Offside Trap

by A. J. Stewart

  “You worried?”

  She stood up and put her hands on her tight hips, puffed out her chest.

  “Please. I’m just thinking if they know you come here then you might want to be somewhere you don’t normally go.”

  “I never knew you cared.”

  “I care all right. Mick would kill me for sending you somewhere else, but he would kill me twice if I let you get hurt. You guys are his pension plan.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be responsible for Mick retiring to the poorhouse, but I think I’ll hang tight. In my experience trouble is like the IRS. They’ll find you wherever you hide, so you might as well stay at home and tackle them on your own turf.”

  She smiled and shrugged and wandered into the bar. I took my phone out and called the office and told Ron where I was. Ron moves faster toward a drink than most people do away from a hungry lion. He walked into the courtyard with his arms out.

  “You’re leaving me in the office, dry as Death Valley, while you wet your whistle down here?”

  I handed him a frosty glass, which brought a grin, and told him about my adventures in the office car park.

  “You need something stronger,” he said, nodding to my beer.

  “Muriel obliged.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “That doesn’t become you.”

  “Merely suggesting she’d be a good nurse.”

  My phone beeped and I found a text message from Kim Rose’s assistant, with the names and addresses of the two students who interned with Jake at Rinti Developments.

  “News?” said Ron.

  “The two other interns. Lawry’s nephew goes by the name of Sean, and an Alice Chang. We should pay them a visit tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “How about you?” I said, pocketing my phone. “Did you learn anything about our nutty friend?”

  Ron took his stool and a long slug on his beer. “A bit, but not much of it makes sense to me.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I tracked down the address you got from your guy, what’s his name?”

  “Cool-aid.”

  “Yeah,” laughed Ron. “He should trademark that. Anyway, the deal is, the building in question is home to some of South Florida’s most upstanding citizens. Personal injury lawyers, hedge funds, offshore banking offices. And all manner of import-export businesses.”

  “Gotta love a good import-export business.”

  “Indeed. Covers all manner of sins. So anyway, I get no hits on a pistachio. No pistachio companies or directors called Pistachio.”

  “So what doesn’t make sense?” I said, signaling Muriel for two more beers.

  “With all this import-export action I thought I’d check any shipments into the port of Miami from businesses at that address. Especially from our friends to the south.”

  “Elementary, my dear Bennett.”

  “I drew a big, fat donut.”

  “Damn.”

  “From South America.”

  “I feel a but coming on,” I said as Muriel put down two more cold ones and gave me a look.

  “I didn’t mean your butt,” I said.

  She frowned.

  “Not that it’s not a great butt.”

  “How is Deputy Castle these days?”

  I turned to Ron.

  “So you found nothing from South America.”

  “But,” noted Ron, as Muriel winked and walked away. “There was something from Turkey.”

  “Carpets?”

  “Good guess, but no. Apart from carpets, Turkey is the world’s third largest producer of pistachios.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do. But the real question is why one would import pistachios into the US, given we are the second largest producer of pistachios in the world.”

  “A real brain teaser. Perhaps nuts weren’t the only thing in the shipment?”

  “Exactly my thinking. But why Turkey? They don’t make designer drugs in the US?”

  “Designer drugs, yes. But when I was playing ball all the best performance-enhancing drugs came from labs in Eastern Europe. And the best port in that part of the world was a US ally.”

  “Turkey.”

  “The same. Maybe things have changed, maybe not. The question is, who’s importing these pistachios?”

  “This is where it doesn’t make a lot of sense. The company is an S corporation, single director by the name of Alexander Montgomery. A quick Google search says the guy is a British national, worked in the oil biz, in Scotland, then Texas, then for a certain British oil company in South America. Real high flyer. Then he dumps the career and starts his business in Miami.”

  “And who did he meet in South America?”

  “I think it’s safe to assume an expat with money met anyone and everyone worth meeting. But if he made connections in South America, why is he getting shipments from Europe?”

  “Is it possible he’s getting PEDs from Europe and harder stuff care of South America?”

  “Possible, if it’s our guy.”

  “Oh, it’s our guy.”

  “How do you know?”

  I smiled and clinked glasses with Ron. “I got two limeys lying in our office parking lot says Alexander Montgomery is our guy.”

  “So what do you propose?” said Ron, finishing his beer.

  “Well, I might do like any good Lord of the British Manor would do. I’ll go grouse hunting.”

  “How in Zinfandel’s name do you hunt grouse?”

  “You beat the bushes with a stick and see what comes flying out.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  SEAN LAWRY WAS bunking down in a three-bedroom new-build townhouse in Pembroke Pines off I-75. It wasn’t your typical student digs, coming with HOA-supplied gardeners and golf cart paths to the rec center and pool. It was of little surprise that the entry gate welcomed visitors to Another prestige Rinti development.

  Lawry the younger answered the door in khaki chinos and a white linen shirt. I knew it was him because he shared his uncle’s massive chin that jutted out like a banana with a butt crack in it. I glanced at Ron, and he gave me an eyebrow raise that told me he thought the kid dressed better than I did.

