“Be a pretty dumb way to do it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Too expensive. If a doper ran an airplane like this one, he’d have all the seats pulled out so he could get a real payload on board. He’d want to haul a couple thousand pounds, not a few dinky suitcases.”
“Uh-huh. Tell me something. How tight is customs at this airport?”
Bellamy got out the strip of waste cloth again and resumed rubbing his fingers with it. “I wouldn’t want to make trouble for nobody.”
“Hey, look,” Ben said. “I won’t quote you. Anything you say stays between us, okay?”
“What you’re asking me is, would customs pull that bulkhead, really get into the airplane. That right?”
“Yes.”
“Answer’s no. Not unless they had a damn good reason to. Like if they knew ahead of time there was something they oughta be looking for. Otherwise, forget it. They ain’t gonna do any more work than they have to.”
“All right, Joe. Thanks for your help.”
“That it?”
“That’s it. Have a nice evening.”
Bellamy turned and walked back into the hangar.
Ben took one last look at the airplane. Whatever it might have brought in from Panama, there was no way for him to check it out now. Not after customs had inspected it and pronounced it clean. And besides, what did he have other than hunches?
There was a public phone on the outside wall of the administration office. He went to it and called the Palm Beach Police Department. It was getting late, but he still might reach the man he wanted. When he got an answer, he asked for Sgt. Peter Dennison.
He was in luck; the sergeant was in.
63
Ben drove from the airport to Okeechobee Boulevard and then over the bridge to the narrow island that was Palm Beach. The moon was up, its rays silhouetting the palm trees and shining on the waters of Lake Worth, where rows of yachts were tied up at the docks.
The police station was like no other Ben had ever seen. It was two stories high and built of orange stucco, with a red barrel-tiled roof and an arched loggia, surrounded by beds of elephant-ear ferns and neatly clipped ficus hedges. Just four blocks from Worth Avenue, it looked more like a golf club than a police headquarters.
When Tolliver walked in, he was the only person in the lobby. Opposite the entrance was a glass partition, with a lone female officer behind it, sitting at a desk and reading a newspaper. He took the elevator to the second floor, where the detectives’ offices were.
There was a circular balcony up there with potted plants around the railing, and you could look down from it and see the lobby. He couldn’t help comparing this station house with the Sixth Precinct’s in the West Village, with its stink of disinfectant and the daily complement of whores, muggers, boosters, and burglars fighting with cops while they screamed their innocence.
Peter Dennison clapped Tolliver on the back. “Man, you’re lookin’ good. That easy life in New York must agree with you.”
“Wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Ben said.
Dennison headed the PBPD detective squad. He’d gone to Tulane on a football scholarship and had graduated with a degree in criminology. Long past his playing days, he’d become jowly and his hair was thinning. He’d also developed a paunch that pushed out the front of his trendy linen jacket.
“How about we get something to eat?” the sergeant suggested. “You can bring me up to speed on what you’re doing.”
Ben said that sounded fine. Dennison led the way, driving a patrol car, with Tolliver following in the rented Chevy.
The place they went to was a bar and restaurant that had been built back in the twenties by a gambler named Ed Bradley, who’d also run a wide-open gambling casino across the street. The casino was gone now, and so was Bradley. But the bar was booming, filled with a raucous crowd dressed in plaid shorts and loud shirts and pants, enthusiastic boozers of all ages.
Both cops drank bourbon, standing in the crush at the bar.
“So what’s this case you’re on?” Dennison asked.
“Investigation of Senator Cunningham’s death.”
“Ah, the senator—I should’ve known. That’s why you’re in Palm Beach?”
“In a roundabout way, yes.”
“What is it you’re looking for?”
“I’m not sure,” Ben said. “Does the name Tomas Aguila mean anything to you?”
Dennison pursed his lips, thinking about it. “No, never heard of him. Who is he?”
“Somebody I wanted to talk to. How about Pablo Chavez?”
