by Ace Atkins
“For all we have and are,” I said. “For all our children’s fate.”
“Is that from a book or something?”
“Or something.”
“Good luck,” he said and tossed me back my license. “Snoop all you want. His people might get in your way. But I won’t. I can’t stand the cocky bastard. I’ve had so many threats by his people, the city keeps a lawyer on retainer. You’ll never catch him. Not here. Seagrass is just a waystation for him. He stays here just one night or maybe two and then he’s gone.”
Goodyear knew how to string out a tale. I turned around and saw Mattie pacing back and forth in the small police department lobby. When she spotted me, she relayed a look of great annoyance. I held up a hand to wave, and she turned her back.
“Steiner flies down here and then jumps on a private jet to his island.”
“What island?”
“His fucking island,” Goodyear said. “Remember when I said this son of a bitch had more money and clout than you can imagine? Peter Steiner bought an entire island in the Bahamas. No law. No rules. That’s where he takes these girls. God help them.”
26
I was back in my hotel room, speaking with Susan. A thunderstorm had moved into Boca, and the back gardens were awash in long sheets of rain. The rain tapped hard at the banana trees, palms, and hibiscus outside my window.
“An entire island?” Susan said.
“Apparently besides being a whiz with investments, he also plays Mr. Rourke to horny old billionaires.”
“Pedophiles.”
“The chief wasn’t sure what happens on the island, but that’s the working theory.”
“How’s Mattie?”
“She turned a cold shoulder at the chief’s office,” I said. “She didn’t like that the chief wanted to speak to me first.”
“You said it was her case,” Susan said. “Perhaps you should have insisted.”
“The chief thought Mattie was much younger.”
“So?”
“He thought I was her pimp,” I said. “Bringing her to Steiner’s compound.”
“Were you wearing a white linen suit?” she said.
“No,” I said. “But I am thinking of buying one. Think of how dashing I’d look, taking you out for a stroll on the Harvard Square, and popping into Charlie’s for a burger and a cold one.”
“I won’t go walking with you in a white suit,” she said. “And I’d prefer a cocktail at the Russell House Tavern when you get home.”
“One more day,” I said. “And tomorrow won’t be any easier. I’m meeting with Special Agent Epstein alone outside the FBI office. It’s impossible to bring Mattie to get what I need from him.”
“Have you tried to explain that to her?”
“Working up the courage.”
I’d bought two beers at the hotel bar, and the first one was already empty. I planned to meet Mattie in thirty minutes at SeaGrille at the Beach Club. I had enlightened her about how a long day of sleuthing demanded an evening of fine dining. I looked at my perfectly made king bed. The hotel was lovely but absolutely worthless without Susan.
“How’s Pearl?” I said.
“The puppy is a terror.”
“That little bundle of energy?” I said. “Never.”
“She ate the heel off those Manolo Blahnik shoes we bought in Beverly Hills.”
“The ones you wore when we—”
“Exactly.”
“I’m pretty sure we broke that chair,” I said.
“And your little pup also has been leaving little presents upstairs and downstairs,” she said. “I had to have Janet take her today just to get in my last few patients.”
“This stage is the toughest,” I said. “She’s no different than the first two Pearls. It’ll take another few months for house-training, and this is the worst time for teething. She doesn’t know your Manolo Blahniks from a rawhide bone.”
“She needs to learn.”
“Give her time.”
“I didn’t ask for another dog,” she said. “Pearl was Pearl. This dog isn’t her.”
I waited for a moment and could hear her breathing across the many miles up the Eastern Seaboard. I tried to craft my words carefully for Susan and Pearl.
“You feel disloyal,” I said. “To Pearl.”
“Are you trying to shrink the shrink?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just trying to understand why you won’t accept her.”
“I’m doing my best,” Susan said.
“I know.”
“Love,” she said.
“Love.”
27
The next morning, I met Nathan Epstein at the Puerto Sagua diner in South Beach.
Epstein had changed little since I’d seen him last. He was still thin and balding, with round, dark-rimmed glasses. Although he had developed a nice tan since moving from Boston to become the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Miami office.
“May I recommend the perico breakfast platter with a side of Cuban toast?”
I studied the description on the menu. “You may,” I said.
The diner was out of sync with the rest of the neighborhood. It was more a time capsule from the sixties: Spinning barstools fronted a Formica-topped counter. Glass cases displayed guava pastries and empanadas. A small refrigerator held only Hatuey beer.
“Surprised to hear from you.”
“One foot on sea, and one on shore,” I said. “To one thing constant never.”
“Well,” Epstein said, lifting his coffee. “That sure explains it.”
“Peter Steiner,” I said.
“No small talk?” Epstein said. He had on a light blue guayabera and well-worn khakis. He didn’t look like a federal agent. He looked like a tourist in from Topeka.
“Long drive back to Boca,” I said.
“I never heard of Peter Steiner,” he said. “But I looked him up.”
