Bum Rap (17 page)

No, I will not go there.

She reached across the desk and took Lassiter’s hand, giving it a long, fond squeeze.

He took a fork to the tres leches cake, smiled, and said, “Code Yellow, kiddo.”

-41-

Pretzel Man

I
was impressed with how quickly Victoria worked.

One hour and twenty minutes to find the charge and reversal slips that revealed the man’s name.

Gerald Hostetler.

One day in April, he charged $5,328 on his MasterCard at Club Anastasia. Forty-two hours later, someone with the initials “N. D.” reversed the charge from the club’s credit card terminal. It had to be him. And her.

Victoria clicked onto Google for the rest. A lightning-fast search revealed that during the same week in April, a snack foods convention took place at the Eden Roc. One of the speakers, Gerald Hostetler, addressed the crowd on “Branding Unique Snacks in the Twenty-First Century.” The convention website listed Hostetler as president of Hostetler Pretzels and Chips. There was a headshot of a man about thirty-five years old in a white apron, holding a tray of beer pretzels. He had blond hair that was just starting to retreat, giving him a high forehead, and a smile that said he loved his work.

The Hostetler Pretzels and Chips website listed the address of a plant in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Victoria found Gerald Hostetler’s home address on a pay site, along with the information that he’d never been charged with a crime, had never been married, and had graduated from East Stroudsburg University, where he’d lettered in track all four years. At the time, he held the school record in the ten thousand meters.

That interested me. Distance runners are their own breed. Skinny. Self-sufficient. Patient. Able to endure and conquer pain. Often loners, which may explain Hostetler’s apparent lack of a wife or girlfriend when he met Nadia. I had no such excuse.

Victoria found the website for the local newspaper, the
Lancaster New Era
. In the archives was a feature story on Hostetler and his business. Seems he employed three-dozen women to hand-roll each pretzel. Time-consuming and expensive, but that’s the way his great-great-grandfather, a German immigrant, made the pretzels in the late 1800s. Gerald Hostetler was a man of tradition and old values. I figured I might like the guy.

G
oogle Maps had a fine photo of Hostetler’s home, not far from the Susquehanna River. The house was built of stone and might have been a hundred years old or
more. Maybe it was his great-great-grandfather’s. Family ties. I liked that, too. The house had a
trimmed lawn and rose beds in the front yard. Lush pine trees towered like sentinels at the property line, and a single fir tree thirty feet tall stood near the brick path that led to the front door. I would bet a hundred bucks that Hostetler decorated the fir tree each Christmas. And another hundred bucks that he was as solid as that house.

With the Internet, this was just so damn easy. About eleven minutes for everything, once we had his name. Just amazing. When I started practicing law—not long after the days of rotary phones and IBM Selectrics—it would take a PI a week with boots on the ground to get the information we had gathered.

Victoria was scouring the American Airlines website. “There’s a nine fifty p.m. flight to Philadelphia,” she said. “I’ll stay in a hotel near the airport and drive to Lancaster in the morning.”

“Assuming you find Nadia there, your meeting will require some delicacy,” I said.

“Oh, my God. Instructions from the bull in the china shop about delicacy.”

“All I’m saying. Nadia may not have told Pretzel Man anything. Benny the Jeweler. The Gorev shooting. The federal investigation. Peel her away from him before you get into anything substantive. And then approach everything very gingerly.”

“Jake, do you remember why you sent me to talk to Elena, instead of your trying to do it?”

“I think I said something about you being good at feminine things.”

“That ‘empathy shit,’ you called it.”

“Not as articulate as I would like, but you got the point.”

“Just trust me, okay?”

I drove Victoria to the Solomon-Lord house on Kumquat and waited twenty minutes while she packed a carry-on. Then we headed north on LeJeune toward the airport. In front of me was a Jeep with a sailboard on top and the red-and-white “diver down” decal pasted on the body, just above the license plate. In case we didn’t already get the point, there were two bumper stickers: “Divers Do it Deeper” and “Have You Gone Down Lately?”

