If I made a high-speed pass, I could essentially flatten the waves next to my prey for a few seconds. The problem was getting my boat back to that area quickly enough so that I could attach the tracker.
The answer came to me in a flash – I’d just drive the boat backwards alongside the other, and then past the stern.
When I got about forty feet away, I could shove the throttles full open, then kill them as he came abreast of the other boat. I’d have a split second to smack the tracker onto the hull, then I would accelerate and leave them behind.
I quietly maneuvered to the other side of the marina, to see if he could test my theory. After a few tries, I felt I knew how to best control the throttle. I then drove across to the other side, and positioned my boat ahead of my target.
Tying myself to the railing, I ducked low.
It was good it was pretty dark, even with the few dock and boat lights.
I knew the guards were watching, and I suddenly had another flash of brilliance.
Grabbing a beer from the cooler underneath my console, I popped it and chugged half of it. Hey, I don’t like to waste beer!
Driving erratically at the yacht, I began waving at the guards, trying to attract their attention.
I noted a couple of the guards turned to look at me, and I started to yell obscenities at them.
“Fuggin’, towwl-head camel-jockies, comin’ here to ‘Murica and takin’ our oil and wimmen!” I shouted inarticulately.
I was trying to sound like a drunk, red-necked asshole, who’d decided that one too many immigrants were in my country.
The guards gestured and even laughed at me, as I waved my beer at them. I chucked the beer can at the yacht, and it fell short into the water.
I was trying to act as crazy as possible, throwing all kinds of strange and idiotic antics into my performance while calculating the perfect time to take action.
Just as I finished the throw, I overbalanced, and ducked down.
As I did, I secured the binoculars, and put the boat into reverse.
“Whoops!” I yelled, and then looked as though I were fumbling with the controls of my boat.
The guards laughed some more, until one of them felt I might pose a real hazard and cause a collision.
Then, they all began waving at me, and yammering that I should leave.
“Move back! Move back! You’re going to kill us all! You crazy fool, get away from our vessel!” one of the guards yelled.
I stood up, and yanked my pants down part-ways, mooning the guards.
Shouting some more drunken slurs, I watched as the guards took up positions.
One of them was on a hand-held radio, but I knew my on-board electronics were quashing any radio or cellular signals that were being transmitted within three hundred yards of the “Inferno”. I could see the guard switching frequency on the handset, and shaking it as if it were broken.
I bent back and forwards, as though drunkenly trying to get my balance. Pretending to fall into the cockpit, most of the guards pointed and laughed harder at my foolish antics.
I mashed the throttles, the boat whooshing backwards, gaining speed.
I guided it unerringly alongside. The stern of my boat sent up geysers of water, soaking him.
I grabbed the tracker, quickly making sure that it was activated.
As my boat’s bow passed the stern of the other craft, I jammed the throttles full ahead.
There was a weird sound, like a jet engine spooling up.
My speedboat was almost to the stern of the “Disco Inferno” again, and I cut the engines, then had a brief moment of insight and threw them back into reverse before cutting them off.
My speedboat stalled in the water, and I smiled because it was perfect timing.
I leaned down, smacked the tracker on the hull of the other boat, and then reversed into the cockpit.
Looking up I couldn’t see any of the guards, and I was confident they couldn’t see me either. There weren’t any surveillance cameras at this level of the ship.
Nobody had seen me place the tracking device.
Seconds later, I slammed the boat full-reverse, spinning it around completely a couple of times, to make it look as though I were really drunk.
As I did, the jet boat’s engine revved and then I aimed the rooster tail onto the yacht’s aft deck.
The water splashed harmlessly on the deck, drenching the tender and stern of the “Disco Inferno”.
A few wet guards menacingly raised their weapons, but by then I was off, who’d giving them a final flipping of the bird and waving a fresh beer at them.
On my way back to a secluded mooring area for my boat, at the marina, I smiled hugely, observing the tracker’s signal as it rhythmically beeped.
*****
“Mission accomplished,” I said into my Jawbone headset.
“Roger that,” came the reply. “Good work!”
“Come home to Mama,” I heard over the headset.
“Time for a status report and update.”
“Roger,” I replied.
*****
I guided the boat down the waterway, and considered the situation.
Robert King was obviously involved in a massive fraud.
He’d somehow managed to bilk billions of dollars from a considerable collection of A-list celebrities, old-moneyed socialites from Palm Beach and other such hangouts of the very rich, and not a few fairly sophisticated bankers.
His methods were unclear, but we had put together a likely scenario for the way the money was being gathered and disbursed to King’s many shell companies. Our main problem was linking his activities to any manner of criminal behavior.
So far, the man had been uncannily lucky, and his reputation as a hard man to beat preceded him.
He had made fortunes in real estate in both New York and New Jersey before settling in Florida.
His mansion in Boca Raton overlooked the Intracoastal, and he always had several boats and occasionally his yacht moored out front.