“Not him, either. They Cuban?”
“Panamanian. I think they might have a business connection with the Cunninghams.”
“Are they here in Palm Beach?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“If you want, I’ll run a check. Let you know if I turn up anything.”
“How about the family—are any of them here now?”
“No, too early. They usually come down just before Christmas, when the real season starts. Hey, the senator dying made some big splash, didn’t it? How’s the investigation going?”
“All right. More or less routine.”
“Not according to what I’ve been seeing. He had this woman with him, right? And then maybe she killed herself and maybe she didn’t. Anyhow, there’s never anything routine with that outfit. We’ve had our own problems with them.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s order some chow and I’ll tell you about it.”
Despite the crowd, they were given a table immediately; Dennison was obviously well known here. He recommended snapper, telling Ben it was fresh and hard to screw up. They had another drink while they waited for their food.
“First year I was on the force,” the sergeant said, “there was this nineteen-year-old kid who’d been beaten. She was a hostess in a restaurant on Royal Poinciana. Some people found her on the beach at night with a broken arm and her face pushed in. Ambulance took her to St. Mary’s, and when she could talk, she told us she’d been to a party at the Cunningham house. Said the old man got her off in the guest cottage and worked her over. At first, she was gonna press charges, but then she changed her mind. Said she’d been mistaken. After that, she dropped out of sight.”
The story had a familiar ring. “Where is she now?”
“I have no idea. Her folks live in Lantana. Whether they ever hear from her, I couldn’t say. There’ve been other things, too, with the Cunninghams. But one way or another, they all got hushed up.”
“How far is the house?” Ben asked.
“Couple miles. It’s up near the Kennedy place, on North Ocean.”
“And you say there’s nobody there?”
“Just some of the permanent staff. Gardeners, the housekeeper, one or two maids. They always bring more with them when they come down from New York.”
Dinner arrived, and it was as Dennison had promised; the fish was fresh and simply cooked, served with lemon and baked zucchini. Ben attacked his food ravenously, as usual.
While they ate, he pressed the sergeant for more information about the Cunninghams. Dennison told him the Colonel had built the place just after World War I, when so many of the big estates were constructed. Like a lot of other families, they were always leaders in the social world, but with plenty of skeletons in their closets. You wouldn’t believe it, he said, what their kind of money and power could do. Tolliver said he had a fairly good idea.
“After a while, I got smart,” Dennison said. “It’s one thing to handle the nickel-and-dime cases, burglaries, car theft, shit like that. But when you get something where one of the important families is involved, that’s another story.”
Ben sensed what he was going to hear next.
“These people have got just too many resources,” Dennison went on. “There’s more money per square foot here than in any other town in America—maybe in the world. There’re the du Ponts, and the Fords, the N
ewhouses, even the Sultan of Brunei. So what chance do you think you’ve got if one of ’em trips over the law? Lot of times, it won’t even make the papers.”
Tolliver listened politely. Dennison wasn’t the first cop he’d run across who was awestruck by wealth.
“And if something does go public,” the sergeant said, “look at the kind of firepower they can call up. You take the rape case. Two prosecutors up against a whole battery of hotshot lawyers from Miami. We knew goddamn well he was guilty. But there wasn’t any way he was gonna be convicted, either. I heard the legal fees ran over two million.”
“So what are you saying?” Ben asked him.
Dennison spoke around a mouthful of fish. “Just that it took me a while to catch on. Our job here is to keep the streets safe, run a nice clean town. But what I learned is, you don’t go looking to be a hero, take on something bigger than you are. That’s not healthy. I guess you know all about that, huh?”
“Yeah,” Ben said. “I know all about it.”
Dennison looked at his watch. “Getting late, and I promised the wife I wouldn’t be too long. She gets pissed sometimes about my hours. Hope you don’t mind if I take off.”
“No, I understand. Thanks for dinner.”
“My pleasure. Next time we’ll do it in New York, okay? If I ever have the bad luck to get up that way.”
