Detective Fiction

by William Wells

  Claire got an MBA from Northwestern after our divorce. She is a senior vice president with Wells Fargo Bank and lives in a row house in the Gold Coast. Her situation has improved considerably since she was Mrs. Jack Starkey, and not just financially.

  I’d heard from friends that Claire is seeing an orthopedic surgeon, a step up from a dentist—and several steps up from a detective. I’d heard that from friends because I regularly called to ask them about her. That news made me jealous and, at the same time, pleased that she was doing just fine after dumping her inattentive, alcoholic cop husband.

  Our divorce was what was termed “amicable.” I suppose that meant she didn’t mind talking to me on the phone occasionally, and wouldn’t consider it particularly good news if I were found floating facedown in the Gulf of Mexico.

  Claire had not asked for alimony. I insisted on paying Jenny’s college and law school expenses. Claire said we could share them, but agreed to let me handle it because, I was certain, she understood that I needed to do that for our daughter.

  That night, still upset about the news that Jenny had married without inviting me, and thinking about how Mr. Jack Daniel’s might comfort me, I drove back to Fort Myers Beach and went to an AA meeting at Saint Paul’s Episcopal Church, my first meeting in six months. I figured that Brother Timothy wouldn’t mind the Protestant venue as long as I was working on mending my eternal soul.

  I moved away from my hometown because I decided that I needed to change my game if I was ever to reconnect with my family. At minimum, I wanted Claire to know that I regretted our break up, that I took full responsibility for the problems we had, and that I wished her all the happiness she deserved, with or without me.

  Jenny is now an attorney with a big corporate law firm in Chicago. She took her mother’s side in the divorce—as did I. After I moved to Florida, I called her every holiday and on her birthday, and regularly invited her to visit me in Fort Myers Beach. She was always too busy. She could have mentioned her engagement and wedding in those calls, but didn’t.

  It’s said that one definition of insanity is to keep doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. I left Chicago, a city I loved but where all my bad habits had developed, and moved to Fort Myers Beach to start over.

  MY FIRST stop before leaving Chicago was the Baby Doll. I went there to say good-bye to old friends. They surprised me with a noontime going-away party. We always went to the Baby Doll after the funerals of fellow policemen killed in the line of duty. My party, nice as it was, felt kind of like that.

  Tommy Boyle, my partner during my final years as a homicide detective, was also there. He was a third-generation cop, a big man with the ruined blood vessels in his cheeks and nose of someone not unfamiliar with strong drink. Tommy had saved my life once by hearing a guy we couldn’t see jack a shell into his pistol. I’d saved his career more than once by being loose with the facts when interviewed by Internal Affairs about things he’d done.

  Tommy and I promised to stay in touch. But that hadn’t happened. They say that a partnership on the police force is like a marriage. That’s an overstatement, but there is one similarity: When it’s done, it’s done.

  After leaving the Baby Doll, I walked over to Graceland Cemetery to say good-bye to my family. Graceland, on North Clark Street, is a sylvan glade within the city; it bills itself as “an oasis of art, architecture, and horticulture since 1860.” There is a lake, an ivy-covered stone chapel, and 119 acres of manicured parkland.

  The cemetery’s literature notes that many prominent people are buried there, including architects, musicians, artists, writers, and business leaders. Al Capone and John Dillinger are buried elsewhere. But for me, Graceland is the place where my mother, father, and brother lie at eternal rest. My will stipulates that I join them there when my time comes.

  We can, ultimately, go home again.

  I walked through the open front iron gates and down a winding path leading to the Starkey family gravesite, beneath an ancient oak tree. I read the headstones, even though I knew what they said by heart:

  Harold Gilbert Starkey

  1927 – 1999

  Beloved husband of Grace and father of Joe and Jack

  Deputy Chief City of Chicago Fire Department

  At Rest After a Lifetime of Service

  Alice Greenleaf Starkey

  1931 – 2001

  Beloved wife of Harold and mother of Joe and Jack

  The Angels Weep at Such a Passing

  Joseph Harold Starkey

  1959 – 2002

  Beloved son of Harold and Alice and brother of Jack

  Firefighter, City of Chicago Fire Department

  Taken From Us Too Soon

  I looked at the empty plot beside Joe that was waiting for me, and wondered what the epitaph on my headstone would say, and who would compose it. My ex-wife, Claire? Our daughter, Jenny? Or maybe Bill Stevens? Maybe I should put the wording in my will: Jack Gilbert Starkey, He Did the Best He Could.

