by Stuart Woods
“Chuck,” Stone said, “when Evan Keating paid you the hundred and thirty grand in cash for your boat, what did it look like? New bills or old?”
“A mix, I guess. It was all neatly wrapped, some of it with rubber bands, some with bank wrappers.”
“What was the bank name on the wrappers?”
“I don’t really remember, except that it was in Miami. Something Security.”
“Think hard.”
“South Beach Security, that’s it.”
“Never heard of it,” Stone said.
“I’ve never heard of half the banks in Florida,” Chuck said. “I’d never heard of any of the banks in Key West until I moved here.”
“May I ask, what did you do with all that cash?”
“Well,” Chuck said, “I had a yard bill at Peninsula Marina for around forty thousand, mostly materials and shed rental; I paid off about twenty thousand in personal debts, I bought a T-bill for fi fty thousand, and I put the rest in my safe. Sometimes you can do better deals for stuff if you’ve got cash.”
“Yes, you can,” Stone said. “Did you fill out the federal forms for big cash deposits at your bank?”
“Yeah, and at my brokerage house, too. I thought I might expect a visit from the feds, but my banker told me the feds are inundated with those forms, and they never get around to checking most of them.”
“Don’t forget to pay your taxes on the sale of the boat,” Stone said.
“I actually had a small loss; my basis was more than Keating paid. Did you ever fi nd him?”
“Yep.”
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“Good. You seemed a little stressed about it the last time we talked.”
They played another set, then Stone and Dino went back to the Marquesa and showered. Stone called Tommy Sculley.
“Tommy, do you know a bank in Miami called South Beach Security?”
“That has a familiar ring,” Tommy said, “but I can’t place it. I’ve heard somebody talking about it, though. It’ll come to me. Why do you ask?”
“Some of the hundred and thirty grand Evan Keating paid Chuck Chandler for his boat had South Beach Security bands wrapped around it. The rest had rubber bands.”
“Let me look into it. By the way, I talked to the headmaster’s offi ce at the Groton School, and Evan and Charley Boggs were in the same class there for three years. They were described as inseparable. The office gave me a next-of-kin address for Charley, too. His parents are still alive, and I had to tell them their son was dead.”
“That’s never fun.”
“His old man said he was only mildly surprised; the only news he had had of him in years was that he was still drawing on his trust fund. He didn’t want the body; he said to have it cremated and disposed of and to send him the bill. He also said that Charley’s mother has thought he was dead for a long time, so he’s not going to tell her.”
“I wonder if trust funds make father-son relationships worse?”
Stone asked.
“I guess they make the kids more independent. What is it they call a trust fund?”
“ Fuck-you money?”
“That’s it. Independence means they don’t have to be nice to the folks anymore.”
“Kind of sad, isn’t it?” Stone asked.
“I still talk to my old man a couple of times a week,” Tommy said. 84
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“He’s in a retirement home in Boca. He comes down here for Christmas, or we go up there. But then I don’t have a trust fund.”
“My folks are gone,” Stone said, “and I miss them.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t have a trust fund, either.”
“Nope.”
“Hang on a minute,” Tommy said. “Hey, Jim, have you ever heard of a bank in Miami called South Beach Security? Pick up the extension, line three.”
“Hello?” another voice said.
“Stone, this is Jim Pierce; he’s the worst kind of fed: an FBI man.”
“Hi, Jim.”
“Hi, Stone. How’d you get tangled up with this reprobate?”
“Beats me.”
“Jim, tell Stone about South Beach Security.”
“Tell you what I know, Stone. The bank is less than five years old; majority stockholder is one Max Melfi. I’m told he’s from old sugarcane money in the Glades, but I can’t prove it. I can’t prove the bank is dirty, either, but the name keeps coming up in investigations. You might say it’s red-flagged with us. Why do you want to know about South Beach Security?”
“Friend of mine sold his boat for a bunch of money, and the deal was done in cash, some of it with wrappers from South Beach Security.”
“Sounds like whoever bought your friend’s boat is in the drug business.”
“Possible, but unlikely. The guy told me he had sold a previous boat for cash and that’s why he had so much on hand.”
“Then the guy who bought his boat is probably dirty. In my experience honest people don’t do business in large sums of cash, unless they’re dodging the IRS, and that’s dishonest, too. You want to tell me who the three parties in this two-boat transaction are? I’ll check it out.”
“Not yet, but maybe later.”
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Pierce gave Stone his cell phone number. “You can get me there
’most anytime, unless I’m doing business, and if that’s the case, I’ll call you back.”
“Maybe we’ll talk later, Jim. Nice to talk to you, Tommy. See you later.”
Stone hung up. “You get the gist of that?” he asked Dino.
“Pretty much. Maybe Evan Keating is in deeper than he thinks.”
“Maybe.”
