“So what do you want me to do?”
“Examine Mrs. Kelly’s life with a microscope. Find out what she owned and what her financial situation was when she died. Search county records, titles, credit, bank accounts, the whole gamut. And more importantly, look into her husband, Mr. Robertson. Sort the truth from the fictional.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then Sammy said, “Since this is a matter that may involve illegally obtained assets, should we inform the feds?”
“Good question.” I glanced at him. “But premature at this point.”
Once a cop, always a cop. Sammy was right, though. A lot of people, most of them lawyers like me who stood to profit handsomely from any recovered Reichmann assets, would be very interested in looking into this.
“But what if we find out there’s something there?”
“Even if that’s the case,” I replied, “all I can do is advise my client to do the right thing. If she decides to keep it, there’s nothing much we can do. Attorney-client privilege, remember?”
“So what?” Sammy fired back. “I’m no lawyer.”
“Not so fast, Kemo Sabe. Technically, you’re my employee, so like it or not, attorney-client extends to you, too.” As in privileged, confidential information never to be divulged without the client’s express consent.
Sammy smirked at the mention of the deified legal principle of secrecy. He was naturally averse to lawyers and the pretentious moral authority they always seem to profess when their sole concern is to look out for themselves and where their next dollar is coming from. He firmly believed I should have done something other than become a legal gun for hire. He was probably right. But my father’s cancer diagnosis and bleak prognosis were the reasons I moved back to Florida, and for the foreseeable future, private practice is where I cut my teeth.
Sammy and I had built a solid friendship over many years a friendship that went beyond the office. This odd, awkward man whose mild appearance masked the deadliness of a king cobra was someone I trusted implicitly. His parents, immigrants from Bangladesh, had settled over forty years ago in a suburb of Trenton, New Jersey, where he spent most of his childhood. Fresh out of Rutgers University, he applied to the FBI, and was accepted. After a few years assigned to the FBI’s Trenton office, bright, young Special Agent Samuel Raj Desai was involved in an off-duty shootout. He had the bad luck of stopping by a convenience store while it was being robbed. Sammy, being Sammy, intervened and had the bad luck of confronting a pair of robbers who were better armed than he. In the ensuing gunfight, Sammy was shot once in the abdomen and once in the right leg, the bullet nicking a major artery. He almost bled to death. The robbers, however, paid the full price. Sammy was an accomplished marksman, having ranked among the top handgun experts ever to attend the FBI academy in Quantico, Virginia. The incident placed him in the hospital for over two months and in recovery for most of a year. In the meantime, his family decided they had had quite enough of Trenton and its seemingly unlimited supply of thugs and crime, so they bought a convenience store in the greater Miami area and a home in Hialeah and headed south.
If human history teaches us anything, it is that people seldom learn from experience. It was as if the incident that almost took their only son’s life had not mattered. Convenience stores make easy marks for ne’er-do-wells in need of quick cash, smokes, or beer. Like a porch light to moths, a convenience store, depending on its location, tended to attract all manner of miscreants and scumbags, especially after dark. As the saying goes, there are no victims, just willing participants. In the end, Sammy’s injuries forced him to take early retirement from the Bureau and decided to follow his family south, where, after making a full recovery, he immediately joined local law enforcement.
“How urgent is this?” Sammy asked.
“It’s more
necessary
than urgent. This is for Nora,” I said. I stood up and stretched my back. “But I’d like to know what really happened. Find out as much as you can about Robertson.”
“I get it: peace in the valley,” Sammy said. Already his fingers were tapping away on the tiny keys of his Blackberry. “I’ll get Sean on it. Anything else?”
I thought for a moment. “If this guy Roberson is this cunning and deliberate, then he may have done this before.”
“Reasonable expectation,” Sammy said, not looking up. “Let me see what I can dig out.”
