Tanzi's Heat (Vince Tanzi Book 1)

by C I Dennis

  I thought about driving by Barbara’s place. I could say I was in the neighborhood and drop off her bag. Somehow that sounded like what I might have done in high school, and I nixed the idea. I’d get some sleep and start fresh, working for my new client, me, who wouldn’t dump me before I got to the bottom of what was going on.

  *

  I woke up in my dark bedroom with one of my three AM brilliant revelations. At that time of the night my brain is still mostly asleep, and is fertile ground for crackpot ideas, conspiracy schemes and paranoid anxieties, most of which turn out to be rubbish when I get out of bed several hours later. This time it was—what if I’m being set up? Maybe the Asian trips that C.J. had made were about something more than grapefruit, or importing a second wife. The real money in trade with Asia was from drugs, and Vietnam was in the Golden Triangle, which was second only to Afghanistan in heroin production. C.J.’s office looked like a front. He had a gun, a passport, and money stashed. How many citrus brokers would do that? Was Barbara part of this? Did she really hire me to find a shooter, or was that a setup? She had come on awfully strong at the hotel, though I certainly hadn’t put up much resistance.

  And Le had a cash-intensive business, with built-in distribution—perfect for money laundering, so maybe she was in on this, too. Shit. Now I’d be awake for the rest of the night, trying to make the jigsaw pieces fit.

  SATURDAY

  I finally dozed off and slept soundly until nine. This made two mornings in a row I’d overslept, and I wondered if the adrenaline rush of the last few days was pushing me into a different cycle, or was it the lack of alcohol? Either way, I felt better than I had in weeks. I did twenty push-ups and fifty sit-ups; that was the first time I’d done that since jail, when I did hundreds of each every day to relieve the boredom. It felt great, though I knew I’d be sore tomorrow. I had a bowl of granola with cut-up fruit, a big glass of Natalie’s unpasteurized orange juice and two mugs of Green Mountain Dark Magic, which made me jumpier than a Jack Russell in a jock strap.

  I cleaned the kitchen, tidied the bathroom, made my bed, took out the recycling, paid a few bills, filled the bird feeders, read my emails, vacuumed the foyer, and was about to replace the salt in all the salt shakers when I realized I had morphed into an over-caffeinated, domestic hurricane of efficiency—and avoidance. I had more important things to do, and I wasn’t doing them. I brushed my teeth, splashed some water on my face, clipped my holster to my belt and got in the car.

  *

  It felt a little creepy to be driving down her road. C.J.’s van was in the driveway, outside of the garage. I knocked on the front door, and he appeared behind the screen, not opening it.

  “Is Barbara here?” I asked. He showed no recognition, not a trace—although I was ninety percent sure this was the guy I’d played golf with, the day before yesterday.

  “No,” he said. He didn’t volunteer anything else. Between him and Philip, I realized I probably didn’t have a future as a door-to-door salesman.

  “Mr. Butler, I’m Vince Tanzi. I have some stuff I need to give your wife.”

  “You can leave it here,” he said. I wondered if I’d made a mistake identifying myself. I was stunned at the complete lack of a reaction—he was a flat-liner compared to his alter ego. It was uncanny. Either he was one hell of an actor, or I was ninety percent wrong. Finally seeing him up close was turning the whole thing around in my head.

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “To her club.”

  “OK, thanks,” I said. “I’ll just drop it there. I’m headed that way.” He shut the door without another word. I felt like I’d been talking to an exhibit at Madame Tussaud’s. But sometimes the lack of a reaction is as telling as a reaction, and I’d swear that C.J. believed he’d never seen me before.

  *

  The parking lot at the Treasure Coast Club was packed with the Saturday morning workout crowd. I was going to go inside and find Barbara, but I hesitated. I stayed in the car where I had a clear view of the entrance, and waited. Maybe if my three AM paranoid delusions were correct, I’d witness her making a big drug deal with some Colombians out of the back of her Yukon.

