by Ace Atkins
She peered down at my neatly cuffed blue jeans over my Red Wing boots. She looked up at me and grinned. “Too late,” she said.
I drank some beer and set the cold glass against my swelling knuckles. Along the docks, sailboats stirred in the early-afternoon breeze. A nearly cloudless day on the harbor.
“The reason you’ve been slow on my case—” Rita said, crossing her lovely pale legs.
“Is because of Susan.”
“My legal case,” Rita said, running a finger up and down her wet glass. “Is because you have found another.”
“Never.”
“Peter Steiner?” she said. Her green eyes were very large and very beautiful and very judgmental.
“Oh, no,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Do I need to remind you that Boston is but a small town?”
“I was reminded of that only this morning,” I said. “Assistance had to be brought in from Rhode Island.”
“Is that why there is a slight bruise against your neck and your right hand is swollen?”
“Old lady tried to take my parking spot.”
The bartender returned, and we both ordered lunch. Crab cake salad for Rita, and I had a tuna burger with fries and coleslaw. The bartender acted as if I didn’t exist, keeping eye contact with Rita.
“Peter Steiner should be rotting in prison,” she said.
“Please,” I said. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
“He’s this city’s version of the Marquis de Sade.”
“Yikes.”
“Yep,” she said. “And everything you heard from Lorraine Glass about my former boss royally fucking up the case is spot-on.”
“Did he fuck it up,” I said. “Or did he drop it?”
“Was he paid?”
I nodded.
“Maybe,” she said. “But we’re talking about a man who had more skeletons in his closet than the Haunted Mansion at Disney.”
“Glass said they had everything they needed.”
“She’s right.”
“I didn’t know you and Glass were friends.”
“There is much about me you don’t know, buster,” Rita said. “You could fill an encyclopedia with it.”
A crowd of schoolkids had gathered in front of the aquarium. An exasperated young woman counted heads as the kids milled about the docks, playing at the edge of the water, seagulls swirling overhead. Above them a marquee to the IMAX theater boasted a film about great white sharks.
“Can I get him now?” I said.
“Hard to get traction on an old case that already went to the grand jury.”
“That’s something I didn’t know.”
“DA made a deal with Steiner,” she said. “He admitted to solicitation. Two years later, he had the charge expunged.”
“These girls weren’t prostitutes.”
“They were sisters,” Rita said. “One was fifteen.”
I told her about Chloe Turner, Debbie Delgado, and Amelia Lynch, although I didn’t mention any of their names.
“You’re thinking of a class-action civil suit?” she said.
“Precisely.”
Rita nodded. She drank some mojito at a much faster rate than Susan enjoying a glass of white wine. She sipped even more and raised a finger at the young bartender. His service was polite and prompt. He could not keep his eyes off Rita, and I didn’t blame him.
Rita nodded and pursed her lips. Her makeup was flawless.
“Have any of these girls been taken out of state?” she said.
“Not that I know of.”
“But you think there are others?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“I recall Steiner having some kind of compound in Miami,” Rita said. “Only rumors about what he did down there. Maybe a private island? Horny old wealthy men are the worst. Lots of young women. A hedonistic fuckfest.”
“Please,” I said. “Slow with the legal terminology.”
“Do you know anyone in Miami?”
“By chance, I happen to know the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Miami office.”
“Does he like you?” Rita said.
“Surprisingly enough,” I said. “He adores me.”
“Adores?”
“He likes,” I said. “And most importantly tolerates.”
“That’s where I’d go,” she said. “You’ll have much better luck with the Feds. I don’t know who Steiner knows now. But I still don’t trust the Suffolk DA’s office to follow through. Do you have any idea of the wealth this guy has?”
“Like a dirty Scrooge McDuck.”
“Only it’s not golden coins he wants to swim in.”
“Sick,” I said.
“And well insulated.”
The bartender served us our lunch. He asked Rita if there was anything else he could do. Anything else at all. She cut her eyes at me and smiled.
“Hold that thought, kid,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”
21
Susan was at my apartment when I returned to the Navy Yard. She had Pearl out in the common area, sniffing the grass and getting used to going outside to take care of her business. After the puppy made a deposit, Susan bestowed praise befitting a Nobel Prize winner.
“You know,” I said, “she’s accomplished that task many times before.”
“Not with me,” she said.
“She hasn’t been locked up long,” I said. “I’ve only been gone a few hours.”
Susan scooped up Pearl in her arms and kissed her on the nose. “Too long for the baby.”
“Now she’s the baby?”
“She’s precious,” she said. “I just don’t know if she’s Pearl.”
I nodded and followed them up to my apartment on the second story of what had been a shipping warehouse. I refilled Pearl’s water dish and made a vodka gimlet for Susan and scotch for me, with lots of ice and lots of soda. Pearl had brought home the lost squeaky toy from my office and ran around in circles, tossing the toy up and down and growling at it.
“So,” Susan said, resting a hip against my kitchen counter. “Florida?”
“Boca Raton,” I said. “Steiner has a tropical retreat near there.”
