Jay Giles (10 page)
“Big increase.”
She nodded. “The D.E.A. estimates that 20 of those people work full time for the cartel. Shore, as a parent company, owns or has significant positions in eighteen businesses.”
“Here in
Sarasota
?”
“No. Spread around—
Miami
,
Orlando
,
Tampa
,
Jacksonville
. That’s one of the things that worry the authorities. D’Onifrio’s building an empire, getting more powerful. Twice, the D.E.A. has tried to infiltrate his operation and gain enough information to convene a grand jury. Both times the operatives disappeared.” She closed the folder, her face grim. “Now do you understand why I told you he’s bad news?”
I nodded. “Did you run across any vulnerabilities?”
She shook her head. “My guy at the D.E.A. had two words for D’Onifrio—smart, ruthless.”
Our waitress set coffee in front of me, departed. I picked it up, took a sip. “Anything about his personal life? Married? Kids?”
She smiled. “He’s not married, don’t know about kids. I do know his place is rumored to be Playboy Mansion South, complete with a live-in harem. Don’t let that mislead you. This is a guy you don’t want to mess with. People who anger him disappear.”
Good advice. But it came a little too late. I’d already angered him. What I didn’t know was how badly.
I was on the phone the next morning when I heard the front door rattle, Rosemary scream. “It’s him.”
I put my hand over the receiver. “Call the police,” I yelled to her. “Sid, I’m going to have to call you right back.” I raced out to the lobby, peered out the door window. No sight of him.
The police arrived three minutes later. I let them in, explained that we were being harassed by a blond stranger. They listened, walked around the outside of the building, reported no sign of anyone, and left.
As soon as their cruiser pulled away from the curb, the phone rang, startling us both. “
Seattle
on Stocks,” Rosemary said, picking it up. Her face drained of color, her eyes widened. “It’s him. He’s demanding to talk to you.”
“I’ll take it in my office.” I headed back, picked it up.
“We want our money,
Seattle
,” the voice said.
“I told you it’s part of the estate. I can’t help you.”
“Screw that. Transfer the damn stocks or give us the cusip numbers. You’ve got twenty-four hours.” The line went dead.
“What are we going to do?” Rosemary asked from the doorway.
“We don’t have any choice. I’m going to the police, file a complaint, get protection from this guy.” Of course, that was easier said than done. It took three hours—filing a statement, answering questions, looking at mug shots—before they agreed to watch my building for the next twenty-four hours.
Back at the office, I played catch-up until three-thirty then headed to Julian’s for our four o’clock with Amy.
They were both in his office when Eddie and I got there. Julian played host, asking if he could get anybody anything. When we declined, he got down to business. “I’ve talked to Nevitt, and the news is not good. He’s filing to recover ninety-five thousand in brokerage commissions and asking for two million in damages.”
The amounts staggered me. “Ridiculous.”
His face was grim. “You’ll probably be served tomorrow.”
“We’ll follow the same defense we used in probate court, won’t we?” Amy asked.
Julian nodded. “Pretty much. I think we show the closeness of Joe and Matt’s relationship, point up the brevity of the marriage, finish with Janet Jesso’s questionable past.”
“We may have something else.” I filled them in on the thrown trades Tory was investigating.
“If she can trace those back to Nevitt or Wakeman, there’s no question this’ll be dismissed,” Julian said.
“How soon will she know something?” Amy wanted to know.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Then we prepare assuming we don’t have it,” Julian said.
And we did. For the next hour and a half, we filled in the skeleton Julian had outlined earlier. He had another appointment at six. We quit at five-thirty, which was fine by me. I was starving.
“Let’s go get something to eat, Eddie,” I said to him as we got back in the car. The Salty Dog was on our way home so we stopped there. The temperature was cooling off. There was no humidity, a blue sky. It was a good night to eat outside on their deck. They fixed Eddie his bowl. Grouper sandwich for me. I lingered over a glass of wine, trying to relax, enjoy the nice evening. At seven, Eddie started dancing around, letting me know he needed to go for a walk. We went across the street to the grassy area in front of Mote Marine Lab. Eddie was quick. We crossed the street and walked through the parking lot to our car to go home.
He stepped out from behind a van, blocked our way. He had his right hand in the pocket of a light blue sharkskin suit. “You don’t plan on giving us those stocks, do you?”
Lying wouldn’t have done any good. “No.”
I started to walk past him to the Saab. He took his hand out of his pocket. It held a gun.
The gun made two soft shoo, shoo sounds that were followed by a single yelp of pain.
Both bullets struck Eddie in the head. One by his left eye. The other in the top of his head. There was no question he was dead.
An immense feeling of loss seized me, a flood of emotion. Eddie had been my link to my family. My constant companion. He’d watched over me, kept me going when I didn’t think I could go on. He was gone.
“You’ve got fourteen hours left,
Seattle
.” The blond man put his gun back in his pocket, walked away, laughing.
Crying, I picked Eddie’s warm little body up, cradled him in my arms, carried him to the car. Somehow, I drove us home, found a shovel in the gardening shed, buried him under a flowering tree on the front grounds.
