SANDSTORM (RICK SANDS SUSPENSE NOVELS Book 2) Read online

  Was Plessy one of them? Sands crossed under the arch at the entranceway to the yacht club grounds. The letter writer's use of the name Plessy showed he was not only familiar with the historical significance of the case, but was also able to apply it to the context of the letter itself. This meant, Sands decided, that Plessy had at least a college education, if not more. And his use of the term "demand letter", a reference to a specific kind of legal document was meant to convey that he was a lawyer, or had some legal training.

  If he was right, Sands concluded, Plessy wasn't going to go away without a fight.

  Jane was waiting for him as he stepped onto the yacht and her smile made him wish that he could toss the letter into the river and make believe they would never hear from Plessy again. From her expression he saw that she could sense his anxiety. He glanced back to his car and across the dock, thinking that Plessy might be watching them right now.

  Seeing nothing unusual, he went inside, not speaking as Jane followed him back to the cabin. He placed the container on the round antique table that she used for writing and took out the letter.

  "Found this. In my car."

  Jane read it.

  "I can't believe this! It's just like the one I received before the bombing except for the name change."

  "I find Plessy a lot more threatening than Rebel."

  Jane sat down, still holding the letter out in front of her. "Why? What could be worse than blowing up my entire project?"

  Sands sat down across from her. "Plessy refers to one of the ugliest decisions in the history of the U.S. Supreme Court. It re-enshrined overt racism in the Constitution. It's the kind of nom de plume a self-righteous bomber would use."

  Jane tossed the letter onto the table. "I didn't pay the first time. I'm sure as shit not paying this time."

  "No question. I'll talk to Ty and see if we can come up with a strategy."

  He reached across the table and took her hand. "There will be plenty of time to fight this. Let's not let it ruin today."

  She met his eyes. He was stunned to see tears on her cheeks. "Why, Rick? Why do the bad things always show up just when life is beautiful?"

  "God only knows. The good news is that you are beautiful and I just want to spend the rest of today loving you."

  Jane blushed. "You sweet-talker, you."

  He tried to think of some clever answer but all he could do was pull her into his arms. They fell onto the bed and for the first time in decades he said the words I love you and his joy was so intense that it was almost unbearable. After a time, they lay still and Sands could taste her tears on his lips and he knew she tasted his.

  Chapter Two

  By local standards, Sands knew, his partnership with Tyrone King was unique. King was African-American, and the number of black lawyers practicing in the county was still miniscule. And King, who had graduated from Harvard Law School, did not actually practice law - by choice he handled the investigative work for their two-person firm. Sands was well aware that he and King could not work big cases without his partner's talent for investigation; their cost would have been far beyond their means. Luckily, King loved the investigative process, the hunt for witnesses and documents that involved extensive traveling both domestic and abroad, often to find people who did not want to be found.

  Sands also trusted his partner's judgment. They had both grown up in Daytona Beach during the segregation era, Sands on the exclusive, white-only peninsula and King in what had then been called "colored town", a separate world of dirt roads lined with tin-roofed slat houses built on dirt foundations that seemed to exist in a time warp circa 1890. The "coloreds" had separate schools and hospitals, and were not even allowed to cross the bridges to the peninsula unless they were working as maids or gardeners. They faced immediate arrest if they set foot on the pristine white sand of Daytona's miles of beach.

  Sands had first met King when he was ten years old and Sands had just started college. King's Aunt Mary had worked for Sands' parents as their maid. A few years later, at Sands' urging, his parents had helped King escape from the inferior, still largely segregated public school system, sponsoring his application to a special program at an elite prep school in New England. King, who was academically gifted and exceptional at every sport he tried, had gone on to Dartmouth and then Harvard Law School. After a miserable few years working for a large law firm and then as an early black recruit in the FBI, where, in King's words, he was in charge of picking up paper clips, King had returned to his hometown and taken a job at the State Attorney's Office as a detective-investigator. There, he and Sands had worked up dozens of homicides together. Over Sands' protests, King had insisted on leaving the office with him.

  They had set up shop in a private house on a quiet street a few blocks from the beach. Built in the 40's, it provided both of them with a comfortably sized office, each with a private bathroom, and they used the extra space for a conference area and storage.

  Neither had been inclined to hire a secretary - at the State Attorney's office they had answered their own phones and done their own typing. But when Michelle Long had asked if she could join them, they both felt they couldn't turn her away. Long, now twenty, had been the sole survivor of a triple murder Sands had prosecuted. Sands had spent countless hours with Long helping her get past the trauma of facing her tormentor in court. After the trial, which ended with a guilty verdict and a life-without-parole sentence, Long' life had come apart. Suffering from post-traumatic stress, she fell into a depression that left her unable to get out of bed on most days. Now, after intensive therapy, she had finally regained her ability to function.

