Quarterback Trap (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 3)

by Dallas Gorham

  “Sure. All the time.”

  “Great. Final question: Have you ever used your cell phone to order any type of carryout food so it would be ready when you got there? If so, what type and how often?”

  “Hmm, yeah. I order Chinese from the restaurant down the block.”

  “Is that the only one?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Thank you for your time. To what address should we send the coupon for the free pizza?”

  He gave me an address in Brooklyn.

  “What name do we address it to?”

  “Sam Torrance.”

  I hung up. Bingo. I texted the address and name to Flamer with a note to get me a brief report on him.

  I Googled Tawanda Grisham. Three years before, Ms. Grisham had been the victim of an acid attack. An unknown assailant had thrown sulfuric acid in her face and scarred her horribly. After several plastic surgeries, her face was still scarred. The newspaper accounts said she was suspected of being involved with a drug dealer, but she refused to cooperate with the police.

  My heart felt like it had dropped into my stomach. Tawanda Grisham had been an aspiring Broadway actress. Her face was her fortune, like Graciela’s.

  I Skyped Snoop at my home office computer where he was working. “What have you got on her credit cards?”

  “I checked all the way to the first of last year, Chuck, about thirteen months.” He glanced at his notes. “Gracie has always been a little haphazard about paying bills. But last February, payments on her credit cards got way overdue.”

  I nodded. “Must be when she got back on the drugs.”

  Snoop continued. “She stayed spotty with her payments for the next four months, until Bob sent her to rehab. Someone paid her credit cards in full on July 22, a few days before the Jets training camp started. That was over $80,000 and the money didn’t come from Gracie’s bank account.”

  “Yeah, Snoop. I’ll check with Bob, but I’m pretty sure he paid them. Maybe he wanted to give her a clean start.”

  “Whatever,” said Snoop. “There were no credit card charges for the next five weeks. That had to be while she was in rehab. The last week in August, she started to use her credit cards again.”

  “That would be when she finished rehab,” I said.

  “Sure. In September, she paid the minimum on each card. The October payments were late, and her card balances grew to forty grand in two months.” He turned a page. “She was late again in November and she’s made no payments since then. Her card balances are now near their maximum credit lines—close to ninety thousand dollars.”

  I sipped my coffee. “She’s in debt up to her eyeballs again.”

  Chapter 18

  Graciela sipped her Pinot Grigio and set the glass on the teak table. She rose from the chaise longue and stretched toward the hardtop overhead. Her new bikini top rode up on her breasts and pinched a little. She pulled the top back into place and lengthened the shoulder straps—again. God, I hope my breasts haven’t started to fall, she thought. She stretched toward the hardtop again. Oh, hell. I haven’t seen a crew member come back here for the past two days. She removed her top and draped it across the bench. That’s better.

  She could barely place her hands flat on the fiberglass above her when she stood on tiptoes. She bent over and touched her toes. She spread her feet and did thigh stretches. She wondered how much longer it would take the boat to get wherever they were going. She was lonely and bored.

  This was the third day the Double Scotch had sailed south down the Florida coast. When Vidali told her goodbye before dawn Sunday at the Portside Market dock, he said the boat would take her to the Florida Keys. He’d been vague about the timing. She didn’t think it should take this long. Since the yacht had cast off, she had seen only two crew members. One was the steward who remained in the main salon and galley. He fixed her drinks and prepared her meals. The other man seemed to be a general deckhand. But there had to be somebody to pilot the yacht. Speaking of that, the boat was barely moving. A girl could only work on her tan for so long, then it became a bore.

  She put on her top and climbed to the sun deck on the top of the yacht to watch the wake spool out behind her. She made out a few of the taller buildings on the mainland a few miles to the west. We should be off the Keys by now. But the Keys don’t have that many tall buildings. We must be passing Miami, or maybe Coral Gables. What the hell? That’s the Turkey Point nuclear power plant. We haven’t even gotten to the bottom of Miami-Dade County.

