by Rich Foster
“This is Harry Grim. I worked with Mr. Guezman briefly when he represented Julia Stockman.”
“Mr. Guezman is still in court. May I have him give you a call when he is free?”
“That would be fine. You might mention my questions have to do with a South Florida motorcycle gang, the Devil's Trident. I'm curious if he knows much about them.”
“I'll have him give you a call, does he have your number.”
“He does. Thank you.”
The last name on his list, other than the stunning Lisa May Pershing who liked to post revealing photos of herself on the internet, was Simon Perez. Other than the fact he joined the cruise late and came from Mexico there was no particular reason for him to be of interest, even thugs took vacations.
Harry rummaged through his desk and found the DEA agents business card.
“Lawrence, speaking.”
“This is Harry Grim from Red Lake.”
The pause was very brief, evidencing Harry was not far below the agents radar.
“Mr. Grim, are you calling to confess?”
“Confess what?”
“Narcotics dealing, criminal conspiracy, murder, I don't know, why don't you tell me?”
“Are you acquainted with a Mexican national named Simon Perez?”
Harry could have sworn he heard Lawrence suck in a gulp of air. He also heard the clatter of computer keys. Again the pause was a bit too long.
He has something on Perez! Harry thought.
“Sort of a common name, what's your interest, Grim, you lose a shipment?”
“I told you I have nothing to do with the trade.”
“Sure, buddy, everyone has lunch with Salvador Montoya and flies around in Rico Marcelli's jet, you're a real Boy Scout!”
A bit of ire came into Harry's tone. “You have anything on Perez?”
“Nothing I'm going to share with you.”
Harry laughed, if only to annoy Lawrence,. “You just did, thanks,” he said and hung up the phone.
Harry next returned the call of Mikhail Petrovitch whose wife of two years was keeping questionable hours, which worried him in that work demands prevented him from keeping an eye on his wife due to the fact he traveled regularly.
During their phone conversation Harry learned Petrovitch met his wife on the internet. They corresponded. Then he flew over to Bulgaria to meet her. By the end of the trip they were engaged. He spent the next year getting the paper work in order to bring his future bride to America. They married at the city hall the day after she arrived.
Anna's passion for him seemed to fade with each new day.
“And what do you actually want Mr. Petrovitch?” Harry asked.
“I want to know who the bitch is fucking so I can cut his balls off!”
This case is looks less and less promising.
“Look sir, I can follow your wife and probably get you evidence for a divorce, if in fact she is cheating. But I don't want to be an accessory to murder. So if you are looking for someone to finger a guy for you, I am not the one for the job.”
Petrovitch's voice still bore a Russian accent. “No, I got excited. If you can find proof for divorce it will be good. Anna has been pressing me to put the house in both our names and so far I have resisted.”
“Hold onto that thought. That attitude might save you a lot of cash. If the house is still in only your name she can't get at it under community property law. So, unless you are sitting on a bucket of cash...”
Petrovitch's full and rolling laughter cut in. “I wish it were so Mr. Grim. But alas...” After a moments pause he added, “I just don't want to be made a fool.”
“Well I can fax an agreement over and you can sign it or you can stop by my office.”
“I can come by, say in a half hour? I need to leave town on another business trip tomorrow.”
“That's fine, I'll see you soon.”
Harry passed the time filling in a boilerplate contract for services. Twenty minutes later a large man opened the outer office door. Shaggy brows shaded deep set eyes, ones that Harry found it hard to believe someone else saw love in. His teeth when he smiled were too large, yellowed, and distressingly crooked.
“Mr. Grim?” he queried in a guttural voice.
Harry nodded. “Come in. Have a seat, sir.”
“I brought a picture of Anna.”
Petrovitch pushed a snapshot across the desk with a large hand The woman in the photo was plain, her hair long and she had a round but good figure. Harry was inclined to ask his client what he thought his wife saw in him, but chose to avoid the certain conflict.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Just two days this time. Usually I travel for a week or more.”
“How long have you been home.”
Petrovitch thought for a moment, “Ten days. I took a little time off because I was worried about Anna.”
Harry slid the contract over to his new client. Petrovitch held the pen, ready to sign, as he skimmed the document.
“That is a lot of money per day! How long do you think this will take?” His words were querulous. Harry was tempted to tell him to take a hike.
“You have been home for sometime and are going to be gone only two days. Unless your wife is on her period I figure we can count on her seeing her lover as soon as you are out the door.
Again there was the roar of laughter.
“You are a very clever man, Mr. Grim. I will sign your contract.”
Mikhail’s fingers dwarfed the pen in his hand as he signed. He pulled a fat roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off five hundred dollar bills.
“There is your retainer, I wish you luck.”
Harry scooped up the money. “What time do you leave tomorrow?”
“I will leave by six, I have a flight out of Beaumont at nine.”
“Very well. I will be ready to watch your wife.”
Harry was about to lock up for lunch when the phone called him back in.
“Grim Investigations, Harry speaking.”
“Yes, this is Javier Guezman, returning your call."
