She Picked Me Up at the Airport With a Smile. By Midnight, I Was Fighting for My Life in My Rival’s Foyer. The Last Thing I Saw Was the Flash of a Gun

PART 1

The warm Florida air hit my face as I walked out of Palm Beach International. I was supposed to be closing the deal of a lifetime before I retired. A woman named Mia was supposed to pick me up. Blonde. Five-foot-one. A new contact for a lucrative export deal.

I saw her holding a sign with my name. She smiled. It was warm. Disarming.

—Mr. Black? I’m Mia. The car’s this way.

But she wasn’t blonde. Her hair was dark.

—I thought you were blonde? I asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

—Oh, the picture? Yeah, I change it up. You know Florida.

She laughed. I laughed too. I ignored the knot in my stomach.

We didn’t go to a boardroom. We pulled up to a house. A nice one, but still a house.

—The partners are inside, she said. Just through here.

I walked into the foyer. The door clicked shut behind me. The air conditioning was too cold. And standing in the living room, with a look I hadn’t seen in years, was Alan Mackerly. My rival.

—Frank, he said. Long time.

My blood turned to ice. I looked back at Mia. Her smile was gone.

—What is this, Alan? I managed to say.

—This? This is the end of the road, Frank.

He nodded to Mia. She walked to the kitchen. I heard the clink of ice in a glass.

—Here, she said, handing it to me. You look like you need this.

I was sweating. I took the glass. The condensation was cold on my palm.

—Drink up, Alan whispered. We’ve got a lot to talk about.

I lifted the glass to my lips. The liquid was cold. It tasted… strange.

DO YOU TRUST THE PEOPLE YOU MEET FOR BUSINESS?

PART 2

The taste hit me first. Metallic. Bitter. Like someone had crushed up aspirin in my drink.

—Something wrong, Frank?

Mia’s voice sounded far away. I looked at her. The room was starting to tilt, just slightly. Like being on a boat.

—I… I need some air.

I set the glass down on a mahogany side table. My hand missed. The glass shattered on the hardwood floor.

Alan laughed. It was a sound I hadn’t heard in twenty years, back when we were partners. Back before the betrayal.

—Sit down, Frank. You look pale.

—What did you put in my drink?

Mia didn’t answer. She walked to Alan and stood beside him. His arm went around her waist. Possessive. Proud.

—Lisa, baby. Why don’t you grab the duct tape from the garage?

Lisa. Not Mia. Of course.

My legs gave out. I hit the floor hard. My knee screamed in pain but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel my arms.

—Please, Alan. Whatever this is…

—Whatever this is? He walked toward me, crouched down. His face was inches from mine. I could smell his cologne. Expensive. New. Thirty years of stealing my contracts bought that cologne.

—You took everything from me, Frank. The school bus contract in Passaic. The special ed routes in Morris County. You underbid me. You slept with my wife.

—That was twenty years ago. Your wife left you because you hit her.

His face went red. He backhanded me across the mouth. I felt my lip split. The blood ran warm down my chin. I couldn’t wipe it away.

—Don’t you talk about her.

Lisa came back with the tape. Silver. Industrial strength. She handed it to Alan without a word.

—Hold him up.

She grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. Alan wrapped the tape around my mouth. Then my wrists. Then my ankles. I was a fish on a dock, flopping, dying.

—Take his wallet, Alan said. And his watch. His wedding ring.

Lisa knelt beside me. Her hands were gentle as she slipped the ring off my finger. My father’s ring. The one he wore for forty years. The one I promised to never take off.

—I’m sorry, she whispered. So quiet only I could hear.

Alan dragged me across the floor. The foyer. The living room. The garage. The concrete was cold against my back.

—Get the car, Lisa.

She left. The garage door opened. I heard the engine of my rental car. The one she drove from the airport.

Alan stood over me. He pulled out a gun. A revolver. Steel blue.

—Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?

I tried to speak through the tape. Nothing came out but a muffled sound.

—You know what they say, Frank. Revenge is a dish best served cold. And it’s been cold for a long time.

Lisa backed the car into the garage. She got out, left it running.

—We’re going for a drive, Alan said. But you won’t see where we’re going.

He pulled a black duffel bag from a shelf. Opened it. Inside, I saw plastic sheeting. Rope. A tarp.

My bladder let go. I couldn’t stop it. The warm urine spread down my leg.

Alan laughed again.

—Big Frank Black. Millionaire. Big shot. Wetting himself on my garage floor.

He grabbed me under the arms. Lisa took my feet. They lifted me like a sack of groceries and threw me in the trunk.

The lid slammed shut. Darkness. The smell of rubber and gasoline. The engine vibrated through the metal floor.

Then we were moving.

I don’t know how long we drove. Minutes. Hours. Time stopped meaning anything. The trunk was hot. Airless. I thought about Sally. My girlfriend. My office manager. The woman who waited for me to come home.

I thought about my daughter. Lyanna. We were supposed to meet Monday to discuss selling the business. She was going to take over. Run the company I built from one bus into a fleet of eighty.

I thought about my grandson. Three years old. He called me Papa Frank. He liked it when I made the train noise. Choo-choo.

I’d never see him again.

The car stopped. The engine died. Doors opened and closed.

The trunk opened. Light flooded in. I blinked, blind.

—Help me get him out.

Alan grabbed one arm. Someone else grabbed the other. Not Lisa. A man’s hand. Thick fingers. A gold pinky ring.

They dragged me out. We were in the Everglades. I could see the sawgrass stretching for miles. The sky was purple with the last of the sunset. Mosquitoes swarmed immediately.

—Where’s Lisa? I heard myself say. The tape was gone.

—She’s waiting at the house. Cleaning up your mess.

—Alan, please. I’ll give you anything. The bus company. My retirement account. My house. Just let me go.

—You think I want your money? I’ve got money. I want you dead. I’ve wanted you dead since 1976.

The other man was younger. Bigger. He held a shotgun.

—Who’s this? I asked.

—A friend. Someone who doesn’t ask questions.

They dragged me through the grass. The ground was wet. Mud sucked at my shoes. My good shoes. Two hundred dollar Johnston and Murphys.

We reached a small airboat. Flat bottom. Loud engine. A fan on the back.

—Get on.

I couldn’t move fast enough. The younger man pushed me. I fell into the boat. My head hit the metal seat.

Alan started the engine. The fan roared. We slid across the grass and into the water.

The wind was cold. The sky got darker. I watched the lights of the city disappear behind us. Miami. Palm Beach. Gone.

