At Vasily’s suggestion, I rented office space in an Executive Suites complex on Fifth Avenue South in downtown Naples, with access to a kitchen, conference room, telephone line, and a shared receptionist who would answer my phone using the Gulf Development name.
I won’t describe the receptionist because I’ve gotten into enough trouble with that kind of thing already. I’ll just note that her name was Leila, she seemed very competent from our brief contact, and was a very attractive young lady.
Thanks to Vasily’s “people,” I had an impressive array of company materials, including stationery, high-quality business cards, documents from the Cayman Islands government incorporating my company, and a detailed description of the mixed-use development I planned, including an artist’s rendition of the project on a display board.
There were also materials describing other projects I’d done: a condo tower in Manhattan, a hotel in Dubai, and a project in Hong Kong similar to the one I intended to do in Naples. There were also references from investors and bankers who were people Vasily knew and were primed to tell anyone who called what a brilliant businessman and upstanding individual Frank Chance was.
I was ready to meet with Christopher Knowland. I called him using the number on his business card.
“This is Frank Chance,” I said when he answered. “I don’t know if you remember me.”
“Of course I do, from the dinner and the church,” he said. “Wasn’t that marvelous? The dinner I mean, not the funeral service.”
I assured him that it was. “Do you prefer Christopher or Chris?” I asked.
“Only my mother called me Christopher, and then only when she was displeased with me. So Chris will do.”
“I was wondering if you’d like to get together to talk about my development project.”
“Love to,” he said. “I’ve got a colonoscopy on Thursday, but any other day is good.”
In Naples people spoke freely about their various medical procedures, assuming it was a topic of interest to others, which apparently it was. I would have just said I was busy on Thursday.
“Let’s say Friday,” I told him. “We can meet in my office at ten a.m., if that works for you.”
My new pal Chris said that was just fine. He was much easier to hook than a bonefish. I gave him directions to the office and then called Vasily and told him about the meeting. I figured that The Gang Of Three wouldn’t try to kill me as long as I was going to make money for one of them.
35.
GUACAMOLE AND GUNFIRE
The next morning I was back at Ash’s house from a run on the beach when I got a cell phone call from my daughter. The last time Jenny had called me in recent years was never. I read her name on the caller ID and answered: “Mrs. Thornhill, I presume.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Is everything okay, Jenny?” I asked her. I assumed that, for her to call me, something must not be.
“I’m really sorry about not inviting you to my wedding. That was wrong of me. It’s just that—”
“I know.”
“The thing is, I’ve got to be in Miami to take depositions Friday in a court case. I won’t have time to get to Fort Myers Beach, but I wonder if you could meet me Thursday night for dinner.”
If I had a conflict that would prevent me from dining with her, I’d cancel whatever it was, including a colonoscopy, or triple-bypass surgery. “That’d be great,” I said.
“I’ll be staying at the Loews in Miami Beach. Meet me there at seven?”
“I’ll be there. How was your honeymoon?”
As soon as I asked that, I knew it was a dumb question. Two newlyweds in Paris? That’s where Claire told me they were going. What’s not to like about that? On my cop’s salary, Claire and I had honeymooned in a bed-and-breakfast in the Apostle Islands on Lake Superior, just off the northern coast of Wisconsin. We were starstruck lovers, and for me at least, that was the best place in the world to be at that time. Paris could not have been any better.
“It was everything a honeymoon should be,” she answered.
“He must be a good man if you chose him.”
On the spot, I couldn’t remember my son-in-law’s name.
“Brad is a good man, Dad. You’ll like him.”
“I’m coming to Chicago, so I can meet him then.”
“That’s great. When?”
This time, I was smart enough not to say, “When I finished with a case.”
“It’ll be soon.”
“Good. Mom will like that too.”
My ex-wife and daughter would be happy to see me. I’d never won the lottery, but that must be how it felt.
“I’ll be at the Loews at seven,” I told Jenny. “I know a good Cuban restaurant near the hotel.”
“I look forward to it. I really do, Dad. Bye.”
In the shower, I sang the Louis Armstrong song, “What a Wonderful World.” All I had to do was to stay alive for at least a few more days so I could eat Cuban food with my daughter.
IT WAS a two-hour drive from Naples to Miami across a stretch of I-75 known as Alligator Alley. The highway cut south and east from Naples through the Everglades, that vast inland sea of grass.
You could spot gators sunning themselves on the banks of the drainage canals along the highway, all kinds of birds rising in a feathery cloud from treetops, and white-tailed deer bounding across open fields. There were Florida panthers in there, too, but they were rarely seen. A lot of accidents happened because the drivers were checking out the wildlife.
I had the top down and the radio tuned to a Golden Oldies station. I had to struggle to keep to the speed limit because it was a nice, balmy day, I like driving the car fast, and my daughter was waiting for me at the end of the road.
At six thirty, I turned off I-75 at the Miami Beach exit and drove across the MacArthur Causeway that linked the mainland with the island of Miami Beach. A long line of cruise ships, their decks stacked high like tiers of a wedding cake, were docked across Biscayne Bay on my right.
