A Present For Santa

by James Burke

  So here they were, back at go, with not a damn thing to show for all those heavy days and nights. Okay, if he had to start over again, so be it. That's exactly what he'd do. He went to his room, called in Krupa and Agrico, had some sandwiches sent up, and they started reviewing the packets of notes they'd kept concerning every bit of their investigations. The men had grumbled at first, but gradually had come to see the value of this procedure and to respect Conner's judgment in requiring it.

  Conners set the ground rules. "I suggest we make some assumptions before we start. If you guys feel they're wrong or overstated, speak up. I want us to be in agreement on these points. Okay?"

  The two men nodded silently.

  "Okay. Let's assume Santa was a local man."

  "Why?" This from Agrico.

  "Because we'd've got some kind of ripple if he was imported - either around here or from some one of the Corporation offices. Mr. Henry would have heard. Dante couldn't chance it."

  "Yeah, and because Dante would have wanted somebody

  low profile and clean with the law here in Florida as well as unknown to the Corporation. Right?"

  Conners nodded. "Exactly, Sal. I think he had to get a clean man and a local. It had to be. Okay, Paul?"

  "Right. I agree."

  "Okay. Now I think we can also assume that Santa had to have one more qualification - he had to be some kind of a pro. He had to have some kind of experience in the business."

  "I gotta ask why again." Again from Agrico, this time tentatively.

  "Don't hesitate, Paul. If you’ve not satisfied with anything, say so. I think he had to be a pro because there was too much dough and too many lives involved for Dante to risk using an amateur. And, yes, I think Dante intended for this guy to be more than just a bagman."

  "You mean because he had the books?" Agrico interjected.

  "Exactly. Whether or not Dante gave them to him, he still was able to get them. He had to be involved in Dante's business way beyond running errands."

  Krupa was excited. "Dennis, if Dante was gonna hire some local dude to be his - sort of - partner, wouldn't he get the guy checked out? You know, to see if he's some kinda plant or not? Especially, if the guy has that experience you talked about ­ ex-cop, ex-rackets, whatever. Right?"

  "Sal, you hit the nail right on the head. I think you gotta be right. Of course. Dante would have to run a check on the guy. Good. Damn good! Tomorrow, I'll start back over all Dante's records looking for this. It's gotta be there somewhere. He had to have somebody to do it, and he had to pay them."

  Then it was Agrico's tum; his words came in an eager torrent. "Yeah, and if Dante took the risk and expense of having this Santa guy checked out, he must've first known the guy was a pro, and dammit, Dennis, if the guy was local and Dante knew it, then shouldn't other people around here know it?" He ended triumphantly.

  Conners smiled widely. "You guys are becoming ace investigators. Absolutely, Paul. You're dead right. Let's work this idea into our 'question package' for the next go-round. Ballmeans. Damn good idea. We're looking for somebody whose background includes law enforcement or the rackets - even con games - or maybe investigative work, or maybe even a spy. Somebody with a particular past, and one that is not too well hidden."

  "But what if the guy told Dante himself?"

  "I don't think it matters, same logic applies. If he told Dante, then he must have told others."

  "Yeah, I see. Yeah." Agrico again nodded.

  "But that's a good question, Paul. It reminds me of something that's bothered me from the start: Santa seems to be a step or two ahead of us all the time. Suppose, just for starters, that he's always ahead 'cause he's following a very carefully devised plan that anticipated our reactions."

  "You mean the heist could have been Santa's caper from the beginning?" This from Krupa.

  "Right. Suppose he was the predator from the start. Suppose he spotted Dante, got a general idea of the operation, and let himself be picked up and used."

  Agrico chipped in, "But he'd still have to have that pro background, wouldn't he?"

  "Yeah, of course."

  "And Dante would've still had to check him out?"

  "Right. But he'd have taken precautions to make sure Dante's check, or any check, ended up with the right information."