“I know you’re in heaven with Michael and Sarah. I know they’re happy to be playing with you. You were always there when I needed you. I’ll never forget you, Eddie.” It was as much of a eulogy as I could manage.
I walked the beach that night, remembering, grieving, feeling sorry for myself. When it grew dark, I wandered back to my apartment, picked up the phone, and called Dr. Swarthmore at home.
“Adelle,” I said when she answered. “He’s dead. Eddie’s gone.”
She listened as it all poured out. “I’m sorry, Matt,” she said when I finished. “I know how much he meant to you. To lose him unexpectedly in this way has to be devastating. You’re going to have to work through the grieving process again, fight falling back into depression.”
She was right. Already, I was feeling that what’s-the-use feeling. People were after me, I was being investigated, sued. Why go on?
“Matt, I’m concerned about your situation. There’s something I don’t understand. The people responsible for Eddie’s death? Why are they bothering you? If this is about Joe Jesso’s securities, why aren’t they talking to his wife?”
Hell of a good question.
“She’d be the logical person for them to deal with. As it is now, you’re caught in the middle in a lose/lose situation.”
Her insight triggered an absurdly crazy idea that might flip things to win/win.
The dreams came that night. I was in a cramped interior room with no outside light. The air was heavy, suffocating. Beside me, a balding man in a dark blue suit was wringing his hands as he talked, his voice soft, reassuring, as he explained the various grades of caskets. Wood vs. metal. Rounded corners vs. squared corners. Crepe vs. silk. I wasn’t really listening. I couldn’t focus. The man kept talking anti-corrosion protection, air-lock seals. “It’s important to make the right selections for your loved ones,” he said.
Claire and I had never talked about this, about what we wanted. Death was something that came after old age, after a lifetime together. I started sobbing. I wanted to talk to her. Ask her. Find out what she wanted for Michael and Sarah.
I woke. My hand reached for Eddie. Found nothing.
I was alone. Totally alone. I fought back tears, looked at the bedside clock. Four o’clock. Six hours to the deadline.
I got up, took a long shower, dressed, ate a big breakfast, thought about what I needed to do. My plan to move this from lose/lose to win/win hinged on D’Onifrio. If I could get him to go along, the rest would fall into place. If I couldn’t, it was time to go to the police. The place to pitch my idea was his office. A business meeting. Talk dollars. Convince him of the best way for him to get his money. I grabbed my car keys, headed out.
Shore Bank and Trust was located in a five-story glass office tower on the southern edge of
Sarasota
. At a little before six in the morning, the sun wasn’t up, and neither were any of the bank’s workers. The parking lot looked empty, the building dark. I was too early.
I parked the car and walked to a coffee shop across from the Shore building where I could watch the place, wait for my opportunity. I slid into a booth by the window and picked up a menu.
A waitress wearing a white dress with blue trim and a hairnet, carrying a small pad of paper and pencil, hovered next to me. “Morning. What can I get you?”
“Just coffee, thanks.”
She nodded, scribbled something on the pad, left.
Across the street, people began arriving for work. Lights went on, people went to their desks. Within an hour, the sun was up, a steady stream of people coming and going. By then my eyeballs were floating. I’d just gotten refill number four when I saw a black BMW 7-series with tinted windows turn into the parking lot and park in a spot near the building’s entrance. The driver’s door opened and a dark-haired man wearing sunglasses and carrying a slim briefcase got out, walked confidently into the building. Don D’Onifrio had arrived.
My plan, which had made such sense back at the condo, now seemed foolish. All the warnings Tory had issued about D’Onifrio reverberated in my head. My heart started beating faster. If I sat there a minute longer, I’d chicken out. I paid my check, summoned my courage. I slid out of the booth, headed across the street to pay my respects.
I kept telling myself I wasn’t walking into a den of evil. I was going into a bank, a normal work place with lots of people. Anything out of the ordinary—especially something bad—would be noticed. They didn’t want that. They didn’t want to attract any attention.
I rationalized my way through the revolving doors and into the bank’s lobby. Inside, Shore looked like any other bank. Against the back wall were the tellers; in front by the windows the desk personnel cordoned off by a waist-high railing. I walked to an opening in the railing and stood there until one of them, a young black woman, waved me over. She indicated a visitor’s chair in front of her desk. “How may I help you?” she asked with a smile.
I gave her an even bigger smile and one of my business cards. “I need to see Mr. D’Onifrio concerning some stocks. I don’t have an appointment, but I know he wants to see me. So if you could just let him know I’m here.”
Her eyes immediately became wary, her smile a frown. “Mr. D’Onifrio has a very busy schedule. I’m afraid he won’t want to be interrupted.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I’m not selling anything. This is business he wants to talk about. Believe me, he won’t mind.”
She looked dubious.
“Please.”
She hesitated, took a breath, reached for the phone. She watched me. “Ann, I have a gentleman here to see Mr. D’Onifrio. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says Mr. D’Onifrio wants to see him.” She glanced quickly at my business card, still in her hand. “Mathew Seattle. Can you check?”
