Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

  “Let’s talk.” He led me to his office. The sign on his door read SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE.

  “I didn’t realize you were the boss,” I said, sitting down opposite his desk. “Thanks for your time.”

  After a knock on the open door, a slightly smaller version of Special Agent Sloan entered the room. He didn’t look happy to see me.

  “Mr. Perlmutter, meet Special Agent Tom Mack,” Sloan introduced us. We shook hands. “Agent Mack is in charge of our Financial Crime Section. He’ll look into your complaint. I usually don’t sit in on these preliminary sessions, but this sounded important enough for me to listen.”

  Mack sat next to me in front of Sloan’s desk.

  “Mr. Perlmutter, I’m honored to meet you,” he said sincerely. “But I have to be honest. I don’t believe a financial fraud of the magnitude you described to Agent Sloan is unknown to this office. Who are you talking about?”

  “This has to remain strictly confidential,” I said.

  “You have my word,” Agent Mack said, and Sloan nodded.

  “I’m talking about Benjamin Israel Grover … B.I.G. Investments.”

  Mack smiled. “We are well aware of B.I.G. Investments. That company has been investigated more than once by the SEC and cleared of any wrongdoing.”

  “The SEC is wrong.”

  Agent Mack said with a sigh, “With all due respect, Mr. Perlmutter-”

  “Agent Mack, in my experience, when someone begins a sentence saying ‘With all due respect,’ it usually means they think I’m full of shit.”

  “In no way do I think that. I do think you may be misinformed.”

  “I think you’re the one who’s misinformed.”

  Mack’s face turned red. “We work very hard in this office and pride ourselves in keeping current with every financial fraud in South Florida. B.I.G. is old news, and we don’t have time to waste on old news. No offense.”

  “None taken, but I suggest you make time to review these documents,” I said politely and handed him a full file folder. “You can save time by reading the top page very carefully.”

  Mack opened the folder and glanced at the top sheet. “Who compiled these numbers?”

  “They’re a matter of public record.”

  He started reading.

  Sloan and I sat silently while Mack scanned the page. He looked up after several minutes. “I’m going to read this a second time.”

  I nodded, and Sloan leaned forward in his chair. A few minutes passed before Mack looked up again. “If the statements and numbers in this document are accurate” - he directed his remarks to his boss - “B.I.G. Investments claimed to have made more trades in 2005 than all the trades concluded on the exchange that year, by all the brokers combined.”

  “That’s not possible,” Agent Sloan said.

  “It may not be possible to do,” I said, “but it’s not impossible to claim.”

  “You’re positive this information is correct?”

  “Absolutely, and there’s a lot more where this came from,” I said.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  “You owe me nothing but your cooperation to bring this guy down.”

  “You’ve got it,” Mack pledged.

  Sloan picked up his phone and punched in a number. “Gus. Something urgent just came up, and I can’t leave with you guys. I’ll try to join you later. Catch one for me.”

  Sloan put down the phone, rolled up his sleeves, and loosened his tie. Mack did the same. I took several thick folders out of my bulging briefcase and handed them to the two FBI agents.

  “You’re not going to believe some of this stuff,” I told them.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Mack said, and the end of B. I. Grover began.

  For the next four hours, Sloan, Mack, and I read reports and exchanged comments.

  “Here’s a trade on Spartan International a year after the firm changed its name and stopped selling to new accounts,” Mack said, pointing at a line Lou Dewey had highlighted. “It doesn’t exist, but Grover is claiming it as a trade. Whoever summarized these documents did remarkable work.”

  “My partner, Lou Dewey, did it,” I said proudly.

  “Here’s another one,” Sloan said. “Hartford Financial, a feeder fund, copied Grover’s statements onto their own stationery but never mentioned Grover to their clients. Everything was a secret. I’m no mathematician, but you’d have to be blind not to see through this farce.”

  “Or looking the other way,” Mack said.

  “This is willful ignorance,” Sloan said.