  “Sean Lawry?” I said.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Miami Jones. I am assisting with inquiries into the death of Jake Turner.”

  Lawry stuck his chin out. “Turner?”

  “He was a classmate of yours?”

  “No.”

  “No? You didn’t go to college with Jake Turner?”

  Lawry pushed his lower mandible out further like he had false teeth and frowned, giving him a rather simian look.

  “We went to the same school, but we weren’t classmates.”

  “Do you mind if we come in?”

  “What for?”

  “One of your colleagues has died. You might be able to help figure out why.”

  Lawry shrugged and said, “I don’t see how I can help,” but he stepped aside and let us in. The townhouse had brand spanking new cherrywood floors and marble counters. Certainly not builder’s standard. There were upgrades galore.

  “Nice pad,” I said.

  “Thanks,” said Lawry like he owned it. He walked into the open kitchen and gestured for Ron and me to take the stools at the marble-topped island.

  “Just you?” I said.

  “Ah, no. I got a roommate.”

  “Your uncle’s place?”

  Lawry frowned again. He was going to have a forehead like Saharan dunes before he was thirty if he kept that up.

  “No, it’s my dad’s.”

  “So you don’t have anything to do with your uncle, then?”

  “We’re family, of course I do. We talk all the time.”

  “Your dad a buddy of Gino Rinti too?”

  “Who did you say you worked for?”

  “You’re majoring in construction management, right?” said Ron, taking the tag.

  Sean turned his
focus to Ron and I noticed crow’s feet at his eyes. He wasn’t quite as young as I expected a college kid to be.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So was Jake. But you didn’t know him?” said Ron.

  “Sure, I knew him. He was a sporto. Everyone knew him. But he was a senior, and I’m a junior, so we didn’t have the same classes.”

  I looked at Ron as if to say, if this kid is a junior, he must have redshirted for five years.

  “If you’re a junior, how did you come to be doing an internship at Rinti Developments?” I said.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “It’s what I do. So?”

  “Yeah, so I did. So what. I’m good at what I do.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  He turned from us to the stainless steel fridge and cracked open a Fiji water. He didn’t offer it around.

  “Look, I know what you think. That my uncle got me the job because of his so-called connections. Well you’re wrong. I don’t ride no man’s coat sleeves. I got that job myself.”

  “Coattails, not coat sleeves.”

  “Whatever, Roget. I don’t need anyone’s help.”

  “You pay rent here?” I said. It was a low blow, but the kid was yanking my chain and I wasn’t in any kind of mood for it. I knew he was young and wanted to make his mark on the world, and that couldn’t be easy in the shadow of one of the greatest grafters the fine state of Florida had ever known. But he didn’t have to be such a jerk about it. One might have argued that I was being a jerk too, and that at my age I should know better, but if testosterone serves one purpose it is to make us remember our glory days when our old bones ache while forgetting the hard knocks that others are yet to feel.

  “What is it you want, man?”

  “To know anything about Jake Turner that might explain why he got killed.”

  “Got killed? I heard he OD’ed.”

  “That’s what they say, but I’m not convinced. You ever see him take drugs or act like he was on something?”

  “Drugs? Not my area. I got a Porsche. I don’t need to get high. But Jake? He was about to finish the best four years of his life, so who knows.”

  “Why the best four years?”

  Sean grinned a wide, lipless smile. “He was a big man on campus ’cause he played lacrosse. Where do you think he was gonna go from there? He was next year’s nobody.”

  “So you didn’t get on.”

  “Like I said, I hardly knew the guy. I saw him a few times around the office over summer, but that’s it. Look, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but we didn’t move in the same circles. He just wasn’t in the same class. He was never going to be the developer, he was the foreman. Maybe he couldn’t handle that.” Sean shrugged and sipped his water.

  “Did Jake know about the Rinti project at the college?” said Ron.

  “No. What project at the college?” He sipped his water.

  I didn’t have anything further for the kid. I thought about giving him a business card, but Sean Lawry wasn’t going to bother remembering anything so I skipped it. Ron seemed to have nothing, so I slapped my hands on the cold marble counter.

  “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Ron and I left Sean Lawry standing behind his island and he made no move to show us out. I got to the door when I decided to do my Columbo.

  “One more thing. Where were you the night Jake OD’ed?”

  “Here.”

  “Anyone verify that?”

  “My roommate.” He turned to the stairs that led up to the bedrooms and yelled. “Elissa!”

  A moment later a girl came halfway down the stairs. She was maybe eighteen, pretty with soft blond hair and thin jeans. She was wiping her hands with a chamois, as if she were polishing a car up there. I repeated my question to her.

  “We were here,” she said.

  “All evening?”

  “Yep,” she said. “Is that all? I need to get finished.” She retreated back up the stairs, and I looked at Sean, who raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  We were in the car before Ron spoke.

  “Pretentious so-and-so,” he said.

  “I’ll say.”

