( 2011) Cry For Justice

by Ralph Zeta

  “Do you have any idea what it was that your dad may have hid in the tapestry?”

  She dabbed at her teary eyes once more and quietly blew her nose with a tissue from her purse. She shook her head. “It couldn’t have been very big or thick. You know? I looked behind the tapestry once, out of curiosity, and there was nothing there but the old wool and silk material. The tapestry itself is fairly old. It was a work commissioned by King Louis XV of France. It depicts a Chinese emperor enjoying his meal. It’s big and colorful but not particularly pretty, if you ask me. And it’s not very thick. You can’t hide anything inside it.”

  “So what do you think your dad may have meant?”

  “To be honest,” she said as she put away the tissue in her bag and got out a fresh one. “I don’t know. But I know this much: if my dad told me there was something valuable in that tapestry, you can bank on it. He would never have lied about something like that not to me, anyway.”

  “With all due respect, Amy, in your dad’s case, you can’t rule out anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This may sound harsh, but it is something you must consider.”

  “Okay…,” she said in a halting voice, as if fearful of where this conversation was going.

  “Your dad was convicted of a massive financial fraud. He is an admitted embezzler a con man. Con men, by nature, are expert liars. Their stock in trade is deceit. Their world is nothing but smoke and mirrors.”

  She nodded and lowered her head, maybe a little embarrassed by the cold reality conveyed by those words. I had hit a nerve, but I wanted Amy to be sure.

  “Your dad disappointed you, your mother, and a great many others. Most of his world was a well-conceived lie. So you must consider, especially after looking at the tapestry and not seeing any evidence of this ‘policy’ he supposedly hid, the possibility that this insurance may have been...” I decided to choose my words carefully here. This girl had been through enough already. “. . . let’s just say, perhaps, not entirely the way he described it? That maybe there is nothing of real value hidden in it?”

  She thought about it for a moment, cocked her head sideways, and glanced at me with hopeful eyes. “Not knowing the kind of man he really was, the kind of father my dad really was, I guess I, too, would come to that conclusion, Mr. Justice.”

  “Please, it’s Jason. Mr. Justice was my dad...” I made her smile.

  “Sorry.”

  “Go on.”

  “This may sound foolish, but I trusted my father implicitly. He never broke a promise. Not once. I believe what he told me about the tapestry. I am convinced he hid something valuable in it, and I will continue to believe that until the day I die.”

  “Because he told you so.” This caused her to straighten her back, as if I had pushed the wrong button. And maybe I had.

  “No,” she said firmly. “Not because my father said it, but because my father promised.” Her finger jabbed at the table right near where my arm was resting as she emphasized the words “father” and “promised.”

  I got her point. She was convinced that Daddy hadn’t lied to her. Fine. But what the hell could you hide in something like a tapestry? They aren’t stretched on a frame where you can stash a document or some small item inside the framing. Tapestries are normally hung on some sort of decorative rod and left to drape freely down a wall, which was how she described this one.

  “Tell me something,” I continued. “What else besides the tapestry is missing from your mother’s home?”

  “You name it,” she said with a flick of a slender hand. “Everything that had any value. My mother’s jewelry is gone. I checked. And she had a lot of it: diamond earrings, necklaces, rings, gold everything. It’s all gone.”

  “What about art? Anything like a larger piece?” I was thinking of items that maybe were more difficult to move and convert to cash. The sort of thing that leaves a paper trail.

  “Quite a few pieces, actually. Several original Tiffany lamps. Small figurines, paintings, the most valuable pieces being two Chagalls, and a few Mirós. Also, several Tarkay paintings she had in the living room. There were more throughout the house I can’t remember them all. Her Bentley is gone too. So is the Range Rover and the sailboat, the Stella Maris.”

  “That’s good to know.” Disposing of cars or boats always leaves a paper trail. “What do you know about this guy what was his name?

  “Evan.” She hissed the name. “Evan Robertson.”

  “Any pictures of him?”

  “My mom once said Evan didn’t like to be photographed. Something about a scar above his left eyebrow. He claimed he hated the way he photographed.” She reached under where she sat, and produced an envelope with a pair of Polaroid color snapshots inside.

  “This him?” I examined them. They were yellowing, and age and rough treatment had taken their toll on the chemical gleam of the snapshots.

  “That’s him. These were taken quite some time ago.”

  The pictures showed a tall, good-looking man in his fifties, draped in the customary attire of the well-to-do Palm Beach resident: the crisp blue blazer, perfect off-white linen pants, light blue shirt, and tasteful regimental striped tie. The woman next to him had to be Amy’s mom. She looked great for a woman her age: beautiful face and big, bright eyes. Definitely taken during better times.

  But in retrospect, for me, it was something I saw in the face of the man in the picture that stood out. It wasn’t just his healthy-looking complexion or his imposing physique. The man certainly looked to be in great shape, but it was something else entirely. And it was not the smile that screamed of oodles of self-assurance and exuded the confident air of a matador about to enter the ring, but rather, it was in the eyes. He had that look.