“And?” I said. The waiter wandered over and refilled our cups of café con leche.
“I can neither confirm nor deny we have a file on him as thick as the Dade County phone book.”
“Might you confirm or deny if the substance of the file is financial or with possible violations of the Mann Act?”
Epstein took a long sip of coffee. He set down the mug and thought about the question.
“Theoretically?”
“Of course.”
“Theoretically, a file that big would contain many indiscretions.”
I nodded. The waiter reappeared, and I ordered the perico with an extra side of Cuban toast. Epstein had the same.
“Is there an active case on Mr. Steiner?” I said.
“Since I’m just hearing about him, I will let you draw your own conclusions.”
As we waited for breakfast, I told him every detail, from Chloe Turner’s missing backpack to the Blackstone Club, all the way through to Captain Glass’s experience with the Suffolk County DA’s office.
“Mr. Steiner appears to be well insulated.”
“Like an Igloo cooler.”
“I only had time to read the file once,” Epstein said, “but it appeared my predecessor decided to drop the investigation with little or no explanation.”
“Meaning?”
“This guy has to have some powerful friends,” he said. “A lot more powerful than the Suffolk DA.”
“The cop up in Seagrass said he takes VIPs to his own Fantasy Island in the Bahamas.”
“Yep,” Epstein said. “Apparently that’s been going on for a while. Again, theoretically speaking, that island might be a hell of a way to gain access to rich sickos with specific tastes.”
“He uses the jet and the island and the girls to rope in new clients.”
“On the way over, I called up an agent who w
orked the case,” Epstein said. “He said they called his plane the Lolita Express.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” Epstein said. “Plenty of American elected officials, foreign heads of state, and international CEOs lined up for the journey.”
“Sounds like a timeshare pitch,” I said. “Come for the sun and fun but leave your money with Steiner and Associates.”
“Something like that.”
Epstein tapped his fingers against the laminated menu. As impassive as a sphinx.
“There’s more?”
Epstein shrugged. He looked like a riddle wrapped in an enigma inside an empanada.
“In your experience,” he said. “Isn’t there always more with guys like Peter Steiner?”
“Always.”
“And if you had a big island under your control, where you catered to every whim of these VIPs, wouldn’t you perhaps tape a few of these encounters? You know, for posterity and safekeeping.”
“Jumping Jehoshaphat.”
“Yep.”
“How many?”
“At least three blackmail cases. But in every one of them, the so-called victim walked away,” Epstein said. “Nobody wants us to look into what happens on Fantasy Island.”
“As a veteran federal agent, what would you surmise?”
“About the same as what your pal Steiner is into in Boston,” Epstein said. “Booze, blow, and underage girls.”
“How young?”
“One of the reports says he brings some in from Vietnam,” Epstein said. “Some from Russia. Maybe as young as twelve. You sure know how to find some real heroes, Spenser.”
“What else can you tell me?”
Epstein leaned back and placed his hand on his chest. “Might I remind you I am the special agent in charge of the Miami Field Office.”
“So?”
“So,” he said. “It would be highly unethical and perhaps illegal to divulge information from a confidential and active case.”
“Active?” I said.
“It is now.”
The waiter returned with our breakfast and set the hot plates in front of us. He refilled our water glasses and coffee, and as he walked away, Epstein grinned like the Cheshire cat.
“So who are these guys Steiner blackmailed?”
“Very rich. Very famous. You’ll know the names,” Epstein said. “But none of them will ever talk. Steiner has everyone by the short hairs.”
28
For a young woman who possessed a high disdain for the good life, Mattie Sullivan appeared to have settled in nicely at one of the pools at the Boca Raton Resort. I found her at a table shaded by a large striped umbrella and working on the first quarter of a tall club sandwich.
“The mark of a good hotel,” I said. “A solid club sandwich.”
“I had to eat,” she said. “What took you so long?”
I told her about the meeting with Epstein and what I learned. I even told her about the ingredients of eggs perico.
“When do we head back?”
“Tonight,” I said.
“Seems like a waste,” she said. “Lounging by the pool while we have work to do.”
“You’re a hard boss.”
“Bet your ass,” she said. “Want half of the sandwich?”
“I just ate,” I said.
“Want half the sandwich?”
I took a quarter and stretched my legs out from under the umbrella. I had on a pocketed navy T-shirt, khaki shorts, and running shoes. Having decided not to go full native, I wore a Sox home cap. Something I seldom wore back in Boston.
“You think Epstein will reopen the case?” Mattie said. “Or is he just bullshitting you?”
“I know Epstein,” I said. “He doesn’t care what I think. And is low on bullshit.”
“Bullshit is how this asshole keeps his party going,” she said. “I never in my life heard of someone owning their own island. That’s nuts.”
“Apparently so is the guest list.”
“If we can show some of the Boston girls going to that island?”
“Or if we can just prove some of the girls from Boston were taken down here.”
“Gotta be lots more.”
