We stepped into the cool house, straight into a living room. The place was a newish build, maybe four or five years old. Below the smashed window a leather sofa and a couple armchairs stood sentry before a flat-screen television on the wall. Julio led us out to a small rear courtyard, where a woman and a man I now recognized as Perez sat at a patio table. Perez had a bandage wound around his head. He smiled and made to get up, but his wife told him to sit still. I went around and shook his hand, then that of his wife, and I introduced Ron.
“Estás bien?” I asked Perez.
He smiled. “Si, gracias.”
Then I asked Perez to tell me what happened.
“His English is not so good. I will translate, okay?” said Julio.
Perez started talking and pointing at the inside of the townhouse, and Julio spoke to me.
“He says they were watching TV. He was lying on the sofa, the one under the window, when a brick—” Julio turned to Perez and spoke in Spanish, and Perez replied, then Julio continued. “It was, you call it, a cinder block.”
I nodded.
“So the brick smashed the window and hit part of the arm of the sofa and part of his head.” Julio pointed at the bandage, which I had picked up on all by myself. “He could have been killed, Señor Miami.”
I didn’t doubt that for a second. A cinder block would crush a human skull like a meat mallet on a hard-boiled egg. But I wasn’t convinced they actually wanted to kill Perez. It was entirely plausible that the block hitting him had been an accident.
“Julio, you mentioned a note.”
“Si,” he said, directing us inside the house. He grabbed a cell phone off the kitchen counter and turned it on, then handed it to me. The small screen displayed a picture of a piece of paper that had been crumpled then flattened out.
“This was tied around the brick,” said Julio.
The note read like Hemingway, direct and to the point.
JAI alAi dIEs OR You do.
The letters had been cut from a newspaper and stuck down. In this age of email and social media, I had forgotten such things were possible.
“The police took the note?”
Julio nodded.
“What did the police say?”
He shrugged. “They would try, but not to hope,” he said.
It was lacking in bedside manner but was a fair assessment. Chances were the letters were from the local rag that was printed in the tens of thousands, and I guessed there were no fingerprints on the paper. Cinder block was the most popular building material in South Florida, so that wasn’t going to narrow it down, either. I wandered back outside with Julio, and Ron went into the living room.
“Julio, tell Perez we’ll keep looking, but the police are right. There really isn’t much to go on.”
Julio spat out a long line of Spanish, then nodded as Perez spoke back. Perez nodded at me.
“What?” I said.
“He forgot to mention his cousin.”
“What about his cousin?”
“His cousin was coming to visit last night. He saw two men throw the brick.”
I blinked my eyes hard. “He forgot that? Someone saw the guys, and he forgot that?”
Julio shrugged.
“Did his cousin get a description?”
“Si, he gave it to the policia,” said Julio.
“Okay, that’s good. That’s something. So, Julio, can you tell me if his cousin got a good look at the men?”
Julio spoke in Spanish again, and Perez listened, looked at me, then spoke to Julio. Julio frowned at me.
“He says his cousin saw them good. He called at them, and they ran, but he saw them well enough.”
“And what did they look like?” I asked.
“Tall men, long hair, tied back. No sleeves on their shirts. Headbands. Like the old movies.”
“Like what old movies?”
Perez fired some more Spanish, and Julio looked at me.
“Cowboy movies,” he said. “He said they looked like Indians.”
Chapter Eighteen
RON PLAYED THE nickel slots while I sat and half watched him and half watched the room, until I could bear it no more, and I went for a wander. Perez’s cousin had said the two men were big guys, strong, with sleeveless shirts and tied back hair, like Indians. He said one had a circular tattoo on his arm but couldn’t be more specific. So Ron and I decided to drive down to the Seminole casino and see if we found anyone fitting that description. It was like searching for a needle in a stack of needles. Everyone fit the description. The security, the croupiers, floor managers, bartenders, half the patrons. Pretty much every guy in the place fit the look in some way. Except for the tattoo. I walked around the gaming floor, then around past the stores and the hotel lobby, and then out around the pool. I was coming back into the building from the pool when a guy who fit the description just nicely stopped right in front of me. He was tall and muscular, broad arms under his suit jacket, and he had black hair, tied back. I couldn’t tell about the tattoo.