This Robertson had to be one cool customer: If he had operated as effectively as he had, in circles as exclusive and skeptical of newcomers as Palm Beach, then I had to assume he was a skilled, highly capable individual who rarely did or said more than he absolutely had to. His success depended on it, and when he did choose to reveal something about himself, it was always contrived, precisely measured, and well thought out in advance. If I had learned anything in the years I spent investigating embezzlement and securities fraud, it was that these criminals nearly always leave something behind: the faintest of clues, overlooked in their haste to escape. A tiny detail was often the difference between a perpetrator making off with a fortune and spending twenty years in prison. The trick was finding those little clues.
“You know,” I said as I pondered the amount of money involved, “Check out for any male names associated with Mrs. Kelly’s home address.”
“If he’s got an alias, I’ll find it,” Sammy said as he scribbled in a small notebook. “What about screwy-honeys? A guy this slick ought to have one or two young things on the sidelines. Someone to play spoons with at night, know what I mean?”
“I wouldn’t know, but it’s worth looking into.” I laughed. It was pouring now. A trail of headlamps and brake lights mottled the four-lane street below. The waters of Lake Worth looked black now, and clouds and thick rain obscured the towers of the Breakers Hotel. I thought about my vacation plans. I could feel my excitement to get away dwindling. Stepping back from the window, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection smeared over the dark rain: the not-so-young warrior. The years were finally starting to show: a bit of gray at the temples, and the ruddy face my mother used to tell me most men could only dream of owning now sported a few more lines and no longer glowed with all the radiance of youth. Time, I hate the ravages it brandishes on us all, on everything. It is our worst enemy.
“Well, I better get going,” Sammy said, and sprang to his feet. It was amazing how, despite his injuries and his middle-aged frame, he always seemed as alert and energetic as a cat about to pounce. “How’s the rest of your day look?”
“Tonight, the boat. Tomorrow, the Bahamas.”
Sammy glanced at the window. “Hope you have a plan B ready, ’cause I don’t think you’re goin’ anywhere, chief.”
I waved him off.
On his way out of my office, took a moment to say, “You know, there’s another alternative.”
“To what?”
“What to do if we find Reichmann’s missing fortune, what else?” Standing in the doorway, he said, “How about this: I find the money, you and I split it fifty-fifty after my expenses, of course, and a hefty finder’s fee and we live happily ever after on some no-name island somewhere. Couple of nice beach shacks. The best stogies. Life of plenty, y’know.”
I shook my head. This wasn’t Sammy. He would never take what wasn’t rightfully his. But it was tempting.
“Attorney-client?” I asked.
“What else?” He grinned and headed out into the rain.
Four
Driving a motorcycle on I-95 during rush hour is always an adventure into the wild unknown. Add torrential rains with pooling water, gale-force winds, aggressive speeders, hulking eighteen-wheelers and older drivers poking nervously along at less than half the posted speed limit, and it can get downright scary.
If all went according to plan, I would be spending the next five days cruising, snorkeling, drinking frozen mango daiquiris, eating fresh conch salad, sunning, and just lounging in the pristine waters of the Bahamas with the lovely Dr. Nora Burton. I was still hopeful that come morning, the worst of the weather would have scooted far enough south and the seas would have calmed down enough for a safe passage to the nearby archipelago. So, with a sigh and a prayer, at just past five in the afternoon I had tidied up my desk and headed out. After giving last-minute instructions and good-byes to Consuelo and Rene, I donned a rain suit, boots and helmet, straddled the bike, and nosed out into the hellish weather.
I was driving north toward the town of Jupiter, a little behind schedule. I had already gotten the boat serviced: oil levels rechecked, cooling water hoses examined, bilge pumps, water pumps, batteries, electronics, and all trough-hull fittings double- and triple-checked, the 1,620-gallon fuel tanks topped off with diesel, internal freshwater reservoirs filled, and the two heads serviced and cleaned. (A malfunctioning toilet is not a problem you want when you’re at least a day’s sail out from a marina.) Now I just needed to check all the safety gear on board, make sure all electronics were in good working order and the required nautical charts stowed in their proper place, and, of crucial importance, see that we had ample stores and liquor tequila, rum, and beer for me, vodka for my companion to last the entire trip.
