“I knew that bank auditor, Sharon Scott, years ago. I think she’s shady.” Turek punctuated this with a quick blink and raise of his eyebrows. “I think she’s in on it with Jake. Only two people could’ve pulled this off, Jake and myself. And I’m sitting here talking to you, so …” He sipped from the small cup. “Obviously, Jake has defrauded you. I think Sharon figured the fraud out, and then they worked together.”
“Then they’re long gone.” Malcolm rested his forehead on the flat of a fist.
“Well, they’re gone, but I have an idea where they are. Here.” Turek opened his smartphone and tapped it a few times. There, on a map of Florida, west of Lake Okeechobee, was a pulsating blue dot.
“How in hell—”
“Like I said, I knew Sharon before. We were buddies for a while, but I decided to put some distance between us because she had character issues.” His eyebrows jumped again. “When I ran into her at the company a few weeks ago, she invited me for a drink. I had a hunch she was up to something. I installed a tracer app on her phone.
“When I zoom in, it shows they’re at a campground near a place called Palmdale.”
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to kill them.” He made a pistol with the fingers and thumb of his right hand.
Turek pressed his lips together. “Personally, I think you’re better off focusing on the money. How much do you think they took?”
“More than $3 million.”
“Wow!” Turek pinched the bridge of his nose. “They’re in tall cotton now, aren’t they?” He paused. “If I can help you recover it, I’m sure you would agree I deserve a piece.”
“How big a piece?” Malcolm sneered.
Turek glance around, took a deep breath, and let it go. “I’m thinking one-third—let’s call it a million.”
“Too much.” Malcolm slid his chair back. “I’ll give you $500,000. Even that’s generous for doing no work.”
“The money’s not for the work; it’s for the knowledge. You’re a lot better off paying a million to end up with over $2 million than paying nothing and getting nothing. I imagine the company can absorb the loss, what with insurance covering at least part of it, and you’d keep going just fine.”
Malcolm surveyed the room, pulled his chair closer, and put his hand beside his mouth. “The situation is complicated. We’ve been working on a sale of the company, but now it’s not going to happen. Even if the purchasers decided to proceed after this news, their inspection of our books would be stringent. They wouldn’t like what they’d find. The sale would be dead.”
“You were going to swindle the purchasers?” Turek snorted. “You’re a crook too.”
Malcolm stared at the tablecloth.
Turek smirked. “You’ll still have over $2 million after paying me. I can help you fix it so no one looks for you. Deal?” Turek extended his hand.
Malcolm took it and studied Turek’s face. “What do we do now, Willis?”
At 3:30 a.m. Tuesday, Malcolm Weaver eased his luxury cruiser away from the marina and glided into the dark waters of Biscayne Bay. Its twin engines were barely audible. Three hundred yards behind, a lone figure steered a dinghy with an outboard motor. It maintained its distance while Malcolm went to the liquor cabinet. He opened a bottle of scotch and inhaled its aroma, raising it toward his lips. He thought better of it and poured the scotch along with a bottle of rum into the bay, then put the empties on a sofa below deck. He signaled to the dinghy, and as it pulled alongside, the occupant threw a rope. Malcolm passed the end through one of the cleats on his cruiser and tied a slip knot, which he released once he had climbed down to the dinghy.
They moved through the quiet waters back to the marina, the burbling outboard lowering to a purr as they approached the dock, maneuvered into position, and tied up. The two climbed out and walked down the dock in the bluish moonlight toward the parking lot. Nothing moved except for lovers visible in the hatch of an outward-facing sailboat under a dim overhead light. The man’s shorts around his ankles exposed his pumping bare bottom. On the down stroke, the spread legs of his companion showed ghostly white. Turek whispered softly, “No worries, eh?”
Turek started his car and turned to face Malcolm. “I think you’d best stay at my place for a while. I’ll go to the office and reconnoiter. You need to stay inside the entire time. Remember, you disappeared and may be dead. Let’s keep you out of sight until we decide how to play it.”