“Mr. Jones,” he said.
“Ah, yeah?”
“Mr. Bass would like to see you.”
I got the distinct impression that when Jackie Bass wanted to see you, you got seen. So I found myself again in his large office overlooking the pool. The water looked plenty clean to me.
“Mr. Jones,” said Bass, coming around his desk. His face was tight, not upset or angry, but not beaming the smile he had flashed so willingly the last time we met.
“Mr. Bass, what can I do for you?”
“Please, take a seat,” he said.
I did. He did not.
“I’m wondering what it is I can do for you, Mr. Jones. A second visit? You are becoming quite the regular.”
“It’s a very nice casino you have here, Mr. Bass.”
“I know it. But the thing is, I don’t see you gambling, Mr. Jones. Trying out that comp gaming credit I offered you. What I see is you walking around our establishment, watching our employees. Watching our processes.”
“Your processes?”
“Yes, sir. If I didn’t know better I’d say you looked like you were casing our casino, planning some kind of heist.” He said the last word through pursed lips, like saying the word would make it happen. “First you come here on some PR ruse, but I find out you are not in PR. You are a private detective.”
I raised my eyebrow at the thought that he had been checking me out.
“Then you return, leaving your partner at the slots, and you walk around my casino, casing the smallest detail, looking for an employee that you might pull into your plan.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched, Mr. Bass.”
“Is it, Mr. Jones? The video tells a pretty compelling story.”
“What’s your point, Mr. Bass?”
“My point is, I don’t know what you are up to, but I suggest you take a vacation from this casino. Let me be clear. Don’t come here. For your own good, Mr. Jones. I’m afraid if something were to go missing in the casino, your actions could make you look very guilty indeed.”
I watched him now, and the smile never came. He was analyzing me, summing me up. I didn’t know if his concern was real, but it was too close to the events with Perez for my liking.
“You know, Mr. Bass, I think you’re right. I think I’ll take a little break from casinos. After all, I’m really not a gambling man.”
“A sound plan,” said Bass, standing. He called for his guy, the big Seminole who had brought me up.
“Goodbye, Mr. Jones,” said Bass, and the big guy and I headed out to the elevator. As we went down, I broke the silence.
“I’m thinking about getting a tattoo,” I said. I looked at the big guy.
“What do you think? Would a tattoo look good on me? You have any tats?”
The big Seminole tilted his head slightly to look at me. He cocked one eyebrow, then turned his head back without uttering a word.
Sometimes things are worth a shot, even when they com
e to naught. And sometimes, they leave you stepping out of an elevator feeling like a fool. The guard walked me—not touching, but not more than an inch away—to the front door of the casino and deposited me there.
“Have a nice day,” he said, and he spun and stepped back into the cave-like depths of the casino. Then the door flung open the other way, and Ron appeared.
“Saw you getting assisted out,” he said. “Any problems?”
“Plenty. What are you referring to?”
“You getting kicked out of a casino?”
I nodded. “For not betting. That’s got to be some kind of first, doesn’t it?”
“Interesting timing,” said Ron.
“My thoughts exactly. I just don’t know what to do next.”
“I do.”
“What’s that, Ron?”
“It’s time to get your penguin suit on. We’ve got a party to go to.”
Chapter Nineteen
THE LADY CASSANDRA walked up the steps of the Tuscan-style mansion in a thin, blue-sequined dress that split below the knee. It showed her to be in great shape but showed no more. It was a classy look for a classy lady. The diamonds in her ears glistened against blond hair that held a hint of glamor despite being dulled by the years. She had lost her husband in his prime, yet she was naturally sanguine and up for an adventure—more so than most people her age.
Ron beamed like a lottery winner, and perhaps that was apt. He, too, looked toward life’s brighter side, despite his fair share of heartache, and his silver mane and the glint in his eye made him the perfect companion for the lady on his arm. Not to mention he looked great in a tux.
