by Ralph Zeta
I hated being called “J. J.” almost as much as “chief.”
“Humor me anyway.” My head still throbbed, and my stomach still felt like a bubbling tar pit I didn’t feel like indulging anyone right now. “And thanks for covering my six last night.”
“Entirely my pleasure, Kemo Sabe.”
“What about Amy’s mother’s estate anything new?”
“I have Nilka now working on it while I focus on Robertson.”
Nilka Sotomayor was Sammy’s business associate and de facto second in command when he was away from the office. A twenty-year veteran with the West Palm PD, she had been a robbery-homicide detective. Nilka was an extremely capable investigator in her own right. She was as qualified as Sammy, if not more, when it came to digging into someone’s financial affairs, and she was a lot easier on the eyes.
“Fine. How about Robertson. Anything on him?”
“Now I will most certainly disappoint, chief,” he replied. I could hear papers being shuffled in the background. “My INS contact could not find any entry visas under the name Evan Robertson fitting the description of our guy anywhere.”
Why wasn’t I surprised?
“If this guy is truly a foreigner, then he’s here illegally or the name is fake. You ask me, I’m going with fake name.”
“What else?” I asked.
“I’ve called in a few favors with some old contacts up in D.C.”
“And?”
“I have someone running the picture Amy gave us through facial recognition software. But don’t expect too much on that end, chief. The quality of the old Polaroid is not the best. Still, I’ve seen worse, so who knows? Maybe we get lucky.”
“How about checking outside the U.S.? See if he’s got a record elsewhere.”
“Way ahead of you, chief. I’m also checking with a contact at Interpol just in case. You never know, right?”
“Right, Sammy,” I said as I peeked out the window at the space between my boat and the Rybovich 60 Sportfisherman, or “yacht,” as its status-conscious owner reminded me at every opportunity. It stood moored in the next berth, separated from the Bold Ambition II by a mere five feet of wooden planks and rubber bumpers. Not so high above, angry gray clouds streamed by, steered by strong winds.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Glad you asked,” Sammy continued. “You’ll be happy to know I have a recent location for our perp.”
“How recent?”
“As recent as a few days.”
Sammy remained silent, obviously waiting for me to grovel as he spoon-fed me information. It was his usual way of getting me to acknowledge his vast network of connections. I wasn’t in the mood for it.
“I get it, Sam. Your sources are the best. Now, where the hell is he?”
He must have noticed something in the tone of my voice. “Everything okay, chief?”
“Peachy.” I wasn’t in the mood to get into such a conversation right now. “Where is he?”
The brief hesitation in Sammy’s response also told me he wasn’t buying my act. But he went on anyway.
“I traced the cell number Amy gave us. If Robertson is the person using that phone, he’s in south Florida, chief, and has been there for the past two weeks.”
“Where exactly?”
“Not too far,” Sammy proudly proclaimed. “Naples and I don’t mean Italy.”
Ten
A few minutes after nine, Sammy pulled up in front of the gangplank leading to my boat and honked twice.
The rain had picked up again, so I grabbed a slicker and went out to face the elements. I got in the front passenger seat of Sammy’s black Denali SUV. We were heading west to Naples, hopefully to find Evan Robertson.
After stopping at the outskirts of Naples for a late lunch along Route 84, I asked Sammy to point out on a map where Robertson’s cell phone had been used recently. The ten-block area where most of the calls had originated was on the west side of town, near the beaches on the Gulf all prime real estate. For someone like Evan Robertson, this was certainly a promising area, an area filled with lots of wealthy marks.
The section of town triangulated by his cell calls was still fairly large too big for the two of us to canvass easily. Moreover, residents in these upmarket neighborhoods tended to be leery of door-to-door salespeople, lurkers, loiterers, or anyone else who doesn’t seem to belong.
Sammy’s cell phone buzzed. He glanced at it and said, “My contact at DMV.”
