Downward Dog in Miami

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Downward Dog in Miami Page 18

by Larry David Allman


  Oscar had unique skills, and they were illegal. I used him sometimes and referred clients to him who could be trusted. He created fake documents, including passports and driver’s licenses. He didn’t do credit cards—those were beyond his skills—but he was a superb paper forger. He was based in San Francisco. Lenny knew him and had introduced us.

  “Okay. You’re worth it, bro. I need you to redo a power of attorney. Should be simple work for you. But I need it on a plane tonight, the original. Can you do that?”

  “Sheesh, power of attorney… No problem. Probably one or two pages, right? Rush order, including delivery to airport… five thousand bucks.” It was all business for Oscar—he made it so easy, and his work was first class.

  “Done. Linda will get you the document and the money, and what I need it to say, in an hour or so. Can you meet her somewhere to make it easier on her?”

  “For you, bro, no problem. I’m on standby; you just bought my day. Where are you, man?”

  “Somewhere in America. Linda will get you everything. Do good for us. You know there’s going to be more,” I said.

  I heard Linda say that she would be right back to him, and then she clicked him off.

  “That was easy,” she said.

  “Yes, only because we already have the relationship. Now, James is going to be harder. What’s with him, anyway? All we do is put money in his pocket,” I lamented.

  “I don’t know. It would help if he got laid once in a while,” she tried to joke.

  “Okay, enough with the cattiness. Focus on the work,” I said.

  “Yes, boss,” she responded in that mocking tone she seemed to have mastered. “What are we doing now?”

  I went over what I wanted Oscar to do to the power of attorney: revise it so that it was signed by both Lev and Santo to Darryl Chapman, an alias I used occasionally. Like their original power of attorney document, a copy of which we had, it would cover all of their accounts at Cayman National Bank and Trust. I had a driver’s license and a passport in that name, courtesy of Oscar. I had a plan for this, but my intention was that it worked way before somebody needed to check my ID to see who I was.

  * * *

  Lenny took the Stuart exit off 95. Monterey Commons was four miles on the left side of the road, about halfway between 95 and the City of Stuart. The upscale community was marked by a lustrous stone-on-stone landmark sign. He turned in and drove slowly to the security gate in the lane marked Visitors—a separate lane for Residents was just to the right—and stopped at the guardhouse, where he flipped the record function on his Glass sunglasses. As he lowered his window, the door of the guardhouse opened, and a Black man in a green uniform came out of the door. The badge on his shirt read that his name was Curtis and that the company was Atlantic Security. Curtis had his hair in short dreads; he was thin, wiry, and youngish.

  “Hey man, how’re you doing?” Lenny greeted him.

  Curtis came close to the window, where Lenny saw a Glock pistol on his hip.

  “All’s good today. What you here for?” Curtis asked, bending down to get a better view of Lenny.

  “You have problems here, man?” Lenny asked, pointing to the gun.

  “No, never. They just want us to look bad,” he answered. “Where you going?”

  “I’m going to this listing, 3796 Via Medici Lane. You know it?” Lenny handed Curtis the listing sheet together with his real estate broker business card.

  “Yes… It’s vacant. You bringing in a client?” Curtis asked.

  “Not today. Maybe if it checks out. Where’s it located?”

  “Hang on, I need to register you,” he said and turned and walked back into the guardhouse. After a minute, he came back out. “We usually need a driver’s license, but for you real estate guys, it’s different. They don’t care as long as you have a card. Go three stop signs, take a right—that’s Medici. You don’t need to stop on the way out; the gate’s automatic. Have a nice day,” Curtis said as he handed back the listing sheet and the business card and clicked an instrument in his hand to raise the security barrier gate just beyond the guardhouse. Better security practice would have been to keep the business card, Lenny noted as he closed his window and slowly drove past the gate and into the community of four hundred houses.