Harry glance at his watch, Guzman's on the East Coast, he's working rather late!
"You were inquiring about the Devils Trident. Gang?”
“Have heard of them?”
“Yes, quite a bit, though not in recent days. Back when I was with the public defenders office they were a major criminal organization. I had to defend more than one of their riders. Then the Organized Crime Task force came down on them. The gang was pretty well broken up and its leadership put away for years.”
“How far back are we talking”
“Around 15 years. When it went to trial the federal prosecutor had an inside witness who put the entire leadership in the slammer on drugs, extortion, and money laundering. I figure the stoolie ended up at the bottom of Biscayne Bay or in the Witness Protection program..”
“Do you know who the stoolie was?”
“I forget. But he was their accountant and so knew the money trail. I wasn't at the trial, the defendants all retained their own lawyers so our office had little contact with the case.
“What about Stewart Proust?”
“He was known as the Armadillo. His brother was an enforcer for the gang and went down for thirty years. Stew was in and out of trouble. He continued to wear the colors, though as I said the gang was pretty well done for. He tried to bring it back but nobody wanted to ride with him being in charge. He was know as being a hot head and stubborn, a bad combination in criminal work.”
“Know where he is today?”
Guezman laughed. “You must be kidding? I represent a higher class of scumbags today, my clients steal with a computer or a pen, not like those who use guns and fists.”
After he got off the phone Harry went online to check the archives of the Miami newspapers. He easily found the case but no photos of the witness. Either photographers found the gang members exotic apparel more compelling or the judge issued an inju
nction on reproducing the witness's image.
For the next hour he read through the articles from the earliest arrests to the final adjudication of sentencing. Guezman's recollection was accurate, the witness was indeed the accountant and his testimony was the nail in the gang's coffin. At sentencing Willy Proust was found in contempt as he lunged out of his seat and swore to get revenge on Grayson Voight, the federal witness.
Voight was described as a young wonder kid with numbers. Harry leaned back and thought, the time frame matched up with Harvey Stockman's appearance in Reno.
Were they one and the same? And if so how do I prove it?
If Stockman was Voight there seemed no doubt that Proust was a prime candidate for his murder, but how did Proust track Stockman down? How did he know he would be on the Sterling Princess? It all seemed too far fetched.
That night as he sipped bourbon while dusk fell and watched fish hit bugs on the surface of the lake. he was still puzzled about what to do.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning Harry ate breakfast at five-thirty, if coffee and a slice of toast count as a meal. By the time Mikhail Petrovitch backed his car out of the driveway, Harry was already watching. He did not believe the wife would leave very soon but if Anna was having an affair he was not one to underestimate the power of lust.
By nine o'clock hunger gnawed his stomach and the thermos of coffee he consumed while waiting left him wanting to find a bathroom. He was tempted to make a run to the nearest gas station when a car slowed and turned into the Petrovitch's driveway. A stocky, red haired woman climbed out and hustled up to the door.
Finally, after squirming in his seat for ten minutes, Harry gave in and peed into his thermos, afraid that if he left now he might lose them. Twenty minutes later the red head and Anna came out of the house chatting amicably, entered the car and pulled away. Harry followed them into town. They parked and spent the next two hours shopping, then lunched at a quiet restaurant on the edge of Red Lake.
While the friends ate, Harry hurried back to his own house. From the garage he pulled out a magnetic sign, a work belt with a phone receiver hanging off it and a step ladder. He placed the ladder in the pickup bed, the belt in the cab and the sign that read AGB Telecom on the side of the door. From the house he grab a stash of snack supplies and a couple sodas. To be safe he added an empty mason jar and cap.
The redhead's car was still in the restaurant's parking lot when he returned. Twenty minutes later the two woman appeared, walking arm in arm as some European women do. They got in and pulled out. Harry hung back but it was soon evident the shopping was over and they were returning to the Petrovitch house.
Driving down their street Harry held up a clipboard that he studied as he slowly approached the house. Then he swung into the curb lane near a telephone pole opposite the house.
The redhead turned around in the driveway and pulled up to the curb. Anna gathered her parcels and headed toward the front door, her hips swaying, the other woman opened the trunk and pulled out an overnight bag and joined her at the door.
Harry stood on the curb and studied his clipboard, he visually inspected the poles, he checked their numbers, with his eyes he followed the wire leads toward the surrounding residences. While doing so he saw movement at the upstairs windows of his clients house.
With the slow motions of a utility employee he got out his ladder and put it against the pole from which he could reach the climbing ells that stuck out of the pole. Slowly he put on his belt and hard hat, to the side of which was connected a mini cam, interfaced with his cell phone to act as a monitor.
Harry climbed the pole. At the top he slung a safety harness around the pole and hooked himself in, something he should have already done if there were any careful observers, but there were not. He put his belt phone to his ear and pretended to be testing wires, when in fact the camera was aimed at the bedroom windows. What he saw was not what Mr. Petrovitch feared, however, it was unlikely this would please him any more.
So much for Mikhail cutting off some guy's balls!