The sergeant signed the check, winking at Tolliver. When they walked out the entrance, he said, “Forgot to ask—you got a place to stay?”
“I’ll go to one of the hotels near the airport,” Ben said. “There’s no flight out until morning.”
“You need anything else while you’re here, just let me know.”
“Yeah,” Ben said. “I’ll do that.”
Dennison waved, got into the patrol car, and pulled away. Tolliver watched him go. The sergeant had been friendly and polite, but the message he’d given Ben was about as subtle as a punch in the mouth. Behave yourself, and don’t mess with any of our prominent citizens, because it won’t get you anything but trouble.
The Chevy was parked nearby. As Ben went over to it, a young couple walked past on the sidewalk. He asked them for directions. Then he climbed into the car and drove up to County Road, following it until it joined North Ocean Boulevard. From there, he drove along the beach.
The moon was high now, and there were roof lights on some of the mansions, casting beams out over the sea and picking up the phosphorescent glow of the breakers. He had no trouble finding the Cunningham house, a huge Mediterranean villa that sat on a bluff, with a high wall surrounding the property. He pulled over and parked some yards up the road, then walked back.
Through the latticed gates there were only a few lights showing, and there were no cars in the circular driveway. Just as Dennison had said, it was too early for the Cunninghams to be here; there would be no one in the house but members of the permanent staff. The place was silent except for the distant roar of waves breaking on the beach.
Ben shook his head in anger and frustration. The prospect of winding up with nothing was more than he could wrap his head around. There was something going on here; there was a link—he knew it.
And what proof did he have? Zero. Zip. He felt like kicking the goddamn gates down.
So now what? Admit failure and go back to New York? That was depressing, but what choice did he have?
He turned away, and as he did, he saw a glimmer of light appear at one end of the house.
A garage door was opening. He watched as a car backed out onto the tiled driveway, a black Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible. The garage door closed and the car swung around to the main entrance.
The front door of the house opened and a man stepped out. He was silhouetted in the doorway and Ben couldn’t make out his features. But then as he opened the passenger door of the Rolls, the light shone on his blond hair. He ducked into the car and slammed the door. The Rolls pulled away, heading down the drive, toward where Tolliver was standing.
Ben turned and sprinted back to the Chevy, reaching it and jumping in just as the gates opened and the black convertible emerged. The car came out onto North Ocean Boulevard and turned in the direction Ben had come, toward the town center.
Tolliver waited until the red taillights were almost out of sight. Then he started his engine and flicked on the lights, easing the small car onto the road and following the Rolls at a considerable distance.
Maybe he’d have some luck, after all. The man who’d gotten into the convertible wasn’t a Cunningham, but he was married to one.
64
The Rolls maintained a moderate pace, running down County Road past the Breakers Hotel and turning left at the church, Bethesda by the Sea, and then right again onto South Ocean Boulevard.
There were beachfront mansions along here as well, each more pretentious than the one before. Many of them looked like hotels rather than private houses, immense pseudo-Mediterranean villas with fluted columns and balconies. All had lush plantings of bougainvillea and alamanda and oleander under tall royal palms.
Tolliver kept the black convertible in sight as it left the island via the Southern Bridge, then he moved closer. They were on the mainland now—in West Palm Beach, where there were a lot of stoplights and more traffic and the Rolls could slip away from him if he wasn’t careful.
They crossed I-95 and continued west, and he realized they were approaching the side of the airport where he’d been earlier. Suddenly, the other car swerved off onto Congress Avenue, a strip lined with honky-tonk bars and topless joints.
One of the places was called the Pussycat Lounge. The Rolls pulled into the parking lot behind the rambling one-story building and Tolliver drove on by. He went down the road a quarter of a mile, then turned around and came back.
When he entered the parking lot, he saw the Rolls at the far end, looking oddly out of place alongside the other cars and the pickup trucks: a princess among the frogs.