The marina’s parking lot was mostly empty. No big surprise the rain was still coming down in sheets, and this close to the ocean, unimpeded by vegetation, dunes, or tall buildings, the strong winds drove the rain at an acute angle to the wind.
I drove around to the back of the blacktop, to the metal-roofed parking structure with its single cinder-block wall. That left the covered area exposed to the elements on three sides. The white, nondescript structure was located toward the back of the property, mostly out of view of the moored boats or the east-west traffic on the nearby road. Not an ideal garage, but it afforded a degree of shelter from the harsh marine environment. It was an important consideration for me the relative protection of the carport was one of the reasons I chose this particular marina. It was where I sheltered my black-on-black classic 1973 Porsche 911-S, painstakingly restored to factory specs, from Florida’s radioactive summer heat.
Pulling up to my assigned parking space, I carefully inched the Ducati forward, past the car, and parked it between the back wall and the Porsche’s rear bumper. I killed the engine and took my helmet off. The wind felt cool and heavy with moisture and brine, and the rain made a loud racket on the metal roof.
I ran toward the far docks, whose berths were often reserved for the bigger boats with deeper drafts. The entire scene before me dissolved into a dreary, fuzzy image of blurred, impressionistic shapes. In the blinding rain and fading light, I could barely make out the flying bridges, tuna towers, satellite arrays, or wavering stiletto outlines of the outriggers jutting skyward from the stately craft moored side by side in finger berths. If I weren’t so familiar with the location of berth B-11, I would have had a hard time finding my boat among the shadows.
After splashing trough several deep puddles, I left the hard surface of the parking lot and was now running fast on the slippery, weather-beaten planks of the dock. A minute later, I was sliding over the slick transom of
Bold Ambition II
. I crossed the generous teak-planked afterdeck and stood for a moment under the relative shelter of the main cabin awning. I took off my rain-soaked rubber boots and tucked them under the ladder way to the flying bridge and the long built-in ice chests that also doubled as aft-facing seats.
Owning a boat like this is a bit like having a bottomless black hole in the ocean to pour money into. My father had had the financial wherewithal to cover the considerable maintenance and operating costs without missing a beat. For me, on the other hand, buying this boat from the charitable trust meant I was now a slave to both the boat and the trust, which had provided the financing for the acquisition. Make no mistake, the trust administrator, Milton Gardner, an old family friend who also happened to be my godfather, had made some allowances so I could complete the transaction. He had agreed to a special “insider sale price” and had been extremely accommodating on the terms of the loan. To own this baby, I had mortgaged everything I could, and then sold the rest. My comparatively simple existence before this new transient lifestyle as a full-time marina squatter was now just a fading happy memory. The days of taking on a few select cases, interspersed with long idle periods when I just went fishing, were now history. And with the national economy in the dumps since the market meltdown of 2008, even the superrich were pulling back on some luxuries, divorce among them. My typical bread-and-butter cases, those relatively uncomplicated ones where the two parties settled more or less amicably and didn’t drag each other into a contentious and bloody court battle, were much harder to come by.
Until the economic collapse of 2008 I had done well enough in my practice to sustain a very comfortable lifestyle. The new economic reality dictated changes even in the most acrimonious marriage environments. People were either trying harder to work things out or holding off until the economy and, therefore, cash flows and net worth improved. Not only the frequency of divorces but also the net value of settlements went up or down with the economy. Granted, for society as a whole, fewer breakups might even be seen as a plus, but it had a negative effect on my practice, and it threw a serious dent in my margarita fund. I was even starting to take a fresh look at areas of law that I would never have considered before, such as personal injury law. Trial lawyer
ugh
! I hate courtrooms, but I hate ambulance chasers even more. Ear to the police scanner, they roam the halls of medical centers, ready to flash a crisp business card to anyone dim enough or desperate to take it. The notion of having to associate with one of those Botox-stiff lawyers promoting themselves with cheesy television ads made my skin crawl. But the hard fact remained: personal injury law, unlike family law, is one area unaffected by economic cycles. I was sure their cash flows didn’t even reflect the fact that that the rest of the economy had been in the doldrums for three years and counting.