He remained seated. His face changed, the facade replaced by hatred. “What do you take me for? You stand me up? You blow me off? You think I came here not knowing anything? You think I care about his estate? You’re going to move those stocks from his account to our account.”
“I can’t take those stocks out of his estate. You were at probate court. You heard that judge. I’m not even the executor anymore.”
“You’re doing it. Don’t give me any crap that you can’t.” He dug a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and threw it on the desk in front of me. “Transfer them to that account.”
I shook my head. “I told—”
“Shut up. Give me the papers on his account so I’ve got the cusip numbers. We’ll transfer ‘em.”
He surprised me by demanding the cusip numbers. They were the Depositors Trust Corporation book numbers for stocks not issued but held in an individual’s account. I shook my head. “No.”
He stood up, so mad his body was almost twitching. “You’re going to move that money. Until you do, I’m going to make your life miserable.”
I didn’t say anything, stood very still. He was like a live grenade that could go off at any second.
“I’ll be back,” he snarled and stormed out.
I heard him walk out, the front door slam, hard, followed by the patter of feet coming toward my office. Rosemary appeared at the doorway, her eyes wide. “Oh my God, Matt. What was that about?”
I tried to sound calm. I probably didn’t succeed. “Mr. D’Onifrio’s organization wants Joe’s money back.”
Chapter 15
“Should we call the police?” Rosemary asked in a high, frightened voice.
I hesitated. “I don’t know. We should, but that’d make this public. If the N.A.S.D. heard I’d been investing drug money, they’d pull my license for sure.”
“We’ve got to do something.”
“We will.” I stood, walked out to the lobby. She followed me. Eddie padded along behind us. “Let’s start by locking the front door again.” When we’d first opened the office, we’d kept the front door locked, used a buzzer to admit people. I threw the lock. “Don’t admit anybody you don’t know. That’ll buy us a little time.”
“Time for what?”
“We need to know what we’re dealing with here. Find out about D’Onifrio. His organization.”
“Find out what?”
“I don’t know. The worst. Prepare for it.”
“You make it sound like researching a stock.”
“Same principle. I’ll call Tory, see what she can find out for us.” In my office, I picked up the phone, dialed her number. To my surprise, she answered.
“You again.” She must have had caller I.D.
“Afraid so. Listen, I need your help on something else.”
“As long as we can do it over the phone. I am not going out again.”
“We can. A stranger was just here at the office. He confirmed what you suspected, that the money Joe invested with me wasn’t his. Then he said they—he never said who they were—wanted their money back. I don’t know what he expected; I can’t give him that money back. It’s in the estate. It’s just not poss—”
“He didn’t want to hear that, did he?’
“That’s when he threatened me, said he’d make my life miserable.”
“When he threatened you, did he say anything specific? Did he give you a sense of what he might do?”
“He said he’d be back.”
“Then you don’t want me. You want the police.”
“I can’t do that.” I explained what this would do to me with the N.A.S.D.
“But you didn’t know it was drug money.”
“You know that. I know that. The N.A.S.D. doesn’t. They hear accusations of churning. They hear involvement with drug money. They think, hmmm, this guy doesn’t sound upstanding. Better for the profession to be rid of him. No police.”
“I can’t protect you. I’m not a bodyguard.”
“That’s not what I want. I need to know as much as I can about D’Onifrio’s organization—”
“Why?”
“So I can figure out how to resolve this. I don’t know what I’m dealing with here. I feel like I’m trying to hit a golf ball with my eyes closed.”
“Bad sports analogy. This isn’t a refinement to help get you out of the rough. You’re dealing with killers.” She paused. “You’re clueless, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t have said it that way. I need information.”
“I’ll get you some background, general information. Enough so you know what you’re up against. That’s all.”
“That’s all I need. I don’t want you going after information that would put you in danger.”
“You’re probably in a hurry for this, too, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so. This doesn’t make me toxic, does it?”