  A wide main-entrance road with sidewalks on both sides and well-maintained plants and trees led into the community, probably a single entrance point for better security control. After a few hundred yards were houses. Large lots, at least a half acre, some larger. The houses used similar construction materials but featured different designs on both sides of the road; most were one story, some had two stories, some included fences, and some were set back deeply on the lot. It was definitely an upscale community for the more affluent. Lenny had a map next to him on the seat. He drove all the streets in the entire community to get acclimated, including past the large clubhouse building where there were probably fifty cars in the parking lot. Santo’s house at 3796 Via Dulce Way was located toward the back of the community, where the houses and the lots were larger. The listing at 3796 Via Medici Lane was two streets closer to the entrance.

  When Lenny drove by Santo’s house on the initial drive-around, he found four cars in the driveway—Santo was having guests on this Sunday afternoon. His PI instincts blinked red. More people, more problems. Could be a family thing, could be Santo’s associates in the money laundering business. He drove back to the clubhouse, parked away from any cars, and reached for his suitcase. He pulled out an artificial goatee and some paper towels. He put the goatee on and made sure it was firmly attached. He pulled the Beretta from the holster, checked that the mag was fully loaded, racked one in the chamber, put it back, and strapped it in. Then, he got out of the car and walked over to a flower bed next to the lot. He scooped up some mud—it had apparently been watered that morning—walked to the back of his car, and smeared the mud over his license plate. He scanned three hundred and sixty degrees: nobody was watching him. He got back in the car and cleaned his hands with the paper towels, then drove off the clubhouse lot and headed for Santo’s house. Action time.

  * * *

  Linda related the conversation she’d had with Lenny on his drive up to Stuart. I told her to send as much material as possible to James and told her to knock off this game or whatever it was she was playing with him.

  “Grow up,” I scolded her. “James is important. You know that. I can’t have any problems there, you understand?”

  She agreed, but it was like her scratching her nails on a blackboard; she was young and good at what she did, and my acting like a father figure was irritating to her. Too bad. Discipline wins wars! I would use the bonus stick to spank her when the time came. Or was that a carrot approach?

  “I want to fly down to Cayman tomorrow,” I told her, completely out of the blue. “I want a charter out of MIA. We’ll leave right after this court thing.” I heard her clicking keys on her end.

  “What time do you want to leave?” she asked.

  “Have it ready to leave at eleven a.m.”

  “Okay, let’s see here. We have Air Charter Service, Stratos Jet… there’s Vista Jet. We’ve used Air Charter before. You liked them, didn’t you?”

  “Where was that?”

  “Last year, remember, you and Lenny went to Mexico City? Last year, Derek,” she ribbed me.

  “Right. What equipment do they have available?”

  “They’ve got some Lears, some Citations, an Embraer, and several Gulfstreams. The Gs are the most expensive: five thousand dollars an hour with a four-hour minimum. You want one of those?”

  “Yeah… Do they have any G500s, the new one?”

  “Yes. Lucky you. Comes with two pilots and on-board flight attendant. No photos here about your choice of attendant.” She laughed. “But you can preorder lunch and dinner. I can send you the menu options.”

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nbsp; “Okay, book that; handle the deposit and paperwork. Darryl Chapman is doing this. Don’t forget. And order some good food for Lenny. Destination Cayman Island, one day there and back.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “I want a limo there, at the airport. It’s Owen Roberts Airport—the name is something like that—at Georgetown. I want it at the plane when we arrive and at the stairs when I walk down. See what they have in drivers. If they have any with a military background, get that one. One last thing on the limo: tell them specifically that we’re going to Bodden Town, a city on the other side of the island. Don’t give them anything else; keep that dark.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Okay, that’s it for now. Get five thousand dollars out of the safe and take it with the power of attorney to go meet with Oscar—or better yet, get him to come to you and pick it up. If you have to go out, you do it with George’s men. Where are they now?”

  “They’re sitting down in the lobby.”

  “You will go with them if you have to go out. Don’t argue with me. Also, get the schedule of airport-to-airport delivery for Oscar, and make sure he gets it on the plane tonight.”

  “Yes, boss.” She clicked off.

  Was this normal in employee-employer relationships? Did the whole dynamic shift when the employee was so good at her job? Whatever.

  I got out a legal pad and started to make notes on some thoughts I was having. I knew from experience: when you take their money, everything changes. I mean really changes! And that was what I would be doing tomorrow.