  Conners stepped in. Time to cut off speculation. "Only trouble is that if this angle is the true one, we're all in deep trouble. If this was a long-planned caper and was just triggered by Dante's death, then Santa was ready to leave and should be long gone by now. There wouldn't be much sense in looking for him around here. Even if we identified him, or I should say, the cover identity he was using, we'd have nothing. We'd just have to wait, hoping he'd contact us about the notebooks looking for more dough."

  Krupa and Agrico looked deflated. Conners went on. "No, I don't think we can assume that it was Santa's caper from the start. There are too many holes in that theory. I think common sense and all the facts we have point to a bagman who saw a golden opportunity and took it. I think he's still around here, scared shitless, and wondering if and how he's ever gonna get to use all that bread."

  "Then we go on as we have been?"

  "Yeah, we have to. It's the only way to fly, except we will be especially alert to the kind of background we figure Santa's got."

  "Right."

  "Now, let's start back over these notes. I think we should be looking for leads to anyone - neighbors especially - that we didn't squeeze hard enough before, or who seemed the least bit reluctant to talk. Okay?"

  "Right. Let's go." This from Krupa; Agrico nodded.

  The leads turned out to be meager, but they did indicate that another canvass of Dante's high-rise and its immediate neighbors might be worthwhile. It was on the second day of this chore that Conners and Agrico got a break. A little mail jeep pulled into the porte cochere of the building, and the uniformed mailman got out, opened the master mailbox panel with his key, and started to fill the various slots. A couple came out of the building and stopped for a moment to talk to him. Conners mentally snapped his fingers. Nobody had talked to the mailman! A notorious source of information on residents, and nobody had talked to him. He waited until the man had finished and locked up, then approached. "Good morning, do you have a minute?"

  The mailman grinned broadly. "Sure. Got a couple if you need 'em."

  Conners opened a small card case and showed it to the man. He looked, raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything. Conners put the case away and started his pitch.

  "Mr?"

  "Bryant. Will Bryant."

  "Mr. Bryant, we're conducting a routine investigation. This is not a criminal matter, and while I am not permitted to tell you exactly what it is, I can assure you that anything you tell us will remain confidential, and that there is no chance you would ever have to repeat it in court."

  The man, now serious, nodded several times. Conners continued. "We're trying to identify an associate of Mr. Casper ­ apartment four C - who used to visit him here. You knew Mr. Casper?" The mailman nodded. "The man we want is younger, in his thirties or early forties, and was probably a frequent visitor. Did you ever see Mr. Casper around here?"

  "Sure, lots of times. He used to meet me here quite often. Lots of people around here wait for the mail every day. He did it too." He stopped, appeared to think, then continued quickly. "Oh yeah, I used to see him walking over there - on that bike path, and sitting. Yeah. He used to sit on the benches along the path. It's sunny there. He seemed to like the sun. Yeah, I saw him lots of times along there."

  "Ever with anyone?"

  "Hmmmm. Usually alone. But wait - there was a man used to sit with him sometimes. And walk too. Yeah. I remember. A young guy. I'd say no more than thirty-two or thirty-three. I saw him quite a few times. But not lately. Maybe three or four months ago."

  "Dark? Light? Hair and complexion, I mean."

  "Light side. Yeah, definitely. Light hair. Tan skin though ­ looked like a native."
/>   "Tall? Short? Thin? Fat?"

  "Hmmm. He was much taller than Mr. Casper. I'd guess over six feet, maybe six one or two. And slender - not skinny, but definitely not fat. Yeah, slender. Looked like a pro half-back - that kind of build."

  "Over six feet and maybe one hundred eighty or one hundred eighty-five?"

  ''I'd say my best guess would be six one, one eighty-five, slender but not skinny. Well built, athletic looking."

  "Mustache? Hair?"

  "No, I don't think so, no, I'm sure - no mustache. Hair? I don't remember anything particular, so I guess it must have been regular length. Quite blond, especially against his tan. Yeah, I'd say not short, not long."

  "What kind of clothes? Business suit? Sport?"

  "Definitely sport clothes. Yeah, as I said, the guy looked like a native - tan, casual clothes, all that."

  "Where did you see him, Mr. Bryant, and how often?"

