( 2011) Cry For Justice (13 page)

Almost without exception, every home I drove by was designed in the ethic of an Italian or Spanish villa of old. Their gleaming fake red-barrel roof tiles, faux-faded yellow, orange, and mustard stucco exteriors, copper gutters, gushing water fountains, and showy Canary Island palms screamed “I have arrived!” to anyone who cared enough to notice. The New World built to look like the Old. The entire area seemed caught in the bizarre game of pretending to be something else. It was as if Walt Disney himself had been hired to fashion this version of a Capri-by-the-Gulf fantasy world.

My cell phone rang, ending my internal rant. I eased the Escalade into a parking space and answered the call.

“Chief, I think I’ve got something.”

Sammy. The man never failed.

“Our man traded in Mrs. Kelly’s Bentley for a more sensible Mercedes, a last-year’s CLS AMG 55. Black. That’s why DMV had no record of it. No tags have been issued yet for the new wheels, and the old car’s info hasn’t even left the dealer’s back office yet.”

Sammy had managed to get an address from the dealer. It was a local condo hotel, which, according to the onboard GPS, was half a mile from my location. That jibed well with the cell phone usage pattern. I glanced at my watch: just after four. I told Sammy to check into a local hotel. I would check into the hotel where Robertson had been a guest and go on from there.

We were getting closer.

Eleven

The quaint little five-story condo hotel highlighted in faux drab orange kept up just fine with the local architectural ethic of Mediterranean make-believe.

To reach the front entrance, I drove up a long circular brick-paved driveway shaded by thick banyans and tall ornamental date palms. I pulled up under the porte cochere and asked the eager liveried valet to keep the Escalade nearby, saying I may have to leave on short notice. A bellhop with a jovial Jamaican accent took the duffle bag and escorted me to the front desk.

The hotel lobby was small, quiet, and luxurious in a modern, minimalist way, without the surfeit of help desks you see in the ritzy tourist traps. It had a large, circular fountain surrounded by intimate seating areas tastefully broken up with floor lamps, side tables, and strategically placed planters of colorful tropical flora. Filtered sunlight flooded through a pyramidal glass-tiled atrium high above. I checked in under my real name and asked the friendly clerk if an Evan Robertson had checked in yet. She looked at her computer and promptly informed me that Mr. Robertson was not a registered guest.

“That’s strange...,” I said, pretending to check something on my Blackberry.

“What is, sir?” asked the clerk, a friendly frown on her tanned young face. Time to dial up the charm.

“Mr. Robertson,” I said in a haughty yet affable tone. “Evan, rather, e-mailed me two days ago to say he’d be staying here through the weekend.”

“Let me recheck that for you, sir,” she said, and went back to her computer. “Maybe he checked out early... “No, I’m sorry, sir,” she said looking up from the monitor, “but we don’t have anyone by that name in our system.”

So maybe he was registered under a different name. I checked in, determined to find out Robertson’s relationship to this place.

I took a quick shower, put on a long-sleeved white shirt and dark linen slacks, and traded the rubber duck shoes for a more downtown look: Italian brown leather loafers. I opted not to tuck in my shirt and headed for the elevator. I was hungry and thirsty, so I may as well approach the bartender, the master of libations and small talk. They tended to know more about their establishments and what went on around them than just about anyone else.

I made my way to the long black granite-topped bar. Except for a pair of tables near the far windows, where overly tanned silvery-haired men, and women with puffy blue-white hair sat sipping coffee or white wine, the place was empty. A lone bartender puttered about behind the elegant, deserted bar. Perfect.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the bartender with a practiced smile as he dried his hands on his black apron. “What can I get you?”

“Corona and a menu, if you don’t mind,” I said.

“Absolutely.” He handed me a menu from under the bar, and an open beer and frozen pilsner glass appeared in his hands. “I’ll take your order when you’re ready.”

I settled for a steak, cheese, onion, and roasted-pepper panini. He vanished behind a door on the far side of the bar area and was back shortly.

“Are you staying with us, sir?” he inquired with a friendly smile.

“I am,” I said. “Hoping to meet up with someone.” No time like the present.

He smiled a knowing smile. “This ‘someone’ a lady?”

“Not today.” I smiled and put my glass down on the bar. “Afraid it’s just business tonight.”