“It’s not helping you any. Your choice in playmates is really bad.” She sighed. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll get back to you.” She rang off.
“You’re sure this is the right thing to be doing?” Rosemary asked.
“Right now, I just want to avoid doing the wrong thing.”
Since I was at the office, I stayed late, got some work done. Driving home, the rain was still heavy, the skies dark and foreboding. Matched my mood.
We navigated the waters to the Watergate club, parked the car, headed up to the condo. The first thing I wanted to do was change into some dry clothes. I’d been damp all day.
I did that and put a chicken breast in the oven to cook. Poured Eddie his dog food. While we ate, I turned on the weather channel.
“We’ve had significant rainfall,” the good-looking female anchor said.
“That’s’ right,” her equally good-looking male counterpart added, “six to seven inches in some areas, which has caused a good bit of low-level flooding.” Tell me about it.
“Rains should lessen tonight, clearing skies tomorrow morning.” That was all I wanted to know. “We needed this rainfall,” the female anchor said before I clicked her off.
The sun was out when I woke in the morning. I hoped that indicated a better day. I fed Eddie, fixed myself a quick breakfast. Eddie danced around the kitchen with his leash. He’d had a hurried walk the night before. I made sure he had a leisurely walk to make up for it.
The commute to work was easier. There were still low spots filled with water, but thanks to the intense Florida sun, most of the roads were dry. Even roadside lakes had diminished. I parked the Saab in the lot, unlocked the front door, made sure Eddie was in, locked it behind me.
“Do we think that man will be coming by today?” Rosemary asked by way of a greeting.
She verbalized what I’d been worrying about on the drive in. “If he looks like he’s going to give us any trouble, call 911. Say he’s harassing us. We’ll let the police deal with him and vice versa.”
She beamed. “Be happy to.”
The morning passed without incident. By noon, the sun and a good business day had me feeling I might have overreacted.
Amanda, from Julian’s office, called at one-thirty, booked a prep session with Amy for four o’clock the following day. That was my only non-business call until quarter to five, when Tory called.
“I’ve got some information,” she said cryptically. “When can you meet me?”
I wanted to say right then, but I had a few things I needed to finish before I left. “How about at dinner?”
“Where and what time?”
“Seven? At Moore’s?” A restaurant on Longboat Key, not far from her.
“Why there?”
“It’s one of Eddie’s favorite places.”
“Oh. See you at seven.”
Eddie and I were there at seven. She wasn’t. She breezed in at seven-fifteen. Once again, head to toe in black, the ubiquitous black bag over her shoulder. She spotted me immediately. The place was empty, just a few summer people, a group who’
d been fishing.
I stood when she came to the table. “Sorry,” she said. She took off her sunglasses, put them in her bag. I had a source call me back just as I was leaving.”
“No problem. I had a glass of wine while I was waiting. Want one?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve got a lot to tell you.” She took a thick folder out of the black bag, put it on the table in front of her, hesitated. “How do we want to do this?”
“Let’s have a bite to eat first. Talk over coffee. How’s that?”
“Good.” She reached for a menu. I didn’t. I knew it by heart.
Our waiter came. Tory ordered the mahi-mahi, I had the crab cakes. We made small talk over dinner. Once the dishes were cleared away and coffee served, she got down to business.
“Let’s start with D’Onifrio.” She pulled a photocopy of a newspaper page out of the folder, turned it so I could see the photo. “This is the guy.”
The head-and-shoulders shot showed a strong face, dark straight hair brushed back, broad forehead, dark penetrating eyes, roman nose, lantern jaw.
“Guy looks like he could be a bruiser.”
“He’s big, six-two maybe, and muscular.”
“What’s that by his ears?”
“Hearing aids. His hearing is seriously impaired. I’ll get to that, but let me give you a little background first. He’s forty-three, grew up in Miami, the second son of two Menendez mules.” She looked at me. “You know what mules are?”
