The Alomar family had lived at this address for a decade, according to the dossier—more evidence that Leo’s life was unraveling.
I continued on. At Palm Beach’s Jet Aviation Executive Terminal, I’d gotten a courtesy car with nav. It had guided me three miles west on Okeechobee Boulevard past Plantation Mobile Home Park, then right, across from a La Quinta Inn, if I needed to overnight.
It was possible. I’d had no guarantee that Leo hadn’t fled after being charged with two counts of tax fraud. This was a recent revelation that, timing-wise, meshed with his visit to my lab. The charges had ended his career as an IRS agent at the Federal Building in West Palm.
All the more reason to risk a recon. The treasure savant, Jimmy Jones, had operated his salvage vessel out of nearby Palm Beach Shores.
I wanted to watch Leo’s face when I asked about Jimmy. What was the connection? In the mind of a desperate man, brokering a deal with me might be his last financial hope.
The street curved along a fairway, houses separated by the minimum setback. Emerald lawns with sprinklers formed a fertilized blanket from driveway to drive, mile after mile. On each patch were the requisite ornamentals—palms, hibiscus—shallow-rooted to a limestone base where, twenty years ago, palmettos had grown.
History and biology often intertwine. Flash back a hundred years, before the Corps of Engineers went to work draining the Florida peninsula. This had been sawgrass, a flooded prairie that flowed southeast down the Anastasia shelf toward the Gulf Stream. Eighty miles west across the Everglades were carbon copy communities. They would also be underwater if not for the Army Corps of Engineers, but water would have flowed south into Florida Bay.
I crept along at idle speed as if shopping for property. Around a bend, a sign welcomed residents to the Polynesian Isles Country Club. It was a white oversized building with pillars. Rocking chairs on a porch were empty on this hot Saturday morning. When my mirror showed Leo behind me, alone in a golf cart, I parked, went inside, and told the clerk, “Just visiting. Can I buy a day pass?”
The woman was perky and professional. “Sorry, not unless you’re the guest of a member,” she said, then noted my creased khakis, my gray Egyptian cotton shirt, my aviator sunglasses—it was the casual uniform of anonymous success. She reconsidered. “You know . . . between us, we do have a special get-acquainted provision if you’re here looking at real estate. A flat fee, you get eighteen holes of golf, use of the spa, the pool, whatever you want. How does that sound?”
“Didn’t bring my clubs,” I said, which was misleading. I’ve never owned a golf club.
“No problem,” she said. “Our pro will set you up. That’s part of the deal for special drop-ins. Would you like to use a credit card? I’ll need some ID, Mr. uhh . . .”
I removed my sunglasses and produced a money clip. “I’m Morris Berg,” I said. “Is cash okay?”
“Sure, but we’ll still need a driver’s license, because you’ll be taking a cart.”
I handed her the same fake license I’d used in Guyana. “Capt. Berg,” she said, impressed.
“No need for that,” I smiled. “I’m trying to keep a low profile. My plane’s at the Executive Terminal and I don’t want my staff to know I’m playing hooky. But, so far, I like what I’ve seen . . . Isabelle?” Reading her name tag, I realized, had required a long, studious look at the woman’s breasts. “Sorry . . . Uhh, I didn’t mean to suggest . . .”
Isabelle stood a little straighter and laughed, “I’m sorry you didn’t.”
Behind me, double doors whooshed open. Leo entered, carrying a Callaway bag. He glanced at me with zero recognition and clinked his way toward the dressing room. The man’s green suede loafers, with their cleats, were distinctive.
Isabelle called after him, “Mr. Alomar? The office manager would like to speak with you regarding your—” Discretion stopped her in midsentence. It suggested that the problem was financial, an overdue bill or membership fee.
“Why don’t you stick to handing out score cards,” Leo snapped without looking back.
The woman bit her lip and didn’t respond. I waited until he was gone to say, “You handled that very well. Unhappy people are always looking for a fight.”
“Takes all kinds, Capt. Berg.”
“I’m Morris. Or Moe, if you want.”
