Castle Cay (21 page)

Well, he wasn’t going to make it easy for
them.

Fortunately, Silvio Tambini had more places
to wash his money these days, and he spread it around. Avram never
really wanted to do it; he didn’t need the heat. There was a limit
on how much money could be run through a car operation, even a
large one.

Avram had been careful. Solomon Chrysler’s
new car business was legitimate, and Avram had been downright
meticulous about taxes, so there was never any undue interest from
the IRS.

It had all been creative bookkeeping in the
used car and service side. Essentially, Silvio Tambini gave Avram
dirty money from the drug business. Avram, in turn, regularly sent
large checks to dummy companies owned by the obscure friends and
relatives of the Tambini family…payments for nonexistent cars,
parts, paint jobs, storage, service contracts…whatever Avram could
dream up and pump up.

Silvio got his own money back, cleaned, and
Avram got a cut.

Over the years, it had added up. But the
real
money was the rent…rent for Castle Cay, and then for
the warehouse in Waltham and the closed service station next to the
Boston store.

Castle Cay, in particular, had been a gold
mine for Avram. But now he hated the place! Even more than that, he
had hated his brother, Marc, who had painted the far side of Castle
Cay
just before
Avram took over managing it. Two paintings
showed the east coast of the island behind the ridge
as it
was
…before it had a seawall, an airstrip and two cement block
buildings to accommodate drug smuggling.

The canvases were dramatic. Dark and
different from his other ones, they drew attention…and Marc had
painted the date on them.

That fag bastard…why did he have to date
them!

Avram had become obsessed with acquiring the
paintings ever since he saw them at Marc’s art show in Boston.

He shook his head, as if to shake their image
out of his mind.

They don’t matter anymore. The game is over.
I win, anyway.

Avram had a foolproof plan to simply
disappear
.

He thought about his bank. They’d find
nothing incriminating there, because he’d never kept anything of
real importance in the bank. He sneered.

I’ve got my own “lock-box”…

It was a new car, changed out yearly, sitting
amongst a sea of other cars
,
on the Waltham storage lot.
This special car’s invoice and computer record would be
lost
for a whole year, until Avram
found
it at the year-end
inventory audit. He would simply drive out there one night a year
and replace it with a new model whose record would be lost for
another year.

Avram was the only one with the keys to the
car…this car with no record, which was
hidden in plain
sight
…that had a black bag in the trunk with his new identity…a
driver’s license, passport and a sizeable amount of cash.

His plan was to act calmly, as if tomorrow
was just another day. If he was right, they were watching his
townhouse, too. He would go to the dealership, as usual, parking
his Jag in the usual spot. He’d close the blinds in his office,
squinting
at the bright sun, just in case they were
watching. Then he’d look up a new car in the back lot, the same
model with dark tinted windows, and get the keys.

A couple minutes on the computer would
transfer the vehicle identification number of the car he was taking
to the Waltham storage lot. He’d slip on his rain jacket and cap,
put the dealer plate in the back window and drive off. In no time,
he’d be in Waltham, switching the cars. They’d never know he was
gone…with luck, maybe not until the store closed. By then, he’d be
on an international flight out of Manchester, New Hampshire.

He smiled at his own brilliance.

* * * * *

R
obert Branson pulled into the portico
of the Quality Inn at half-past nine on Tuesday morning, September
25th. Sherman Dixon was waiting outside on a wooden bench, reading
the Boston Globe and drinking a cup of coffee.

“Morning, Dixon,” he said, as Sherm got into
the Taurus.

“Morning, Bob.”

Sherman noticed that Bob had stopped to get
coffee, too.

“I got a call from Jack O’Brien,” said Bob.
“They saw a woman go in and out of the garage next to Solomon’s
Boston store last night. She was carrying a large bag, and there
was someone else driving the car. Smells like a drug pick-up. They
didn’t follow her, just kept circling like I told them. They left
at midnight, reported no other activity. Solomon worked late, and
went directly to his townhouse. The other team logged in his
arrival there.”

“Do they know who the woman was?”

“No. They said she had blond hair, wore high
heels and was carrying big metallic bag over her shoulder. They
didn’t see her face,” said Bob.