“This is Sammy Raj,” he said into his phone with a sterile, semiformal air.
He listened for a moment. “Fantastic. I owe you one, partner,” he said, and ended the call.
“Good news, chief,” he proudly announced as he slurped down the last drop of coffee from his mug. “It seems Robertson traded in one of his dead wife’s cars a few days ago at a dealership near here.”
We left the restaurant with a plan: Sammy would visit the dealership and question the salesman. I would drive to the area were Roberson had used his cell phone last and just have a look around. You never knew with luck, I might even run into him. Maybe I’d buy him a drink. I asked Sammy to drop me off at the nearest car rental office.
I opted for an “ultraluxury” rental: a brand-new black Cadillac Escalade with plush off-white leather interiors, gleaming wood accents in all the right places, a sound system that rivaled some of the best home systems, and even a backup camera, right on the GPS screen, that came on every time you put the car in reverse. Driving this behemoth, I wouldn’t look too out of place.
The area I wanted to scout, between First Avenue South and Eighth Avenue, and from Gulf Shore Boulevard eastward to Sixth Street South, was home to some of the most expensive real estate in Florida. Not a small plot, to be sure, but unless Sammy was able to come up with anything more specific, this was where I would begin the search. I really didn’t know what I was looking for. All I had was a copy of an old, fuzzy Polaroid and a vague description. Even magnified almost three times, Robertson’s facial features were not all that discernible. The snapshot had been taken from a distance, and scanning, cropping and magnification had produced quite a bit of noise and distortion in the enhanced image. Still, I knew that if I ever came across the man, I would instantly recognize him. It was that baleful, cold, lifeless look.
I spent nearly two hours driving up and down the well-tended streets of west Naples, burning a lot of gas in the process. There wasn’t much to see. It was still raining, and except for the occasional meandering Mercedes Benz, Bentley, or high-end SUV, the residential streets were pretty much deserted. People just didn’t venture out in this weather. And just stumbling across something that would provide a clue to Robertson’s whereabouts was not very likely. After all, most of these enormous mansions sat shrouded by lush landscaping, gigantic ornate gates that cost more than the average house, security cameras and call boxes all very effective barriers against prying eyes and unwanted visitors.
Almost without exception, every home I drove by was designed in the ethic of an Italian or Spanish villa of old. Their gleaming fake red-barrel roof tiles, faux-faded yellow, orange, and mustard stucco exteriors, copper gutters, gushing water fountains, and showy Canary Island palms screamed “I have arrived!” to anyone who cared enough to notice. The New World built to look like the Old. The entire area seemed caught in the bizarre game of pretending to be something else. It was as if Walt Disney himself had been hired to fashion this version of a Capri-by-the-Gulf fantasy world.
My cell phone rang, ending my internal rant. I eased the Escalade into a parking space and answered the call.
“Chief, I think I’ve got something.”
Sammy. The man never failed.
“Our man traded in Mrs. Kelly’s Bentley for a more sensible Mercedes, a last-year’s CLS AMG 55. Black. That’s why DMV had no record of it. No tags have been issued yet for the new wheels, and the old car’s info hasn’t even left the dealer’s back office yet.”
Sammy had managed to g
et an address from the dealer. It was a local condo hotel, which, according to the onboard GPS, was half a mile from my location. That jibed well with the cell phone usage pattern. I glanced at my watch: just after four. I told Sammy to check into a local hotel. I would check into the hotel where Robertson had been a guest and go on from there.
We were getting closer.
Eleven
The quaint little five-story condo hotel highlighted in faux drab orange kept up just fine with the local architectural ethic of Mediterranean make-believe.
To reach the front entrance, I drove up a long circular brick-paved driveway shaded by thick banyans and tall ornamental date palms. I pulled up under the porte cochere and asked the eager liveried valet to keep the Escalade nearby, saying I may have to leave on short notice. A bellhop with a jovial Jamaican accent took the duffle bag and escorted me to the front desk.
