Castro Directive Read Online Free Page A

They're appealing the decision, right?"
    "Sure. But I'll get it. You watch."
    Pierce gripped Gibby's shoulder. "That's the spirit." He turned, opened his door, and stepped inside his office before Gibby had a chance to start talking about the convention he'd just attended in Arizona.
    Even though he was no longer involved in the travel business, his office walls were still decorated with his travel photos, mostly of South American destinations. There were landscape scenes from the Amazon, Machu Picchu, and the Gran Sabana of Venezuela, as well as colorful Indian market scenes from Colombia and Ecuador.
    Still, the office felt empty. His secretary had quit a few weeks ago, and he hadn't seen much point in rushing to hire a new one. As a result, he relied on his phone recorder. He was glad to see it blinking now; a new prospect, maybe. He rewound it and played back the recording.
    The first three messages were from reporters following up on the murder story. Then he heard a familiar voice. It was Tina, and she sounded frantic. "Nicky. My God, why did you not say something? Are you all right? Call me right away."
    "Christ." She'd seen the newspaper story. Even when Tina was excited and talking fast, she still didn't use contractions. He'd tried many times to get her to relax her stilted English, but had finally given up.
    He punched her number. "Hi, Tina."
    "There you are, Nicky. Are you okay? I opened the newspaper and could not believe my eyes."
    "Tina, calm down. I'm okay."
    She breathed into the phone. "I do not understand you. You keep everything inside."
    Pierce cleared his throat. He was about to say that her mother told her she should have married a Latin man; but held off. He didn't want to get into a discussion of either their failed marriage or his personality traits. "Did you find the list for me?"
    "Yes, and now I know why you asked. I hope you are not going to get involved with this murder."
    "Don't worry. I want to get uninvolved. I need to return some money."
    "Well, I have the museum's annual report. There are more than two hundred contributors listed, and that is not all of them. Some did not want their names used."
    "Wonderful."
    "You coming to get it?"
    "No. I've got the feeling that whoever put up the money will find me. I'll just wait."
    There was a knock at the door. "Someone's here. I've got to go."
    "Maybe your wait is over."
    "Yeah. Just call me psychic."
    "Be careful, Nicky."
    He hung up, walked over to the door. Neil Bellinger stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. A model for a fashion magazine. Real psychic, Pierce thought.
    "Morning, Nick. Mind if I come in?"
    Pierce stepped back, motioned for him to enter. Bellinger jammed his hands into the pockets of his pleated slacks, strolled around the room looking at the travel pictures. "So what kind of investigative work do you do?"
    "The usual," Pierce said evasively. "By the way, thanks for giving the press my name."
    "I didn't do it," Bellinger said.
    "That was my doing."
    Pierce turned to see Morris Carver's massive frame filling the doorway. "It couldn't be helped."
    "I noticed there was no mention of Redington or the skull in the article," Pierce commented.
    Carver moved into the room, scanned Pierce's desk. His eyes settled for a moment on the envelope Pierce had dropped next to the telephone. "Had a talk with Professor Redington at Florida International University.."
    "He's not the murderer, Nick," Bellinger interjected. "At least not the one you described."
    "Maybe he hired the guy with the scar."
    "Yeah. Maybe he hired you, too." A menacing undercurrent rumbled through Carver's voice.
    "Loften hired me. Or was going to."
    "So you say."
    "You accusing me of something?"
    Carver's large, dark eyes glared at him. Stubble shadowed his jaw. "You feeling guilty?"
    "No. Not at all."
    Carver took a step closer. Suspicion sullied his face. He pointed an index finger. "I don't know what this is all about, but I