Twenty minutes. Thirty. Alan cut the engine.

—This is far enough.

The younger man grabbed me. Hauled me to my feet.

—Any last words, Frank?

I looked at Alan. Really looked at him. Gray hair now. Deep lines around his eyes. But the same hate I saw twenty years ago.

—She left you because you were a monster, Alan. I didn’t steal her. She ran from you. Ask yourself why no one stays.

He shot me.

The bullet hit my chest. I fell backward into the water. It was warm. Like bath water. I sank.

I looked up through the brown water. Saw the airboat floating above me. Saw Alan’s face looking down.

Then nothing.

PART 3

They say a man’s life flashes before his eyes when he dies. It’s true. But it’s not like a movie. It’s more like a photograph album, flipping fast, pages blurring together.

My first bus. 1972. A beat-up old school bus I bought at auction for eight hundred dollars. Painted it myself. Drove it myself. Picked up kids in Andover while the snow fell.

My daughter’s first birthday. The cake was blue. She smashed it with her tiny hands. Laughed. My wife at the time, her mother, she laughed too. That was before everything went bad.

Sally. The way she looked at me across the office the first day she started working for me. Red hair. Green eyes. She wore a yellow dress. I knew right then.

The airboat engine started again. The sound faded.

Then everything was quiet.

Newark, New Jersey. Monday morning. 9 AM.

Sally Roberts sat at her desk, staring at the phone. Frank always called. Every trip. Every single trip for seven years, he called the moment he landed. Then he called before bed. Then he called in the morning.

Nothing.

She dialed his cell phone. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.

—Lyanna? It’s Sally. Have you heard from your dad?

—No. I thought he was flying home today. We have that meeting at eleven.

—He didn’t call. He always calls.

Silence on the line.

—I’m calling the police.

New Jersey State Police. Detective Sergeant Lee Liddy picked up the file. Missing person. Frank Black. Age 58. Businessman. Last seen boarding Kiwi Airlines Flight 45 to West Palm Beach, Florida.

—Talk to me, his partner said.

—Rich guy. Owns a bus company. Didn’t come home. Girlfriend and daughter are frantic.

—Maybe he ran off. Happens. Mid-life crisis.

—Not this guy. His daughter says he was retiring. Selling the business. He had meetings scheduled for today. This morning. He’s a Hands-On type. Runs everything. Without him, the business stops.

—Flight records?

—Working on it.

Liddy picked up the phone. Called Kiwi Airlines.

—Yeah, I need passenger manifest for Flight 45, Saturday February 24th. Frank Black.

—Hold please.

Music. Then a voice.

—Mr. Black was on that flight. One-way ticket.

—One-way?

—Yes sir. Purchased ten days prior.

—Did he rent a car?

—No record of a rental through our partners.

—Who picked him up?

—No information on that, sir.

Liddy hung up. Stared at the wall.

One-way ticket. No rental car. A man who always called home.

This wasn’t a mid-life crisis. This was something else.

Florida. Fort Pierce. Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Special Agent Michael Driscoll got the call from New Jersey.

—We got a missing person. Frank Black. Millionaire. Flew into West Palm Saturday. Nobody’s heard from him since.

—Credit cards?

—We’re pulling records now.

—Phone records?

—Working on it.

Driscoll hung up. Opened a new file. Frank Black.

The phone rang again.

—Agent Driscoll? This is Sergeant Liddy, New Jersey State Police. We got the credit card hits.

—Go ahead.

—His card was used at the Embassy Suites in Riviera Beach. Between 1 AM and 2 AM on February 25th. Pay phone charges.

—A pay phone?

—Yeah. And then at 4 AM, a different card was used at a gas station in North Miami. Gas purchase.

—He didn’t rent a car.

—Exactly.

Driscoll wrote it down. Something felt wrong.

—I’ll check it out.

The Embassy Suites was nice. Palm trees. Fountains. The kind of place tourists stayed.

Driscoll showed his badge at the front desk.

—I need to speak with whoever was working the overnight shift Saturday into Sunday.

The manager nodded. Brought out a woman. Mid-thirties. Dark hair. Name tag said Karen.

—Karen, I’m Agent Driscoll. I’m investigating a missing person. Frank Black. Do you remember seeing this man?

He showed her the photo.

She studied it. Shook her head.

—I don’t think so. But it was busy that night. Spring break crowd.

—What about a woman? Dark hair. About five-one. Maybe in her thirties.

Karen’s face changed.

—Actually, yeah. There was a woman. Came in around 2 AM. Asked for a room. Paid cash. But then she used the pay phone out front. Used it several times. Made a bunch of calls.

—What did she look like?

—Dark hair. Pretty. Small. Five-one, five-two. She was wearing a sundress. Pink, I think.

—Did you see anyone with her?

—No. She was alone.

Driscoll showed her another photo. Lisa Costello. DMV photo.

Karen pointed.

—That’s her. That’s the woman.

PART 4

The gas station in North Miami was a twenty-four hour place. Dirty bathrooms. Bright lights. The kind of place you stop when you’re desperate.

Driscoll showed the clerk the credit card receipt.

—This purchase. February 25th. 4 AM. You working that night?

The clerk was young. Maybe twenty. He looked at the receipt.

—Yeah, I was here. Swing shift.

—Do you remember the customer?

—Gas purchase? At 4 AM? Dude, I don’t remember faces. People pump their own gas. They pay at the pump. I never see them.

—Was there a car?

—Probably. Everyone drives a car.

Driscoll thanked him and left.

Dead end.

Back at the office, Driscoll pulled up Lisa Costello’s file. Twenty-nine years old. Born in New Jersey. Moved to Florida five years ago. No criminal record. Employment history spotty. Waitress. Bartender. Currently unemployed.

She rented a townhouse in Jupiter. Paid cash. Six months up front.

Cash.

Driscoll called Liddy.

—We got a name. Lisa Costello. She rented a car at the West Palm Beach airport the day Black arrived. She used the pay phone at the hotel where his credit card was used. She matches the description.

—Is she the woman he was meeting?

—Mia Giordano doesn’t exist. Checked with Secretary of State. No company called Valdez Exporting. No Mia Giordano registered anywhere in Florida.

—So she used a fake name to lure him down there.

—Looks that way.

—Why?

Driscoll paused.

—I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out.

Surveillance began the next day.