The hotel lobby was small, quiet, and luxurious in a modern, minimalist way, without the surfeit of help desks you see in the ritzy tourist traps. It had a large, circular fountain surrounded by intimate seating areas tastefully broken up with floor lamps, side tables, and strategically placed planters of colorful tropical flora. Filtered sunlight flooded through a pyramidal glass-tiled atrium high above. I checked in under my real name and asked the friendly clerk if an Evan Robertson had checked in yet. She looked at her computer and promptly informed me that Mr. Robertson was not a registered guest.
“That’s strange...,” I said, pretending to check something on my Blackberry.
“What is, sir?” asked the clerk, a friendly frown on her tanned young face. Time to dial up the charm.
“Mr. Robertson,” I said in a haughty yet affable tone. “Evan, rather, e-mailed me two days ago to say he’d be staying here through the weekend.”
“Let me recheck that for you, sir,” she said, and went back to her computer. “Maybe he checked out early... “No, I’m sorry, sir,” she said looking up from the monitor, “but we don’t have anyone by that name in our system.”
So maybe he was registered under a different name. I checked in, determined to find out Robertson’s relationship to this place.
I took a quick shower, put on a long-sleeved white shirt and dark linen slacks, and traded the rubber duck shoes for a more downtown look: Italian brown leather loafers. I opted not to tuck in my shirt and headed for the elevator. I was hungry and thirsty, so I may as well approach the bartender, the master of libations and small talk. They tended to know more about their establishments and what went on around them than just about anyone else.
I made my way to the long black granite-topped bar. Except for a pair of tables near the far windows, where overly tanned silvery-haired men, and women with puffy blue-white hair sat sipping coffee or white wine, the place was empty. A lone bartender puttered about behind the elegant, deserted bar. Perfect.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said the bartender with a practiced smile as he dried his hands on his black apron. “What can I get you?”
“Corona and a menu, if you don’t mind,” I said.
“Absolutely.” He handed me a menu from under the bar, and an open beer and frozen pilsner glass appeared in his hands. “I’ll take your order when you’re ready.”
I settled for a steak, cheese, onion, and roasted-pepper panini. He vanished behind a door on the far side of the bar area and was back shortly.
“Are you staying with us, sir?” he inquired with a friendly smile.
“I am,” I said. “Hoping to meet up with someone.” No time like the present.
He smiled a knowing smile. “This ‘someone’ a lady?”
“Not today.” I smiled and put my glass down on the bar. “Afraid it’s just business tonight.”
He smiled again and went back to his chores. “What kind of business, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m a lawyer.” I decided to stick as close to the truth as possible without giving too much away. “An estate lawyer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he deadpanned, then broke into silent laughter. “I’m only kidding.”
I shook my head and smiled. The guy had balls. “It’s a living.”
“I apologize, sir,” said the bartender. “Did not mean to offend.”
“No apologies needed,” I said with a wave of the hand. I finished my beer.
“Another?” said the barman, noticing my empty glass.
I nodded, he performed his magic once more, and a fresh beer and glass were soon before me.
“Your panini should be out soon,” he added.
“Mike, is it?” I asked,” having read his name tag. He nodded. “I bet you know one or two good lawyer jokes, don’t you?”
He smiled to himself as though I had said something funny.
“You heard the one about the guy who wanted to introduce his lawyer to a friend at the scene of an accident?” Mike the bartender began. “I’d like to introduce you to my lawyer, said the guy to his friend...”
“But he was just hit by the ambulance!” we both said in unison. And we laughed together even though I didn’t find it particularly funny. He offered his hand. “I’m Mike Lawson.”
“Jason,” I said, and shook his hand. We were bonding. “Jason Justice.”
“Seriously?” he asked as though I had just made it up.
“I kid you not.” I took my well-worn wallet from my hip pocket and produced a business card.
He studied the card for a moment and said, “Should I say ‘sorry’ again?”