“I want to find those miscreants and deal with them.”
“Let’s not hurry. We need to think everything through. When they start moving again, we’ll find them.”
Malcolm pointed a finger at Turek’s chest, hesitated, and lowered his hand. “You’re right.”
Weaver sat in Turek’s recliner and aimed the remote at the cable box. Unable to stomach a Dr. Phil rerun, and finding all the other daytime TV mind-numbing, he turned the set off. After three days cooped up in there, out of his mind, the dusty air was irritating his nostrils. He bet Turek hardly ever vacuumed. The morning light illuminating the translucent, yellowish window shades only worsened the gloomy aura. Although it was 11:00 a.m., Weaver went to the kitchen and peered in the near-empty cabinets. He settled for tomato soup and a peanut butter sandwich. After eating, he finished a glass of ice water and began a routine of stretches and floor exercises. One thought dominated his mind: no way was Turek going to end up with a million of his money.
Got to find something to read. He went through the bookshelves and the books scattered in the living room and found a novel by Tom Franklin. Opening it to the middle, he started reading a flashback about a mother and child leaving Chicago and heading south with only what they could carry. He smiled at the spare southern gothic language and took the book along with another glass of ice water to the recliner.
An hour later, he decided to call Raj Shivani. The slender man had visited his office a few days prior to Temkin’s discovery of the embezzlement, to pitch investigative services and leave his business card, claiming fraud investigations among his specialties. Malcolm had been impressed with the investigator’s quiet intelligence.
To be on the safe side, he blocked caller identification on Turek’s phone and dialed the number.
“NEC Investigations, Raj Shivani at your service.”
“Mr. Shivani, this is Malcolm Weaver, president of Global Source Enterprises. You came by my office a few days ago.”
“I remember.”
“Sir, you struck me as a man of extreme discretion. You convinced me you knew what you were talking about. I believe one of your clients you mentioned was a competitor of mine, Boodle Imports. They had some problems with customs. One of their employees, right?”
Into Shivani’s silence, Weaver continued. “That’s what I mean. You’re giving away nothing.”
“Please call me Raj. Sir, I read something about you in the paper. You’re supposed to be dead or missing, aren’t you?”
“Something like that. Long story. Someone’s defrauded the company. I can’t involve the police, and I’m going to need you to do things for me since people think I’m dead. I need to find the people who stole my money and get it back, so I’ll need you to be on call.”
“Discretion is what I’m all about, Mr. Weaver. Of course, the kind of discretion you’re talking about involves higher fees, to compensate me for risk. After all, a significant theft like this can attract unwanted attention. How much was it, about $4 million?”
“A little over three. You’d better not tell anyone about this, or—”
“I am no stranger to this sort of thing. I gain nothing by telling anyone.”
“I think we understand each other. I’d like to come by and give you a substantial cash retainer.”
“I’ll be here all afternoon. I hope I may call you Malcolm.”
“Certainly. By the way, what does NEC stand for?”
Malcolm sat back in the recliner and closed his eyes.
The front door squealed open. Malcolm jerked awake, and Willis tossed him a shopping bag. “I got you a curly black wig and a visor, along with some wraparound sunglasses. Let’s go to Walmart and buy you some clothes.”
Malcolm made a face. “Walmart?”
“No one will remember us there.”
“Okay, we need some groceries too. You have nothing to eat here.”
“No need to worry. We’ll get takeout tonight and be on the road tomorrow. Your disappearance was a success, and from what I can tell, the company’s in a meltdown. We should hustle out of here and look for those two crooks before they’ve had too much time to think.”
“Willis, let me borrow your car for a couple hours. I need to do something.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, I’ll be fine. This is personal. I left some medications at the house.”
“You’ll get caught.”
“Not in my neighborhood. Nobody pays attention to anything.”
