Castle Cay

by Lee Hanson

  Oh, fuck. Not now!

  She was coming out of the gas station, locking the door behind her with her big, metallic purse over her shoulder. She hopped into the dark car waiting for her at the curb, and it pulled away. The blue Camry was right behind it.

  Fuck. FUCK.

  Avram quickly retraced his path back into the dealership, and slipped into the restroom. He flushed the toilet twice, then turned on the faucet in the sink. Shutting the door behind him, he went back to his office. The security guard was still reading the paper.

  Avram sat at his desk, trying to think it through. Could they be Silvio’s guys? Boston cops, undercover?

  He grabbed the Mont Blanc pen and turned it obsessively in his hand, while he glanced out the window through the partially open mini-blinds. He couldn’t see a damn thing; it was black beyond the window, nothing visible but headlights. He decided to leave, since he was done with his weekly task of adjusting the books.

  He picked up his briefcase and left the office, switching off the lights and locking the door. He waved at the security guard.

  “Good night, Ralph.”

  “Good night, Mr. Solomon.”

  Avram unlocked the Jaguar and tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat. He was just about to get in when the blue Camry passed by…again.

  They didn’t follow the drugs! They couldn’t have missed that pick-up.

  He got into the car in time to see the Camry turn right at the red light, passing the old, darkened gas station again. He pulled up to the lights and watched the blue car slowly continue on. When the light turned green, he crossed the intersection and headed for his townhouse. He kept his eyes on his rear view mirror, but no one followed him.

  They’re feds. It’s me they’re watching. Time for Plan B...

  * * * * *

  Chapter 56

  Avram was organized. All the important records were at his townhouse in one place: the den. He sat in his desk chair and fed them into the cross-cut shredder, a few at a time. He’d planned carefully for this, for years. The Feds would try to charge him, in absentia, with money laundering.

  Well, he wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

  Fortunately, Silvio Tambini had more places to wash his money these days, and he spread it around. Avram never really wanted to do it; he didn’t need the heat. There was a limit on how much money could be run through a car operation, even a large one.

  Avram had been careful. Solomon Chrysler’s new car business was legitimate, and Avram had been downright meticulous about taxes, so there was never any undue interest from the IRS.

  It had all been creative bookkeeping in the used car and service side. Essentially, Silvio Tambini gave Avram dirty money from the drug business. Avram, in turn, regularly sent large checks to dummy companies owned by the obscure friends and relatives of the Tambini family…payments for nonexistent cars, parts, paint jobs, storage, service contracts…whatever Avram could dream up and pump up.

  Silvio got his own money back, cleaned, and Avram got a cut.

  Over the years, it had added up. But the real money was the rent…rent for Castle Cay, and then for the warehouse in Waltham and the closed service station next to the Boston store.

  Castle Cay, in particular, had been a gold mine for Avram. But now he hated the place! Even more than that, he had hated his brother, Marc, who had painted the far side of Castle Cay just before Avram took over managing it. Two paintings showed the east coast of the island behind the ridge as it was…before it had a seawall, an airstrip and two cement block buildings to accommodate drug smuggling.

  The canvases were dramatic. Dark and different from his other ones, they drew attention…and Marc had painted the date on them.

  That fag bastard…why did he have to date them!

  Avram had become obsessed with acquiring the paintings ever since he saw them at Marc’s art show in Boston.

  He shook his head, as if to shake their image out of his mind.

  They don’t matter anymore. The game is over. I win, anyway.

  Avram had a foolproof plan to simply disappear.

  He thought about his bank. They’d find nothing incriminating there, because he’d never kept anything of real importance in the bank. He sneered.

  I’ve got my own “lock-box”…

  It was a new car, changed out yearly, sitting amongst a sea of other cars, on the Waltham storage lot. This special car’s invoice and computer record would be lost for a whole year, until Avram found it at the year-end inventory audit. He would simply drive out there one night a year and replace it with a new model whose record would be lost for another year.

