by C J Schnier
“I thought the whole point of this was to get us out of trouble,” she reminded me.
“What fun would that be?” I said and gave her one of my trusty winks.
Chapter Twenty Five
Office buildings were foreign to me. After college, I had been a blue-collar worker or a boat bum my whole life. About all I knew of them was from movies and television. This particular office building seemed to follow that mold and was what I had expected.
It was a decent looking place. The colors were neutral but bright and the speckled terrazzo floors, a common choice in Florida, had been polished to a high shine. There was a second story balcony accessible by stairs, but the front part of the building was open to the second story ceiling, creating a feeling of open space and made the building appear more significant than it was.
We walked up to the main reception desk in the center of the open lobby. There, another sign that read Valentine Inc. with a red heart behind it had been carved into the front of the desk. A freckled redheaded woman in a dark green dress greeted us as we approached.
“Hi. We have an appointment with Mr. Valentine,” I stated.
“Of course, what are your names?” she asked, pulling out a clipboard.
“I am Chase Hawkins, and this is Kelly Walsh. It is a nine-thirty meeting,”
“Thank you,” she said, searching her list. “Ah, here you are. Let me get you a pass, and I’ll point you in the right direction,”
The receptionist marked something on the clipboard and then rummaged through her drawer for a moment. She handed us a pair of stickers that read “executive visitor” on them.
“Just put those on and walk straight back to the elevator behind me. The security guard will call it for you. It goes straight to the fourth floor and Mr. Valentine’s office,” she informed us with a plastic smile. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Nope. Thank you, I think we’ve got it,” I replied.
We stuck the stickers on our shirts and walked over to the elevator. The security guard glanced at us and pressed the up button next to him to call the elevator. A few seconds after that the doors slid open and we stepped inside. Seconds later they slid open again to a smaller and nicer office.
Another receptionist, this one a blond, greeted us. She looked Kelly up and down and frowned before turning her attention to me.
“You must be Mr. Hawkins and Ms. Walsh.” It was more of a statement and not a question. “Mr. Valentine is with someone else now but should be done soon. Please, have a seat,” she said gesturing to four expensive looking armchairs arranged in a corner facing a large wooden door.
My butt had barely touched the seat when the doors slammed open. A red-faced man, dressed in a full navy blue suit, complete with an American flag lapel pin, stormed out of the office. He looked to be about fifty, his hair was cut well and had that distinguished salt and pepper look that made him look wise and trustworthy. He had already pulled out his phone when he brushed past us and had it to his ear before he had passed the receptionist’s desk.
“I’m done here. Come pick me up,” he growled into the phone and then punched the down button for the elevator. It opened immediately. He hung up the phone and then took a second to try to compose himself before getting on the elevator.
When the doors closed, I leaned over to Kelly and whispered, “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know. Who wears a suit in Florida, in the summer?” she whispered back.
“No clue,” I confessed, “but he definitely wasn’t happy.”
The receptionist, who barely blinked at the scene, moved over to the wooden office doors and motioned at us, “Mr. Valentine will see you now.”
She shut the doors behind us as we looked around the huge office. It was the size of a small apartment, with a sitting area, a bar, and a huge ornate wooden executive desk. Behind the desk was floor to ceiling bookshelves that matched the intricate designs of the ornate desk. Each bookcase was stuffed with matching leather-bound books as if they came from the set of a movie. The furniture in the office was all fine leather and dark wood. It was a severe change from the modern and sleek aesthetic we had seen in the rest of the building. Valentine’s office looked like one of those ambulance chasing lawyers that run ads on local TV channels.
“Come in, come in. Have a seat,” a voice said from the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Somehow I had completely overlooked the man standing behind it.
“Uh, no thanks. Mr. Valentine?” I asked, caught off guard.
“That’s me son. You must be Chase. Mr. Sheets spoke highly of you,” he said walking over and shaking my hand with one hand and holding a glass of brown liquor in the other. I had to look up to meet his eyes, he was easily over six-foot and had broad shoulders that helped balance out what looked to be a growing beer gut. I guessed that at one time all of that had been muscle and I suspected much of it still was.
“Yes sir, I am,” was all I could manage before he interrupted me.
“And this lovely thing must be Kelly,” Valentine said, taking her hand, eyes fixed on her chest. “Enchanting…”
“It’s, uh, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Valentine,” she blurted out, taken aback by his forward greeting.
“Please, please, call me Max. Have a seat, both of you,” he said moving around the desk to his own chair.
He had the charisma of a politician, but there was a seedy quality to him. If he wanted to run for office, he would need to tone done that quality. Way down.
As we took our seats, I took the opportunity to look Valentine over closer. The man was dressed well but understated. A simple light blue dress shirt tucked into conservative gray slacks. He didn’t wear a tie, making his appearance much more casual than the man’s who had just stormed out earlier.
His burly build was visible through the dress clothes, though he had the telltale marks of someone who drank too much. His nose was red, and veins were starting to show, yet the rest of his complexion was a more pale color. The skin on his face showed signs of aging as well. Premature wrinkles crisscrossed his face making him seem older than the fifty years I guessed him to be.
