by Davis Bunn
“Hang on.” Wayne turned around. “Jim.”
The man blinked slowly, like he was coming back from another space entirely. One lined by concrete and steel bars.
Wayne raised his voice. “Yo, Jim.”
Watanabe appeared in the kitchen doorway. Wayne asked, “What positions did you hold before this one?”
Even before the man answered, Wayne knew he had scored. Watanabe pushed herself off the doorjamb. Both of them brought to full alert as Jim Berkind straightened with the stiff tenseness of a puppet.
“I’ve been with the Grey Corporation for eighteen years.”
Wayne lowered the phone to his side and walked over. “Tell me what I want to know, Jim. Your last job. What was it?”
Berkind had the expression of a trapped and exhausted weasel. “I ran the land bank.”
Watanabe said, “What?”
The phone in Wayne’s hand squawked. Wayne felt all the pieces fall into place. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it, Jim.”
Watanabe said, “Is that your phone?”
Wayne clipped it shut without taking his eyes off Berkind. “You fed them the list.” But his gut told him, “There’s more than just that, isn’t there, Jim.”
“I want a lawyer.”
Wayne heard Watanabe’s footsteps scrunch over the debris and kept his voice calm. “Sure, Jim. Sure. The cops will be happy to get you lawyered up. But you’re not under arrest, right, Detective?”
“Absolutely not.”
“See, Jim, right now we’re only talking about a misuse of your corporate position. You bring in a lawyer, they could take you downtown as an accessory to an abduction. Several of them.”
Wayne felt the sofa dip as Watanabe seated herself beside him. The detective said, “Not us. If there’s any indication they crossed state or national borders—”
Wayne said, “Cloister is based in the Caymans.”
“There you go. So we’re talking a federal offense. Maybe I should phone the feds now.”
Berkind’s face had gone so slick it might as well have been oiled. “I don’t know anything about that stuff!”
Wayne leaned closer. The man gave off a tinny odor. “You fed them the list, and you showed them which properties were seriously undervalued.”
Berkind’s hand on his face made a squishing noise. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Wayne slid over the computer. “Show me the list.”
FORTY-TWO
The car drilled through a Florida downpour. Watanabe drove like a cop, which meant she held to a speed that bordered on reckless. She punched through turns and steered with one hand, even after the car twice slammed into troughs of rushing water. “I sure hope you know where we’re going.”
“This is right.” Wayne gripped the door handle and held Berkind’s computer wedged open between his knees. He tracked their progress on the laptop’s GPS linkup. Outside he could see nothing save the flash of falling rain in their headlights, slick streets, and the empty wetness of central Florida.
“What you were working on with the guy back there. The company’s property. What did you call it?”
“A land bank. Companies like Grey keep most of their capital in something other than cash. Cash doesn’t pay dividends, cash doesn’t build jobs or extend the company’s reach, and too much cash can attract the wrong kind of buyers. Grey is a developer. Their bank was real estate.”
“And this list you were working on there at the end?”
“Berkind did several things. My guess is, he convinced himself that none of them were totally illegal. But all of them were very wrong. He valued the land bank’s assets at the prices they were originally bought at. But Florida land values have skyrocketed. So if a buyer acquired the Grey Corporation at book value, they’d be looking at huge profits.”
Watanabe’s free hand reached for the coffee mug in the cup holder. “This is why I love working fraud.”
“It gets better. Berkind then took this list of undervalued assets and linked them with land that Cloister and Triton held through partnerships. He pushed them into other partnerships that would build more linkages.”
“These links are important?”
“The hardest asset for a developer to locate these days is prime waterfront property. The larger the site, the bigger the project. The bigger the project, the greater the profit. Not just total, but per square foot. It’s called economies of scale. The bigger the deal, the less it costs them to build each segment. Which is why Triton went after the property owned by the retirement community where I live. They are building a development just north of there. They wanted to expand, but the retirement community wasn’t selling. So they brought in a scam artist to drive the community into bankruptcy.”
Watanabe slipped the mug back into her cup holder. “We’re talking major buckaroos, right?”
“The developments would be worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”
She glanced over. “I was totally out of line with you earlier.”
“That’s okay.”
“Is it true what Mehan said about you being Special Ops?”
“Yes. I did two tours in Afghanistan.”
“And here you are now, a CPA. Man, that’s a trip.”
Wayne rubbed his face. The numbers and the names behind his eyes jerked and danced. He had to be right about this. “I really appreciate your taking me out here.”
“Least I could do.”
“I might be totally wrong about this.”
“Hey. Won’t be the first time I’ve chased down a ghost. Or the last.”
“This is your turn up ahead. Highway 120.”
“I was watching you in there with the man. You’re good. I mean, this is obviously tough and you’re still holding it together. You handled Berkind like a pro.” She jammed them through a slewing left. “You ever thought of joining the force?”
Wayne stopped rubbing his face. “No.”
“Maybe you should. Your background, the accounting angle, that’s some combo. White collar is always on the lookout for fresh meat.”
Wayne studied her. “Thanks, Detective. I appreciate that.”