We shook hands to confirm our bond of informality.
I asked, “How’s the club doing? I mean, is there a vetting process for new residents?”
“Him?” The door had just closed behind Leo. “Oh, he’s not typical, and I don’t think he’ll be here much . . . Well, I can’t say any more.” There was a clipboard on the counter where I’d placed a pair of folded hundred-dollar bills. “Would you mind filling this out while I get your change?” She started toward the office, then stopped. “This is way too much.”
“I’m paying for guidance, not just golf,” I said.
The woman responded with a smile. Not too much, confident, still professional, but she was open to the possibility of a drink when I suggested that we meet later to discuss local real estate. “Glenn—he’s our pro—he’ll get you all set up.”
“Do you have left-handed clubs?” I asked.
“Of course, whatever you need. I can give you a map or walk you to the pro shop. It’s slow this time of year. Most members are up north or they’re out at sunrise because of the heat.”
“No need,” I said. “If I get lost, I’ll ask Mr. Alomar.”
Isabelle thought that was funny.
The locker room was empty, stalls next to the urinals. Green suede shoes told me the former IRS agent was seated inside on the corner toilet. His pants were around his ankles.
I tapped on the door. “Leo? I told the nice lady out front that we’d partner up. It’ll be easier to talk.”
The man made a barking noise of surprise. “What the . . . Who are you? . . . Look, pal, I’m trying to take a dump in here.”
I said, “A few weeks ago, you paid me a visit on Sanibel Island, remember? You planted a GPS on my truck.”
There was long silence. Then: “You.”
“That’s right.”
“Get the hell away from me. I didn’t plant anything on your truck, you idiot. I’m surprised you have the balls to show up here.”
I leaned against the door. “For starters, Leo, you have no idea who I am. Not really.”
He laughed at that.
I said, “Know what I did once? This was in Cuba, the baseball stadium in Havana. I can’t go into detail, but this guy—he was a real badass—same thing, in the locker room, on the crapper, when I walked in, so I grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him under the door. Leo, it’s not the sort of thing I want to do twice.”
I heard a hasty scramble for toilet paper. “Try it, you pompous prick.”
I did. Dropped to one knee, grabbed his belt with my good arm, and pulled him halfway out. “I’m surprised you’re still alive,” I said when the door was finally open. “If you didn’t plant that GPS, we really need to talk.”
* * *
—
We were on the third tee before Leo got his color back. His attitude and a mild barrio accent returned with it. “You’re the worst excuse for a golfer I’ve ever seen. Jesus Christ, almost nailed a house back there, fuckin’ birds flying. Why do people like you even bother?”
I said, “No kidding. Last time I played, I hit I don’t know how many cars. Really. I sliced a shot across six lanes of traffic. After that, I told myself never again. But I do enjoy hunting golf balls—which makes you the perfect partner.”
The man had triple-bogeyed the first hole and was already 8 over par.
“Go to hell,” Leo replied. “Like you’ve got a broken arm, with that swing of yours. An old lady with a stick up her butt. I shoulda kicked your ass in the clubhouse.” He was teeing up.
&
nbsp; “Yeah, I’m a little stiff. A couple days after I met you, a guy shot me in the shoulder with a speargun. They did an outpatient procedure, then I had to go back because of complications.”
“A speargun? Sure . . .” The man chuckled.
“Yep, but maybe some good will come of it,” I said. “Turns out, I golf a little better left-handed than right-. Baseball, I used to switch-hit. So it’s the same except the ball’s not coming in at eighty miles an hour.”
“You are so totally full of shit, man.” He took a practice swing. “You couldn’t be any worse if you used a croquet mallet, hit the damn thing ’tween your legs. You know what they say about excuses and assholes.”
I said, “It wasn’t in the papers, but maybe you read about the guy who shot me. The same one the feds arrested for those clinic bombings? Five counts of murder. Another badass, but crazier than the guy I took down in Cuba.”