  Avram was the only one with the keys to the car…this car with no record, which was hidden in plain sight…that had a black bag in the trunk with his new identity…a driver’s license, passport and a sizeable amount of cash.

  His plan was to act calmly, as if tomorrow was just another day. If he was right, they were watching his townhouse, too. He would go to the dealership, as usual, parking his Jag in the usual spot. He’d close the blinds in his office, squinting at the bright sun, just in case they were watching. Then he’d look up a new car in the back lot, the same model with dark tinted windows, and get the keys.

  A couple minutes on the computer would transfer the vehicle identification number of the car he was taking to the Waltham storage lot. He’d slip on his rain jacket and cap, put the dealer plate in the back window and drive off. In no time, he’d be in Waltham, switching the cars. They’d never know he was gone…with luck, maybe not until the store closed. By then, he’d be on an international flight out of Manchester, New Hampshire.

  He smiled at his own brilliance.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 57

  Robert Branson pulled into the portico of the Quality Inn at half-past nine on Tuesday morning, September 25th. Sherman Dixon was waiting outside on a wooden bench, reading the Boston Globe and drinking a cup of coffee.

  “Morning, Dixon,” he said, as Sherm got into the Taurus.

  “Morning, Bob.”

  Sherman noticed that Bob had stopped to get coffee, too.

  “I got a call from Jack O’Brien,” said Bob. “They saw a woman go in and out of the garage next to Solomon’s Boston store last night. She was carrying a large bag, and there was someone else driving the car. Smells like a drug pick-up. They didn’t follow her, just kept circling like I told them. They left at midnight, reported no other activity. Solomon worked late, and went directly to his townhouse. The other team logged in his arrival there.”

  “Do they know who the woman was?”

  “No. They said she had blond hair, wore high heels and was carrying big metallic bag over her shoulder. They didn’t see her face,” said Bob.

  “I wonder if she’s somebody in the Tambini family?”

  “We don’t know. But the guy driving the car was,” said Bob. “They traced the plate. It was Vincent Santoro, Silvio Tambini’s nephew.”

  “Is that enough to go in there?” asked Sherm.

  “No,” said Bob. “We need to watch the garage tonight, and follow the pick-up with another car. In the meantime, you and I are relieving the team in Waltham today. I want to take a closer look at that location. I pulled off the team watching the Lynn dealership.”

  “Yeah,” said Sherm. “There’s nothing going on there. Not with Pete Soldano in charge.”

  “No,” said Bob. “You know, this Solomon is a real piece of work. It’s amazing how he’s stayed under the radar for so long.”

  They continued to speculate about whether Avram Solomon could be connected to the murder in Florida. Soon, they were pulling into the Solomon Chrysler dealership in Waltham.

  “Appears Pete Soldano was right,” said Bob. “There’s not a lot of cars on this lot… they’ve got plenty of room.”

  “I bet the problem is that this is the only dealership on this road. In Lynn, there are several dealers in a row. Customers like to hit more than one place at a
time when they’re shopping around for a car.”

  “Yeah. I do,” said Bob.

  They pulled into a spot in front of the showroom. A salesman separated himself from the pack out front, and sauntered up to them.

  “Hi! Beautiful day! Al Giordano. Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, maybe, I’m Bob Smith,” said Bob, shaking the guy’s hand. “I need something bigger for my business, but comfortable, you know? I was thinking about an Aspen. But it doesn’t look like you’ve got much of a selection here, Al.”

  “Believe me, Bob, I can get you anything you want. What, specifically, are you looking for?”

  “Well, here’s the thing,” said Bob, “I don’t want to have to order it. I don’t want to wait.”

  “No problem. Solomon Chrysler’s been around a long time, Bob. It’s a big outfit. Did you know we’ve got three dealerships? We’ve got a huge storage lot at the end of Warren Street, right here,” said the salesman, indicating the street running along the side of the service department. “If we haven’t got the vehicle you want here…I guarantee you…we’ve got it there.”

