SANDSTORM (RICK SANDS SUSPENSE NOVELS Book 2) Read online

  SANDSTORM

  A NOVEL

  GARY FIDEL

  Copyright © 2014 Gary Fidel

  All Rights Reserved

  License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN- 13: 978-0-615-96661-8

  ISBN- 10: 0615966616

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents are all a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  STORM SURGE/1998

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  AFTERMATH/ 1999

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ENDGAME/2000

  Chapter Thirty

  STORM SURGE/1998

  Chapter One

  "Bring the jury in."

  Rick Sands leaned forward and looked toward the door through which the jurors would enter the courtroom and announce their verdict ending the longest trial of his career. For seven months he had battled the team of defense lawyers hired by the insurance company, most of them from one of those mega-law firms with offices in Dallas, Washington, New York, and various international capitals. Sands' client was a construction company whose oceanfront condo project in Daytona Beach had been blown up by a bomber calling himself Rebel. Immense sums were at stake - over one hundred million dollars. The insurance company had refused to pay, contending that the bombing was not covered by the policy because it was a terrorist act. Sands had argued to the jury that Rebel was a garden-variety extortionist who, when his demands for money had not been met, had bombed the construction project. Since it was merely the final act of an ordinary crime, Sands argued to the jury, the bombing was covered by the policy.

  Sands had handled the trial alone, sitting at counsel table with Jane Bard, who, along with her brother, owned the construction company. Bard had gone to Seabreeze High School with Sands. The opposition had sought to wear him down, but Sands had found that this trial, despite the huge sums of money involved, had not caused him the emotional strain of a criminal trial, where often a person's life was at stake. Sands had been a career prosecutor in the State Attorney's Office in Daytona Beach, where he was in charge of the homicide trials bureau. But he and his boss, State Attorney Michael Tyler, had been forced out in a coup d'état spearheaded by the Chief Assistant State Attorney, Ronny Walker; Walker was now the State Attorney, Tyler had been given a judgeship as a sop, and Sands had opened his own practice with a lifelong friend, Ty King, who had worked as a detective in the State Attorney's office. Now, with the verdict finally at hand, he wanted to win, but this was not life and death - the construction company, which had offices all over the world, was worth over a billion dollars and the insurance company even more, so both would survive whatever the verdict.

  As though to verify Sands' own thoughts, none of the jurors appeared tense or overwhelmed by the prospect of announcing the verdict, unlike jurors in criminal cases. No, these jurors were jocular, enjoying their moment in the limelight as Judge Cooper asked the foreperson whether they had reached a verdict, and then, in response to the foreperson's holding up the verdict sheet, asked to see it. In the criminal cases Sands had prosecuted, the jurors often looked as though they were airplane passengers waiting to deplane after a long, anxious flight; and they usually avoided looking at the defendant, unless it was an acquittal, some of them in tears at the prospect of sending a person to prison. But as the Judge unfolded the verdict sheet, these jurors ignored both parties and joked with one another, acting more like a group of friends on their way to a bar.

  Judge Cooper, who, Sands knew, was nearing mandatory retirement as he approached the age of 70, glanced at the sheet; his face gave away nothing. Watching the court officer return the sheet to the foreperson, a black woman in her twenties, Sands felt Bard's hand grip his elbow. The Court Clerk asked the foreperson to read the verdict. In a strong, determined voice, the foreperson began to read.

  "In the matter of Peninsula Construction Corporation against Multi-State Insurance Incorporated, we the jury unanimously find for the plaintiff, Peninsula Construction Corporation and award the plaintiff the sum of one hundred and eighty million dollars".

  Sands heard Bard gasp, and she seized his hand and pressed it to her lips. He gave her a quick smile and sat back to listen as Judge Cooper thanked the jurors for their service.

  * * *

  It wasn't until later that night, standing on the deck of Jane Bard's yacht, surrounded by friends celebrating the victory, and holding Jane's hand as the October sun's lowering rays crossed the deck and gently played on the calm surface of the Halifax River that Sands felt free enough to cast aside his professional mask and look at Jane the way he had wanted to look at her during the trial. She had brought the case to him; their relationship had developed slowly until Sands realized that they were emotionally involved. After that, he found that he couldn't wait to see her again, even if it was in the sterile setting of a client conference. But always they had avoided crossing the invisible line that limited their relationship as one of attorney-client. Now, his eyes caught hers, and sunk into their blue depths.

  Jane Bard was fair, slight of build, and had blonde highlights in her silver hair. Sands had just turned fifty a week earlier, a birthday that he had found he was able to ignore thanks to the trial, but now he felt some amazement that decades after his failed marriage, and an endless parade of single women that had come and gone through his life, he was experiencing more than mere physical desire for this woman, who had been a year behind him in high school. Shifting his glass of champagne to his left hand, he pulled her close and met her lips, just touching them and then letting himself go, deeper and deeper.