“I know. What were my parents thinking, right?” We both laughed again.
The ding of a distant bell made him crane his neck toward the kitchen door.
“That must be your order,” he said.
He reappeared a moment later with a great-looking open-faced steak sandwich surrounded by the restaurant’s own kettle fries, and a small Caesar salad.
“Will there be anything else?” Mike asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “Help me find this guy I’m looking for so I can just go upstairs and nap, will you?”
“You want my help?” he said with a look of troubled curiosity. He got as close to me as he could with the wide bar top between us.
“Yeah, why not?” I said. “It’s worth a shot. I’ve been looking for this guy for quite some time. Distant relative of a deceased client. As far as we know, he is now an heir to a not-so-small fortune. We had an old address in this area. That’s why I’m here kind of a long shot.”
“And you’re asking me because... ?”
“We had word he may have been a guest here recently,” I said between bites. Mike nodded as if he finally got the logic.
“Suppose I help you find him,” he said. “How much is my help worth?”
And there it was: the linchpin that held the entire universe together. Money: the thing we all have in common. I pretended to think about it for a moment longer.
“Maybe I can point you in the right direction or something?” Mike added by way of augmenting his case. “Save you some time. Time is money, right?”
“Sure,” I said, leaning forward as if ready to share a secret. “The guy I’m looking for goes by the name of Evan Robertson. Mid- to late fifties, British accent, very distinguished-looking gentleman. Tall, maybe six-five, trim, athletic build, ice-blue eyes.”
“You’ve just described a large swath of local players down here. You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”
I pulled out a copy of the old Polaroid image. “It’s the gentleman wearing the dark blazer, on the left.”
Mike took it in his tanned hands and studied the image for a moment, then put it back on the counter just a beat too fast. There was something there. Recognition and a pang of dread.
“What?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you know him?” I prodded, wearing what I hoped was a smile of curious anticipation.
Mike studied my face for a long moment as if sizing me up. He took another moment to glance right and left, and at last,
convinced we were alone, he leaned over and murmured, “This is gonna cost you, man.”
“I’m not sure I follow.” I played dumb.
“How much cash you got with you?”
“Ahh, that.” I was getting tired of playing dumb. I was about ready to slap him upside the head. “You have got to forgive me, Mike. Sometimes I’m a little slow. Skiing accident. Hit my head hard. Long story.”
“Your wallet better be bursting with Benjamins.”
I grabbed for my wallet. “How much?”
“How much you got?”
I studied the rumpled bills in my wallet. I was low on cash. I prefer to use credit to pay for everything.
“I hate to disappoint you, Mike.” I placed a thin stack of fifties, twenties, and tens on the cold granite counter all told, a little over four hundred dollars.
“How much is in there?” he asked anxiously, glancing around again to assure himself we were still alone.
“Four-hundred and forty-two dollars,” I said. “All I have with me, I’m afraid.”
He vacillated as he studied the stack of bills. His mind must have been in overdrive, weighing the possibilities. Finally, with a sigh, he dropped a white cotton rag over the money and pretended to wipe the surface. When he was done the money was gone.
“This guy you’re looking for his name’s not Robertson,” Mike whispered.
“It isn’t?” I said, feigning surprise. After all, I was just an estate lawyer, a paper pusher from Palm Beach.
“No,” he replied. “He goes by the name of Baumann. Stefan or something is his first name. And I don’t think he speaks with a British accent. I’ve heard people say he’s from South Africa. Others have said he’s a Kiwi you know, a New Zealander. I doubt it, though. I’ve heard that accent before, and it’s European. Polish or something. I know; my grandmother had a similar accent and she was from somewhere near Belgrade. And I don’t mind telling you something about that guy is not right. He is damn right scary.”
“You sure we’re talking about the same person here?”
“The man in that picture goes by Baumann, that much I’m sure of,” Mike said as he stuffed the rag in his pocket.