  “It gets worse,” Mack said. “Grover is front-running some of these trades.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Insider trading.”

  The list of offenses went on and on … “No audits, no due diligence, total nondisclosure intimidation, third-party hedges, outrageous interest charges, falsified records …”

  “How did he get away with this for so long?” Sloan wanted to know.

  “No one wanted it to stop,” Mack said. “The insiders were making millions. Did you see the Big Game Investments file?

  The man gave 100 percent of his investors’ money to Grover, did no due diligence and no analysis … never revealed Grover’s name and made over $50 million in commissions last year.”

  “I know the man,” I said. “He’s the weak link in Grover’s fraud chain. He’ll fold like a wallet and make a great witness if we pressure him. Most importantly, we need warrants for Grover’s offices, houses, and storage facilities. When we don’t find the alleged trading tickets or the claimed stocks and bonds, you guys can huff and puff and blow his house down.”

  “We’re good at that,” Agent Sloan said.

  “The best,” I said.

  “We’ll go to the US Attorney’s Office first thing in the morning,” Sloan said. “Convince them to issue search warrant requests for a federal judge to sign, and we’re in business.”

  “Get a warrant for Big Game Investments while you’re at it,” I told them. “He’ll panic right away.”

  “You got it,” Mack said with enthusiasm.

  “Another thing,” I remembered. “When you search Grover’s mansion in Palm Beach, there’s an automatic front gate. It has to be opened by remote control from inside the house, and there’s a helipad pad out back. If he panics, he could delay opening the front gate and take off in the helicopter. He could claim later that he never heard the bell.”

  “We’ll need a no-knock warrant or a knock-and-announce,” Sloan said.

  “Thanks for the tip, Eddie,” Mack said. “Anything else you can think of?”

  “I’m afraid that’s it. He never invited me to his office or his penthouse in New York.”

  “You’re not on the A-list.” Mack laughed.

  “See you in the morning,” I said, getting up and stretching. I was stiff from sitting so long. “Tomorrow should be exciting.”

  At midnight, I was still feeling the effects of an adrenaline rush when I heard a voice.

  Hey, Eddie … Eddie … it’s me.

  I looked under the blanket. Mr. Johnson was standing at attention, like a rookie recruit.

  Private Parts reporting for duty! he said.

  Welcome back, soldier, I said.

  There is no manmade stimulant comparable to a person’s natural passion for life.

  The next morning, Sloan, Mack, and I blew into the US Attorney’s Office like three Category 5 Florida hurricanes. We didn’t have an appointment, but a kid named Chuck Rodman, one of the younger assistant attorneys, was familiar with both G-men and recognized my name. He took us to a conference room and listened intently to our presentation. Within two hours, Rodman was filling out search warrant requests for B.I.G.’s corporate headquarters in New York City, Grover’s homes in Westchester and Palm Beach, and the storage facility Grover claimed held all trading documentation and certificates. His offshore offices would come later. Separate warrant requests were also issued for B
ig Game Hunter’s office and home. By midafternoon, a federal judge had signed the warrants, and they were sealed and delivered to FBI headquarters in Miami.

  While the FBI agents were mobilizing their search plan, I drove to my office in Boca and returned calls.

  I told Frank Burke that his contact at the FBI had been helpful. I didn’t tell him about tomorrow’s raid. There was no need for him to know.

  Doc Hurwitz sounded relieved when I called. “I hear we almost lost you in Kugel’s,” he said.

  I told him I was fine and brought him up-to-date with my pill mill investigation, including my trip to Tallahassee.

  “I’m glad you’re making friends with our elected officials, but my case comes first, remember.” I thought he sounded tired.

  I assured him I remembered. “It’s all part of a puzzle, Doc. I’m putting the pieces together. Trust me.”

  “If I can’t trust the Boca Knight, who can I trust?”

  “You don’t sound so hot, Doc. Are you okay?”