That got Leo’s attention. He looked at me, “Ford—that’s your name, right?—are you trying to tell me . . . Hold on a sec.” He paused and gave it some thought. “I did read about some freak who heard voices. Some test tube kid who grew up and . . . Yeah, but guess what? Your name wasn’t mentioned, I would’ve noticed. Who names a boy Marion? So enough with the—”
“The feds kept my name out of it,” I interrupted. “You were with the Treasury Department. You know how some of those agencies work.”
He gave it some more thought, and it wasn’t long before he chuckled again. “Sure. A small-time biologist who got lucky in the Bahamas. You want to talk, that’s what we talk about. Do you mind?” He gestured to the white Titleist at his feet.
I surveyed the fairway. “Stay to the right. To me, that pond looks like gator country.”
Leo squared, squinted, and hit his tee shot. The ball hooked left and bounced into a marshy area a hundred yards short of the green.
“Sonuvabitch.” He pantomimed throwing the club, a 3 wood. “You did that on purpose. I can’t concentrate with someone dogging my ass. Every Saturday, the one peaceful day I have to look forward to. A little fun—I’m a scratch golfer—then you show up.”
“Every week the same time?” I asked.
“That’s a mulligan on you. Doesn’t count.” He fished another tee out of his lime green slacks.
“Sure, do-overs, like on the playground,” I said. “Every Saturday for how many weeks in a row?”
“Shut up, Marion. Don’t talk, goddamn it, when a man’s trying to drive.”
I said, “You’re missing the point. Put the ball in your pocket and walk it to the green, for all I care. Tell me who gave you those security cam shots of me and Jimmy’s girlfriend. Maybe I can help you out.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d asked about the video during this golf outing. Nor was it the first time I had warned him that whoever it was might consider him a liability now that he’d been charged with tax fraud.
Leo went through his practice swing ceremony. I ignored the phone buzzing in my pocket while he shanked another drive. It was a mole killer. The ball sizzled across thirty yards of rough, then vaulted into a clump of trees. This time, he did it—he threw the 3 wood. “I am sick of this shit. The whole goddamn month has been a nightmare, you have no idea. So get your ass outta here unless you want to talk money.”
I looked beyond him where his ball had disappeared. The club had sailed into the same clump of trees.
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“Who?”
I used a driver to point.
A man had been flushed out of the foliage. He was striding across the fairway toward stucco houses on the other side. Over his shoulder was a golf bag, no clubs visible. He wore his hat in a way that hid his face, until he stopped abruptly, turned, gave us the finger, then kept going.
Leo stared, following the man until he had vanished among the houses. “Oh . . . Christ . . .” he muttered. “Why would he . . . You can’t walk this course, you have to use a cart.”
“You recognize the guy?” I asked. “He’s not Treasury Department and he’s not golfing. He’s got something else in that bag.”
The disgraced IRS agent appeared to be nervous. “A fishing rod, maybe. I hear they catch a lot of fish in these lakes.” The man wanted to believe it.
“Or a camera,” I said. “Or a rifle with a scope . . . You come here at the same time every Saturday. Leo, for a man in your position, that’s not smart . . . Are you still under investigation?”
The anger had gone out of him. Suddenly, he looked tired. “Ford . . . Okay, we’ll talk. But first, I need a favor. You mind riding with me back to my house? It’ll just be us. My wife took the kids when she walked out three weeks ago.”
“You’re afraid. Who is he?”
“I don’t know. Could be . . . But why the hell would they . . . Unless it’s my wife’s . . .” He mulled it over in his head. “She’s been screwing around on me for at least a year and she knows I can prove it.”
Again, my phone buzzed. It was Delia calling for the second time. To Leo, I said, “Sometimes things have to bottom out before they get better. I’ll follow you in my car.”
* * *
—
On the phone, Delia said, “This is embarrassing. I’d get a rental car but the closest one available is twenty miles east. Loxahatchee, I think they said.”
She had called on the chance I hadn’t returned to Sanibel yet and could give her a ride in the plane.
