“Swyteck? Any relation to the former Governor Swyteck?”
“He’s Jack’s father.”
“A criminal defense lawyer and son of a politician. What’s the third strike against him?”
Andie laughed. “He doesn’t have any strikes against him.”
“Does that mean you’re going to say yes if he asks for a second date?”
“He’s not going to ask for a second date.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I already asked him for a second date. And he said yes.”
Grace smiled and shook her head. “A criminal defense lawyer and an FBI agent. I hear wedding bells already.”
Andie’s cellphone rang, which was weird, even if it did sound more like a xylophone than approaching nuptials. She answered and put the call on speaker so Grace could listen. It was Gustavo Cruz, a homicide detective with the Miami-Dade Police Department.
“We found the body,” he said and then quickly shared the coordinates.
Andie checked the map on her cellphone. “That’s outside the park.”
“Yes. Well north of it.”
“The caller said the body was in the park,” said Andie.
“I’ll note that in my report: anonymous tipster sucks at geography. The point here is that it’s outside FBI jurisdiction. We won’t be needing your assistance.”
Turf wars between the FBI and local law enforcement were as old as the oolitic limestone that formed the Florida Keys. Andie was getting the sense that Detective Cruz had sent the feds on a proverbial wild-flamingo chase as MDPD followed better leads to the actual disposal site.
“I thought you were above these games, Gustavo.”
“No games. We got this,” he said, and the call ended.
“Jackass,” said Andie as she put away her phone.
“It’s fine. Let MDPD have it,” said Grace.
Andie was not so easily blown off. “The caller said ‘in the park.’ If the murder was in the park, we still have jurisdiction, even if the body drifted somewhere else.”
Grace agreed. The outboard engine roared, the bow rose, and they were suddenly speeding across the glasslike waters, throwing a wake that sent flamingos scattering. Twilight was upon them as they motored away from the mainland and headed north into slightly choppier waters. Andie’s long, dark hair whipped in the breeze as they sped past her favorite view of Miami’s famous cityscape, which sparkled with one brightly lit high-rise after another. A fleet of Caribbean-bound cruise ships lined the port like floating hotels. To the east was Miami Beach, which—as Andie had learned only after her transfer from Seattle—was actually a barrier island between the bay and the Atlantic Ocean, the mainland’s first defense to hurricanes and tropical storms. Their destination was beyond Venetian Islands, a chain of man-made islands that dotted the bay and connected the peninsula to Miami Beach like giant stepping-stones straight out of Gulliver’s Travels.
“That way,” Andie shouted over the noisy outboard. She was pointing to the flashing beacons from a circle of marine patrol boats ahead. Grace cut their speed to “no-wake” as they approached the floating crime scene.
An artificial island that never came to be, Isola di Lolando was supposed to be the next Venetian Island, expanding the availability of pricey waterfront properties in the bay. The seawall for the planned island was under construction when the Great Miami Hurricane of 1926 made landfall and left only destruction in its wake. The market crash of 1929 and the Great Depression that followed sealed the project’s fate, forever abandoned, leaving behind only the pilings, which were visible depending on the tide.
“Bizarre,” said Grace.
It was low tide. Andie and her partner had a full view of a no-longer-submerged body chained to a concrete piling.
“Even by Miami standards,” said Andie.
Darkness had fallen, but the scene was amply lit by forensic lights from a nearby marine patrol boat. Beneath the surface, an underwater recovery team was at work, the sweep of their dive lights setting the submerged half of the piling aglow. Andie kept the FBI’s boat on the perimeter, so as not to interfere, but she was close enough to absorb key details. The body was wet but fully clothed. Caucasian male. Probably in his twenties. Warm water hastened decomposition, making it harder to estimate a time of death. Even in the subtropics, however, it could take a week for the skin to peel away from underlying tissues and invite fish, crabs, and sea lice to nibble away at the flesh. Andie guessed it had been a day, at most two, since the killer had put his work on display.
Marine patrol motored up beside Andie’s boat and idled its engine. Detective Cruz was onboard. At the risk of sounding defensive, Andie spoke first.
