Robert B. Parker's Someone to Watch Over Me

by Ace Atkins

  Without missing a beat, Mattie, also in Spanish, seemed to clarify something for him. He looked to the woman and nodded.

  The woman looked to us and then back to De Santos as if deciding what to believe.

  “I didn’t know you knew Spanish,” I said.

  “You never asked,” Mattie said. “Mr. De Santos doesn’t trust us.”

  I touched my chest with my right hand. “Don’t I look trustworthy?”

  Mattie turned back to De Santos and the woman and spoke to them for a long while in both Spanish and English. True to her Boston upbringing, she used her hands a lot. She said we were investigators working for young girls Peter Steiner had abused.

  The woman nodded at De Santos and left the metal barn.

  De Santos didn’t touch whatever lunch he’d been brought. His resolve was impressive. The food smelled wonderful, and I hadn’t eaten since the flight.

  “I couldn’t go there another day,” De Santos said. “This man is the devil.”

  “How?” Mattie said.

  “Please.”

  Mattie reached into her pocket for her cell phone. She thrust the phone forward and scrolled through several images.

  “They’re just kids,” she said.

  “The girls I saw were young, too,” he said. “One day I saw two girls swimming in the pool. They were both completely naked. Children. Just children. Not developed. Not of age. I saw Steiner come outside in a robe. He took the robe off and jumped in to join them. I ignored them and kept working in the flower garden. What I saw later turned my stomach. Steiner’s gray head between the legs of a young girl. I gathered my men and my equipment and left. I sent him a bill for the weeks of work I’d done. He refused to pay.”

  “Was that the first time you saw him with kids?” I said.

  “No,” De Santos said. “But it was the worst. Something I couldn’t ignore. Steiner has many friends. Many who join him in this. I have worked in this county long enough to know how to keep to myself. Mr. Fitzpatrick worked on the Miami estates of many drug lords and never said a word. But this is different. This man is different. It is a secret world behind his gates. And if you speak out against him or say a word, men will come for you. They have harassed me many times.”

  “What kind of men?” I said.

  “Men with expensive haircuts and dark suits,” he said. “They come from Miami and threatened my business and my family if I ever discussed what I saw. They spoke to me like I was some orange picker who didn’t know the law. I have lived in this country for forty years, Mr. Spenser. They were not the police. They had no right to come into my home and tell me what to do.”

  “Why not go to the police?” I said.

  “In Palm Beach County?” De Santo said, snorting. “Only more of the same. Men like Steiner own the police and the judges. Perhaps I saw judges and politicians in his pool.”

  “Did you?” Mattie said.

  De Santos gave a small, noncommittal shrug. “Here, you are either moneyed or not. I’m just the hired help. Same as you. I will never get paid for my work. And lawyers are very expensive. More than I make.”

  “I am well aware,” I said.

  “Steiner knows he never has to pay me,” De Santos said. “He tells lies to put me in my place.”

  “What do you know about these men who came to scare you?” Mattie said.

  “Dark cars like men in government,” he said. “Dade County license plates.”

  “Do you think they were cops?” I said.

  “They didn’t say they were,” he said, finishing the cigarette. He crushed it in a Café Bustelo can filled with sand. “Or if they were not. They reminded me of those men who investigate aliens.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Mattie said. “You’re a citizen with rights.”

  “Aliens,” De Santos said, smiling and pointing upward to the sky. “Men in black.”

  “Maybe Peter Steiner is from another planet,” I said.

  “I know he is not a man,” De Santos said, squinting into the smoke. “This man has no heart. No soul. And no honor.”

  “I’d like to see where he lives.”

  De Santos held up a hand and walked over to a tool kit on the bench. He handed me a plastic card with Seagrass Express written on it. “No one gets on the island without one of these.”

  24

  I bought Cuban sandwiches and Cokes at a gas station, and we drove onto Seagrass. I used the pass De Santos had given me to enter the gates, and soon we found our way onto the isthmus that ran parallel to Florida’s east coast. It was a sliver of real estate between Palm Beach and Boca with a two-lane road running north and south. I estimated most of the houses cost more than the GDP of Bora-Bora.

  The estates were immense, barrel-roofed, with unfettered views of the Atlantic. The lawns full of palm trees, seagrape, bougainvillea, and birds-of-paradise. We weren’t on Comm Ave anymore.

  “I didn’t know people lived like this,” Mattie said.

  “Ever been to Marblehead?”

  “No.”

  “This is like Marblehead with palm trees.”

  We found Steiner’s compound within five minutes. The avenue was long and narrow, with no shoulder or turnarounds. It appeared as if it was almost designed for people who put a premium on privacy. There were little to no places where a respectable snoop could park, eat a sandwich, and sit on a house.

  “How am I expected to do my job?” I said.

  “You drive,” Mattie said. “I’ll eat.”

  “That defeats the purpose of a stakeout,” I said. “The best part is eating. Or drinking coffee.”