  But first, I needed to give James the details.

  * * *

  Lenny parked across the street from Santo’s house. He checked himself in the mirror to see that the goatee was on firmly, placed the Marlins cap on his head, made sure that the Google glasses were on, and exited the car with the listing sheet in his hand. He scanned the area in every direction: no activity on the street, nothing in any neighboring houses or yards, and nothing stirring in Santo’s house. Showtime.

  Santo’s large lot was surrounded by a fence with a fancy gate that stood at the end of the driveway and had been conveniently left open. The driveway was long enough from the street to the garage doors that four parked cars each had ample room. Lenny walked through the gate and headed up the driveway toward the house, making it a point to look directly at the license plate of each of the four cars. The driveway and the path to the door were paved with brick.

  He had gotten to the walkway to the front door when it opened and a man came out. Flowered shirt, cream-colored trousers, fancy leather shoes, shaded sunglasses—something out of the movie Scarface.

  “Stop right there,” the man shouted from the porch. Lenny could see the bulge under the shirt.

  Lenny kept walking toward the man. He waved the paper. “I’m here to see the house,” he shouted back. They were about twenty yards apart. Lenny kept moving. “The house,” he called again. “I want to see the house.”

  “Stop, man. Stop or I’ll drop you!” the man yelled back. Then he went for the gun, drew it out, and pointed it at Lenny in a one hand, with a loose grip. He moved the gun like a gangster—he was not a trained professional.

  “Whoa, whoa… I’m just here to look at the house,” Lenny said and stopped walking. He waved the listing paper. “For the listing,” he said. “Put your gun away, man!”

  “What fucking listing?” the man asked, irritated but lowering his gun to his side. As he did so, the door opened, and two more men came out, dressed similarly in flowered shirts and quality trousers, just in different patterns and colors. This was apparently their corporate uniform.

  Lenny started walking forward again. They came down from the porch toward him. The first man kept his gun at his side while he and the two new men walked forward.

  “I’m here for the listing. I have buyers. What’s your problem, man?” Lenny asked, looking directly and separately at each of the three men.

  “There’s no listing here… What’s the matter with you?”

  “This is 3796, right?” Lenny asked, waving the listing sheet as proof.

  The first guy out the door holstered his gun and came forward. “Give me the fucking paper,” he said, now with a noticeable Latin accent. As he took the paper, Santo came out the front door and lumbered down the walkway to the group. Lenny recognized him from the materials Linda had forwarded to him.

  “What’s going on here?” Santo asked with a very slight Latin accent.

  The other three men immediately responded to his authority; their body language showed that he was the alpha among them. Santo was fifty-ish, about six feet, a bit overweight and starting to bald in the front, but he had a brute-like authority and energy—he was clearly in charge. He was also wearing the same uniform as the other three, except he had a few extra gold chains around his neck.

  “Give me the paper,” he ordered. He took it, scanned it, and looked at Lenny. “This is not Medici, this is Dulce. My house is not for sale. What kind of dumb agent are you?” he said with a surly tone.

  “Oh shit, man, I’m sorry. I’m not from around here. I have buyers in California. Where’s the one that’s listed?”

  “It’s a couple blocks over. Don’t you have a GPS?”

  “Sorry, man, my mistake. Are you the owner of this one?” Lenny asked, moving a little closer to Santo.

  “Yes, why? You doing a survey?” he said, clearly upset with the intrusion and with Lenny walking into his space.

  “You want to sell? I have buyers. What would you want for this place?” Lenny asked, trying to get Santo to talk more.

  “No fucking way. Get lost. We don’t have time for this shit. Go!” He pointed to the gate and off the property.

  “Okay, sorry, man. Give me the listing sheet back; I need to go see it.”

  Santo gave it to the original man, who walked it to Lenny and handed it to him with eye attitude. Lenny took the paper and ignored the attitude.

  “Sorry, man, my bad,” he said, and he turned and walked down the driveway, out the gate, and over to his car. Once he got inside, he quickly started the engine and drove away. He had gotten everything he needed here.

