by Ralph Zeta
“You know anything else about Mr. Baumann?”
“Not really,” he said as he went back to his chores behind the bar. “He comes and goes. Sometimes I tend bar at some pretty glitzy parties around here and on Marco Island. I’ve seen him hanging out at some of those parties.”
“Does he have a place around here somewhere?”
“Can’t help you there. We never got that chummy, seeing as how I’m just a bartender and all.”
Mike was also a smart-ass. “Okay,” I said, holding back a bit. “What about business interests? Or anyone you may know who may have befriended him.”
He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Not really. He seemed to just show up at these parties with some hot chicks. Gorgeous babes, if you know what I mean. Young. Hard bodies. Blonde and tanned, huge rack that seemed to be his preference. The kind of hot chicks that don’t care to wear too much clothing you know, things like underwear and such.”
“You know any of the women?”
He shook his head. “Way outta my league.”
“You never saw him with anyone else at these parties?”
“Not really. He talked to people. Mingled some, but for the most part he seemed to just appear at these parties, hang around for a while, and then, poof, disappear. Gone.”
Not much useful information there. “Anything else?”
“That’s it.”
Great. I just spent the last of my cash getting a few tidbits of worthless information about a player not even the cheesiest gossip rag would want. I decided to cut my losses. It was time to get back to the room and check in with Sammy. Maybe he’d had better luck.
“Put this on my room tab, will you?” I said to him. “I seem to be fresh out of cash.”
He flashed a sheepish smile. I gave him my room number, and he gave me the bar tab and walked back into the kitchen. I didn’t leave a tip.
Before heading upstairs, I went back to the front desk. I wanted to check for Robertson under his alter ego. I told the desk clerk I just found out another old acquaintance of mine may also have been a guest of the hotel a Mr. Stefan Baumann and I wondered if he was registered or had any pending reservations. She went over to her computer, tapped a few keys, and announced that Mr. Baumann had indeed been a guest on several occasions but had no pending reservations.
“Did he list an address or phone number where I might reach him and say hello? It’s been so long since I saw him I’d love to catch up with ol’ Stef.” I dialed up the charm as high as I could and still keep a straight face. To my surprise, she said they did indeed have an address for him in Miami, and a suite number that sounded suspiciously like your typical strip-mall private mailbox.
On my way upstairs, I began to piece together the bits of information I had on Evan Robertson, aka Stefan Baumann. I also knew that besides having the skill set needed to gain acceptance in weary Palm Beach social circles and swindle a wealthy widow out of her fortune, Baumann seemed to have a soft spot for young, hot blondes. Baumann had proved he could easily get around and take care of business. Amy had made the mistake of threatening him. Baumann, if it was indeed him, had managed to get back to Palm Beach and send a strong message and vanish once mor. Maybe his intention was more than just a message. Maybe his intention had been to tie up a loose end, one that could potentially bring unwanted attention. Killing Amy would certainly take care of that problem. But it was also reckless. Two deaths so close together, mother and daughter, would certainly invite the scrutiny of the authorities and perhaps shine a light on him. They would start asking questions, snooping around in his personal affairs something a con man bent on enjoying the fruits of his labor would want to avoid at all costs. And yet, Baumann had managed to stay under the radar once more, and what was worse, the trail had gone cold. I had no further clues as to his whereabouts. What I had learned so far confirmed my initial hunch: finding this man would not be easy. I decided on a two-pronged approach in my hunt for Robertson/Baumann. The first step involved Sammy.
He answered on the third ring and promptly informed me that he had just ordered dinner: two large Maine lobster tails and a bottle of their best vino all of it going on my tab, of course. Swell. I gave him Evan’s new alias and the forwarding address he had left at the hotel. Sammy said he would get on it right away and call back within the hour. I also asked for a phone number where I could reach Amy. That was step two: picking Amy’s brain. I didn’t know how much she could help, since she and her mother had been virtual strangers for some time, but there was a chance she knew of someone who knew someone. You just never knew.
