Jay Giles (17 page)
The following day it rained, a steady downpour that showed no signs of letting up. The kind of rain that drives tourists crazy, the kind the Florida Tourist Board swears never happens.
I had the Saab’s windshield wipers on high as I drove to the office and still had trouble clearing off enough water to see the cars ahead of me. Our parking lot was a small lake. My shoes were drenched before I made it to the door. My umbrella did little to keep the rest of me dry. As quickly as I could, I unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind me. The office was dark. It wasn’t six o’clock yet. I was in early to make up for being out the afternoon before.
I flipped on lights. I had just dumped the coffee in the filter paper when the phone rang. My watch said five ‘til six. Somebody must have spent a sleepless night worrying about their stocks. I picked up the phone in the kitchen. “This is Matt Seattle.”
“Matt, Julian. Listen, I’ve got to leave for
Orlando
in a few minutes, but I wanted to call and fill you in on my meeting with Fowler.”
“What did he say?” I asked as I put the filter tray in the coffeemaker and hit the brew button.
“I’m afraid it wasn’t good.”
“Oh.” Suddenly, I had that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Fowler interviewed all the brokers at Merrill Lynch. As you might expect, no one knew anything about those questionable trades.”
I wasn’t surprised. It would be one thing to admit throwing trades to help a friend who was sick or down on his luck. Admitting you threw trades for money or ill purposes would be career suicide. Worse, because those buys had my broker number, they wouldn’t show on the Merrill Lynch blotters. There was no real evidence that could be used to force an admission. Unless that person came down with a bad case of the guilts, he or she was untraceable.
“That’s pretty much what Tory discovered. What else did Fowler say?”
“He did ask each person he interviewed if they knew you.”
“A couple of them probably said they did.”
“Right. He asked if they knew Greg Nevitt and—”
“No one knew him. Surprise. Surprise. How did Fowler react to that?”
“He didn’t really say. Judging by his tone of voice, I think he found about what he expected to find. I don’t think it hurt us. I don’t think it helped us. He said he’d share his findings with the arbitration panel and leave it up to them.”
“Then it hurts us. Fowler should know this smells. For him to be neutral amazes me. He should be throwing this out. These are questionable buys we’re talking about.”
I agree with you,” Julian said calmly. “When Fowler brought up Nevitt, I used that as an opportunity to ask if he knew anything about Nevitt’s background. He didn’t. I filled him in on Nevitt and Wakeman.”
“What was his reaction to that?”
“It rocked him. I saw it on his face. He’s an ivory tower guy, wants to keep his hands clean. I think he realized he might be dealing with somebody who doesn’t play by the rules and might get dirt on him. Fowler didn’t like that. Listen, I’ve got to run. Amanda will call you to set up our next session with Amy.”
“Thanks, Julian.” I hung up the phone, filled my cup, walked back to my office. By the time Rosemary arrived at eight, I’d gotten through most of the backlog. By mid-morning, I was caught up. The markets were taking a breather after yesterday’s frenzy of activity. Our phones were quiet. It was the kind of day—if it hadn’t been raining—I would have tried to get away for some client golf.
Instead, I wandered out to the lobby, stood in front of the window, watched the downpour.
“Two weeks and Rebecca will be here,” Rosemary said from behind me.
I turned to face her, smiled. “I know you’ll be glad to see her.”
“That I will.” She took a deep breath. “Dan and I were wondering if you’d like to come to the house, have dinner, meet her.”
This was an invitation I shouldn’t refuse. It would hurt Rosemary’s feelings. I didn’t hesitate. “Love to. What night?”
She looked at her calendar. “Well, she gets in on Monday. I was thinking Wednesday, maybe.”
I got my Blackberry out of my pocket, found the date. It was clear. “Let’s do it.” I entered dinner at Rosemary’s.
“You two will hit it off; I know you will.”
“I’m sure we will,” I said with a smile and turned to stare out the window again. Dr. Swarthmore would approve. I wasn’t sure, though, that I was ready. Behind me, I heard the phone ring, Rosemary answer.
“Tory on line one.”
I took it in my office. “Can you be available for a meeting tomorrow morning at ten?” she asked hurriedly.
I assumed this was about the thrown trades. “Sure.”
“Call you right back.” She was gone. Three minutes later, she was back.
“Okay, it’s set. Paul Raines—he’s a D.E.A. special agent—has agreed to an off-the-record meeting. We’re going to meet out of town. I’ll pick you up at your office at nine.”
“I’ll be ready,” I assured her. And I was. At eight-fifty the next day, I was watching out the window for her. Instead of the steady rain I’d watched the day before, it was only spitting. Dark clouds mixed with flashes of blue sky, intense sunlight.