I headed north on Collins Avenue and swung into the driveway of the Loews, pulled up to the front entrance, handed my car over to the valet (I was in danger of forgetting how to park a car myself), told the young man I’d only be a few minutes, and went inside.
Even though I was fifteen minutes early, Jenny was waiting for me in the lobby, seated on a sofa, talking on her cell phone. She spotted me, ended the call, stood, and said, “Hi, Dad. That was Brad.” She gave me a hug and said, “You look great.”
“Back atcha.” Jenny didn’t know she was complimenting a dead man’s wardrobe. Jenny really was beautiful in her white cotton shirtwaist dress with a rainbow-colored canvas belt and tan leather platform sandals. With her shoulder-length blonde hair and blue eyes, she was a stunner, like her mother.
I OFFERED her my arm and we went outside, retrieved my car from the valet, pulled out of the hotel driveway, and turned right onto Collins Avenue.
“I like your ride,” Jenny said. “Très cool.”
“Thanks. I always wanted a classic Corvette. I got it when I moved to Florida. A bucket list kind of thing, you could say.”
“You’re way too young for a bucket list,” Jenny said with a laugh.
I made the sign of the cross. “Bless you, my child. Even though you know not whereof you speak.”
She giggled, which I had not heard her do since she was a young girl when she rode around our house on my back as we played horse and rider.
AMADOR’S CAFE Cubano is on Lincoln Road, a pedestrian mall running perpendicular to Collins Avenue. I parked on a nearby side street. As we walked toward the restaurant, I said, “I forgot to ask you if you like Cuban food.”
“Love it. There’s a place in West Town called Habana Libre. Brad and I go there often.”
We got to the restaurant and went inside. I was glad I’d called for a reservation because the place was packed. The hostess seated us at a table near the back of the room. A handsome young man with thick bl
ack hair, wearing a white cotton shirt called a guayabera, came over with menus. He said his name was Mateo and asked for our drink orders. Jenny asked for the house white wine and I asked for a Cuban coffee.
“Tell me about your court case,” I said.
“My client is the owner of a Chicago import-export company. Some of the company’s goods pass through the Port of Miami. The company is suing its freight agent here, claiming breach of contract because the agent keeps raising his rates and holding the company’s goods hostage in his warehouse. I’m here to take depositions from the freight agent, his accountant, and his warehouse manager.”
Our drinks arrived. Mateo asked if we needed more time with the menus.
“Please order for both of us,” Jenny told me. “I’m in your hands.”
I told Mateo we wanted guacamole and malanga fritters to start, then shrimp ceviche and grilled baby octopus as a second course, followed by the seafood paella for two.
Mateo nodded and said, “Excellent choices.” They were all dishes that Marisa liked here and sometimes cooked for us at home. I didn’t mention that.
“Are you going to win your case?” I asked Jenny.
“At $200 an hour, I’d better,” she answered.
She didn’t smile when she said it. I could sense the kind of pressure she was under to perform, especially as a junior associate at her law firm, which was something I knew from Claire.
The guacamole and malanga fritters arrived.
“What’s in the fritters?” Jenny asked. “I’ve never had them.”
“They’re a traditional Cuban appetizer made of purple taro root, garlic, and cilantro.”
“You know a lot about Cuban food,” she said, dipping a nacho chip into the guacamole. “Do you serve it in your bar?”
“No, the menu at The Drunken Parrot is more like Ditka’s,” I said. That was a Chicago sports bar named for former Bears tight end and coach Mike Ditka. I like bar food better than the gourmet feast at the pop-up dinner.
WITNESSES LATER told police they thought the noise they heard was a car backfiring, or firecrackers. That was common. But I knew the difference between those noises and gunfire, especially when the sound was accompanied by a woman screaming.
Instinctively I grabbed Jenny’s arm when the shooting started, pulled her to the floor, and covered her with my body. As the screaming continued, I reached for my Smith & Wesson .38 in its holster at the small of my back. But I’d left it in my car. A rookie mistake, especially when in Miami, a lovely city that could get very ugly very fast. And doubly dumb because I was with my daughter.
I looked toward the sound of the screaming. At a table near the front door, a young man holding a black semiautomatic pistol that appeared to be a Sig Sauer 9 mm was standing over another young man collapsed on the floor. Blood was pooling under the downed man’s head. The screams were coming from a lovely young woman with long raven hair seated at the table. All three of them were Hispanic.
I guessed what was happening: A love triangle had turned violent. I’d caught a number of cases like that.
I whispered to Jenny, “Stay down. It’ll be okay.”
She didn’t move or say a word. Now the shooter was pointing the gun at the woman. The other diners and the restaurant staff were frozen in place. Faced with imminent death, the woman stopped screaming, sighed, and said, “Oh, Miguel, please don’t do this.”
Miguel thought about that, turned the gun from her, put the barrel against his right temple, and fired.
EVERYONE HAD to remain at the restaurant, including the screaming woman who was now quietly crying, and the two corpses, for two hours while Miami Beach homicide detectives took our statements and crime scene techs processed the scene. The restaurant’s owner, a man named Pedro Famosa, had his staff serve free drinks to the shaken patrons.
