by Lee Hanson
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “but…are you Mr. Castle?”
“Yes, I am. I am also Mr. Solomon’s uncle and it’s important that I speak to him,” said Matt.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Castle,” she said. “We’ve looked everywhere for Mr. Solomon since you called. He’s not here. I don’t know why he left his car here. Have you tried him at home?”
“Yes, I have. He’s not there,” said Matt.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know where Mr. Solomon is, sir,” she said.
“Well…thank you,” said Matt, with resignation. “Please tell him that I’m looking for him when he comes back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Matt left the showroom and got into his car. He sat there for minute or two, and then he pulled out his wallet, searching through it. He found the card, and punched the number into his cell phone.
“Dixon, here.”
“Mr. Dixon, this is Matthew Castle. I thought perhaps I should give you a ‘head’s up’. My nephew, Avram Solomon, seems to be missing.”
* * * * *
Chapter 60
Sherman Dixon burst into SAIC Robert Branson’s office. Bob Branson was on the phone with the DEA’s Special Agent in Charge, Brian Torrington. Bob put his hand over the phone.
“What is it, Dixon?”
“Solomon skipped!”
“What?”
“He’s missing.”
Bob Branson took just a moment to process the news.
“Torrington,” he said into the phone, “I’ll call you right back. Something important has come up. I’ll call you within ten minutes. Yeah, bye.” He hung up the phone.
“Sit. Tell me,” said Bob.
“I just got a call from Matthew Castle. He said Avram isn’t at his townhouse or Solomon Chrysler, although his car is parked at the dealership in its usual spot. O’Brien and Simmons saw him go into the dealership this morning at nine-thirty,” said Sherm. “They said he never came out, but nobody inside has seen him since this morning. Castle said they were looking for Avram all over the place, but couldn’t find him. Everybody in the store thinks he went out. They have no idea where, or why he left the Jag out front. “
“Shit!” said Bob. “He knew we were watching the Jag! He took one of the other cars! He’s had plenty of time to get on a flight out of Logan, or Rhode Island…even New York!”
Sherm nodded, rubbing a hand over his head. “We need to get an APB out on him right away, Bob.”
“I’ll get his name and description out. Have O’Brien and Simmons go in there, now,” said Bob. “Tell them to find out who’s in charge, and close up that dealership! Tell them to get the customers out, tactfully; but keep the employees there. See if they can figure out which car he took, what kind of a plate it had…the number.
“Shit! If Silvio Tambini finds out that Solomon took off, he’ll clean house! The warrants are executable now. We need to move this timetable up.”
“Damn right,” said Sherm, “unless we want to raid empty buildings.”
“I’ll call the State police and the DEA. You get the teams together, Dixon. You and I are going back to Waltham.”
Sherm was on his way out the door and already on his cell, calling Jack O’Brien.
* * * * *
Chapter 61
It was dusk when Sherman Dixon drove down Warren Street in Waltham with a six-member FBI SWAT team, which, to his surprise, included Bob Branson. They turned quickly into the parking area of the warehouse on the right, opposite the car storage lot, and drove behind the large building where they’d hidden before.
The Massachusetts State Police had an eight-man Special Tactics and Operations team already in place on the other side of the hangar. The STOP team was split up; six hidden behind the stored cars, and two snipers in the woods.
The combined assault force wore dark, full ballistic armor. They carried sub-machine guns and assault rifles. Although Sherman was armed and wore a protective vest and helmet, he was not a SWAT member, so he would go in last.
Bob Branson had just alerted the STOP unit that an undercover DEA agent had confirmed that Vinnie Santoro had picked up Guy Tambini. It was assumed they were headed for the lab here. The narc also said they met with four other men; two of whom got into the car with Santoro and Tambini, and two others who followed behind them in a truck.
And so, they waited.
It was fully dark when the car and truck turned onto Warren Street. They passed the hidden SWAT team and turned left on the dirt road behind the hangar.