“The name is Karen.” She met his gaze for an instant. “The lady up ahead, she’s special to you, right?”
Wayne turned his eyes back to the night and felt his gut clench. “If she’s there at all.”
FORTY-THREE
They pulled up in front of new metal gates that glinted silver and wet in the headlights. A massive chain clenched the gates shut. A No Trespassing sign banged a strident beat in the wind.
Watanabe squinted into the rain. Other than the gate and the rattling sign, the night was utterly empty. The first faint light of a grey wet dawn revealed scrubland and stumpy palms and not another soul. “Explain it to me again how come you’re so sure.”
“First back away from here, in case somebody is watching.”
Watanabe reversed them back onto the main road and down another fifty meters to where a ranch trail opened on the highway’s other side. “This do?”
“I went through all the sites they’re putting together. This place is perfect.”
“How so?”
He pointed to a massive dirt hill in the distance. “Behind that dike is Lake Okeechobee, the largest inland body of water in the southeast US. Forty miles across. Nine miles north of here is Port Mayaca, the point where the Inland Waterway enters off the Saint Lucie Canal. Boats can cross the lake, connect with the Caloosahatchee River, and follow that all the way to Cape Coral, Fort Myers, and Sanibel Island. And from there on into the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a perfect inland development, Detective.”
“I told you to call me Karen.”
“They own seven square miles here. It’s a small city just waiting to be built. You got Palm Beach forty miles to the east, some of the most expensive real estate in the world—”
“Okay, so it’s perfect for building. So why are we here?”
Wayne pointed to
the north. “Three-quarters of a mile up there is a small tributary. And on that tributary is a motel. My guess is it used to be a fishing camp.”
“Used to be.”
“This was the only name on the land bank list that was described as derelict. There was no mention of structures on any of the others.”
She tapped her stubby fingers on the steering wheel. “I call the local sheriff at this hour and request an emergency warrant, you know what they’re gonna tell me.”
Wayne opened his door. “I’m not waiting.”
She sighed but did not object. “You keep your phone on the whole time, you got me?”
The actions were so ingrained he would never lose them. Wayne melded with the grey fractional light, with the rain, with the rising wind. It was all cover. He moved with the ease of a man who was born to slip in and vanish, like the trace of wind that slid under a door or through a crack in the shutter. A tiny little rattle was all the sign he gave of his passage. A splash of water, a shiver of motion. Less than the rain falling off a rattling palm frond. Less substantial than the dawn.
He covered the three-quarters of a mile in about seven or eight minutes. He waited until he was within sight of the roofline to turn on Berkind’s phone. He called the number Watanabe had given him. “I’m thirty yards out.”
She hissed, “I told you to keep that sucker on.”
“There’s no outside sentry. I’m moving closer.”
“Wait, Grusza, wait.”
He put the phone back to his ear. “I’m here.”
“Let me call this in.”
“Do whatever you want, Karen. But I’m going in.” He clipped the phone shut.
The tributary was the size of a large creek and heavily overgrown. Wayne slipped into the water and used mangrove branches to pull himself hand-over-hand, keeping a close watch for snakes and gators. Rain dimpled the creek’s green waters. Up ahead he heard the faint sound of a radio or television. Coming from what was supposed to be an abandoned motel. The sound amped his heart rate to where he could scarcely breathe.
The fishing camp’s side of the tributary was marked by rotting timbers and the remnants of a marina. He crawled out of the water and took cover behind a pair of rusting gas pumps. The rain swept in hard, then subsided. But the wind grew with the grey light, making it impossible to see more than a dozen or so yards ahead. Wayne readied himself for a sprint across the cracked concrete ground, the open and coverless terrain between himself and the first building.
Then he froze.
A figure came around the corner of the building. He was covered in a grey poncho with the hood pulled far down. His shoulders were hunched and he was far more concerned with keeping dry than watching for someone coming out of the dawn.
Wayne checked in both directions. Saw no one. He leapt forward.
His feet scrabbled over loose rock. The man jerked around. Through the rain dripping off the poncho’s hood, Wayne caught sight of two startled eyes. He recognized the same guy as he had taken down inside the Neally house. Tommy.
Tommy got a shot off at the concrete to Wayne’s left just as Wayne’s fist hammered his jaw. Tommy’s eyes rolled back and he went down hard.
Wayne’s ears rang from the gunshot and his nostrils were filled with the stench of damp cordite. Off to his right came a banging door and the cry, “Tommy!”
Another voice yelled, “Back over there!”
He thought he heard footsteps running from two different directions. He couldn’t be sure.
He fired a round through the window directly in front of him and leapt inside.
The shouts were shriller now. Wayne rolled and came up with the gun extended. The room was empty. Rain swept through the open door, the door through which the guy must have just run. He ran after him. Speed was everything now.
Two bullets whapped the doorjamb as he exited. Wayne dove low and rolled. He felt the heat of passing lead and kept rolling until he came up against the corner of the next building. Two more bullets struck the wall beside his head.
