by Rich Foster
"But how does that fit? If Stockman went over the side of the boat, why offer Proust the information now?" Hurst, unlike his boss, seemed puzzled by actual facts rather than brushing facts aside to fit his own theories.
Lawrence's grin was both mischievous and insidious, "I think Grim was trying to set Proust up in order to cover for Donatello, who I think arranged for Stockman to be killed, either to get his hands up his sister-in-laws skirt, or perhaps Stockman had returned to his old ways and while working for Donatello they suffered a falling out. Now that Grim is working for them, he tried to feed information to Proust that could lead to incriminating him, thus clearing Donatello and earning his appreciation. However, it seems Proust didn't take the bait."
"What did he do?"
Drew looked at the computer screen, "I quote, 'I don't know you and I don't know jack about my brother's business,' which is a crock because he was up to his neck in it according to our Miami office."
"So what do you propose to do now?"
"Stitch Grim up and squeeze him until he delivers, Donatello, Marcelli and that scum ball from south of the border that supplies their junk."
"But we never even heard of Red Lake much less this Harry Grim guy until a month and a half ago!"
"Agent Hurst," Lawrence asked drily, "Do you always want to be at the bottom of the ladder looking up? Use your damn head. We have telephoto shots of Grim in Marcelli's office and aerial drone photos on the river in a helicopter meet. Donatello has bought a house across the water from Grim in Red Lake, and Salvador Montoya served him lunch, where I might add he arrived on Marcelli's private jet. Grim is a major player we have overlooked and now we have had the damn good fortune to spot him."
Hurst dropped his head. He did not take criticism well but he bit back the urge to defend himself, for in fact he did long to move up. It did not make sense to him but if bringing Grim down would gain him recognition from those on high, he would make it happen.
*
Harry called Crystal Rosen on a throwaway cell phone. She was out of her office so Harry dialed her cell number.
She cheerily answered, "Hello?" her voice implied that no matter who was calling, the fact delighted her.
"It's Harry Grim. I wanted to touch base."
"Oh Harry!" Somewhere between her delight and the pause that followed Harry sensed she was assessing what lies she would tell him.
"I wondered if you had made any progress," he asked.
"Oh this and that you know, immigration, looking for money trails, checking out nearby islands..." she turned the question back to him, "What about you?"
Harry figured he needed to give her something if he was to stay in play. "I'm almost positive Stockman was in Witness Protection. His real identity was probably Grayson Voight out of South Florida."
"Really!" Her tone denoted disbelief rather than surprise. "I think you are on the wrong trail there Harry. I would stay on the wife."
"Oh I have that covered!" Crystal was unable to see Harry's lecherous grin.
"Well I need something soon. I believe Panama may issue a death certificate very soon."
"Based on what?"
"Convenience, a bribe, who knows?"
"So you have nothing solid?"
"Sorry Harry. Stockman has not turned up on any of the islands nor as a floater. I think this one may be a loss for the company."
And you, he thought. She's as sorry as Julia is about Harvey's deaths.
"Gotta run, Harry. Let me know if you learn anything.!"
Harry decided it was time to visit the grieving widow. Perhaps she had heard something from Panama.
He dialed and after two rings Julia picked up.
"Harry here, do you want to have lunch?"
"Absolutely, come on over!"
"How about your club?"
"I have a better idea!"
Julia met him at the front door with a short-cut beach robe that she had failed to adequately secure revealing her breasts and a bikini brief that dove so low that Harry's eyes were tennis balls in play.
"Drink?" she asked seductively as she spun upon one of her spiked heels.
Harry wondered if they would get as far as lunch. But, when he followed her out to the pool patio he found the table was set where she had put together cold cut sandwiches on rye bread, a beer for him and a pitcher of martini's for herself. A crystal bowl of strawberries accompanied chocolate sauce. Julia dipped a strawberry, held it up and licked the chocolate off before popping it into her mouth.
Julia's foot ran up the inside of his leg while she tilted her head back and consumed another. Harry wondered what the performance was for. He doubted she indulged in seduction for it own sake. A sly smile spread across her face. She dipped a strawberry and then pulling her robe back she dabbed it against her nipples.
"Oh Harry, look what I've done! Why don't you lick this off?"
She rose, let the robe fall off her shoulders and stepped around to Harry's side, where she stooped enough for her breasts to be at his face.
*
The sex was great, but Harry found his mind being distracted not by Julia's fabulous body that she used as a weapon against the male psyche, but rather what this performance was leading too. Previously, their sexual encounters had been wild, yes, but not with the theatrical quality of the afternoon. They were both exhausted and drifted off to sleep. However, he did not doze for long. He eased himself out of bed and went downstairs in search of a beer. The kitchen refrigerator was empty, so he tried the extra one in the garage. Here he found a twelve pack of Corona.
He popped the top and stood naked in the garage and wondered what the hell he was doing. The sage advice of his grandfather came to mind, Don't think with your dick! Along the garage wall a half dozen trash bags were stacked. Harry opened one and found Harvey Stockman's wardrobe was being disposed of. Another was lumpy and he could feel the tip of a dozen shoes. She sure doesn't expect him back.