  Sands' office was atypical - he had no diplomas or bar certificates hanging on the walls. "I'm not a barber," he would explain to anyone who bothered to ask. He had surrounded himself with photographs, some he had taken, and many others he had purchased. His desk was a long narrow table with a glass top and thin metallic legs. He used a lap top computer but still took notes on a yellow legal pad. When Sands pulled into the parking area they had put in behind the house, King's new car, a black BMW 740iL, was already there. Sands never wore a suit, or even a tie, unless he had to appear in court or at a deposition. On that score, he and King diverged - his partner always wore hand-tailored dark suits. Although not his style, Sands had to admit they looked great on King's wiry frame. On days when he didn't have to go to court, Sands wore a polo shirt, khaki pants, and penny loafers without socks, what King called "my old prep-school uniform".

  Sands had already faxed Long a copy of Plessy's demand letter and when he entered King's office he found his partner with his feet up on his civil war era roll top desk, the faxed copy in his hands. Like Sands, King had no diplomas or certificates in his office. King had once confessed that he had never felt at ease in the Ivy League. Though he had graduated with honors from both college and law school, King had told Sands that those had been the worst years of his life, a marathon race that he had endured, but that he had found dispiriting.

  "So, is there a wedding in the offing?" King asked without looking up from the letter.

  "If it's up to me, then yes. But I haven't asked the one who has to say yes."

  "Holy smokes."

  "I know, I know - at my age it sounds crazy, but Jane is the one."

  "I'm speechless."

  Long appeared in the doorway. Barely over five feet tall, she was a diminutive figure with what Sands thought of as a boy's hair cut - a crew cut, as it had been called in Sands' youth, and a narrow face. She always wore white shirts with collars and cuff links with black suits that she bought in a boy's size. Her eyes were large and her glance piercing. Long had come out to Sands when he first interviewed her as a witness in the triple homicide; one of the victims, a woman twice Long' age, had been her mentor, and unrequited love interest. Long' feelings for the murdered woman had deepened her mental crash during the months following the trial.

  "Coffee?"

  Sands nodded.

  "I'm good," Kin
g said.

  Both Sands and King were coffee mavens, and Sands believed that Long, a self-taught barista, was unmatched in her brewing skills.

  Sands sat on the couch, which like King's suits was custom made, and had the long sleek lines of an Italian sports car. A hand woven rug from Turkey lay on the hardwood floor and display cases with African-American memorabilia lined the walls.

  Long returned holding a steaming cup for Sands.

  "Here you go, Boss."

  "Gratis," Sands said. He sipped from the mug. "Divine."

  "So?" Long asked.

  Sands shook his head. Long had lately been on a campaign to teach Sands about coffee. She could identify any coffee from the aroma and taste.

  King raised his hand.

  "I know you know," Long said. "And no cheating, please."

  "Give him an A plus," Sands said.

  "At least try!" Long insisted.

  "Give me a hint."

  "The color of your lady friend's eyes," Long said.

  Sands shrugged.

  "He's hopeless," King said.

  "Blue. What's that tell me?"

  "You're impossible." Long threw up her hands and walked out.

  "Lucky for you, Jane isn't as demanding," King observed.

  Sands sipped his coffee. "Who cares what it's called - it's DELICIOUS!"

  "THANK YOU!" Long shouted from the main room. "But you still flunked."

  King again studied the letter. "This is ugly."

  "Very."

  "What do you make of the name change?"

  "I'd guess it's two different people - the guy who made the bomb, aka Rebel and now the guy who wrote this letter, Plessy - call him The Lawyer."

  "Either he's a lawyer or an ex-con who spent a lot of time reading law books."

  "He's a lawyer. By calling himself Plessy, he's showing us he's not some confederate flag waving moron driving around in a pick-up truck with a rifle in the cab."

  King put the letter on the desk and took a three ring binder from a drawer. Sands saw that it was the "bomb" notebook from the trial. It contained all the information that state and federal investigators had been able to gather about the explosive devices that had leveled the thirty-story residential property that Bard's company had been erecting on a building site near the ocean in South Daytona. The framework of the structure had been built and the floors put in, but there was no exterior façade. The devices had been perfectly placed to bring it down in one neat pile of dust. No one had been injured in the blast, which had taken place at 3 a.m. on a Sunday, although buildings to the north and south had suffered structural damage because of the shock waves. No leads had developed as to Rebel's identity. The Feds' analysis of the explosive devices themselves had concluded that the bomb maker was an expert who had probably been trained in the military.

  "If we can figure out how Rebel and Plessy met, we might be able to identify them," Sands said.

  "If we're not blown up first."

  "Aren't we lucky we bought this house?"

  "At least we have good insurance."

  "Amen."

  Sands raised his cup in salute. "To Multi-State."

  "They probably cancelled our policy after the verdict."

  "Like everyone else in Florida. I'll have copies made of all our records and store them in my apartment."

  "No doubt Plessy probably knows where we both live. I'm going to have to warn Rachel. Just what our relationship needs right now."

  "That's a lead-in if I ever heard one."

  "She said no again."

  "Even with the baby?"

  "Rachel sees the baby as hers. She's not even demanding I acknowledge the child. She's perfectly willing to raise her on her own. At least she says she loves me."

  "So? Who needs marriage?"

  "That may be one of the most ironic statements I've ever heard."