“I wonder if she’s somebody in the Tambini
family?”

“We don’t know. But the guy driving the car
was,” said Bob. “They traced the plate. It was Vincent Santoro,
Silvio Tambini’s nephew.”

“Is that enough to go in there?” asked
Sherm.

“No,” said Bob. “We need to watch the garage
tonight, and follow the pick-up with another car. In the meantime,
you and I are relieving the team in Waltham today. I want to take a
closer look at that location. I pulled off the team watching the
Lynn dealership.”

“Yeah,” said Sherm. “There’s nothing going on
there. Not with Pete Soldano in charge.”

“No,” said Bob. “You know, this Solomon is a
real piece of work. It’s amazing how he’s stayed under the radar
for so long.”

They continued to speculate about whether
Avram Solomon could be connected to the murder in Florida. Soon,
they were pulling into the Solomon Chrysler dealership in
Waltham.

“Appears Pete Soldano was right,” said Bob.
“There’s not a lot of cars on this lot… they’ve got plenty of
room.”

“I bet the problem is that this is the only
dealership on this road. In Lynn, there are several dealers in a
row. Customers like to hit more than one place at a time when
they’re shopping around for a car.”

“Yeah. I do,” said Bob.

They pulled into a spot in front of the
showroom. A salesman separated himself from the pack out front, and
sauntered up to them.

“Hi! Beautiful day! Al Giordano. Can I help
you?”

“Yeah, maybe, I’m Bob Smith,” said Bob,
shaking the guy’s hand. “I need something bigger for my business,
but comfortable, you know? I was thinking about an Aspen. But it
doesn’t look like you’ve got much of a selection here, Al.”

“Believe me, Bob, I can get you anything you
want. What, specifically, are you looking for?”

“Well, here’s the thing,” said Bob, “I don’t
want to have to order it. I don’t want to wait.”

“
No problem
. Solomon Chrysler’s been
around a long time, Bob. It’s a big outfit. Did you know we’ve got
three dealerships? We’ve got a huge storage lot at the end of
Warren Street, right here,” said the salesman, indicating the
street running along the side of the service department. “If we
haven’t got the vehicle you want here…
I guarantee
you
…we’ve got it there.”

“That’s good to know, Al. Tell you what; I
don’t have a lot of time today. I stopped in for a quick look-see.
Give me your card and I’ll come back when I’ve got more time,” said
Bob.

The salesman’s face changed in an instant. He
knew a brush-off when he heard one.

“Sure,” he said, handing Bob his card. “Have
a good day.”

The two agents got back in the Taurus and
drove out of the lot through the Service exit, turning right on
Warren Street.

“Ooh, that hurt,” said Sherm, smiling.

“Hey, it’s better to pull off a band-aid
fast,” said Bob.

Warren Street was mostly rural, spotted with
warehouses. About a mile in, they came to the huge, unmarked
storage lot on the left. The salesman hadn’t lied. It was loaded
with new cars. There was a padlocked chain-link fence around it,
and just beyond the cars was a building that looked like a small
pre-fabricated hangar.

The road dead-ended at the woods, where they
did a u-turn. There was nobody around. Bob headed back toward the
main road.

“Wait, Bob,” said Sherm. “Pull in there,
behind that warehouse, on the left.”

“What for?” said Bob.

“The dirt road behind the hangar. It’s not
overgrown. Somebody’s still using it,” said Sherm. “Let’s sit here
awhile.”

“Right. Good idea.”

An hour later, a car came down the road and
turned in at the hangar. Both men strained to see the license plate
before the dark car disappeared behind the metal structure. About
thirty minutes after it arrived, the same car left. Bob quickly
scrambled out of the car and sneaked a look around the corner of
the warehouse to confirm his hunch.

“It’s Vinnie Santoro,” he said, climbing back
in the Taurus.

“Damn!” said Sherm. “Are you sure it’s the
same car?”

“Same car, same number. The lab has to be in
the hangar!” said Bob.

“Right…with the old garage in the city for
storing and distributing the stuff,” said Sherm.

“Absolutely! We’ll trace the pick-up tonight
and hit both places tomorrow morning.”