The convertible’s headlights were off and he could make out that the driver was alone, sitting at the wheel. Ben parked the Chevy some distance away, got out, and went around to the front entrance. Huge red neon letters over the door said GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!
He stepped inside. There was a single large room, with a bar that ran down one side of it, and the place was busy. Slow rock, heavy on drums and bass guitars, was slamming out of wall-mounted speakers and a pair of topless dancers were gyrating on the bar. The girls had on only G-strings and heels and were waving their butts in the customers’ faces as they made their turns.
Most of the drinkers were rednecks, sporting beards and baseball caps, but there were some guys in business suits as well, looking frazzled and maybe half-drunk after a hard day at the office. Kurt Kramer was nowhere in sight.
A bartender in a T-shirt that showed off his weight lifter’s body moved over in front of Tolliver and placed his hands on the mahogany surface. Ben said he’d have bourbon on the rocks.
One of the dancers was kind of cute, he thought, a redhead with a turned-up nose and nipples that pointed in the same direction. The other girl looked as if she was ready to go back to the minors. Or maybe this was the minors, and the redhead was being primed for stardom. It seemed unlikely.
He was on his second swallow when he caught sight of a face he’d seen just once before. Recognizing the guy was easy; he was wearing the same lime green jacket he’d had on at the Tocumen Airport in Panama.
Tomas Aguila walked straight past where Tolliver was sitting at the bar, and this time Ben got a good look at him: slicked-back black hair and dark skin, a square jaw and a thin, aquiline nose. As he watched, Aguila walked across the room and sat at a table in the corner.
One other man was at that table: Kurt Kramer. Tolliver hadn’t spotted him earlier in the semidarkness. A waitress went to the table and moved off again; the two men huddled together. A match flared briefly as Aguila lighted a cigarette, and Ben could see both faces clearly.
He sipped his bourbon, pretending to watch t
he bumping and grinding on the bar but keeping his eyes on the table in the corner. The waitress returned and set drinks down in front of the men, then left them. They continued to talk, Aguila gesturing with his hands.
I would give a lot, Tolliver thought, to hear what those two are saying to each other.
Abruptly, both men stood up. Kramer pulled money out of his pocket and tossed it down on the table. Then they came toward the bar.
Ben turned his face away and the men walked past him. Kramer was saying something, but with the pounding of the rock music, Tolliver couldn’t make out what it was.
He waited for a few seconds, then watched them go out the door. Dropping a bill on the bar, he slid off the stool and followed.
Out in the parking lot, Kramer and Aguila were continuing their conversation, Aguila still waving his hands. There were lights on the rear of the building and Ben could see the pair walking toward the Rolls. He hung back in the shadows.
A pickup truck rolled into the lot, its lights illuminating him briefly. He retreated around a corner, flattening himself against the wall. The vehicle stopped and two men got out. They didn’t notice Tolliver as they went by him on their way into the Pussycat.
When he stepped out of his hiding place, the Rolls was gone. He cursed under his breath, his gaze sweeping the parking lot as he tried to catch sight of the green jacket. But Aguila had disappeared, as well. Ben reached into his pocket for the keys to the Chevy and strode toward the place where he’d parked.
There was a crunch of gravel behind him.
Instinctively, he threw himself to one side. A knife blade ripped down the shoulder of his blazer. He felt a sharp pain, then hit the ground rolling. He lashed out with his foot as a dark shape leapt onto him.
The kick must have caught his attacker in the belly. Ben heard the air go out of the guy and then the heavy body crashed down onto him. Steel glinted as a knife blade flashed toward Tolliver’s face. He grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand and held on, halting the point of the knife an inch from his eye.
Garlic breath washed over him like fetid gas. Ben strained, his teeth clenched, and drove his other fist into the knife wielder’s jaw. The punch shook the guy, but it didn’t dislodge him. Ben could feel him pulling himself forward, trying to bring his weight into play so he could drive the blade through Tolliver’s eye and into his brain.
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