Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery (26 page)

“Technically, neither did McKinley. He took the money from the guy who extorted the Jews.”

“Yes, but he should have killed that bastard de Fresne or at least turned him over to the French. He didn’t do that, and the American people won’t like it.”

“But the senator wasn’t even born then. I think he’ll be forgiven, and
we’ll never prove that he was one of the ones who ordered Wyatt’s death.”

“We’ve got to kill him.”

“Yes,” I said, “we do.”

“Does the senator have any children?”

“No.”

“So if we get the LaPlantes and the senator, it ends.”

“I guess. But the Jews are still out the money.”

The next day, Jock and I drove south on Tamiami Trail and turned west onto Blackburn Point Road. We crossed the old-fashioned bridge that fastened Casey Key to the mainland, and drove south on Casey Key Road. Soon we came to an area where the island narrowed and large estates faced the Gulf, with property extending across the road and encompassing boathouses clinging to the bay.

Debbie had fired up her computer the night before and found the private number of the LaPlante house. I’d called it just before we left my condo. A young woman answered, and I asked if she were Mrs. LaPlante. She giggled and told me in Spanish accented English that she was the maid. I asked to speak to Mr. Dick LaPlante, and she informed me that he was at his office in Sarasota and would be there for the rest of the day. I hung up, and we started toward Casey Key.

We arrived at the LaPlante house at mid-morning. It was grossly excessive, taking up hundreds of feet of beachfront. There was an open parklike setting on the bay side of the road. A low wall that matched the one around the house separated the property from the street. A boathouse hung over the bay, and a pier next to it jutted fifty feet into the water. A Hatteras yacht was moored to the pier, stern to the road. The name on the transom was Dick’s Hussy, a low attempt at humor that I suspected was original with Dick LaPlante.

I pulled my new Explorer to the gate, lowered the window and spoke into the speaker mounted on the brick column at the edge of the driveway. “I’m here to see Mr. LaPlante Senior.”

A disembodied voice, sounding tinny in the small speaker, responded. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but tell him I come with a message from Major McKinley.”

We sat for a few moments, and the gate began to open. The voice from the speaker said, “Come in and park in the circular driveway.”

A dark-skinned woman wearing a gray maid’s uniform and sensible shoes like those the nurses wear on hospital wards met us at the door. She showed us to a formal living room overlooking the beach. The place was wholly contrived, as if an interior decorator with little taste had put it together with no intention of comfort or warmth. I doubt that anybody ever used the room.

In a few minutes a woman wearing nurse’s scrubs pushed an old man in a wheelchair into the room. He was wearing a bathrobe, with pajamas underneath, and he had a blanket draped over his lap. He held out his hand to shake, and I took it. It was like holding a desiccated leaf. The skin was dry and had the consistency of tissue paper. His grip was as light as a butterfly’s touch. “I’m René LaPlante,” he said.

I said, “I think we need to talk privately.”

He turned to the nurse. “Leave us please. I’ll be all right.”

The nurse bent over and tucked the blanket more firmly around his legs. “Call if you need me.” She turned and left the room.

The old man waved to some chairs. “Have a seat gentlemen. I don’t think you told me your names.”

I was quiet for a beat. “You didn’t tell me yours, either, Monsieur de Fresne.”

His eyes widened a little, but there was no other response to my comment. “If you’ve come to kill me, I’d consider it a blessing.”

“I’m not here to kill you, sir,” I said. “I’m here to learn.”

“And what do you think I can teach you?”

“Does the name Laurence Wyatt mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“He was killed on Longboat Key last month on the orders of the group.”

“I assume you’re talking about McKinley’s group.”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t had anything to do with them for many years.”

“I know. McKinley told us that.”

De Fresne frowned. “McKinley’s dead.”

“Yes. And so is Allawi.”

“Allawi too? I didn’t know that.”

“McKinley had him killed.”

“What makes you think that?”

“McKinley told us.”

“Did you kill McKinley?”

I ignored the question. “Why would you consider it a blessing if I killed you?”

