Chapter Sixty
Sidney Kaiser was staying at Miami’s Eden Roc Hotel. He almost booked himself into the Walker, but that was the kind of irony the Bureau frowned upon. After years of being posted in New Orleans, Kaiser had transferred from organized crime to a counter-terrorist unit in Minneapolis. He had requested the transfer and now regretted it, for he was tired of the PC politics and bureaucratic bullshit.
Kaiser was just shy of forty, but his life’s dream of working for the Bureau was beginning to crumble. He’d expected so much, taken the fidelity, bravery, and integrity to heart; just an idealistic country boy from Iowa when he started. Somewhere along the way he’d been corrupted, his scorn and loathing for men like Morelli turning into a grudging admiration, initiated first and foremost by envy.
He’d reached a crisis point last year when he became enamored of Morelli’s long-time mistress, Mercedes Glapion. He’d made love to her in the office above her voodoo shop and later, to protect her, he’d withheld evidence. This is what had prompted his request to transfer, but in Minneapolis his ennui and disenchantment continued. Now, on vacation, he’d agreed to liaise with Detective Viero from the Lake Worth Police Department because he was considered an expert on Louis Morelli.
When the Bureau first placed him in New Orleans’ organized crime division, he’d been terrified of Morelli. Kaiser’s superiors had profiled Morelli as a cold-blooded sociopath. Kaiser soon learned that the truth was a bit more complicated, the defining lines between black and white blurring to more subtle shades of gray. True, Morelli was feared, but he seemed to be equally loved, engendering fierce loyalties in his men. Eventually, Kaiser’s fear slipped away and he found himself on Mercedes Glapion’s doorstep.
Now he was a cynic. He’d met with Viero and listened to his theory, agreeing that it fit. Morelli would avenge the less fortunate and enact vigilante justice. Kaiser had no doubt of it. But he challenged Viero to prove it. Poor Viero tried, investigating Morelli and DeAngelis’ whereabouts on that fateful night when Pedro Morales was murdered and Emilio Gonzalez vanished from the face of the earth. A request to interview Morelli had resulted in a phone call from a high-powered law firm. Viero had gone and spoken with the man, whose attorney then submitted evidence from The Venezia’s security cameras showing Morelli and DeAngelis arriving at the Miami condo at four o’clock that December afternoon. Morelli’s car had remained, unmoving, until the following afternoon when DeAngelis and Tara Evans drove out.
It was physical proof both men were in Miami within the timeframe of Morales’ murder, but Viero was still suspicious. His instincts were good; Kaiser believed him. But he was amused by Viero’s dogged determination, and he’d gone along with him today to question Tara Evans. Of course, Miss Evans had been apprised by her former lover that something like this might happen, and she’d been prepared, confirming both men were with her on that dark, December evening. She remembered exactly, as though it was yesterday. She’d come home about five-thirty, and they were there. Victor, she said, had been sautéing veal. She said this with a smile, adding that it was difficult to forget one of Victor’s meals.
They’d questioned her in her office at the Walker Hotel. She’d been a big surprise—nine months pregnant and calling herself Mrs. Roth; she’d recently been married. Naturally, her eyes widened with recognition when she saw Kaiser. He was the husky red-headed guy who’d spied on her at Houston’s last fall, watching her board the Stella di Mare with Morelli. He’d been curious about her. Today, eyes dropping to her extended belly, he asked outright if she was carrying Morelli’s child. Without hesitation she said yes, adding that she felt certain her child had been conceived on that fateful evening. She even made a joke, referring to her “little bambino” while touching her belly.
Viero threw her when he asked if she’d seen Emilio Gonzalez. Her pupils contracted with fear, and then she composed herself. Of course she had not seen or heard from Emilio Gonzalez. “What do you think happened to him?” asked Viero, eyes sharp as glass.
“I’ve no idea,” she said. “I assumed he went back to Mexico.”
Outside the hotel, Viero said, “Did you see her face when I asked about Gonzalez?”
Kaiser laughed. “You’ll never be able to prove Morelli wasn’t there.”