He smiled again and went back to his chores. “What kind of business, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m a lawyer.” I decided to stick as close to the truth as possible without giving too much away. “An estate lawyer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he deadpanned, then broke into silent laughter. “I’m only kidding.”

I shook my head and smiled. The guy had balls. “It’s a living.”

“I apologize, sir,” said the bartender. “Did not mean to offend.”

“No apologies needed,” I said with a wave of the hand. I finished my beer.

“Another?” said the barman, noticing my empty glass.

I nodded, he performed his magic once more, and a fresh beer and glass were soon before me.

“Your panini should be out soon,” he added.

“Mike, is it?” I asked,” having read his name tag. He nodded. “I bet you know one or two good lawyer jokes, don’t you?”

He smiled to himself as though I had said something funny.

“You heard the one about the guy who wanted to introduce his lawyer to a friend at the scene of an accident?” Mike the bartender began. “I’d like to introduce you to my lawyer, said the guy to his friend...”

“But he was just hit by the ambulance!” we both said in unison. And we laughed together even though I didn’t find it particularly funny. He offered his hand. “I’m Mike Lawson.”

“Jason,” I said, and shook his hand. We were bonding. “Jason Justice.”

“Seriously?” he asked as though I had just made it up.

“I kid you not.” I took my well-worn wallet from my hip pocket and produced a business card.

He studied the card for a moment and said, “Should I say ‘sorry’ again?”

“I know. What were my parents thinking, right?” We both laughed again.

The ding of a distant bell made him crane his neck toward the kitchen door.

“That must be your order,” he said.

He reappeared a moment later with a great-looking open-faced steak sandwich surrounded by the restaurant’s own kettle fries, and a small Caesar salad.

“Will there be anything else?” Mike asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “Help me find this guy I’m looking for so I can just go upstairs and nap, will you?”

“You want my help?” he said with a look of troubled curiosity. He got as close to me as he could with the wide bar top between us.

“Yeah, why not?” I said. “It’s worth a shot. I’ve been looking for this guy for quite some time. Distant relative of a deceased client. As far as we know, he is now an heir to a not-so-small fortune. We had an old address in this area. That’s why I’m here kind of a long shot.”

“And you’re asking me because... ?”

“We had word he may have been a guest here recently,” I said between bites. Mike nodded as if he finally got the logic.

“Suppose I help you find him,” he said. “How much is my help worth?”

And there it was: the linchpin that held the entire universe together. Money: the thing we all have in common. I pretended to think about it for a moment longer.

“Maybe I can point you in the right direction or something?” Mike added by way of augmenting his case. “Save you some time. Time is money, right?”

“Sure,” I said, leaning forward as if ready to share a secret. “The guy I’m looking for goes by the name of Evan Robertson. Mid- to late fifties, British accent, very distinguished-looking gentleman. Tall, maybe six-five, trim, athletic build, ice-blue eyes.”

“You’ve just described a large swath of local players down here. You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”

I pulled out a copy of the old Polaroid image. “It’s the gentleman wearing the dark blazer, on the left.”

Mike took it in his tanned hands and studied the image for a moment, then put it back on the counter just a beat too fast. There was something there. Recognition and a pang of dread.

“What?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you know him?” I prodded, wearing what I hoped was a smile of curious anticipation.

Mike studied my face for a long moment as if sizing me up. He took another moment to glance right and left, and at last, convinced we were alone, he leaned over and murmured, “This is gonna cost you, man.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” I played dumb.

“How much cash you got with you?”

“Ahh, that.” I was getting tired of playing dumb. I was about ready to slap him upside the head. “You have got to forgive me, Mike. Sometimes I’m a little slow. Skiing accident. Hit my head hard. Long story.”

“Your wallet better be bursting with Benjamins.”

I grabbed for my wallet. “How much?”

“How much you got?”

I studied the rumpled bills in my wallet. I was low on cash. I prefer to use credit to pay for everything.

“I hate to disappoint you, Mike.” I placed a thin stack of fifties, twenties, and tens on the cold granite counter all told, a little over four hundred dollars.

“How much is in there?” he asked anxiously, glancing around again to assure himself we were still alone.

“Four-hundred and forty-two dollars,” I said. “All I have with me, I’m afraid.”

He vacillated as he studied the stack of bills. His mind must have been in overdrive, weighing the possibilities. Finally, with a sigh, he dropped a white cotton rag over the money and pretended to wipe the surface. When he was done the money was gone.