“When?”
“We leave tomorrow morning.”
“We meaning—?”
“Me and Mattie.”
“I had assumed you and Hawk,” Susan said. “Or you and me.”
“Sorry,” I said. “This is all business.”
“I don’t mean to slight Mattie,” Susan said, “but Hawk is often a better companion in your line of work.”
“I investigate,” I said. “I don’t break glass unless there’s an emergency.”
“And you’re taking Mattie because this is her case?” Susan said.
“I’m coming along in an advisory role only,” I said.
“And in case she needs to break the glass.”
I nodded. I drank some scotch and walked to the freezer to fill a plastic baggie with ice. My hand had swollen into a fist that looked like I’d inflated it at the thumb.
“It’s awfully nice of you to foot the bill,” Susan said.
“There’s money left over from L.A.,” I said. “Gabby Leggett’s mother has been most grateful.”
“As she should be,” Susan said. “I heard Gabby’s doing much better. Back home with her family and taking therapy.”
Susan squatted to the ground and snatched away Pearl’s toy while managing not to slosh her drink. She tossed it far over the couch and Pearl chased it with much pep and vigor.
“Has Mattie ever been on a trip like this?” Susan said.
“Mattie has never left Massachusetts,” I said. “The farthest south she’s been has been Braintree on the Red Line.”
Susan no
dded. “So there’s that, too.”
“We’re going to stay at the old hotel at the Boca Raton Resort,” I said. “Not a bad place to broaden her horizons. It will be good for her to travel. See the world outside the Commonwealth.”
“Sure you don’t need a sexy Jewish shrink on the trip as an adviser?”
“Quick trip,” I said. “I hope. I’ll drop the pup with Janet before our flight.”
Susan twisted her mouth and closed one eye, contemplating the situation for the next few days. “Or,” she said.
I drank some scotch. I leaned against the kitchen counter alongside Susan and waited.
“Maybe she could stay with me.”
“The Puppy with No Name.”
“Just for a few days,” she said. “Right?”
“The puppy howls when she’s in her crate,” I said. “There is much weeping and gnashing of teeth. What will your patients think?”
Susan set down her drink and reached for Pearl. She cradled the pup on her back up close to her breast. Puppy Pearl rewarded Susan with lots of kisses on the nose and eyes. Susan laughed and did not try to stop her.
“Fuck ’em,” she said.
22
By noon the next day, we’d landed in Fort Lauderdale. Two hours later, I waited for Mattie in the lobby of the Boca Raton Resort and Club. I had already unpacked and changed into khakis and a blue polo shirt. As I stood by the concierge desk, I began to wonder if I should have packed an ascot. Or at least borrowed one from Hawk. The lobby had a certain Old World elegance, with high white ceilings, marble columns, and potted palms.
“Jesus, Spenser,” Mattie said, coming up behind me. “Are you sure we can afford this?”
“I can afford this,” I said.
“But you’ll expense it,” she said. “It’s part of the case.”
“Of course.”
“The guy at the front said they got five pools,” she said. “And a private beach.”
“Pity we won’t have time to enjoy them all.”
Mattie had on the same thing she’d worn on the plane: a V-neck T-shirt with red and white stripes, skinny jeans, and black Chuck Taylor low-tops. Some classics never change. She had her hair in a ponytail and a notebook in hand.
“What are we waiting for?” she said. “Let’s go find Steiner’s house. You already know the address.”
I nodded. “Patience,” I said. “Time to learn the hard facts about sleuthing.”
“What’s that?”
“Not much glitz and glamour,” I said. “First stop is the county courthouse, and then we need to stop by the local newspaper. I’ve learned it’s best to get the lay of the land before storming the castle.”
“Is that what we’re going to do?” Mattie said. “Storm the castle?”
“Probably not,” I said. “But I do hope to get a pretty good view of the drawbridge. And maybe of Steiner, too.”
Mattie leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I’ve got a phone next to my toilet.”
“All the comforts of home.”
“Two sinks, a freakin’ huge bathtub, and a view of the ocean,” Mattie said.
“Business trips don’t have to suck.”
“This doesn’t suck,” Mattie said. “Not by a long shot.”
We walked out to the porte cochere, and I handed the valet my ticket. I whistled “Moon Over Miami” while we waited, although I knew it to be geographically incorrect. I knew the Connee Boswell version but didn’t recall Betty Grable singing in the film. Perhaps I was too transfixed by her legs.
“Maybe when this is all over, we can expense the trip to Peter Steiner,” I said.
“How often do the bad guys get what they deserve?”
“In my experience?” I said.
Mattie nodded.
“Fifty-fifty,” I said.
“But you try anyway,” she said. “I kept on thinking what Chloe and Amelia told us. It makes me want to puke.”
“Don’t clutter your mind up with it,” I said. “People like Steiner are a virus.”
“Your mind is clear?”
“And my heart is pure,” I said. “That’s why my strength is the strength of ten.”
“Cool your jets,” she said. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself.”
I shrugged. The valet brought around my car, which was silver, appropriately dull, and generic enough for the work that needed to be done.
