Lassiter 08 - Lassiter (19 page)

“Only insofar as it affects his actions.”

“Kip finished a counseling program, and the record was expunged.” Then it occurred to me. The juvenile file was sealed. “How the hell did you get Kip’s file?”

The Commodore shifted in his chair and looked out the window. He had a fine view of the campus quadrangle. Overprivileged girls in tartan plaid skirts and knee socks sashayed to class alongside gangly boys in white shirts and loosened ties.

“I have certain connections.” Measuring his words like yeast in a bread pan.

“Where? Only the clerk and the State Attorney’s Office …” I felt a ball of molten lava rising in my gut. “That bastard! Alex Castiel told you.”

The Commodore didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. Castiel was a “distinguished alumnus” with his photo in a trophy case in the lobby. He’d helped get Kip into the school. Now he was using that against me.

“That motherfucker,” I said.

“Mr. Lassiter, please. You’re making things worse.”

“Okay, Commodore. Or Admiral. Or swab jockey, second class. Kip’s situation is not ‘problematic.’ You expel him or suspend him or put a pissy little note in his file, and I’ll tie you up in lawsuits for the next ten years.”

“I think not, Mr. Lassiter. We comply with all laws, state and federal.”

“Was that weed I smelled walking across your quad? Let’s get some police dogs in here and open some lockers.”

“I assure you, Mr. Lassiter, we monitor the students quite closely.”

“Do you monitor the teachers, too? I’ll bet there’s some real popular young guy who’s banging a cheerleader. A coach who’s juicing his players. Now that I think of it, Tuttle-Biscayne is probably a racketeering enterprise that ought to be shut down.”

“That’s absurd!” The Commodore’s eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed, and his ascot seemed askew. “I run a tight ship, and I yield neither to headwinds nor threats.” The Commodore began flipping through his date book. “I’ll set a date for a disciplinary hearing and we’ll conclude this matter.”

My cell phone rang. Caller I.D. said “Private Number,” which pissed me off. If you’re calling someone, you’re going to say your name in a second, anyway. Why not give a little preview?

“I’m busy,” I answered.

“Jake, it’s Amy. Thank God you’re there.” Her voice rushed and frantic.

“Where are you, Amy? Where’ve you been?”

“They found me, Jake.”

“Who?”

“Ziegler’s people. I moved into a new motel. They broke into my room while I was gone.”

“Try to calm down. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”

“Can I come to your house?”

“Of course.”

“They tore up my things, Jake. Ripped my clothes to shreds like wild animals.”

“Important thing is, you’re okay.”

“My gun, Jake! They stole my gun.”

Driving north on I-95 on Saturday morning, Charlie Ziegler thought he was being followed by a bright red Cadillac Escalade with spinning wheel covers and chugging lake pipes. A rolling Miami cliché.

Ziegler’s own wheels were a modern classic. A brand-new Ferrari, the California model, practically the first one off the boat.

Ziegler checked the side mirror. The Escalade was two cars behind. He hit the gas, and his Ferrari leapt forward like a feral cat. He eased into the speed lane. Did the Escalade follow him? No, it was stuck in the middle lane.

Who the hell are you and what do you want?

Ziegler had first noticed the car when he took the flyover at Golden Glades Interchange. He’d been thinking about a recent dinner at Bourbon Steak, a fancy joint a couple miles east in Aventura. The Governor had been there, talking about saving the wetlands—boring!—and raising money for a run at the open U.S. Senate seat. Ziegler would not only feed the governor’s face but also his coffers. He’d solicit some downtown friends and bundle the contributions. In return, well, you didn’t just come out and say those things up front. No, the quid pro quo was always ex post facto.

Lola was at the dinner, putting on her usual show of eating three micrograms
of the most expensive entrée on the menu. Which turned out to be the Japanese Wagyu strip steak. One-hundred forty-five bucks!

“Try a bite, Charlie. It melts in your mouth.”

If she really wanted something to melt in her mouth, Charlie told her, she could put béarnaise on his nutsack.

Ordinarily on Saturdays, he’d lie to Lola and say he was off to play golf at Riviera. No need this morning. She was out of town, and he was happily on his way to Lighthouse Point to see Melody Sanders, as he’d been doing for several years now.