At eight-fifty-five, she pulled into the parking garden. “Hold the fort,” I said to Rosemary as I went out the door. I got in the passenger seat of her Jetta. She put the stick shift in reverse, backed up, pulled out onto the street. “See if any of your playmates are behind us,” she said as she turned from Palm to SR41.
I turned around in my seat, watched. “There’s a white van, blue Ford Taurus.”
“Keep watching them.”
She turned off SR41 at Beneva. The white van kept going, the blue Ford followed. “We’ve still got the Ford.”
She took Beneva down to Ellerby, turned left. On my right was
Sarasota
Memorial
Hospital
. The Ford was still following. She turned right into the hospital drive, pulled up to valet parking at the main entrance. “Where’s the Ford?”
“He pulled up to the curb, half-a-block back.”
“Time to change cars.” She opened her door, got out. I exited my side. She gave her keys to the valet, got her ticket. We went in the hospital’s main door, followed the signs to the main parking garage. We rode the elevator up to level six where a red Ford F150 pick-up truck was parked. She unlocked the doors, and we got in. “See if you can scrunch down out of sight,” she said as she tugged on a ball cap.
I got down in the foot well as best I could, felt the truck spiral down the ramp, the bump as we leveled off.
“Okay, it’s safe to get up,” she said after we’d driven a few minutes. She took off the cap, threw it behind the seat. “See if anyone’s following us now.”
I watched as she pulled back on SR41, headed south toward
Venice
. “I don’t see anybody.”
“You’re sure? Paul will be pretty annoyed if we bring a tail.”
I watched out the rear window again. “I think we’re clean.” I turned back around.
She was staring out the front window, both hands gripping the steering wheel. She took a deep breath, blew it out. “Good.” Her hands loosened a little. “Let me tell you about Paul before we get there. He’s been investigating the Menendez cartel for over three years. Probably knows more about the inner workings than anybody. Paul got me the information I shared with you about D’Onifrio. When I followed up with him yesterday, said you thought something was going on, he agreed. I didn’t think he’d be willing to meet with us, but he agreed to that, too. He’s expecting you to ask a lot of questions. He’ll give you as much information as he can. All off the record, of course.”
I nodded. “Did you tell him my theory about Joe’s money?”
She looked over at me. “I told him what you told me the other day.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t.” She’d started watching out her left window. “We’re looking for a NationsBank branch.”
I started watching, too. “There it is. I see the sign.”
She pulled in the parking lot, turned off the engine, and we walked into the bank.
“Can I help you?” an older, gray-haired lady, probably the manager, wanted to know.
“We’re here for the ten o’clock meeting,” Tory said.
“Oh, yes. Right this way.” She led us to a small conference room in the back of the building. Once we were inside, she stepped outside, closed the door. I expected Paul Raines to be there already. He wasn’t.
He arrived fifteen minutes later, stepped quickly into the room, shut the door behind him. He was a medium-sized man with short dark hair, graying moustache, hard dark eyes. He wore a white polo shirt, wrinkled khaki trousers, a cell phone on his belt. His gaze swept us, the room, returned to Tory. He extended his hand. “Tory, we’ve talked on the phone. Good to finally meet you.” They shook. He turned to me. “You must be Matt Seattle. Good to meet you.” We shook as well. “Sorry to make you come all the way out here, but it’s a secure location. The room is soundproof, so we won’t be overheard.” He looked over at Tory. “I watched. No one followed you.”
“I think we started with somebody, so the measures you recommended worked,” she said.
He smiled, turned to me. “Matt, tell me how you got mixed up with D’Onifrio. Tory gave me a little bit. I want to hear it all.”
I told him about Joe, Janet, Nevitt, Fowler, Wilder, the whole sordid mess. By the time I was finished, he was shaking his head.
“You befriend a guy and this is what happens to you. Jeez, that’s awful.” He stroked his moustache absent-mindedly. “I can’t help you with any of that, but I can help you understand what’s going on with the cartel. It’s an interesting time right now. Enrico Menendez, who has been in sole control of the cartel since his brother’s death, is getting ready to relinquish some responsibility. He’s 83. Not in good health, knows it’s time for him to name a successor. Since Enrico didn’t have any children, the leading candidates are Ernesto’s two sons: Ernesto, Jr., called Little Ernie, and Eduardo. Both have come up through the ranks. Both are tough, ruthless. But both have some baggage. Little Ernie’s a hothead, prone to fly off the handle if he doesn’t get his way. Eduardo likes to flaunt his power, make people uncomfortable.”
“Great choice,” Tory said sarcastically.
“Well, that’s the problem. The word within the organization is that Enrico can’t choose between them. Also, he doesn’t want to have one be the winner, the other the loser.”