  From somewhere far outside himself he heard the sound of clapping, as though in a dream.

  "Well, I guess we've gone public," Sands said. Jane laughed and he glanced across the deck where Ty King stood with his notably pregnant girlfriend, Rachel Carter. Nearby stood Rachel's mother, Jacqueline, who owned J.C.'s, a successful restaurant near Bethune Cookman College. J.C., as she was known to her friends, had become one of Sands' closest friends early in his career after he prosecuted two men who robbed one of her employees at gunpoint. Both J.C. and Rachel were exceptionally tall, but where J.C. was a big woman with striking bold features, her daughter was small boned and had finely drawn features. Rachel had recei
ved her Masters in Art History from Emory earlier in the year and Sands knew that Ty, whose relationship with her had begun when she was in high school, wanted them to get married - a step Rachel was not yet ready to take. "It's about time," J.C.'s voice boomed. Sands saw them nod at one other, as though their speculation about his relationship with Jane had been confirmed.

  "You'd think we were just a couple of teenagers making out," Jane said.

  "I don't care."

  "Good."

  He kissed her again, and again the kiss opened up and time disappeared into a cloud.

  * * *

  The morning light awakened him in her bed. Sands felt the sway of the yacht on the water. Light fell across the wall illuminating the rows of Jane's family photos. Jane's eyes opened and she turned toward him.

  Sands began to hum a Lennon-McCartney tune. She laughed and he wanted time to stop so they would stay in this moment. She kissed him.

  "You're adorable," Sands said.

  "More."

  "I adore you, Jane Bard."

  "Ditto."

  "Double ditto."

  The harsh roar of a motorcycle engine came from the parking lot bordering the yacht club, then tapered off to a pulsing idle.

  "Are you going to be one of those white males who buys a Harley now that you're fifty."

  "No can do. I swore to my Mom at my bar mitzvah that I'd never buy a motorcycle."

  As though it were punctuation for his comment, the motorcycle engine suddenly roared to life as the cyclist drove off.

  Jane paused, and he saw that she was considering whether or not to say what was on her mind. She glanced away and then back at him. "Which comes first? The motorcycle promise or the promise that you won't marry someone who isn't Jewish."

  It was the sort of question that had, since his divorce, caused Sands to head for the nearest exit. Now he welcomed it.

  "The marriage promise, of course. But as for my failed marriage, religion didn't hurt or help it. And yes, I've always fantasized owning a motorcycle - that's why I drive a Corvette. It's the next best thing."

  "I can't argue with the motorcycle ban."

  "As for the second, I already broke it the first time around," Sands said, knowing that he was taking the conversation to the point of no return.

  "Then here's a bonus - my great grandfather was Jewish."

  "Get out of here!"

  "Scout's honor."

  "You were a Girl Scout?"

  "Moi. And not just an ordinary scout, mind you. I was troop leader."

  Jane got up and walked naked through the bars of sunlight to the wall and took down one of the old photos. Turning, she stopped, curtsied, and smiled. Later, Sands would think that it was at that moment that he fell in love.

  She handed the photograph to him. "He came to America from Russia in 1887. He changed his name at Ellis Island to Bradford Grant. This was taken on his 40th birthday."

  Sands studied the man in the picture. It was a formal portrait, taken in front of a backdrop of a large Renaissance painting, with her great grandfather dressed in tails, an ascot, gloves, and a top hat.

  "Looks just like you," Sands said.

  "Liar. Actually, I did inherit one thing from him - his blue eyes. He had, I was told, the most beautiful blue eyes and I'm the only one since to get them."

  "In that case I thank him as you do have the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen."

  "Flatterer. Don't stop now."

  "I promise I'll go on, but tell me the rest of the story first."

  "My great grandfather was a self-taught engineer and somehow he got a job working for Henry Flagler and wound up coming to Florida when Flagler built his railroad down here. Jews weren't allowed to own land in Russia except in a segregated geographical area where it was worthless. My great grandfather was obsessed with owning land. Spent every penny he had on land. When he died he owned over a hundred thousand acres, all of it in north Florida. Along the way he also became a Presbyterian. He sent my grandfather, Nathaniel - his only child - to Andover and Princeton. My mother would have taken the same path if she had been a man. She had to settle for some women's private school in upstate New York, but she got her revenge by getting into Oxford. As did my brother, also named Nathaniel. When my grandfather graduated from Princeton, he founded Peninsula Construction and began building hotels. His first hotel was in the panhandle on the Gulf."