Driscoll sat in an unmarked car outside Lisa Costello’s townhouse. It was a nice place. Pool. Palm trees. Two bedrooms. On a cop’s salary, he couldn’t afford it. On a waitress’s salary, she couldn’t either.

At 8 AM, she came out. Dark hair. Pretty. Wearing workout clothes. She got into a red Honda Civic and drove to a gym in Jupiter.

Driscoll followed.

She worked out for an hour. Then drove to a grocery store. Bought organic food. Paid cash.

Then she drove home. Didn’t come out for the rest of the day.

Boring. Normal. Unexciting.

The next day, the same thing. Gym. Grocery store. Home.

The third day, something changed.

A man showed up. White male. Early forties. Salt-and-pepper hair. Expensive car. Black Mercedes.

He parked outside her townhouse. She came out. They hugged. He went inside.

Driscoll ran the plate.

Alan Mackerly. Age 44. Owner of Mackerly Transportation. Bus company. New Jersey.

Driscoll called Liddy.

—Alan Mackerly. You know him?

Silence.

—Yeah, Liddy said. I know him. He’s Frank Black’s biggest rival. They hate each other. Mackerly threatened Black at an industry banquet in January. Said he was going to put him under.

—Put him under?

—Could mean business. Could mean something else.

Driscoll watched the townhouse. The lights stayed on until midnight. Then Mackerly left. Drove to his own house twenty minutes away.

—We got a connection, Driscoll said. Mackerly and Costello are involved.

—Romantically?

—Looks like it.

—Then why did Costello lure Black to Florida? Why use a fake name?

—Maybe she was working for Mackerly.

Liddy let out a long breath.

—This is getting ugly.

The phone records arrived the next day.

Frank Black’s office line. His home line. His cell phone.

In the week before his trip, he received seven calls from a number registered to Lisa Costello’s townhouse. Seven calls. Each one lasted between ten and twenty minutes.

The times matched. The dates matched.

Mia Giordano had called from Lisa Costello’s phone.

Driscoll put the pieces together. Costello posed as Giordano. She set up the meeting. She convinced Black to come to Florida. She picked him up at the airport.

And then?

Where was Black now?

The rental car was found at the airport lot. A blue Ford Taurus. Returned on Sunday February 25th at 11 AM. The mileage log showed 187 miles driven.

Driscoll calculated. Airport to Jupiter. Jupiter to Riviera Beach. Riviera Beach to North Miami. North Miami back to airport.

187 miles. Exactly enough to cover those locations.

The evidence team processed the car. No blood. No fingerprints except Costello’s and Black’s. But in the trunk, they found something.

A single thread. Blue. Cotton. Matched the uniform shirt of a Embassy Suites bellman.

Costello had been in the hotel. Not as a guest. As something else.

Mackerly denied everything.

Driscoll and Liddy interviewed him at his house in Jupiter. Big place. Pool. Tennis court. The kind of house a bus company owner shouldn’t be able to afford.

—Mr. Mackerly, when was the last time you spoke to Frank Black?

—Months ago. At a banquet. We’re not friends.

—You didn’t call him recently?

—No.

—Your phone records show calls from this house to his office. Multiple calls. In the week before he disappeared.

Mackerly’s face didn’t change.

—Those must be from Lisa. She uses my phone sometimes.

—Lisa Costello?

—My girlfriend.

—Why would Lisa Costello call Frank Black?

—I don’t know. She has her own friends. Her own business.

—What business is that?

—I don’t ask.

Driscoll leaned forward.

—Mr. Mackerly, Frank Black is missing. His family is worried. His employees are worried. If you know something, now is the time to tell us.

Mackerly stood up.

—I don’t know anything. Now get out of my house.

PART 5

The wiretap application took three days.

Assistant State Attorney Robert Belanger wrote the affidavit himself.

—We need probable cause, he said. Real probable cause. A judge won’t sign off on speculation.

—We have the phone records, Driscoll said. We have Costello’s lies. We have Mackerly’s denial.

—It’s enough, Belanger said. Barely.

The judge signed it.

The wiretap went live on March 15th.

For the first three days, nothing. Mackerly and Costello talked about dinner. About movies. About nothing.

Then, on the fourth day:

—Did you take care of it?

Mackerly’s voice. Low. Careful.

—Yes.

Costello’s voice. Quiet.

—No problems?

—No.

—Good. Don’t talk about it again.

Click.

Driscoll played the tape ten times. Twenty times.

—Take care of what? He asked the room.

No one had an answer.

The listening device in Mackerly’s house was next.

Belanger drafted another affidavit. This one was harder. Planting a bug inside someone’s home required a higher standard. Almost impossible.

—We have the wiretap tape, Driscoll said. They’re talking about something. They’re hiding something.

—It’s not enough, Belanger said. Not for a bug.

—What if we get more?

—Then we talk.

Driscoll went back to the evidence. The rental car. The hotel. The phone calls. The credit card.

Something was missing. Black’s body. The murder weapon. A witness.

Without one of those, they had nothing.

Bill Anderson came into the picture on a Tuesday.

Driscoll got a call from a confidential source.

—There’s a guy. Bill Anderson. He’s Mackerly’s best friend. Used to fly planes for him. He knows something.

—How do you know?

—He talks when he drinks. Heard him at a bar. Said Mackerly did something bad. Something in Florida. Something with a plane.

Driscoll wrote it down.

—Where do I find Anderson?

—He lives in Leesburg. Has a place near the airport. Used to be a Marine pilot.

Driscoll called Liddy.

—We got a new lead. Bill Anderson. Mackerly’s friend. Flew planes for him. I’m going to Leesburg.

—I’ll meet you there.

Anderson’s house was small. A ranch-style place with a hangar in the back. A small plane sat on the grass.

Anderson answered the door in jeans and a t-shirt. Fit. Military bearing. His eyes were careful.

—Mr. Anderson? I’m Agent Driscoll, FDLE. This is Detective Liddy, New Jersey State Police. We’d like to talk to you about Alan Mackerly.

Anderson’s face didn’t change.

—What about him?

—He’s a person of interest in a missing person case. Frank Black.

—I don’t know Frank Black.

—But you know Mackerly.

—He’s a friend. We fly together.

—When’s the last time you saw him?

Anderson paused.

—Few weeks ago.

—Did he say anything about Frank Black?

—No.

Driscoll watched him. Anderson’s hands were steady. His eyes weren’t.

—Mr. Anderson, we have reason to believe you might know something about this case. If you do, now’s the time to tell us.

—I don’t know anything.

Driscoll stood up.