  I had seen that kind of vacant, steely gaze before in the faces of combat-hardened veterans. Men who ventured calmly and alone into the forbidding darkness of bottomless caves or the war-torn, arid canyons or the narrow streets of remote villages where few dared to wander. Whoever this guy was or wasn’t, regardless of his age, I was certain now; he was no pushover.

  “Does this help?” she said, interrupting my reverie.

  I nodded and put the pictures on the table. “Have you had any contact with him?” She shook her head. “Any idea where he might have gone?”

  She hesitated once more, then looked away.

  “What?”

  She turned around to face me. “Sort of...”

  “Sort of what?”

  “After I came back to the Palm Beach house and saw the tapestry gone I sort of lost it. I may have done something really stupid.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I found his phone number. Called him,” she said haltingly as though reliving a nightmare. “Told him I would find him and kill him myself for what he’d done to my mother... for killing her. That I knew she would never kill herself. That he had staged it.”

  I smiled at her. She had balls. “Did you speak to him?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Voice mail. He didn’t answer.”

  “Did you hear back from him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you expect to?”

  She thought about it for a second or two before answering, then, in a low, gentle voice, said, “I guess not.”

  She was looking at me with those soft, rueful blue eyes a girl who, despite her family’s sizable fortune and relatively sheltered life, had had a tough life. She was alone, broke, and made an orphan by a scumbag who had also victimized a wealthy widow.

  It was obvious Amy’s mom had been an easy mark. Robertson had lived off her for some time, biding his time, playing nice, waiting for the right moment. Got her to trust him and, somehow, convinced her to grant him legal power over her affairs. It had all worked out beautifully for him. He took everything from her and, in doing so, he also took everything from Amy. And yet, here she was, broke, working her contacts, searching for answers, determined to find whatever her father had left in
the old tapestry. It was probably his only legacy, her only link to a man she remembered fondly. Despite all that had happened to her her addictions, her failures, her struggles with God knows how many demons life had seen fit to dump on her here she was, doing what she thought was the right thing to do, her innately good, resilient character shining through, ready to fight for what she believed was rightfully hers.

  “You didn’t mention the tapestry in the call, did you?”

  “No!” she answered. “Just that I’d go to the FBI if he didn’t return everything he stole from us.”

  “Hmm.” Threatening someone like him with FBI involvement was not such a smart move. “How long ago did you make that call?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Have you seen or noticed anything out of the ordinary since then?”

  “Why?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “Just curious.”

  Amy glanced away for a moment, pensive and quiet. When she finally glanced back at me she did so with squinty, icy eyes. She pointed a finger and said, “Now that you mention it...”

  “What?”

  “This morning I went out for an early run on the beach. There was a man jogging. Big guy. He bumped into me really hard. Knocked me down. Actually, more like he shoved me into the waves. I found myself in the water, even got hit by wave or two. I screamed a few obscenities at him. The asshole didn’t say a word. He just kept going.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “No, too early. There was barely anyone around.”

  “Did this guy look familiar?”

  “No,” she answered. “He wore sunglasses and a hoodie sweatshirt that hid him pretty well. Never saw his face.”

  “Anything else you remember about him? Anything stand out?”

  “Well...” She took a moment. “He was tall, like a foot taller than me. I’m five-four. White guy. Tanned. He was wearing black tights. Muscular legs. His hands were tucked inside his sweatshirt pockets.” More silence as she revisited the scene. When she looked at back at me she had that worried look again. “That’s all. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s good information.” It wasn’t, of course. And it wasn’t good news either. Her attacker most likely was Evan Robertson or an accomplice, which would be an unexpected move for someone like Robertson. Most of the time these swindlers were loners and rarely had confederates. I glanced at the old snapshot once more and got the same sense of dread. This guy was not the typical white-collar criminal. There was a certain harshness in that icy, detached demeanor. If my gut feelings were right and Robertson was in fact the type of person I suspected, it was safe to assume he wouldn’t sit on his hands when threatened. He would deal with a perceived threat proactively. The incident on the beach was probably Robertson delivering a message. But Amy didn’t understand the message, the implied threat. It was obvious Amy was in danger. It occurred to me that Evan or a partner, if he had one, could very well have followed her here this evening. I resisted the urge to scan the faces in the restaurant, searching for unfriendly glares or anyone who didn’t belong. That’s when I realized it was happening again: those familiar feelings, the agitation, the righteous anger polluting my thought process, gnawing away at my civility, making the irrational seem rational.

  I don’t know why it happened, why I found it necessary to get involved and put myself in harm’s way. Why I couldn’t just say no to those puppy eyes. Jason J. Justice, Esquire, defender of the meek. Army of One. It also easily explained why I had suddenly developed a violent dislike for Robertson. I felt my blood pressure rise. Way to ruin a nice dinner. And just like that, whether I cared to admit it or not, this girl and her dilemma had become part of my reality.