“We may be outside the federal park,” said Andie, “but I wouldn’t be so quick to rule out FBI jurisdiction over this homicide.”
“I agree,” said Cruz.
The detective’s sudden shift in position caught her by surprise. “What changed?”
“The body has a message on the torso.”
“A message or a tattoo?”
“Definitely a message. From the killer, I suspect. It’s written in some kind of marker pen. The ink is partly washed away, which tells me the body has been here at least one tide cycle. But you can still read it.”
“What does it say?”
“Looks like ‘goodbye girl.’”
Andie glanced at the body, then back, confused. “On first look, I thought we had a male victim.”
“Definitely male.”
Andie quickly caught up to his thinking. “So, is he gay or trans?”
“Don’t have an ID yet, so can’t say for sure. But given his killer’s message . . .”
“You’re thinking federal hate crime based on sexual orientation or gender identity,” said Andie, filling in the blank.
“About the size of it,” said Cruz.
Andie was on the same page. “Looking forward to working with you, Detective.”
“I look forward to working with you, as well,” said Cruz, and his boat pulled away.
“No, you don’t,” Andie said quietly. Then she and her partner exchanged glances.
“What do you make of it?” asked Grace.
“Hard to say. A lot depends on whether the victim was chained to the piling alive and left to drown with the rising tide, or if the murder took place somewhere else and the body was brought here purely for display.”
“Either way, we’re dealing with one sick fuck.”
Andie’s gaze drifted back to the victim. “You got that right.”
Chapter 1
Twelve Years Later
Saturday night was date night. Not to be confused with sex night. “One date, one sex night—minimum, per week.” Such was the “professional” advice Jack and Andie got as devoted parents of a seven-year-old daughter who were desperate to inject a little romance into the balance between family and career.
Jack jumped behind the wheel and started the car. They were running late, partly the fault of the babysitter, but mostly because they were always running late. Late for drop-off at Righley’s school. Late for work. Late for pickup. Late for dinner. Late for the airport. Late for parties. Jack had even missed his chance to see one of David Letterman’s final performances because they were late to the Late Show.
Andie was still brushing her hair as she climbed into the passenger seat. Jack backed out of the driveway, a crunchy swatch of crushed seashells that was big enough for just one car, which was typical of older homes on the smallest of lots on Key Biscayne. As they pulled away, Andie reached behind his neck and ripped the price tag from his shirt collar.
“Good Lord, I’m turning into my father.”
“Better you did it on date night than sex night,” said Andie.
Jack smiled, but the truth was, they were just three weeks into “date night/sex night,” and he was already tired of it. Rules were a burden—none more so than the one they’d lived under since day one of their relationship. Jack seemed drawn to the most controversial cases, whether it meant using DNA evidence to prove death-row inmates innocent or defending an accused terrorist. Andie’s most fulfilling work with the FBI was done undercover. Hence, Rule Number One: no talking about active cases and assignments.
“Can you please go a little faster?” said Andie.
Key Biscayne was notorious for speed traps, and Jack was already doing sixty over the arching bridge that connected their home on Key Biscayne to the mainland. Always late meant always in a hurry, a fact of married life with Andie that Jack had learned to accept, except when it came to leaving their island paradise for the hustle and bustle of downtown Miami. He glanced south, toward Biscayne Bay National Park, where wind surfers and kite surfers enjoyed one last run before sunset, gliding across the flat, blue-green waters. It was the same group of guys every day. They lived in bathing suits, drove open-air Jeeps, drank beer out of coolers, and hung with their bikini-clad girlfriends on the beach. Jack wondered what they did for a living. He wanted their job.
Directly below the bridge, a yacht almost too big for the shallow bay waters was cruising north, perhaps toward their destination in the Venetian Islands.
“Do you really want to go to this party?” asked Jack.
Andie’s mouth was agape. “Jack, it’s a private party for Imani.”
“It’s not for Imani. It’s a private party thrown by a sixty-year-old billionaire for his wife’s twenty-fifth birthday, and Imani is performing.”
“Let me just say ‘gross’ to the first part of that sentence, and then repeat the operative words: ‘Imani is performing.’ I love her. You got invited. We’re going.”
