Castle Cay (19 page)

“There are a couple of holes, though, Sherm,”
he said. “For one thing, Avram was in Boston when his half-brother,
Marc, was killed here in Key West. We still think he could have
pulled the strings, though. The guy that’s on the run now, Rolly
Archer…have you seen that on the news?”

“
Yeah. What about him?”

“He’s from Boston, too, Sherm,” said Julie.
“Avram Solomon denied knowing him to me, but Avram is a
pathological liar, at the very least.”

“The other problem is motive,” said Joe. “We
think Avram wanted to prevent Marc Solomon from going to Castle
Cay; that he probably didn’t want him to see the altered side of
the island. Marc didn’t know anything about that, so it might have
caused a glitch in the sale. That looks like a pretty good
motive…except that Avram doesn’t profit from the sale! He’s just
the trustee. The money ends up with Matthew Castle, Marc and
Avram’s uncle,” said Joe, looking at Julie, who was nodding.

“I’ve met Marc’s uncle,” said Julie. “Matt
Castle is a good man, Sherm, and wealthy, I suspect. He’s a
respected attorney in Boston.”

“Thing is, we can’t figure out why the sale
of this island is important to Avram Solomon at all,” said Joe.

“
Hm. Julie…I understand that you have
friends who work for this guy…or used to. Can you give me their
names, so I can contact them?”

“Oh.” Julie paused, biting her lip. “I don’t
know if I can do that, Sherm. One of my friends works for him right
now. That could put his job in jeopardy, and he has a family.”

“
Julie, I wish I could be more specific
but, believe me, your friend is better off establishing some
distance between himself and this man, Solomon. Cooperating with
the FBI…
now
…is a good way to do that. If nothing comes of
it, you have my word that any information he gives us will be kept
confidential.

“
Can you call him…
now
…and tell him
about me and this conversation? Can you do that?”

“Yes, okay. I guess I could do that.”

“
Great. Thank you, Julie. Then call me
right back. Joe? You still there? Do you have my cell
number?”

Joe said he did, and they hung up.

Julie leaned forward, her head in her hands.
“Oh, God, Joe; what have I gotten Pete and Joan into?”

* * * * *

P
ete Soldano replaced the phone in its
base. He had told Julie that he’d call her back, right after he
talked it over with Joan. Now he sat in his living room, staring
out a pair of arched windows that flanked the brick fireplace. His
wife had gone out to their front yard to rake some leaves. It was
chilly, and she had bundled up as if she were going out to shovel
snow. He had teased her about it.

Pete could see her standing at the end of the
driveway chatting with their neighbor, Anita. She was
laughing…happy.

He knew he was about to ruin her day.

Joan nodded to the neighbor, turned and
walked back into the house through the garage, into the
kitchen.

“Pete? Have you seen the paper? I want to do
the crossword.”

“It’s out here,” he said.

Joan walked into the room, smiling. Her
cheeks were rosy.

“You want to take a crack at it before I do?”
she said.

“Not right now,” said Pete. “Julie just
called.”

“Oh? Why didn’t you call me?” she said,
plopping down in the chair next to him.

“Joan. Julie wants us to do somethin’. I
thought we ought to talk it over.”

“So talk,” she said, leaning back, her legs
crossed and her foot wiggling.

“She wants us to speak with an FBI agent
about Avram Solomon.”

Both feet hit the floor and she
stiffened.

“
What?”

“Yeah, I know, I know. That’s a little more
than we bargained for,” said Pete.

“I guess! You can’t do that…you’ll get
fired!”

“Well, let me explain what else she
said…”

“Forget it, Pete!” she said, standing up now
and pacing. “I know you want to help Julie, and so do I…but you
don’t know that Avram had anything to do with Marc’s death!”

“Sit down, and
listen
to me,” said
Pete. “This isn’t just about Marc. Avram is
already
in
trouble with the FBI, accordin’ to Julie. And you know we’ve been
thinkin’ he’s crooked for a long time! She said that the FBI guy is
a friend. His name is Sherman Dixon. She says we can trust
him.”