  “Too hot for coffee,” Mattie said.

  I made a U-turn in front of another waterfront mansion and doubled back to Steiner’s address. This time I drove slower and more carefully, not being able to see much behind the large iron gate and twisting brick driveway. Tall palms dotted the property, and a long stucco fence faced the main road.

  “Can you drive up to the gate?” she said.

  “Cameras would catch us.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “It’s a bad thing if we wish to remain discreet.”

  “Isn’t one of your rules of detecting ‘bother the crap out of someone until they do something stupid’?”

  “Rule number eleven.”

  “Do you really remember the numbers?”

  “One day, I’ll write them all down,” I said. “For posterity.”

  “But that’s what you do?” she said. “When you don’t have jack shit?”

  I shrugged and kept on heading north. That was pretty much the action along the Seagrass strip. Cruise north and then south and then do it all again. Maybe head on down to the malt shop and hang out with Potsie and the Fonz. There was little to see outside the tall gates, fences, and high shrubs. A common man had to rely on his imagination.

  “Do you think he’s here?” Mattie said.

  “That’s what I was told.”

  “I’d like him to know we are here, too.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “But what would you do?”

  I thought about it, driving north and then doubling back again. “I’d find a way to say hello,” I said. “And get under his skin.”

  “Like a big Fuck You.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Something like that.”

  I slowed in front of Steiner’s compound and pulled into the expanse of patterned brick before the iron gate. I stopped in the shade of two palms, let down the windows, and turned off the ignition. It was very quiet, the smell of the sea strong.

  “What now?” Mattie said.

  “We wait for someone to tell us to buzz off.”

  “And what will you say?”

  “I’ll ask to speak to their boss,” I said. “Tell them I’m a master of the ar
t of shiatsu.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A Japanese massage technique.”

  “I don’t think you’re his type,” she said. “Big and hairy.”

  I reached behind my seat for the sandwiches and handed one to Mattie. I unwrapped the other while watching the big gate not ten feet away from where I’d parked. I finished my sandwich in record time while Mattie worked on the first half.

  “He already knows we’re onto him,” Mattie said.

  I nodded.

  “I can’t believe he threatened Chloe’s mom like that,” she said.

  “I can.”

  “Creep.”

  “A well-moneyed creep,” I said. “The worst.”

  “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Eat an entire Cuban sandwich in under three minutes?”

  “Not go bullshit on these people,” she said. “I want to climb that fence and take a baseball bat to Steiner.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s called assault,” I said. “You can go to jail for that. Trust me. It happens.”

  “Don’t men like this bother you?”

  “They do.”

  “But you don’t show it.”

  I nodded. “I don’t like what they are and what they do,” I said. “But if I allow their behavior to influence me, then I might get sloppy.”

  “Do something stupid,” she said. “Like knocking a bastard’s teeth in with a baseball bat.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “Takes time,” I said. “And a few years of experience.”

  Mattie finished the first half of her sandwich. She wrapped up the second half in wax paper and placed it back in the bag. “I don’t like all this sneaking around,” she said. “I’d rather go straight to it. Cut out the bullshit.”

  “The bullshit is what some might call investigating.”

  “You can’t arrest anyone,” she said. “You can’t make a case against these creeps.”

  “But I know people who can.”

  Mattie nodded, her Sox cap down far in her eyes. Beyond the gate and the well-manicured lawn, the light began to turn a soft gold. The sea shimmered blue and endless off the sea wall, a gentle roiling among the sailboats and pleasure crafts.

  “How can Steiner live with himself?”

  “Susan would say because he’s a sociopath,” I said. “And I would agree.”

  “No feelings?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “But kids,” Mattie said. “Christ.”

  I was about to ask Mattie for the second half of her sandwich when our presence drew the attention of a white Ford Explorer with a light bar on the cab. The patrol car stopped. Two white men in uniform got out and walked toward our rental.

  “Mission accomplished,” I said.

  “Now what?” she said.

  “Don’t you recall Spenser’s lesson number twelve?”

  “Bullshit your way through anything.”

  “Ah.” I smiled. “You were listening.”

  25

  The boys from Seagrass PD were polite enough to let us follow them to their office in our own car. I didn’t challenge the invitation, as that was the point of the exercise. I’d been there all of ten minutes when Chief Jimmy Goodyear strolled in and took a seat in a rolling leather chair. Being a trained detective, I had noted his name on the door.

  Mattie sat outside the glass office, annoyed that the chief wanted to talk only to me. I explained it was probably not an issue of gender but age.

  Goodyear appeared about as old as me and looked like most cops I knew. Potbellied, big-mustached, with sandy, thinning hair and the ruddy face of a guy who liked one too many whiskeys after a short day of work. He laced his hands atop his desk and looked up.

  “So,” I said. “I think this is where you tell me that you don’t take too kindly to strangers around here.”

  “Why were you and that young lady parked outside Mr. Steiner’s compound?”

