Cap's Place: A Jack Nolan Novel (The Cap's Place Series Book 1)

by Robert Tarrant

  “I don’t know anything about television production. He’ll see right through me.”

  Justin replied, “He won’t have time to ask you anything. We’ll structure your meeting with such a tight timeline that he’ll want to spend the entire time impressing you with his investigative story. It’ll never cross his mind that you’re not who you represent yourself to be. We’ll even keep the timeline tight so that he won’t have time to do any internet research looking for Jackson Nolan the producer before the meeting.”

  I was still not convinced, “I just don’t know.”

  Sissy perked up, “Jack, just pretend he’s some South Beach bimbo you’re trying to get into bed. Just lie, lie, lie.”

  This brought a chuckle from Justin. He continued, “We’ll work out the details before we go operational. It’ll work. At least well enough to find out what the reporter’s investigation is about and make an assessment at to whether it’s the motive for Allison’s death and somehow related to the attempts against Sissy.”

  I asked, “Why use my real name? Seems like that creates an opportunity for him to discover I’m not a real television producer.”

  Justin replied, “My guess is that you haven't done much undercover work. An alias is one of the simplest facts to trip up on. Most anything else you can talk your way around, but if you screw up something to do with your name you’re dead meat. It’ll be best to keep it clean by using your real name. It’ll also be easier for Sissy when she talks to this guy on the phone. The timeline will be so tight he won’t have time to discover you’re a bar owner not a producer.”

  Sissy stood up and said, “If we’re going into heavy duty planning mode I’m going to go make us something to eat. Need something in your stomachs besides Landshark. Just to keep the record straight it is an attempt on me, not attempts. The only attempt was at the Pinnacle. Unless you guys know something I don’t.” I had hoped Sissy had missed Justin’s earlier statement. Obviously, that wasn’t the case.

  Justin didn’t even miss a beat, “Sorry Sissy, I misspoke. Attempt.” I looked at him but his face betrayed nothing. Wouldn’t want to play poker with this guy.

  While Sissy assembled a plate of leftovers, Justin went to work on a notepad computer doing research on both Weston and Dockery. While he worked he jotted notes on a pad of paper. Watching him from across the table I was struck by the dichotomy. Who is this guy, really? Rough deck hand with a violent streak or elite warrior with compassion? Whoever he is I’m glad he’s on our side. I only hope it stays that way.

  By the time we finished eating, Justin had filled three sheets of paper with notes. Circles and boxes connected by arrows outlined numerous notes. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and took a long final pull on the same beer he was drinking when Sissy and I got back. I was on my third or fourth. I’d lost count. Secret agent plotting makes me thirsty. Even if I’m doing nothing but watching the plot being hatched.

  “Okay, we have an ops plan. You ready to hear it?” asked Justin.

  Sissy and I replied in unison, “Let’s hear it.”

  Justin spent the next thirty minutes laying out the plan he had devised. He had determined that Charles Dockery lived in Fort Lauderdale. He said he wanted to make the meeting both enticing and easy for Dockery so he picked the lobby bar in the Diplomat Hotel on South Ocean Drive as the meeting spot. The opportunity to meet with a television producer in an upscale location not far from his home would be just too tempting to refuse. The Diplomat was far enough from Fort Lauderdale to give me time to get into place but relatively easy for Dockery to reach on a Sunday. The whole plan was based on the expectation that Dockery would be around home on a Sunday.

  Sissy was to call Dockery on his cell phone. I didn’t know how Justin got his cell number but he had it. Sissy would sound flustered but relieved to have reached Dockery. She would explain who I was and that I had expected to meet Weston at the Diplomat to discuss the potential 60 Minutes segment but that she had been unable to contact Weston to confirm the meeting. I was on my way back to New York from somewhere deep in the Amazon. That I had flown into Miami and was catching a flight to New York from Fort Lauderdale. That I was already at the Diplomat finishing another meeting and would be expecting to meet Weston shortly. Her inflection would give the impression that the other meeting was social. Likely, Dockery would fill in the blanks that I had stopped in South Florida to rendezvous with some babe and that the planned meeting with Weston was just a convenient opportunity. Justin was betting that Dockery would now want to seize the opportunity.