The best we could figure, at this point, was that King had at least seven shell companies that were involved in moving his money around ten different banks. The banking records showed that most of the money was originating from offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, and from an obscure branch of the Bank of England, located in Monaco.
How the money was made and deposited to those accounts remained shrouded in secrecy.
However, a seaplane landed at least four times a month and taxied up to King’s mansion. It would stay for only a few hours before taking off again.
The DEA had tracked it as far north as Bermuda, and as far south as the Dry Tortugas.
From either of those locations, the seaplane would fly to either Freeport or Jamaica.
When it had been intercepted at one point, the only cargo was some luggage and sundries that were being transported legally. There was no evidence of illicit goods, drugs or anything amiss. The cargo manifest, such as it was, correctly identified the sundries as tanning lotions and some souvenir seashells.
The drug sniffing dogs didn’t alert, and nothing seemed unusual.
The seaplane did sit in the water a bit lower than might seem unusual, but we checked and the pilot had made a note of the FAA flightworthiness directive for that particular make and model plane that explained that, depending on float design, the draught of the pontoons varied considerably.
None of the agents was well-versed enough in seaplane manufacturing to sense any irregularities. For the next few months, although the seaplane was monitored and traced through its flight paths with some regularity, the only practical outcome was that the flights became fairly routine. Eventually this avenue was considered too expensive to continue investigating, and my team sought other measures.
And, King’s fortunes increased in any event.
King was a very careful and smart man.
If one were so inclined, one might think that King was just a shrewd businessman, who had been cl
ever and lucky and amassed a fortune through a combination of skill, hard work and some ability to charm the ‘Grande dames’ of charity with his wit and possibly a bit of discrete bedroom proficiency.
If one were so inclined, one could overlook the interesting and odd transaction history, and the fact that almost every one of his investments had, over the years, gone bust.
Yet, King himself had continued to amass a huge amount of personal wealth.
And, if one were so inclined, one could even believe that all of this was completely above board, as all the failed lawsuits and financial records showed no hint of collusion, or conspiracy to commit fraud, or even the vaguest smell of the improper.
Of course, I knew better.
There was a very long list of all the dead partners and associates of Mr. Robert King.
I had even seen one of these associates murdered.
Robert King and George Tanner killed Sam Parker.
And, I knew that my stepsister, Megan, was King’s likely next victim.
Chapter 7
MEGAN
I managed to get to the office, and plopped my nicely plump ass into a nice, expensive leather chair. Just as I was getting ready to enjoy my first sip of coffee, the damned phone rang.
I didn’t recognize the number at first, then I realized it looked familiar.
It was that ‘unknown’ number I’d been getting sales calls from.
Well, enough being Ms. Nice Gal, I am going to rip this asshole a new asshole!
“Hello,” I say.
“Megan Greene, Esquire,” I add, acidly.
That should shake this dumbass up!
“Ms. Greene, this is George Tanner. I am an associate of Mr. Robert King. Mr. King and I would like to have the pleasure of your company for dinner at The Clevelander, this evening, if you can arrange it,” says the smooth voice on the other end of the phone.
I am suddenly speechless.
I wasn’t expecting this.
Is it some kind of trap?
“Mr. Tanner, I am sure you realize the implicit impropriety and appearance of a conflict of interest, here?” I ask.
“Surely, whatever you and Mr. King would like to convey is best managed through the court system?” I said.
My anger suddenly decides to kick in. I am angry more at myself, for even entertaining the thought of meeting with these scumbags.
“Ms. Greene,” he continues, smoothly. “We all are professionals, here. We simply would like an opportunity to clear the air, regarding a misconception you may have. I can assure you, this is a casual dinner, among friends…”
I cut him off.
“Friends? Are you fucking kidding me, pal?” I yell.
“Your ‘buddy’ is behind some of the most questionable land dealings I have ever seen in this state, and that’s saying something!” I exclaim.
I’m furious and trying to control my temper.
Obviously, they’re trying to get my goat, and boy are they getting it really well!
“Mr. King’s real estate dealings are all public record and have been scrutinized thoroughly. In fact, many prominent state representatives, and even the Governor himself have given Mr. King their blessing. My friend would like…”
“You know, George,” I say, emphasizing his name, “I am highly doubtful that anything that you or Mr. King would have to say would be of benefit to me.”
There is a pause and I can hear some murmuring discussion in the background.
“Mr. King would like to discuss a Mr. Derek White. You know him, of course?” he says.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.
My heart falls straight into my stomach, and my mouth goes dry.
“What about Derek? Is he all right? You bastards, if you’ve done anything to him…” I whisper.
My shock and anger are all a big show.
Inside, I am terrified that they are going to tell me that he’s dead.
“Mr. White is quite fine. Are you aware he is working for a national security agency that has a vested interest in assuring that terrorism funding is eradicated within the borders of the United States of America?” says Tanner.