  “That’s good to know, Al. Tell you what; I don’t have a lot of time today. I stopped in for a quick look-see. Give me your card and I’ll come back when I’ve got more time,” said Bob.

  The salesman’s face changed in an instant. He knew a brush-off when he heard one.

  “Sure,” he said, handing Bob his card. “Have a good day.”

  The two agents got back in the Taurus and drove out of the lot through the Service exit, turning right on Warren Street.

  “Ooh, that hurt,” said Sherm, smiling.

  “Hey, it’s better to pull off a band-aid fast,” said Bob.

  Warren Street was mostly rural, spotted with warehouses. About a mile in, they came to the huge, unmarked storage lot on the left. The salesman hadn’t lied. It was loaded with new cars. There was a padlocked chain-link fence around it, and just beyond the cars was a building that looked like a small pre-fabricated hangar.

  The road dead-ended at the woods, where they did a u-turn. There was nobody around. Bob headed back toward the main road.

  “Wait, Bob,” said Sherm. “Pull in there, behind that warehouse, on the left.”

  “What for?” said Bob.

  “The dirt road behind the hangar. It’s not overgrown. Somebody’s still using it,” said Sherm. “Let’s sit here awhile.”

  “Right. Good idea.”

  An hour later, a car came down the road and turned in at the hangar. Both men strained to see the license plate before the dark car disappeared behind the metal structure. About thirty minutes after it arrived, the same car left. Bob quickly scrambled out of the car and sneaked a look around the corner of the warehouse to confirm his hunch.

  “It’s Vinnie Santoro,” he said, climbing back in the Taurus.

  “Damn!” said Sherm. “Are you sure it’s the same car?”

  “Same car, same number. The lab has to be in the hangar!” said Bob.

  “Right…with the old garage in the city for storing and distributing the stuff,” said Sherm.

  “Absolutely! We’ll trace the pick-up tonight and hit both places tomorrow morning.”

  Both men were excited as they drove down Warren Street and hooked a left onto the main drag, heading back to Boston. They never noticed Avram Solomon pass them in a gray Sebring sedan, driving in the opposite direction.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 58

  It was noontime, and all the Task Force agents were gathered in the conference room of the Boston Field Office, except for Jack O’Brien and Mike Simmons, who still had Solomon Chrysler and the old, adjacent garage under surveillance. Agents O’Brien and Simmons had just reported in.

  “So all’s quiet, for now. No action at the corner garage and Solomon’s Jaguar is still at the Dealership. The service department is busy, but, according to Jack, they’re not getting much sales activity,” said SAIC Bob Branson.

  “Do we have the warrants yet?” asked agent Bailey.

  “We’ll have them soon, Tom,” said Bob. “I’ve already informed Judge Wallenski of the locations, the individuals involved, and what we expect to find. They’re 24-hour arrest and search warrants. Thanks to everybody’s hard work here, we’ve already established probable cause, but we can widen the net by tracing the pick-up to the drops tonight. The plan is to hit all five targets simultaneously, early tomorrow morning, before dawn.

  “As you all know, this has been a long-term investigation involving the Drug Enforcement Administration, the Mass State Police, and the Bureau…a total of 200 law enforcement officers. For security reasons, I haven’t notified the DEA and the State yet. But they’re on 24-hour-alert, and ready to go.”

  Branson walked from the head of the rectangular conference table to a wall on the side, covered with charts, pictures, and information.

  “Our main focus will be these five locations,” he said, pointing them out. “Silvio Tambini’s home in Newton. Guido Tambini’s condo on the Charles River. Solomon Chrysler, Boston, and the adjacent garage, here. Solomon’s townhouse on Beacon Hill, and the hangar at the Solomon storage lot in Waltham. We will split into our teams, join up with these other law enforcement agencies tomorrow morning, and serve the Federal warrants.

  “Of course, there will be smaller fish picked up at the same time, all the way down the line. All right now; I want to go over your latest reports, cover any questions anybody has and get right to your specific assignments.”