“This guy you’re looking for his name’s not Robertson,” Mike whispered.

“It
isn’t
?” I said, feigning surprise. After all, I was just an estate lawyer, a paper pusher from Palm Beach.

“No,” he replied. “He goes by the name of Baumann. Stefan or something is his first name. And I don’t think he speaks with a British accent. I’ve heard people say he’s from South Africa. Others have said he’s a Kiwi you know, a New Zealander. I doubt it, though. I’ve heard that accent before, and it’s European. Polish or something. I know; my grandmother had a similar accent and she was from somewhere near Belgrade. And I don’t mind telling you something about that guy is not right. He is damn right scary.”

“You sure we’re talking about the same person here?”

“The man in that picture goes by Baumann, that much I’m sure of,” Mike said as he stuffed the rag in his pocket.

“You know anything else about Mr. Baumann?”

“Not really,” he said as he went back to his chores behind the bar. “He comes and goes. Sometimes I tend bar at some pretty glitzy parties around here and on Marco Island. I’ve seen him hanging out at some of those parties.”

“Does he have a place around here somewhere?”

“Can’t help you there. We never got that chummy, seeing as how I’m just a bartender and all.”

Mike was also a smart-ass. “Okay,” I said, holding back a bit. “What about business interests? Or anyone you may know who may have befriended him.”

He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Not really. He seemed to just show up at these parties with some hot chicks. Gorgeous babes, if you know what I mean. Young. Hard bodies. Blonde and tanned, huge rack that seemed to be his preference. The kind of hot chicks that don’t care to wear too much clothing you know, things like underwear and such.”

“You know any of the women?”

He shook his head. “Way outta my league.”

“You never saw him with anyone else at these parties?”

“Not really. He talked to people. Mingled some, but for the most part he seemed to just appear at these parties, hang around for a while, and then,
poof,
disappear. Gone.”

Not much useful information there. “Anything else?”

“That’s it.”

Great. I just spent the last of my cash getting a few tidbits of worthless information about a player not even the cheesiest gossip rag would want. I decided to cut my losses. It was time to get back to the room and check in with Sammy. Maybe he’d had better luck.

“Put this on my room tab, will you?” I said to him. “I seem to be fresh out of cash.”

He flashed a sheepish smile. I gave him my room number, and he gave me the bar tab and walked back into the kitchen. I didn’t leave a tip.

Before heading upstairs, I went back to the front desk. I wanted to check for Robertson under his alter ego. I told the desk clerk I just found out another old acquaintance of mine may also have been a guest of the hotel a Mr. Stefan Baumann and I wondered if he was registered or had any pending reservations. She went over to her computer, tapped a few keys, and announced that Mr. Baumann had indeed been a guest on several occasions but had no pending reservations.

“Did he list an address or phone number where I might reach him and say hello? It’s been so long since I saw him I’d love to catch up with ol’ Stef.” I dialed up the charm as high as I could and still keep a straight face. To my surprise, she said they did indeed have an address for him in Miami, and a suite number that sounded suspiciously like your typical strip-mall private mailbox.

On my way upstairs, I began to piece together the bits of information I had on Evan Robertson, aka Stefan Baumann. I also knew that besides having the skill set needed to gain acceptance in weary Palm Beach social circles and swindle a wealthy widow out of her fortune, Baumann seemed to have a soft spot for young, hot blondes. Baumann had proved he could easily get around and take care of business. Amy had made the mistake of threatening him. Baumann, if it was indeed him, had managed to get back to Palm Beach and send a strong message and vanish once mor. Maybe his intention was more than just a message. Maybe his intention had been to tie up a loose end, one that could potentially bring unwanted attention. Killing Amy would certainly take care of that problem. But it was also reckless. Two deaths so close together, mother and daughter, would certainly invite the scrutiny of the authorities and perhaps shine a light on him. They would start asking questions, snooping around in his personal affairs something a con man bent on enjoying the fruits of his labor would want to avoid at all costs. And yet, Baumann had managed to stay under the radar once more, and what was worse, the trail had gone cold. I had no further clues as to his whereabouts. What I had learned so far confirmed my initial hunch: finding this man would not be easy. I decided on a two-pronged approach in my hunt for Robertson/Baumann. The first step involved Sammy.