He’d bought Melody a two-bedroom condo near the marina and put her on the payroll at three grand a month. Talk about a frugal fuckmate, he’d once paid that for six hours with an escort in Buenos Aires. On the books, Melody was listed under “consulting services,” which was basically true, as she’d taught him the reverse Amazon, a position that let her do all the work and eased his aching back.

He loved giving Melody gifts. Inexpensive artsy and craftsy stuff he picked out himself. She was always grateful, not like the whiny Lola. He’d given his wife a kumquat-size diamond for their anniversary and still didn’t get a blow job. Her excuses for refusing sex ran from the old, reliable headache to the exotic yeast infection. Lately, she insisted that she couldn’t get turned on because of anxiety over global warming.

Melody was uncomplicated and undemanding and had pubic muscles that could squeeze the buttercream out of a pastry bag. Not long ago, he realized that Saturday mornings in Melody’s bed were the high point of the week. Only one downside. His golf game was going to shit.

The Ferrari was purring through North Lauderdale, a steady 75, only possible on weekend mornings. He checked the mirror. The Escalade was back again, three cars behind and one lane over.

His thoughts turned to Lassiter. Had Perlow scared him off? Lassiter didn’t seem like the kind of guy whose asshole puckered up when threatened. Was he really going to bring in the state Attorney General? And what’s this shit about the Justice Department? No way Ziegler wanted the feds pawing over his tax returns.

Won’t be long, he thought, imagining Melody’s naked body entwined with his. Wouldn’t those
alter kockers
at the country club be jealous? He
could see the old farts now, taking a dip in the Jacuzzi. Pale and flabby, bobbing like matzoh balls in chicken soup.

With all the crap raining down on him, he needed Melody today more than ever.

Lassiter breathing down my neck
.

Perlow picking my pocket
.

And that cinema verité phony Rodney Gifford. Could he really know what happened the night of the party?

Just how much pressure could a man take?

Another check of the mirror. No Escalade. It must have taken an earlier exit. The only vehicle keeping up with him was a big gray Hummer directly behind his Ferrari.

Shit! Ziegler realized he was still in the speed lane, and the Copans Road exit was just ahead. He floored it and cut across the expressway. Horns honked behind him, and he saw the Hummer tear across four lanes and take the exit behind him.

Ziegler drove into the town of Lighthouse Point, feeling better the closer he got to Melody’s bed. He pulled up at the four-story, pink stucco building with balconies overlooking the harbor. Sweet anticipation, he was starting to feel better already. He emerged from the Ferrari tumescent, thanks to the Viagra he swallowed before leaving the house. He took the elevator to the fourth floor and hurried along the exterior walkway to her apartment.

As he rang the doorbell, he heard the rumble of an engine, looked down, and saw the gray Hummer pull into the parking lot, where it stopped next to a Dumpster and sat there, idling. But he didn’t take the time to think about it, once Melody opened the door wearing a black silk teddy and saying she was so horny, would he mind terribly if they screwed right away and had brunch later?

“I can live with that,” he said.

Where the hell was Amy?

After her motel room had been broken into, she said she was coming over to the house, but she never showed. I tried calling a dozen times. Never called me back.

I was thinking all this while the Eldo rumbled across the 12th Avenue bridge over the Miami River. I was headed south toward Coconut Grove and home. I passed what used to be the Orange Bowl. For the last few years, it’s been an empty lot, sad as a cemetery. Now it’s a hole in the ground, workers building a new baseball stadium for the Marlins, but it won’t be the same. With its view of the downtown skyline, the rickety and rusty O.B. was a classic of the game. Home to Joe Namath’s heroic Super Bowl, Doug Flutie’s impossible Hail Mary, and the Fins undefeated season, two decades before I suited up.

I played for the Dolphins in the cold and sterile Joe Robbie Stadium, carved out of the sawgrass near a turnpike exit. The stadium was renamed Pro Player Stadium in return for some loot from a now-defunct clothing line, then back to Joe Robbie, then Land Shark Stadium because a beer company paid for the privilege, and finally Sun Life, after an insurance company. Ah, Miami. So rich in tradition.