Actually, no.

Still, that was a lot less offensive than the old bumper sticker from the Cocaine Cowboys days: “Honk if You’ve Never Seen an Uzi Fired through a Car Window.”

No thanks.

I looked in the rearview mirror and that’s when I saw the gray Range Rover two cars behind me.
Damn.

“I’m not letting you out in front of American,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I’m thinking Bahamas Air.”

“That’s Concourse H. I’d have to walk all the way back to D.”

“I want to throw off Manuel Dominguez. He’s following us.”

She sneaked a peek in her wing mirror. “The Range Rover?”

“Yeah. If he gets out and tries to follow you, I’ll intercept him and you’ll have plenty of time to lose him.”

“Be careful, Jake. And be quick. Or they’ll tow away this old piece of junk.”

I pulled the Eldo behind a limo at Concourse H. The Range Rover stopped three cars behind. For a reason I cannot explain, I leaned over and gave Victoria a peck on the cheek. A husband sending his wife off on a business trip, maybe.

She touched my cheek with one hand and gave me a gentle pat. Then she leapt out of the car, grabbed her carry-on from the backseat, and hurried inside. In the rearview, I spotted Dominguez in army fatigue pants and camo Windbreaker scoot out the passenger door of the Range Rover.

I turned off the engine and swung out of the car. Dominguez was already through the sliding glass doors when the parking cop yelled at me, “Hey, fellow. No unattended vehicles. You’ll be towed.”

“My wife forgot her driver’s license,” I shouted. “Back in a jiffy.”

Yeah, I said “jiffy.” It seemed the word an old married guy would use.

The cop didn’t say go and he didn’t say no. In a second, I was inside the terminal.

I caught up with Dominguez at Concourse E. He was fifteen paces behind high-stepping Victoria when I grabbed him from behind by the hood of his camo Windbreaker.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Whoa! The hell?”

I yanked hard, spun him around, and pushed him into a store that sells coconut-covered chocolate patties and dried mango slices dipped in sugar. Except for four years at Penn State—or was it five?—I have lived in South Florida all my life and have never, ever seen a Miamian eat chocolate coconut patties. The airport stores also used to sell miniature orange trees that people would take home to die on their Manhattan balconies, but I haven’t seen those mutant plants in a while.

“Jake! It’s you!” Dominguez gasped when he turned around to face me.

“Whadaya doing, Manuel?”

“Flying to Nassau. Hitting the casinos.”

“You passed the Bahamas Air concourse. I’ll walk you back to the TSA line.”

“Not necessary, pal.” He shot a look in the direction Victoria had walked, but from inside the store, neither of us could see her.

“C’mon. I’d love to see what the metal detector finds.”

“I’m not carrying. Jeez, Jake. I’m a convicted felon. I can’t get the permit.”

I slammed my right forearm under his chin and pinned his neck against the wall. A gurgling sound came from his throat, and his face turned red. Over at the cash register, the cashier reached for her telephone. Not much time. I ran my left hand up and under his Windbreaker. Leather holster. Metal gun.

“You want to talk to me, Manuel? Or should I call a cop? You’re carrying a concealed weapon. In an airport, no less. Not to mention you’re violating the probation I got you.”

“Jeez, Jake.”

“Think quick. The cashier is calling security.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he pleaded. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

I hustled him out the door, and we headed back toward Concourse H.

“I was supposed to follow you and the lady,” Dominguez said. “Benny figured, sooner or later, you’d lead him to Nadia. But I had a different plan.”

“Yeah?”

“I was gonna warn you. Don’t bring the Russian girl back.”

“You have my cell number. Why not call?”

“I just decided on the way over here. I’m afraid what Benny will do to her.”

“You’re full of shit, Manuel. You’re afraid I’ll rip your throat out.”