Joan started to object again, but he put his
hand on her arm. “Listen, Joannie,” he said. “This agent said I
should
‘distance myself from Solomon’.
Think about it; if
Avram’s doing anything illegal with the dealerships…well, I’m a
General Manager,
for chrissakes! I don’t want to be accused
of anything! And Dixon promised to keep us out of it, if nothin’
developed.”

“Ohmigod,” said Joan.

They sat there in their matching wing chairs,
staring into the cold fireplace. Neither of them spoke, as they
considered the possible fall-out from all this.

“I think we should do this,” said Pete, at
last.

“Yes. I guess we better…”

* * * * *

S
herman Dixon walked briskly through
the terminal at Logan International Airport in Boston, glancing at
his watch. It was Monday, September 24th, ten past two in the
afternoon, which meant he was ten minutes late. His carry-on bag
was slung over his shoulder. He would have preferred a bag with
wheels, but he was too tall and he walked too fast. They never made
the telescoping handles long enough or stable enough. The big,
black man looked more like a professional athlete than an FBI agent
as his long strides covered the distance between the gate and the
baggage area.

He was wondering how in hell he was supposed
to recognize special agent Robert Branson, who was picking him up.
Branson had described himself as “an average-looking guy with brown
hair, driving a gray Ford Taurus”. But as it turned out, it didn’t
matter.

Shortly after Sherm walked through the glass
doors and crossed the street, Branson pulled up in the Taurus. It
seemed to be the only car, being passed and honked at by various
car-rental shuttle buses. The window slid down.

“Are you Sherman Dixon?”

“Yes.”

“Bob Branson. Hop in!”

“Welcome to Boston,” he said after Sherm got
in. “How was your flight?”

“Good. No problems,” said Sherm. “Thanks for
picking me up. Your timing was great.”

“Not really. That was my fourth time circling
around,” he said, laughing.

“Got to keep the Homeland safe from airport
bombers,” said Sherm.

“Yeah,” said Branson.

Neither of them laughed, too aware of the
truth of Sherm’s remark.

“I booked you a room at a Quality Inn close
to our headquarters,” said Branson. “You can check in anytime. You
eat yet?”

“Yeah,” said Sherm. “I got one of those
bagged lunches.”

“Good. I need to get you up to speed as fast
as possible, Dixon. Plus, if you’ve got any info for me, I need it
yesterday
. You want to drop off your bag and go right to the
office, or what?”

“Yeah. Let’s get that out of the way, as long
as it’s close,” said Sherm.

They left Sherm’s carry-on in his room and
headed for the field office. Branson wasted no time filling Sherm
in.

“You know Silvio Tambini?”

“By reputation,” said Sherm.

“He’s the focus of the investigation,” said
Branson. “The Tambini family has been bringing drugs into the
northeast, principally through Boston and Providence, for years. We
suspected that they were coming in through the Caribbean, but they
shut down before we got our ducks in a row.

“About ten months ago, an undercover agent in
southern California made a connection in Mexico and was able to
trace the stuff over the border, into California, Utah, and on into
Massachusetts.

Then…nothing. We had all the players, all the
exchanges. But where the hell did it end up? It’s on the street
here…that’s for damn sure.”

He stopped there, and pulled into a parking
space behind a square, red brick, four-story building. He got out
of the car and Sherm followed along, taking the elevator with him
up to the fourth floor.

They entered a large, open room with a lot of
desks and people, mostly men, many of them eating lunch. Branson
signaled to a number of them to follow him as they passed. Finally,
they were all assembled; eleven white men, one Hispanic and two
black men, including Sherm…fourteen in all. They were in the
conference room, seated around a big, nicked-up, rectangular
table.

“This is special agent Sherman Dixon, from
the Washington office,” Branson began, introducing Sherm. The men
around the table spontaneously said their names, acknowledging him,
one by one. Branson continued with his intro.

“He’s temporarily assigned to this task
force. He has some inside connections in both Avram Solomon’s
company and his family…where there are some other things going on,
I understand. So we’re here to share information.

“I don’t want anybody to hold back. Free
questions and answers, all around. I’ve been giving him an
overview; so let me finish up with that, first.