I hung back and let them walk together—never keen to be a third wheel. Cassandra had procured four invitations, but I’d had no stomach to find a date. Danielle would have jumped at the chance to frolic with the jet set, and I consoled myself with the knowledge that she would have knocked so many socks off, we would have been the exact center of attention I wished to avoid. As it was, I lumbered up the steps to a white-clad waiter carrying champagne, and wondered what version of beer Danielle was getting into with her cop buddies in Atlanta. I checked my phone one last time, saw only her missed call to me and my missed return, and then I switched it to silent.
There was a lot of faux hugging and air-kissing going on. Dresses must not be crushed just because their wearers were happy to see each other. But Palm Beach wasn’t that big a place, and throughout the winter I had no doubt these people repeated this effort numerous times, on each occasion greeting each other like long-lost friends. Ron and Cassandra dissolved into the crowd, as we had agreed. If they found or heard something of interest they’d find me. It wasn’t that big a house. But it was plenty big. The entry hall alone was bigger than my house, including the lot it sat on. A long shallow pool led from the entrance to the open doors on the Intracoastal side, where the home opened up to a patio lit with tiki torches. I headed out to the patio to look at the lights, across to West Palm Beach. I really didn’t think the view was any better than my place, and my house costs a hell of a lot less to keep cool. I was sipping my champagne when I felt someone brush up against my arm. I turned to find Jenny Almondson, the manager of West Palm Jai Alai and Casino, looking at me. She had ditched the dark suit for a silver dress that appeared to have been painted on. Like Cassandra, Jenny’s dress had a slit at the leg, but like the I-95, it went all the way to the border.
“Mr. Jones, I didn’t expect to see you here.” She gave me a smile like that wasn’t a bad thing.
“Ms. Almondson. I didn’t expect to be seen. Aren’t you the competition?”
“It’s Jenny. And the casino community isn’t as big as you think, Mr. Jones. One might work for a certain casino today, but tomorrow, who knows?”
“Like baseball,” I said.
“Perhaps. Just less . . . sweat.” She nibbled her lip, then looked around the patio. I took a long slug of bubbles. I wasn’t sure why she was laying it on so thick, but I hadn’t reached the point where it had become any kind of hard work.
“Do you know our host, Mr. Hoskin?” I asked.
Jenny turned back to me. “Elroy Hoskin. Born 1950, Las Vegas, Nevada. Grew up around the strip. Sinatra, Deano, Sammy, he saw them all. He was managing his first casino one month after being of legal age and owned his first four years later. He now owns half the strip, plus that giant Ferris wheel, along with casino properties from the Caribbean to Macau.”
I cocked an eye at Jenny. “You really a secret agent or something?” I said.
She smiled. It was a disarmingly hot smile. “I don’t plan on managing jai alai for the rest of my life.”
“At this rate, you’ll be running a Vegas casino before the year is out.”
She sipped some champagne.
“That’s the plan.”
Chapter Twenty
WE MINGLED WITH other guests, and I saw a few faces worth saying hello to, along with a few worth avoiding. I slipped back to the bar for refreshers and ran in to Eric Edwards. Upon seeing me he frowned, like he’d walked into the women’s bathroom. He ran his hand down his chest, trying to smooth the necktie that wasn’t there.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
“You’re not the only one who’s connected, you know.”
“Ah, your mysterious Cassandra. I’m expecting an introduction.”
“A promise is a promise,” I said.
As I said it, I felt Jenny brush up against me, again with impeccably bad timing. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” she said.
Eric lifted an eyebrow and grinned. I could see his politician’s mind clicking over. How can I use this to my advantage? It was still stuck in his craw that I had ended up with his ex-wife, and I had to admit I wasn’t shy about lording it over him. It wasn’t a classy look for me, but caring about Eric’s feelings hadn’t yet made it onto my bucket list. Eric would love nothing more than to drop it to Danielle that I was prancing about the island on the arm of a gorgeous blond while she was in Georgia. And then he went the other way.