Personally, Harry didn't give a damn about other people's sexual orientation but he figured most men would hate to lose their wife to another woman, it was embarrassing, besides, one could not punch the cheating spouse's lover's lights out.
After capturing a couple minutes of the women rolling around on the sheets, Harry descended, feeling slightly dirty and much like his surname. He hated peeper work which he found distasteful. While he put the ladder away, he thought about his own romp under the sheets with Julia Stockman, he thought briefly of Paula, and for a minute he considered deleting the footage and telling Mikhail he was wrong, there was nothing for him to worry about concerning Anna. However, bills needed to be paid, and he was a realist, so Harry pushed his better impulses aside.
Back in his office Harry wrapped up the paperwork for his files and sent the video footage to Mikhail's cell phone. He figured it would give the Russian at least one day to cool off and perhaps thereby stop him from committing an impulsive murder.
He was ready to leave for the day when he realized the light on his answering machine was winking it's red eye. He pressed play.
“Harry, George Harrelson here. Orusco seems to be a runner between here and Las Vegas. Chances are he knows your guy in Vegas. Some of the bodily harm cases were rough but not close to murder. But a push over the rail would be easy for him. One of my snitch's told me the guy likes to boast. If you really need it, I could call a favor and have my snitch pry. Not that I would be happy to expose the guy but I'm not one to forget debts owed, so let me know.”
The machine switched off. Harry tilted back in his chair and stared out the office window. The late afternoon sun was warm, and the lake twinkling in the light was tempting. But he resisted, instead he locked up and drove over to the sheriff's office.
“Come in, Harry!” Gaines called out from beyond his open door.
The desk deputy buzzed Harry in.
“What have you been up to?” The sheriff causally asked as Grim settled into the padded office chair.
“I've been looking into Harvey Stockman's death.”
“If in fact he is dead,” inserted Gaines.
“Yeah sure, there are other possibilities but I have found some pretty damn strange coincidences surrounding him.”
“Well then it's going around because some strange things are crossing my desk, too.”
Harry waited but Gaines did not elaborate. After a minute he broke the silence.
“I checked on Crystal Rosen. She's legit.”
“Any luck with the passenger list?”
“Twelve hundred names and Rosen is only concerned with two of them, Harvey and Julia Stockman. Her take is he ran away, she knocked him off, or they conspired together to make him disappear.”
“What's your opinion?”
“I could go with either of the first two options but not the last, whether she is a widow or an abandoned wife, Julia is not looking for him to come back.”
“You seem pretty sure on that?”
Gaines seemed to be asking something more but Harry simply shrugged and said, "I found a witness in Nassau that heard her talking about divorce."
“So you are no closer to resolving what happened to Stockman?
“He had some dangerous friends. I believe he may have been the accountant for a motorcycle gang from southern Florida. Fifteen years back a guy named Grayson Voight was instrumental in most of the bikers being put in prison. The leader of the pack threatened to get even. I think Voight became Stockman."
“A bit of a long shot,” Gaines replied.
"One of the bikers was on the Sterling Princess.”
Gaines arched his eyebrows. “Sort of gives him means, motive, and opportunity.”
“Yep, but there is another guy who was aboard who has Las Vegas connections and LAPD's narco unit has him pegged as a mule. He was aboard, too.”
“Were there any law abiding citizens on the ship?” Gain
es asked incredulously.
Harry chuckled. "That's the third time that question came up."
Gaines continued. “Speaking of having dangerous friends, I hear you have a few yourself and I am not speaking of your pal Barton Dirk!”
Harry shifted around. “Have you been talking to a DEA Agent named Lawrence?'
“Could be.”
“He thinks I 'm dirty.”
“Are you?”
“What do you think?”
Gaines didn't say anything but his silence held the timber of a question that did not need an answer.
“Watch your step Harry. This guy is gunning for you.”
“So he told me.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
After a long minute of thought Harry spoke, “Not that I can think of, but thanks for asking, Sheriff.”
*
At home, Harry pulled a beer from the refrigerator and ambled down to the dock. The heat of the day was spent and now the sky blossomed with color to the west. The runabout gently rubbed the dock on the swell of passing boats but these became fewer and fewer as the light waned.
He climbed down into the boat, started the engine, cast off the lines, and headed up the shore. Here and there he saw the running lights of other boats. Almost all were heading toward the City of Red Lake. A few ran north until one by one they fell off and went into ties ups or moorings at houses along the waterfront.
Overhead the night glimmered with stars. Harry cruised past ADX Praxis and on north to the headwaters of the lake, then he cruised easily down the western shore. But the house was dark. After half an hour and his beer long gone, Harry opened up the throttle and put the helm over towards home.
*
That night he lay sprawled across the bed. Thoughts of Paula swirled in his mind but her image would obstinately morph into Julia Stockman. Harry tried to focus on what he wanted for the future but failed, instead he drifted off into a reverie of Julia. One moment he felt remorse for cheating on Paula and the next his mind was a run-away train wreck of carnal thoughts about Julia being atop, beside, and beneath him.