Both men were excited as they drove down
Warren Street and hooked a left onto the main drag, heading back to
Boston. They never noticed Avram Solomon pass them in a gray
Sebring sedan, driving in the opposite direction.

* * * * *

I
t was noontime, and all the Task
Force agents were gathered in the conference room of the Boston
Field Office, except for Jack O’Brien and Mike Simmons, who still
had Solomon Chrysler and the old, adjacent garage under
surveillance. Agents O’Brien and Simmons had just reported in.

“So all’s quiet, for now. No action at the
corner garage and Solomon’s Jaguar is still at the Dealership. The
service department is busy, but, according to Jack, they’re not
getting much sales activity,” said SAIC Bob Branson.

“Do we have the warrants yet?” asked agent
Bailey.

“We’ll have them soon, Tom,” said Bob. “I’ve
already informed Judge Wallenski of the locations, the individuals
involved, and what we expect to find. They’re 24-hour arrest and
search warrants. Thanks to everybody’s hard work here, we’ve
already established probable cause, but we can widen the net by
tracing the pick-up to the drops tonight. The plan is to hit all
five targets simultaneously, early tomorrow morning, before
dawn.

“As you all know, this has been a long-term
investigation involving the Drug Enforcement Administration, the
Mass State Police, and the Bureau…a total of 200 law enforcement
officers. For security reasons, I haven’t notified the DEA and the
State yet. But they’re on 24-hour-alert, and ready to go.”

Branson walked from the head of the
rectangular conference table to a wall on the side, covered with
charts, pictures, and information.

“Our main focus will be these five
locations,” he said, pointing them out. “Silvio Tambini’s home in
Newton. Guido Tambini’s condo on the Charles River. Solomon
Chrysler, Boston, and the adjacent garage, here. Solomon’s
townhouse on Beacon Hill, and the hangar at the Solomon storage lot
in Waltham. We will split into our teams, join up with these other
law enforcement agencies tomorrow morning, and serve the Federal
warrants.

“Of course, there will be smaller fish picked
up at the same time, all the way down the line. All right now; I
want to go over your latest reports, cover any questions anybody
has and get right to your specific assignments.”

Sherman Dixon hoped he would be assigned to
bring down Solomon.

•

Meanwhile, Guy Tambini was at his parent’s
house in Newton for a special lunch; it was Silvio’s birthday.
Several family members were gathered around a lace-covered table,
laden with various Italian dishes. Silvio sat at one end of the
table, and his wife, Annetta, at the other end. Silvio had just
finished saying grace, thanking God for all their many
blessings.

Guy’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open.
“Yeah? Fuck! I’ll call you back.”

“Guido!” said Annetta. “Watch your
mouth!”

“That was Billy Bones,” said Guy. “We gotta
get out.”

“FUCK!” said Silvio, slamming the table,
shaking everything.

Annetta kept her mouth shut.

“Do it tonight,” said Silvio. “Soon as it’s
dark.”

* * * * *

I
t was mid-afternoon of the same day,
and Matthew Castle was home early from work. He sat in his elegant
Beacon Hill living room in his “compromise” chair. It was a
recliner that his wife had grudgingly bought to satisfy his demand.
In the end, neither of them was satisfied. Matt had wanted a big
leather chair, not this narrow, fabric one. Still, it
was
a
recliner. And because Sylvia hated it, it was definitely
his
chair, a personal oasis in a room full of antiques.

He had his nice, bright reading lamp, the
Boston Globe, a fire in the fireplace and a beer. It should have
been perfect…but it wasn’t. He angrily dropped the paper on the
floor and stared into the fire.

“I wish you wouldn’t throw the paper on the
carpet, Matt,” said Sylvia, looking up from her book. “I hate to be
a nag, dear, but the newsprint comes right off on things these
days.”

“Sorry,” he said, picking up the paper and
setting it on the coffee table. “I’m irritated, I guess. I can’t
enjoy it.”

“Why not? What’s bothering you?”

“That arrogant peacock, Avram,” he said.
“Castle Cay is our island.
It’s been in our family since the
Civil War…
and he’s practically giving it away!
He has never
even called to ask if we approve of the proposed sale. For all we
know, it may already be sold!”