by Stuart Woods
“See you then.”
“I’ll leave your name at the gate.”
“Bye.”
Holly freshened up and put on civilian clothes, then drove out to Blood Orchid. The guard waved her through the gate, and she drove to the clubhouse. As she got out of her car, she looked over toward the practice range and saw a very peculiar sight: Hurd Wallace taking a golf lesson! She went inside.
Ed was waiting for her at a table overlooking the golf course; he was the only other person in the dining room. She gave him a kiss and sat down.
“Drink?”
“Maybe a glass of wine with lunch,” she said.
“I’ve already ordered for us,” Ed said. “Trust me?”
Holly smiled. “Anytime. How’s it going with Blood Orchid?”
“I’ll tell you, this is going to turn out to be a better investment than I thought. I’ve sold six houses and three building lots; we’ve already got construction started on two houses.”
“How so fast?”
“The corporation already had the building permits, and the buyers liked the plans.”
“That’s great, Ed.”
A waiter arrived with soup: lobster bisque.
“This is wonderful,” Holly said, tasting it.
“This new chef is a wonder, that’s why.”
“Where’d you find him?”
“In New York; he was the number-two man in a big-time restaurant, but he wanted to get out of the city. I was able to offer him a very attractive package, and he jumped at it. He’s got a lovely wife and two kids, one of whom is starting school this year. I’ve helped him get the boy into a good private school.”
“Sounds like a wonderful deal for him,” Holly replied. “But how about you? Is this going to be a big enough operation to afford that kind of talent?”
“I want only the best,” Ed said, “and by this time next year, the place will be generating big revenues. Everybody I’ve hired has been the best available—except for my security chief, of course; he’s second-best.”
“I saw Hurd out on the practice range, having a golf lesson,” Holly said. “Never thought I’d see that.”
“Oh, Hurd’s a natural,” Ed said. “The pro thinks he’s going to be quite good.”
“Does he have time for golf lessons in the middle of the day?”
Ed grinned sheepishly. “Well, he’s a little underworked at the moment—will be until the place really gets going. I knew that would be the case, that’s why I gave him a golf club membership.”
“The course looks wonderful,” Holly said.
“I had the designer back to install some improvements, and we’re already under way. I’m keeping one of the three courses untouched while the other two are being worked on. That way, my members won’t be bothered with the construction.”
They finished their soup, and the waiter brought their main course.
“What is it?” Holly asked.
“It’s fresh sea bass, cooked in a potato wrapping, with an excellent sauce,” Ed said.
The waiter poured them a glass of white wine.
“And that’s a Batard Montrachet, ’eighty-nine,” Ed said. “The bastard of Le Montrachet.”
Holly tasted it. “Wow,” she said softly.
“Exactly. Now tell me, what’s up with you?”
“Oh, Ed, I’m up to my ears in a huge mess.”
“Tell me about it,” Ed said, concerned.
“Well, for a start, we found the guy who took a shot at you.”
“Hooray for that!” Ed said. “Who is he?”
“Was. His name was Carlos Alvarez, and we found him floating in the Indian River with a bullet in his head.”
“I never heard of him.”
“He was a hired hit man, the same one who killed the two Miami developers. He was quite a shot, too; you were very lucky.”
Ed gave a low whistle. “I guess I was. Who hired him?”
“I don’t know,” Holly admitted. “We’ve traced Alvarez back to some people named Pellegrino, in Miami.”
“There’s a restaurant by that name,” Ed said. “I’ve had dinner there; very good.”
“Pio Pellegrino and his father, Ignacio. Turns out the old man is a former mafioso from New York named Falcone. He disappeared a few years ago and turned up in Miami with his son and a new name.”
“So I had dinner in a Mafia restaurant?” Ed said, sounding delighted. “That’s a new experience. Are they the people who wanted me dead?”
“Yes, and whoever they work with or for. We haven’t gotten past them yet, although the FBI is working on it.”
“I guess they really wanted this property bad, then.”
“Yes, but you’re safe now, since you own it. There’s nothing in it for them to try to kill you again.”
“Who killed . . . what’s his name? The hit man?”
“Another hit man named Trini Rodriguez.”
“He doesn’t sound like Mafia,” Ed said.
“There’s all kinds of Mafia, Ed. We’ve even got a Russian involved in all this.”
“This is the craziest business I ever heard of,” Ed said, shaking his head. “I’m glad I’m out of it.”
“I wish I were out of it; these people have already tried to kill me.”
Ed’s eyebrows went up. “My God! Are you safe?”
“I work on it every day.”
“Listen, I’ve got a couple of guest cottages here; why don’t you move into one of them? They’re very comfortable, and this has to be the most secure place in Orchid Beach.”
“Thank you, Ed, that’s very sweet of you. I’m staying with a friend at the moment, but if that doesn’t work out, I might take you up on your invitation.”
“Is your friend anybody I know?”
“Maybe; his name is Grant Early. He looked at some property out here.”
“Oh, yes, I met him in our office; nice fellow. Some sort of dot.com millionaire, I believe.”