  He drove out of Monterey Commons, through the automatic gate, and headed back to 95. No need to stop to see Santo’s office in West Palm Beach. The building would be closed today, on Sunday. Back to Miami.

  Once on 95 South, he said, “Alexa, get me Linda.”

  “Hey Lenny,” Linda answered on the first ring. “What’s up?”

  “I’m sending you some Google footage, faces and license plates. Can you run them?” he asked.

  “Lenny, please. We can do anything; you know that. Give me a few minutes,” she said. “I’ll be right back to you.”

  “You go, girl,” he said as he set the cruise control for seventy-five and cranked up the Sirius XM stereo system, which was throbbing to The Doobie Brothers’ “Rockin’ Down the Highway.”

  * * *

  James picked up on the first ring. “I’m in the lab, and I’ve got a lot of stuff that will help us.”

  Wow, I thought, a nice surprise. That’s the James I used to know.

  “Good. You want to go first?” I heard him pecking keys on his end, so I added, “Thanks, James, you’re priceless.”

  “Not really. I think you hit my price,” he said. “Here’s what’s going on.”

  But before he could get into his findings, my laptop chimed.

  “Hang on,” I said to James, who was on speaker on the sat phone, and I clicked on the laptop and found a message from Linda.

  It was a short email: Check this out, from Lenny. I’m running the faces and plates. L.

  “Listen to this,” I said to James as I played the Google footage Lenny had recorded in Stuart earlier. It was good stuff, up close and with real HD clarity, both visual and audio. Santo’s
voice was clear, and his accent indicated some apparent Latin background. Something fell into place for me with this new element, thanks to Lenny’s outstanding work.

  “Sorry, James. This is good, what I just heard; we can use this. Okay, what do you got?” I said.

  With the precision of a skilled scientist, and without all the emotional baggage he’d been throwing around before, he detailed his penetration of our three subjects: Santo Garcia, Horatio Gonzalez, and Cayman National Bank and Trust. He emphasized that his task was phone communications, but he included their emails to be complete. Go, James! He stressed that he was invading not just their private domains, but also their carriers, Verizon, AT&T, and Cayman Telephone Corporation. He pointed out that there were unique problems and risks with each one of those carriers, but also puffed up a little that they were no match for his computing power, his proprietary algorithms, and his personal skills. I felt better when he was super confident like this.

  Then he got more specific. Santo had business landlines and one landline in his house, all AT&T. He used three cell phones, all Verizon, and one of the cells was his main vector. All three were private numbers that showed up as blocked. There was no problem with Santo. James forwarded a grid chart to me of all of Santo’s cell calls for the past sixty days and said he would get to the emails in a moment.

  He moved on to Horatio Gonzalez, who referred to himself as “Ray.” Ray Gonzalez had one landline in his office; the bank had ten total lines incoming, all ten with Cayman Tel. Gonzalez had two private cell phones, also with Cayman Tel, which he used frequently. But Gonzalez also used a burner phone, as the grid chart would show with his communications to Santo. James suggested that the situation with Gonzalez was also under control and then forwarded a grid chart of all of Gonzalez’ calls for the past sixty days.

  Then he proceeded to Cayman National Bank and Trust. He said it would be a little more difficult than the other two because of the logistics and the dependability factor of the Cayman Island infrastructure. The bank had a main office and four branch offices; Gonzalez’ office was in the main facility, but he also had an office in one of the branches on the other side of the island. He was doing more work lately from his home, which was situated just outside of the main city of Georgetown, as the cell’s geolocation function showed for each call. James said that he was able to scope out the bank’s various accounts, and, like Linda, had only been able to get a global view of all of the accounts with nine million dollars or more. The bank’s system was slightly older, and account owners and numbers were not part of the main directory—they were kept by the bank’s officers and called “pocket clients” within the bank. More control by the bank meant more protection for the depositors, but also more hassle for the depositors when they wanted to move money. James noted that most of these larger accounts were trustee accounts in care of the Fonseca law firm in Panama, which told us everything we needed to know about the depositors. This was the James that I knew: world-class cyber expert, when his attitude was right.

 

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