—Okay. But if you change your mind, call me.

He left his card on the table.

Two weeks later, Anderson called.

—I need to talk.

Driscoll drove to Leesburg the same day.

Anderson was waiting in his kitchen. Coffee on the table. His hands weren’t steady anymore.

—I didn’t tell you everything.

—I know.

Anderson took a breath.

—Alan called me in March. Said he needed me to take the plane up. Over the ocean. I told him the plane was down for repairs. He said use a rental. I asked why. He said he needed to check something.

—Check what?

Anderson looked at the floor.

—He told me he shot Frank Black. In his house. The foyer. Wrapped him in plastic. Took him out on his boat. Dumped him in the ocean.

Driscoll’s heart stopped.

—Go on.

—He said the bag didn’t sink. He had to stab it. Stab the body. To let the air out. Then it sank.

—Did he say where?

—Off the coast. Sixteen miles out. Near the Gulf Stream.

Driscoll wrote it down.

—Why are you telling me this now?

Anderson looked up. His eyes were wet.

—Because I can’t live with it. He killed a man. A man with a family. And I said nothing. I’m an accessory. I know that. But I can’t…

He stopped. Wiped his eyes.

—I’ll testify, Anderson said. I’ll wear a wire. Whatever you need. Just get him.

PART 6

The wire was small. A transmitter taped to Anderson’s chest. A microphone hidden in his shirt button.

FBI techs tested it three times.

—You’re good, they said. Just keep him talking. Get him to repeat what he told you.

Anderson nodded. His face was pale.

—He’s paranoid, Anderson said. If he thinks I’m wearing a wire, he’ll kill me.

—We’ll be outside, Driscoll said. We won’t let that happen.

Anderson called Mackerly.

—Alan? It’s Bill. I got served with a subpoena. For the Black thing. I need to talk to you.

Silence.

—Come over, Mackerly said. We’ll talk.

—I’ll be there in an hour.

The surveillance team set up at 3 PM.

Driscoll hid in Anderson’s spare bedroom. The FBI agents were in a van down the street. Liddy was in a car around the corner.

At 3:30, Mackerly’s Mercedes pulled into the driveway.

Anderson let him in.

—Thanks for coming, Anderson said.

—What’s this about?

They walked to the kitchen. Sat at the table. The camera in the clock on the counter captured everything.

—The subpoena, Anderson said. They want me to testify. About what you told me. About Frank Black.

Mackerly’s face went hard.

—What did I tell you?

—You told me you shot him. Wrapped him in plastic. Dumped him in the ocean.

Mackerly leaned forward. His voice dropped to a whisper.

—Keep your voice down. The walls have ears.

—No one’s listening, Alan. It’s just us.

—You don’t know that. Cops are everywhere. They’re watching.

—What do I do? About the subpoena?

—You lie. You say you don’t know anything.

—What if they put me in jail? For contempt?

Mackerly reached across the table. Grabbed Anderson’s wrist.

—I’ll come forward, he said. If they put you in jail, I’ll tell the truth. I’ll tell them it was me. You won’t go down for this.

Anderson looked at him.

—You’d do that?

—You’re my friend, Bill. My only friend.

Mackerly let go. Sat back.

—Let’s take a walk, he said. I don’t like talking in here.

They stood up. Walked outside.

Driscoll heard the door close. His heart raced. The plan was to keep them in the kitchen. Outside, anything could happen.

The surveillance team listened through the wire. Footsteps on gravel. The sounds of birds. Wind.

—This is bad, someone whispered over the radio.

—Stay calm. They’re just walking.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.

Then Anderson’s voice:

—I should go back. The neighbors might see us.

—Yeah. Okay.

Footsteps again. The door opened. They were back inside.

—So you’ll lie? Mackerly asked.

—I’ll lie.

—Good. Then this is over.

Mackerly left five minutes later.

The surveillance team waited until his car was gone. Then Driscoll came out of the bedroom.

Anderson was sitting at the table. His hands were shaking.

—Did we get it?

—We got it.

PART 7

The tape was enough for an arrest warrant.

On August 29th, 1996, the FBI and FDLE moved in.

Mackerly was at his house. Alone. Walking his dog in the backyard.

The arrest team surrounded the property. Waited.

At 7 PM, Mackerly opened the back gate.

—Alan Mackerly! FBI! Get on the ground!

He didn’t run. Didn’t fight. Just dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his head.

—You have the right to remain silent…

Mackerly listened. Said nothing.

They searched the house. The foyer where Black was shot. The carpet was new. The walls were freshly painted.

—We need the old carpet, Driscoll said. The old drywall.

—It’s at the dump, Mackerly said. Good luck finding it.

The Martin County landfill was massive. Acres of trash. Mountains of garbage.

The evidence team had a general area. Based on dates. Based on Mackerly’s son-in-law’s testimony.

Robert Sanandajian had come forward after the arrest. Mackerly’s son-in-law. He told investigators about the cleanup.

—He called me on Monday, February 26th. Said he needed help. When I got there, the carpet was gone. The walls were patched. He had bleach. Comet. Trash bags. A shop vac.

—What did you do?

—We loaded everything into his truck. Drove to the dump. Threw it all away. The carpet. The drywall. The shop vac. Everything.

—Did you see blood?

—No. But I knew. I knew something bad happened.

The evidence team dug for three days. In the Florida heat. In the smell of garbage. In the rain.

On the third day, someone shouted.

—Got something!

It was carpet. Blue. Matched the description from Mackerly’s house.

Then drywall. Freshly painted on one side. Old on the other.

Then the shop vac. Still had debris inside.

—Bag it all, Driscoll said. Send it to the lab.

The lab results took two weeks.

No DNA. No blood. The bleach had destroyed everything.

But the carpet fibers matched. The drywall matched. The shop vac matched the model Mackerly’s son-in-law described.

Circumstantial. But strong.

—It’s enough, Belanger said. We go to trial.

PART 8

The trial began on January 20th, 1998.

The courtroom was packed. Reporters. Family. Curiosity seekers.

Frank Black’s daughter, Lyanna, sat in the front row. Sally Roberts sat beside her. They held hands.

Alan Mackerly sat at the defense table. Clean suit. Tie. He looked like a businessman, not a killer.

The prosecutor, Robert Belanger, stood up.

—Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. This is a case about greed. About revenge. About a man who decided that his business rival didn’t deserve to live.

He pointed at Mackerly.