“Yes, he apparently got out just in time, before the crash in those stocks.”
“Some people are just lucky, I guess,” Ed said.
“Yes, and you’re one of them.”
“Keep me posted on your case, will you? It’s fascinating. I lead such a dull life compared to you.”
“Believe me, Ed, you’re better off with a dull life.”
48
Holly felt better after lunch, the wine having helped her hangover, but when she got back to Grant’s house after work, she was tired.
Marina was sitting in the living room alone, a drink in her hand.
“Hi,” Holly said.
“Hello,” Marina said disconsolately.
“Where’s Grant?”
“He went to the grocery store,” she replied. “I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t let me.”
“It’s best you stay in the house, until we know you’re safe,” Holly said.
Marina nodded listlessly. “I spoke to the undertaker this morning, and he called back this afternoon. They’re releasing my mother’s and my aunt’s bodies tomorrow, and the undertaker is taking them back to Fort Lauderdale. I want to go back tomorrow to make the funeral arrangements, but my car is still at the airport in Sarasota.”
Holly sat down next to her. “Marina, you can’t go back to Lauderdale while Trini is still on the loose. He’s looking for you.”
“I don’t care,” Marina said. “I have to bury my mother and my aunt; there’s nobody else to do it.”
“I understand, but you’re going to have to postpone the funeral until it’s safe.”
“While their bodies rot in a funeral home?”
“The undertaker will take care of them; they’ll be embalmed and kept in cold storage.”
“Yes, at a hundred and fifty dollars a day,” Marina said. “I’ve already missed a lot of work because of Carlos’s funeral, and now this. They’re not paying me for the time off, either, and I only have a little in savings. I’ll have to put all this on a credit card, and I just got
them paid off.”
“Marina, I know it’s expensive, but isn’t protecting your life worth a few hundred dollars?”
“Oh, I suppose so, but I feel so helpless.”
“Tell you what, I’ll send someone over to Sarasota to bring back your car. Do you have the keys?”
Marina opened her purse and handed them to Holly.
“I’ll send two officers over there tomorrow, and one can drive your car back.”
“Thank you.”
“But you can’t leave here, Marina. I hope you understand that.”
Marina nodded. “I understand.”
Grant came in from the garage, his arms filled with groceries. “There’s more in the car,” he said. “Give me a hand?”
Holly went out to the garage and got the remaining bags from Grant’s trunk. The top was down on the Mercedes convertible, and as she walked back into the house, something in the car caught her attention. It was a matchbook, lying on the console between the front seats, but she could read the name on it. TRICKY’S, it said. BAR AND GRILL.
They finished dinner and watched TV for a while, then Marina excused herself and went to bed.
“She’s getting pretty antsy,” Grant said.
“I know. She wants to go back to Lauderdale to bury her mother and aunt.”
“You’re not going to let her, are you?”
“Of course not.” They were both quiet for a moment. “Grant, what else do you know about the Pellegrinos?”
“Nothing I can tell you,” he replied.
“Oh, come on, there must be something else that you can tell me without compromising your investigation.”
“They’re very well connected,” Grant said.
“With whom?”
“You name it—if it’s a criminal organization, they’re plugged into it.”
“What sort of activities?”
“Whatever turns a million bucks—prostitution, gambling.”
“Prostitution? I thought that was a freelancer’s market these days.”
“There are some very fancy whorehouses in Miami,” Grant said. “You wouldn’t believe how fancy, and how beautiful the girls are. Or boys.”
“And the Pellegrinos are into that?”
“The Pellegrinos own that.”
“Jesus. And what sort of gambling? Bookie operations?”
“They’ve gone way beyond a bookie operation,” Grant said. “They’re on the Internet.”
“The Internet?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.” He led the way into the study and switched on his computer. He hit the Internet connection, then typed in an address. A title page came up, and there were buttons for football, baseball, golf, basketball, soccer, European soccer, South American soccer, dog racing, and horse racing. Grant clicked on one and got a display of odds on various games.
“Wow,” Holly said. “But that’s got to be illegal.”
“It is, in this country, but Pio and his pop are too sophisticated to get caught at it. The operation is based on an island in the Caribbean called Saint Marks. It’s a former British colony with very loose rules about gambling and banking.”
“How does it work?”
“Well, let’s say you want to place a fifty-dollar bet on a Yankees game. You hit the appropriate button, place a bet, give them a credit card number, and you get an on-screen receipt, which you can print out. If you win, the amount is credited to your card, and you can use it to pay down your bill, or you can take a credit refund.”
“Even if you’re in the United States?”
“Yep. You’d never be caught because there are too many people playing it, and the government doesn’t know who.”
“Can’t the Feds hack into their computer and find out who their customers are?”
“They’ve got their own computer experts working to prevent just that, but suppose we could? We couldn’t arrest everybody. What if we picked a hundred players and arrested and tried them to make an example of them? They’ve still got hundreds of thousands more playing. We couldn’t make a dent. We’ve made overtures to the government of Saint Marks, but the politicians there are well paid by the Pellegrinos, and they’re not going to cooperate.”