  Justin explained the timeline several times. It didn’t matter what time Sissy reached Dockery as that would be zero and everything would build from that point. The whole thing started to sound like something from Mission Impossible. Yet, the more I listened, the more I began to believe that it would work. At least it would if I played my part. I had a fleeting thought wondering what PJ would think about me getting the information with this simple scam that she couldn’t with all of her police powers. That led me to wonder if we would be breaking any laws.

  We talked about how long it would take me to get to my apartment and change into something befitting a traveling television producer. The fact that he was coming from somewhere deep in the Amazon made it easier to envision something from my wardrobe. Justin explained that he wanted me to get to Cap’s and change before Sissy even called Dockery. That way I could be certain to get to the Diplomat before he did. Justin went into detail explaining to me how I needed to approach the lobby bar from the area of the elevator banks as if I had just come down from a room. I impressed him with my knowledge of the layout of the Diplomat. Sissy gave me one of her disapproving frowns.

  By mid-afternoon, we’d discussed the details of our little scam and I was on my way to Cap’s. I was more than a little concerned about our exit strategy, but Justin told me not to worry. That it would all work out just fine.

  The parking lot at Cap’s was nearly empty, typical for midday on Sunday, so I parked amongst the few cars in the front not in my usual spot in front of the dumpster. I hoped that my car would go unnoticed but knew that would not be the case if I parked in my usual spot. I went up the back stairs and into my apartment without running into anyone.

  I showered and shaved and dressed for my little performance. I found a pair of white linen trousers in the back of the closet and paired them with a bright flowered shirt. The perfect image of a guy from New York returning from South America, at least that was my assessment. I called Justin at the cell number he had given me to tell him I was ready for Sissy to make her call. Sissy would use Justin’s cell to call Dockery. After she made contact they would call me. All I had to do was sit tight and wait for their call.

  With each passing minute, I felt my anxiety escalate. It reminded me of the last few minutes before the start of a complex trial. Thousands of thoughts firing through your mind. Each fighting for your undivided attention. I paced the floor. I really wanted a beer but knew that would be a mistake. The shower had cleared the final remnants of my earlier imbibing and I knew this was no time to cloud my brain even the slightest.

  I jumped a foot when the cell phone in my pocket vibrated. Justin told me that Sissy had reached Dockery on the first attempt and that she had played her roll flawlessly. He said that Dockery had jumped at the chance to meet with Mr. Jackson Nolan, television producer. Dockery said that he would be at the Diplomat within thirty minutes and would wait for me in the lobby bar. I needed to get started myself if I was going to be inside the hotel first. It would not be good for him to see me arrive from the street when I was supposed to be coming from upstairs.

  I ended the call and hurried down the back stairs nearly colliding with Moe as I rounded the corner of the building. “Oh, Boss. I didn’t know yu was here. Did the cops have any luck with that license plate on the SUV? Whacha yu all dressed up fo’? Yu got a date?”

  I didn’t have time for this. I stepped around Moe as I said, “Look Moe I can’t st
op to talk now. I’m late. I’ll stop back later and we can talk.”

  As I drove out onto A1A I looked in the mirror and saw Moe standing in the same spot just staring after me. He was not happy. I was really going to need to mend some fences when this was over.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I made the short drive to the Diplomat and parked in the ramp across the street. I was going to take the pedestrian bridge to the hotel, but that would bring me in the front door and there would always be a chance that Dockery would have already arrived and see me enter. I took the South stairway to the street and crossed to the convention center end of the Diplomat. Entering through that end, I would pass the main bank of elevators before I entered the lobby. I think I have a natural flair for this secret agent stuff.

