Pleasure Cruise Shot To Hell (The Bullet-Riddled Yacht Book 1)

by Jay Giles

  Total-up all that creep, and the house went from 6,000 sq. ft. to 12,500 sq. ft.; the price ballooned to $18-million. That wouldn’t have been so bad if the Sloane mansion had been surrounded by other homes in its price range, but Cabrera had held off selling any other lots. His thinking was that once the Square was complete, the canals navigable, prospective buyers could be taken on gondola tours of the property and the uniqueness of it all would command higher prices.

  Mistake.

  The economy tanked.

  At first, Cabrera thought he wouldn’t be hurt, a feeling that quickly turned to gloom as buyers stayed away in droves. No matter what enticements he tried, nothing worked. Not a single lot went under contract.

  Sloane’s palatial home stood alone in the deserted development. The local paper, never missing an opportunity to tweak the town’s self-professed movers and shakers, dubbed the development The Tragic Kingdom, Sloane’s house The Castle, and questioned Sloane’s financial acumen.

  As if that wasn’t enough, Heather (wife number five) sued for divorce, citing extreme emotional anguish. To quote her filing: “The ridicule of living in that house estranged her from the comfort and solace of shopping.” Sloane was a laughing stock not only on the financial page, but on the society page, as well.

  Sloane being Sloane didn’t see that he had any complicity in the fiasco. He blamed it all—the huge non-performing bank loan, The Castle, the rapidly escalating cost of his divorce—on Garcia Cabrera. Once inseparable friends, they became the bitterest of enemies.

  My job, when Sloane called Cabrera’s note and went after his assets, was to return as much money to the bank as possible. Unfortunately, liquidating Cabrera’s assets in a severely depressed market didn’t return much to the bank. Sloane was only able to get pennies on the dollar for the $106-million Inland Bank & Trust invested in San Marco Square. One heck of a haircut.

  Interestingly, during the workout, I met with both Cabrera and his wife multiple times for depositions and hearings and neither of them acted like they were facing financial Armageddon.

  Chapter 5

  Jessica handed me the reservations sheet and an Inland Bank Visa card. “That’s a pre-paid card. Sloane thought it would be the easiest way to handle your expenses. There’s five thousand dollars on it, if you need more, you have to call and have him authorize it.”

  I put the card in my wallet and tucked the reservations sheet in the Cabrera file. As I did, she said, “Better boogie if you want to make your flight.”

  I glanced at my watch. She wasn’t kidding.

  From the car, I pressed speed dial one on my cell, got LeeAnn Constable, my paralegal at the law office and let her know the big news.

  “You lucky dog,” she said in her Alabama drawl, “I’ve always wanted to see Rio. You know, Will, Rio may be the flat-out sexiest city on the planet.” A former cheerleader for the Crimson Tide, LeeAnn believed in cleavage, short skirts, big hair, and never ever missing a party.

  “This is a Sloane trip, LeeAnn. I’m not going to have a moment to myself.”

  “Ohh,” she scolded me, “you’ve got to get out from under that man’s thumb, Will. Go to Ipanema Beach, hang out, watch the hotties strut by. It’ll be good for you. Tell Sloane your cell battery up and died.”

  I chuckled.

  “You aren’t even going to try, are you?”

  “We’ll see,” I hedged, knowing full well I wouldn’t. “Anyhow, cancel my appointments for the week. I have no idea how long it’s going to take to get that boat back here. I’ll call when I can.”

  “Don’t worry about things here, darlin’. You try and have a little fun on this trip, you hear.”

  Sure. I’ll take up Taekwondo and learn Russian, too. I hit speed dial two for Jennifer Barnes, the nurse in change at the nursing home where my father was staying. “Jennifer. It’s Will. I’m going to be out of town for a while on client business. The law office can reach me in an emergency. Okay?”

  “Sure, Will. Thanks for letting us know. We’ll see you when you’re back in town.”

  At the condo, I Googled the weather in Rio. Balmy. Took a look at my not so extensive wardrobe and packed what was casual and clean. In my briefcase, I put my MacBook Air, the Cabrera file, and on a whim John Grisham’s Sycamore Row.