The SWAT team waited four minutes and then scurried across the street and down to the hangar, hugging the side of the metal structure. Sherm was amazed at how quietly the team moved, despite being so heavily armed. Bob Branson was in the lead, with Sherman bringing up the rear. Bob held up his hand to signal the men behind him to stop.
The drug crew had backed the truck up to the door and left one man outside, armed with an AK-47. There was a low “ph-h-t” and the guard fell to his knees and then onto his face in the dirt as the police sniper’s dart hit its mark.
Branson grabbed the guard’s assault rifle, and the STOP team ran out from the other side of the hangar with the battering ram. The flimsy door caved in immediately, frame and all.
“FBI! FBI! POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! HANDS IN THE AIR! NOW!”
Everyone’s adrenalin was sky-high. Sherman entered the building last. There were at least thirty people in the building, including the police. Most of the actual workers… cookers, cutters, and packagers…were minorities, and they all had their hands in the air. It was easy to spot the bosses. Sherm recognized Guy Tambini from the photo on the wall at the FBI field office.
Suddenly, guns were firing, the air was vibrating, and Sherm was knocked hard, back against the wall. He slid to the floor, trying to process what had just happened. A man next to him collapsed on the floor, blood shooting from his face or his neck. Then Bob Branson was in front of him, shooting. Then it stopped. Sherm felt like he was in a trance…like everything was in slow motion. He knew he was shot…but oddly, there was no pain.
“Dixon! You okay?”
Bob sounded far away. Then everything went dark.
* * * * *
Chapter 62
On the same Tuesday, September 25th, at half-past six in the evening, the Miranda was in the northwestern part of the Gulf, out of fuel and tipping perilously as she crested one wave after another and slid into the troughs. She had been blown north of the storm, to a place where the rain had stopped. Rolly was slipping in and out of consciousness. He was strapped into his seat, being jerked around like a rider on a mechanical bull.
He didn’t know it, but the Coast Guard was covering about 500 square miles searching for him with helicopters and boats.
A violent jerk momentarily aroused him, and he looked out the windshield.
The Eiffel Tower?
He passed out.
•
The oil company employees still left on the huge deep-water drilling rig were relieved that Carlo was headed west, well to the south of them, and no threat to the US coastline. They were located 270 miles southwest of New Orleans, and during the day half of the crew had elected to leave. But now, to the west, beneath the clouds, the remaining crew could see pink and purple streaks from the setting sun, and the rain had stopped.
The environment on the 200-foot tall derrick and its platform was hazardous, the threat of an explosion ever present. It required the men’s full attention at all times. The smell of oil and grease permeated everything, and they wore earplugs to protect themselves from the deafening noise as they went about their work. Given that, it was somewhat surprising that anyone noticed the Miranda at all.
Ken Pritchard was an engineer. He’d been working his tail off all day. He had just stretched, straightened up his back and taken off his hard-hat for a minute. He twisted his neck around to relieve the ache.
“Hey! There’s a boat out there!” he yelled, signaling to the man
next to him.
They began waving their arms, pointing.
“She’s going to hit the rig!”
There was absolutely nothing the men could do to stop it. The boat was too close, and the huge swells were pushing it too fast. Nothing like this had ever happened before in all Ken Pritchard’s years working for the oil company.
He braced himself, watching helplessly, wondering if the guy in the boat was dead, and wondering if they’d be next. He was thinking what every other man on the rig was thinking:
Would the collision tear the rig from the well a mile down?
* * * * *
Chapter 63
Tuesday, September 25th, was a long day for Julie and Joe in Key West. The pleasures of the night couldn’t dispel the daytime gloom at Twelve Gulf Wind Drive. David was inconsolable. The probability of losing Rolly after losing Marc was a one-two punch to his heart. The sun was setting and David had begun crying, once again retreating to his bedroom.