I nodded. I finished the quarter sandwich. Mattie closed one eye and smiled. I picked up the final quarter.
“I knew you had it in you, champ.”
I tried to smile with great modesty. Lounge chairs ringed the oval pool without a single open slot. Kids frolicked. Parents drank tall tropical drinks. Six young women in bikinis seemed to be celebrating with bottles of champagne being delivered poolside. If you tuned your ear hard enough, you could hear the surf on the beach. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking.
“Can you even call these men victims?” she said. “They’re not being forced to do anything by Steiner. If he gets them on tape, that’s their own damn fault.”
“Agreed.”
“I don’t give a damn about these guys Steiner is blackmailing.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“You know where I grew up,” she said. “I seen a lot of sick stuff. I heard a lot of sick stuff. My mother was hooked on drugs. Fucking Jumpin’ Jack Flynn. I know what’s out there. I know evil is real.”
“But still.”
“How do they do this without anyone stepping up?”
“Why do people in power continue to shield the bad guys?”
“Yeah,” Mattie said. “That’s another kind of sickness.”
“You want to do this kind of work,” I said, “get used to it.”
Mattie sat back in her chair. She had on a one-piece bathing suit, cutoff blue jean shorts, and rubber flip-flops. White sunglasses and a Sox cap pulled down into her eyes.
“I don’t know,” she said. “This thing with Chloe has me thinking.”
“About not following in my footsteps?”
“You have to fight with one hand tied behind your back,” she said. “I don’t know if I’d like that.”
I nodded.
“I got one more year at Northeastern,” she said. “Maybe after. I dunno. Maybe after, maybe trying to get on with the cops.”
I widened my eyes.
“I know, I know,” she said. “But like you said, there are some good ones. Maybe you could introduce me to your friend, Captain Glass.”
“You bet,” I said. “And Martin Quirk, too. Although in full disclosure, I wouldn’t call Glass a friend. As hard as it is to believe, she can’t stand me.”
“I believe it,” Mattie said. She smiled and reached for a few french fries.
Beyond her shoulder and up at the pool’s bar, I noticed a woman staring at us. I had on sunglasses and a ball cap and stared back without her knowing. She had on a large straw hat and a tiny black bikini. She seemed to be in excellent shape, with abdominal muscles that could grate a block of Parmigiano-Reggiano.
The way her entire body turned to us, watching us straight on, made me feel uncomfortable. No furtive glances or subtle looks. This woman was staring right at me. Although I knew it was difficult for women to contain themselves around me in my best T-shirt, I felt an odd sensation at the back of my neck. My muscles bunched up, looking from the woman to the other side of the pool, where a man in a khaki suit leaned against a stucco wall. I scanned the perimeter of the pool, seeing two more men wearing suits. Odd dress for ninety-two degrees in the shade.
“What is it?”
“I’ll be back.”
“What is it?” Mattie said. “Christ, Spenser. What the hell is it?”
“Don’t turn around,” I said. “But Poppy Palmer is sitting directly behind you.”
“Bullshit.”
“And she’s got three friends with her.”
“What do we do?”
I stood up and winked at Mattie. “What else?” I said. “I’m going to introduce myself to her.”
“I’m coming, too.”
“I’d rather you not.”
“Just try and stop me.”
I didn’t.
29
The outdoor bar was square-shaped and sat about twenty people under a vaulted roof of polished wood beams. Every seat had a fine view of the pool and the beach. And Poppy Palmer appeared every bit content under the wide straw hat with a tall, blue drink in hand.
“What’s an evil woman like you doing in a place like this?” I said.
Poppy viewed us like we were a curiosity. Mattie stood firm-footed beside me, arms crossed over her chest. She looked as if she wanted to make Poppy eat her big hat.
“Or didn’t you want to be noticed?” I said.
“Were you hoping I wouldn’t notice you outside my home?” Poppy said. Her accent thicker and decidedly less posh than I expected. I was no Henry Higgins, but she sounded like she’d grown up working class somewhere outside London.
“Go fuck yourself,” Mattie said.
I held up my hand, hoping to offer a wittier and more nuanced retort.
The man in the khaki suit pushed himself off the poolside wall and approached the bar. He sidled up beside Poppy with his back turned, asking the bartender for a Perrier with a twist of lemon. His hair was salt-and-pepper and buzzed close to his head. He had on silver sunglasses, his face pockmarked with acne scars. As he turned to look at me, I noted a slight bulge on his right hip.
Mattie noticed it, too. She nodded at me.
“Professional,” I said. “Doesn’t drink on the job.”
“You have no idea,” Poppy said.
“I have some idea,” I said. “Did you come here to intimidate me with your bikini? Because you should know, my heart belongs to another.”
“She looks like a hooker,” Mattie said.
I placed a light hand upon Mattie Sullivan’s shoulder. Poppy’s nostrils flared, but she grinned.
“I am a member of the club,” she said. “I have every right to be here. And every right to have you and this little trollop tossed out on your asses.”