  “Doesn’t make him wrong, though. Jake Turner was in his glory days. He wasn’t going to make a living in lacrosse. Who knows what else lay in front of him. Maybe he couldn’t handle that.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “Or you don’t want to.”

  “Angela painted a compelling picture. So did the coaches, his team mates. They all suggested he was destined for greater things.”

  “Maybe Jake knew better, or at least feared it. Means, motive and opportunity. Applies not just to homicide but suicide too. He had the means and opportunity. Maybe a summer full of nepotism and backroom deals told him what he didn’t want to know, and gave him his motive.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to process Ron’s mental dump. My mind lacked sharpness and longed for some REM sleep.

  “Then why is Pistachio so keen for me to stay away from the case?”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t want the attention on his business,” said Ron. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Let’s see what the other intern says. What was the name again?”

  “Alice Chang,” I said, as I pulled away from Pembroke Pines and back toward the campus.

  If Sean Lawry’s residence was the antithesis of student digs, Alice Chang’s was the thesis. She lived in the same sort of quad-share dorm that Angela Cassidy lived in, two buildings down from Angel’s. Alice’s building looked original to the campus, a pebble-encrusted utilitarian box compared to Angel’s Spanish architecture. It looked every bit the budget-conscious choice. The girl who answered the door was a golf tee short of five feet tall and wore a Panthers hoodie that might have been stolen from the wardrobe of Active Barbie. Her round face contrasted the square glasses she wore.

  “Alice Chang?”

  She seemed to shrink an inch or two. “What has happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened. We just wanted to ask some questions about Jake Turner.”

  Her eyes opened like saucers and she took half a step back into her dorm.

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “You did an internship with him over summer?”

  “No. Well, yes, but no.”

  “Can we talk inside?” I suggested, nodding toward the communal living room. Alice pulled the door tighter against her finch-like frame.

  “No, sir, not here.” She clicked the door closed on us, and we waited, looking at each other for long enough to think that she wasn’t coming back. Then the door opened and Alice stuck her face out.

  “You have ID?”

  Ron and I both pulled our PI ID cards out of our wallets. They were rarely sighted and in pristine condition. People never asked for ID.

  “You’re not the police?” said Alice.

  “No, ma’am, we’re private investigators, assisting with inquiries. We just have a few questions you might be able to answer. We already spoke to the other intern, Sean Lawry.” Alice looked at me without blinking or it seemed even breathing for a time, and then took photos of our IDs with her cell phone. She stepped back inside, and then came out with a courier’s satchel over her shoulder and a long whistle around her neck.

  She led us to the campus library. The building was attempting to mimic the Library of Congress, lots of steps and columns. I expected the interior was more utilitarian than the original in DC, but we never got that far. Alice stopped at the base of the steps.

  “What is your question?” she said. She was rather to the point, so I reciprocated.

  “You did an internship with Rinti Construction?”

  “Rinti Developments.”

  “Okay. And you’re a construction management major?”

  “No.”

  “No? Why did you intern with Rinti?”

  “I am studying to become a civil engineer.”

  “Okay. But you worked with Jake Turner an
d Sean Lawry over the summer?”

  Alice frowned and said, “No.”

  “No? They did internships this summer too. We know that.”

  “Yes, they did. In a different area than me.”

  “So you had no interaction with them at all?’

  “I don’t associate with those sorts of people.”

  “What sorts of people? People with drugs? Sporty people?”

  She shrugged. “Either of them.”

  “So you never saw them at Rinti? I didn’t think it was that big a place.”

  “I never said I didn’t see them. You asked if I had interactions. I did not.”

  Pedantic wasn’t the word. But I cut her a break, because I assumed that pedantic was a good character trait in a person who would ensure the structural integrity of buildings and bridges. I smiled. Alice did not.

  “What did you observe of them?”

  “Hubris,” she said.

  I could see that. Jake Turner was a student-athlete who dealt performance-enhancing drugs to his teammates, and Sean Lawry was a Lawry.

  “Did you ever hear anything about a Rinti project here on campus?”

  “At the university? There are no current building projects on campus.”

  “Perhaps a proposed development?’

  “No, I don’t . . .” She was shaking her head and she stopped.

  “What?”

  “There was a gathering.” She paused and blinked hard. It was like listening to Jackie Chan do a reading of Charles Dickens’s collected works.

  “A gathering?”

  “Yes. Post-work on a Friday. Some of the employees and interns gathered for an informal get-together.”

  “After work drinks,” I said.

  “If you like.”

  “And what happened?”

  “There was an altercation.”

  “A fight?”

  “Not physically but yes, verbally.”

  “Who?”

  “Turner and Lawry. Well, Lawry, actually. He did most of the yelling.”

  “Saying what?”

  “That Jake was, what’s the saying? Out of his league? He said Jake didn’t know who he was dealing with, and . . .”

  “And?”

  “And who is that?” She looked between us across the quad. I turned to see Officer Steele’s rotund partner Harris huffing his way across the grass toward us. He pointed at me, but it affected his balance so he dropped his hand and marched onward. I turned to Alice.