Crash Tack

by A. J. Stewart

“No, I didn’t. So I left. I don’t know how these guys run a business like that.”

  “Indeed.” She smiled again. “Let's go upstairs and run these.”

  I followed Deputy Castle into the building, and then up some stairs. The floor we came out on didn’t look like any kind of police station from television. It looked like an insurance firm. Lots of cubicles, and the low-level hum of conversation. Danielle found a cubicle and sat down. She logged onto the system, not bothering to hide her password from me. But I was too busy watching her type to look at the screen.

  “Do you have the first one?”

  I handed her my camera and she touched my fingers as she took it, and smiled again. It was totally professional. She did some more typing, and then she frowned at the screen.

  “This car is registered to a company. The address is in Palm Beach Gardens.”

  I leaned over her shoulder to look at the screen. Law enforcement officers should not smell that good. “I know that address. It’s Alec Meechan’s car lot. But that company isn’t his car business.”

  “And the registration isn’t a dealer tag.” She hit a button and printed out a copy of the registration information, and then she moved onto the next photo.

  “This is pretty fuzzy,” she said.

  “It was dark.”

  “Dark?” She frowned at me, the kind of frown that made me want her to be angry at me more often.

  I shrugged. “It’s a warehouse, you know. Not very well lit.”

  “Okay,” she said, not buying it for a second, but letting it lie. I liked that about her. “What’s this symbol on the tag?”

  “I’ve been looking at it. It’s sort of a stylized T, but I don’t recognize it.”

  “Let’s try these numbers.” She took her time deciphering each number, and hit enter.

  “What’s it say?” I asked.

  “Hmm. It says the car is called a Tesla.”

  “Never heard of it. ”

  “It’s new, I think,” she said. “Not many around. But it’s registered to the same company. Same address.”

  “So Alec owns the cars?”

  “Someone using his address owns the cars, but they don’t look stolen. Hold on.”

  “What?”

  “This one is a salvage title.”

  “A what?”

  She spun on her office chair and strode away. I wanted to follow, but I figured she would be back. She returned with a sheet of paper. She held it up to me.

  “The other car is also a salvage title.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When a car is in an accident, and the insurance company determines the damage is too expensive to repair, they write the car off. The car is issued a salvage title, which tells any future buyer that it has been badly damaged.”

  “Why would anyone buy it?”

  “Some people buy these titled cars and repair them. But even then, the salvage title remains, because often the damage is structural, like a bent chassis. But some people are prepared to take the chance on a salvage title, in return for a much cheaper car.”

  “Is that safe?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? But here’s another question. Did any of these cars look damaged to you?”

  I shook my head. “No, they didn’t. They looked brand spanking new, if you ask me.”

  “This is fishy,” she said. “Let me make a call.”

  She did that. She spoke to someone on the other end, and gave them details about the company on the registration papers, and then she listened for a good time. Then she hung up and turned to me. “The company that has title on these cars is itself owned by a Bahamas corporation, registered address in Nassau.”

  “Nassau?”

  She nodded. “And the US company director? Will Colfax.”

  “Huh. So Alec and Will were doing something together. But what exactly were they doing?”

  “I know who’ll know.”

  She jumped and nodded for me to follow, which I did willingly. The view from behind was all good. She glided down the stairs, onto another floor of cubicles, and turned to an office at the side of the room. She knocked and entered.

  This was a real cop’s room. There were file folders everywhere. The latent stench of cigarette smoke hung in the air. The guy behind the messy desk looked the part. He wore a wrinkled suit and short haircut, and his tie only came halfway down his belly, despite being loosened around his neck.

  “Danielle,” he said gruffly. He didn’t seem quite as taken with her as I was.

  “Neitz,” she said. “This is Miami Jones, he works with Lenny Cox.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “He’s found something you might be interested in.”

  Neitz leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. I assumed this was his listening position. Deputy Castle outlined what I had found, and showed the photos and the printouts to him. He gradually leaned forward in his chair, and dropped the hands, and became interested.

  “What do you think, Neitz?”

  “I’ve seen this before. They get people, straw buyers in other states—usually states with no sales tax like New Hampshire—to buy the car with money they supply as a cashier’s check. They pay those people a few hundred bucks to make the buy and deliver the car. They do this because it’s against the law to buy a car from a dealer in the US for export purposes.”

  “It’s against the law?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Them’s the rules. Manufacturers don’t want people buying cars cheaper here in the States and then shipping them overseas where they charge more. So the government’s on it, the FBI is seizing cars and freezing bank accounts.”

  “But why is it against the law?”

  The detective shrugged. “Because big companies with lots of money and lobbyists in DC don’t like it. So the dealers make buyers sign a non-export agreement. That means there’s a breach of contract if the buyer does, and it’s that the FBI is enforcing, because the courts are saying that the practice itself is otherwise technically legal. But there is no rule against exporting a used car, so the company buys the vehicles as used from the straw buyer, then ships it overseas. But it’s the salvage titles that interest me.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s a red flag. See, these guys get the car, then claim they were in an accident. They’d need someone on the inside on the insurance side, someone who would confirm the car was a write-off. They issue a salvage title, claim the insurance money.”