  The engine vibration changed. Her shadow, which had been on her right, began to move toward the back of the boat. The bubbly wake curved off to the left as the yacht turned. Graciela’s shadow traced an arc across the sun deck. Funny, the boat is turning around.

  She watched with interest as the buildings she had seen on the starboard side moved to the port side. We’re heading back the way we came. How strange. I wonder why the change of plans.

  The wake straightened out and the engine vibration changed again. The breeze on the sun deck had switched from left to right. Now the wind turned toward the north and freshened. We’ve picked up speed, Graciela thought. Waves splashed off the bow and spray blew back over the sides, chilling Graciela where she stood. As she turned to descend to the next deck, a rogue wave, caught by the wind, splashed over the top and soaked her to the skin. Something’s going on and I’m going to find out what it is.

  Graciela had not been on the bridge, but she’d been on yachts before, and she knew where it was. She descended the carpeted steps to the bridge deck and walked forward past the owner’s stateroom to the bridge door. She knocked twice, then went in.

  The cabin air conditioning chilled her bare skin, bringing her nipples erect.

  A man in a denim shirt and pants sat on a high stool, hands on the wheel. He turned toward the sound of the door opening. “Miss, you’re not supposed to be in here. This area is for crew—.” He saw her red bikini and froze. His eyes swept Graciela’s body from head to foot and back. They stopped at her bikini top.

  Graciela remembered she had left her beach cover up on the sun deck. She glanced down and realized belatedly that her new bikini had not been made for swimming. When the fabric was wet, it was almost transparent. Her dark nipples showed like chocolate drops through the red cloth. Well, it’s too late to go back and get it now, she thought. Her eyes swept the instrument panel and fixed on the cellphone lying there. I may as well make the most of it. She smiled at the sailor. “Why have we turned around?”

  The helmsman stared at her breasts, speechless.

  She sashayed over to the instrument panel, hips swinging like she was on a fashion show runway. Enjoy the view, you horny bastard. She ran her fingers across the counter from left to right as she turned languidly to face the helmsman. She leaned back against the steel rail, hands behind her to display her breasts to greatest advantage. She crossed her ankles like she was at a photo shoot. This is like modeling for the swimsuit issue, except those swimsuits aren’t transparent. She pointed her breasts at the sailor to give him a good look. “I was curious as to why we’ve turned around. Perhaps you could tell me where we’re going?” She smiled again.

  The man came back to his senses. “Orders,” he mumbled in Spanish.

  She answered in the same language. “Oh? What orders would those be?” She felt behind her and palmed the cellphone with her right hand.

  “We’re going to Mango Island.” He never looked at her face.

  “Well, finally. I love your boat, but it is getting a little dreary. I’d much rather spend a few days on Mango Island.” She smiled again as she turned and left, cellphone hidden under her arm. She could have carried the cellphone in plain sight and the helmsman wouldn’t have seen it. That’ll show Vic. He can’t treat me like this. I’m a partner, not a prisoner.

  She climbed back to the sun deck, glanced around to make sure none of the crew could see her. She composed a text on the cellphone and hit send, then cursed un
der her breath. No signal. We’re too far from shore. No matter, we’ll be in range eventually. She stuffed the cellphone between two cushions, put on her beach cover against the breeze, and resumed her spot on the chaise.

  She picked up her Pinot Grigio and thought back three days to when the three men had grabbed her in the parking garage. They’d thrown her into that disgusting old van that smelled of sweat and gasoline. She had turned to them with fire in her eyes. “You idiots! This isn’t the way this is supposed to work. I’m supposed to go into hiding. Give me my purse and my cellphone.” She had reached between the two front seats toward her purse.

  The man beside her grabbed her wrist. “There’s been a change of plans.”

  “What change?”

  “We’re keeping the cellphone.”

  “At least let me get my purse.” She grabbed her purse. “You idiot! You’ve scratched it when it fell on the concrete. Do you have any idea how much a Prada purse costs?”

  The driver ignored her. The van rolled down the ramps and slowed when it approached the garage exit.