A detective named Luis Lopez sat with Jenny and me as we told him what we’d seen. Detective Lopez was a muscular man of medium height, in his forties, with a pencil mustache and a pockmarked face. He seemed very competent.
When Jenny and I were finished telling him our version of the events, he said, “So you’re a policeman too, Mr. Starkey.”
“Was,” I answered. “In Chicago. Do I look that much like a cop?”
He smiled. “It’s the way you gave your statement. Precise, and to the point. You didn’t object when I had you repeat it three times, and the facts never changed. Civilians generally don’t do it like that.”
He took our addresses and phone numbers, told us he might be in touch again, and that we could be asked to give depositions or to testify in civil court if any lawsuits were filed against the restaurant by our fellow diners. There would be no criminal trial, only a funeral, for the shooter. Detective Lopez handed Jenny and me his business card, told us to contact him if we thought of anything else, and said we could go.
As I led Jenny by the arm toward the front door of the restaurant, the medical examiner was telling the EMS attendants that they could remove the bodies. The police already had taken the woman at the center of the violence away.
Jenny and I didn’t speak as we walked to my car. I unlocked the doors, opened hers, then went around and got in the driver’s side.
“Are you okay, hon?” I asked her.
She sat there for a few moments and then said, “Mom always told me she felt safe with you. Now I know what she meant.”
I opened the glove compartment to make certain my S&W was still there. It was. But it’s no good unless you have it with you. My Marine Corps DI would have given me a zillion push-ups and then washed me out of the program for a mistake like that. Sometimes all is right with the world, and then the tranquility is shattered by sudden, random violence. Men like me are supposed to be prepared.
Jenny saw the gun and said, “If you had that with you, you might have tried to shoot the guy, and maybe he’d have shot you first.”
“It’s always good to have the option.”
She thought for a moment and said, “You protected me, Daddy. You’re my hero.”
I loved the daddy part.
“I’m not a hero, Jen,” I told her. “I reacted instinctively, like any father would. Your Uncle Joe was the hero. He had time to think about how dangerous it was to run into that burning building. And he went in anyway.”
She took my hand in hers and squeezed it.
“I might have to come back again for this case,” she said. “We could get together again.”
“That’d be great,” I told her. “But maybe we’ll try a different restaurant.”
As I was heading back to Naples across Alligator Alley, my cell phone rang. It was Claire.
“You saved two lives tonight,” she said.
“Jenny told you about the shooting.”
Later to my indescribable joy, I learned she meant that I’d saved Jenny’s life and that of the baby she was carrying. I guessed that Jenny meant to tell me about the baby during dinner, but decided to wait for a calmer moment.
“You know, you’re still my hero, Jack,” Claire said.
That was the second time that night I’d been called a hero. Coming from Claire and Jenny, that meant more to me than any decoration I’d ever gotten from the marines or the Chicago PD.
Maybe there was more of Jack Stoney in me than I thought.
36.
STRADA PLACE
I was waiting in the conference room of the Executive Suites complex in downtown Naples when Christopher Knowland arrived.
I didn’t want him to see my office, which was bare except for a wooden desk and swivel chair and a framed generic print depicting a sailboat heeled over in the wind. It was just barely above paint-by-numbers quality and I would have put it in the trashcan, but I didn’t have one.
Leila, the shared receptionist, showed Knowland in and asked if we wanted coffee, water, or a soda. I declined; Knowland asked for a Diet Coke. He watched Leila walk away in her short tight skirt and winked at me. He probably wasn’t thirsty. Men can be
such boors.
I stood, greeted Knowland with a handshake, and said, “Thanks for coming, Chris. Have a seat and I’ll tell you about my project.”
He said, “I’m always interested in a good opportunity.”
I opened a manila file folder, took out a document, and slid it across the table to him. “A standard confidentiality agreement.”
“Of course,” he said as he scanned it.
Leila arrived with his Diet Coke. He watched her come and go. I did too, but he started it.
I’d placed a yellow legal pad and pen on the table before he arrived. He took the pen and signed the agreement. I put it back into the folder.
“Our offering is almost fully subscribed with people I know from other projects,” I told him. “But we have room for one more investor. I asked around town, without describing the project of course, and your name came up because you’re in the real estate business.”
He seemed pleased by that.
“So, Frank, what’s the deal?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head.
“It’s an opportunity a man of your expertise will like,” I told him. This seemed to please him more. Flattery is a good set-up for a scam.
I stood and walked over to the display board I’d set up on an easel showing the sketch of the development Vasily’s people had prepared, and began my presentation.
“Strada Place will be a mixed-use complex on fifty-three acres located off the East Trail,” I explained.
“Mixed-use complex” was one of the real estate terms I’d memorized.
“We’ll have 350,000 square feet of retail space, up to twelve restaurants, a coffee shop, a midrise condominium building with ninety-two residences, a parking garage, a Whole Foods as an anchor, and one of those movie theaters with a restaurant and advance-purchase, reclining seats.”
It all sounded so good I almost wanted to buy in.
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