  “But if they bought the cars, they don’t make any money from the insurance.”

  “That’s where your containers come in. You say they came from China?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So I’ll bet dollars to donuts that the cars are headed back to China. See, they claim the insurance, then they sell the cars on the black market in China. There are massive tariffs on luxury cars in China, as much as thirty to sixty percent. Plus all the luxury manufacturers charge big dollars for their cars there, much more than they charge in the US.”

  “Is the return worth the risk?” I asked.

  “Never,” said Neitz. “The risk is jail time, so when is that ever worth it? But there’s certainly money in it. See, a luxury car that might cost $60,000 here in the US, might cost $140,000 in China. A $200,000 Ferrari might go for $600,000.”

  “Wow, that’s some markup.”

  “That’s a rich elite. The poor are dirt poor, but the rich are very, very rich. But being stingy is in their nature over there.”

  I raised an eyebrow at his social commentary. “You’ve been to China, have you?” I asked.

  “Why would I want to go to China? Anyway, they make money both ends. You say these cars are in their containers?”

  “In a warehouse up on Beeline.”

  Neitz stood. “I think I should go take a look.” He picked up his jacket off the back of his chair and flung it over his shoulder. “How do I get in touch with you?” he asked me.

  “C
all Deputy Castle.” I wasn’t sure why I didn’t just give him my cell phone number, but there it was. He ambled out and we followed as far as the elevator. He got in and left us standing there.

  “You had lunch?” Deputy Castle smiled.

  “Huh?” I was nothing if not an exercise in articulate communication.

  “Lunch?”

  “Ah, no.”

  “Does that mean, no, you haven’t had lunch, or no, you don’t want to join me?”

  It meant all of the above.

  “Lunch sounds great.”

  She drove a patrol car around the airport to a small taqueria. None of the menus were in English, but no one was speaking English anyway. The smells coming from the grill were to die for. Deputy Castle ordered for the both of us, and despite the threatening skies and growing wind we took a table by the street.

  “They do great food here,” she said. “Plus not many law enforcement types come here, so it’s a nice place to get away.”

  “Smells great.”

  We sipped agua fresco and waited for our food, which came quickly.

  “I hope you like fish,” said Deputy Castle.

  “Love it.” My fish tacos were delicious.

  “So how’s Ron?” she asked.

  “Better,” I said. “You guys still looking into Michael Baggio?”

  “Think so. It’s not my area. I’m not an investigator—I’m just a deputy.”

  “You seem pretty well connected, through.”

  “You mean Neitz? He’s one of the old breed.” She bit into her taco with gusto, and I watched her eat. There’s something about women who love to eat.

  “I’m thinking more about downtown,” I said.

  “Downtown?”

  “At the court complex.”

  “I know quite a few folks down there, I suppose.”

  “Lawyers?”

  “One or two.”

  “Any state attorneys? ”

  She sat back in her seat and dabbed her lips with a napkin. I wasn’t trying to surprise her, or catch her off guard. At least that’s what I told myself. It was just an itch I had to scratch.

  “What do you think you know?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. Suddenly I felt like I was the one under interrogation, which wasn’t how this was supposed to go down.

  “Tell me about Eric Edwards.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What do you want to tell me?”

  She smiled. “Nothing.” She took another bite of taco. I didn’t watch her eat this time, because she was watching me. I looked out at the lazy street instead.

  “You’re married,” I said to the sidewalk.

  “Is that what you heard?”

  I turned back to her. “That’s what I heard.”

  “Your intel’s somewhat dated.”

  I frowned at that, and was about to follow up when her phone rang. She picked it up and listened.

  “He’s here,” she said looking at me, and she listened again. Then she held the phone away and spoke.

  “Neitz is at the warehouse. He says the containers are gone.”

  “They must have headed back to the port.”

  She relayed my words and listened again.

  “He says he’ll need a warrant to get access to the containers at the port. He wants you to make a written statement and for me to fax it to the judge.”

  “Okay.”

  She spoke back to the phone. “We’ll do it now. The judge will have it within twenty minutes.”

  We left our lunch and I dropped some cash on the table, and Danielle said thanks to me and gracias to the cook and we headed back to her office. She typed the statement by memory, and she typed fast. I wondered if sheriff deputies took a typing course. It would be a useful skill for them. They certainly did more typing than shooting. When she was done she printed it and gave it to me to read, which I did. I signed it and she faxed it away.

  We stood in the office without anything to say. I didn’t want to ask why my intel about her was so out of date, but then that was the only question on my lips. Then her phone buzzed and she read a text.

  “He got the warrant. He’s headed in now.”

  I nodded and looked around the office. “What do we do now?”

  “I’ve got work to do,” she said, “but . . .”

  The thought was never completed, as my phone rang. It was Lenny.

  “Something’s up,” he said. “Alec just got a phone call and now he’s heading out in a hurry.”

  I turned to Deputy Castle. “I gotta go.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Alec Meechan’s on the move.”

  I made to turn but she grabbed my hand. It was like a velvet handcuff, soft but unyielding.

  “Don’t do anything silly, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  “And if there’s trouble, call me.”