At last report, Tropical storm Carlo was making landfall on the Yucatan Peninsula. Florida had been spared, but dark clouds moved over the Keys and continued to whip up the warm waters of the Gulf.
Julie and Joe stood at the window, watching the yacht across the canal in fascination.
“Good God!” said Julie, shivering as she watched the violent water tossing the big yacht like a toy. “It looks like it might break loose!”
“I don’t think it will break the lines, but it’s going to be banged up pretty bad before this is over, even with all the tires along the dock,” said Joe. “I’ll tell you one thing, Merlin. If Rolly Archer is out there in a small boat, he isn’t coming back.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I think Susan knows more than she’s saying about Rolly” said Julie. “The Sandpiper was closed today; I called earlier and got voicemail. She’s probably at home working on the paintings. I think I’ll go over there, Joe…talk to her a little more…see what else I can find out.”
She grabbed the keys to the VW off the bar.
“Want me to come with you?”
“No…please stay with David,” she said. “He’ll be out again soon, and he needs company. I won’t be long.”
* * * * *
Chapter 64
Susan Dwyer hung up the phone, wondering where the hell Avram was. She had tried to reach him on both his home number and his cell phone. She thought that he must be working late, and it irritated her because she was forbidden to call him there. She wondered if he’d heard about Rolly Archer taking off. What a stroke of luck that was! After all, who would run, if they weren’t guilty?
She studied the two dark paintings she was about to put in the crate. She couldn’t wait to tell him that she had his precious paintings! She couldn’t, for the life of her, imagine what he saw in them. As far as she was concerned, they were depressing. He should have just asked Marc for them, anyway, even if they weren’t for sale. They were brothers, after all! But no, it fell to her to lie to Marc, telling him there was an “anonymous” buyer who had offered fifty thousand for the pair.
And then, unbelievably, Marc had turned it down! Who did he think he was, Picasso? Marc had gotten pissed with her for showing them at all. How was she supposed to know he didn’t want anyone to see them? That they were private? How stupid was that? Did he paint to sell, or what?
He wouldn’t let her take them to New York. And David wouldn’t, either. Oh, well, that problem is solved, she thought. By the time David discovers they’re missing, they’ll be sold to that anonymous buyer.
She smiled and slid them, one at a time, into the crate, which was already addressed to Avram at his townhouse in Boston.
Meeting Avram Solomon was the best thing that ever happened to Susan; and it had happened at just the right time. Her carefully balanced world was about to fall apart like a toppling stack of blocks.
It had all started with her beautiful home. The two-story, waterfront house in Old Town, near Southernmost Point, was over one hundred years old. Two years ago, she’d put her life savings into the historic home. The real estate bubble was fully inflated at the time, and investors were buying property in the Keys like the sand was twenty-four-karat gold dust.
Susan had known the owner of the house, an old widow who was a regular visitor at the Sandpiper. When the widow told Susan that she wanted to sell the dilapidated house and move to St. Augustine to be near her daughter, Susan had immediately made the widow an offer.
Susan’s plan had been to fix it up, and flip it. The mortgage payment was high, but doable, and there was no doubt in her mind that the house would sell quickly.
Unfortunately, everything had gone wrong. The repairs were much more expensive than Susan had thought. Just repairing the long dock had cost ten thousand! Susan didn’t have enough furniture, and decorating was more costly than she’d planned, too. Then the real estate bubble burst, and suddenly there were a slew of houses for sale in Key West…and no buyers.
Meanwhile, the monthly payment on her adjustable rate mortgage had doubled, as had her property taxes and insurance.
Susan had been barely managing the situation by using up the available credit on her cards. The only bright spot was the increasing prices and demand for Marc Solomon’s paintings. Fortunately, Marc had been prolific, and there was a backlog of his work at the gallery that had been selling well.
