“So you just came for the dog stuff?” asked Carson.
Puller didn’t answer. He went over to the cabinet housing Cookie’s watch collection. He counted off again.
“This is getting to be a little tiresome, Puller,” Carson said, a bite in her tone.
“Just trying to add up the pieces before arriving at a course of action.”
She looked at the watches. “And those figure in all this somehow?”
“They figure in something. But we’ve got one more place to check.” He looked at his watch. “It’s still too early yet. We’ve got some time to kill. Let’s take a drive.”
“Where?”
“Not where, really. More like how far. Five miles.”
They left Cookie’s house and climbed back into the Tahoe. Puller checked the rearview.
“See the two guys anywhere?”
“No, but I didn’t expect to, really.” He looked at his odometer. “Okay, five miles out, five miles back. We’re going to head east. At least that seems to be the direction based on what Jane Ryon told me.”
They left Orion Street and then the community of Sunset by the Sea. Three miles out they left any semblance of civilization behind. Four miles out it was only them, the sand, and the ocean.
Five miles out Puller stopped the truck and looked around. They were on the main street. To the north looked busier, with some buildings visible in the distance. To the south was a row of palm trees.
“The ocean has to be on the other side of those trees,” said Puller.
“Provides a natural screen from the road,” observed Carson.
They pulled down a side road and quickly found that beyond the trees was a section of thick brush, more trees, and some surface roads running through them.
And then the sand.
And then the ocean.
Puller swung the Tahoe to a stop on an asphalt park-off and they climbed out. He looked in all directions except toward the ocean.
“Pretty isolated here,” he said. “No people.”
“I wonder why?” asked Carson. “The beach looks pretty enough.”
They walked toward it and quickly found out why the beach was not very popular. The sand was gritty, the beach was covered with sharp rocks, and then there was the smell.
Carson covered her nose. “Sulfur.”
“Must be some geological quirk around here that makes this stretch of beach the way it is. And then there’s that.” He pointed at the large sign erected on a dune.
It read, Warning. Strong riptide. No swimming allowed.
“So not all of Paradise is a paradise,” said Carson.
“I think we might have left Paradise about a half mile ago. Not sure what this place is called. Maybe it’s nothing.”
“It’s a wonder that sulfur smell doesn’t foul up the other beaches.”
“Wind probably doesn’t carry it that far,” said Puller. “Or there might be some sort of meteorological reason. I didn’t smell the sulfur until we got near the beach.”
“Me either, come to think of it. But why in the world would your aunt come here?”
“I don’t know. She was old, disabled. Used a walker.”
“So walking on a beach like this would be problematic. I’ve almost fallen twice.”
They stopped and looked around.
Puller fixed his gaze directly out at the ocean. “Any shipping channels out there?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It’s the Gulf of Mexico. I would imagine there are lots of ships coming and going. And then there’s all the oil drilling platforms.” “Right. Like the one that popped and kept spewing oil for a long time.”
“I remember when the BP well burst open. J2 was tracking it for security reasons. And we did some background on the area. There are thousands of oil platforms out there. Most of them are concentrated off the coasts of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Texas. But some extend over into the Panhandle.”
“Oil is king.”
“At least for now, yeah.” Carson bent down, picked up a chunk of rock, and tossed it into the waves. “Can we go? I’m about to puke with this smell. And I’ll need a shower to get the stink off.” “A lot of smells more gross than this in the military,” said Puller dryly.
“True. But that doesn’t mean I have to endure them when I’m on vacation.”
They walked back to the Tahoe. Before they got in Puller stopped and knelt down.
Carson said, “What is it?”
“The king.”
“Excuse me?”
She walked around to join him.
He ran his finger over the asphalt and it turned black. He lifted his finger to his nose and looked up at her.
“Oil. Not from a platform. From a vehicle.”
CHAPTER 62
Mecho walked the lawnmower up the ramp of the truck and positioned it next to two other pieces of motorized equipment. He turned and stared back out across the Lampert estate. He didn’t know how much the man spent on landscaping, but it must be a lot. They had come every day and worked all day. When one part was done it was time to move on to another. When the cycle was complete it started over again.
When he had asked the foreman about it the man had just shaken his head and muttered, “He spends more on grass than I’ll make in my entire life. What’s fair about that?”
“Life is not meant to be fair,” Mecho had told him.
“You got that right,” the man said. “Life is meant to suck. Unless you’re rich.”
“There are things other than money,” Mecho said. “To bring happiness.”
The foreman smirked. “Keep telling yourself that. You might actually start believing it.”
“I do believe it,” Mecho had said after the man walked off.