It was after seven that evening when I ended my call to Sammy. My mind was whirring with more questions than answers. That’s when I decided to wait to hear back from Sammy before calling Amy. In the meantime, I booted up the laptop and got on the hotel’s Wi-Fi network. I performed a quick search of “Stefan Baumann” and every possible spelling variation. The search produced many possibilities, it was all but useless. I then checked “Evan Robertson” without much success. There were old mentions of Robertson in the social pages of the usual Palm Beach rags, but nothing remotely helpful. One of the publications did have a picture of him and Amy’s mom in its archives. Like the snapshots I already have, this image too had been a poor-quality shot taken from far away. Not much to go on. Tired and frustrated, I gave up on the computer and moved onto the bed, where I stretched my longish frame out and turned on the TV. The sleek flat screen fixed to the wall like a framed painting flickered alive with the image of a marina at dusk that dissolved into the fleeting silhouette of a large sportfisherman skimming through mirror-smooth waters as it made its way out of an unnamed port, the sun a blazing orange ball hanging low over the horizon. The scene reminded me of the place I had come to call home. It also reminded me of Nora and our now defunct vacation plans. If there was a silver lining, it was solely the savings on thousands of gallons of fuel and docking fees.
My cell phone chimed, bringing me back from my musings. The caller ID read “Sammy.”
“J. J.,” he began, and I knew what he was going to say. “That address in Miami’s a private mailbox. The customer, Stefan Baumann, used a Florida driver’s license for ID. Paid in cash for two years in advance.”
“Lemme guess ”
But Sammy cut me off. “Yup. The license number didn’t check out. Fake.”
Shit. I told Sammy to add the name Stefan Baumann to his Interpol searches, and ended the call. It was time to talk to Amy.
“Hello?” she said tentatively.
“Amy,” I said lightly, trying to ease her fears. “It’s Jason. How you holding up?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“The place Sammy has you staying is it okay?”
“Yes, it’s fine. Thank you. And the couple who own it are really nice people.”
“Good to hear,” I said. “Look, Amy, I think locating Evan is going to take more time and resources than I originally thought.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I didn’t think it would be easy.”
“That’s why we need to come to some sort of understanding.”
“Like what?” I could hear the sudden tension in her voice.
“I am willing to do whatever is reasonable to help you get your property back, but you have to know that this is not my line of work or Sammy’s, either. We’re helping you as a friend, no strings attached. We don’t recover, you don’t owe me a dime. But if we find Evan, we’re going to take a cut from whatever we recover. Fair enough?”
“I guess...” She hesitated. “How much?”
“As an attorney, on contingent fee cases like yours I normally charge my clients up to one-third of whatever assets I recover plus expenses.” There was silence that lasted a bit too long. I hate silence. “Amy?” I finally blurted.
“Yes, yes. I’m sorry.”
“Do you agree with those terms?”
“I guess. It’s not like I have much of a choice, do I?”
“If you’re uncomfortable with any of this, we can ”
“No, no!” she interrupted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Justice.”
“Jason, please.”
“Right. Sorry, Jason. It’s not what I meant. What I was trying to say is, I hope whatever you do find, whatever is left of my mother’s money, that it’ll be enough to cover your expenses.”
I had to smile. Here she was, practically destitute, and concerned about my expenses. Amazing.
“You let me worry about that, kiddo.” I was sure that even if Evan Robertson, aka Stefan Bauman, had spent or squirreled away most of what he had taken, he most likely had other victims in his past and, thus, other funds I could recover from him and perhaps even return to their rightful owners.
“It’s just that I don’t know what I’m going to do if we don’t find him…”
“Listen to me, Amy. I don’t know how this whole thing is going to pan out, but I promise you, I will do everything I can to get back as much as can be recovered from this bastard.”
“I know,” she said, almost sobbing. “I know you will. Thank you, Jason.”
“Don’t thank me yet. First I have some questions for you.”