  My dad always liked Grisham and whenever I went to the nursing home I took one and read to him, an idea I stole from The Notebook. He hadn’t recognized me in over a year so conversation was tough, and the reading seemed to calm him when he was agitated.

  I gave the place one last look but didn’t see anything to worry about. I don’t cook so there wasn’t food in the house that could go bad. Tiffany, my ex, got the dog in the divorce so there was no big sweetie to go to the kennel. Lock and leave.

  I left the Subaru in long-term parking, scribbled the level and row and number on the ticket so I could find it when I returned, and took the shuttle to the airport terminal. The crazy thing about this trip—I had to fly north to fly south. My first leg was a 6:30 pm Delta flight to their hub in Atlanta. Then I had an hour and a half layover before I boarded the red-eye to Rio.

  That plane, a Boeing 737, was full. I made my way down the aisle, found my seat, got Sycamore Row from my briefcase before stowing it in the overhead bin. I settled into my seat and said, “Hello,” to the passenger next to me in the window seat. He nodded back and continued fiddling with a black sleep mask. I envied him. I’ve never been able to sleep on airplanes.

  Once we were airborne, I opened my book to pass the time. Good as Grisham’s story was, my mind kept wandering to the Cabrera matter.

  How had I missed a yacht?

  I thought back to the last time I’d seen Cabrera. It had been about five months ago at the law offices of Tellus, Farmer, and Carbo for a deposition. Cabrera had ditched his old lawyer and retained Gerry Farmer who I knew from cases we’d worked together. Gerry was older, rail thin, cue ball bald, with a beak of a nose on which Ben Franklin glasses perched precariously. Gerry never took to business casual. He was one of those holdouts who still wore a dark suit, heavily starched white shirt, and sincere tie to the office every day. Loosening his tie gave him guilt pangs.

  Garcia had dressed for the occasion, too. He’d worn a beige linen sport coat over a white oxford shirt and dress jeans. Very metrosexual.

  We’d gathered around a small round worktable in Gerry’s large but messy office. Stacks of case files were strewn everywhere. Besides being a very capable attorney, Gerry appeared to be a hoarder.

  I had a legal pad with seven pages of questions for Garcia organized in front of me. I’d placed my recorder in the center of the table, and was about to press the record button when Gerry cleared his throat. “Can we talk for a minute? Off the record.”

  “Sure.” I said, curious why Gerry wanted to go off record.

  “As you know, Garcia—” He tilted his cue ball head at his client, who smiled beatifically. “—has been working diligently to resolve this matter.”

  “Gerry.” I chided him. “I know no such thing.”

  Gerry tut-tuted. “Let’s not be argumentative, Will.”

  “I’m just saying, I don’t know of any payments that have been made against principal or interest.”

  “That’s all about to change,” Gerry said grandly. “Garcia has been actively looking for projects to pay down the note and he’s found one that would allow him to make a substantial payment.”

  Garcia grinned.

  How I’d misjudged the man. All I thought he’d been doing was boinking Molly, Brittany, and Rio. Gerry eyed me expecting some response. What could I say? “Swell.”

  “It’s a testimony to his industriousness that he’s found a project this big, this quickly. We’re working as fast as we can on the contracts, but this isn’t a deal you can do in a day.” Gerry gave me his super sincere look—the one he’d boasted makes jurors putty in his hands. I must have had my kryptonite underwear on, ‘cause I didn’t even feel a twinge. “It�
�s going to take some time to negotiate the details, get this signed, and get the work started. We need a six-month delay. Would the bank be receptive to that?”

  “Hardly. You’re going to have to cough-up some details, Gerry.”

  He looked at Garcia, who gave him a nod.

  “A South American developer has already secured financing for a 140-unit condominium complex in West Palm that he wants Garcia to build for him. I’m working on the contract. Here’s the thing: normally Garcia would be paid in draws based on construction completion. What we’ve proposed is he’ll take less money, but be paid up-front. As soon as he gets that up-front payment, he turns it over to the bank.”

  “Okay. How big a ticket are we cashing here?”