  But had I really? When you think about your life being summed up by a single phrase carved in marble for all eternity, it is reason enough to do all you can to be a better man while there is still time.

  I think it’s going well so far. I haven’t had a drink, shot anyone, or been shot since quitting the job and moving to Florida. I’d call that real progress.

  16.

  THE ATOCHA FUND

  Atocha Securities occupies the top floor of a six-story building that held an Italian restaurant, a clothing boutique, and a women’s shoe store, which Marisa liked. As I mentioned, Fifth Avenue South is the premiere address for financial institutions, shops, and restaurants catering to the carriage trade. Vasily obviously wants his customers to feel comfortable when they visit their money.

  Approaching the building, I wondered if Vasily had penetrated my false identity, and an ex-Red Army sniper with a Dragunov was tracking me though his scope from a nearby rooftop. Or if I’d find, behind the reception desk in his offices, some no-neck goon with a shaved head, jagged knife scar on his cheek, and an AK-47 at hand. I didn’t know at that point if Vasily was the perp in my case, but paranoia has saved many a cop’s life.

  I was wearing a short-sleeved, cream-colored linen shirt, tan slacks, and brown loafers—with socks, because I was packing my Baby Glock in an ankle holster.

  In terms of firearms, Florida is like Dodge City in Wild West times. The state is more than generous with issuing concealed carry permits, so a very large percentage of the population, and not just the bad guys, is armed.

  State firearms laws create the presumption that a citizen, if he or she feels even mildly threatened, has the right to throw a flurry of hot lead at the alleged offender. In most states, you can only do that if someone breaks into your home or workplace.

  But not in the Sunshine State. Here it’s unwise to honk your horn at someone who cuts you off in traffic, even if the other driver is a little old lady. Once, while visiting a gun shop in Fort Myers, I saw an elderly woman trying out handguns to see how they fit into her purse, and asking if any came with a pink grip, which some do. Florida’s senior citizens are scary enough behind the wheel of a car; knowing that some of them are armed can make you consider wearing a Kevlar vest on your way to the grocery store.

  I walked into the building’s lobby, took the elevator to the top floor, and entered the Atocha Securities offices through floor-to-ceiling glass doors. I found a large, elaborately furnished reception area with oil paintings on the walls and an Oriental rug over a hardwood floor. Oriental rugs over hardwood floors are apparently as common in the best circles as are no socks with loafers. There was furniture that looked more expensive than comfortable. But the most impressive feature was the stunning young blonde sitting behind the reception desk.

  She smiled at me and said, “Mr. Chance?”

  “In the flesh.”

  As was she.

  “Please have a seat. Mr. Petrovich will be with you shortly. Would you li
ke tea, or coffee, or water while you wait?”

  “Water would be good,” I told her. She stood and went through the door to the inner offices, reappearing after a moment with a bottle of Evian and a glass with ice in it. She was wearing a white satin tee shirt and a short black leather skirt that showed more curves than a Grand Prix racetrack, plus red stiletto heels that—well, you get the idea. I wasn’t a dirty old man, at least not yet, but forgive me, Brother Timothy, for my impure thoughts.

  The young lady handed the water bottle and glass to me and said, “It will be just a moment longer. Mr. Petrovich is on a call.”

  I took a drink straight from the bottle. It always seemed odd to me that you would pay three bucks for a bottle of fancy bottled water and then dilute it with ice cubes made from the tap. I walked over to a glass display case that contained a model of an old-fashioned sailing ship. A brass plaque identified it as a replica of a Spanish treasure galleon named the Nuestra Señora de Atocha.

  As I was looking at the ship, the receptionist said, “Mr. Petrovich will see you now, Mr. Chance. Please follow me.”