—This man, Alan Mackerly, murdered Frank Black. He lured him to Florida using a woman. He shot him in his own home. He wrapped his body in plastic. He dumped him in the ocean like garbage.

The jury listened. Faces blank.

—We don’t have a body, Belanger said. We don’t have a murder weapon. But we have something better. We have the defendant’s own words.

He played the tape.

Anderson’s voice: —You told me you shot him. Wrapped him in plastic. Dumped him in the ocean.

Mackerly’s voice: —Keep your voice down.

The jury leaned forward.

—That’s Alan Mackerly, Belanger said. Admitting to murder. On tape.

The defense attorney stood up.

—That tape is ambiguous. My client was scared. He was trying to calm down a friend who was clearly distressed. There’s no confession there.

Belanger smiled.

—Then why did he tear up his foyer the next day? Why did he throw away his carpet? His drywall? His vacuum cleaner?

The defense attorney had no answer.

Bill Anderson took the stand on day three.

—Mr. Anderson, Belanger said. Tell the jury what Alan Mackerly told you in March of 1996.

Anderson looked at Mackerly. Mackerly stared back. No expression.

—He told me he shot Frank Black. In the foyer of his house. He said Lisa Costello picked him up at the airport. Drugged him. Then Alan shot him.

—Did he say why?

—Over a business contract. Years of rivalry. He said Frank stole everything from him. He couldn’t let it go.

—What else did he say?

—He said they wrapped the body in plastic. Took it out on his boat. Dumped it sixteen miles offshore. The bag didn’t sink. He had to stab it. Stab the body. To let the air out.

Someone in the gallery gasped. Lyanna Black put her hand over her mouth.

—Did he seem remorseful?

Anderson shook his head.

—No. He seemed proud.

Robert Sanandajian testified next.

—Mr. Sanandajian, you’re Alan Mackerly’s son-in-law?

—Yes.

—Did you help him clean his house on February 26th, 1996?

—Yes.

—What did you see?

—The foyer was torn up. Carpet was gone. Drywall was patched. There was bleach. Comet. Trash bags.

—Did you ask why?

—I asked. He said he was remodeling.

—Did you believe him?

Sanandajian paused.

—No. I knew something bad happened. I just… I didn’t want to know.

—What did you do with the debris?

—We took it to the dump. Threw it away.

—Including the vacuum cleaner?

—Yes.

—Why throw away a vacuum cleaner?

Sanandajian looked at Mackerly.

—Because it had evidence in it. He told me later. After he was arrested. He said there was blood in the vacuum.

The courtroom was silent.

Lisa Costello took the stand on day five.

She was different now. Older. Her hair was gray. Her eyes were empty.

—Ms. Costello, Belanger said. You were Alan Mackerly’s girlfriend in 1996?

—Yes.

—Did you pose as Mia Giordano to lure Frank Black to Florida?

—Yes.

—Why?

—Alan asked me to. He said he needed to talk to Frank. Settle things. He said Frank wouldn’t come if he knew Alan was involved.

—Did you pick Frank Black up at the airport?

—Yes.

—Did you drive him to Alan’s house?

—Yes.

—Did you drug him?

Costello hesitated.

—Yes. Alan gave me pills. Roofies. He said to put them in Frank’s drink. So he’d be calm. So they could talk.

—What happened next?

—I gave him the drink. He got dizzy. Couldn’t move. Alan came out. He had a gun.

—What did Alan do?

—He shot him. Right there in the foyer.

Lyanna Black stood up. Cried out. Sally held her.

—What happened then?

—Alan told me to leave. To use Frank’s credit cards. Make it look like he was still alive. I drove to a hotel. Used the pay phone. Bought gas. Then I went home.

—Did you help dispose of the body?

—No. Alan did that. With someone else. I don’t know who.

—Did you ever see Frank Black again?

—No.

Belanger turned to the jury.

—No further questions.

PART 9

The defense rested after three days. They called no witnesses. Mackerly did not testify.

The jury deliberated for six hours.

On February 4th, 1998, they filed back into the courtroom.

—Have you reached a verdict?

—We have, Your Honor.

The foreman stood up.

—On the charge of first-degree murder, we find the defendant guilty.

Lyanna Black burst into tears. Sally Roberts held her tight.

Mackerly didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

—On the charge of kidnapping, we find the defendant guilty.

The judge thanked the jury. Dismissed them.

Then he turned to Mackerly.

—Alan Mackerly, you have been found guilty of heinous crimes. You took a man’s life over a business dispute. You dumped his body in the ocean like trash. You showed no remorse. You showed no humanity.

Mackerly stared straight ahead.

—I sentence you to life in prison. Without the possibility of parole.

The bailiff took Mackerly’s arm. Led him away.

He never looked back.

PART 10

Lisa Costello pleaded guilty to third-degree murder and false imprisonment. She was sentenced to ten years in state prison.

She served eight. Got out in 2006. Changed her name. Disappeared.

Bill Anderson went into witness protection for a year. Then came back to Florida. Still flies planes. Still lives in Leesburg.

Alan Mackerly is still in prison. He will die there.

Frank Black’s body has never been found. The ocean keeps its secrets.

But his daughter, Lyanna, took over the bus company. Runs it to this day. She kept her father’s photo on the wall. In the office where he worked. Where he built everything from nothing.

Sally Roberts still works there. She’s sixty-eight now. Never remarried.

Sometimes, she says, she still hears his voice. On the phone. Calling to say he landed safely.

But the phone never rings.

They say a man’s life flashes before his eyes when he dies.

Mine flashed. My daughter’s first birthday. My first bus. Sally’s yellow dress. My grandson’s laugh.

And then nothing.

But sometimes, late at night, when the wind blows off the ocean, I think about Alan. Sitting in his cell. Staring at the walls.

He wanted to put me under.

He did.

But I’m still here. In the memories of the people who loved me. In the company I built. In the faces of my grandchildren.

He took my life. But he didn’t take that.

And now he sits in a cage. Every day. Every night. Forever.

That’s not justice. That’s just the way it worked out.

But it’s enough.

EPILOGUE: THE AFTERMATH

PART 1: THE PHONE CALL THAT NEVER CAME

Sally Roberts still sleeps on the left side of the bed.

It’s been twenty-two years. Twenty-two years since she watched Frank Black walk out the door with his leather suitcase and his confident smile. Twenty-two years since she heard his voice for the last time.

—I’ll call you when I land, baby. Don’t wait up.

She waited. She always waited.

The phone rang at 11 PM that night. She grabbed it.

—Frank?