8 6
20
STO N E WA S GET T I N G out of the shower when his cell phone vibrated. “Hello?”
“It’s Eggers.”
“Hey, Bill.”
“Okay, I’m FedExing you the sales contract for Elijah Keating’s Sons. I had a hard time getting Warren Keating to let me do it, but I convinced him the sale won’t go through until Evan sees the deal. I can tell you now that when he does, he won’t like it.”
“Okay, I’ll get it to him tomorrow, then. Bill, was Warren telling me the truth when he said he has no idea what Evan has been doing since his college graduation?”
“Stone, after what you’ve learned about that family the past few days, I can’t tell you to believe anything Warren says, and if I were you, I’d be damn careful about believing anything Evan tells you, too. I did a little checking and found out what nursing home Warren’s dad is in, and I’m having that looked into.”
“Good. What’s the old man’s name?”
“Elijah, like his ancestor; he’s called Eli.”
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“Warren said, or maybe you said, that he hired a skip tracer, who found Evan in Miami?”
“I hired him. Do you know Wally Millard?”
“Sure, from Elaine’s.” Wally was a retired cop, now a private investigator.
“I gave it to him, and he got it done.”
“I’ll call Wally.”
“Tell him I said it’s okay to talk to you and to call me for confi rmation if he wants.”
“Okay. Talk to you later.” Stone hung up and called the Gardens and left a voice mail for Evan Keating. “The contract will be here by noon tomorrow. Call me in the morning, and I’ll buy you lunch.”
Stone looked up Wally Millard’s number in his address book and called him.
“Hey, Stone.”
“Hey, Wally. Bill Eggers asked me to call you about a skip trace you did for him.”
“If I call Eggers, will he tell me that?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take your word for it. What do you want to know?”
“It was a guy named Evan Keating. Apparently, you found him in Miami, but he skipped again.”
&n
bsp; “Jesus, I’m getting too old to go running off to Miami on a skip. I called a guy named Manny White, ex-NYPD, who’s a P.I. down there, and he put somebody on it.” Wally gave him White’s number.
“Took him a couple of weeks, so finding the guy wasn’t a piece of cake. Tell him I said to call.”
“Thanks, Wally. Say hello to Elaine.”
“Sure.” Wally hung up.
“How’s Wally?” Dino asked.
“He’s okay.”
“I’m hungry, let’s get out of here. You can call Manny White later.”
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“You know him?”
“Old-timer, Wally’s generation. I had some dealings with him on a case when I was still in a rookie uniform, and he busted my chops every chance he got.”
“Obviously, he knew you well.”
“What do you mean? I was a great rookie.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Everything.”
“Oh.”
THE Y WE NT T O the Raw Bar for conch fritters, third time. They were halfway through lunch when Stone’s cell phone went off. A Miami number.
“Hello?” Stone put it on speaker; it was easier than repeating everything to Dino.
“Is this that little Barrington shit who worked out of the Nineteenth, until they kicked his ass down the stairs?”
Dino broke up. “It’s Manny White.”
“No,” Stone said, “this is the Barrington who was a very smart detective at the Nineteenth and who walked down the stairs on his own.”
“I didn’t know there was one like that.”
“There was.”
“Wally called me. What the fuck do you want?”
“Wally gave you a skip trace on a guy named Evan Keating.”
“Yeah, I know that.”
“He said it took you two weeks to find him. What was so hard about it?”
“You think I hoof it up and down the streets looking for guys at my age? I put an agent on it. Took two weeks to check every hotel in South Beach, locate the guy and put a tail on him.”
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“I hear you lost him.”
“So? People lose things all the time. Anyway, my agent lost him. What’s it to you?”
“I need background on the guy; there’s a hundred in it for you, if you can give me something I need.”
“What do you need?”
“Like I said, background. What was he doing in South Beach?
Did he work? Who were his friends?”
“He was doing what everybody else in South Beach was doing—
looking pretty, drinking, snorting powder and spending money they don’t have, except he had the money. That’ll be a hundred bucks.”
“Come on, Manny, give me something about the guy, not about everybody else.”
Manny thought about it for a moment. “He had a boat. He left in it—that’s why my agent couldn’t figure out where he went.”
“I already knew he had a boat. Give me something worth the hundred.”
“He was staying at the Delano, which, if you don’t already know, is a hotshot hotel for the young and stupid. They got a pretty bar, but the rooms look like underfurnished cells in an insane asylum. The people who stay there think this is stylish.”
“Did he have a girl with him?”
“A different one every night. At least one.”
“How long was he there?”
“A month, give or take, and in a suite, too.”
“Where’d he come from?”
“His mama’s belly, where do you think?”
“Where did he live before South Beach?” Stone could hear some papers shuffl ing.
“Santa Fe.”
“In New Mexico?”
“No, in Alaska. A very hot spot, I hear.”