I had already hit South Dixie Highway when I saw a candy-apple red Escalade two cars ahead and one lane over. Correction, I
heard
the
Escalade, the lake pipes rumbling like thunder. Then I saw the spinning wheel covers and the shiny paint job. Last week, I’d seen an identical pimpmobile double-parked in front of the Justice Building. Then it had tailed me down Douglas Road, barely three miles from here.

I passed the pair of cars between us and swung behind the Escalade, getting close enough to see the vanity plate,
U R NEXT
.

Gotcha
.

Same vehicle. Miguel Sanchez of Homestead.

But who the hell’s driving your car, now that you’re an inmate at FCI?

The Escalade stayed in the right-hand lane and passed the Red Road intersection in South Miami. I was two cars behind when it turned right onto Sunset Drive, and I followed.

We passed South Miami Hospital and headed west. The driver gave no indication he knew he was being tailed. I let another car get between us. Just past 97th Avenue, the Escalade turned into a strip mall. I continued for another two blocks, hung a U-turn, and doubled back.

When I pulled into the lot, I saw the Escalade parked next to Scully’s Tavern, a neighborhood joint known for its fish sandwiches fried in a potato-chip batter. At least, that’s what the sign in the window said.

I parked in front of a snake and iguana shop a few doors away and headed for the tavern. I didn’t know who I was looking for, but figured if the guy saw me, he’d react.

The lunch crowd was gone, and the place was nearly empty. In a side room, two guys in University of Miami T-shirts shot pool. They paid no attention to me.

A couple of solitary drinkers at the bar. A young couple at a table. I circled the bar and saw the guy. Recognized him from behind, thanks to the diamond earring and barbed-wire tattoo around his neck. Pepito Dominguez, my DUI client. Sitting on a bar stool, drinking a Bud.

“You asshole.” I lifted him off the bar stool by the scruff of his neck.

“Jake!” His eyes registered shock, about twenty thousand volts’ worth. “I’m sorry,
jefe
! Just one beer.”

“I don’t care about the beer.” I let him fall back onto the stool. “Why you following me? What the hell’s going on?”

“Just practicing, man. That’s all.”

“Practicing for what?”

“To be your P.I.”

“Bullshit.”

The bartender, an older guy in a Dolphins polo, came over to see if there was a problem. We both said no, and I ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

“It’s true,
jefe
,” Pepito said. “I tailed you for three days, and you only made me that once, at the traffic light in the Grove. Unless you saw me on the Trail, too.”

“The purple Impala? That was you?”

“Yeah.”

Then it came to me. Sanchez, owner of the Escalade, had been captured after jumping bail. A fugitive named Terence Connor owned the Impala. Both must have put their cars up as security, which is how Dominguez Bail Bonds got them.

“You borrowed the cars from your dad, didn’t you?”

“Switched them every day,” Pepito said, proudly. “That was my cover.”

“Might have worked better if the cars weren’t so conspicuous.”

He gave me a little sideways grin. “Worked fine yesterday when I followed Charlie Ziegler.”

That stopped me. “How the hell do you know about Ziegler?”

“The other night when it rained like hell, I followed you to an ugly-ass house in Gables Estates. Looked up the property records, found the owner’s name. Charles Ziegler. Stopped in your office the next morning, shot the shit with Cindy, and she filled me in.”

“You little sneak,” I said. Meaning it as a compliment.

Our drinks arrived. Pepito hoisted his beer and offered a toast.
“Muerte a Fidel!”

“Death to all Philistines,” I agreed. “Now tell me what the hell you’ve been up to.”

“I tailed Ziegler up to Lighthouse Point. He spent three hours in a condo at the marina. Place is owned by a Melody Sanders.”

My look shot him a question, and he answered, “I checked the mailbox. Looked up the property records on Lexis-Nexis. She’s thirty-nine. Single. Born in Sarasota.”

“Sounds like Saturday morning nooky.”

“Exactly what I figure,
jefe
. She bought the condo seven years ago. Paid all cash.”

“You’re showing off, Pepito.”

He grinned at me. Okay, I
had
misjudged him. He’s got real ingenuity.

“So you want me to follow Ziegler some more?” he asked.

“Maybe later. But I’ve got another job for you.”

I told Pepito to find my missing client. I gave him the make and model of her car and told him where she’d been staying before checking out. We tossed around a couple ideas, and then I said, “Just so you don’t get too cocky; I caught you in the other car, too. The Hummer.”