  Sands could not recall ever meeting Jane's parents, and wondered now why they had decided to live in Daytona Beach or how Jane had come to attend public high school. Her brother, he recalled, had gone to boarding school in New England. Her parents had died ten years ago in a small plane crash while on vacation in Mexico - it had made the front page of the Daytona News Journal. And she had told him that her brother had gladly let her watch over the business, which was run day to day by a team of managers; he was happily living in London, and had other homes in France, Italy and Bermuda. Jane, who, like Sands, had chosen to stay in Florida and go to college in Gainesville, had married a student at the medical school while still in college. Their marriage had fallen apart during his residency and Jane had come home and learned the business from her father and grandfather.

  "Why there? Instead of Palm Beach where Flagler lived?"

  "My great grandfather wouldn't let him. He was afraid of pissing off Flagler so he gave my grandfather the capital to start the business on the condition that he stay away from the Atlantic coast. Back then, the panhandle was totally undeveloped. Point is you can introduce me to your mother as your Jewish girlfriend."

  "She'll be delighted that I have a girlfriend."

  "Do you?"

  "Didn't know women used that word anymore, but . . . Yes!"

  "Did you know there are at least a half dozen other ways to say yes?" Jane rolled into him and he let himself be toppled.

  "I actually did not," he said, looking up at her.

  "Well . . . let me start with one and see how far we can get."

  "I'm liking one already," he said.

  "Shhh."

  They woke at the same time and lay in the morning light, entangled. They lingered until thoughts of breakfast proved irresistible. Sands suggested scones, fruit, yogurt and coffee from a place a couple blocks away that billed itself a cafe. After a quick shower, he put on a baseball cap, shorts, a tee shirt and sandals and went outside. The sun was high in the sky and he kept to the shady side of the dock as he walked past the row of yachts to the parking lot. Although he intended to walk to the coffee shop, he glanced at his car out of habit and noticed the driver's side door was wide open. This could only mean someone had tried to steal it - not uncommon with vintage Corvettes like his, a 1963 split window C2. But as he moved closer he saw that a framed photograph of Sands and Jane leaving the courthouse was propped up on the driver's seat.

  "What the hell?" Sands said aloud.

  He reached into the car and grabbed the picture. Only then did he notice a plain white envelope taped to the back with RICK SANDS AND JANE BARD typed on the outside. He opened it up, unfolded the single sheet of paper inside and began to read:

  DEMAND LETTER

  I demand that you, Rick Sands, pay half the fee that you earned as a result of the judgment against Multi-State Insurance and that you, Jane Bard, pay twenty five million dollars from that judgment to a fund that I will set up (see below) to be used to make reparations to those who have been excluded from the economic system as a result of Florida's racist history. This money is a tax levied by the People to reimburse victims or the heirs of victims of past crimes against African Americans that have taken place in the State of Florida since the 19th Century.

  I further demand that you and Jane Bard create an escrow with an attorney in good standing in the Florida State Bar. That lawyer will publish in the Daytona Beach News Journal a legal notice of the escrow, listing my name as given below as one of the parties to the escrow and upon receiving a directive from me, will transfer said funds to an account that I designa
te. Any attempt to identify me by tracing those funds will result in severe retribution.

  Plessy

  Sands locked his car and continued walking, as though in a trance, his mind focused on the letter. The writer's adopted name, Plessy, was an obvious reference to the infamous 19th Century United States Supreme Court case, Plessy v. Ferguson, which upheld the constitutionality of segregation, providing a constitutional foundation for the Jim Crow era in the 20th Century.

  He reached the coffee shop. One of several places that had opened as part of the downtown revival, the shop featured paintings by local artists and often held readings for local writers. It was already crowded, but Sands was so focused on Plessy's letter that he barely noticed. The long line moved fast and he soon stood at the front counter looking at dozens of home baked scones, pastries and muffins nestled among bagels, platters of fresh fruit, and containers of yogurt. He ordered too many of each and left holding a cardboard container loaded to the brim. As he walked back, he went over every sentence of Plessy's letter in his mind. Even in elementary school he had been known for his photographic memory. As a trial lawyer, his ability to absorb and visualize even lengthy documents had proven to be a powerful weapon in his arsenal. But this was not a piece of evidence to be used in a trial; this was a threat, and he found that he could not simply categorize it as he did other legal documents.

  Like many practicing lawyers, Sands had lots of experience dealing with fringe elements. Both as a prosecutor and as an attorney in private practice, he had become familiar with the written rants of litigants who ended up on the losing end of things. Whether it was a bitter divorce, a business investment that went bad, or a disastrous health crisis, the brutal consequences of a catastrophic reversal somehow always found their way to the courts. But the courts more often than not sided with the rich and powerful - they could afford to hire the big law firms, the teams of investigators, and most of all, to carry on the paper war at a cost that ordinary people could never meet. Once they lost in court, overwhelmed by rage, the litigants sometimes joined the ranks of the Captain Ahabs, flooding the system with document after document, seeking justice with a capital J, from a system that had long ago learned to process such mail by responding to it with neatly formatted, carefully written responses that led to one dead end after another.