Malcolm drove past his Coral Gables home and circled the block. No one stirred on the streets or at any of the beautifully landscaped homes. He didn’t know any of his neighbors. Likely, none of them would see him pull into his driveway. If they did, the chance they’d recognize him was slim, especially in this decrepit Volvo. He proceeded down his asphalt drive, tall hedges on one side and groupings of tropical plants in the yard on the other. Reaching the rear of the house, he hopped out, hurried to the back door, and let himself in, turning off the alarm. In his bedroom, he retrieved his pistol from the nightstand, along with some old painkillers and muscle relaxers, in case he needed to show some medications to Turek. He paused to think of anything else he might need. Nothing came to mind. He set the alarm and let himself out.
After he pulled from the driveway to the street, he checked the rearview mirror and spotted a man on a motorcycle. The man was tall and slender, with a gray ponytail sticking out under a compact black helmet. He wore aviator sunglasses and a plaid shirt. He couldn’t be certain, but he believed he’d seen the man before.
There had been some disturbing moments when shadows moved around him, elusive people who were up to no good. It had something to do with using the electrical fields from the power lines to find him and tune into his thoughts. They believed he had the money from his collapsed company and were setting themselves up to snatch it. These mysterious, ephemeral people came and went, not yet ready to pounce. Several times he caught a glimpse of someone following him, only for them to disappear.
Somehow this ponytail guy seemed more real. For one thing, he was out in bright daylight. For another, he had a distinctive appearance, an identity, unlike the drab, indistinct figures he’d seen.
Malcolm had stopped his other medications a few months ago, the ones for irritability and racing thoughts. He’d felt fine since then. What he just saw wasn’t imaginary. Something was definitely going on; he’d have to keep his eyes open.
On Dixie Highway, he scanned all his mirrors. No motorcycle in sight.
At his next stop, he climbed the creaky stairs to the second floor of a little building in an old section of Eighth Street and found two office doors with frosted windows. One was inscribed “NEC Investigations.” The combined odors of mold and insecticide gave him an instant headache. As he was about to knock, the door opened. Facing him was Raj Shivani, wearing a turban instead of the fedora. The headgear made him appear taller than the five six or so Malcolm remembered. He’d also shaved off his goatee. Weaver noted the tan business suit with an open-necked, blue dress shirt, the tan loafers. Shivani’s whole outfit was the same he had worn when he visited GSE.
“Please come in.”
They sat, and Malcolm removed a manila envelope from his jacket. He handed it across the desk. “I think you’ll find this gets us off to a good start. Here’s my phone number. Call me when you need more.”
Malcolm realized Raj wasn’t going to reply. “For starters, I need you to find the best forger in Miami for identity documents.”
“For you?” Shivani leveled a steady gaze. “No, I think not.”
“I’m looking for two people, and I’m sure they’ve changed their identities.”
“The man you want is Geraldo Cruz. Here’s his address. I happen to know he’s out of town for a few days. Wait before contacting him.” Raj scrawled the information on scratch paper.
“No telephone number?”
“He doesn’t like it to be out there. I could contact him for you.”
“No, I’d rather keep you out of the limelight for now. I’ll catch up with him.”
“I’m surprised this is all you need. I wouldn’t charge this much for such information, even considering discretion.” Raj tapped the envelope and smiled.
“Oh, I have a lot more in mind. I’m going to want you on my side. Be ready for me to call; I may need you in a hurry. And get in touch if this isn’t enough money. How do you know what’s in the envelope?”
“Let’s say sometimes I know things.”
“What are you—psychic?”
“I observe, and I’m intuitive. I don’t have a particular name for it.”
Malcolm stood and extended his hand. “I’ll be in touch.” He glanced back toward the door. By the way, what’s the ‘No Extra Charge’ about?”
“For knowing things sometimes.”
As Malcolm walked down the steep stairs, holding the handrail, he smiled and shook his head. They’ve got all kinds in Miami, for sure.