“Trust me, Jake. Benny has these guys around the house. Not like me. Tough guys. I listen to them talk. If they find Nadia . . .” He let his words drift off.

“At least you got her name right. What else do you know?”

“Benny’s a diamond smuggler, and Gorev worked for him.”

“No shit.”

“Jeez, Jake, I’m trying to help. If you tell me what line of crap Benny fed you, I can give you the facts.”

We exited the sliding doors into the exhaust fumes of the outer terminal. Miraculously, my beloved Eldo was still there.

“Benny told us he loves Nadia,” I said. “She killed Gorev or had Solomon do it to protect him. If Benny finds her, he’ll give her half a mil as a wedding present.”

“That’s a crock, Jake. Nadia robbed Gorev’s safe of Benny’s diamonds and ran off with another guy.”

Benny’s diamonds!

So that’s what was in the freezer bag Solomon saw Nadia take from the safe. Benny’s love-is-all-you-need shtick had clearly been a charade. First because Nadia stole his property. Second, because it’s possible the diamonds could be linked to Benny in front of a federal grand jury.

“Benny’s offered a hundred K to whoever brings the B-girl back,” Dominguez continued. “Two hundred K if they get the diamonds, too. They can do whatever they want with her for a couple days. Then Benny will personally kill her.”

“So much for the Beatles,” I said.

“Huh?”

The gray Range Rover pulled up to the curb, Rose Marie at the wheel. She waved at me, and I waved back. “I won’t be a party to a murder, Jake,” Dominguez said. “You gotta know that’s true.”

“I appreciate that, Manuel.”

He reached over and gave me a man hug, his handgun digging into my ribs. I am not a hugging kind of guy, especially not as the huggee. But etiquette kept me from stomping on his instep.

“What are you gonna tell Benny?” I asked.

“That I followed you two to the airport and the lady lawyer got on a flight for the Bahamas. Maybe he ought to send a couple tough guys to Nassau.”

I studied him a second. He was, after all, a con man at heart. When he lied, there were no tells. No blinking eyes or turning away. No coughs or squeals in the voice. But I had known Dominguez a very long time, and my sixth sense had me believing him.

He opened the passenger door to the Range Rover and was about to hoist himself inside. “One more thing, Jake. No matter what Benny told you about the shooting, I heard him say there’s no way Nadia killed Gorev.”

“Do you remember his exact words, Manuel?”

“Of course. In my business, you gotta have a photogenic memory.”

I didn’t correct him. I just asked, “So, what’d he say?”

“I can’t do the accent so good, but Benny said, ‘That
maidel
never pulled a trigger in her life. You ask me, her schlemiel of a lawyer did it. But the diamonds. The diamonds, she took.’ ”

-42-

The Chrysler

S
everal cars behind the Range Rover sat a late-model dark-gray Chrysler 300 sedan. Four doors. Black walls. Nondescript.

The license plate did not say, “US GOVERNMENT—FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY.” The Chrysler wore the standard Florida plate with the orange, the blossoms, and the old nickname, “Sunshine State.”

An FBI agent named Louis Palbone sat at the wheel. He wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a blue blazer, and his grease-stained tie was at half-mast. Palbone was in his late fifties and nearing retirement. He had already placed a down payment on a fishing lodge in Everglades City. He’d planned on being a fishing guide for at least twenty years. On stakeouts, he often daydreamed of chasing bonefish and permit, snook and redfish.

The passenger seat was empty. Lauren Dunlap, his young partner, was inside the terminal, following the woman lawyer. Lauren had two Ivy League degrees, engineering and law, and somehow decided to become an FBI agent. She was so gung ho, she worked nights and weekends without filling out time sheets.

Palbone went back to daydreaming. Islamorada. Not for deep-sea fishing. He’d never cared for that. But the backcountry channels in the middle Keys were humming with mangrove snapper and mullet. And tarpon! He was pondering the use of crab as bait when the pleasantly rocking boat in his mind was interrupted by an unpleasant voice from the backseat.