  I loitered around the convention center for twenty minutes and then walked purposefully past the elevators and into the lobby. Adding improvised dramatic flair to the script, I held my cell phone to my ear and looked at my wristwatch as I walked toward the lobby bar. The bar was nearly empty at this time with two women at one table and a single man, whom I presumed to be Dockery, at another. He was dressed in brown Docksiders, faded blue Levi’s, and a khaki safari shirt. He was fifty pounds overweight, in his late forties, with the red bulbous nose of a man who drank too much. I strode confidently toward him and said, “Okay, ten minutes,” into the cell phone before snapping it closed. As I reached him I put out my hand and said, “Car service. Afraid they won’t get me to the airport in time. Charles Dockery?”

  Dockery rose and extended his hand to shake, “Yes, and I presume you’re Jackson Nolan.”

  I sat down without being asked and said, “Yes. Thank you for meeting with me on short notice. I don’t know why we can’t reach Mr. Weston. I thought he was looking forward to our meeting. Maybe his project is not as far along as I had anticipated.”

  Justin theorized that Dockery would know I’d find out about Weston’s death soon enough, but that he’d want to get himself as deeply inserted into my project as possible before I did. As Justin had predicted, Dockery skipped right over the reason for my inability to reach Weston and rushed right into his pitch. “I can assure you Mr. Nolan that I can deliver the project Weston and I’ve been working on. What timeline are we talking about here?”

  “The timeline is malleable. The hotter the project, the faster we get it on the air. We juggle pieces constantly. You tell me about your project and I determine from the subject matter how soon we go to production. Mr. Weston peaked my interest but I need to hear details. My time today is very limited so please cut right to the chase.”

  Dockery seemed to puff up to even larger than his already oversized self, “Mr. Nolan, this project is about the way the American government is instilling fear in the American public for the purposes of sustaining the defense industries. This involves government at all levels, including the highest offices, as well as a myriad of weapons and defense contractors.”

  “Please Mr. Dockery, be specific.”

  He looked irritated but caught himself, “Mr. Nolan, this country has been fighting wars for over a decade now. Our defense industry has been humming along providing weapons and equipment to our military and allies around the world. War is big business. War is very lucrative business for certain people.”

  I interrupted again, “So, are you saying the defense industry is conspiring with the government to start another war?”

  He laughed, “Oh, I’m sure they are doing that too, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” His brow furrowed, “What I’m talking about is instilling a daily fear of terrorism in the American public, specifically for the purposes of selling their products to the domestic law enforcement market. This assures a steady cash flow between actual wars.”

  With obvious skepticism in my voice, “You’re telling me that the whole notion of Homeland Security is one huge scam to sell weapons and equipment?”

  “No, not all of it. Certainly there is a real threat. The issue is the true scale of the threat and to a lessor degree, the appropriate approach to mitigate the threat. Tell me Mr. Nolan do you think a town in the plains of Nebraska with a population of ten thousand is a target for al Qaeda? Do you believe it’s necessary to equip that town’s responders with armored vehicles and chemical warfare suits? Well, that’s what’s going on, and it’s being repeated thousands of times across this country? Now there’s even talk of domestic law enforcement needing surveillance drones.”

  I curtly demanded, “Specifics. I need specifics. Not just theories. We are a respected news program not some sensationalist entertainment rag.” Sounded like an appropriate retort from a 60 Minutes producer to me.

  Dockery leaned forward placing his arms on the table and nearly raising out of his chair. He lowered his voice and said, “Oh, I have specifics. Let’s start with the fact that over forty billion dollars of federal grants has been spent on equipment by state and local governments since September 11, 2001. Do you know what it was spent on?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, neither does the federal government. The whole grant structure is a rats nest of intertwined federal programs and distinct funding pipelines. The whole mess is fueled by reaction to any type of terrorist attack anywhere in the world. Every community in this country believes they need to be prepared to fight off an attack like the one in Mumbai. So, the federal government pumps money into a pipeline that, for political expediency, is equally available to every jurisdiction. It’s tantamount to the federal government funding the purchase of snowplows by every community in America regardless of the potential for snow. It’s absurd logic.”