  But that didn’t happen. She came out of the club dressed in a bright pink outfit with her hair up, glowing from a workout and...looking very pretty. She had a great walk—not the bitchy supermodel trot, more of an athletic lope—feminine, but strong. She didn’t see me, and she tossed a gym bag into her car and left. I started the BMW, and followed.

  There was no rendezvous with two Sicilian drug lords under a pier. Instead, she parked on Ocean Drive just before Humiston Park and walked back to Cravings, a street café with the best pastries on the beach. I passed her and turned into the Waldo’s parking lot, across Ocean Drive on the beach side. Waldo’s is part of the Driftwood, an iconic hotel, built by Waldo Sexton back in the 1930s, which every year comes closer to falling into the water as the Atlantic nibbles at the shoreline. It is a funky and fun hotel, and if it ever does wash away, it will be missed.

  Barbara took a table outside and opened the Press Journal. She was sipping something from a cup and had a pastry. This stake-out thing was hell on someone who’d only had a super-healthy bowl of granola for breakfast and was trying to be good. I salivated while she ate, until I couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “I was wondering how long you were going to stay in that car,” she said as I sat down across from her.

  “Busted,” I said.

  “You’re staring at my bran muffin. Go inside and get yourself some food.”

  I came back out with two almond croissants and an Odwalla, some kind of mango-pomegranate thing that would no doubt neutralize the effect of the croissants like a Hail Mary cancels out a sin.

  “I have some things of yours in the car,” I said.

  “I have your Tracfone,” she said. “I should probably give it back.”

  I munched on a croissant and fidgeted. I’m supposed to ask people questions and solve problems, and I had a dozen questions for Barbara, but I was tongue-tied.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I feel like a goddamn teenager.”

  “It’s awkward,” she said.

  “Sex complicates things,” I said.

  She laughed. “I think I’m going to have that tattooed on me.”

  “I know just where to put it.”

  “Yes,” she said, “like the warning label on a cigarette pack.” We both laughed, and the glacier began to retreat.

  “Seriously,” I said. “You kind of threw me for a loop.”

  She took off her shades and looked at me. “I care a lot about you, Vince,” she said. “I didn’t mean to drop out of sight like that, with no explanation. But the truth is...I don’t have an explanation, yet.”

  “What happened in the restaurant?”

  “He saw me. He came over and sat down, and we talked. He was terribly concerned when he’d seen the note about me going to my sister’s for a while, and he said he’d worried himself sick. So I told him everything. About getting shot at the first time, about my getting the windshield fixed and not telling him, about the second time I got shot at, about seeing the Lexus, about calling you. Pretty much the whole thing.”

  “What do you mean by pretty much?”

  “Well,” she said, “I didn’t say anything about going over to Tampa and talking to Le. She and I agreed to keep that between ourselves. And I didn’t say anything about...you know.”

  “I met him, this morning, at your house.”

  “Omigod,” she said.

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s just...there’s a lot that I’m trying to decide about right now. C.J. talked me into going home and swore he could take care of everything and I wouldn’t be in any danger. He didn’t say how, but he said he’d do it, and he said I had to un-hire you, and not to call the cops.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Sort of. I feel like I owe him the chance.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t like it,” I said.

  “Well that’s your problem, then.” She put her sunglasses back on and looked away.

  “Barbara—”

  “Look Vince. There are some things about me that you are...just never going to know, OK? You have to let it go. I know that’s not your nature. But you have to, if we’re going to stay friends.”

  “I’m really uncomfortable with that,” I said. “And it has nothing to do with you and me, I promise. Maybe you really should go to your sister’s, and let things cool off while I look around.”

  “Vince,” she said, “with all due respect, I don’t think this is an investigating thing. That’s not the way this is going to be resolved. It’s a relationship problem. I need to fix my relationship with C.J. It’s a wreck, and it’s been a wreck for years and years. Meeting you has opened my eyes to that, and I’m very grateful to you. I think I can handle this—in a different way than you, but I think it’s the right way. Give me some time.”

