“You know what this has me thinking?” Ted asked.
“What?” She turned to Ted.
“Who controls the garbage companies?”
Leah shrugged. “I don’t know. Who? Some big corporation?”
“Yeah, but not who you think. It’s the mob, they control the garbage business.”
Leah laughed. “Ted, don’t be so naïve, you’ve been watching too much Sopranos. There’s no mob in Seattle.”
“Look who’s being naive.” Ted laughed then his voice took on an icy tone. “I’ve met them. I did a job for them a few years ago. That’s how I first met Cat. Rico Caglione. He’s the big mob boss in Seattle.”
“Yeah, but he’s in prison. He was put away a couple of years ago in the Strippergate case.”
“Just because he’s in jail doesn’t mean his organization isn’t still active. Someone’s still running his strip clubs. I’ve been in his network. I know he has other businesses, including the garbage company.”
“So you think this is mob money?”
“My spider sense is tingling. I’d bet you even money that Randall was laundering money for the Mafia.”
****
Monroe was a pleasant little town in the rolling hills north and east of Seattle. Rico Caglione had driven through the town numerous times on his way to Steven’s Pass to go skiing. What he never wanted was to be a guest of the state at the correctional facility there.
Caught up in the Strippergate scandal, Caglione was convicted of funneling illegal campaign contributions to three Seattle City Council members in exchange for their favorable votes on a zoning waiver to allow more parking for his Dirty Bird strip club.
The hell of it was, here he was, doing five to seven in Monroe, while the council members were all re-elected and serving out their terms on the council. Where’s the justice in that?
“Caglione, you have a visitor,” the tall guard said as he opened the cell door.
“Yeah, who is it?” He didn’t have any visits scheduled for today.
Caglione’s family regularly visited him and during visiting hours he received reports and gave orders to keep his business empire running. Tony Lamont, his second-in-command, did an outstanding job of keeping the machine oiled.
But today? He wasn’t expecting anyone today.
“Your lawyer,” the guard said as they walked down the hallway.
My mouthpiece? What could he want?
Abe Weinstein had been Caglione’s lawyer since he could remember. Actually, since before he could remember. His old man used Weinstein. The old geezer thought the world of him.
Caglione wasn’t so sure. After all he had ended up here. But Weinstein was a valuable piece of the puzzle. He could bring information in and out of the prison with impunity. The guards couldn’t search a lawyer’s brief case. Attorney/client privilege.
“Rico, how you doing?” the short, dark attorney asked as Caglione entered the visitor area.
The mouthpiece sat on the other side of a glass wall. There was a louvered opening like at the movie theater box office for them to talk though.
“How should I be doing?” Caglione sat in his chair. “What’s up?”
Weinstein leaned in to the grate. “I have news for you. You remember Dick Randall? The guy with the bikini barista stands?”
“Yeah. What about him?”
“He’s gone missing.”
“Missing?”
“Yeah. Like permanently missing.”
Caglione leaned in and spoke in a hushed voice. “What happened?”
“No one seems to know. I’ve talked to the police. They say they found his truck alongside the highway, burned out. There’s no trace of Randall.”
“The bastard’s skipped. How much of my money did he have?”
“I don’t know. It was in seven figures.”
“Randall was small potatoes, but he did a good job. He cleaned up my money and made it legit. Why would the bastard skip?”
Weinstein pushed his wire rim glasses up his long nose. “He just lost a case. He was looking at five to ten in here with you. I think he skipped to stay out of jail.”
“But the son-of-a-bitch skipped with my money. Talk to Tony. Tell him to find the little rat. Find out how much he’s into me. You know, this isn’t big stuff, but I can’t let it go. I let it slide and pretty soon all my laundries are doing the same thing.”
Chapter 15
Is this guy that dumb or that smart? Ted wondered.
He looked again at the papers in his hand. Oh well, better report this to Cat.
He got up from his desk and walked to Catrina’s office. “Cat, I’ve got some good stuff for you.”
Catrina looked up from her computer monitor. “C’mon in. Whatcha got?”
Ted surveyed Catrina’s office with all of its beat-up furniture. Once again he was grateful for Jeff’s good taste. Why hadn’t Cat taken Jeff’s office for herself?
“This is on the Randall case. I’ve been doing some digging”
Catrina swung her monitor out of her way. “Sit down.” She motioned to Ted. “What’re you talking about?”
“Well, I’ve hacked into Randall’s bank records. There’s no activity on any of his charge cards since he went missing. There are no airline tickets in his name.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” Cat leaned back in her chair and locked her hands behind her head. “If it were me, I’d have another identity set up. Have charge cards in my new name.”
“Could be. But I found a bank account in Randall’s name in Puerto Rico. Why would this guy be putting money away in PR?”
“Puerto Rico? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“That’s what I thought.” Ted handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s his bank statement. He made three deposits of ninety-nine hundred dollars. Just under the ten thousand dollar limit for taking cash out of the country. For a total of twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy dollars”
“Less than thirty grand?” Catrina rubbed her left cheek bone with her index finger. “What good would that do him? If Randall were planning on disappearing, that’s not enough to live on. Has he touched the money since he disappeared?”