“Okay.” I heard her blow her nose, then a murmured “Excuse me.”
“Do you know of anyone else besides your mother whom Evan may have ‘befriended’ or whatever? Someone else who may have known him, any friends or associates?”
“Not really. He traveled a lot. And when he was around he pretty much kept to himself. Didn’t talk much, at least not to me.”
“Do you know where he traveled to?”
“I know he liked sailing. Took my mom’s boat out frequently.”
“What else? Anything could be helpful, even if it seems insignificant.”
“I’m sorry.” She thought about it for a moment. “Why do you ask?”
“We may have a lead.”
“You found him!” she exclaimed. I heard the sound of bed covers being pulled in haste, as if she had jumped out of bed with excitement.
I debated whether to tell her about the alias name, then decided against it. “No, nothing like that. At least, not quite yet.”
“Oh.” The tone of her voice changed. Her excitement subsided.
“But I think we may be getting close.”
“That’s good,” she said feebly.
“Can you think of anyone he or your mom may have known in Naples?”
“In Naples? Now that you mention it, yes. There is someone,” she said. “My mother had an old, dear friend there. They went to Vassar together, were roommates. We visited them several times when I was younger, even went on a couple of cruises on their yacht. Her name’s Norma. Norma Burr-Cahill.”
I wrote the name down.
“She’s well known in Naples. Knew everyone both there and back home in Connecticut and the Hamptons. Does that help?”
“I think so, thank you,” I said. “We’ll know more soon enough. Stay put and don’t call anyone. I’ll call you back as soon as I know more.”
I hung up and picked up the phone book, looking for a listing for Norma Burr-Cahill. There was only one. It listed an address on Gulf Shore Boulevard. I Web-searched the address and checked out the satellite view of the property. The bird’s-eye view revealed an impressive estate complete with a large pool and several sunning decks, good-size guest house, and tennis court on almost half a block of prime beachfront property.
I looked at my watch: 8:05 in the evening not too late for a social call, was it? I tucked my shirt in, grabbed a navy blue sport coat, and left the room.
Twelve
Elegant gas lanterns illuminated a pair of tall off-white columns of hand-cut coral stone. I turned into the driveway lined with royal palms and drove up to the gate with its call box, and sign warning off solicitors. Looking up at the surveillance camera aimed at the driver’s-side window, I lowered the window and pressed the call button. I didn’t have to wait long.
“Yes?” said a woman’s voice with an accent I couldn’t quite place. “May I help you?”
“Mrs. Norma Cahill, please.” I said into the black box. After a brief silence, another voice said, “May I ask what this is about?” A different voice this time: younger, with no discernible accent and a certain air of sophistication.
“I’m sorry to intrude, ma’am,” I said. If I wanted to talk to this woman, I needed to establish my credentials fast, preferably before they called the cops. “My name is Jason Justice. I’m an attorney from Palm Beach. I was referred to Mrs. Cahill by a client, Ms. Amy Kelly...”
Before I could finish my sentence, I heard the soft hum of an unseen electric motor meshing well-greased cogs into motion and parting the large gate before me.
“Please drive in, Mr. Justice,” the metallic voice said.
I drove down the paved driveway and into a lush tropical garden of giant lilies, elephant ears, and strange-looking oversize ferns. To the side of the two-story Bermudan mansion, a half-dozen late-model luxury sedans were parked in the alcove. It seemed I had interrupted some sort of gathering.
I got out and crunched up the crushed-shell walk toward the entrance. The air felt more humid here than in West Palm, heavy with the aromas of salt water and seaweed. I trotted up the square slate steps to the front porch with its massive black doors flanked by narrow floor-to-ceiling windows. As I was about to press the doorbell the door opened, and a dark-skinned woman in her mid- to late fifties greeted me with a dazzling smile.
“Good evening, sir,” she said in the accented voice I had heard earlier. “Welcome. Won’t you come in?”