  She was in the non-negotiable mode again, and I reluctantly retreated. “Keep the phone, please. Keep it charged and on you.”

  “You’re scaring me a little.”

  “A couple days ago I met this woman who had been shot at, and she was shaking like a leaf.”

  “I have to go,” she said. “Beach walk with C.J.”

  I got her bag out of my car, and walked it over to where she was parked. She took it, gave me a peck on my cheek, and drove away while I watched, fuming. She could fire me, that was her prerogative, but I could also call Frank Velutto and tell him the whole story. I was thinking I should, and be done with it.

  *

  Roberto was waiting at the house when I got back. He was looking a little forlorn, sitting on the front step. “Why didn’t you let yourself in?” I asked.

  “The key’s not there,” he said. He was right. I’d given the key I usually stash behind a shutter to Barbara. That would be my next excuse to check on her.

  “Come on in,” I said, and we entered the house and went to the kitchen for a Coke. “Want to go with me to pick up my new car?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Taurus SHO, brand new, three hundred sixty five horsepower with a turbo.”

  “Jeez,” he said.

  “We have some work to do first, if you’re up for it. I have a load of soaking wet gear in the back of the BMW.”

  “OK,” he said. We retrieved the nylon duffel and laid the contents out on the back patio to dry in the sun. I had low expectations for any of it, but Roberto worked it over, piece by piece, while I dried the sawed-off shotgun and oiled it as well as I could. It looked like it would be fine. My “Lupo”, as they called it in the gangster movies.

  “The Mac is shot, and so are your X10 boxes,” he said.

  “I can get new X10’s through the mail,” I said.

  “I don’t know about this distance microphone thing,” he said.

  “No problem, it’s a piece of crap anyway,” I said. “Hey...did you do anything about that thing you called me about? That guy and the emails?”

  Roberto was inspecting my jeweler’s drill. It was a non-electric model that you cranked by hand. “Yeah, I took care of it,” he said. “This thing may work—the mechanism is sealed.”

  I laid out my lock-picking tools. I had used just a few at the self-storage unit, but now that I had them all out everything looked fine, as they were basically all metal with a few plastic wedges for persuading car windows to let me in with a hook. I would need to pick up another spray can of graphite—the one in the bag had survived, but it was almost empty. The shotgun shells were the old-school, paper-sleeved kind, and they were soaked. There was a wet box of ammo for the baby Glock, but it was 9mm anyway, the wrong caliber for my new Glock, which was a .45. The bullets themselves would still be usable, if I ever got the gun back.

  We lingered over the gear for about an hour, and talked about how the new school year was going. Roberto said he was already bored. I told him boredom was the enemy, especially for someone his age, and he should lobby to get into advanced placement classes. Vero Beach High was all right, but it was huge, and kids got lost there. If I had the money, I’d send him to St. Edwards, on the island. I suddenly felt guilty about blowing forty grand on a new car, but it was too late now.

  *

  Roberto asked me to drive with the convertible top down, but the midday sun was too intense, and even with the breeze it was insufferable. I pulled over to put the top back up—just in time, as a mini-storm had us in its sights and blasted the car with a sudden torrent of rain. Intense, small downpours are common this time of year, and the rain line is so clearly defined you can be sitting on the beach in the bright sun while people fifty yards away are getting drenched. We waited by the side of the road until it passed, and then continued on to the Ford dealership which had been missed by the storm entirely.

  The salesman cracked jokes while we processed the paperwork, which was miraculously without any last-minute surprises or add-ons. I was sporting my Glock again, just to keep it real. He threw in a set of floor mats, which I had thought were included anyway, and he took one last try at selling me a service contract, but I declined. He said someone from the dealership would drive the Beemer back to the house, so that would be taken care of, and Roberto and I could just enjoy my new ride. The guy was actually very nice and professional, although somebody needed to do a cologne intervention. I carefully wrote out a check, and he congratulated me and took us outside to where the car was parked.