Mecho climbed down and washed the back of his neck with cold water from a bucket carried on the truck. He glanced toward the yacht. Lampert had never come back off it. He had been on there most of the day. But then again, when you had a yacht like that why would you get off?
Then Mecho wondered if he were there by himself. He doubted it.
He knew that Chrissy Murdoch was not there. He had seen her go into the house.
The maid Beatriz had not gone out there either.
But there were other women here. And one could have arrived directly at the yacht from the waterside via a tender and Mecho would not have been able to see it. The yacht blocked the water view along its full length.
Mecho looked back over at the guesthouse and then at the remains of the Bentley. The police had finally left, apparently having exhausted the evidence remaining at the crime scene.
Actually, they would not find any, because he had not left any. If they were looking for a bomb signature they would not find one. He had gone totally generic on that. It would provide them with a thousand possible paths to go down with nary a viable prosecution case at the end of any of them.
He looked up in time to see the sun reflecting off something in an upstairs room of the main house. He immediately walked in the opposite direction, took cover behind a tree, and knelt down, ostensibly to look for weeds to pull or mulch to tidy up.
From the partial cover provided by the tree canopy he looked up, shielding the sun’s glare with one of his huge hands. He counted windows. Third floor, second window from the left. Southwestern side of the house.
He squinted to see if he could tell who was holding the optics. But he couldn’t make out the person.
He ran a sightline from the window to what the person was looking at.
It was a simple process and yielded a simple answer.
The yacht.
With decent optics and from that height the person could probably make out quite a few details on the boat. Which also meant the person was well ahead of Mecho when it came to recon.
He saw Beatriz come out again.
Mecho moved swiftly enough to intersect her path. He walked along with her for a few paces. He asked the question that he needed answered.
&n
bsp; She didn’t seem to want to, perhaps thinking he was casing the place for a later burglary. But finally she did tell him.
Mecho thanked her and said that he would try to help her.
“How?” she immediately asked him.
“I can get you out, perhaps.”
“You cannot do that,” she replied, her face turning as pale as her almond skin would allow. “My family.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s complicated.”
“It is not complicated,” she whispered back. “Do not do anything to help me. I am beyond help.”
She turned and rushed off.
Mecho looked around to see if this conversation had engaged the interest of anyone, security types or otherwise.
He could see no one paying them any attention.
They were merely servants conversing. Perhaps it was expected.
Class to class.
It was only when you tried to mingle outside your class-steerage passengers emerging on the main decks during daylight hours-that people became upset.
But she had told him what he needed to know.
The room with the optics belonged to Christine Murdoch.
She was the one spying on Lampert and his yacht.
And Mecho wondered why that was so.
CHAPTER 63
Peter Lampert sat back in the leather chair that was located in his private office on Lady Lucky. He was surrounded by only the best here. The best boat, the best equipment, the best crew, the best wine, the best views, and the best ass money could buy.
It had been a long slog for him, though. South Beach was a rough place to survive, much less build a successful business. Lampert had tried the legitimate side for a long time. But ultimately he found it too stifling with all its rules and regulations and laws that could trip you up. He did not like regulatory agencies looking over his shoulder. He didn’t know of one businessman who did.
After his hedge fund had imploded he had decided to build a different business model. Thus he had taken his talents to another line of work. He had installed proven business systems in a field that often existed on crude violence and sketchy accounting.
Now he had built an incredibly profitable empire by charging fees tied to profitability, like royalties on a book. He charged a standard fee up front to find and transport product to the end user. If the product hit certain benchmarks once deployed in the field, additional monies started to flow back to him.
If a prostitute reaped over six figures then monies started to come back to him. If a drug mule successfully completed ten missions, monies started to flow back to him. The lowest- level product, the common laborer, typically had a more modest threshold to meet because their initial cost was the least. But the profits generated by them added up because there were so many of them deployed in the field. Volume was volume.
Slave labor in civilized countries was one of the fastest-growing segments of the criminal world. Not that he ever saw anything remotely criminal about it. To Lampert he was doing these poor folks a favor. As slaves they were fed and housed and lived a decent life, despite the fact that they were not free.
He had often had these people taken from worlds where there was never enough to eat, never a roof over their heads, and where wages were something one dreamt about but never actually received.
Freedom was vastly overrated in his mind.
He had accountants placed in strategic areas with full access to the books of his business associates. These associates, often not the most cooperative of men, had fallen in line with his demands solely because he had made the business far more lucrative and stable than it ever had been before. And he guaranteed a steady stream of product across all service lines. That was the most critical factor in his business and it demanded constant foraging for bodies in some of the most remote places on earth. There was no margin of error in this segment of the business.
As a result a boat that was late with product was a boat that would not be sitting above the water much longer, along with its captain and crew.
