by Ace Atkins
“John Gredoni.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Not a fan.”
“Thank God he didn’t get hold of this place,” he said. “He would have bulldozed all the trees and filled in the lake with cement. The land is owned by club members. They made the decision not to sell based on his plans. He wanted to turn this club into some kind of military base. Two gun ranges, obstacle course. Even a goddamn helipad.”
“Ever meet a guy named M. Brooks Welles?”
Angelo shook his head. He wore a loose blue flannel shirt over an old Pats Super Bowl T-shirt with well-worn Levi’s and work boots. He looked more like a Harvard professor than someone running a hunt club. One of those purposely shabby characters seen on Harvard Square.
“This club was founded in the twenties,” he said. “They did some training out here during World War Two, but it’s pretty much been an oasis for people from the city. We do skeet shooting, fishing, and have some nature trails for schoolkids. The founders would roll over in their graves if a guy like Gredoni got hold of it.”
“Why sell?”
“Taxes,” he said. “Land’s being developed all around us. It’s either sell or turn the land over to state. Some kind of trust situation. You have families here who’ve been paying member dues for generations. It’s more than just a club. It’s an investment.”
“Was Gredoni out here much?”
“He did a meet-and-greet in the spring,” Angelo said, stroking the bushy, unkempt beard. “And then for a few months, he came out here on a regular basis. Like he already owned the place. He talked to me as if I was one of his employees. Pushy little bastard.”
“That he is.”
“You’re not interested in buying,” he said, stooping down to pet Pearl. “Are you?”
“No,” I said. “I work for an investor who got swindled. Ever meet a woman named Connie Kelly?”
“Nope,” he said. “But lots of folks came out here with Gredoni. He had three or four parties. They made a mess of the range with the assault weapons. A bunch of people came out and got drunk, some of them jumping out into the lake completely naked. We’re a small, private club. Lots of families. It was embarrassing.”
I handed over a card and told him more about my work. He smiled and asked me if I wanted to come inside. “I just made coffee.”
“Any good?”
“Jamaican Blue Mountain.”
“Take Me Home, Country Roads.”
The building reminded me of summer ranch camps I knew as a kid back in Wyoming. The air smelled musty and old, but pleasant with the crackling fire. Ray handed me an old china mug with black coffee. I wanted to ask for a little sugar but didn’t want to seem like a sissy to the outdoorsman.
We sat in a couple rocking chairs by the fire. The walls were adorned with black-and-white pictures of past generations of hunters and fishermen. A few old oil paintings of great canine hunters as well. A few flat-coated retrievers, several Labs, and some of Pearl’s German shorthaired pointers.
“I could tell Gredoni was full of shit from the start,” he said. “I think he pretended to want to buy the property so he could throw a few parties. We didn’t know for a few months that he had these military plans for the club. At first he said it would be business as usual. He even said I could stay on as manager. He didn’t want anything to change.”
“Who were his guests?”
“Investors,” Ray said. “There was a lot of talk for some company called EDGE. It was a lot about military contract work. It wasn’t until later that I figured out that he wanted Strawberry Hill to be the base of the operation.”
“This seems more like Camp Granada than Camp Pendleton.”
“Some of these guys,” Ray said, “those he brought out? He introduced them to me as so and so, a Delta Force operator. Or so and so, former Marine Recon leader.”
“Ever meet any ex–Navy SEALs, Vietnam vets. CIA super spies?”
“I’m sure I did,” Ray said. “But it all seemed part of the show. Bringing all these Boston assholes into EDGE. Whatever that is.”
“Hate those Boston assholes.”
He smiled and drank some coffee. Pearl found a comfortable space by the fire. The inside of the cabin felt cool and old-fashioned, a harbinger of the fall and deep winter. I figured it was about time to switch from cold beers to straight bourbon.
“Dear God, don’t tell me he’s coming back.”
“Gredoni told me he had trouble with the town council,” I said. “That he had trouble getting approval for a gun range.”
“How would he have trouble with approval if this already is a gun range?”
“Excellent point.” I drank a little coffee. Pearl rolled over on her back, happy in her hunting-lodge element. “Are you suggesting Johnny Gredoni isn’t trustworthy?”
“Ha,” he said. “What do you think they were after?”
“Not sure.”
“How much money did they steal?”
“Three hundred grand,” I said. “Probably a lot more.”
“And what is EDGE?”
I drank my coffee. It was a dark roast, fresh, and terrific. “I have absolutely no idea.”
“I thought you were a top-notch Boston sleuth?”
“Just getting started,” I said. “Give me time.”
“Gredoni is toxic,” he said. “Whatever he touches, he pollutes it.”
“Been here long?”
“Ten years.”
“Good job?”
“I was an English major at BU,” he said. “Working on a novel.”
I took another sip of the excellent coffee and enjoyed Pearl in repose. “Life is frittered away by details.”
He grinned at me and stroked his beard. “Simplify. Simplify.”