“You know my theory on that one.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been chasing theories with this guy for years. He covers his tracks. You’ll never get justice for Morales in a court of law. Not unless Gonzalez turns up, and I have a feeling he won’t be turning up anytime soon.”
They stood beneath the Walker’s front canopy. Viero handed a stub to the valet. Kaiser had taken a cab from the Eden Roc, but looking at the line of people waiting for a taxi, he asked Viero if he could drop him at his hotel. “I’ll buy you lunch,” he said.
Viero nodded. Kaiser put on his Ray-Bans, the August heat baking the pavement, the sun glaring. Who vacations in Miami in August? He thought of Tara Roth, lovely even in pregnancy. She’d been in love with Morelli; he’d seen it in her face that afternoon at Houston’s. He wondered about her marriage. He turned to Viero. “Mrs. Roth is married to a dangerous man.”
Viero’s eyes narrowed. “Roth. You know him?”
“I know of him: Ex-Mossad. A bit of a freelancer for our pals at the CIA too. Of course, it could be a different Roth, but I have a hunch it’s the same guy, supposed to be living in the area. He was spotted with Morelli a few times last year.” He smirked. “I think Mrs. Roth likes to play with bad boys.”
Viero said, “I wonder who else he freelances for.”
Kaiser said, “Wouldn’t that be interesting?”
* * *
Later, when Kaiser filed his report, he was deliberately dismissive of Viero’s theory, citing valid alibis for Morelli and DeAngelis, with actual proof they’d been in Miami and nowhere near Lake Worth. He commended Detective Viero for his diligent police work, but made it clear he thought he was grasping at straws, trying to find a profile that fit.
After Viero was taken off the case, he called Kaiser and said, “Thanks a lot. I thought you were on my side.”
But this was weeks later, after the first frost in Minneapolis, when the sky was crisp and clear and winter was just around the corner. By then, Kaiser had all but forgotten Viero. He had problems of his own, having been caught on camera roughing up a Somali national, which added a volatile racial component. Never mind that the guy was a rag head, constructing bombs in his basement.
Pending an investigation, Kaiser was put on leave. In January he turned in his badge. By February he was back in Miami, actively looking for a place to live. One day he went to the Walker Hotel where Marty Morgan was filming scenes for his upcoming movie, The Blue Diamond. Morelli and Victor were lunching on the terrace with Morelli’s son and Franco Santia. Without having planned how he was going to approach Morelli, Kaiser went right up to the table and asked if he could have a word with him.
Morelli escorted him into the bar, where they sat at a banquette table. Kaiser said, “First thing, I want you to know that I’ve left the Bureau.” He told Morelli what had happened, how he’d come to quit, letting him know that he’d been “disenchanted” for quite some time.
Morelli was very personable, very likable. He succeeded in putting Kaiser at ease, asking him, “You’re not married?”
Kaiser shook his head. “No, no girlfriend either.”
Families complicated things and Morelli knew it. He sized him up. “So you’re looking for work then, are you?” he said slowly, cutting to the heart of the matter.
Fifteen years of chasing criminals, now he wanted to be one. Kaiser met Louie’s dark gaze, and said, “I want to work for you.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Late summer and Franco was still living on Victor’s charity. He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to get hired, hitting the car dealers up and down Federal be
fore appealing to Ari Klein, who gave him a line of bull and then called Louie. That evening Victor came to see him, giving him the usual pep talk about being patient because Louie was looking out for him.
Franco doubted Louie was looking out for him. Complaining to Victor, he crossed the line, grumbling about ending up like Manny. Victor said, “Don’t you ever say anything like that again.”
Victor sent him down to the Caymans to visit Chucky Lane, whom they’d set up in some kind of offshore operation. At first, Franco was reluctant to go, thinking about Manny, and wondering if they were going to make a hit on him. But then he reasoned that if they wanted to kill him, he’d be dead by now. So he went ahead and took his Caribbean vacation, palling around with Chucky. He returned home and checked in with Victor; saying nothing to make him mad; he let August pass in a blur, and now September was winding down, heat stagnant and humid. He had stayed clean, taking meds now for a mood disorder, and he was in the best shape of his life. Even better, he and Kathy were planning on getting back together.