  Sherman Dixon hoped he would be assigned to bring down Solomon.

  •

  Meanwhile, Guy Tambini was at his parent’s house in Newton for a special lunch; it was Silvio’s birthday. Several family members were gathered around a lace-covered table, laden with various Italian dishes. Silvio sat at one end of the table, and his wife, Annetta, at the other end. Silvio had just finished saying grace, thanking God for all their many blessings.

  Guy’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Yeah? Fuck! I’ll call you back.”

  “Guido!” said Annetta. “Watch your mouth!”

  “That was Billy Bones,” said Guy. “We gotta get out.”

  “FUCK!” said Silvio, slamming the table, shaking everything.

  Annetta kept her mouth shut.

  “Do it tonight,” said Silvio. “Soon as it’s dark.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 59

  It was mid-afternoon of the same day, and Matthew Castle was home early from work. He sat in his elegant Beacon Hill living room in his “compromise” chair. It was a recliner that his wife had grudgingly bought to satisfy his demand. In the end, neither of them was satisfied. Matt had wanted a big leather chair, not this narrow, fabric one. Still, it was a recliner. And because Sylvia hated it, it was definitely his chair, a personal oasis in a room full of antiques.

  He had his nice, bright reading lamp, the Boston Globe, a fire in the fireplace and a beer. It should have been perfect…but it wasn’t. He angrily dropped the paper on the floor and stared into the fire.

  “I wish you wouldn’t throw the paper on the carpet, Matt,” said Sylvia, looking up from her book. “I hate to be a nag, dear, but the newsprint comes right off on things these days.”

  “Sorry,” he said, picking up the paper and setting it on the coffee table. “I’m irritated, I guess. I can’t enjoy it.”

  “Why not? What’s bothering you?”

  “That arrogant peacock, Avram,” he said. “Castle Cay is our island. It’s been in our family since the Civil War…and he’s practically giving it away! He has never even called to ask if we approve of the proposed sale. For all we know, it may already be sold!”

  Matt was usually a very calm and rational person, but now he was pacing back and forth. Sylvia couldn’t recall the last time she saw him this agitated.

  “It’s not that I oppose the sale, necessarily, Sylvia. I just can’t swallow the highhanded way he’s dealing with it. Or maybe I should say underhande
d way.”

  “Why don’t you call him?” she suggested. “This has been bothering you ever since Marc’s death. Why not confront him about it?”

  Matt stopped pacing and looked at her.

  “You’re right. I’m going to call him right now.”

  He left the room, went into his study and sat behind the desk. He looked up Avram’s home number. It rang several times, and then he got a generic “Please leave your name and number” message. He hung up angrily. Searching through the business card file, he found Solomon Chrysler, Boston, and called that number.

  “Good afternoon, Solomon Chrysler. How may I direct your call?”

  “Avram Solomon, please,” said Matt.

  “May I say who’s calling, sir?”

  “Yes. Matthew Castle.”

  “One moment, sir…”

  Matt waited impatiently, listening to music interspersed with service department specials. At last, the receptionist came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Solomon isn’t in,” she said.

  Matt was furious, certain that Avram was in, but ducking his call.

  “Thank you,” he said tersely, and hung up. That’s the last straw. I’m going down there and confront him right now. He’s going to talk to me, damn it!

  “Sylvia? I’m going out; I’ll be back in a while!” he called out as he put on his jacket and grabbed his car keys. He didn’t wait for her response.

  It was only a fifteen-minute drive from Beacon Hill to the Boston dealership. In Matt’s frame of mind, it seemed even shorter. As he pulled into the car lot, he saw Avram’s black Jaguar.

  I knew that liar was here!

  Matt walked into the showroom to the central reception desk in the back of the room. He deliberately calmed himself.

  “I’d like to see Avram Solomon,” he said.

  “I believe he’s gone out, sir,” said the dark-haired young woman.

  “Can you tell me why his car is parked out front, then?” said Matt.