“I haven’t seen or heard from,” I pause slightly, “’Mister’ Greene for about three years, now.”
I try to keep my voice steady, so the fucker doesn’t realize how much I really and truly miss Derek.
I hear another murmur, and a chuckle.
“We’ll send a limo to your office at four p.m. sharp. I think you will find what we have to say to be very beneficial to you. And also to your stepbrother.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to have dinner with you, asshole…” I say, then realize that he’s already hung up.
Shit.
*****
The Clevelander is one of those tony spots where all the stars and paparazzi hang out in South Beach, so it’s actually a good place to meet.
There is little likelihood of anything sinister occurring, because it would be all over the tabloids within the hour.
One of the perks of social media fame, I guess.
The interesting focal point of the place is the rooftop pool.
It looks out over Miami to the west and south, and gives a nice view of the Atlantic to the east.
It’s also famous as a watering hole for Versace, (when he was still alive) and other icons of fashion.
I’d been there a few times over the years.
It’s pricey, and the crowd tends towards young professional types, or the occasional group of loud girls, looking to get drunk and laid by some pro sports team.
The decor is pretty nice.
There’s an elevator to the rooftop bar, and to get there, you’d better be ready to drop a couple of grand. That keeps the riff-raff out.
The limousine that picked me up was one of those horrible Hummer conversions. Talk about gauche! I guarantee that the owner and driver of that thing don’t have visible penises. Overcompensating, for sure…
When I get into the limo, there’s not anyone else waiting. I look around, and it’s a typical lux road yacht, with a full bar, the Jacuzzi tub, and mirrors.
Flat panel televisions are plastered all over the place, and are playing CNN, sports channels, and even some kind of closed circuit loop. There’s also a guide on one of them that has every late-release movie.
It looks like the marquee at the local Cineplex…all the blockbusters from every studio.
I wonder how they get some of these movies.
Three of the titles are for films that aren’t due for release for months.
As the limo cruises downtown, I look at the other traffic in the slow lanes.
I never realized that these things somehow have their own traffic lanes, as the cars part like the Red Sea for Moses to let it pass. I guess the police escort helps a bit…
I wonder if all that is to put me at ease, for some reason or other.
I think over the case histories I’ve reviewed.
I mentally check off all the no longer alive people who were unfortunate enough to get on the wrong side of Mr. King.
It’s a pretty long list.
I’m not exactly scared, but I am uneasy. I guess I’ll just see where this goes, and how it will play out.
I told my receptionist and two of the other office gang that I was heading to SoBe for dinner.
Predictably, they were immediately jealous.
At least I know that someone might get worried if I don’t show up at work tomorrow.
*****
“Ms. Greene, how good of you to make it!” I hear King’s florid voice as I step out of the elevator.
He’s at the bar, a gin and tonic in one hand, and a cigar in the other.
He puffs a huge gout of grayish smoke out of his face, and it wafts out towards the ocean.
“A magnificent view, won’t you agree?” he says.
His smile is as inviting as a shark’s.
He doesn’t offer to shake my hand, or even r
eally act all that civilly.
What an entitled ass, I think to myself.
George Tanner is standing a bit away from us, talking on his cell phone. He looks up, and nods at King.
“We have five minutes before the ride gets here, Bobby,” says Tanner.
I find his familiarity with his boss disturbing, for some reason.
“Let’s go, then,” says King.
“Ms. Greene, if you would be so kind as to accompany us?” says Tanner, gently grabbing me by the elbow.
It’s not a forced gesture.
He actually seems to be trying to be gentlemanly.
“Where are we going now? I’m not all that inclined to go,” I say.
King looks south, at an approaching helicopter. It’s descending towards the beach, and there are a few police blocking traffic and beach access, and shooing some of the partygoers away.
“Up, my dear. Always up!” says King, with a chuckle.
He gets into the elevator, and Tanner and I crowd in behind him.
The doors close.
*****
I’d never been in a private helicopter before.
This one was a Sikorsky S-76, according to the safety card. It was similar to the ones for passenger planes. Except it didn’t have all those emergency exit rafts, or oxygen mask things.
It was very quiet inside, compared to the noise it made when it landed outside The Clevelander.
The crowd stared at us as we rushed out to it, and I thought I saw a couple of flashes from a camera. It might have just been the police cruisers, though.
When it lifted off; it was kind of fun.
The ground went away, and suddenly the chopper shifted a bit, and we were floating above the dark-blue Atlantic waters.
It was pretty impressive, and I am sure that was by intent.
I resolved to hold my ground, and not be swayed by this bit of technological opulence.
We sat across from each other - King and Tanner on one side of a small but elegant marble table, and me on the other.
The limousine was something gauche and vulgar, but this vehicle gave the impression of power and elegance.
It was something designed for and owned by an elite class of individual.
I found myself suddenly envious and blushed at my obvious jealousy.
Tanner and King both smirked at me.
Fraud: A Stepbrother Romance Page 5