—Sally? It’s Lyanna. Did he call?

The disappointment was a physical thing. A weight in her chest.

—No. Not yet.

—Me neither. I’m worried.

—He’s fine, honey. You know your father. He gets talking business and loses track of time.

But he never lost track of time. Not with her. Not with Lyanna.

They stayed on the phone for an hour. Two women, holding each other up across the miles.

The next morning, Sally called his cell phone forty-seven times.

Forty-seven times, it went to voicemail.

On the forty-eighth try, the mailbox was full.

That’s when she called the police.

Now, in 2018, Sally sits in the same office she shared with Frank for fifteen years. The same desk. The same chair. The same photo on the wall of the two of them at a company picnic in 1992.

She’s sixty-eight now. Her red hair is gray. Her green eyes are tired. But she still comes to work every day. Lyanna runs the company now. She’s good at it. Better than Frank, maybe. More careful. Less trusting.

But Sally can’t stay home. Home is where the silence is loudest.

Sometimes, when the phone rings, she still jumps.

Still hopes.

—Sally, it’s for you. Line two.

She picks up. It’s a vendor. A customer. Someone needing a bus for a field trip.

Never Frank.

Never again.

PART 2: LYANNA’S MISSION

Lyanna Black-Morrison is fifty-three years old. She has her father’s eyes. Blue. Sharp. The kind of eyes that miss nothing.

She runs Black Transportation with an iron fist. Eighty-seven buses now. Contracts in three states. Revenue up thirty percent since she took over.

Her father would be proud.

But pride isn’t what she feels when she walks through the office. What she feels is absence. A Frank-shaped hole in every room.

In 1999, a year after the trial, she started the Frank Black Foundation. It helps families of missing persons navigate the legal system. Provides counseling. Provides hope.

—I know what it’s like, she tells them. The not knowing. The waiting. The phone that never rings.

She’s spoken to hundreds of families over the years. Each story is different. Each story is the same.

Her mother—Frank’s first wife—died in 2005. Breast cancer. She never got over Frank’s death. Never stopped loving him, even after the divorce.

—He was a good man, she told Lyanna on her deathbed. A good father. A good provider. He just couldn’t love me the way I needed.

Lyanna held her hand. Said nothing.

What was there to say?

In 2007, Lyanna tried something new.

She hired a private diving team. Ex-Navy SEALs. The best in the world.

—I want you to find him, she said. Sixteen miles offshore. Follow the Gulf Stream. Search every inch.

The team spent three months. Used sonar. Used underwater drones. Used everything modern technology could offer.

They found nothing.

The ocean doesn’t give up its dead.

Lyanna paid them anyway. Wrote a check for two hundred thousand dollars without blinking.

—Thank you for trying, she said.

—We’re sorry we couldn’t find him, the team leader said.

She nodded. Walked away.

She tries not to cry in front of people. It’s undignified. Her father wouldn’t have cried.

But sometimes, alone in her car, she lets herself go.

Just for a minute.

Just long enough to feel something other than anger.

PART 3: THE KILLER’S CELL

Alan Mackerly is seventy-two years old.

He sits in a cell at Florida State Prison. Eight feet by ten feet. Concrete walls. Steel door. A bed. A toilet. A sink.

He’s been here for twenty years. He’ll be here for twenty more. Then he’ll die here.

The other inmates know what he did. They don’t bother him much. Killing a business rival over a contract isn’t the kind of murder that earns respect. It’s petty. Small.

Mackerly doesn’t care what they think. He doesn’t care about anything anymore.

In the early years, he filed appeals. His lawyers argued that the kidnapping charge should be thrown out because Frank Black traveled to Florida voluntarily. The appeals court agreed. They overturned the kidnapping conviction.

But the murder conviction stood. Life without parole.

Mackerly stopped fighting after that. What was the point?

He has visitors sometimes. His daughter from his first marriage. She comes twice a year. Sits across from him behind the glass. They talk about nothing. Weather. Her kids. His health.

She never asks about Frank Black. He never offers.

His son hasn’t visited in fifteen years. Changed his name. Moved to Oregon. Wants nothing to do with the Mackerly name.

Can’t blame him.

Lisa Costello wrote him letters for the first few years. Long letters. Crazy letters. She talked about the old days. About the night they killed Frank. About how she still loved him.

He never wrote back.

After she got out of prison, the letters stopped. He heard she moved to Texas. Changed her name. Started over.

Good for her.

Sometimes, late at night, Mackerly thinks about the shooting.

The way Frank looked at him. Not scared. Not angry. Just… disappointed.

—She left you because you were a monster, Alan.

Those were his last words. Not a plea. Not a cry for mercy. Just the truth.

Mackerly shot him anyway.

The gun was loud in the foyer. Louder than he expected. The bullet hit Frank in the chest. He fell backward. Blood on the carpet. Blood on the wall.

Then Lisa was screaming. She didn’t expect him to actually do it. She thought they were just going to scare him.

—Shut up, he told her. Get the plastic.

She got the plastic.

They wrapped him up. Loaded him on the boat. Drove out to the ocean.

The body didn’t sink at first. It floated there, wrapped in plastic like a giant fish. Mackerly had to stab it. Stab Frank’s body. Feel the knife go through plastic and flesh and bone.

Then it sank.

Gone.

Forever.

Mackerly closes his eyes.

He doesn’t dream anymore.

PART 4: THE WITNESS WHO LIVED IN FEAR

Bill Anderson still lives in Leesburg. Same house. Same hangar. Same plane.

He’s seventy-eight now. His hands shake sometimes. Parkinson’s, the doctors say. From Agent Orange. From Vietnam.

He flew a hundred missions in Vietnam. Saw things no one should see. Came home. Built a life. Flew for Alan Mackerly. Thought he had a friend.

Then Alan told him about the murder.

Then Bill wore a wire.

Then Alan went to prison for life.

Bill testified at the trial. Looked Alan in the eye. Told the truth.

—He told me he shot Frank Black. Wrapped him in plastic. Dumped him in the ocean.

Alan stared at him the whole time. Never blinked.

After the trial, Bill went into witness protection for a year. New name. New place. New life.

He hated every minute of it.

—I’m a Marine, he told the FBI. I don’t hide.

They let him go home.

But home wasn’t safe. Not really. Alan had friends. Associates. People who might want revenge.

Bill bought a gun. Kept it by his bed. Slept with one eye open for five years.

Nothing ever happened.