  “Where are we going?”

  The man waited until the exit gate rose. He closed the van window and pulled out of the garage. “Mr. V will explain.”

  “And where is Vic?”

  “At the boat.”

  “And where’s the boat?”

  “At the Portside Marina.”

  Chapter 19

  The sun had dropped halfway to the horizon when Mango Island came into view. Humph, Graciela thought, three days to go south and one hour to come back north. I knew this boat was killing time.

  She wrapped her beach cover tighter and retrieved the cellphone from between the cushions. One bar. She hit send and waited until the text was transmitted, then descended three decks to her stateroom to change clothes. She didn’t want Vidali to see her in a bikini. I don’t want to appear vulnerable. This isn’t working out like I thought. I need to project a more powerful image.

  She selected navy blue pants and a powder blue top. She put on a clunky gold necklace and matching bracelet. White sneakers completed the outfit. She studied her image in the full-length mirror. She replaced the gold necklace with a slender silver chain and matching earrings and bracelet. The silver highlights my tan. She nodded approval and packed her bag.

  She carried her overnight bag upstairs to the yacht’s salon. She walked to the bar and reached for the Pinot Grigio. God, I wish I had blow instead. Why, oh why, didn’t I remember to put some in my bag? She bypassed the Pinot Grigio and poured herself a double Scotch. Like the boat’s name, she thought and laughed.

  She’d finished her first Scotch when the steward entered the salon. “We’ll be docking soon, Ms. Perez. Would you like another?”

  “Yes, thanks, Tomás.”

  A few minutes later, mango trees laden with yellow blooms appeared through the salon windows. Graciela stood and steadied herself on the sofa arm. I hope I haven’t drunk too much. She moved unsteadily to the window. It must be because the boat is rocking. A concrete seawall rose behind the riprap. A few feet inland a wide sidewalk/bike path circled the island. Mango and palm trees filled the grassy lawn between the seawall and the asphalt path.

  The Double Scotch glided past the trees and through the mouth of Mango Island’s private yacht basin. The yacht slid across the azure water toward the dock. Two sailors came on deck outside the salon windows, docking lines in hand. The engine vibrations changed when the screws reversed. The boat drifted to the dock under its own momentum. The sailors tossed the lines to a man and woman in turquoise and gold uniforms who waited on the floating dock. The club crew moored the yacht and stood near the cleats. The two deckhands on the yacht hauled out an aluminum gangplank.

  Vicente Vidali stood on the dock in a navy-blue blazer and white pants. He wore brown Topsiders with no socks. His bodyguards stood a couple of yards behind.

  Graciela set down her Scotch and picked up her overnight bag. She stepped through the sliding door and walked toward the gangway as the sailors secured the aluminum steps to the yacht.

  Vidali climbed the steps to the gangway, followed by the bodyguards. “There you are, my dear. Let’s talk in the salon.” He reached for her bag. “Here, Dante will take that for you.”

  Graciela lifted her bag away from Vidali’s hand and stood planted in the middle of the walkway. “Let’s talk in your house, Vic. I’m sick of this boat.”

  Vidali smiled and shrugged. “There’s been a change of plans, my dear. Let’s go to the salon and I’ll explain.” He gestured back at the open salon door.

  The other crewmen and both bodyguards now stood behind Vidali, blocking the entrance to the gangway. She glanced down at the dock for a split second. What the hell am I thinking. An eight-foot drop across two feet of water. Where would I go if I jumped? I might as well play this out.

  She turned and stepped back into the salon, but she didn’t let Vidali take her bag. That way she convinced herself that she was in control of the situation.

  She heard the steps clang as the crew hauled them aboard. She looked forlornly through the salon windows as the dock seemed to move away from the yacht. Within a few minutes they had cleared the entrance to the Mango Island Marina and headed toward the ship channel. Her chin quivered. She took a deep breath and stood straighter. Power image, she thought.

  Chapter 20

  Snoop held up the printed report from Flamer.