“I’m dying. Cancer. It hurts like a son of a bitch. The damn doctors tell me I’ve only got a few days left. I wish it’d hurry. I’m tired of living.”

“Tell me, Monsieur de Fresne, how did a Jew like yourself end up causing the deaths of so many?”

“I never thought of myself as a Jew. My mother was an American Jew and worked as a maid for a wealthy New York family that was living in Paris. She met my father, a French soldier, who was Catholic. Neither one of them practiced their religion, so the differences didn’t matter.

“My father was killed in North Africa in the thirties and I was sent to live with relatives in the south of France. My mother died soon after, and I don’t think anyone from my father’s family had ever met her. My Jewishness just never came up.”

“But, surely you had some empathy for the ones you sent to the gas chambers?”

“Why are we discussing this?”

“Because,” I said, “I want to learn. I want to know how human beings can sink so low. I want to understand.”

“You’re trying to understand yourself, aren’t you? You’ve killed men before. It’s written on your face.”

I tensed. “We’re talking about you.”

“I didn’t kill anybody. They were all headed for the chambers. I simply put off the inevitable and took their money in the process. Better me than the Germans.”

“How did you get out of France after the war?”

“I was already out of France. I went to Germany in 1944. I was in Frankfurt when the war ended. Major McKinley came and got me. He’d found out that I had the money.”

“How’d he get you to the States?”

“He got me to Genoa, and a Catholic group took over from there. I was stuck in Italy for a couple of months, so I learned a lot about that group. Did you ever hear of the ratlines?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this one was run by a German bishop named Hudal who was rector of a seminary in Rome for Austrian and German priests. He worked with some Croatian priests in Genoa who were helping members of the Croatian Nazi party get out. Some of the Vichy French officials were getting out that way too. They got me papers from the Red Cross and a visa. They dressed me as a priest and put me on a ship for Argentina. McKinley met me there and got me into the U.S.”

“What about your war record in the Pacific?”

“Bullshit. That’s all it was. McKinley fixed all that up. The OSS had a lot of tentacles. They could do most anything.”

“You’ve made a lot of money over the years.”

“I have, and I’ve given a lot of it away.”

“I know about your support of the Jewish causes.”

“Yes.”

“When did you decide you were a Jew?”

“I fell in love with and married a rabbi’s daughter. She was my whole life. Her family was the only one I’d ever really known. I told them about my mother’s background.”

“Your son doesn’t seem to have the same sense of Jewish identity that you do.”

“My son is probably crazy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He’s never worked a day in his life. He hangs onto that McKinley boy like he was some sort of god. He’s taken over my spot in the group, but I don’t know what the hell they’re doing anymore. Apparently they kill people when it suits them. And the major was probably going to buy the presidency for his son, George. My son expects to ride his coattails to Washington. This country is ruined if that happens.”

“If you think your son is so useless, why did you give him control of all your assets?”

“I didn’t. He thinks he’s in control, but I’m still running things. He thinks everything is in his name, but that’s a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo. My lawyer made sure that I maintain real control. He has all the original authentic documents. When I die, my son will get a generous allowance from a trust fund, but the rest of the assets go to the State of Israel.”

Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Israel?”

“Yes. The money needs to go back to where it came from. Israel will use it to compensate the Nazi survivors.”

I leaned into the man, looking him in the eye, trying to assess his state of mind. “Monsieur LaPlante, your son tried to kill me on Longboat Key. He had somebody put a bomb in my car. A young man with a wife and child was killed in the blast.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. There has been too much killing.”

“I want you to add a codicil to your will. I want you to give that young man’s widow some money.”

“How much?”

“Enough to support her so that she can raise her son.”

“What was the boy’s name?”

“Jimmy Griner.”

“You give my lawyer the particulars, and I’ll have him draw a codicil. Tell him to hurry. I don’t have long.”

“Thank you, sir. I also want the MAD documents.”

Once again, his eyes widened a fraction. “You know about that.”

“Yes. Will you give them to me?”

“What will happen to my son?”