“I honestly can’t even name one of her hits,” said Jack.
“Please don’t say that outside of this car.”
Jack made surprisingly good time through downtown Miami before the jaunt back over the bridges to the waterfront estates on the Venetian Islands. Jack handed the car keys over to the valet attendant, and they hurried up the coral-stone driveway. The two-story, modern estate stretched the entire width of the lushly landscaped lot. A grand staircase led to the main entrance, which was actually on the second floor. The glass entrance doors were fourteen feet high, and the back of the house was completely glass, so Jack could see all the way through to the party by the pool and, beyond that, a drop-dead view of Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline. Jack estimated fewer than a hundred guests, which he surmised was an artist-imposed limit to keep private events manageable.
“We’re on the guest list,” said Andie, speaking before Jack could.
“Just need to check,” said the bouncer, and he quickly snapped a photograph of each of them.
“What gives?” asked Jack.
“We use a facial recognition app.”
He uploaded Andie’s photograph first. In a few seconds, he had an assortment of matching photos from the internet. The first one was from a website called “Hot Green-eyed MILFs.”
“Is that you?” he asked, surprised.
“I do not recognize that position,” said Jack.
“It’s not me. I’m an FBI agent.”
“FBI?”
“Is that a problem?”
His expression turned even more serious. “I’m sorry. You can’t come in.”
“What?”
“No law enforcement is allowed. Not that there’s anything illegal going on here. It’s a private party, and guests just feel uncomfortable knowing the cops are here.”
Andie was speechless for a moment, then looked at Jack. “Honey, this has to be some kind of violation of my constitutional rights. You’re the lawyer. Say something.”
“Are you Jack Swyteck?” the bouncer asked. “The lawyer who got Mr. Garcia acquitted?”
Enrique Garcia would have spent the rest of his life in federal prison for violation of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act had it not been for Jack’s trial skills. Jack presumed that was how he’d landed on the invitation list.
“That’s me,” said Jack.
“You’re a VIP. You can come. But not her.”
“Bullshit,” said Andie. “He’s a VIP, but his wife can’t get through the front door?”
“We obviously didn’t know you were FBI when the invitations went out. No cellphones, no cameras, no recording devices, and absolutely no law enforcement. Those are the rules.”
Rules, rules, rules. Jack was sick of them. “Andie, it’s fine. Let’s just go somewhere on South Beach for dinner.”
“No way. You’re staying. You missed Letterman because I made you late. I’m not going to make you miss Imani, too.”
“The difference is I actually cared who David Letterman is.”
The bouncer laughed. “You’re a funny guy,” he said, but Jack wasn’t joking.
Jack took Andie by the hand and started toward the steps, but she stopped him.
“Go inside, Jack. You can’t insult a client by being a no-show, even if he does belong behind bars.”
“What makes you say he belongs behind bars?”
“You didn’t make the A-list because Mr. Garcia was innocent. But that’s beside the point. Stay and have fun. That’s an order.”
Jack knew better than to argue the matter. He walked her back to the valet, kissed her good night, and headed back to the party. The bouncer gave him a claim check for his surrendered cellphone, and there was one more requirement: a nondisclosure agreement. Basically, once Jack left the premises, the event had never happened. He couldn’t tell anyone he’d been there, much less what he’d seen or heard.
“Standard at Imani’s private events,” the bouncer told him.
The lights dimmed, the band started, and guests cheered just as Jack stepped into the backyard. Colored lights bathed the stage, and Imani made her entrance. It was a younger crowd, and it struck Jack that the twentysomethings seemed lost without their phones. A few were still making kissy lips and taking imaginary selfies. Jack felt out of place—not as out of place as he might have felt with a price tag hanging from his shirt collar, but still the odd duck. He stood off to the side leaning against the trunk of a royal palm tree. A couple of Imani’s songs sounded familiar, but only because they included riffs taken note for note from older hits by Queen and David Bowie, which seemed to be the industry standard for the making of “new” music. The performance lasted forty-five minutes. At the end, she said the strangest thing.