“I’m Eric Edwards, state attorney,” he said, extending his hand. “And Miami here is not known for his manners.”
“Jenny Almondson,” she said, as Eric took her hand and kissed it. He actually kissed it. I was there, I saw it.
“A pleasure, Miss Almondson.”
“I’m sure,” she smiled.
Eric turned to me, smiling like a child on Christmas morning. “So where is your lovely girlfriend, Danielle?” he said. The smugness on his face was visible, like he’d just wrecked my evening’s plan.
“She’s in Atlanta. At a conference.”
“How convenient for you,” he said.
“Not really. It means I don’t have anyone to drive me home.”
Jenny put her hand on my arm. “I’ll make sure you get home,” she said.
Gee, thanks.
“So I heard you’re running for the state legislature, next time round,” Jenny said to Eric, changing tack so hard the boom nearly hit me in the head.
Eric didn’t miss a beat. “How do these stories get legs?” he said. “The party already has an incumbent in place.”
“A bumbling old fool who thought the House Speaker was his mama,” whispered Jenny.
Eric smiled. “Just a rumor, I assure you.”
“Well, I for one think we need some new dynamic blood in Tallahassee.”
Eric nodded his thanks.
“I’m just going to run to the little boys’ room,” I said, excusing myself from the Eric Edwards lovefest. I made a beeline for the main hall, where I found Ron and Cassandra chatting with the mayor of West Palm Beach.
“Having a good time, Miami?” asked Cassandra.
“Interesting, that’s for sure. You?”
“It’s impossible not to have a good time on Ron’s arm,” she smiled.
If I didn’t know better, I would have said Ron blushed, but his face wore the pink ruddiness of years of sun and beers anyway, so i
t was hard to tell. Either way, it gave me a warm feeling to see them so happy.
“I think the show is about to begin,” said Ron, as the lights dimmed across the property.
Fog began to cascade from the interior pool, and the far wall lit up with a scene of palm trees on a deserted beach. The low rumble of a string section permeated the air and grew in tension, dragging the stragglers from the patio into the house. There was no mistaking the Vegas in the presentation when a thunderclap pounded across the room, hitting me in the chest, more real than real, and the sound of rain washed over the gathering. A wind blew in from above, simulating a hurricane in the way only a guy from Nevada who had never seen more than a dust devil could present one. Ladies grabbed at their hair to prevent their expensive dos ending up as bedhead. Then, as suddenly as it began, it finished, and bird tweets replaced the wind. The soft glow of sunrise, approximated by a spotlight with yellow cellophane over it, rose over the beach scene. Then, through the magic of computer animation, a building rose from the beachfront, a stylized facade that looked like something from South Beach. Sort of art deco, but not. Some architect’s vision of freshening the look. The building appeared, and the picture swept toward the building, over sleek cars and limos, right to the front door. Then we zoomed inside, like we were on a ride at one of the Orlando theme parks. Inside, the building looked clubby and dark, lots of wood and leather, along with attractive people with giant smiles and sensational orthodontic work. Then, the voiceover.
“Ladies and gentlemen, a new destination for the Palm Beaches. An elite-level, boutique resort for only the most discerning clientele. Welcome to the newest resort by Hoskin.”
There was a break in the voiceover where I assumed we were supposed to clap, but that didn’t happen. The music played underneath the audience’s stony silence. Then the voice continued. It told us about the proposed facilities, the swimming pool, the air-conditioned tennis courts, the Broadway-quality entertainment. I’d been to Broadway, and I was entertained by a guy dressed as an M&M, so I wasn’t that knocked out. The video showed attractive people, mostly of a certain age, having the time of their lives. I noted only one sweeping shot of a group of folks playing cards; otherwise there was no hint of gaming, especially not slot machines. The voiceover continued, and I wondered why Hoskin had bothered to rent the house when we could have watched the whole thing on the Internet in our pajamas.
High Lie Page 9