“Drug transporters.”
“Mom and Dad were good at it. They used the swallow-the-condom-full-of-cocaine method. Probably wouldn’t have gotten caught except Mom got sick on a flight from Columbia to Miami. Dad panicked, had her rushed to a hospital. He must have thought a condom broke. It turned out to be acute indigestion, but the hospital authorities became suspicious and called the police. Mom and Dad ended up in prison. All this happened while son Don was attending the University of Miami, working on a degree in finance.”
“Are his parents still in prison?”
“Mom still is. Dad died in 1994.”
She took a sip of her coffee. “D’Onifrio got his undergraduate degree, added a master’s in finance, and went to work for the cartel investing money. He was good at it, rose in the organization, and attracted the attention of the top bosses. During a trip to Columbia in 1992, he was in a limo with Enrico and Ernesto Menendez. Attacked by a rival cartel, Ernesto and two bodyguards were killed. During the shooting, D’Onifrio covered Enrico’s body, saved his life. Two bullets meant for Enrico struck D’Onifrio in the right shoulder. As a result of those injuries, he has limited use of his right arm. The gunfire also irreparably shattered his eardrums, leaving him deaf.” She paused, took a sip of her coffee.
“Where did you find this stuff?”
“Most of this came from a source at the D.E.A.” She took another quick sip of her coffee. Enrico considers D’Onifrio a son for saving his life. As a reward, D’Onifrio was given authority over all the cartel’s money laundering operations and investments. It’s an important position within the cartel, but D’Onifrio’s real source of power is his relationship with Enrico. He has direct access to the top guy.”
Our waitress came with more coffee; she refilled Tory’s cup. Mine was still full, cold. “Why don’t you bring me a fresh cup?” She nodded and left.
“D’Onifrio returned to the states to look for a base of operations. He was looking in Miami mostly, but when Shore Bank and Trust got into trouble in 1997 and came on the market, he jumped on it. When he bought the bank, it had 330 employees. Today, it has 840.”
“Big increase.”
She nodded. “The D.E.A. estimates that 20 of those people work full time for the cartel. Shore, as a parent company, owns or has significant positions in eighteen businesses.”
“Here in Sarasota?”
“No. Spread around—Miami, Orlando, Tampa, Jacksonville. That’s one of the things that worry the authorities. D’Onifrio’s building an empire, getting more powerful. Twice, the D.E.A. has tried to infiltrate his operation and gain enough information to convene a grand jury. Both times the operatives disappeared.” She closed the folder, her face grim. “Now do you understand why I told you he’s bad news?”
I nodded. “Did you run across any vulnerabilities?”
She shook her head. “My guy at the D.E.A. had two words for D’Onifrio—smart, ruthless.”
Our waitress set coffee in front of me, departed. I picked it up, took a sip. “Anything about his personal life? Married? Kids?”
She smiled. “He’s not married, don’t know about kids. I do know his place is rumored to be Playboy Mansion South, complete with a live-in harem. Don’t let that mislead you. This is a guy you don’t want to mess with. People who anger him disappear.”
Good advice. But it came a little too late. I’d already angered him. What I didn’t know was how badly.
Chapter 16
I was on the phone the next morning when I heard the front door rattle, Rosemary scream. “It’s him.”
I put my hand over the receiver. “Call the police,” I yelled to her. “Sid, I’m going to have to call you right back.” I raced out to the lobby, peered out the door window. No sight of him.
The police arrived three minutes later. I let them in, explained that we were being harassed by a blond stranger. They listened, walked around the outside of the building, reported no sign of anyone, and left.
As soon as their cruiser pulled away from the curb, the phone rang, startling us both. “Seattle on Stocks,” Rosemary said, picking it up. Her face drained of color, her eyes widened. “It’s him. He’s demanding to talk to you.”
“I’ll take it in my office.” I headed back, picked it up.