But that stockpile of his art wouldn’t last forever, and, due to his illness, Marc had been slowing down. To make matters worse, they hadn’t been getting along. The run-up to Marc’s Boston show was a disaster. They couldn’t agree on which pieces to show, or pricing, or much of anything. He drove her crazy.
Susan wanted to kill him!
And then she met Avram Solomon.
•
Susan first noticed Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome studying the Castle Cay paintings. He seemed so intent…
“Hi,” she said. “They’re very dramatic, aren’t they? Do you like them?”
“Oh. Ah…yes. Yes I do.”
“I’m afraid those two aren’t for sale. But, perhaps I could help you select something else. I’m Susan Dwyer, Marc Solomon’s agent.”
He smiled at her and grasped her extended hand in both of his.
“It’s a distinct pleasure to meet you, Susan,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I’m Marc’s brother, Avram Solomon.”
“My goodness!” she said. “I can’t believe we haven’t met before this!”
Avram turned on his considerable charm, and Susan basked in his attention. They walked around the gallery together for at least a half hour, until she realized that she was neglecting her job. She knew that Marc didn’t like his brother, and she noticed him looking at her as if to say, “What are you doing with HIM?”
“I better get back to circulating, Avram.”
“How about after the show? I know a great place for a late bite.”
“Ooh, I don’t know,” she whispered. “I should probably eat with Marc.”
“C’mon, there’s a piano bar…it’ll be fun,” he whispered back. “Make an excuse! Marc doesn’t have to know.”
Susan was forty-six and lonely.
They slept together that same night in her hotel room, although “slept” certainly didn’t describe it. Susan was a big-boned, plain woman, who translated Avram’s voracious sexual appetite as “desire”. He used her and abused her…and she loved every minute of it.
Susan never felt so desirable in her life.
He’d flown her up to Boston twice after that, to spend the weekend with him at his townhouse. He overwhelmed her with his wealth, showered her with attention..
They were out to dinner at an exclusive restaurant when he began to talk about Marc having AIDS, about how he would certainly die soon, and what a terribly painful end that would be for him. Then he moved on to how devastating Marc’s illness would be for her and the gallery, too.
“And, Susan, you know how much I care for you…I think I might be falling in love with
you…and because of that, I did some investigating. I hope you don’t mind that I did. It’s the way things are done in my circle, when one is serious and contemplating marriage.”
Susan had caught her breath.
“Oh, no! I understand, Avram!”
“Good, I’m glad. Now…I know that you have some liquidity problems because of the current real estate market. Heaven knows how many people have gotten caught in this downturn! Anyway, it seems that you have a problem, and so do I.
“You see, I can’t bear for my brother to have a long and painful death; I would prefer that he pass painlessly in his sleep. And I was thinking, my dear, that if you were to help me with this, perhaps I could help you by buying your home. In the long run, it would be a good investment. And, who knows? We may be married one day, anyway.”
The turn Avram’s proposal had taken and the audacity of it, stunned Susan. And it showed in her face.
“I hope I haven’t upset you!” he said, taking her hand, looking earnestly into her eyes. “I would never want to do that, my dear! It’s just that…well, I’m a practical man…and this seemed like a better way for all concerned…don’t you agree?”
Susan said nothing. She was speechless.
“Well, I’ll give you time to consider my proposal,” said Avram, skillfully and deliberately using the word ‘proposal’ once again.
“Let me know when you get home. I’d like to make some plans for our future! But whatever you decide, dear, I hope you’ll save those two paintings for me when Marc does pass away. I presume you’d have them then, wouldn’t you? I’d still be willing to pay fifty thousand for the pair.”
At last, she found her voice.
“I…I’ll think about it, Avram.”
Susan could think of nothing else as she flew home to Key West. Avram had certainly done his homework. To make such a daring proposal, he had to know all about her. Part of her was wounded…but part of her found it exciting. Avram took what he wanted! Susan felt a thrill, connecting his ruthless proposal to his rough command in bed. And then she weighed her situation with Marc against her relationship with Avram.