  “Chuck, says here that Vicente Lorenzo Vidali is fifty-two years old. Third generation American, resident of Mango Island, Port City Beach, Florida. Married to Gina Torrietto Vidali for twenty-five years. Two children: A son Vincent Lawrence, twenty-three years old, works as a management trainee at an investment management firm in Chicago; a daughter June Margaret, nineteen years old, attends Bennington College.”

  He looked up from the report. “Neither kid has any connection to their old man’s business. The wife is old school Italian-American, second generation. They’re separated now; she won’t give him a divorce. He bought her a penthouse condo in Palm Beach.”

  “The wife and kids could be a weak point,” I observed.

  “In Vidali’s business, you don’t mess with your competitor’s family. So…not really.”

  “But we’re not business competitors. Call some PI’s in Chicago, Palm Beach, and Boston. Get me candid shots of both Vidali’s kids and wife, shopping maybe.”

  “You got a use for the photos, Chuck?”

  “Maybe.”

  Chapter 21

  As the mega-yacht cleared the breakwater, it turned south and accelerated to cruising speed. Graciela’s spirits fell while her stomach became queasy as the ship porpoised through the swells between the Gulf Stream and the mainland. She set her wine glass down. The Pinot Grigio swayed back and forth in the glass as the table tilted. I don’t need any more alcohol right now. I have to be on my toes. “What’s this about, Vic? Where are we going?” Power image.

  Vidali’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “As I said, there’s been a change of plans, my dear. We’d like you to remain aboard the Double Scotch for a few days—until the Super Bowl is over.”

  “That wasn’t the plan, Vic. I was supposed to go to a hotel in Naples and wait until after the game to resurface. That’s what the fifteen thousand is for.” She reached in her purse and pulled out the envelope. “Speaking of which, the money’s here—all of it. I didn’t have a chance to spend any before your men grabbed me.”

  “You’ll be safer and more comfortable on the Double Scotch.”

  “I’m sick of this boat. Let’s at least go back to your place on Mango Island. I can swim and play golf and go to the beach.”

  “My personal life is at my home. I don’t do business there.”

  “Well, we did some business there last Saturday which you enjoyed. You didn’t have a problem inviting me then.”

  “That wasn’t business, my dear Gracie; that was pleasure, pure pleasure. Besides, you’re much too famous. Someone c
ould recognize you on the golf course or at the beach. You’re better off here, believe me. I’ve got everything you need right here.”

  “Have you contacted Bob about the game yet?”

  Vidali shook his head. “We don’t want to give Bob too much time to think about this. We’d rather him remain in the dark for a few days. We’ll contact him with our proposal the day before the game. Twenty-four hours before kickoff is about right.”

  “Who is this ‘we’ you’re talking about?”

  Vidali waved a hand. “My odds makers—the guys who set the betting line.”

  “And what do they say?”

  “Bob should have time enough to study the coach’s game plan so he can figure out how to shave the right amount of points. But he shouldn’t have so much time that people notice a change in him or so that he has time to take counter-measures.”

  “Counter-measures? What counter-measures could he take?”

  “For one thing, he hired a private detective to find you.”

  Graciela’s eyebrows raised. “Who?”

  “Carlos McCrary.”

  Graciela laughed. “I’ve met McCrary. If you ask me, he’s only a pretty face. I’d bet that he’s a leg man for a bunch of ambulance-chasing attorneys. He’s too young to have had much experience at being a real private eye.”

  Vidali waved a finger at her. “Living in New York, you don’t know McCrary like we do, Gracie. He’s got a reputation in Port City from other cases he’s worked. He’s a former Green Beret. You gotta be smart and tough to make it in the Special Forces. He won a Bronze Star in Afghanistan, so he’s not afraid of anything. He’s well-connected in the police department…and he has Bob’s money behind him.”

  “Well, I don’t see that changes anything, Vic. Obviously, Chuck hasn’t found me. Besides, I sent Bob a text that I was all right and I would be back before the game. He probably told Chuck to stop looking for me.”