“We want our money, Seattle,” the voice said.
“I told you it’s part of the estate. I can’t help you.”
“Screw that. Transfer the damn stocks or give us the cusip numbers. You’ve got twenty-four hours.” The line went dead.
“What are we going to do?” Rosemary asked from the doorway.
“We don’t have any choice. I’m going to the police, file a complaint, get protection from this guy.” Of course, that was easier said than done. It took three hours—filing a statement, answering questions, looking at mug shots—before they agreed to watch my building for the next twenty-four hours.
Back at the office, I played catch-up until three-thirty then headed to Julian’s for our four o’clock with Amy.
They were both in his office when Eddie and I got there. Julian played host, asking if he could get anybody anything. When we declined, he got down to business. “I’ve talked to Nevitt, and the news is not good. He’s filing to recover ninety-five thousand in brokerage commissions and asking for two million in damages.”
The amounts staggered me. “Ridiculous.”
His face was grim. “You’ll probably be served tomorrow.”
“We’ll follow the same defense we used in probate court, won’t we?” Amy asked.
Julian nodded. “Pretty much. I think we show the closeness of Joe and Matt’s relationship, point up the brevity of the marriage, finish with Janet Jesso’s questionable past.”
“We may have something else.” I filled them in on the thrown trades Tory was investigating.
“If she can trace those back to Nevitt or Wakeman, there’s no question this’ll be dismissed,” Julian said.
“How soon will she know something?” Amy wanted to know.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Then we prepare assuming we don’t have it,” Julian said.
And we did. For the next hour and a half, we filled in the skeleton Julian had outlined earlier. He had another appointment at six. We quit at five-thirty, which was fine by me. I was starving.
“Let’s go get something to eat, Eddie,” I said to him as we got back in the car. The Salty Dog was on our way home so we stopped there. The temperature was cooling off. T
here was no humidity, a blue sky. It was a good night to eat outside on their deck. They fixed Eddie his bowl. Grouper sandwich for me. I lingered over a glass of wine, trying to relax, enjoy the nice evening. At seven, Eddie started dancing around, letting me know he needed to go for a walk. We went across the street to the grassy area in front of Mote Marine Lab. Eddie was quick. We crossed the street and walked through the parking lot to our car to go home.
He stepped out from behind a van, blocked our way. He had his right hand in the pocket of a light blue sharkskin suit. “You don’t plan on giving us those stocks, do you?”
Lying wouldn’t have done any good. “No.”
I started to walk past him to the Saab. He took his hand out of his pocket. It held a gun.
The gun made two soft shoo, shoo sounds that were followed by a single yelp of pain.
Both bullets struck Eddie in the head. One by his left eye. The other in the top of his head. There was no question he was dead.
An immense feeling of loss seized me, a flood of emotion. Eddie had been my link to my family. My constant companion. He’d watched over me, kept me going when I didn’t think I could go on. He was gone.
“You’ve got fourteen hours left, Seattle.” The blond man put his gun back in his pocket, walked away, laughing.
Crying, I picked Eddie’s warm little body up, cradled him in my arms, carried him to the car. Somehow, I drove us home, found a shovel in the gardening shed, buried him under a flowering tree on the front grounds.
“I know you’re in heaven with Michael and Sarah. I know they’re happy to be playing with you. You were always there when I needed you. I’ll never forget you, Eddie.” It was as much of a eulogy as I could manage.
I walked the beach that night, remembering, grieving, feeling sorry for myself. When it grew dark, I wandered back to my apartment, picked up the phone, and called Dr. Swarthmore at home.
“Adelle,” I said when she answered. “He’s dead. Eddie’s gone.”
She listened as it all poured out. “I’m sorry, Matt,” she said when I finished. “I know how much he meant to you. To lose him unexpectedly in this way has to be devastating. You’re going to have to work through the grieving process again, fight falling back into depression.”
Jay Giles Page 7