Back inside the house Harry did what private eyes do, he snooped. He ran through the mail in the letter rack on the office desk. One envelope was from the Panama Maritime Authority. Harry pulled the letter out,
"Dear Ms. Stockman,
In regards to your inquiry, our office is working with all due diligence. Given the facts of the case it should come to an expedited conclusion, though, bureaucratic delays due occur. Hopefully, we shall make a determination by the end of summer at the very latest.
At this time we are in possession of all required documents from the flagged vessel and signed affidavits of her Captain. But as yet we are not ready to issue a death certificate.
You have our sincere condolences.
Pedro Miguel, Deputy Chief of Marine Accident Investigations.
Harry rifled through the other papers. Julia was two months late on her mortgage payment and making the minimum payment on three credit cards. Her bank statement had a half dozen bounced check fees. He looked in the draw for her checkbook but did not find it. From upstairs Julia called out, "Harry?"
He mounted the stairs, beer in hand, came to her bedroom and slipped in beside her. Julia nestled alongside him, wiggling like a puppy trying to get comfortable.
"I thought you abandoned me," she said this with a slight pout of her lower lip and ran her finger tip in circles on his chest.
"Just needed a drink. Did you want something?"
"No, I'm fine...well perhaps." She shifted her body against him and rose up to lean on one elbow. Looking down at him, her long hair fell down and framed her face.
"Do you really like me, Harry?"
The subject of this question felt his guard rising, fearing he was being entrapped. Without realizing it Harry almost called her Paula but caught it just as the 'P' formed and he managed to change it to "pretty damn well".
"Well, I hate to ask but I thought you might help me with a little problem."
"Like what?" Harry tried to sound sincere.
"Well, I am a little short of funds right now, and most of my a
ssets are tied up until probate is through. I wondered if you could help me out with a little loan."
"Of course!" he said. If I am to be the chump I might as well play the part. "I have a couple hundred in my wallet."
Harry felt Julia's body stiffen slightly.
"I need a little more than that to carry me over."
With complete innocence of face Harry asked, "Well how much more?"
"About ten thousand."
Harry burst out laughing. "You must think us detectives do a lot better than we do. I don't have ten g's."
"Really?" Her mouth pouted, her eyes were sad and almost teary. Then with rising anger and hurt she snapped, "I thought I could count on you!" With that she rolled over and stalked off to the bathroom where the slamming of the door was soon followed by the sound of the shower running.
Of course Harry had ten grand, he was not one who spent every dime he made, but he wasn't a fool either. He suspected that party time was over unless he began to pay and that his access to Julia and her house was about to be cut off . He slid out of bed and made a quick job of tossing the room. The night stand held the usual junk, a vibrator for Julia's lonely nights, and a thirty-eight pistol that did not have the required trigger lock. All six chambers were loaded.
The closet held empty hangers on one side where Harvey's clothes once hung, freeing up space for the other half that was jammed with clothes, many with sales tags still attached.
Easy to see why the credit cards are maxed out!
Her dresser held no surprises with the exception of Harvey's passport. He found it tucked into a manila envelope from Javier Guezman's office. The enclosed letter stated the document was turned over to him along with Mr. Stockman's other possessions by the Miami police. He inquired if she wished for him to forward her husband's suitcase.
Harry flipped the passport open. Harvey was not widely travel, there were a couple custom stamps for entry and exit of the E.U., one from the Fijian Islands and another for Costa Rica. Stockman's picture attached to the front cover was old, the face in the photo was younger and leaner than the one Harry saw in his office. The issuance date was six year past. He was about to drop it back in the envelope when he returned to the visa stamp pages. Surprisingly, there were no recent stamps, neither entering nor departing the Caymans, or Jamaica, the Turks and Caicos, not even the Bahamas. He grabbed a pen from the nightstand and wrote the passport number on his wrist.
The shower stopped. Harry assumed the temperature in the room was about to fall so he slipped on his clothes and went downstairs. When Julia came down he was sitting under the umbrella on the patio and she was thoroughly wrapped up in a thick robe and her hair tucked up under a towel turban on her head.
"I'm sorry baby," Harry said the words as if he meant it.
Julia shrugged. "It's okay, I just thought you were kind of well-off."
"I wish."
She patted his shoulder in an avuncular manner, "Perhaps you should get going, huh? I think I'm getting a headache."
Harry took his cue and rose. At the front door she gave him a peck on the cheek and then almost clipped his backside in her haste to close the door behind him.
It had been an afternoon of theater. And both had used the other. Julia had fallen in his estimation of her, but he found his opinion of himself suffering, too.
What the hell am I doing? And where the hell is Paula?
He had an answer to neither as he drove north over the pass.
Chapter Fifteen
When he arrived in Red Lake, it was too late to reach anyone in Guezman's office on the East Coast , but he stopped off at his office to get the number from his file. He dialed and when given the opportunity after the beep, left a request for Guezman to call back at his earliest convenience.
At his house, Barton was sitting on the deck, a beer in hand and a look of displeasure on his face.
"What gives? You look like you just got called up for service."
"I did."