  He told me he felt good, but I didn’t believe him.

  Three Bag Bailey was under the boardwalk when I reached her on her cell. She told me Weary Willie was the same.

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  “He’s not getting worse.” Her sister was still a basket case, she said, but that was normal. “I had my stitches taken out a few days ago. It hurt like hell. What about yours?”

  “They dissolved.”

  “See how they treat poor people in this country,” Bailey complained. “Your stitches dissolved … mine had to be yanked with pliers.”

  I apologized for the medical system. “As soon as I wrap up some loose ends, I’m going to get back on Willie’s case.”

  “He’s not going anywhere,” she said.

  I called Mad Mick and told him I was going to make him famous.

  “Jameson’s on me for everyone,” he shouted. “My friend is going to make me famous.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my apartment, indisposed.” He laughed.

  I gave him Jerry Small’s phone number. “He’s the newspaper friend I told you about. I’m giving him a lead on a sensational story that will probably break tomorrow morning. Call him tomorrow night and tell him I want you to do the follow-up article for one of the magazines you work for. The two of you should really do well with this. Maybe you’ll become a team.”

  “Thanks, Eddie,” Mick said seriously, before reverting to form. “By the way, you’ll be happy to know that the legislature voted to allow women to breastfeed anywhere in Florida providing they’re feeding their own babies. No substitutions allowed.”

  “A lot of adult male babies are going to be disappointed.”

  I left a message for Claudette: “It’s almost over. Thank you for making it easier for me.”

  I was home in bed, just me and my Cobra, when I finally heard from Tyler Sloan. “We’re hitting all locations simultaneously at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

  “Fantastic. Great job,” I enthused. “Where’s Grover?”

  “Our sources say he’s in Palm Beach.”

  “Good. Can I come with a friend?”

  “I can’t stop you or your friends from being in the area,” he said, “but you’re officially not involved in federal business. Don’t get in the way.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  I called Jerry Small. “Did Mick Murphy contact you?”

  “Yeah,” he said, not sounding happy. “What’s this sharing nonsense?”

  “It’s not sharing. It’s added exposure for both of you. It’s part of the deal.”

  “I trust you.”

  “Meet me in front of the Kravis Center tomorrow morning at eight,” I told him.

  “Who’s appearing there at that hour?”

  “Just you and me. Bring a camera. This is big.”

  “Tell me,” he urged me.

  “You won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Enough said. Good night.”

  I turned out the light.

  It’s just like old times, I heard a voice under the blanket say. I peeked, and there was Mr. Johnson standing at attention for the second night in a row.

  It’s nice to have you back, I told him.

  I’m excited to be here.

  It was a beautiful early-March morning in Palm Beach. Unfortunately, lives would be ruined today when imaginary fortunes disappeared and dreams were shattered. My only comfort was in knowing that we would be making the financial world a safer place by destroying a monster.

  “Hey, Eddie, you look beat,” Jerry Small said as I stood in the Kravis Center parking lot.

  “Late night,” I said, getting in the car. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re riding into history.”

  “Do we have time to stop at the Dunkin’ Donuts first?”

  I checked my watch. “Sure.”

  I got a large French-vanilla coffee with milk and two Sweet’n Lows. Jerry had a plain cruller and a bottle of milk. We ate at the counter and within fifteen minutes resumed our historic ride. I parked across the road perpendicular to Grover’s street and turned off the engine.

  “Are you going to tell me now what we’re doing?” Jerry asked.

  “We’re witnessing a house invasion of the evilest man on the planet.”

  “Kim Jong II?” Jerry asked, referring to the president of North Korea.

  “Worse.” I checked my watch again. It was four minutes to nine. “In four minutes, the FBI is going to come around the corner, turn right on that street, and raid the Grover mansion.”

  “Thank you, Godfather,” Jerry said, reaching across the seat and patting my shoulder. “If you wore a ring, I’d kiss it.”