  "True." Sands considered whether to go on. Close as they were, there were lines that he and King rarely crossed.

  King helped him out. "I know that being officially married won't make any difference as far as our everyday life. But it does matter to me."

  "Understood." King's mother had abandoned him as a baby and his Aunt Mary had raised him. He had never learned anything about his father, not even his name. You didn't have to be a psychologist, Sands reflected, to understand why having a traditional family mattered to King.

  "I don't know why after all these years I'm ready, Ty. It would take more years than I have left on a therapist's couch to figure it out. All I know is I'd marry Jane tomorrow if she'd have me. But - and I mean this, Ty - my first marriage would have collapsed whether we were officially married or not. You and Rachel are good together. Enjoy it - and hope it lasts."

  "Wait 'till I tell her we're in the mad bomber's sights. She'll probably move back in with J.C."

  Even before her pregnancy, King had proposed, but Rachel saw no reason for getting married and the prospect of becoming a mother had not changed her mind. Sands knew that one of the problems King and Rachel faced was that, to her, Daytona was a cultural desert. Rachel wanted to return to Atlanta, but King had no interest in living there. Evidently, Sands had observed, Rachel's pregnancy had only widened the fissure in their relationship caused by Rachel's need to live someplace where she could pursue her passion for art.

  "I don't think you and I are his targets. Killing us won't get him a nickel."

  "So, who will he kill?"

  Sands took Plessy's letter from the desk and looked at it again. "He says severe retribution. Retribution involves punishment. And he says the crimes were committed against African-Americans in the State of Florida."

  "You're thinking public buildings?"

  Sands nodded.

  Chapter Three

  After mulling over their options, they had decided to turn the Plessy letter over to the Florida Attorney General's Office, rather than to State Attorney Ronny Walker. They could justify their decision because so far, no crime had been committed by Plessy in Walker's jurisdiction, but the threat appeared to be statewide. The real reason was that neither of them trusted Walker and his Chief of Detectives, Richard Baggett.

  This morning Sands should have been on the way to the Attorney General's office with King, but instead, he was on the highway headed for Sarasota on the gulf coast where his parents had retired in a condo on Siesta Key. It had been an idyllic retreat for them after decades of operating a general medical practice - Sam had always worked alone with Esther as his office manager - out of the same medical arts building on Halifax Avenue, just one block from the Seabreeze Bridge, which spanned the Halifax River to the mainland. His parents had fallen in love with Siesta Key, a quiet island with a white sand beach that, unlike the Atlantic beaches, always stayed cool no matter how intense the sun. They had spent their retirement playing tennis, at which his father excelled, or simply walking on the beach.

  But eight years ago, at the age of sixty-eight, his father had suffered a heart attack. At first the doctors told them Sam's heart suffered no substantial damage and after a triple bypass, Sam had seemed to recover. But, the doctors were wrong, and over the past eight years his heart had grown weaker, causing him to lose strength from lack of oxygen. Sam's official diagnosis was congestive heart failure. It was a devastating turn, but fiercely independent, his parents avoided asking Sands for help.

  The call last night, from Esther, telling him that his father was in the hospital should not have come as a surprise. But it had. Given his years as a trial lawyer, Sands was more than familiar with the endless capacity for denial exhibited by ordinary people under terrible stress; he had no difficulty recognizing it in himself. His father, who eight years ago could have run Sands ragged through three sets of tennis, had slowly deteriorated to the point where he couldn't even walk a hundred yards without stopping and resting. Sands had spoken to his father's cardiologist dozens of times, but the report was always the same: they couldn't stem the deterioration. But Sands had convinced himself
that at some point Sam would stabilize and his parents would enjoy many more years together. The phone call last night had once again shattered his wishful fantasy.

  He drove straight to the hospital, located in downtown Sarasota, and as he parked in the adjoining multi-level parking facility, he thought wistfully of the visit he could now only imagine when he would introduce Jane to his parents and the four of them would have a grand weekend out on Siesta Key. Jane had even offered to come with him, but he let her off the hook, knowing that his parents would not want her to meet them for the first time at such a vulnerable moment.

  The parking structure was connected to the hospital by a bridge way, and once inside, he took the elevator up to the cardiac care floor. The floor was quiet but for the drone of a television from practically every room. Walking through the corridor, he passed a few recovering patients, men and women taking their slow turns around the circuit, some with walkers. Eight years ago his father had been one of them.

  He found his mother seated in a chair beside his father's bed. A curtain divided the room and he could hear the murmur of conversation from behind it. Sam, he saw, was asleep under the covers. At seventy-eight, Esther was taller than her husband and angular, her face, arms and legs dark from being in the sun almost every day. At some point she and Sam had decided to ignore the risk of skin cancer. Sands had initially chided them, but now he was glad they had enjoyed their time in the sun.

  Esther glanced up at him and smiled. He gave her a kiss and they embraced. He was surprised by how fragile she felt, as if she had lost some of her vital force.

  "Thank you for coming. I hate to bother you like this."

  "Mom! Stop that."

  "I don't know what to do. I want him to go into rehab, but he doesn't want to. He just wants to lie there."