Harry was not clear on what that meant so he fetched a beer and came out and leaned against the railing. "By whom? Certainly not by our Uncle Sam."
A small twitch worked the corner of Dirk's mouth. "Let's go for a walk."
They sauntered down the short path to the boat dock. Dirk nodded to the runabout. Without speaking they climbed aboard, Harry turned the engine over while Barton dropped the lines and then they sped away.
"What's up?" Harry shouted over the roar of the engines, I've never seen you this worried.
"Marcelli called. He wants a favor."
"You're getting a little too tight with him aren't you?"
"That's what's troubling me. That and the fact the feds seem to have their eye on us."
"They want to put our butts in jail, in case you hadn't heard."
"I know and we need to figure a way to deal with that. This request from Marcelli will only make things worse."
Harry sensed Barton was easing up toward the question so he said nothing. Out in the middle of the lake he throttled back. While he waited for Barton to speak what was on his mind Harry watched a sailboat making close hauled tacks as it worked it's course to windward. It was a lovely cutter rig, with a good shear and Bristol hardware.
"Carmen Montoya is missing and Salvador Montoya wants me to find her. He asked Marcelli to contact me."
"Fuck him!" Harry said it more out of frustration with himself and also because he did not want to be sucked into Marcelli's orbit.
"It's not that easy."
"How deep are you in with him, Dirk?"
"Not so deep that I couldn't say no, but a no answer could come with a price."
Harry was silent. He felt the gentle rock of the boat, heard the slap of the waves against the hull, and the soft rumble of the engine. Despite the breeze the summer sun was warm on his face. At last he asked, "Such as?"
"He knows I terminated the guy who snatched his daughter. If he wanted to he could toss me to the cops with his daughter's testimony."
"You think the son-of-a-bitch would do that?"
"He might at least threaten it, if he were worried enough, and he's pretty worried. If Donatello is behind this kidnapping then war is going to break out between the Cuerpos Cartel and the Las Vegas faction. It will be messy, bloody, and needless unless I find her first."
"Then what?"
"Everybody except Donatello goes home a little dirtier but in one piece."
"I don't like it."
"I don't either. But I'm going to do it. I wanted you to know in case it all goes south."
"Do you need help?"
Barton shook his head, "No, but thanks for asking," then he slapped Harry on the shoulder, "Let's go home."
*
The next morning Harry dropped Barton off at the airstrip. The atmosphere between them was slightly strained.
For Harry, the whole set up trouble him. Barton could certainly take care of himself fighting one on one but he worried what would happen if the whole government dropped down on him.
For his part Barton was concerned about Harry. Without Paula something had shifted and as yet Harry had not found his center.
They parted with many things unspoken.
Harry was on his way to the office when his cell rang.
"Mr. Grim, this is Javier Guezman returning your call."
"Yes, thank you. I have a question about the items you sent to Mrs. Stockman. Did you get those from the authorities?"
"That is correct. They were turned over to me after Mrs. Stockman's release and departure from Florida."
"Did anybody say or note anything about them?"
"Not that I know of."
"Thank you, sir."
Harry rung off.
When he arrived at his office, his day took a turn for the worse. Drew Lawrence was leaning against the doorjamb.
"Banker hours, huh Grim?"
Harry said nothing but waved his fingers sideways, gesturing for the federal agent to get out of his way. Lawrence stepp
ed aside and Harry unlocked the door. Lawrence followed him into the office.
Harry walked over to a coffee maker, doled out coffee, filled the carafe with water and switched it on. The machine began to hiss.
"At least this time you didn't kick down the door. What do you want?"
"A confession would do."
Harry grunted. "I lusted after my high school English teacher. Is that what you had in mind?"
"No, more along the lines of I conspire to procure narcotics for high school kids."
"You do?" Harry asked looking at Lawrence.
"Grim we have you cold and we aren't letting go until you give us what and who we want."
"Do you want coffee?"
Drew let out a weary sigh, This was not going as planned. Grim seemed unflappable. "What the hell, sure."
"Sugar? Creamer?" his suspect calmly asked.
Lawrence shook his head no.
"Bet you learned to drink it black while on stakeout," Harry said as he poured.
The cup he handed to Special Agent Lawrence said Piss and Moan Club on it's side. Harry's mug was a hula girl whose dark bikini disappeared as the coffee warmed the wall of the mug. He walked over to his desk and took a seat. He pointed to another for Lawrence.
"Are you going to arrest me when we're done here.?"
"Not yet."
"Then, in the mean time, why don't you fly down to Miami and take a look at Stewart Proust? I think he's good for the Stockman disappearance, though I haven't figured out how he got onto him."
"Nice try Grim, but Witness Protection recorded a call from you to him offering to out Grayson Voight."
Harry was not surprised. If his office and home phone were tapped the federal boys were probably working a couple dozen others. It was that sort of government intrusion that kept preloaded phone sales high.
"Then you must know that was long after Stockman disappeared. And of greater significance, Proust showed no interest in Voight, so he must have already known who Harvey Stockman was and that he was probably dead."
"So you say."
"Well squeeze him."
"I can't. Proust was killed on the docks yesterday. The guy got run over by a semi."