  Squealing tires got our attention. We turned in our seats and saw four black sedans negotiate a sharp right turn across the street.

  “They’re early,” I said, starting the engine.

  “They couldn’t wait. Let’s go.”

  I considered peeling a strip of rubber off my 100,000-mile tires but wasn’t sure I would have enough remaining to get me back to Boca. I cruised sedately instead, stopping behind the four government sedans parked outside the impressive gates of Grover’s mansion. The agents were already out of their cars.

  “Stay out of their way,” I warned Jerry. “We just happened to be in the area.”

  “No problem.”

  I saw Special Agent Sloan press the button on the intercom box. Twenty agents stood behind him awaiting his orders. It must have seemed like barbarians at the gate to anyone inside looking out. Sloan fidgeted and looked nervously at his watch several times. He wasn’t happy. My prediction about delays was looking like a good one. Less than ten minutes passed before Sloan turned and pointed at one of the black sedans behind him. The car’s engine growled to life, and with an underhand throwing motion, Sloan signaled the driver to lead the charge.

  The engine roared like a rocket, and the guided missile raced toward the gates. I noticed the car’s front bumper had been reinforced for ramming … and it did its job magnificently. The impressive gates collapsed and were crushed under the reinforced wheels of the mobile battering ram. Armed agents in black jackets poured through the gap in the wall and disbursed … scurrying like ants. I had given Sloan a rough layout of the mansion, as I remembered it, and hoped I had covered every escape route. Jerry and I walked by the crushed gate like tourists who just happened to be in the area. We heard an engine start, quickly followed by the whirring of helicopter blades. Someone was attempting to fly away. A loud blast erupted from behind the house … than another.

  Shotgun! I know the sound.

  The rotor blades went silent.

  “What was that?” I said to Jerry Small, but he wasn’t there. I was standing alone where the front gate used to be. I stepped forward tentatively and peeked inside. A silver Rolls-Royce burst through one of the four-car-garage doors. I couldn’t see the driver, but the car was without a doubt headed to
ward me. I was the only barrier between the Rolls and the road … unless you counted the King Cobra in my belt. I removed the handgun, held it with two hands, and aimed at the windshield. I was hoping to intimidate the driver with a “Stop or I’ll shoot” threat, but he wasn’t intimidated, and he didn’t stop. I fired. The car swerved and smashed into the wall to the right of the destroyed gates. I had aimed several feet above the car, so I must have scared the driver into swerving into the solid-stone wall. Smoke was coming from under the Phantom’s crumpled hood. I opened the door and saw the driver slumped over the steering wheel. I picked up his head by the hair and looked at him. It was the son of a bitch who had washed my Mini and attached the tracking device. His forehead was bleeding into his eyes, which seemed focused.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I held up three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Three,” he said quickly, totally alert.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  He stared at me for a moment, focused. “Eddie Perlmutter.”

  “You’re fine.” I placed my palm on the back of his head and shoved it forward. His forehead met the steering wheel with just enough force to knock him senseless. The horn blasted until I pulled his head back. I held up four fingers. “How many now?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Take a break,” I said, and let his head fall forward against the wheel.

  Dark-skinned landscapers arrived just as Grover was being escorted from the house by men wearing Windbreakers with fbi written on the back. The workers did a hurried about-face and vamoosed in the general direction of Mexico.

  If Grover was in the image-management business, as Lou had suggested, he was out of business. He looked bewildered and disheveled while being escorted, in handcuffs, from his palace. He had bed-head, with randomly spiked stalks here and there. He wore wrinkled shorts, a silk pajama top, and maroon bed slippers with gold emblems on top. His stylish glasses were tilted oddly on his eagle’s beak nose. The helicopter pilot followed in cuffs, head down, trying to avoid the FBI photographers. I noticed Jerry Small, inside the gate, snapping pictures like a tot in a toy store. He gave me a thumbs-up, and I gave him a one-finger salute, motioning him to get the hell out of there.