Chapter 12
“What the hell is going on?” Bill leaned across the dinette and held up Vicki’s cell phone.
“What do you mean?”
“The screen lit all by itself, and the battery’s warm. You haven’t used it at all today, have you?”
“No,” Vicki said. “Is it not supposed to be doing that?”
“I don’t think so.”
Bill tapped a few keys on his laptop. Scrolling through the results, he clicked on one of them. He groaned. “Listen to this: ‘Here are some indications your cell phone might have a tracking app installed. Battery runs down faster than it should and stays warm even when the phone is idle. Screen lights up when you’re not doing anything. Slower than usual.’
“Does this sound like your phone, Vicki?”
“I thought the battery was starting to wear out, because it needed to be charged so often. The screen does come on by itself once in a while, but I leave it alone, and it shuts off.”
Bill spoke evenly. “This is important. Can you think of anyone who would put a tracking app on your cell phone? With that app, they can determine exactly where we are.”
Vicki blanched. “I can’t think of anyone. I don’t believe one of the banks I’ve been working for would do such a thing. No one has been stalking me or anything like …”
“What?”
She flushed. “Ohhhhh … Oh, no. I just thought of someone.”
Bill felt his face heating up. He waited.
“Someone I worked with a long time ago might’ve done something. A guy named Trip. He called me a few weeks ago. I met him for a drink, and we chatted for about an hour. That was it.”
Both hands resting on the table, Bill sat still.
“I kind of wondered if he was stalking me or something like that at the time. I haven’t talked to him since. When I was with him, I went to the ladies’ room, and when I returned, I found him doing something with my phone. He pushed a couple buttons in a hurry and said he had been trying to find the weather. It irritated me, but I didn’t think it was a big deal at the time.” She made her hands into fists so tight they shook. Tears welled in her eyes. “What is he doing?”
“He’s chasing the money.”
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Lowering her blotchy face, Vicki used her fingertips to wipe her tears and swallowed hard. “Damn that boy. I should have known from the start not to trust him with anything. How could I be so stupid?”
Bill closed the laptop. “Who is this guy, Trip?”
Sobbing now, Vicki rummaged through her bag until she found a tissue to blot her eyes. “Willis Turek.”
“Willis Turek—that slimy bastard. My buddy. Never mentioned he knew you.” Bill scratched his head. “His corny country schtick.” He squinted. “Remember when you said something about ‘a stiffie in sweatpants’? You sounded just like him.”
Bill leaned forward, hands flat on the table. “How long have you known this guy?”
“We worked together for a few years. We’re from the same part of Georgia, so maybe that’s why you think we sound alike.” Vicki’s brow furrowed. “At one time, there was something between us, but that died a long time ago.”
“Just one drink? Why do I feel I’m not hearing the whole story?”
“I swear, Bill. I’ve told you everything.” Vicki sobbed. “That’s all. He called me. There was no special reason for me to see him, and I shouldn’t have.”
Bill stared out the window, where men and women in shorts and T-shirts rearranged folding chairs in the campground’s open-air bandstand. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need some time to digest this. Give me the phone.”
Bill saw her recoil at his cold, peremptory tone. Too bad.
She handed him the phone, and, without speaking, he went through the door and down the folding steps. He banged containers around in a storage compartment below and came up with a small hatchet. He set the phone in the grass. After raising the hatchet, butt end down, he let it hang in the air for a few seconds, paused, and gingerly lowered it.
He rapped on the door. “Vicki, bring me a resealable bag.”
With Vicki looking through the window, Bill sealed the phone in the bag and slid it in his pocket. He walked to a fifth-wheel trailer in a nearby space, one where he’d seen no activity. Vinyl covers on the tires. An undisturbed groove in the sand outlined the trailer where rain water had dripped from its sides. Stepping over the groove, he bent and lifted the inside edge of one of the tire covers. He placed the phone on top of the tire, tightening the vinyl covering to secure it.
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