8
On the way back to Boston, I dropped Pearl at Susan’s. Soon I was seated at the bar at Jacob Wirth’s with an empty plate of schnitzel and was working on my second Samuel Smith’s Oatmeal Stout. As I contemplated a third, Vince Haller edged in beside me and said, “You never call, you never write.”
“I called now.”
“I was beginning to think you and Fiore had some kind of exclusive deal.”
“She only wants me for my body.”
“Be careful with that stout, buddy,” Haller said. “Or she’ll be taking you off speed dial.”
I’d known Haller most of my professional career. He seemed to keep a summer tan all year long that worked nicely with his silver hair and mustache. He was dressed for court today in a wool sharkskin suit, white button-down, and purple tie. Crisp and professional, befitting one of Boston’s sharpest attorneys.
He ordered a vodka martini with extra olives.
“Okay,” Vince said. “What do you have?”
“Perhaps I just wanted to reconnect with old friends,” I said. “Reminisce about the good old days.”
“When exactly was that?”
“Simpler times,” I said. “When we gathered by the organ with Ma to sing ‘In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree.’”
“Christ,” Haller said. “How long have you been here drinking?”
I slid over a fat legal-size envelope and took a long sip. Haller shook it open and immediately started riffling through the pages as a duck to water. He shook loose a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and flipped through Connie Kelly’s contract as the bartender shook his martini. For a moment, I believed Haller was working in time with the shaker. The bartender set down the drink, but he continued to read. Five minutes later, he stuffed the paper back into the envelope and picked up his frosty cocktail reward.
“And what do you need to know?”
“My client is Connie Kelly.”
“I assumed.”
“And I assumed she didn’t get it read before she signed.”
&
nbsp; “Unless her lawyer got his degree from a Cracker Jack box.”
“She wants her money back.”
“I read the deal, but what exactly was she buying into?” he said. “Property for development for the EDGE Corporation doesn’t tell me a hell of a lot.”
“I was just out there,” I said. “It’s a rod-and-gun club in Concord. Connie’s ex-boyfriend had her cough up three hundred grand to buy into this foolproof scheme.”
“And the boyfriend’s name?”
“M. Brooks Welles,” I said. “But his pals call him Mikey.”
Haller looked like he’d just choked on one of the extra olives. He coughed a bit, composed himself, and took a second sip of the martini for reassurance. “Mr. Welles is indemnified in the contract.”
“I saw that.”
“And did you see the hold-harmless clause?”
“What exactly is that?”
“That means whatever kind of crap happens, the signee cannot hold Welles responsible,” he said. “One step more beyond indemnification.”
“Shit.”
“Legally speaking,” Haller said. “Yes.”
“So the contract is with EDGE Corporation only?”
“Yep,” he said. “You got it.”
“And she can’t sue Welles?”
“Nope.”
“And would it be a problem if EDGE Corp is in chapter eleven?”
“Are they?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “I pulled the status yesterday.”
“Do you have doubts that this was ever a legitimate business plan?” Haller said.
“I do.”
“Did Mr. M. Brooks Welles represent himself in a false fashion?”
“I’m still working on that,” I said. “But in short, yes.”
“Damn,” Haller said. “This martini hits the spot. If this case gets any worse, may I recommend a double?”
“Focus,” I said. “How do we get Welles into court and get Ms. Kelly her money back?”
“You would need an attorney to make Swiss cheese of this contract, track down EDGE Corp’s assets, and prove Mr. Welles to be an absolute and complete liar. And hopefully a known felon.”
“Piece of cake,” I said. “Right?”
“Nobody wins in these kind of things,” Haller said. “That money is long gone. And where is Mr. Welles?”
“Doing his best Claude Rains impression.”
“What exactly did your client think she was investing in?”
“Some kind of high-end gun club,” I said. “Welles is partners with, among others, John Gredoni.”
“Gredoni’s Gun World,” Haller said. “Have you seen his commercials with the girls in camo bikinis firing shotguns? Truly inspired.”
“Elegant.”
“You want my advice?” Haller said.
“That’s why I’m here.”
“This is a sticky, sticky tar baby,” he said. “You’ll get so deep and twisted into this thing, you may never find your way out. You need to level with your client, that if she gets Welles into court it will be expensive, potentially embarrassing, and she’s pretty much guaranteed never to see a nickel. She may spend half as much as she’s already lost.”
“How much do you make an hour?” I said.
Haller told me. I whistled. “Maybe you should pick up the check.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “You invited me, Spenser. And how about some tickets at Gillette this season? I read in the papers you were tight with Kinjo Heywood.”
“I taught him my patented pass rushing techniques.”
Haller nodded and finished the martini. He tossed the last olive into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Out of curiosity, who the hell is this M. Brooks Welles, anyway?”
“Decorated Vietnam veteran, Harvard grad, former CIA operative,” I said. “He likes rich, elegant women, drinks at the Four Seasons, and high-priced assault rifles.”