Inside, the home was even more sumptuous than its simple yet elegant lines suggested. In the middle of the expansive semicircular foyer was a round cherrywood table bearing a large porcelain vase full of intoxicating gardenias.
The woman closed the door behind me and said, “Please follow me, sir. Mrs. Steinberg will see you in the study.”
Steinberg? I needed to see Mrs. Cahill. Perhaps it was her assistant. I didn’t wish to be rude, but I was not leaving without talking to Mrs. Cahill.
The woman led me briskly down a hallway, the click of our heels against the limestone floor resounding softly off the high ceilings. In the distance I could hear the sounds of entertaining: friendly banter, laughter, ice tumbling noisily into a glass. The hallway led back into an atrium living area framed by towering floor-to-ceiling windows that surely afforded the room enviable vistas of the Gulf. The woman stopped and pointed to a large room just to one side.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” she told me with a friendly smile. “She will be with you shortly.”
I thanked her, and she drifted away, closing the doors on her way out. My eyes wandered to a big rosewood desk sitting stoically over a rich oriental carpet. In the center of the room, over another large rug that any museum curator would kill for, sat two facing long, white couches. I took a moment to marvel at the two stories of bookshelves lined with a few thousand volumes, some of them no doubt valuable editions
The doors to the study parted to reveal one of the most magnificent sights I have ever beheld: mid to late thirties perhaps, fit, vibrant, enthralling. I was so mesmerized by her presence, it took me a moment to realize I was actually holding my breath.
She wore a form-fitting black cocktail dress over elegantly casual black heels, and her shoulder-length brown hair swung lightly with her footsteps. Her fine features gave me the impression of something too perfectly made, too well bred, too finely drawn to belong in a flawed world. The most glorious green eyes I had ever seen exuded a mature sensuality, projecting a quiet, fiery determination that spoke of worldly sophistication and privilege. This beauty was no pussycat. As she approached, she offered a disarming warm smile and extended a delicate hand.
“Mr. Justice?” she said.
“I’m sorry to call on you so abruptly, ma’am.” I accepted her hand. Her skin felt soft and cool, and instantly I felt a pang of something unfamiliar.
“No bother at all,” she said. She stood there, supremely confident in her smooth golden skin, warm and laid-back, the curious smile curling her perfect lips, probing and cautious at the same time. As far as I was concerned, the being before me was the perfect embodiment of beauty. But her probing eyes also betrayed something else. This was a woman who had experienced a few of fortune’s slings and arrows. It was an air of self-assurance that told those that cared to take notice that she had reached that point in life where she was not easily impressed or swayed. Her demeanor projected a subconscious confidence that made her seem even more elegant, if that was even humanly possible.
“Please sit,” she said without fully breaking the spell.
I thanked her and took a place near the end of the couch. She sat near me and crossed those long, brown legs.
“Would you care for something to drink?”
“Thank you, no,” I said as I leaned back on the couch. “You’re very kind, but I won’t impose...”
“How can I be of help?” she said with a smile.
“I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Norma Cahill. I understand she was a good friend of Amy’s mother, Mrs. Kelly.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Justice ”
“Jason, please,” I interrupted.
“Very well, Jason.” She smiled. “May I ask what this is in reference to?”
“Absolutely,” I said. I sat forward and looked into her emerald eyes. “I don’t know how close you are with Mrs. Kelly or her daughter.”
“I know them well.”
“Well, Mrs. Kelly, Amy’s mother, recently passed away ”
“Oh!” she gasped. She put her right hand to her heart. “I’m so sorry to hear that! I had no idea. My mother and she had been good friends for many, many years. We drifted apart a while back. This is truly sad.” She placed her hands on her lap and folded them.
“I take it Mrs. Cahill is your mother?”
“Yes.” She brought her gaze back to me. “My mother doesn’t receive visitors anymore, Mr. sorry, Jason.”
I smiled, but I still needed to talk to her mother if possible. The look on my face must have told her what I was thinking.