“No. But think about it for a minute. If you were really devious and wanted to disappear, to throw the authorities off, you might set up a dummy bank account. Puerto Rico is part of the United States and they have similar banking laws. You can’t hide money there. Why wouldn’t he do it in the Cayman Islands or Belize or someplace like that? But Puerto Rico? It’s almost like he wanted the account to be found.”
Catrina scooted forward in her chair to listen.
“So,” Ted continued. “You set up a dummy account to make the police look for you in Puerto Rico. Then you open the real numbered account somewhere else. You go there. No one would ever find you.”
“You do have a devious little mind, Mr. Higuera,” Catrina said. “I like it.”
“So, if he did fake his death, we need to be looking elsewhere.”
“Yes,” Catrina agreed. “But where? The jerk could be anywhere in the world. If he’s still alive, that is.”
****
Clayton Johnson-White’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He flew over the Jefferson County International Airport once, to establish that there was no activity on the ground. No one should be there at this time of night, but he had to be sure. He selected the correct frequency on his radio and clicked twice. The runway lights came on. Still no sign of people.
Clayton guided the stolen Cessna out over the bay then turned back to the airport, flight manual in his lap. Throttling back let the small plane settle onto a gentle glide path. He entered the pattern on downwind at twelve hundred feet and pulled back slightly on the throttle. The plane continued to sink. Trimming the plane slightly gave it a nose-up attitude. The airspeed indicator showed the plane slowing down.
He reached for the flaps lever and dropped forty degrees of flaps. The nose of the plane b
ucked violently up. Clayton had to fight to add enough pressure on the yoke to keep the plane from stalling. Spinning the trim wheel allowed the plane to fly without the nose tilting up.
Breathing fast now, his arm pits soaked, Clayton wiped the sweat from of his forehead and pushed on the left rudder pedal and slightly turned the yoke. The plane turned ninety degrees onto the cross wind leg.
The plane descended rapidly. Would he make it to the end of the runway? Holding his breath, he crossed over the hill at the east end of the runway and turned onto final approach.
The plane continued to settle. Closer. Closer. The runway rose up to meet him. Big white numbers two and seven were painted on the end.
At the last minute, Clayton remembered to look at the windsock. It stood out at an angle to the runway in a spotlight. Crosswind. What was he supposed to do in a crosswind? Panicking for an instant, the young man gulped a breath and grabbed his manual.
The runway rose up. There was no time to react. This was it. He pulled back on the yoke. The stall warning horn blared in his ear. The plane dropped onto the runway with a resounding thud. It bounced then settled down again.
Clayton fought to keep the plane going straight down the runway, but it had a will of its own. Despite the constant pressure from his feet on the rudder pedals, it wanted to turn. He jerked the yoke. Big mistake. The upwind wing rose and a gust caught it.
The plane started to turn off the runway. Clayton stood on the brakes. The plane jumped through the grass at the side of the strip and down a gulley, crashing into a stand of trees.
Clayton was thrown forward in his safety harness, but thankfully it held. He switched off the ignition.
Better get out of here.
He reached behind him for his backpack, popped open the door and climbed out.
The plane was a mess. One wing was severed completely, the propeller was bent up like a corkscrew and he front of the plane crunched up against a Douglas fir.
Oh well, they say any landing you can walk away from is a good one.
Clayton didn’t walk away. He ran.
Dashing through the trees, down the hill to the road and down the road, he burned off the adrenaline and started to feel weary. Clayton stopped and bent over, hands on his knees. He’d done it! He’d flown a plane. His escape from Orcas Island was complete.
But the cops weren’t that dumb. They’d find the plane in the morning. They’d know he was in Port Townsend. It was time to make tracks.
After walking for half an hour, Clayton came to an isolated house. The lights were off. No dogs barked at his approach.
There was an old Ford Fiesta in the driveway. He pulled the small mag light out of his pack and checked the door. Unlocked. People out here in the country rarely locked their doors.
Clayton used his screwdriver to start the car and was off before anyone took notice.
He left the car in the marina parking lot and went looking for his next mode of transportation.
An old Bayliner Victoria command bridge cruiser was just the ticket. At twenty-eight feet, it was small enough for one person to handle, but fast and tough enough to cross the Straits.
He broke in, hotwired the Volvo Penta diesel and shoved off. The weeks in juvie were worth the time.
Daylight found him tied to a float on Camano Island.
No point in sticking around the marina. Every step a struggle, he kept going. A bicycle leaning up against a marina building was his ticket.
By noon Clayton was safely ensconced in a vacant vacation home. He rummaged through the fridge, freezer and cupboards and found bread, peanut butter and jelly then turned on the TV set and plopped his DVD of “Catch Me if you Can” in the player.
DiCaprio had nothing on him. DiCaprio had imitated an airline pilot, but he hadn’t really flown a plane. Clayton had. He was an honest-to-god fuckin’ pilot.
He fell asleep halfway through the movie.
When the newly-minted pilot awoke, he showered and found clean clothes in the bedroom. Nice of the owner to be his size, the man even had a sense of style. Clayton donned khaki’s and a Hawaiian shirt. There was even a cool Panama hat in the closet.