“How much of that is true?”
“The last bit.”
“But you won’t quit,” Haller said. “Even if your client wants you to.”
“Probably not.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t like liars.”
“That simple?”
I nodded.
“Will your client be upset about her legal options?”
“More embarrassed,” I said. “This guy humiliated her. She seems to be a kind woman without a lot of self-confidence.”
“You need to tell her the odds.”
I texted Connie Kelly to meet and signaled the bartender for another round. Might as well soften the blow.
9
Connie Kelly worked on Tremont Street, a block over from the Common. I met her by the T station and we walked together toward the Charles and the Public Garden. Kids were playing tag football and the last few games of baseball. Summer had come to a close and soon the Common would be covered up with leaves and then mounds of snow. Ice skaters would be out on Frog Pond and the trees would be strung with tiny white lights.
“Did you find him?” she said. No hello, no small talk. Right to the point.
“No,” I said. “But I know a lot more than when I started.”
“Who is he?”
“Well,” I said. “I could find no driver’s license, deeds, or military record. He vacated his office in Cambridge four months behind on rent. Oh, and he owes Jimmy’s Lounge in Eastie four hundred bucks.”
“That’s it?” she said. “Jesus. When you called me, I thought you really had something. What about the CIA? And Harvard Law?”
“No records at Harvard under that name,” I said. “But the CIA is the bastion of con men. They never confirm or deny employment for any agent.”
“Crap,” she said. “I guess it doesn’t really matter who he is or what he’s done. I just want my money back and to go on with my life.”
I nodded. We walked some more. I figured if we kept walking, I might stir up the courage to tell her that she was legally screwed. A pack of teenagers blindly strolled down a path by the Civil War monument, hunting invisible creatures on their iPhones. When I was a teenager, I preferred to cruise drive-ins with convertibles for girls. To each his own.
“Did Welles ever introduce you to a little fireplug by the name of Gredoni?”
“John Gredoni,” she said. “Sure. Of course. We had dinner with him a few times. He was buying into the Concord land, too. I’d seen him on TV. He’s a respected businessman.”
“If bikinis and bullets make you respectable,” I said, “I’m halfway there.”
“He’s not honest, either?”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Did they set me up?”
“I’m betting there were others.”
“You find him,” Connie said. “And I’ve already spoken to an attorney who will haul his lying ass into court if the police keep sitting on their hands.”
“That’s where it gets a little tricky.”
“How so?”
“I showed your contract to an attorney friend,” I said. “A very high-priced, very good attorney. You should see his suits. Very nice. Sharkskin.”
Connie stopped walking. She put her hands on her hips and stared up at me. She had on a navy shirt dress, cinched at the waist with a wide brown leather belt, and pair of strappy heels. Her blond hair was blunt-cut and well styled. She did have a very plain face, but one that radiated with thought and intelligence. If I had been an international man of mystery, she would have been just my bag.
“I didn’t ask you to do any legal work for me,” she said. “I just wanted you to find him and help me locate my goddamn money.”
I held up a hand. “It’s all part of the same equation.”
A second pack of teens, two of them with blue hair, nearl
y ran over us with devices in their hand. They were muttering something about finding a creature called Charmeleon. I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. After they passed, Connie looked up at me. Her mouth twitched a bit, as she waited for me to tell her what to do.
“Your contract specifically protected Welles,” I said. “You can sue EDGE Corp, whatever the hell that is, or was, but Welles is free and clear.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t even look at the document,” she said. “I was going to take it to an attorney, but Brooks made me feel ashamed of it. He made it seem as if it were a trust issue. We had dinner at the Top of the Hub, where he presented me with flowers and a Montblanc pen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He probably stole the pen,” she said. “Like I said, I’m the biggest idiot in Boston. Acting like a girl in junior high with a crush on the high school stud.”
“He conned you,” I said. “He’s probably conned a lot of people. If you can give me more time, I can find out who and when. But you have to know, whatever I do probably won’t help get your money back.”
“What if I sue his company?”
“It’s in bankruptcy.”
“Great,” Connie said. She about started to laugh. “Just great. This thing just gets better and better. How many more ways could I get screwed?”
We walked another five feet and she stumbled a bit, losing a heel. I picked it up and helped her to a park bench, where we both took a seat. I removed my ball cap and crunched the bill a little bit, like a pitcher reconfiguring the situation. Three balls. No strikes. And the bases loaded. C’mon, Spenser.
I almost shared the analogy before Connie began to cry. I placed my cap back on my head and put an arm around her. She buried her head into my shoulder as a young couple passed, looking at me as if I was the source of the problem.
“I don’t want you to quit,” she said. “I want you to find him. I want you to help me confront him. You can do that? Can’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good,” she said. “I want to have the satisfaction of taking a blowtorch to his bullshit.”
“I don’t believe Welles is in Afghanistan.”