He was starting to think about going into the insurance business, pondering it this morning as he did a round of sit-ups on his living-room floor. He had one eye on the news, and was halfway through his routine when his phone rang. It was Victor. “Lou wants to see you today. Two o’clock at Henri’s. Can you make it?”
He’d been avoiding the Walker like the plague, so he hesitated, then said, “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there.”
Damn. Franco hated going near the Walker, particularly since he always ran into people he knew and was embarrassed when they asked questions. But clearly this was a summons he couldn’t refuse, and he prepared for his meeting by putting on black trousers and a cream silk shirt, his designer duds remnants from his days as a SoBe hotelier.
Franco’s Beemer was long gone, replaced with a ten-year old Ford Explorer that ate gas but otherwise ran beautifully. Arriving in South Beach just before two, Franco tried not to look at the Walker. He pulled into Henri’s decrepit lot, parking right outside the door and realizing, abruptly, that the place was closed. Only one other car was in the lot; this was Louie’s black Town Car. The big motor was purring, the old guy Sam sitting behind the wheel.
Franco stepped out of the Explorer, stood looking at the now defunct restaurant. He had a lot of memories here too, recalling Sunday afternoons with his father, when the food had been decent. He sighed, starting for the door, not terribly surprised when Victor opened it. He held out his hand. “Good to see you, Franco.” Victor nodded back over his shoulder. “Come on in. Lou’s waiting.”
Inside, the restaurant had been stripped to the rafters. One square table remained, angled by a window on the north wall, with a view to the Walker. Four chairs surrounded it, Louie sitting at one of them with an open briefcase in front of him. Cheaters were perched on his nose, his famous Mont Blanc caught between his fingers. He wore a lightweight beige suit, a Canali, if Franco had to guess. Looking like a million bucks, as always. Louie watched Franco come in, and then he stood to greet him.
Franco offered his hand, and Louie pushed it aside and hugged him. Before he could recover from this display of affection, Louie said, “Thanks for being so patient. This whole fucking deal dragged on. I had to get the financing and then wait for the permits. Imagine, they made me wait.” He gestured to the table. “Sit down and I’ll explain everything.”
Franco went around the table, sitting with his back to the window to avoid looking at the Walker. Louie noticed this, gave him a little smile. Victor, pacing the cavernous remains of the joint, said, “Lou, I’ll go down the street and pick up a couple of sandwiches.”
“Don’t bother. We’ll go to lunch.”
Victor winked at Franco. “I’ll go check out the bikinis on the beach,” he said. “Give you two some privacy.”
He went out, a hot gust of air rushing in before he reached behind him and closed the door. Franco was glad the air-conditioner still worked, even if it did smell musty. The rest of the place, barren and deserted, made him feel sad. Looking at Louie, he said, “I didn’t know Henri shut the place.”
“He didn’t exactly. I bought him out.” He smiled. “This building comes down tomorrow.”
“You’re tearing it down?”
“I’m building a nightclub. It’s going to be a classy joint, done in the Art Deco theme, sort of a match to the Walker. You ought to go over there and take a look at her, Franco. I’ve had some extensive remodeling and restoration going on—even touching up the lobby. This whole area—” Louie indicated the cracked concrete outside Henri’s grimy window—“this will be built up. My plans call to extend this building twenty feet north. It’s going to be two stories with a private lounge upstairs, and I expect we’ll attract some higher caliber celebrities than our pal Morgan. In fact, when it opens, I’ll bring in some topnotch entertainment for the housewarming party.” He drew his gaze from the window, looking intently at Franco. “I’m shooting for a February opening. I’d hoped to have it ready by the first of the year, but I’ve already run into delays.”