Alan’s friends melted away after the trial. Nobody wanted to be associated with a killer. They changed their phone numbers. Moved away. Forgot Bill Anderson existed.

But Bill never forgot.

He still has nightmares. Not about Vietnam anymore. About Frank Black. About a man he never met. A man whose death he helped avenge.

In the dreams, Frank is standing in the ocean. Water up to his chest. He’s looking at Bill.

—Thank you, he says.

Then he sinks.

Bill wakes up sweating.

Every night.

For twenty-two years.

PART 5: THE INVESTIGATORS’ LIVES

Michael Driscoll retired from the FDLE in 2010.

He worked the Frank Black case for two years. Two years of his life. He thought about it every day. Still does.

After the trial, he stayed in touch with Lyanna. Called her on the anniversary of her father’s disappearance every year. Just to check in. Just to say he remembered.

In 2015, she invited him to the Frank Black Foundation gala. He went. Sat at a table with Sally and Lyanna. Watched a video tribute to Frank. Cried a little. Didn’t care who saw.

—You did good, Lyanna told him that night. You never gave up.

—Neither did you, he said.

They hugged. Two people bound by a case that changed both their lives.

Driscoll lives in Tallahassee now. Teaches criminal justice at Florida State University. Tells his students about the Frank Black case. About perseverance. About never giving up.

—You can have no body, he tells them. No weapon. No DNA. But if you have a witness who tells the truth, you have a case.

His students listen. Take notes. They don’t know what it felt like. The frustration. The fear. The moment when Anderson agreed to wear the wire.

They don’t know. They can’t know.

But he tells them anyway.

Lee Liddy retired from the New Jersey State Police in 2008.

He still lives in Andover. The same town where Frank Black built his business. He drives past the Black Transportation office sometimes. Waves at Sally if she’s outside.

She always waves back.

Liddy wrote a book about the case in 2012. Called it The Last Deal. It sold okay. Not a bestseller. But enough. Enough to tell the story. Enough to make sure people remembered.

He donates all the proceeds to the Frank Black Foundation.

—It’s their money, he tells Lyanna. Not mine.

She tries to refuse. He insists.

Every year, he sends a check for ten thousand dollars.

Every year, she cashes it.

Robert Belanger is still a prosecutor. Still in Florida. Still putting bad people away.

He’s sixty-eight now. Could have retired years ago. But he can’t stop. Can’t walk away.

—There’s always another case, he says. Another victim. Another family waiting for justice.

The Frank Black case was the biggest of his career. The one that made his name. The one that taught him that you can win without a body.

He’s tried a hundred murder cases since. Won most of them. Lost some. But the Frank Black case is the one he thinks about when he can’t sleep.

Not the trial. Not the verdict. The moment when Lisa Costello testified. The way she described drugging Frank. The way she said Alan shot him.

—Right there in the foyer.

Belanger heard those words and knew. Knew they had him. Knew justice would be done.

It was.

But justice doesn’t bring anyone back.

PART 6: LISA COSTELLO’S NEW LIFE

In 2006, Lisa Costello walked out of Florida State Prison.

She was fifty years old. Gray hair. Wrinkled skin. Empty eyes.

She’d served eight years. Eight years for helping murder a man. For drugging him. For luring him to his death.

The prison gave her a bus ticket and two hundred dollars.

She took the bus to Texas. Dallas. Big city. Easy to disappear.

She found a room in a cheap motel. Paid cash. Stayed for a week while she looked for work.

Found a job at a diner. Waitress. Minimum wage. Tips.

She told everyone her name was Mary. Mary Thompson. From Ohio. Divorced. No kids.

Nobody asked questions.

For the first year, she waited for someone to find her. Waited for the knock on the door. Waited for the FBI to show up and drag her back to prison.

Nobody came.

After five years, she stopped waiting.

She got promoted to shift manager at the diner. Made a little more money. Moved to a small apartment. Got a cat.

The cat’s name is Frank.

She doesn’t think about why she named him that.

Sometimes, late at night, she thinks about that night. The night she picked Frank Black up at the airport.

He was nice to her. Held the door. Asked about her life. Told her about his daughter. His grandson.

—You have kids? he asked.

—No, she said. Not yet.

—You’re young. You have time.

She smiled. Nodded.

Drove him to Alan’s house.

Handed him the drink.

Watched him fall.

Heard the gunshot.

She thinks about that a lot.

The gunshot.

The way his body hit the floor.

The blood.

She helped clean it up. Helped wrap him in plastic. Helped load him on the boat.

She didn’t go on the boat. Alan made her stay home. Use Frank’s credit cards. Create a false trail.

She did it.

She did everything he asked.

Because she loved him.

What a stupid reason.

Lisa—Mary—still lives in Dallas. Still works at the diner. Still has the cat.

She’s sixty-three now. Her health isn’t great. Prison does that to a person.

She goes to church on Sundays. Sits in the back. Listens to the sermons about forgiveness.

She’s not sure she deserves forgiveness.

But she keeps going anyway.

Maybe someday she’ll believe it.

PART 7: THE BUSINESS RIVALRY THAT STARTED IT ALL

In 1976, Frank Black and Alan Mackerly were partners.

They started a bus company together in New Jersey. Two young guys with a dream. They bought one bus. Then two. Then five.

They were friends. Best friends. Their wives were friends. Their kids played together.

Then everything changed.

A contract came up for bid. A big one. School district contract worth millions over ten years.

They both wanted it. They couldn’t agree on how to bid.

Frank thought they should go low. Win the contract. Make money on volume.

Alan thought they should go high. Make money on margin.

They argued for weeks. Finally, Frank went behind Alan’s back. Submitted a bid on his own. Used his name only. Cut Alan out.

He won the contract.

Alan found out. Confronted Frank at the office.

—You backstabbing son of a bitch.

—It’s business, Alan. You would have done the same.

—I wouldn’t have stabbed my partner in the back.

—We’re not partners anymore.

They dissolved the company. Split the assets. Went their separate ways.

Frank kept the contracts. Built Black Transportation into a million-dollar business.

Alan started over. Built Mackerly Transportation from scratch. Never forgave Frank.

The rivalry lasted twenty years. Bidding wars. Price wars. Stealing employees. Stealing contracts.

It never ended.

Not until Alan put a gun to Frank’s head and pulled the trigger.

In 2019, a reporter from the Newark Star-Ledger wrote a long article about the case. She interviewed everyone still alive. Sally. Lyanna. Liddy. Driscoll. Even Bill Anderson.

She tried to interview Alan Mackerly. He refused.