“Andy says you’re looking to make a bit of cash and would be willing to help me out,” he prompted once we had settled in.
“Yes sir, that is correct. We’re in a bit of a bind, and Andy suggested that you might have something worth doing.”
“Indeed he did. This is a situation of mutual benefit I think. You scratch my back I scratch yours. The only problem is, except for Andy, nobody knows you,” he replied, staring at us with a cold predatory gaze.
“Is that a bad thing?” Kelly asked, breaking the momentary silence. “Anonymity could be a huge benefit for someone trying to keep their nose clean. I hear you have your sights set on state senate?”
“I do. In fact, the man who just left here is my opponent. He tried to convince me not to run. It didn’t work.”
“That explains the suit and flag lapel-pin,” I said. “Nobody but a politician would wear that in this heat.”
“You’re observant at least Mr. Hawkins. I like that. And, you’re right Ms. Walsh, being an unknown player would serve me well. Still, how do I know that I can trust you?”
“You don’t,” I said. I had expected this question and was prepared for it. “You’ll just have to say no and send us on our way, or take a chance on us and cover your own ass somehow.”
Valentine barked out a quick laugh and smiled at me, “Are you sure you’re not running for office?”
“Not a chance. I just want to get back to my life and get back to the islands.”
Valentine looked from one of us to the other and back several times before speaking again. “Alright, here is the deal. I like you two, but I want to know more about why you want to help me before I decide if I should take a chance or not. What kind of trouble are you in that you need two million dollars?”
“Are you familiar with the Acosta Cartel
?” I asked.
“Vaguely. Cuban drug smugglers right?”
“Amongst other things. Santiago Acosta, a real prick and a founder of the cartel, operated a prescription drug route from central Gulf Coast Florida to The Keys with his fleet of charter boats. Kelly here managed the boats, but he brought his guys down as charter boat customers. It was a good cover story, but he needed a real licensed captain to be as legitimate as possible. I ended up owing him money, and he forced me into being that captain. All hell broke loose on the run, and the DEA arrested his men and seized half the drugs. I struck a deal with them for Kelly’s and my freedom in return for setting up Acosta to take the fall. The cartel was not happy about it as I’m sure you can imagine. They want two million to cover their losses and downtime, and they have made it clear that they are very serious about it.”
“I’m surprised they don’t just kill you. Isn’t that what drug lords normally do? I remember Miami in the 80s, it was a war zone here.”
“They’ve tried. Chase managed to buy us a little time, but we’re getting desperate. Andy said you could help, I hope he was right,” Kelly said, pleading.
Valentine sighed and frowned at us, “I don’t like to get involved with drug cartels. Looks bad for the public image, you know?”
“You wouldn’t be involved with them in any way. That is our problem, not yours,” I said.
“True. Alright, let me tell you about my problem, and we will see if you can help. Bud Fowler is running for his second term in the state senate. He is very popular and keeps his nose clean, at least as far as the public knows. Behind closed doors the man has a catacomb’s worth of skeletons in the closet. But he’s buried them good and deep, which makes him a difficult opponent.
People around here know my name, I’ve been a significant player financially here for decades, but I’m an unknown in the political world. Fowler has been in politics for decades and has methodically built himself a perfect reputation. We know he’s crooked and into some shady things. He’s slept with underage prostitutes, taken dirty money, and we’re sure he’s even had illegal dealings in antiquities, gold, and artifacts recovered by black market treasure hunters. Even though we know this, my guys haven’t been able to dig up any solid dirt on him that will stick. The slick bastard just covers his tracks too well. Nothing sticks to him, and the press loves him too much to make a stink. And that is where you would come in,” he explained.
“If you can’t find any dirt, you need to plant some, is that what you’re saying?” I asked, starting to see the plan.
“Exactly. I need someone to plant some files on Fowler's computer and some physical ones that can be found in his possession.”
“Like what? You want us to break into his office?” Kelly asked.
“No, his office is up in Tallahassee, and I don’t have much influence there. He spends most of his time at his house in Boca Raton or on his yacht though.”
“Why don’t you just hire a cat burglar and save yourself a ton of money? Why would do you need us?” I asked. “It just doesn’t make any sense, we’re not professionals at that sort of thing.”
“I’ll tell you why I need you, son. I need you because you're going to steal his yacht.”
“What!?” Kelly and I asked in unison.
“Why? I thought you said that you just wanted files planted?” I asked confused.
“I have my own people for that,” he said, “but to do it right they need enough time. I’ll have you two steal the boat and move it to a secure location owned by one of my shell companies. From there my guys can plant all the evidence they want and toss the boat, making it look like a high-end robbery. I’ll tip off the authorities to where they can find the missing boat, and in their investigation, they’ll find the planted files. Fowler’s political career will be over, and I’ll slide right into his place.”
Kelly and I looked at him dumbfounded. Was this guy for real?
“That’s a pretty serious, super-villain type plan you’ve got there,” I said, still in disbelief.