“What’s taking her so long?”

Deborah Scolino. The pain-in-the-ass assistant US Attorney. Ever since her confidential informant had screwed up and fled, Scolino had been a total bitch.

“Dunno,” Palbone said. “It’s a big airport.”

Deborah Scolino gave a little snort, and Palbone tried to get back into daydreaming mode, but his mood had soured. He despis
ed Scolino, but then he hated most government lawyers, especially the deadly earnest ones. Funny thing, he didn’t mind the criminal defense lawyers so much, even though they cross-examined the bejesus out of him. At least most of them had a sense of humor, and he enjoyed the sparring. As far as he could tell, Scolino had no life outside work. He wondered if she even knew how to ri
de a bicycle. As for fishing, the only hooks she’d ever baited were deals with lowlife informants.

“You should have followed Lassiter,” she said.

“He’s not going anywhere. Jeez, his car is sitting right there.”

“So where’s Agent Dunlap? I’m gonna call her cell.”

“Not a good idea. She could be standing right next to Lord.”

Impatient
, Palbone thought. If there’s anything you need on surveillance, it’s patience. Plus a convenient place to piss.

Scolino put her phone down.

“There’s Lassiter!” she shouted in Palbone’s ear. “With the man he followed into the terminal.”

Palbone watched the big lawyer and the guy in the army fatigues and Windbreaker. He remembered Lassiter as a second-stri
ng linebacker with the Dolphins. No speed but a hitter. He looked as if he could still take care of himself.

“Look, they’re hugging!” Scolino said.

“I see. I see. Maybe a couple of queers.”

“Palbone, you’re a Neanderthal.”

“Hey, I watch the sports. Some football players been coming out of the closet lately.”

“Jesus. I thought the FBI was doing sensitivity training.”

“That’s what some of us call ‘nap time.’ ”

“Palbone, you are so burned out, your ashes are cold.”

“No shit.” He squinted through the windshield. “Hey, I recognize the guy in the fatigues.”

“Why didn’t you say so? Who is it?”

“When I was staking out Benny Cohen’s house, that guy would come and go. I think he works for Benny.”

“I didn’t expect this,” Scolino said. “Lassiter in bed with Benny Cohen. And, no, Palbone, I don’t mean they’re gay.”

Scolino’s cell rang. Caller ID said “Unavailable.”

“Yes?” she answered in a conspiratorial whisper Palbone found amusing.

Scolino hit the speaker button. On the other end of the line, Special Agent Lauren Dunlap said, “American Flight 944. Arrives Philadelphia twelve thirty a.m.”

“Did you get a seat?”

“Boarding now. Subject is three rows ahead.”

The line clicked dead.

“Palbone, didn’t you used to work in the Philadelphia office?”

“Yeah. Back when William Penn was laying out the streets.”

“Who do you still know there?”

“At this time of night, no one.”

“Call the duty agent. Tell her to line up two cars.”

“Her?”

“Him or her. Get with it, Palbone. Two cars. Four agents. Have them at the airport at half past midnight. I don’t know if Lord is being picked up, if she’s taking a cab, or renting a car. But we can’t lose her.”

Great
, Palbone thought. Some Philadelphia agents lived across the river in New Jersey. Some were far west of the city near King of Prussia off the turnpike. Wherever they lived, four very pissed-off agents would be pulling all-nighters. Because of one very paranoid assistant US Attorney in Miami.

Palbone saw Scolino typing on her cell phone browser.
Now what?

“There’s a seven a.m. flight to Philadelphia,” she said. “I’ll be on it and catch up with the team. You, Palbone?”

“You sure you don’t want the Eighty-Second Airborne, too?”

“I take that as a no.”

“Take it as a hell no.”

Deborah Scolino didn’t seem to care. She was working something over in her mind. “Jake Lassiter and Benny Cohen,” she said. “I never would have guessed.”