I said, “Your interview’s already over? What happened to . . .” I had seen her boyfriend from the tarmac—a fortyish shaggy man with an attitude—but now blanked on his name.
“Phil? At the Growers Co-op, he got pissed off in the waiting room and made a big scene even before they called me in. That son of a . . . He did it intentionally, I know he did. The HR woman—he got in her face, too. But she’s cool. Impressive, actually. She understands. So she postponed my interview until after lunch.”
“He went off and left you?”
“Supposedly. But I know Phil. He’ll drive to the nearest Starbucks, have a latte, read the paper, and chat up the girls at the counter. Then try to time it right and call like he’s ready to forgive me—if I’m done being emotional. You know, all calm and reasonable.” She literally growled in frustration. “I can’t tell you how sick I am of his Dr. Phil act. But I don’t want to be stuck here either.”
I said, “I don’t know if he’ll find a Starbucks in Belle Glade. Some good barbecue, maybe. Any idea when you’ll be done?” I was in my courtesy car almost to Leo’s house, where the garage door was open, the golf cart parked inside.
“This so totally sucks,” she said. “I don’t want you to change your plans on account of me.”
I explained that I had no plans and it was only a ten-minute flight from West Palm. “Relax, take your time. They might want you to tour the operation. As long as we take off before five or so, no problem. This time a year, you know how squalls build over the mainland.”
Delia said she would text as soon as she knew more, then added, “Marion, I’m sorry for being such a pain in the butt. We both know I—”
The front door of the house flew open. Leo stepped out, summoned me with a wild wave, and rushed back in.
“Call me,” I said, and muffled her words, which might have been I owe you.
* * *
—
Someone had broken into Leo’s house via the patio, where more boxes were stacked, and the water in the swimming pool was a stagnant green. A pry bar had been used to breach the sliding door. Leo’s office had been rifled. His laptop was missing, along with other stuff, maybe, he wasn’t sure.
“That bitch,” he said. The man had been rushing from one room to another. “I bet it was her. I don’t have any money, who else would bother?”
“Your wife? Doesn’t she have a key?”
The questioned st
umped him, until he decided, “Wanted to make it look like a robbery. Her boyfriend, that’s probably who did it. He’s a cop . . . well, a customs agent. He knows how to do this crap and make it look real.”
“This is real,” I said. “Is that who gave us the finger?”
The man smiled for some reason, a bitter smile. “Definitely not him. A mile away, I know what that sonuvabitch looks like.”
“Then who?”
Leo said he didn’t know. A birdwatcher—could be—or a guy whacking off in the trees, he suggested, until a golf ball had almost knocked him senseless.
I told him, “Call the police and don’t touch anything else.”
That made him madder. “What? Now you’re a crime scene expert, too? This is personal, goddamn it. My computer—I think what they were after is video of them in the bedroom.”
“Your wife and—”
Red-faced, Leo yelled, “Who do you think we’re talking about? I planted another camera in the garage. Her going down on the guy, him humping her all over this house—one time when my daughters were asleep in the next room. Now do you get the picture?”
“Do you know where he lives?” I asked. The flat inflection startled him.
“Lives . . . Uhh, yeah, not far from here. Temporarily anyway. But we can’t . . . What are you getting at?”
“Yes we can, Leo.”
“Go after him, you mean?”
I said, “Why not? Any chance your wife and kids are with the guy? If not, he hasn’t gotten much of a head start.”
“Jesus Christ, Ford!” The idea terrified him, but he wanted to do it, I could tell. Leo said, “Are you . . . No, Nanette and the girls, they’re staying with her parents in Jacksonville. But I can’t get involved in . . . Aren’t you paying attention? I’ve been charged with a felony, we’re in the middle of a divorce, I can’t just walk up and . . . Oh, this so sucks.”
We were in his office. The place was a mess. He squatted and retrieved a photograph that had been knocked from a shelf. Two cute little kids—sisters—grinned out through the pane of broken glass. The man’s face contorted. “Oh . . . that sick S-O-B has ruined . . . my poor little girls . . .”
Salt River Page 13