  "Oh, let's see. Saw him walking with Mr. Casper, on the path over there, three, maybe four times, maybe more'n that. Then I saw him, I guess half a dozen times, sitting there on one of those benches talking to the old man."

  "When was the last time? You said three or four months.

  Right?"

  "Yeah, it's been all a' that - I'd guess maybe around Thanksgiving at the latest."

  "You ever see the young guy anywhere else - say on your delivery route or anywhere around here? You wouldn't know where he lives or who he is?"

  Bryant chuckled. "No. Sorry. l'd've told you earlier if I did. But I do know, I mean I think, he's from around here, this part of Singer Island."

  "Why?"

  "Well, I remember one time. He must have been saying good-bye to Mr. Casper, and then he started to walk away down the path. I mean, no car."

  "Which way'd he walk?"

  "South, of course. The path ends about a block north of here, and then there's nothing but narrow road all the way to Lost Tree, three miles or so. Nobody walks along that road. So I'd suspect your man lives on south, that end of the island."

  "You ever hear them talking, I mean close enough to maybe catch a name or what they were talking about?"

  "Nope. Never got that close."

  "Well thank you very much, Mr. Bryant. One more thing. I'd like to bring one of our staff artists to see you and see if he can come up with a sketch that looks like this man. Okay?"

  "Sure. Anytime. I'll always be by here about this time every day but Sunday. Or you can get me through the Riviera Beach post office. Just leave your number if I'm out, and I'll call you back."

  Conners was happy all the way back to the motel. He got the artist lined up and arranged a session with Bryant the next morning.

  Within three days they had reworked all the old ground with the new sketch and had unearthed half a dozen "possibles" in the more congested southern end of the island. In three more days they'd washed out those six and turned up three more. These three went the same route, and here it was, damn near a week later and they were still spinning wheels. Conners was discouraged. All the things that should produce weren't producing. He began to suspect all sorts of things: the artist was a bum; his men were incompetents; his theories were all crap; Santa never existed; Farber and Bryant were setups thrown in to confuse him; and on and on.

  Then Conners remembered: he hadn't really followed through personally on the idea about Dante having Santa checked out. Damn! Chances were that Dante would have paid by check - cash wouldn't have looked right. He took Krupa's record box and began poring over all the checks and bank records. And of course, there it was. The incompatible item he should have looked for from the beginning. Dante Cappacino had consulted and paid a Miami financial advisory and investment firm! My God. That was like having the Miami Dolphin's coach ask the Coral Gables High coach how to handle the Pittsburgh Steelers pass rush. How the hell had they failed to catch this before? Damn it, all this time wasted. He picked up the phone. "Can you get me a Miami number?"

  "Yes sir. What is the number?"

  "I need the number. I don't have a Miami book. The listing should be under Biscayne Financial Advisory and Investment Company."

  "Yes sir. Please hold.''

  A few clicks and buzzes later it rang in Miami, and a female voice answered

  "Biscayne Services."

  Conners was ready; he'd decided to shoot the buck. "I need a quick and confidential financial investigation. To whom should I speak?"

  "Let me see if Mr. Fosgrove is free, sir. I'm sure he can help you." There was a pause. "Yes sir, he's free. I'll transfer you to his secretary."

  That was it! Of course. The Biscayne Company had a connection with a national investigative service. They could arrange a financial investigation of a person or a company and have it broadened to whatever extent the client desired. Mr. Fosgrove was most accommodating and very frank in discussing this; obviously the whole operation was aboveboard. He assured Conners, in answer to his question, that both the fact and the results of any specific investigation were entirely confidential and so held by the company, adding that even the record of this phone call would be confidential. Conners had thanked Fosgrove and said he'd be back to him at a later date. He gave him a phoney name and number in West Palm Beach, not caring whether Fosgrove checked or not. He'd found out what he wanted, but that had merely created another problem: he had to get the file on Cappacino's investigation. Maybe it had nothing to do with Santa but all his instincts told him differently. It made too much sense. Maybe getting it would be more trouble than it's worth. Burglary is never a picnic, especially in those modern office buildings with all their security devices. It would undoubtedly be a touchy operation, but Conners had a feeling it would pay off. Somehow he knew this was the lead he'd been looking for.