He looked good. This called for a selfie.
Clayton took his time drawing his Fly Away Bandit bird on the wall. This time, he added a Cessna 172 to the picture then dug out his camera and snapped photos. It was time for a visit to the Internet.
The Fly Away Bandit sat down at the computer in the corner of the living room and brought up Facebook. He went to his page and posted photos and told about his harrowing escape from Orcas Island.
That should give the bastards something to think about.
But it was getting too hot for him here in Washington. It was time to move on.
****
The College Glen neighborhood was an old, established district with middle-class homes. Green lawns, tricycles in the front yard and tree houses all spoke of the stable families that lived there. Catrina almost expected Wally and the Beav to come around the corner at any minute.
The house on Lake Forrest Park Drive was painted light gray with dark gray shutters. Flowers lined the path from the sidewalk to the front door. The lawn was immaculately manicured.
Josey Randall lived in Sacramento, California. According to court records, she had been married to Dick for three years; their divorce had been final two years ago. When she answered the doorbell, Catrina was taken by how much she resembled Karen Randall. Did Randall go around marrying every tall, good-looking blonde he could find?
“Hello, Ms. Randall. I’m Catrina Flaherty. I’m the private investigator from Seattle that you talked to on the phone the other day”
“Oh, yes. I guess you better come in.” Josey held the door open for Catrina. “I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Can I get you a cup?”
. “Yes. Please. I take it black.” Catrina looked around the front room. It was an older home, post-WWII era. Fresh paint and neatly maintained furniture spoke of the care with which the home was loved.
“Sit down.” Josey motioned towards a stuffed, flower print covered couch with dark polished maple legs. “I’ll be right back.”
Catrina checked out the room. A side table under the front window was filled with pictures, a young boy, a boy and girl, Josey and Dick in a wedding pose. Did Randall have children Catrina didn’t know about? Maybe he had a second family Karen wasn’t aware of. Was it possible the scoundrel had a third family somewhere? A family he faked his death to join?
“Here we are.” Josey entered the room with a tray with two china cups, a creamer and a sugar bowl.
“Thanks.” Catrina took a cup. “It smells wonderful.” She took a sip. Phew! Catrina, like so many people in Seattle, considered herself a coffee aficionado. She knew good coffee. This wasn’t it.
“Your house is lovely,” Catrina said. “How long have you lived here?”
“I’ve had this house for twenty years. I bought it with my first husband. He was an electrician, killed in a work accident.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. His life insurance paid off the house, so I’ve been pretty lucky to stay here. I couldn’t afford to buy it today.”
“You have children?” Catrina nodded towards the photos.
“Oh, yes. John and Darlene. They’re from my first marriage.”
“I see.” Catrina took the notebook out of her bag. “Let’s get back to your ex-husband. As I told you, he’s gone missing. I’ve been hired by Dick’s wife to find him.”
“Ex-husband? Dick? Wife? What are you talking about? I’m his wife. Dick and I are separated, but we’ve never divorced. He moved to Vegas then Seattle for business. Dick calls me once a month or so, but I don’t see him that often.”
Catrina nearly fell over. Was Randall a polygamist too? “But, you’re legally divorced. I’ve seen the papers.”
“What papers?” Josie slammed her coffee cup down so hard it spilled over. “I never signed anything. Dick ne
ver asked me for a divorce.”
Catrina decided to take the conversation in a different direction. She had to do a little research into Dick’s alleged divorce. “When was the last time you heard from him?”
“It must be a month or so. Dick said he was having some legal problems up in Seattle, something his lawyer couldn’t fix it, you know, so he was going to have to take care of it himself.”
“Take care of it himself? Do you know what he meant by that?”
“No. Not really. Dick always kind of made his own rules. I’m sure he has a plan to take care of his problems.” Josie paused for a moment then went on. “The bastard. He really filed divorce papers?”
“I’ve seen them. They have your signature on them.”
“Not my signature.” Josie’s face turned red. “This is Karen’s doing. That bitch is capable of anything. That woman is ruthless.”
“Richard, Dick, hasn’t been heard from in over two weeks. His burned out pickup truck was found in the California high desert.”
“Oh!” Josey’s hand went to her mouth. “Is he... is he okay?”
“We don’t know. That’s why I’m here. His wife, Karen, hired me to find him.”
“That bitch.”
“You know Karen?”
“Yes, Dick was married to her before me. She made his life a living hell. She’s totally callous. She was always after him for alimony. If he was a day late, she’d call him, threaten him.”
Catrina sat forward on the couch. “How would she threaten him?”
“She said she knew things about him. That she had ways of getting to him.”
“What kind of things?”
“I don’t know.” Josey chewed at her fingernails. “Dick never told me. Whatever she had over him, it must have been pretty bad. He lived in fear of her.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about her?”
“She’s a hell-bitch. You say she hired you and that she was married to him? She’s lying. Dick’s still married to me. He hasn’t been married to her for five years.”
Bikini Baristas: Ted Higuera Series Book 4 Page 15