  “Where are you staying?” I asked.

  “My mom’s house.” Her eyes widened as though she realized the implications of my question. “Why?”

  “Well... ,” I began. I didn’t want to scare her unnecessarily. “I think we need to make alternative arrangements. Do you have anywhere else you could stay for a few days?”

  “Not really,” she said feebly. “Do you think I’m in danger?”

  “It’s just a precaution,” I replied reassuringly. “Just for a couple of days until I get this sorted out.”

  I reached for my cell phone and called Sammy. He had the connections to come up with a safe place for Amy. Besides, if I was right and Robertson was closer than we thought, it wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes watching my six.

  “I’m looking into Mrs. Kelly’s affairs. What’s up, pardner?” Sammy said in his usual raspy voice. I don’t know if it was me, but the way he always said “What’s up, pardner?” sounded a lot like John Wayne.

  “Forget that for the moment.”

  “Oh, oh.”

  “We have a more pressing issue.” I turned to Amy. “What’s the address of your mom’s place?” She told me. “One Tarpon Isle Road in Palm Beach. Meet me there in thirty. Bring Alice.”

  “Alice?” There was a note of surprise in Sammy’s voice. “Dang! That serious, huh?”

  Alice is a Freedom Arms Field Grade Revolver Model 83 with a four-and-a-half-inch barrel. It’s chambered for the train-stopping .454 Casull cartridge topped with a 240-grain jacketed hollow-point slug. The Casull five-shooter was specifically designed to hunt and kill very large game animals like grizzly bears and Cape buffalo. Named by Sammy after Alice in Wonderland because, according to him, if you were unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of one of its slugs you were going to the Land of Wonder, the one located six-feet under. On the streets of south Florida, Alice is certainly overkill, but the mere sight of it, let alone the sound of it going off, was enough to convey its lethal purpose. And since it had similar lines to a 1870s Colt six-shooter, it also appealed to Sammy’s inner cowboy.

  “Don’t know for sure. We’re heading there now to pick up some things for Amy, and I don’t want any surprises.”

  “Got it.” I could hear Sammy fumbling with keys and other metallic items. “She in danger?”

  “Possibly. I think the stepfather believes his interests might fare better if she weren’t around. Robertson or one or more of his friends may be lurking nearby. Just get there as soon as you can and make sure there are no surprises. Watch your six, though. I get the feeling these guys may be ex-military and well trained. Call me when you get there.”

  “Will do,” Sammy replied. He never said no. “Where are you?”

  “Duffy’s.”

  “Roger. I should be there in about twenty minutes. I’ll call you after I scope it out.”

  “Sammy...”

  “Yeah?”

  “After you’re done, stick around, will you? I’ll need you to take Amy Kelly and stash her somewhere she’ll be safe for a few days.”

  “You got it, chief.” Sammy clicked off.

  I really hated it when he called me “chief.” I called Nora next. There was no way I would be back home by nine. She answered promptly. She was waiting for me, pinot grigio was chilling, soft and sultry music playing, shower ready. Then she described the scanty lingerie she was wearing. So unfair.

  Then, abruptly ending my erotic trance, she asked about Amy. I told her I had decided I may as well look into her problem while waiting for the weather to clear. Not surprisingly, Nora was glad to hear about my change of heart. I also told her I was putting Amy in a safe location out of an abundance of caution after her beach encounter. I said I should be back around midnight, and hung up.

  I cleared our tab, and we left the restaurant. The air was heavy and moist and briny, suggesting a wind shift to the northeast, which didn’t bode well for my vacation plans. As we sloshed our way out to my car, I chided myself for not bringing the umbrella. Then it hit me: I was working on only two hours’ sleep. Something told me I may have to get used to this.

  Six

  We drove in silence across Flagler Memorial Bridge and onto the island of Palm Beach. Amy had barely uttered a word since we left the restaurant. Sh
e was fidgety, anxious, and it seemed the closer we came to her mother’s home, the more restless she got.

  The silence lingered as we continued south along South County Road, the long, almost curveless main thoroughfare for residents of this long, narrow barrier island. With the manicured grounds of the Everglades Golf Course on one side and jaw-dropping mansions on the other, it wasn’t long before Amy pointed to a dark street and told me to turn.

  I parked a good distance away from the property. There were other cars parked along the quiet lane but no signs of life. Even though the driving rain had let up some, it was still blowing hard. Sammy had already confirmed that it was safe to approach the house. After parking in a safe spot a few streets away, he had used night-vision gear to reconnoiter every shadow, bush, and palm tree on and near the property for over twenty minutes and declared it clear.

  Amy and I moved quickly and quietly down the sidewalk, stepping over palm fronds and small branches blown down by the storm. We stopped before an elaborate entry gate, where she punched a code into a keypad, and the ornate wrought-iron barrier parted enough to let us through. We scurried inside, and the gates hummed again and closed behind us.