“As I was saying, Dixon,” he said, turning to
Sherman, “we traced the stuff coming into Massachusetts, and then
it disappeared… a dead end. They’re cutting it and storing it
somewhere, but damned if we can find out where. But we know it’s
the Tambini family.

“Then this Avram Solomon’s unlisted phone
number turns up on Guido, ‘Guy’ Tambini’s home phone log. There
were calls to Solomon Chrysler before, but we never thought about
it, because Silvio’s son, Guy, drives a Chrysler. And this was no
wrong number, either. It was a ten minute call. And Avram Solomon
lives alone, so he was the one answering the phone, talking to Guy
Tambini, who also lives alone, and who called Solomon’s unlisted
number.

“I mean, this was a surprise to us, Dixon.
This Solomon looks like a damn pillar of the community! He moves
around in society… he’s at every charitable fundraiser…he’s on the
board of the museum! He’s a successful businessman. His uncle is a
prominent, respected attorney. He lives on Beacon Hill, for God’s
sake!

“So what’s he doing talking to a Mafia boss?
That was the question. So we started watching the Solomon
dealerships and his townhouse. And everything looks as normal as
apple pie. And then you started asking questions about him. And
here you are…and I hope you can help us.”

Branson sat down, and everybody looked at
Sherm.

Sherman stood up and began to tell them about
Joe Garrett and Julie O’Hara investigating the death of the artist,
Marcus Solomon, in Key West, about Marc being Avram Solomon’s
half-brother. He also told them about the impending, multimillion-
dollar sale of the island, Castle Cay, which was evidently used by
drug traffickers in the past.

“How does the death fit into our present
investigation here, agent Dixon?” asked the gray haired fellow.
Sherm thought his name was Jack, but he wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know,” said Sherm. “But in the
course of the murder investigation, they met with Avram Solomon’s
uncle…the attorney…plus a GM in one of his dealerships, and a
former employee in his central payroll department.

“All of these people suspect Avram Solomon of
criminal activity, and I’ve set up meetings with them for this
afternoon and this evening to see if we can connect the dots. They
are very concerned about confidentiality, but I’m sure I can bring
agent Branson along.”

“Is Solomon an official suspect in his
brother’s murder?” asked the Hispanic guy, who had introduced
himself as ‘Alvarez’.

“No,” said Sherm. “He has a solid alibi. He
was here when it happened. Another thing, he doesn’t profit from
the sale of the island. He doesn’t appear to have a motive.”

“Still,” said agent Alvarez, “a murder and a
multimillion-dollar deal happening at the same time?”

“Yes,” said Sherm, “that’s what has aroused
all the suspicion surrounding Avram Solomon. He is both the brother
of the murder victim and the trustee in charge of the sale, and
there is some question as to whether Marc Solomon was
cooperating.”

“So who inherits?” asked the black agent at
the end of the table. He was a studious looking man, probably in
his late thirties, with rimless glasses. Not surprisingly, Sherm
remembered his name, Thomas Bailey.

“I’ve been told the uncle, attorney Matthew
Castle, at Connor, Castle & Mann here in Boston, inherits the
bulk of the estate, agent Bailey,” said Sherm.

“Maybe there’s a conspiracy between Castle
and Solomon,” said Bailey.

“That’s even weirder,” said Branson, standing
up. “The Castles are rich and they came over on the damn Mayflower.
Let’s stop speculating on the murder in Florida, and stick to the
drug investigation here.

•

“Okay, Dixon. Your turn,” he said. “What
questions have you got for us?”

“I’m assuming you’re working in teams,” said
Sherm. “Who’s handling the surveillance of the Boston
dealership?”

The gray haired guy that had opened the
question and answer period raised his hand, as did the dark haired,
mid-forties guy next to him.

“Sorry,” said Sherm, “I didn’t catch
everyone’s name on the first go-round. Is it Jack?”

“Yeah, Jack O’Brien. This is my partner, Mike
Simmons,” said the older man. “We’ve only been watching a few days.
So far, we haven’t seen anything unusual going on. We spoke with
the local cops who patrol that area, and they didn’t have anything
much to say about Solomon Chrysler, either. They did mention that
our guy comes back in after closing one night a week to work, but
we haven’t seen him do it. He waves to them when they drive by,
they said. That’s it.”