“I know,” he said, smiling wickedly. “Will you do it?”
“What choice do we have?”
Chapter Twenty Six
Valentine gave us a folder of intel on Bud Fowler before we left. I looked it over on the ride back to the house. There was the usual bio info on Fowler and financial statements. I set all that aside and instead focused on our goal. The yacht.
Our target was a 2002 Sunseeker Manhattan 74. A large seventy-five-foot superyacht that was still worth three-quarters of a million dollars, even fifteen years after it had been built. Fowler kept it docked behind his waterfront mansion on Lake Boca Raton. Security for such a property would be intense, and a public figure like Fowler would have an elaborate security system for all his possessions, not just his house. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Once back at the house, Andy cooked us a hearty lunch while Kelly and I poured over the info that Valentine had provided. The yacht, with the gag-inducing name of “Aquaholic,” looked like a Sea Ray of the superyacht world. Its rounded and swooped back windows, and its bulbous contours made it appear more like a spaceship than a boat. Throughout the boat there were plastic and tacky design elements everywhere. Everything was curved, I wasn’t sure there was a straight line anywhere on the vessel, yet somehow it lacked any sort of personality. Instead, it seemed that the designer wanted a combination of a floating cocktail party and an opulent status symbol. If that was indeed their goal, they succeeded.
Kelly and I both had experience piloting large vessels, but something about the arrangement of this boat made it intimidating. Like most boats its size, it had both a flybridge and an inside helm. Both, however, seemed to use small car-sized steering wheels that looked cheap. I always preferred larger wheels since they give you much more control.
Aquaholic was at least well powered. She had two 1300 horsepower engines that would push her over thirty knots, though the amount of fuel it would take to sustain that speed could bankrupt a small country.
The brochure material that Valentine had included used such fancy words as “palatial” and even described in “exquisite” detail just how luxuriously equipped the boat was. To me, it was an eyesore and little else. Provided that we could circumvent any security measures, stealing the hideous thing shouldn’t be too difficult.
Convinced that we would have no problem moving the yacht, we turned our attention to the mansion. It was located just off of A1A, the coastal highway that ran the length of the state. Of course, it was walled and gated. The intel package mentioned that there were several cameras on the property visible from the street and that the neighboring condos and homes had many more. Entry from land was not possible or risky at best. That left entry by sea.
Lake Boca Raton was about fifteen nautical miles north, up the ICW from where we had docked our boats. We had plenty of daylight left to check it out in the dinghy and get a good look at the security situation. The charts of that area noted an inlet from the Atlantic to the lake but warned that local knowledge was imperative. Checking it out in the dinghy was the only way I would know if it was usable or not. Once we were done eating lunch, we decided to launch the dinghy and do some reconnaissance.
I filled a cooler with ice from the outdoor kitchen and then we lowered the inflatable boat down into the water together. Kelly climbed over the stern and dropped down into it once it was floating. While she detached the lines, I went down below and unhooked one of my spinning rods from its holder mounted to the ceiling of the pilot house. When I came back on deck Kelly glanced at me and tapped her foot as she waited for me alongside Paramour.
“What’s that for?” she asked, giving a questioning look towards the fishing pole.
“This is how we’re going to get close to Aquaholic without looking too suspicious,” I replied and handed her the rod and reel before sliding down next to her. “How are we doing on gas?”
“We’ve got about a half a tank left.”
“Tha
t’s enough to get us up there. I saw a few marinas along the way, we can stop and get more. Ready?”
Kelly pulled her hair back and tucked it under a ball cap, “I am now.”
The Honda started right up and settled into a smooth idle. We took it slow down the canal, not wanting to draw any attention from the neighbors by throwing a wake. Once out into the ICW I opened up on the throttle. The little boat nearly jumped out of the water and then leveled off on plane a moment later.
Houses and restaurants flew by in a seemingly never-ending procession as we raced up the waterway. The dinghy threw no wake when on a plane and we only occasionally had to slow down around some of the bridges. Thankfully, since we were so low to the water, we didn’t have to wait for any of them. We passed the eighth bridge and popped out into the lake. Once there I slowed the boat down to idle and took my bearings. The whole trip took less than twenty minutes. With that many bridges to wait for it would have taken us all day to go this far on Paramour.
Lake Boca Raton was only a quarter-mile wide and less than a half a mile long, but it was lined entirely with docks. The enormous pink Boca Raton Resort and Marina towers over the western shore while condos and homes were stacked on top of one another lining every other available waterfront space.
I checked the fuel tank and was pleased to see that we had not burned much at all. The last marina we had passed was a couple of miles back down the channel, and I didn’t think that the Resort and Marina here would give us the time of day, much less sell us twenty dollars worth of gas. We were in no danger of running out so we could begin gathering information immediately.
Bud Fowler’s place was on the east end of the little bay, and I turned the dinghy in that direction. Aquaholic wasn’t too hard to spot. There were several super yachts and even a few mega yachts docked here, but the shallower waters on the east side of the bay prevented most larger craft from attempting to dock there.