  “Well, I’m still negotiating,” Gerry said warily. “And remember, he is taking considerably less to get the up-front payment. I’m guessing—round numbers—it would be in the ten-million range. That would pay off interest and a touch of principal.”

  I looked at Garcia. “Do you have any experience building condominiums?”

  He’d smirked. “None whatsoever.”

  “That doesn’t fill me with confidence you’ll be able to pull this off.”

  “Condos are just joined houses,” he said nodding smugly. “The important thing is that I know what up-scale homebuyers want in a home.”

  Good answer. But since I didn’t believe a word, it didn’t make any difference. I shifted my gaze back to Gerry. “So, let me see if I’ve got this. You want the bank to grant a six-month extension on the note to give you time to get this project underway. And in exchange for that, you’ll make a ten million—”

  Gerry’s hand flew-up, index finger raised. “Approximately.”

  “—Approximately ten million dollar payment in about six months.”

  “Exactly,” Gerry said excitedly. “It’s a win-win. The bank gets more money than selling San Marco at the courthouse door. Garcia gets to avoid bankruptcy and, with San Marco off the auction block, he can resume building homes there.” He gave me his sincere look, again. Still no tingle. “The real estate market is back, Will. Foreclosures are down; new home sales are up. Garcia has three parties interested in buying and building in San Marco. That’s more money that will come back to the bank.” He paused, studying me to see if his pitch had gained traction. “You’ve got to present this to Sloane and get him to see reason, Will. You’ve just got to.”

  “You know, Gerry, I’m more reasonable than Sloane and you haven’t convinced me, yet.’

  Gerry held out his hands in supplication. “How have I not convinced you? Tell me?”

  “Let’s start with the name of this South American developer—”

  “No, no, no,” Gerry protested, cue ball shaking vigorously. “Good God that could queer the deal. You’ve got my word this is legit. What more do you need? You get Sloane to agree to a delay and I’ll give you his name and number. But I don’t want anybody talking to him until I’ve got this signed.”

  You’ve got my word this is legit.

  I wondered if Cabrera was devious enough to have retained Farmer for his reputation and used him to sell this stall. And Gerry? He wasn’t a newbie. He had to have done due diligence on the matter.

  My gaze went to Cabrera. He’d looked confident, a slight smile on his face, his hands resting easily on the table. Of course, confidence is where ‘con’ comes from. Cabrera certainly had the charm to dazzle even Gerry. Much as I would have liked to believe there was a South American developer ready to throw money at Cabrera and resolve the San Marco debacle amicably, my gut screamed: con, con, con.

  Gerry leaned forward, anxious to get some commitment. “Well, what do you think?”

  I shrugged him off. “Doesn’t matter what I think, Gerry. It’s Sloane’s call to make.”

  Two-day’s later, Sloane and I met in his office and I relayed the offer. At least he got a good laugh out of it. “The guy’s desperate,” he wheezed as the laughter subsided. He wiped tears away with the back of his hand. “I can’t believe he’d thought I’d fall for that.”

  From my car, I called Gerry. “Sloane says no.” I spared him the details.

  “Pity.” Gerry responded with a sigh. “Well, Cabrera has other irons in the fire.”

  I’d dismissed that comment earlier as face-saving hooey. Now it had me wondering.

  Other irons in the fire?

  Could he have been referring to the Venetian? Somehow that seemed implausible. The boat itself wasn’t worth enough. Unless. Was Cabrera planning on using her as a mule? I wondered what the street value of a 155-ft yacht filled to the gills with cocaine might be. Had to be big bucks. Had to be enough to bail him out with the bank. My problem with that was Cabrera was a pretty boy. I couldn’t picture him having the cojones to pull it off.

  The zebra haired stewardess with unsightly midriff bulge, who had been methodically working her way down the aisle with the drink cart, interrupted my thoughts. “For you, sir?”

  Everything on her cart was either alcohol or caffeine. That would kill any hope for sleep. I got a bottled water, screwed the top off, and took a swing. As I did, it occurred to me I hadn’t checked to see what Sloane might have added to the file about the boat.