  The SHO was a fearsome beast under the hood, but was modest enough on the exterior to pass for a family car. I liked that combination—power when I wanted it, with the ability to blend in. Roberto got in the passenger’s seat to check out the electronics while the salesman took my phone and sat in the driver’s seat. He said he could pair the phone with the car, and I could call people just by saying I wanted to call them. The two of them busied themselves inside while I walked around the exterior and checked it out. I noticed a tiny spot of goo on the front grille. Like any new car owner, I got a tissue out of my pocket to make it perfect.

  I leaned over, and a bee stung me on the top of my head. A huge plate glass window in the showroom building behind us exploded into a million tiny shards, showering fragments into the palmetto shrubs below.

  “Get down!” I yelled to Roberto and the salesman. I ran over to the passenger side and pushed Roberto down to the floor. He let out a yelp of fear, and the salesman opened the driver’s side door and sprinted across the lot, away from us, as fast as his legs would carry him. People inside the showroom were yelling, and I crouched down next to Roberto, out of the line of fire, I hoped. It wasn’t a bee—it was a gunshot, and the slug had nicked my scalp as it flew by and vaporized the plate glass window. I took a cautious look over the hood of the SHO, being careful not to poke my head up too far like a squirrel in a shooting gallery. There was no one—just rows of new cars shimmering in the heat. The shot must have been taken from a considerable distance. A sniper rifle? I got back into my crouch. A long minute passed, and there was no second shot. Whoever had taken the first one had missed his chance, and was probably long gone.

  People came out of the building and gathered around us and the car. They would be in sight of the shooter if he was still there, but my intuition said no. I got into the driver’s seat, started the ignition, and lowered the window as the sales manager came over.

  “What the hell was that all about?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe a stray bullet.”

  “Well, if you were about an inch taller, it would have killed you. Look at your head.”

  I felt my scalp. The hair was warm and sticky. The bullet had grazed the skin, and scalp wounds usually bleed like crazy, so this one didn’t seem bad as there was only a small trickle of blood.

  “You want a towel?” he asked. I said no, and we drove out the entrance to Highway 1.

  *

  I
took Roberto directly home from the dealership. He regained his color after a while and wanted to drive around and enjoy the new car, but I had other plans. Also, I needed to see his parents.

  I dropped him off, and after he went inside his house I caught Gustavo, his dad, in the driveway. He was washing his car, but when he saw my expression, he put the hose down and turned the spigot off.

  “Everything OK, Vince?”

  “Not really.” I told him what had happened, and explained that even though Roberto might think so, it hadn’t been a stray bullet. I apologized profusely, and I didn’t expect any forgiveness. If your son almost got shot because he was hanging around with some risk-taking, ex-jailbird you wouldn’t feel so good about it either. Gustavo said he’d talk to Roberto about it, and I said that was a good idea as the more times kids could talk about a traumatic experience the quicker it faded into history. Roberto’s mother was out shopping, which was fine with me because I didn’t have the guts to apologize to her too—she had a habit of wildly gesturing with whatever she was holding while she talked, and if it was a kitchen knife, I could end up looking like steak tartare.

  *

  The guys from the dealership dropped off the BMW in my driveway, and I went right to it and got the MacBook. My head wound didn’t hurt, but it had distracted me, and I had forgotten about the two active tracking bugs. It would have been smart to know if either of them was at the Ford dealership when I’d been shot at, but now it was too late. I opened the computer and started the tracking program. C.J.’s van was at his house, where I’d last seen it. The minivan could have easily been at the Ford place and returned by now to C.J.’s house. The Lexus was in Lake Wales, parked in the storage unit. More than an hour had passed so it was possible, just barely, that someone could have driven it back from Vero in that time. I couldn’t rule out either one. I was leaning toward C.J. because he might have a motive, if Barbara had told him more than she’d let on about our night at the hotel. But that was probably my Catholic guilt talking.