“What happens to the money they make? They can’t get it back into this country, can they?”
“That would be tough to do in any volume, but they own their own bank in Saint Marks, and they can wire money to any bank in the world, including ones in places with banking secrecy laws, like the Cayman Islands and Switzerland. They can launder it through dozens or hundreds of legitimate businesses. They own a resort in Saint Marks, for instance. But one of the puzzles is, exactly where is the money going? We’re working on that, but it’s a hard puzzle to break.”
“I don’t get it,” Holly said. “These guys are making all this money . . .”
“Hundreds of millions a year.”
“. . . and they’re sitting in Miami, running a restaurant?”
“That’s just cover; somebody else runs the restaurant. They live well, but not like the very rich people they are. I’d love to know where the money is going and who’s getting it.”
“And this is connected with your work in Orchid Beach?”
“No comment,” Grant said.
After they had gone to bed, Holly thought about the Pellegrinos. And she thought about Tricky’s, too, and what Grant might have been doing there. He wasn’t going to tell her, she knew, and she wasn’t going to ask. Not yet, anyway.
49
The following morning, Holly sent two officers to Sarasota in an unmarked car to bring back Marina’s car. “Just put it in the garage,” she said, giving them the address of Grant’s house, “but bring the keys back to me.”
Harry Crisp called just before lunch. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Harry,” Holly said warily.
“I’ve got some more stuff on your Russian, Bronsky, from the organized crime division of the Justice Department.”
“Oh?” Harry was going to supply information?
“He was part of the New York Russian mob, centered in Brighton Beach, in Brooklyn; nothing big, just an enforcer, and our information is, a particularly cold and cruel one, in an organization noted for its cruelty.”
Holly was immediately suspicious. “Wait a minute, Harry: He was ex-KGB, and he’s just an enforcer? That doesn’t sound right to me.”
“It’s what my people found out, Holly. I’m sorry if it doesn’t mesh with your preconceived notions about the guy.”
“Does he have any connection to the Pellegrinos, apart from his association with Trini Rodriguez?”
“Nothing we can nail down.”
“Then he’s a dead end.”
“A nice turn of phrase, in his present circumstances, but yes, his identity leads us nowhere.”
“How about some information that leads us somewhere, Harry?”
“That’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Forgive me if I seem ungrateful, Harry, but it seems like a bone for the dog. What have you found out on the Pellegrinos?”
“We’re still working on that, Holly, don’t worry.”
Yeah, sure, Holly thought. “Any news on the search for Trini?”
“He’s gone to ground, not visiting any of his usual hangouts.”
“Including the bar Tricky’s?”
“We’re looking everywhere, Holly, don’t worry.”
“Somehow, I have the idea that if Trini wanted to kill you, instead of me, you’d be looking a lot harder.”
“We have to leave that sort of pursuit to the locals and the state boys; we don’t have enough personnel to run dragnets. It’s always been that way; our people are investigators; they don’t set up roadblocks or search for hideouts.”
“Yeah, and in the meantime, Trini’s going to keep trying to kill me and Marina because he thinks one of us has the notebook. Can you get something in the papers saying that you’ve got the not
ebook? Maybe that would take the heat off Marina and me.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Well, thanks for the information on the Russian, Harry. Goodbye.” She hung up, pissed off.
Her officers showed up around three with Marina’s car keys, and Holly worked until six, then went home. The guard outside the house showed himself when she arrived.
“Hi,” she said. “Everything okay?”
“Very quiet,” the young man replied. “Two of your officers showed up around mid-afternoon with a car; they put it in the garage.”
“Right. I’ve got the keys in my pocket.” She went inside. “Hello?” she called. “Anybody home?” No answer. She checked the garage to see if Grant’s car was there, and it wasn’t. Neither was Marina’s.
She ran upstairs to check the guest room, but it was empty; Marina’s things were gone. She ran back to the front of the house and grabbed her officer. “The car that was brought here this afternoon is gone. When did it leave?”
“I didn’t know it had,” the officer said.
“Did you leave the front of the house at any time?”
“Sure, I check the perimeter every twenty minutes or so. It could have left when I was on the beach side of the house.”
Holly looked up to see Grant turning into the driveway, and she ran over to his car.
“Hi,” he said getting out and handing her a box of wine bottles. “I picked up a few things to drink.”
“Marina’s gone,” she said.
“How?”
“I had her car brought back from Sarasota. I kept the keys, but she must have had another set.”
“She’s obviously headed for home,” Grant said. “Call the state police and have them pick her up on the interstate. Tell them she’s a material witness.”
Holly shook her head. “Problem is, she’s not a witness to anything; she didn’t see Trini shoot anybody.”
“In that case you couldn’t have stopped her anyway.”
Grant parked, and they went into the house. Holly picked up the phone and dialed Marina’s cellphone.
“Hello?”
“Marina, it’s Holly.”
“I’m sorry, Holly; I know you’re angry with me.”
“I’m not angry, I’m worried about you.”