  “I’m an eccentric billionaire,” I said. “I heard Steiner had the Midas touch. Lately, I’ve been thinking of investing in orange groves and pork bellies.”

  “Funny,” he said. “You don’t look like a millionaire. Not with that mug.”

  “I earned my money the old-fashioned way,” I said. “I inherited it.”

  “Nope,” he said. “Not buying it. Who’s the girl? And why were you driving her to see Mr. Steiner?”

  I leaned back in my chair. It was chrome and black and designed with all the comfort of the Spanish Inquisition.

  “Am I being charged with something?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “This is a private community, Mr. Spenser. It appears you entered our gates under false pretenses.”

  I smiled. “Not buying the eccentric-billionaire story?”

  He shook his head. “Not one damn bit,” he said. “I’ve been around enough of those assholes to know one when I see one.”

  I nodded. The wall behind Goodyear and the wall behind me were made of glass. The two walls that sandwiched us were filled with many framed photos of ball players and fishing trips, cheap golden plaques handed out at annual rubber-chicken dinners with the Jaycees.

  “How old is that girl?” he said.

  “Old enough to work for me.”

  “And what do you do, sir?”

  I told him and told him that we’d just arrived from Boston that morning.

  “Bullshit,” he said.

  I pulled out my wallet again to show off my shiny official license. He took it over the desk, studied it, and returned it.

  “And she is your—”

  “Assistant,” I said. “Although technically this is her investigation.”

  He smiled and leaned back into his chair. “She looks like she’s fifteen.”

  “She’s twenty-two,” I said. “And in college.”

  “Studying to be a gumshoe?”

  “Haven’t heard that term in a while,” I said. “But yes. With a minor in the art of the low country masters. Why did you think we were here?”

  Goodyear let out a long breath and scratched at the stubble on his cheek with his right hand. His big sandy mustache drooped over his upper lip like a walrus. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Lots of people come and go from that place. Sometimes we try and persuade them to rethink their life choices.”

  “Ah,” I said. “You thought I was a pimp.”

  “I didn’t say that,” he said. His ruddy face colored even more. “No, sir. I didn’t say that.”

  “If I were a pimp, I’d wear a white suit and straw hat,” I said. “And I’d drive a big car with a horn that played ‘Flying Down to Rio.’”

  “Put yourself in my shoes,” Goodyear said. “Older man showing up with a young girl at Steiner’s place. Obviously, you know his reputation.”

  I told him I did and offered a few select details of what Steiner had been up to in Boston.

  “You won’t be able to catch him,” he said. “Sorry. Not now. Not ever.”

  “That’s a bit pessimistic,” I said. “I’m more of can-do kind of guy.”

  “Yeah?” Goodyear said. “Stick around here awhile, and you’ll be cleared of that.”

  I crossed my left ankle over my right knee. I’d removed my ball cap and rested it on top of my shoe. “What can you tell me?”

  “Sounds like you know the story.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Steiner has more money than Jay-Z and Beyoncé and keeps quite a stable of pals who’ve become accustomed to his lifestyle.”

  “And what is that lifestyle?”

  “On the record?” Goodyear said. “Or off?”

  “I’m not a report
er,” I said. “We flew down here to learn more about Steiner.”

  “I hear that man has parties that would make Caligula’s goat puke.”

  “Caligula had a goat?”

  “Oh, come on.” Goodyear nodded. “You know he did.”

  “Any formal charges?”

  “A few.”

  “Any stick?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Funny thing. The victims come to recant their stories pretty fast.”

  “How many of the victims were kids?”

  “Two,” he said. “One was sixteen. Her parents wouldn’t allow her to testify. The DA backed away faster than a four-alarm dumpster fire. Besides, what had allegedly happened didn’t technically happen in Seagrass.”

  “I sense some sarcasm in that ‘allegedly,’” I said. “Where was the girl assaulted?”

  “I’ve seen bigger men than you get waylaid by this fella,” he said. “You sure you want to take these people on?”

  I nodded.

  “You do look like you’d be fair to middlin’ in a fight.”

  “A little better than that.”

  Goodyear let out a long breath. His eyelids drooped heavily as he weighed his next thought. He pulled at the walrus mustache and leaned back in his chair. “Ever heard of Cerberus Security?”

  I shook my head.

  “Big-time outfit out of Miami,” Goodyear said. “No offense, but they’re not like you. I’m talking hundreds of employees in lots of different countries. They work for Saudi princes and professional ballplayers who shoot their career to hell in one night. Cerberus has computer hackers, financial specialists, bodyguards, and people that make people like you disappear.”

  “Eek.”

  “Steiner has Cerberus on speed dial,” he said. “This is the place where cops go when they decide to make some real money. Ex-military, maybe some ex-spooks, too.”

  “I’ve dealt with men like that before.”

  “Okay, tough guy,” Goodyear said. “But my advice to you is have a nice stay in Boca. Have a piña colada or two by the pool and then fly on back to Boston. Tell your client that you didn’t get what you need.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”