  I tucked Sycamore Row and my bottle of water in the seat pocket, unclasped my seat belt, stood, and got the Cabrera file from my briefcase. Back down in my seat, I lowered the seat tray, placed the file on it, and started thumbing through it.

  I found two documents in Portuguese about the boat. Both were grainy and slightly askew, as if they’d been printed from JPEGs of the original documents. One document had signatures at the bottom that had to be buyer and seller. I expected to see Garcia Cabrera’s elaborate scribble signature as the buyer.

  But the name that was there came as a surprise.

  Chapter 6

  Nina Moreno Cabrera.

  Hmmm. Was that significant? Or was this simply a husband and wife balancing out the marital assets?

  Nina certainly hadn’t mentioned a boat the last time I saw her. That had been for a deposition at her downtown design studio. Besides designing kitchens, baths, and picking out finishes for Cabrera Homes, Nina had a separate design business working for clients of her own.

  We’d met in her conference room—a large open space filled with expensive Italian designer furniture that Nina had carefully curated to impress the upscale homebuyer. The sleek conference table was ebonized black wood. The skinny high-backed chairs were stainless steel and black leather. On the inside wall was an oversize abstract painting with streaks of vibrant color running top to bottom.

  I settled into one of the skinny leather chairs and found it surprisingly comfortable. Before I’d even gotten my recorder from my briefcase, Nina, sans attorney, breezed into the room.

  I was surprised she was alone. “Where’s Lou?” Louis Peck, who represented her, was a twitchy loudmouth who could have been the poster boy for ambulance chasers.

  Nina put a hand on her hip and lifted a well-arched eyebrow. “Does he need to be here?”

  “I’ll deny ever saying it, but you’re better off without him.”

  Nina smiled and took the seat directly across the table from me. “Then it’s just you and me.”

  I turned the recorder on and placed it in the middle of the table. “This is Matt Taggert deposing Nina Cabrera on—” I rambled off the date, time, and place. “Ms. Cabrera, you’ve waived having counsel present, correct?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  I had a list of questions three pages long to ask her. Most of it to do with items ordered for the development that couldn’t be accounted for. Over the next hour and a half, I worked my way down my list. To Nina’s credit, she never got argumentative. She was pleasant and helpful, often sending her assistant, Caryn, to look-up information.

  When I finished the last item on my list, she leaned forward and said, “Okay, Will, I answered all your questions. Now I want you to answer some for me.”

&n
bsp; “If I can,” I said, putting my recorder and notepad back in the briefcase.

  “Tell me about these women Garcia has been seeing.”

  That caught me off guard. Most times in a workout, the question they want to know is how long until their property was seized. “Ah, Nina, I’m not sure—”

  “I already know who they are,” she said angrily. “I hired a private detective and he found them. I just want you to confirm how badly that scum of a husband has cheated on me.”

  Normally, I wouldn’t have poked into Cabrera’s extramarital affairs, but he’d been diverting San Marco money to pay for his indiscretions. He seemed to have a thing for young blonds.

  After interviewing his mistresses, I was reminded of Paul Newman’s classic line about his wife, Joanne Woodward: “Why would I go out for hamburger, when I have steak at home?”

  Cabrera should have stayed home, too.

  Nina Cabrera was smart and attractive. She wasn’t the classic South American beauty. Her face was too angular, with a pointed chin and a nose that had a bump to it, but that too angular face was animated by deep brown eyes and full, playful red lips. Today, her shoulder-length wavy dark hair was pulled back and tied with a Fuchsia scarf, adding a burst of color to her black blouse and slacks.

  The anger in her eyes faded to sadness. “Molly?” She asked in almost a plea.

  Molly Saperstiein was a Hooter’s waitress. Blond and busty, she’d flunked out of the University of Florida after majoring in Oxycodone. I had it on good authority she was now doing post-graduate work in Heroin. “Yeah,” I said softly.

  “Brittany?”

  Brittany Hodgkins was a party planner for a large hotel near Disney’s main gate. She was the one for whom Cabrera had leased the Escalade. He’d also paid for breast augmentation surgery. Brittany had a big new car and big new boobs. “Afraid so.”