Wayne scrambled to his feet and raced away. The motel was shaped in a U with the parking area in the center. Three trucks and a limo were pulled into the area. Wayne took the angle around the first truck too close and whacked his leg. He felt the stitches in his thigh tear. He heard more gunfire and the hammer of bullets striking metal. He ran around the next truck. Three shooters, he figured. The only good thing he could say about the odds was the men were all behind him. Wayne crawled under the limo and sprinted around the building’s far eastern corner. Headed for the almost invisible dawn. Just trying to draw the shooters away from the people trapped inside those rooms.
Then he heard it. A motor far beyond redline. Screaming toward them, the engine bellowing in time to the siren.
Karen Watanabe’s Crown Victoria slid on the wet road and skidded into the pillars fronting the motel office. The sign connected to the roof gave a rusty creak and came down on the hood. Watanabe burned rubber reversing back far enough to free up her door. She spilled out and screamed, “Police! Put down your weapons and come out with your hands up!”
Wayne raced through a ninety-degree change of course, heading back around the buildings now, pumping as fast as the sedan through the final corner.
The three of them were clustered there, looking through the opening between the side and rear units, clearly uncertain how to handle the sudden appearance of the cop. A cop that was now between them and escaping with one of their vehicles.
Wayne took them down like human bowling pins.
He pounded the nearest with the butt of his pistol. Kicked at another. Punched a third. Shouting half-shaped words and feeling his chest and gut impossibly tight, waiting for the strike that didn’t come.
Instead, Watanabe said, “Okay, sport, ease up there. I got them covered. You three, spread-eagle on the ground. You’re under arrest.”
Wayne pulled out of his next punch, jammed the pistol into his belt, and raced off. Behind him, Watanabe yelled something about waiting, and evidence. He was too focused on what was ahead to pay any attention.
He did not bother with either locks or knobs. Doors were simply another foe to destroy. “Tatyana!”
He rammed his way into one room, then another. Empty. Then he found Neally huddled with a woman and two young children in the third room. In the fourth, Foster was on his knees by one bed, hands tied behind his back, with Julio and Jerry bound back to back on the other. Wayne was in serious conflict about whether to stop.
A voice called to him. Her voice. He ran back outside. “Tatyana!”
The voice came from the room behind the office. He demolished the door and the frame both.
She was tied but had managed to slip into the space between the bed and the wall. Wayne lifted her back onto the bed, then made a mess of untying the knots. He knew she was saying something, but his heart was pounding so loud and his trembling was so bad he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
But he knew how her mouth felt. He could feel the heat of her lips like a branding iron on his face.
FORTY-FOUR
Two days later, they were back home again. The police had not wanted to let them go. The cases kept opening up, more law enforcement types came and went—FBI, Treasury, IRS, state and federal prosecutors. But there came a point when all the questions had been answered at least once. So they shrugged off the demands and the complaints and they left. Tatyana slept over at Easton’s that night. The Greys had a guest apartment that they said Tatyana could call home for a while. Easton wanted to have his legal representative close at hand while all the questions continued.
The next morning, Wayne went for a run with Julio. The kid stayed the distance, especially as Wayne had to take it easier with his restitched thigh. They stopped in front of the Cloister development and stared at the silent bulldozers and the empty half-finished structures. Then they turned and ran home.
When they got back and finished stretching, Jerry walked down from t
he porch to hand Wayne his coffee. All without breaking stride in his argument with Foster. “Nothing beat Sid Caesar for funny.”
“Oh. Like you actually know what you’re talking about.”
“I know what I know, all right. Victoria, help me out here.”
“You gentlemen are doing fine without me.” She looked up long enough to smile at them. “Hello, boys. Have a nice run?”
“Julio pounded me into the dust.”
“Oh, right. Like I suddenly got ready for the navy.”
“Don’t have anything to do with them pansies,” Jerry said. “They got them pretty white uniforms, they might as well sashay around in a skirt. You want macho, you go marine.”
Julio snorted but said nothing. Wayne pressed his grin into his knee. The kid was definitely learning.
Foster went on, “Ed Gardner, now, he was the king of funny. You ever see Duffy’s Tavern? They had everybody on that show. Edward G. Robinson, May Whitty, Bob Hope, Fred Allen, John Garfield, Jack Benny, Tallulah Bankhead. Anybody who was somebody fought for a chance to get on Duffy’s Tavern.”
“Huh. You want talent, you don’t got to look no further than Sid Caesar’s radio show. They had Neil Simon writing with Larry Gelbart. Not to mention Mel Tolkin. Howard Morris. Mel Brooks. And what’s his name. Max Liebman.”
Julio asked Wayne, “You know what they’re talking about?”
“I think you’ve got to be a hundred and nineteen to understand.”
Jerry called over the porch railing, “You want, I can toss your breakfast out in the street.”
Julio rose to his feet and pointed at where the Ferrari had sat under a live oak for four days. Long enough to become richly coated in leaves, pollen, and other donations. One of Detective Mehan’s buddies had driven it back to the community. “The lady in the parking lot, she’s crying for a bath.”
Victoria said, “What about breakfast?” But the kid was already moving.