  She led me through the door, down a corridor, and into Vasily’s large corner office. On the way, we passed a number of other offices with open doors. They were unoccupied. Maybe it was time for staff marksmanship training at a shooting range.

  As I entered his office, Vasily was sitting at a desk that looked like Louis XIV might have used to dash off his correspondence. He stood and came around it to greet me. There were oil paintings on the walls, as well as stuffed game fish and the heads of wild animals. I felt that a cape buffalo was staring at me, wanting me to arrest his killer. Maybe I’d get to that later.

  “Ah, Frank, I’m so glad you could come,” Vasily said as he gave me a firm handshake.

  He was wearing a white linen suit with an open-collared pale blue shirt and a paisley ascot. I was glad that I was wearing Sir Reginald’s clothes and not my own. Dressed in my usual garb, I might look like I could qualify for a reverse mortgage, at best, and not an investment in a high-flying hedge fund.

  Vasily directed me to a red leather sofa and sat in a matching club chair beside it. At the last moment, I noticed that I was about to sit on a little mound of white fluff. It raised its head and revealed itself to be a dog of some sort. Without moving, the doggie growled at me.

  “That’s Sasha, my Maltese,” Vasily said. “She’s really quite friendly.”

  Unless you are going to sit on her, apparently.

  Vasily picked her up and held her on his lap, stroking her fur. Ernst Stavro Blofeld, the villain in one of the James Bond movies, had a dog like that and petted it as he planned the destruction of the world.

  “I’m happy we could get together again, Count Petrovich,” I said.

  “Please, call me Vasily.”

  “And please call me Frank.”

  He smiled and added, “In America, the only true aristocracy is based upon money, and not royal bloodlines, don’t your agree?”

  I did agree. Legit or not, Vasily’s kingdom was one of supercomputer flash trades, global currency hedging, shell companies, and offshore bank accounts. I guessed that Atocha Securities was incorporated in the Cayman Islands, or in some other offshore nation where the smart money hides and a customer can get in some snorkeling while there.

  “Tell me about the model in your lobby,” I said.

  Vasily grinned. “Her name is Lena. She is from Vladivostok. She is very . . . efficient.”

  “I meant the ship model,” I said. I was going to get to Lena next.

  “Yes, of course, the ship model,” he chuckled. “That is a replica of a Spanish galleon that sank in a hurricane off the Florida Keys in 1622 while carrying a cargo of gold bullion and other fabulous treasures. Maybe you recall that the ship was found by that famous treasure hunter, Mel Fisher, thirty years ago, and the treasure recovered.”

  In fact, I did remember that but I hadn’t connected the name of Vasily’s firm with that lost ship.

  He stood, walked over to a mahogany cabinet built into a wall, and pushed a brass button. I noticed that he walked with a slight limp. From a bullet wound during the Russian occupation of Afghanistan? From falling off his horse during a cavalry charge somewhere in the Balkans? Who knew at that point what secrets Vasily’s past held. Or maybe he just had arthritis of the hip.

  The front panel of the cabinet slid upward like a garage door, revealing a fully stocked bar.

  “May I offer you some refreshment?” he asked as he selected a bottle from one of the shelves. “Perhaps a single malt scotch? This is Talisker, which I’m especially fond of. It was bottled ten years before Lena was born.”

  What to do? I couldn’t admit that I was a recovering alcoholic and ask if he had root beer. After all, Frank Chance was a player, not a pussy.

  “Thanks, but I’ll have to pass,” I said. “I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me last night. My stomach is a bit queasy.”

  Actually Ash and I shared an anchovy and mushroom pizza as we watched the Bulls playing the Pistons on TV last night and my stomach liked it just fine. Even the final score of the game didn’t upset it.

  Vasily nodded, took a short glass from the cabinet, poured in two fingers of the scotch, and returned to his chair. He sipped his drink and said, “If I may, Frank, I’d like to tell you just a bit about Atocha Securities before we go to lunch. I apologize if this seems rude, as if you’ve been roped in by a time-share salesman with an offer of a free meal.”

  “Not at all.” I was there to learn about Atocha Securities. The free meal was a bonus.