We wheeled away from the hotel, and I headed toward I-95, which would get you anywhere you wanted to go on the East Coast. South Florida was not Boston, and I immediately turned the air conditioner to full blast.
“But later?” Mattie said. “When we’re done with work.”
“The pools?”
Mattie nodded.
“All work and no play makes for a dull sleuth.”
“You think?”
I slipped on my sunglasses. “I know.”
23
No matter how much and how well I flirted with the clerk, we found no misdemeanor or felony charges against Peter Steiner in Palm Beach County. Not so much as a parking ticket. We did, however, learn that eighteen months ago, a man named Jorge “Pepe” De Santos sued Steiner for breach of contract. According to the suit, Steiner withheld payment to De Santos for landscaping services at his compound in Seagrass, Florida, and still owed him five grand.
“Well, that was one big waste of time,” Mattie said, walking back to the car. The sun very high and hot over the parking lot.
“The devil thrives in the details.”
“Not this bastard.”
“Can you believe that woman wasn’t taken with my charm?”
“I think you annoyed her,” she said. “Maybe you’re better in Boston.”
“My charm defies borders.”
Pepe De Santos owned a company called Fighting Fitzpatrick Landscapers Inc., which sat at the end of a dead-end street in Lake Worth. The sky seemed bigger and bluer here, expansive, with momentary white clouds passing overhead. One-story ranch houses with small palms and palmettos lined the mostly residential street.
Fighting Fitzpatrick Landscapers consisted of two white single-wide trailers and a large metal barn. Small plants and trees sat in plastic buckets among giant mounts of soil and mulch. A sprinkler click-click-clicked, watering a grouping of flowers in long flats. Several white pickup trucks were parked along the chain-link fence, with trailers loaded with riding lawn mowers and weed trimmers. Men in dirty white shirts and work pants came and went from the big metal barn.
I asked one where to find De Santos, and he pointed inside.
As we walked into the open barn, I thought I heard the music of Pérez Prado playing. But since I only knew “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White,” I couldn’t be positive. Hawk would’ve known. He had spent a considerable amount of time in Cuba.
A wiry little man in shorts and no shirt stood at a workbench, sharpening a long mower blade. The blade was held in a large vise, the man’s hands large and streaked with grease as he worked a file back and forth.
“Mr. De Santos?” I said.
He nodded, picked up a cigarette, and turned down the radio. His skin was very dark and leathery. He had a full head of black hair flecked with gray. His muscles knotted and corded like an old fisherman’s. He looked like the kind of guy who might’ve had his prize marlin eaten by sharks.
“Pérez Prado?” I said.
He shook his head. “Beny Moré.”
“Ah.”
“My father’s favorite,” De Santos said, with the slightest accent, taking a drag off a cigarette and setting it on the corner of the workbench. “So romantic.”
The barn smelled of dirt and old oil, a little freshly cut grass, too. Weed trimmers and blowers hung from the ceilings, along with an armada of riding lawn mowers parked along the concrete floor. Everyt
hing was neat and orderly. Every tool had its place in a long stretch of pegboard. Three men covered in sweat and grass stains walked in behind us.
De Santos waved them away with a hand. “How may I help you?”
“We came to talk to you about Peter Steiner,” Mattie said.
The corded muscles in De Santos’s neck and shoulders stiffened. He lifted the cigarette but didn’t take a drag. Beny Moré sang on. I couldn’t tell Beny Moré from Pérez Prado from Xavier Cugat. All I knew is that Xavier Cugat always had a Chihuahua when he took photos.
“I have nothing to say about that man,” De Santos said. He picked up the file and continued to sharpen the blade. Somewhere outside a truck started, and you could hear the jostling of the trailer following behind.
“We don’t work for Steiner,” I said.
“Yeah,” Mattie said. “Steiner is a complete creep.”
De Santos stopped sharpening again and lifted his eyes to both of us. He took a drag from the cigarette. “How can I be sure?” he said.
I showed him my license.
“You are a long way from home,” he said. “And who is she?”
“My boss,” I said.
De Santos shrugged and took a seat on a stool by the workbench. The air was heavy with smoke and the tang of sharpened metal. “That man wouldn’t pay me for two months’ work,” he said. “He is a thief. I’ve kept this business going because people know I do good work. And I do what I promise. Just like the man who had this business before me.”
“You mean you’re not the original Fighting Fitzpatrick?”
De Santos laughed and let out a little smoke from the side of his mouth. “The business is very well known,” De Santos said. “Mr. Steiner turned longtime customers against me. He tells them lies about my work. He says that I walked off the job and left his estate a mess. All lies.”
Mattie asked what happened as a heavyset Latina in khaki pants and a T-shirt adorned with a shamrock walked into the barn. She held a white paper sack, looked to us and smiled, and dropped the sack onto the bench.
De Santos fired off something to her in Spanish, nodding to me and Mattie.
Without missing a beat, Mattie, also in Spanish, seemed to clarify something for him. He looked to the woman and nodded.
