WEDNESDAY, 6:42 A.M.
Judd nudged the steering wheel to ease off the George Washington Memorial Parkway at the exit for the airport.
“You really didn’t have to drive us,” Jessica said. “We could’ve taken a cab.”
Judd patted the dashboard of his car, an aging silver Honda Accord that he’d bought off one of his Amherst College students. Jessica hated the car and had been urging him to replace it for months. But Judd liked this small piece of his old life back in New England. His grandmother had driven a silver Honda until she died in her farmhouse in Vermont. Every time he drove this car, which wasn’t often, he thought of her.
“It’s really no problem. I have plenty of time to drop you and then get to the office. And I get to see my family off,” Judd said with a forced smile.
“Plane!” shouted Noah, their three-year-old son, strapped in his car seat.
“Is that our plane?” asked his older brother, Toby, pointing at a low-flying Boeing 737 making its final approach for landing at Reagan National Airport, just across the Potomac River from downtown Washington, D.C.
“It could be, baby,” Jessica said. “Are you excited?”
“Yes, Mommy,” Toby said. Noah, sucking on the remains of what was once a raisin bagel, nodded in agreement.
Judd weaved through the heavy early-morning airport traffic and squeezed his car into a tight space at the departure zone between two black Lincoln Town Cars. Jessica busily helped the two boys and their Ninja Turtle backpacks out of the car while Judd extracted a small orange wheelie suitcase from the trunk. Once the whole Ryker family was assembled on the sidewalk, Judd hugged and kissed his children.
“Be good . . . for Mom.” Then, turning to his wife, he gave her a long kiss, “Have a great time, Jess.”
“Who’s that, Mommy?” Toby interrupted, pointing at a woman getting out of one of the Town Cars. She was in her early sixties, with heavy makeup, a golden tan, and wearing a red designer pantsuit. An aide unloaded several matching Valextra leather suitcases and carried a tiny Yorkshire terrier. “Is she a movie star?” asked the six-year-old boy.
Noah was staring, too. “Is she a princess?”
“Congresswoman,” Judd said. “You remember the big white building shaped like a snow cone? She works there.”
Jessica nudged Judd in the ribs. “Is that Adelman-Zamora?”
“Yep. Brenda Adelman-Zamora. House intel committee chair.”
“I’ve seen her on TV.”
“Maybe she’s on your flight,” Judd offered, raising his eyebrows.
Jessica scowled and then gave him another kiss.
“Don’t do any work when you’re down in Florida, Jess. Just try to enjoy yourself. Try to relax.”
“That’s the idea,” she said.
“I got you this,” he said, handing her a dog-eared copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.
“Awww,” she purred. “You remembered.”
“I know it was your favorite.” Judd shrugged.
“It is,” she said, touching her chest. “I still don’t know how mine got lost when we moved from Massachusetts.”
“I thought it might help you forget about work. You know, for the beach.”
She accepted the gift and slid it into her handbag, already stuffed with children’s books and small baggies of corn snacks and pretzels. “Enjoy the quiet while we’re away.” Then she paused for a moment. “Scratch that.” Jessica leaned forward and whispered, “Kick some ass.”
13.
MARATHON, FLORIDA KEYS
WEDNESDAY, 7:23 A.M.
A soft pink glow on the horizon hinted at the imminent sunrise. The predawn water was calm, barely a hint of a cool breeze off the Caribbean Sea. The only sounds were seagulls and a gentle sloshing of waves against the pier at the Marathon Marina and Boat Yard.
“Motherfucker!” bellowed Alejandro Cabrera, bear-hugging a thin man with sunken cheeks, long greasy black hair, and skin that was dark from a mix of sun and motor oil. He was wearing flip-flops and a dirty T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, exposing tattoos on both arms. “Que bolá, asere? You’re so skinny! Don’t you eat down here? You’re wasting away!”
“You’re gordo, asere,” said the man.
They hugged again and slapped each other aggressively on the back.
“We all good?” Alejandro asked.
The beach bum nodded.
“You staying out of trouble, brother?”
“Doing my best to stay off the grid and outta trouble,” the man replied.
The two men fist-bumped and then turned to face the others.
“Boys, this is Ricky. We go way back,” Alejandro said. “Ricky, you know Brink already. And this is Craw and Deuce.” The men all exchanged firm handshakes and head nods. “These are all guys from the neighborhood up north.”
Then with a dramatic flourish, Alejandro opened his arms wide and announced, “And this is The Big Pig.”