No one dared speak.
“Very good. We are adjourned.” Smulders banged his gavel again and made a hasty exit.
Dan turned to Sweeney. “Sorry I couldn’t get bail.”
Sweeney shook his head. “You had no chance. At least you showed a little fire.”
“I could only—”
“Next time, show more.”
Dan bit his tongue. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Jazlyn head out of the courtroom.
“Jazlyn! Wait.”
Jazlyn slowed, but she did not look happy about it.
He caught up to her. “Can we talk for a moment?”
Jazlyn drew in her breath. “We’re on opposite sides of a case. We really shouldn’t.”
“That has never stopped you before.”
“I don’t just work in the office anymore. I’m the district attorney. Many people will be watching us. I have to set an example.”
“Of being rude to opposing counsel?”
“It’s possible to be distant without being rude.”
“But—why?”
Jazlyn shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Was there something you wanted to discuss?”
“Yeah. Why you’re being this way.”
“Are you kidding?” Her voice boomed, but she reeled it back in. “Dan, you’re representing the most vile human being who ever walked the face of the earth.”
“Everyone is entitled to a defense.”
“Spare me the First-Year Criminal Law lecture.”
“It’s true.”
“Yes, he needed a lawyer. It didn’t have to be you.”
“But he asked me. And Mr. K accepted the case, and—”
“These are just excuses. I thought you were on a crusade for justice.”
“More now than ever before. It’s one thing to talk about principles, but much harder to put them into practice.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t see it that way. I see it as you selling out. And I have to tell you—so does everyone else in the courthouse.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Welcome to real life. It’s rarely fair.” She poked a finger in his chest. “Here’s the reality that your holier-than-thou attitude seems to overlook. Finally, after years of effort, we have a chance to put this disgusting slimeball behind bars. And who stands in our way? You. The person who knows better than anyone how vile he is.”
She took a few steps back, then stopped. “I used to admire you, Dan. Even when we were on opposite sides of the courtroom. What happened to you?”
She marched out of the courtroom. Dan stood motionless for several seconds, trying to pretend her words didn’t hurt.
But they did.
Chapter 12
Sometimes Dan felt like he spent most of his life staring at people through Plexiglas screens. The security at Lake City, a private Florida prison, was higher than at the local jailhouse, but the procedure was essentially the same. He waited more than twenty minutes for the guards to bring him to the inmate he wanted to see. He’d been worried the prisoner in question might refuse to see him, but apparently he was coming. From an isolation cell, which increased the waiting time. Usually, those went to inmates who had mental health issues or needed special protection—meaning cops and pedophiles. This guy was neither, but he was insanely rich. Maybe he could buy some privacy, though he still would be forced to mingle during the day, when he ate, or when he was forced to soak up a little sunshine.
Dan was astounded by how much noisier this place was than the jailhouse, even though the latter had more traffic, more inmates flowing in and out. He heard constant screaming and pounding. He supposed that was to be expected at a joint full of people who didn’t want to be there. Or said they didn’t deserve to be there which, as Dan knew, occasionally was true.
He also noticed how hot it was in here, which made everything else worse. Beads of sweat rolled down the sides of his face, and all he was doing was sitting. The prison interior was primarily cinderblock walls and cheap linoleum floors. The sweat also contributed to the horrific smell, though he suspected all those unlidded toilets played a role as well. Basically, every cell had an open sewer. Not good for olfactory pleasure or sanitation. On a previous visit, he’d needed to use one of the prison bathrooms. They didn’t escort him into a cell, but the bathroom he used was horrifying. He held his breath as long as possible, and for days felt as if he needed to scour his skin with a Brillo pad.
Another five minutes passed before he heard the metallic squeal of an interior door. A moment later, the man in question emerged, flanked by guards on both sides.
Phil Coleman. The youngest member of the billionaire Coleman family, at least prior to Dan’s successful representation of the lost heir, Ossie. Phil had squandered a huge portion of the family fortune on an ill-advised venture into bio-quantum computing—in partnership with Conrad Sweeney. Coleman’s financial desperation led to the crime that put him behind bars.
Coleman didn’t look good, not that anyone did after a lengthy stay in lockup. Light-skinned African-American. Hollow eyes. Gaunt face. Fresh tattoo on the left wrist. He still sported a buzzcut, but most of his muscles had softened. Maybe he didn’t spend enough time in the gym or didn’t get the opportunity. Or maybe he just didn’t care anymore.
“Thanks for seeing me.” Dan spoke into the antiquated telephone receiver that permitted communication between the people on either side of the screen.
Coleman looked steadily at him. His expression didn’t suggest anger so much as an absence of interest. “My social calendar isn’t that busy.”
“How’s prison treating you?”
“I’m a good-looking rich boy behind bars for the first time in his life and unlikely to get out anytime in the next two decades. How do you think I am?”
“I’m...sorry.”
“You should be. You put me here.”
“If it hadn’t been me it would have been someone else. Eventually.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The only reason I’m surviving is because I got the protection of the cellblock boss.”