  “I will.”

  She gave me the smile again and almost made me not go, but she dropped her hand from mine and I turned and ran down the stairs. As I hit the daylight I put the phone back to my ear.

  “Where are you?”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  LENNY WAS FOLLOWING Alec on I-95, headed south from Palm Beach Gardens. I was already south of there on Gun Club Road, so I zoomed up onto the freeway. I couldn’t see them, so I kept going. I didn’t have a hands-free system on my phone, and talking on a phone through a helmet while riding a motorbike was a recipe for futility if not disaster, so I stuffed the phone up inside my helmet, tight against my ear, and I resolved again that I really needed a car. I screamed south and got disconnected from Lenny, so I had to pull over near Fort Lauderdale to reconnect the call.

  “He’s getting off toward Miami Beach,” said Lenny, so I stuffed the phone back into my helmet and took off. When I got to the Miami Beach ramp I took it. Then I heard Lenny again, garbled through my helmet. I thought he said he was at Miami Beach marina, which was to my way of thinking really the back end of South Beach. I headed across the MacArthur Causeway and cut down Alton Road to the marina.

  I pulled into the parking lot and headed for the rear, where Lenny was grabbing something from his truck in the lee of the swaying palm trees. I didn’t think it possible, but the weather had gotten darker as I rode south, and the wind was whipping across the large lot. Something was about to give. Either the clouds were going to get blown away, or they were going to get blown apart. And the latter would mean a real dumping. I ripped my helmet off and my phone went flying, arching up into the air and then dropping with a shattering crunch on the pavement. The screen was smashed and pieces of plastic fell away as I picked it up. I tossed it with a shrug into the bed of Lenny’s truck, and we jogged across the lot to the marina.

  The office was three deep with vacationers looking to rent boats, but Lenny stepped around them and leaned across to the kid behind the desk.

  “Where’s Lucas?” said Lenny.

  The kid glanced up and away, and then back again when his brain kicked in. “Lenny,” said the kid. “He’s out on the water.”

  The guy in the front of the line turned to Lenny like he was going to make an issue of the interruption, so Lenny gave him a ice-cold stare that dissuaded him from the idea.

  “I need a boat, now,” said Lenny.

  “All I’ve got is the tender.”

  “That’ll have to do.”

  “You know where it is.”

  Lenny did, and he didn’t wait for directions. He yelled thanks, kid as we ran out the door and down toward the dock.

  “Where’s Alec?” I asked as we ran.

  “He got on a speedboat, on the first dock. He was untying the lines when I came back to the truck.”

  “Why on earth did you go back to the truck?”

  Lenny lifted up the back of his shirt to reveal his gun, the holster tucked into the back of his pants.

  We got to the end of the dock, and dropped down the unseen ladder into a small tender that was tied up below. I
pulled the lines away and Lenny fired up the motor and zoomed out of the marina. He wasn’t paying too much attention to the no-wake rules, and I hoped the Coast Guard on Terminal Island opposite the docks didn’t see us. Lenny pulled out into Government Cut and opened the motor right up, and with a whine we took off.

  “What kind of boat was he in?” I shouted.

  “Fast one,” said Lenny.

  Lenny cut right across the path of a container ship coming into port, and pulled hard back around through Fisherman’s Channel, past the ships being unloaded at the dock, and then out along the south channel and under the Rickenbacker Causeway, out into Biscayne Bay. There were plenty of craft out, fishing boats and sailing yachts and jet skis. I trained my eyes for a speedboat, one that was probably using that speed to its fullest. Lenny kept to the Key Biscayne side of the bay, but we saw nothing that drew our interest.

  “We’ll go to the end of the key,” he yelled above the whipping wind and the whine of the motor. “Then we’ll come back around past Grove Island.”

  “He might be going further south,” I screamed back.

  Lenny nodded. “And if he has, we’ve lost him. We can’t go that far in this.”

  It was true. Alec could speed down into Card Sound and beyond. With a decent tank of gas he could make Key West, and on a fine day maybe even Cuba. We were at risk of getting stranded in the middle of Biscayne Bay in a boat designed to take people to and from their moorings. Lenny kept the speed up, though, until we hit Bill Baggs Cape, and the end of Key Biscayne. He turned west, and pulled back on the throttle, and the day fell silent. We both looked south, out into Biscayne Bay and toward Card Sound further on. Then I felt a fat drop of rain smack onto my head. It was like a water balloon. Then another, and another. Huge globs of rain hit us. Then Lenny put his arm up and pointed.

  “There,” he said.

  I saw nothing, and looked up at the clouds and got another drop right in the forehead. Going back to the marina felt like a good idea to me, but Lenny hit the throttle and banked around again and headed south. This time he didn’t go quite so fast. He was watching the water, the ripples making it hard to see what I realized were sand banks.

  The rain began properly with the sound of a machine gun hammering the aluminum hull of the tender. Lenny didn’t take his eyes off the water, even as he was doused from head to toe. Then, in the middle of the bay, we passed a house. Not a houseboat. A house. It looked like a beach cottage, faded yellow from the years of wind and salt and rain. A house in the water. A house on stilts in the middle of the sand banks.