  “Okay, so you’re telling me that the federal government, as a result of a lack of leadership or political fortitude, is squandering billions of dollars of taxpayer monies. I thought you had something new. Something fresh. We do this type of story once, sometimes twice, a year. Besides you can’t deny the fact that it seems that every few weeks a terrorist plot to launch some type of attack on our homeland is uncovered.”

  Now Dockery leaned back into his chair and folded his arms across his chest, “Really, have you ever looked closely at these so called plots? I have. Some person of Middle Eastern descent, who may or may not harbor the real intent to bring harm to our country, somehow finds himself meeting and talking with people who are all too willing to assist him in advancing his desires. Just so happens that these people are federal agents. Next thing you know, a plot to bring death and destruction to our homeland has been miraculously quashed. We all begin to believe that the plots are everywhere and it’s only the grace of God and billions of dollars well spent that keeps us safe. One only needs to connect the dots. A number of people, both inside and outside government, are getting very wealthy off of our fear.”

  I found his premise intriguing, but this conversation was not getting me any closer to finding out if this had anything to do with Allison’s death or the attack on Sissy. I sat back in my chair and rubbed my chin in an attempt to look thoughtful and reflective. I was trying to figure out a strategy to steer the conversation toward Weston and Allison. Dockery looked like he was about to launch into another diatribe when the bartender wandered halfway across the room toward our table and asked if we would like a drink. The words were hardly out of his mouth when Dockery responded, “Scotch, rocks, double.” Turning back toward me, “Would you like anything Mr. Nolan?”

  “Ice water would be fine. Planes dry me out.” Not the answer I wanted to give, but thought it best to stay as clear headed as possible.

  As the bartender retreated I asked, “What exactly is your relationship with Mr. Weston? It was he who first contacted us. I don’t want to create some type of legal entanglement by going too far with the project without his involvement.”

  Dockery’s watery eyes widened, “Then you are interested?”

  “My good man I would not be here if I was not interested. I do not yet have a good grasp on the scope or scale of this piece but I certainly b
elieve it warrants further exploration. My time is very limited today. We should set another meeting where I sit down with you and Weston. A meeting with adequate time to really discuss your theories and documentation. Put some flesh on the bones, so to speak. Would you two be available in say . . . a couple of weeks.” Rolling my eyes toward the hotel lobby I added, “I am always up for a quick trip to South Florida.”

  Dockery seemed to miss my little innuendo as he scrambled to dodge the inclusion of Weston, “I know that I’m available but last time I talked to Weston he was primarily focused on another project he is starting. He has essentially handed this off to me. The truth be known, I had started the project and went to him to see if I could access some of his sources for collaboration. He was really never that deeply involved.” He paused and then added, “I do appreciate his contacting you on my behalf.”

  The bartender returned and set our drinks down. Before Dockery’s glass had the opportunity to settle on the table he had it up to his mouth taking a long drink. His whole body seemed to relax as if he had just taken morphine intravenously.

  I responded, “I can appreciate that, but Weston did contact me, so I really need to have him sign off before we go too far forward.” While I had Dockery off balance I forged ahead, “He mentioned some college student involved in the project. Is she working with you also? If so, we should include her as well. Probably great experience for her. What was her name?”

  Dockery stared at his drink as he rotated the glass on the table back and forth between his hands. He was stalling big time. Finally, he looked up at me and rolled his eyes to his right. A small bell began to ring in my brain. Someone looking up to the right while answering is likely lying. I’d often successfully used this non-verbal cue to read witnesses during cross examination in court. I suddenly wished I’d been paying closer attention to him earlier during our conversation. Unfortunately, I had been primarily focused on staying in character myself and was probably missing much of his non-verbal communication.