“I’m glad you’ve made friends.”
“I’m not his friend. I’m his wife.”
Dan couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“That, plus my last name, conveys a certain status. Whether that’s a good thing, I don’t know. Without it, I’d probably be dead already. And that might be better.”
“Can’t you complain to a CO?”
“More violence in here comes from the guards than inmates. I have to keep everyone happy. One way or the other.”
He knew he shouldn’t ask, but he did. “What’s the other?”
“Money, of course.”
“How do you pay for protection in here? In cigarettes?”
“You’re behind the times, Pike. Almost every inmate has a Venmo account. Hell, some are trading Bitcoin. I have a friend on the outside who transfers money as I direct. And I do a lot of directing.”
“But don’t you need a phone—”
“It’s not that hard to get a cellphone. All the block kings have them. Against the rules, but...” He shrugged. “So is most of what goes down in here.”
Dan squared his shoulders. Probably best if they moved on. “You may find this hard to believe, but I’m representing Conrad Sweeney on a murder charge.”
“I know all about it. Everyone here does. You’re the talk of the town. Daniel Pike representing the Satan of St. Pete.”
“He’s innocent.”
“Sorry, no one here believes Sweeney is innocent.”
“I didn’t say he was a saint. I said he didn’t commit this murder.” Tempting though it was, he didn’t want to become confrontational. “Look, may I ask you some questions about Sweeney?”
“He’s your client. Can’t you ask him yourself?”
“I thought I might get more insight from a third party.”
“You mean more honesty.”
“I know you worked with Sweeney on that computer deal that
went belly-up. He blames that for his current financial problems.”
Coleman blew air through his teeth. “What a crock. He was in bad shape before he came to me. That’s why he came to me. Why he allowed himself to be hustled. He had major cash-flow problems.”
“That suggests...some line of income dried up.”
“The cartel. Money laundering for the El Salvadorean big boys. Sweeney greased the wheels on this side for their smuggling operations and also funneled their cash through various SweeTech subsidiaries. That was the primary source of his wealth for years. Till it dried up. And he blames you for that.”
Dan tried to think. High finance was not his best subject, mostly because it bored him to tears. He had an investment advisor who managed his money. Cost him a percentage, but it was worth it not to have to waste his brain cells on spreadsheets. “If Sweeney wasn’t making as much income, the normal response would be to reduce expenses.”
Coleman chuckled. “Conrad Sweeney is not a normal person. I think he tried to slow some of his business operations. Many were just shell companies and money pits that existed purely for the purpose of laundering cash. But there was one expenditure he couldn’t curtail.”
“And that was...?”
“Fine art. Paintings.”
“I’ve heard about Sweeney’s collection. Supposed to be impressive.”
“It’s one of the two or three best private collections in the world. Maybe the best. Certainly he thinks so.”
“If his money dried up, he needed to stop buying. Maybe even sell a piece or two. Artwork has the advantage of being relatively easy to liquidate.”
Coleman smiled. “Have you ever seen Sweeney when he talks about his collection? Or gazes at it?”
“No.”
“He gets the same glassy-eyed look that other people get when they need a cocaine fix. He’s completely addicted.”
“To art?”
“To buying high-priced items normal people can’t afford. He’s like a junkie, but the hole in his arm is a lot more expensive than most. He couldn’t stop buying. And he couldn’t sell, either.”
“He’ll have no choice now. I hear the feds have seized control of his assets. And—”
Dan heard a knock on the other side of the screen. A moment later, a uniformed guard appeared. Holding a cup and saucer.
He set it down beside Coleman. “Teatime.”
Was that bone china? It looked like it.
Coleman took the cup and sipped. “I’ve told you a thousand times I like my tea hot. Piping hot.”
“My apologies. I went to your cell first. I didn’t know you had a visitor.”
“See that it doesn’t happen again.” Coleman finished the tea, then took a bite out of the cookie—crumpet?—on the saucer. “One of the few vestiges of civilization I’ve been able to maintain in here.”
“You know,” Dan said, “I was almost feeling sorry for you. But that’s fading.”
“Because I can afford to make a few special arrangements? I’m still in prison.”
“Does your...husband get teatime, too?”
“He’s more of a coffee man. But believe me, if I couldn’t afford to treat him right, he’d get tired of me fast. Money doth have its privileges.”
So it would seem. Coleman finished his cuppa and the guard carried it away.
“Where did Sweeney find this art?” Dan asked. “I assume they don’t sell it on eBay.”
“He has a dealer he works with. People said he was just as sleazy as Sweeney, which probably explains why they worked together so well. Word on the street was that some of the art had dubious provenance.”
“Meaning they were forgeries?”
“Meaning they were stolen. Museum robberies. Cat burglaries. Some experts say almost as much fine art in the million-plus category is transferred in secret as is sold by conventional means.”
“Do you get a discount if you buy hot paintings?”
“Just the opposite. Makes them more valuable.”