  “Excellent. I only invite a select few people to invest with us. The fact that you are related to Lady Ashley, a woman of the finest reputation, provides your bona fides.”

  He took another sip of scotch, rolling it around in his mouth before swallowing, and continued: “My grandparents, Count and Countess Petrovich, were members of the Russian aristocracy, a group known for, shall we say, an excessive lifestyle, the kind among the Russian nobility that led to the revolution of 1917. My grandparents escaped to London, where my grandfather took up a career in finance. He founded an investment firm that my father joined. I attended Oxford, and then the London School of Economics. After a few years with the family firm, I decided I wanted to make my own mark in the business world, so I moved to New York, took a job with an investment-banking firm, and eventually opened my own shop. I called it Petrovich Securities. The firm did well by our clients. During the height of the Cold War, I decided that a change of name would be prudent. The Russian thing, you know. Right at that time, a client gave me a coffee table book about the Atocha treasures, and from that fortuitous event the name Atocha Securities was born. As was the name of my hedge fund, The Atocha Fund. The implication being that I would create great wealth for my clients.”

  Vasily moved to a glass display case near the window, opened the top, picked up a gold coin, walked over, and handed it to me. “This coin was minted in Seville,” he said. “It is called a doubloon, with a denomination of two escudos. It might have been in the pocket of a wealthy passenger aboard Atocha, in that no gold coins were minted in the New World in 1622 or earlier. I bought it, along with some silver coins, gold and silver bars, and jewelry, at a Christie’s auction of Atocha treasures in New York.”

  I took the coin. It had an irregular shape, with a cross on one side and a coat of arms on the other. As I held it, I imagined the scene aboard the Atocha as it foundered in a hurricane four centuries ago: listing badly, taking on water, masts snapped by the ferocious winds, the passengers huddled below decks surely knowing their fate, perhaps a priest holding up a cross while reciting a prayer for help that his God, busy with more important matters, would not answer.

  I thought about slipping the coin into my pocket as a joke. But maybe Vasily wouldn’t find that funny and call for a bodyguard named Igor, the hit man who dealt with clients wanting to withdraw their funds.

  I handed the coin back t
o him. He returned it to the display case, took the chair near the sofa, smiled, spread his hands, and said, “For today, I just want you to know that you are welcome to hear more about our investment philosophy and results, if and whenever you wish. Or not. Believe me, we have many more people who want to become clients than we are able to accommodate, so feel completely free to pass on this opportunity. My feelings will not be hurt. In any case, that’s the end of my little sales pitch.”

  He stood, picked up Sasha, and said, “Now we shall eat. I hope you have time for more than a quick bite.”

  Was I just imagining it, or did his killer Maltese seem to perk up when he said “quick bite”?

  17.

  ABOARD THE TREASURE HUNTER

  It was a fifteen-minute drive from Vasily’s office to the Palm Harbor Yacht Club. We made the trip in a black Maybach limousine piloted by a young man who Vasily introduced as Stefan. The backseat was as comfy and luxurious as a den in one of the city’s mansions, complete with leather, mahogany, a bar, and a television. My seat had a footrest that I powered up and down a few times, just for fun.

  The chauffeur had a thick neck, wide shoulders, and a flat, Slavic face. He wore an expensive-looking black suit with a white shirt and black tie. Hatless, his blond hair was cropped short, military style. He gripped the wheel with hands the size of HoneyBaked hams. Sasha sat on the front passenger seat while Vasily and I rode in back.

  As our Maybach approached the big iron gates of the yacht club entrance, Stefan held up a white plastic card and the gates swung slowly open. We drove through them and along a winding road, passing a very large concrete building.

  “That’s where they keep the smaller boats,” Vasily said.

  I could see inside through the open end of the building. The boats, stored in racks going up to a high ceiling, looked plenty big to me.

  “We’re dining on my boat,” Vasily said as Stefan parked in front of a one-story building with grey shingles. As we were getting out of the car, a long golf-cart-type vehicle pulled up. The driver, a man in his seventies wearing a tee shirt with the name of the yacht club on it, said, “Welcome back, Count Petrovich.”