Franco wondered why Louie had summoned him here to tell him this. But Louie was excited about the project, showing Franco blueprints and architectural drawings, an artist’s rendition. The nightclub called for extended outdoor seating, the main level boasting a long, scalloped martini bar with a smaller piano bar upstairs, plus the private lounge.
As Louie explained the project, Franco appreciated his vision: Brilliant, to think of a place like this. Louie said, “There are a few minor details that have yet to be worked out.”
Franco studied the drawings. Plans showed a two-story building with a neon martini glass anchored to the front and neon lights sketched across the roofline. “What are you going to call it?”
Louie said, “I thought we’d call it Franco’s.”
It took Franco’s brain a few minutes to absorb this. He said, disbelieving, “You want to name it after me?”
“Well … yes. You’re my partner on this one, Franco. But I’ll be out after ten years. It’ll be all yours.”
His jaw dropped. “What?”
Louie said, “I’m making you my partner. I’m a silent partner, so you get to be the star, run the day-to-day ops,” adding, “You know I stay out of the limelight.” He gestured to the documents. “There are a couple of other investors.” He smirked. “One of them is your pal Morgan. These investors are financial backers who will be given a percentage of the profits. A small percentage. It’s a formality for tax and legal purposes.”
Franco, still trying to put it together, said, “Morgan’s investing? How did you get him to do that?”
Louie eyes gleamed. “He was more than happy to oblige me.”
“Yeah, right.” Franco turned, gazing out at the Walker for the first time. Even from this vantage point he could see the improvements. His heart swelled. “She sure does look beautiful, Lou.”
Louie declined to comment. Franco’s good fortune was still sinking in. In a flash, he thought of Manny, of what could have happened to him. He said, “I didn’t expect this.”
“I know. I wanted it to be a surprise.” Louie reached over and set a hand on his arm. “Look, I might have felt a little bad about taking your hotel, and I wanted to square things away, give you this chance. And just to show that it’s not all sentiment, I do have to tell you: You’re a natural, Franco. Everybody already knows you, plus you do know how to run a bar. I want to give you this opportunity, but you have to stay straight. You have to promise me this. The booze and gambling is what fucked you up with the Walker, and I can’t have that in any place associated with me. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”
Franco assured him it was not, but then he couldn’t say anything else because he was choked up. He rubbed at his eyes with his fist. “I don’t know what to say, Lou.”
Victor pushed open the door, another hot breeze w
afting in. His eyes went to Franco’s. “Well,” he said, “was it worth the wait?”
“Hell, yes,” said Franco.
Louie got up, one hand smoothing his tie. He said, “Franco, my lawyer is over at the Walker with the paperwork. You can take a copy and have your attorney review it, but it’s pretty straightforward. My guy can go over everything with you. Would it be too much to ask you to go next door, or do you want to wait and have my guy come here?”
“I’ll go next door and sign everything,” said Franco.
Louie began collecting his papers, stacking them inside his briefcase. Franco offered his hand. “Lou, I’m overwhelmed. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
Louie pushed Franco’s hand aside and hugged him, kissed his cheek Italian style. Looking out the window at the Walker, Franco had a thought, glanced sharply at Louie. “I heard Tara had a baby boy.”
“Yes, and you’re wondering if it’s mine. It is. But it ends here,” said Louie bitterly. “I’ll never know the kid. I fucked up, Franco, handing my kid off to another man.”
Franco was astonished by this admission. “I know you two had something special. To be honest, I was surprised when she married Nathan.”
“Yes, well, weren’t we all?” said Louie.
“Is Tara still managing the Walker?”
Louie snapped his briefcase shut and turned toward the door. Without even looking at Franco, he said, “She owns the place.”
Before Franco could remark at this, Louie walked out, Victor shadowing. At the door Victor turned back, thumbs up, and Franco had to remind himself that these were the same men who had murdered Manny.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Little Lewis Roth was fourteen months old when Victor showed up one Sunday with a bouquet of flowers. Tara was thrilled to see Victor. She gave him a big hug, and then proceeded to show off her son. Whistling, Victor said, “He looks just like Lou’s kid Michael.”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 30