“The documents will ruin George McKinley’s chances to win the presidency. Your son will have some embarrassing moments, being the son of a war criminal and all, but he’ll survive.”

“What will you do with the papers?”

“Nothing, until you die. Then I’ll get with your lawyer, and we’ll make a joint announcement about how you got the money, and that you’ve left it all to Israel to support the survivors. I’ll turn the documents over to the press and the FBI.”

“You’ll do nothing until I die?”

“I’m a lawyer, Monsieur de Fresne. My name is Matthew Royal. I’d
like to meet with your lawyer and review all the business documents you mentioned, and your will. If everything is as you say it is, the documents will stay in my possession until after your death.”

The deal was struck. De Fresne called for his nurse and she wheeled him out of the room. He’d asked the maid to bring us coffee while we waited. He was back in a few minutes with three large manila envelopes held together by a stout rubber band. He handed me a handwritten note to his lawyer giving him permission to share all information with me. “Will that do Mr. Royal?”

“Yes. Will you call him and tell him I’ll be coming by?”

“I’ll do that today.”

He shook our hands as we started to leave. He held onto Jock’s hand for a moment, a twinkle in his eye, and said, “I enjoyed our chat, son.”

Jock laughed, said good-bye, and we walked out the door.

“You didn’t say one word the whole time,” I said. “Isn’t that taking the laconic secret agent thing a little far?”

“You were doing great, Counselor. Besides, you talk enough for both of us.”

Late that afternoon, I phoned and made an appointment with de Fresne’s lawyer for the next morning. He’d been expecting my call. Logan and Marie joined Jock and me for drinks at Tiny’s, and a late dinner of pizza and beer at the Haye Loft. Jock had two pieces of coconut cream pie for dessert.

I visited de Fresne’s lawyer the next morning. Arthur Goldblum, Esquire, maintained a small suite of offices in a mid-rise building near the waterfront in downtown Sarasota. His ownership of the entire building was the only reason it had not been razed to make way for another over-priced high-rise condominium tower built to house the invading horde of refugees from our more northern climes.

It was an ancient building with its aches and pains plainly visible: peeling paint, worn linoleum flooring, poor lighting. To one accustomed to the new skyscrapers of a young city, the slow ascent of the elevator was maddening. It creaked and groaned and concerned me that it would give up the ghost before I reached my floor.

Goldblum’s suite was small, consisting of a tiny reception area covered in green shag carpet of indeterminate age, a conference room with a scarred table taking up most of the space, and an office for the lawyer. A lady as old as the building, was seated at a secretary’s desk against the wall of the outer office. She showed me to the conference room, offered coffee, and brought me something dark and strong in a chipped mug bearing a faded logo of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. One taste and I knew that I would do without drink during our meeting.

The conference room smelled of ancient mildew and dust balls decaying in their corners. My chair had once been handsome, high-backed
and covered in red leather. Now it was ripped and faded with age, one armrest loose. I was beginning to worry that de Fresne’s lawyer would be as worn and shabby as the office.

I was not disappointed. A wizened little man, stooped to about forty degrees, with sparse gray hair combed carelessly across a bald pate entered the room. He was wearing rimless bifocals, his eyes watery behind the plastic lenses.

I’d never met Arthur Goldblum, but he was a legend in Florida legal circles. For more than fifty years, he had represented some of the most astute business and political leaders in the state. He’d also written several books on business law, one of which was used in law school classrooms across the country. The large firms regularly came to him with offers of big money to join them and bring his clients. He’d always turned them down. He saw himself as one of a near extinct breed, the lawyer who cared for his clients and did their bidding only as long as it fit his rigid code of ethics. He made a good living out of his own labor, eschewing the idea of using young lawyers as profit centers for their elders. I had a tremendous amount of respect for him, and was ashamed that the legal profession saw his kind as dinosaurs.

I wasn’t prepared for this little man, a frail shadow of my image of him. He stuck out his hand. “Mr. Royal, I’m Arthur Goldblum.” His voice was strong, his grip firm. “I’m told that you have a written waiver of confidentiality from Mr. LaPlante.”