She tried to find Lisa Costello. Couldn’t.

The article ran on the twenty-third anniversary of Frank’s disappearance. It was called The Deal That Killed Him.

It won a Pulitzer Prize.

Lyanna read it twice. Cried both times.

—He would have hated all this attention, she told Sally.

—Probably, Sally said. But he would have been proud of you.

Lyanna smiled. The first real smile in weeks.

—Thanks, Sal.

—For what?

—For staying. For never leaving.

Sally took her hand.

—Where would I go? He’s still here. In this office. In this company. In you.

They sat together for a long time. Two women who loved the same man. Two women who lost him.

But they still had each other.

That counts for something.

PART 8: THE BODY

In 2021, a fishing boat off the coast of Florida pulled up something strange.

A bone. Human. Femur.

The captain called the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard called the FBI. The FBI called the FDLE.

Forensic anthropologists examined the bone. Tested DNA. Compared it to samples from Frank Black’s family.

It was a match.

Twenty-five years after his murder, part of Frank Black came home.

Lyanna got the call on a Tuesday afternoon.

—Ms. Black? This is Special Agent Miller with the FBI. We have some news about your father.

She knew. Before he said it, she knew.

—We found remains. Off the coast. DNA confirmed it’s him.

She didn’t cry. Not then.

—Is there more? she asked.

—No, ma’am. Just the one bone. We’ll keep searching, but…

But the ocean is big. The Gulf Stream moves fast. Frank’s body is scattered across a thousand miles of seafloor.

They’ll never find all of him.

—Thank you for telling me, Lyanna said.

—We’re very sorry for your loss, Agent Miller said.

She almost laughed. Loss. She lost him twenty-five years ago. This wasn’t loss. This was… something else.

Closure, people call it.

She’s not sure closure exists.

They buried the bone in a small cemetery in Andover. Right next to Frank’s parents. Right next to the plot where Sally will one day be buried.

The funeral was small. Family only. Lyanna. Her husband. Her kids. Sally. A few cousins.

No press. No cameras. Just the people who loved him.

Lyanna said a few words.

—Dad, you’re home now. It took a long time. But you’re home.

Sally put a rose on the coffin. A small coffin. Just big enough for a single bone.

—I love you, Frank, she whispered. I’ll see you soon.

Then they lowered it into the ground.

And it was over.

PART 9: THE LEGACY

Today, in 2026, Black Transportation runs three hundred buses.

They operate in five states. New Jersey. New York. Pennsylvania. Connecticut. Florida.

Florida.

Lyanna opened the Florida office in 2015. Right in West Palm Beach. Right where her father landed on that last day.

She goes there sometimes. Sits in the office. Looks out the window at the airport.

—He was here, she thinks. Right here.

She doesn’t feel sad anymore. Not really. Just… connected.

The Frank Black Foundation has helped over five thousand families. Provided counseling. Provided legal aid. Provided hope.

Lyanna speaks at their events every year. Tells her father’s story. Tells the families to never give up.

—They told us we couldn’t win without a body, she says. They were wrong. We won. Justice won.

The families listen. They believe her.

Because she’s proof. Proof that you can survive the worst thing imaginable. Proof that you can fight back. Proof that you can win.

Sally Roberts retired in 2020. Finally. At seventy years old.

She still lives in Andover. Still drives past the office. Still waves at Lyanna.

She has a garden now. Roses. Frank loved roses.

Every morning, she goes outside and cuts one. Puts it in a vase on her kitchen table. Talks to it while she drinks her coffee.

—Good morning, Frank. It’s a beautiful day.

She knows he’s not there. Not really.

But sometimes, when the light hits the petals just right, she swears she can see his face.

Maybe she’s crazy.

Maybe she’s just in love.

Still.

After all these years.

Still in love.

PART 10: THE OCEAN

The ocean doesn’t care about Frank Black.

It doesn’t care about Alan Mackerly. Or Lisa Costello. Or Bill Anderson. Or any of them.

The ocean is old. Older than humans. Older than justice. Older than love.

It takes what it’s given and keeps moving.

Sixteen miles off the coast of Florida, the water is deep. Dark. Cold.

Down there, on the seafloor, things move in the shadows. Fish. Crabs. Creatures that have never seen the sun.

And somewhere, scattered across the sand, are the bones of Frank Black.

The fish have picked them clean. The current has scattered them. The years have worn them smooth.

But they’re there.

Part of the ocean now.

Part of Florida.

Part of the world.

Sometimes, on clear days, Lyanna drives to the beach. Stares out at the water.

—Hey, Dad, she says. It’s me.

The waves answer. The same waves that took him. The same waves that brought a piece of him back.

—I miss you, she says.

The waves keep coming. Steady. Relentless. Eternal.

—I love you, she says.

The waves don’t answer.

But she knows he hears her.

Somewhere out there. In the deep. In the dark. In the place where the sun doesn’t reach.

He hears her.

In 2024, Lyanna’s first grandchild was born. A boy. They named him Frank.

He has his great-grandfather’s eyes. Blue. Sharp.

Lyanna holds him sometimes and tells him stories.

—Your great-grandpa was a brave man, she says. A good man. He built a company from nothing. He loved his family. He loved his friends.

The baby doesn’t understand. But he will.

When he’s older, she’ll tell him the whole story. The good parts and the bad. The murder and the trial. The justice and the pain.

She’ll tell him about the ocean. About the bone that came home. About the grave in Andover.

She’ll tell him that his name means something. That Frank Black was a man worth remembering.

And little Frank will listen. Will learn. Will carry the name forward.

The story doesn’t end with death.

It ends with life.

THE END

Frank Black was 58 years old when he was murdered.

Alan Mackerly is serving life without parole at Florida State Prison.

Lisa Costello was released from prison in 2006 and is living under an assumed name.

Bill Anderson died in 2022 at the age of 82. He was buried with full military honors.

Michael Driscoll retired from the FDLE and teaches criminal justice at Florida State University.

Lee Liddy passed away in 2020 from complications of diabetes. His book, The Last Deal, is still in print.

Robert Belanger continues to practice law in Florida at the age of 72.

Sally Roberts lives in Andover, New Jersey. She tends her roses and talks to Frank every morning.

*Lyanna Black-Morrison runs Black Transportation and the Frank Black Foundation. She is 58 years old.*

Frank Black’s remains were never fully recovered. A single femur was found in 2021 and buried in Andover.

The ocean keeps the rest.

It always will.

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