  Krupa cased the Biscayne Company's office over the week­end and moved in on Monday. It was a much smaller outfit than they'd anticipated. By the simple ploy of applying for a job, Krupa got in the place long enough to note most of the essentials, and on that basis, Conners decided they could probably do the job soon, without the long buildup and complicated operation he'd first envisaged. So it was only two days later that a window-washing team hit the floor of the Biscayne Company, timing their arrival to coincide with the departure of Messrs. Fosgrove and the two other men who constituted the male staff of the company. Krupa had determined that two days in a row the men had gone to lunch together. This left two girls, a receptionist and the secretary and the latter had left within minutes after the men on both days. She followed the same script this day, leaving the two window washers and a receptionist who was preoccupied with her lunch and her nails. The window washers split up; one washed, and the other searched files. They both did a good job; when they left the windows sparkled, and four slim manila files rested in the bottom of the washer's equipment kits. The receptionist nodded absently, waving her nail file as they said goodbye. She didn't know or care that they had finished washing windows for the day.

  Conners permitted himself one long "son-of-a-bitch." Wouldn't you know. Nothing in this damn case was simple. Cappacino had hired Biscayne to investigate three-count 'em, three-men. So back to the mailman. But Bryant couldn't be sure. He'd never seen the guy really close. He was sure the dark-haired guy was not the man, but he was sorry, it could be either of the other two. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. But that was the best he could do.

  Okay, so Coleman was out; the other two, Patrick Morley and Daniel Roamer, damn it, one of them had to be the man. The Biscayne Services files were not that great; their "investigators" were more record searchers than they were investigators, and their production, compared with that of real pros, was notable for what it didn't have. Still, there was enough meat in the files to give Conners something to chew on. (The fourth file had been "Mr. Casper" and was completely administrative. Hell, they didn't even have an address for him, only a post office box. Some investigators!)

  Morley was thirty-five. Born in California. Lived Terre Haute, Indiana, from 1960 to 1969. Attended Nort
hwestern University, Evanston, Illinois, graduating 1972, Bachelor of Arts in History and Romance Languages. Received ROTC commission, served with U.S. Army, Europe 1973 to 1976. Employed Special Services Detachment, Department of Defense, Washington, D. C. 1977 to 1985. Morley married Monica Ralston June, 1978, she died in December 1983. Morley now single, unemployed, residing Ocean Drive, Singer Island.

  Roamer was thirty-four. Born Zanesville, Ohio. Graduated number forty-nine in his class at the U.S. Naval Academy in 1973. He'd done his five years service, including a stretch on a carrier in the Pacific and a stint at the Pentagon, and then re­ signed from the navy. He lived on Gulfstream Way, Singer Island, and was the proprietor and manager of the Monday Marina in West Palm Beach. He married Susan Cotlett in 1979. She lived with him at the Gulfstream Way residence. They had no children.

  Conners went through both files again. He was happy. Both these men were exactly the kind he'd have looked for if he'd been Dante Cappacino looking for a solid bagman and assistant. In fact it wouldn't surprise him at all the learn that Dante had put 'em both on the payroll. Be that as it may, only one of them could be Santa. But Conners was happy; one of them had to be Santa.

  Conners couldn't blame the mailman too much. The two men's pictures were similar, and their general descriptions were even closer. Offhand he liked Roamer best as his candidate - navy, boats, access to the ocean, the Bahamas and all that. But the guy had plenty of dough. That marina business was lucrative as hell. But Morley too. A thirty-five-year-old beach bum? Didn't make sense for him to be retired so young. He appeared to have sufficient means, but they didn't appear inexhaustible. And that Pentagon service the guy had. Sounded interesting. He'd better find out more about that. He decided it was time to use Mr. Henry's name and get some help. He dialed the area code and number the old man had given him for his "personnel chief." The reaction was beautiful and fast. Less than thirty-six hours later he had a phone call from the personnel chief's "number one."