I kept smiling while we waited.
“I’ll tell him.” She hung up, looked over at me. “Mr. D’Onifrio says he will see you. Ann will be down to get you in a moment.”
Ann turned out to be a young blond girl in a tailored gray suit. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Seattle,” she said in a melodious voice.
I did. To the elevator. Up to five. Down the hall to a corner office. The door was closed. She knocked lightly, opened it.
“Come in, Mr. Seattle,” a refined voice said. I stepped through the doorway into a large, well-appointed office. D’Onifrio sat behind a carved Mahogany desk. The picture Tory had shown me of him didn’t do him justice. Even seated, he had a powerful presence that exuded strength and authority. Part of that was his size. He was bigger than I expected. Part of it was his looks. His gaze was intelligent, penetrating. He wore a dark blue shirt, deeper blue tie. He held out a hand indicating one of the visitor’s chairs. “Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
I took the seat, declined the coffee.
“Ann, hold my calls. Mr. Seattle and I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.” I heard her say, followed by a soft whoosh and click of the door closing.
We were alone. With the door closed, there was an odd, irritating high-pitched hum in the room. It took me a second to realize it was coming from his hearing aids.
D’Onifrio studied me, smiled, a condescending smile. The smile of a predator toying with prey.
I resisted the temptation to turn and flee, took a deep breath. I had to get this on an adult-to-adult basis. If I dealt with him from a frightened-child position, I was dead meat. “Thanks for seeing me.” I tried to sound confident. “I think you and I need to talk about Joe Jesso’s stocks.”
The smile lost a little of its amusement. “I’m listening.”
“Over the past couple of days, I’ve learned it might have been your money Joe invested with me.”
No reaction.
“If that’s true, I can understand why you’d be upset. What I came here to tell you is I didn’t know it was your money and there’s nothing I can do to help you get it back.”
The smile lost any remaining amusement. The eyes glared. I thought he might come across the desk and throttle me. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm.
“Listen carefully. It was not my money. It was my depositors’ money. They are demanding an accounting. They don’t want to hear your excuses. They want their money back. If you do not give it to them—” he shrugged his shoulders. Amusement returned to his smile. “Well, I cannot be responsible for what happens to you.”
I had the feeling his depositors weren’t Mr. and Mrs. Joe Lunchbox of
Sarasota
. “That money is part of his estate—”
He shook his head. “These stocks are under your control.”
“I can’t take assets out of his estate. I’d go to jail.”
He laughed. “You think I care if you go to jail?”
“I’m sure you don’t, but there’s no way I could transfer those stocks into your name that the money couldn’t be traced. You’d go to jail, too.”
“No one will ever trace it to me. I know how to move money so it disappears.”
“You can’t make it disappear when the N.A.S.D. is watching.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Why would the N.A.S.D. be watching my money?”
I laid it out for him. “Joe’s new wife brought charges against me with the National Association of Securities Dealers so she could have me removed as executor of his estate. Now that I’m no longer executor, she has control of that money.”
D’Onifrio’s face registered disgust. He sat back in his chair, rubbed his chin with his hand. “That may be, but you know the cusip numbers. All I need are those numbers. I can do the rest.”
“Won’t work. With the N.A.S.D. watching those stocks, they’d have us both arrested for securities violations.”
Anger flushed his face. His hands balled up into fists.
“But I know how you can get your money, and it will be perfectly legal.”
“Tell me,” he barked.
I took a breath. “Right now, that money belongs to Joe’s wife, Janet Wakeman. Janet’s a gold digger who marries older men for their money. That’s why she married Joe.” I watched his face. “So if one of your associates married her, that money would be joint property. You could take it without a problem.”
D’Onifrio burst out laughing. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would I do that?”
“For one reason only. It’s legal.”
He threw up his hands in a dismissive gesture. “I want my money now. I don’t want to play some game to get it.”
“Why risk having a bunch of regulatory agencies breathing down your neck so you can have it now. You haven’t had that money for two years. What’s a month more to get it back without any complications?”
He picked up a pen, tapped it against the desktop, threw it down, studied me. Silence. Again I noticed the irritating hum. “I’ll think about it.” He stood.
I remained seated. “Thinking it over doesn’t work for me. You killed my dog—”
“I am sorry about that. My associate should not have hurt your dog.”
“I appreciate your saying that, but it won’t bring him back. I don’t want to end up dead because I gave you time to think it over.”
“I assure you that will not happen.”
“All I want is a yes or a no. What’s there to think about? I’m told you’re a powerful executive. This should be a simple decision for you.”
“Don’t goad me, Mr. Seattle, or you will join your dog. There are issues to consider beyond your understanding. I will review this and let you know my decision. End of discussion.”
I stood. “Well, thanks for listening at least.” I headed for the door. When I opened it, Ann was waiting for me.
She smiled nicely. I was back among normal human beings. “I’ll show you downstairs, Mr. Seattle.”
“Thanks.” I gratefully followed her to the elevator banks. She rode down to the lobby with me. Each floor dinged as we descended. On the fifth ding, the door opened. We were back at the lobby.