“Something about this doesn’t seem right. Sweeney has always been the exemplar of unemotional rationalism. Ruthlessly doing what needs to be done. Not indulging in bad habits that might impact the bottom line.”
Coleman shrugged. “Even Blofeld had a cat.”
Dan almost laughed. “Why are you helping me?”
“Just to be clear, I hate you like no one I’ve ever hated in my entire life. With one exception. Sweeney. And yes, I know you say you’re representing him. But I can’t help but think this is just a ploy. You’re using this to collect information on him.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Which is, of course, exactly what you would say if it were true. But I think you’re going to bring the big man down eventually. Nothing could make me happier. And if you damage the cartel, that’s ok, too.”
Dan pondered another minute. “Did you ever have any involvement with the cartel?”
“Only once. I met the big man himself. Alejandro Hernandez. The Prince of Darkness. The guy is eighty or something, but he could still stop your heart with a cold stare. Scared the hell out of me.”
“Why did you meet him?”
“Sweeney asked me to. Said he wanted his partners to know each other. I suspect it was more a matter of informing the cartel that he was developing another stream of income.”
“Any takeaways from the meet?”
“Those people have no morals. No principles. It’s all business to them. Anything is justified so long as it moves the needle.” He paused. “You know they’re gunning for you, right?”
Dan felt a cold hand clutch at his heart. “I’ve had a few indications.”
“Don’t kid yourself. They want you dead. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long.”
“I’m more resilient than some people give me credit for.”
“But no one can survive forever with a cartel bullseye on their back. You need to be careful. Like you’ve never been careful before.”
Message understood. He started to leave, then snapped his fingers. “I forgot to ask. What’s the name of the art dealer? The one who’s been brokering for Sweeney. And where do I find him?”
“Shouldn’t be hard. He has an office in Miami, but he has clients all over the Southeast. Probably all over the country.”
“And his name?”
“Christopher Andrus.”
Chapter 13
“Christopher Andrus?” Jake Kakazu said. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Who is he? Sex trafficker? Pornographer? Hit man?”
“Worse. Art dealer.”
Jake peered at the forensic scientist, Teresa Crosswaite. She was a master of many fields, but at the moment, her expertise in dactylograms rose to the forefront. She’d been with SPPD for almost six months now and Kakazu had repeatedly been impressed by her competence and resourcefulness. Her youth and—dare he admit it?—attractiveness caused some of the old boys to dismiss her, but time and again she was the one who came up with the goods they needed to clinch a case.
Sergeant Pemberton stood at Jake’s side. “The art world must be a lot rougher than I imagined.”
“You have no idea,” Teresa said. “I’ve done a little research. These people are completely cutthroat. They’d sell your grandmother just to get their hands on a limited-edition Giclee.”
Jake decided to nod and act as if he knew what she was talking about. “How did you land the ID?”
“It wasn’t easy. Facial recognition got us nothing. Though to be fair to the AI, the head had been damaged during the decapitation. Maybe before. Looked like something out of a Stephen King movie.”
“But you had the hands.”
“Right. We had a relatively complete set of prints. But they didn’t trigger any matches, not locally, not at VICAP.”
“Has the FBI helped?”
“Big time. I know some of our officers don’t like it when the feds descend and take over a case, but I’ve found them
to be extremely helpful. Not rude, not sexist, and not arrogant. They want the cartel taken down as much as we do.”
“And they could ID the prints?”
“No, they came up empty, too. But one of their techies, off the record, showed me how to access some other online databases. That aren’t normally part of a law enforcement sweep.”
“Okay, stop building the suspense. Where did you find his prints? A laptop? Phone? Small-town speed trap? Bar Association?”
She shook her head. “Disney World.”
Jake blinked. “I know they’ve had to heighten security, but I wasn’t aware that the Mouse took prints.”
Crosswaite laughed. “I can see you haven’t been to Disney World in a while.”
“Or ever.”
Crosswaite and Pemberton peered at him in disbelief. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m an adult. I don’t have children.”
“You’ve never been to Disney World? It’s only two hours away. Where do you go on vacation?”
“I’m very fond of Tuscany...”
Crosswaite showed no disrespect to her senior officer, but he got the impression it was a lot of work. “Andrus apparently loved Disney World. He was an Annual Passholder. Which meant he had one of those cool plastic watchbands that get you through the gate. But Disney wants to make sure people don’t transfer their watches to others. So when you show up, you not only get your watch scanned—”
“They check your prints.”
“Bingo. Right forefinger. They had Andrus on record. And it’s an almost perfect match.”
“Disney let you access their records?”
“Not in a million years.”
Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me you didn’t do something you shouldn’t have.”
She coughed into her hand. “Or...maybe it’s best you don’t know...”
“How are we going to establish Andrus’ identity at trial?”
“The feds have sent me all kinds of information on the guy. Photos, employment records, address. I’m sure you’ll be able to find his prints in his apartment.”
“And how do I explain why I went there in the first place?”
Crosswaite and Pemberton spoke in unison. “Anonymous tip.”
Final Verdict Page 7