He looked out the starboard window and checked his watch. Then he glanced back at the computer screen over which a stream of business data poured over secure networks.
He played hard, but he also worked hard. It was not easy building what he had. Most people would not have the nerve or stomach for it. He had been bom with a silver spoon in his mouth on the shores of Lake Michigan. His father had been CEO of a Fortune 500 company. His mother was a beautiful socialite who entertained often and lavishly at their multiple homes. They had lived the life that most Americans dreamed of.
He had gone to the most elite universities and set up shop on Wall Street along with a gaggle of his classmates. Many were now titans of industry and preferred to keep the money and influence that came with it in tightly controlled circles of people who were just like them. Upward mobility was nice to talk about to the masses, but not something that people at his level ever really took seriously. The pie was only so big. Why share it with folks who did not share your values?
Your vision for the future?
Your fraternity affiliation?
What most people didn’t understand was that it was the risk-takers who made America great. It was said that the rich had captured nearly all the wealth and all of the income generated over the last decade or so. Well, Lampert thought, they should. It was right and just. The only thing wrong with income inequality was that it wasn’t unequal enough.
The 99.9 percenters were sheep and stuck right where they should be. They were the players to be named later. There were billions and billions of them and they looked exactly the same. The 0.1 percenters deserved everything because they were the elites. They were special. They moved the world to new heights.
And it didn’t deter Lampert in the least that he was acting on the wrong side of the law. Peo- pie wanted whores and drugs and slave laborers. Thus there was a need.
He was simply fulfilling that need. Nothing more, nothing less. Like cigarette manufacturers, pom sites, fast food outlets, and casinos fed people’s desires and addictions. That simple model had driven business success for all of recorded history.
Find a need and fill it as hard as you can.
Ten minutes later he checked his watch again and looked out the window. It was growing dark. That was good.
An hour later he heard the thump-thump.
He rose and looked out the window. The lights of the chopper were drawing closer, coming in from the Gulf where a boat larger than the one Lampert was on lay at anchor.
A few minutes later he felt the wheels of the bird come to rest on the helipad at the aft of the yacht. The chopper powered down and he could envision but not hear over the sounds of the engine the doors of the aircraft opening and then thunking closed.
He sat back down in his chair, put his fingers together, and waited, counting off the seconds in his head.
The door to his office opened and the person came in, escorted by a member of Lampert’s security team.
With a curt nod Lampert dismissed the guard, who closed the door behind him.
The visitor was around five-eight and strongly built, with a head that was too large by half for even his muscular frame.
There was a lot contained in that overly big head, Lampert knew.
The man was dressed all in black. His shoes had blocky heels to push his height up as much as possible.
It was enlightening, thought Lampert, that a man that powerful still felt compelled to artificially inflate his stature.
He nodded at Lampert and sat down across from him.
“Good trip?” asked Lampert.
The man flicked a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit up without asking whether it was permitted or not.
Lampert would not have questioned the man’s decision to smoke on his floating palace.
Peter Lampert did not fear many people.
The man sitting across from him was one whom he did fear.
“A trip that ends safely
at one’s destination is, de facto, a good trip,” said the other man in an accent that showed that English was not his primary language.
“Things are going well,” said Lampert.
“Things could be better,” said the man as he exhaled smoke and watched it float toward the elaborately carved ceiling.
“Things could always be better,” replied Lampert, leaning forward a bit in his chair.
The other man tapped his cigarette ash against the arm of his chair, letting it fall to the carpet.
Lampert did not object or even react to this.
“Things could be better,” said the man again. “For example, there have been a number of killings in Paradise. The police are investigating. Your car was bombed. Again, the police are investigating.” He stopped talking and stared across the width of the desk.
Lampert’s expression didn’t change. “Steps had to be taken. The fallout is what it is. The investigations will lead nowhere.” He might be afraid of the man, but he could not show that fear. And Lampert could debate a point with the best of them.
“Your opinion that the investigation will not go anywhere,” said the man, studying him closely as he bent the fired match between his two fingers.
“My educated opinion based on conditions on the ground.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I don’t believe that I am.”
“But if you are?”
“There will be consequences.”
“Of course there will be. For you.”
“Then I have every incentive to make sure I’m right.”
The man eased a bit to the left, making the leather seat squeak. “Moving on. It’s getting more difficult to acquire product. The price has to go up. You’ll send this down the line.”
“How much?”
“Ten percent for now. As a base. Add five percent for each category above base.”
“Meaning a twenty percent increase for the top tier?”
“Yes.”
“That’s steep.”
“It could be more. But I’m a reasonable man.” “I’ll have to eat some of that.”
The man looked around at the luxurious interior of the yacht. “I think you’ll be just fine.”
The Forgotten (john puller) Page 25