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“How long was he there?”
“A month, give or take. Same thing with the girls. I hear he’s cute. Lemme give you my P.O. box for the hundred, which you’ve used up.” He gave the number and zip code. “You want to start on a second hundred?”
“You got anything else?”
“No, but I’ll take the second hundred.”
“Thanks, Manny, you’re a prince.” Stone hung up.
“Was he always like that?” he asked Dino.
“Always. Did you call the Swede? You promised.”
Stone sighed and got out his cell again.
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21
STON E L A Y ON his back, panting. The ceiling fan was a blur above him. For the past two hours, off and on, he and Annika had explored every nook and cranny, every orifice, every nerve ending in both their bodies. To his credit, even she seemed tired.
“Tell me, Stone,” she said, “what do you do?”
They were going to have the fi rst-date chitchat now? “Do you really want to know?”
“I don’t ask what I don’t want to know.”
“I’m an attorney.”
“Why do lawyers always say they are attorneys, instead of lawyers?”
“Because lawyers have a bad name with a lot of people.”
“And attorneys don’t?”
“Oh, no. Attorneys are a different class of people altogether. Much higher up the totem pole.”
“They are Eskimos?”
“Just a fi gure of speech.”
“Americans use a lot of figure of speeches.”
“Yes, we do. You will, too, when you’ve been here a little longer.”
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“What possible business could an attorney have in Key West?”
she asked.
“I was looking for a man.”
“Did you fi nd him?”
“Finally.”
“Why was it so hard?”
“You know, today I asked the same question of another man who took a while to fi nd him.”
“It was hard for him, too?”
“Yes.”
“Who is this man?”
“His name is Evan Keating.”
“Oh, Evan.”
Stone lifted his head from the damp pillow and looked at her.
“You know him?”
“Of course.”
“What do you mean, of course?”
“It’s just a figure of speech.”
“How could you possibly know him?”
“All sorts of people come through an emergency room,” she replied. “We get drunks, criminals,
brand-new quadriplegics
and …”
“Hang on, what’s a brand-new quadriplegic?”
“A drunken college student who, during spring break, dives off the White Street Pier into shallow water and breaks his neck. We get about one a year.”
“Good God.”
“Exactly. And there’s a big sign saying, ‘Don’t Dive Off the Pier, Because the Water Is Shallow, and You’ll Break Your Neck.’ Or words to that effect.”
“How do you treat a brand-new quadriplegic?”
“You pack him onto a helicopter and send him to Miami, where they know better how to deal with these things.”
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“What else do you deal with?”
“We treat a few gunshot wounds now and then.”
“Yeah?”
“Usually in the foot, which is where people often shoot themselves. If somebody else shoots them, they’re often dead.”
“I know. I used to be a cop, and in New York people shoot each other somewhat more often than in Key West.”
“It must be interesting to be an emergency room physician in New York,” she said.
“I used to go out with one, until she married a doctor.”
“Is her job still open? I’m thinking of moving on.”
“
As far as I know, she didn’t leave her job. You’re thinking of moving to New York?”
“Why not? I was there once, and I liked it.”
“Annika, if you moved to New York, I would be dead in a month.”
She laughed. “No, I would keep you alive,” she said, fondling him. “I would chain you to the bed and fuck you until you were at the edge of death, then I would revive you with Swedish meatballs until you were ready again.”
“That’s pretty much what you’re doing here,” he said.
“I suppose it is. Oh, look, you’re coming up again.”
“I don’t need to look; I can tell.”
“Where would you like me to put it this time?”
“You choose.”
“I choose everywhere.”
“Again?”
“Again and again.”
Stone groaned.
“It’s just a figure of speech,” she said, throwing a leg over him.
“Wait a minute,” he said, but it was too late; he was already inside her. “How do you know Evan Keating?”
“I treated him in the emergency room,” she said, moving slowly. 9 4
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“For what?”
“He said it was some sort of boating accident, but it was a knife wound.” She began moving faster.
“Who cut him?”
“That wasn’t one of the questions on the admitting form,” she said, then she exploded in climax.
Stone hung on for dear life, though that was just a fi gure of speech.
9 5
22
STON E A N D D IN O were lounging by the pool when the FedEx lady arrived. Stone signed for the package and thanked her.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Dino asked.
“It’s addressed to Evan, in care of me,” Stone said.
“So?”
“I don’t think I should open a package addressed to somebody else.”
“Give it to me,” Dino said. “I’ll open it.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Stone said. “Why are you so curious about a contract?”
“I want to know what Evan’s old man is getting for the company.”
“But it’s none of your business.”
“What the fuck difference does that make?”
“I mean, it’s my business, sort of, but I’m not opening the package. Are you accustomed to reading other people’s mail?”
“Every chance I get,” Dino replied.
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Stone’s cell phone rang, and he answered it.
