Offside Trap

by A. J. Stewart

  “Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed,” I said.

  “Do your meeting, then get off my campus.”

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure.” I stepped back next to Kim’s assistant and watched the cops head for the car.

  “That’s it? You’re leaving?” said Angel.

  “Young lady, go back to your dorm now, before I arrest you.”

  She gave him a face that was supposed to say something like moron, and Steele got in his Charger and pulled away.

  “Thanks for that,” I said to Kim’s guy.

  “Don’t thank me. I saw you out here so I texted Director Rose. She told me what to do.”

  “Well, thanks anyway. You got a name?”

  “Brian.”

  “Thanks, Brian.”

  “You bet.” He pointed at the gym. “I got work to do.”

  “Sure. Me too.” He walked back into the building, and I walked over to the stand of pines where Angel stood moping.

  “That wasn’t very smart,” I said.

  She said nothing, kicking at the fallen pine needles.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” I said. “You caught me off guard.” More pine needles. She hit topsoil and kept going.

  “You’re a swell girl. And you’re going to do great things and meet all kinds of great people. But I’m not part of your adventure. You’ve been a great help, and I appreciate it. I’m glad we met. But I have my own adventure. You see?”

  She kicked at the dirt with less enthusiasm. She didn’t look up.

  “Swell?” she said.

  I smiled. I find it effective in situations where I want to sound old and crusty and thoroughly undesirable to use words that my father favored.

  “Yeah. But this morning’s actions were not quite so cool.”

  She stopped kicking.

  “You realize that I could have gone to jail if they found those drugs in my car?”

  “How did you know they were there?”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  She started kicking pine needles with the other foot.

  “I’m gonna need them back.”

  I laughed. It wasn’t a rib-busting roar. More a mildly amused tee-hee. But I wished I hadn’t.

  “Seriously? You plant drugs in my car, and when I don’t get caught, you want them back? That’s not how this works.”

  “I need them.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters a lot, Angel. A stash like that comes with strings.”

  She said nothing.

  “Jake would want you to tell me.”

  It was her turn to give an ironic laugh. “Jake would want it? What the hell do you know?”

  “I know that.”

  “You don’t know jack. The stash was Jake’s.”

  “The drugs were Jake’s? How did you get them?”

  “When he was in the hospital. I thought the cops might search his room. So I went over and took them. He was keeping them in a trunk under his bed. I knew where.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention that before.”

  “I didn’t want him to get into trouble.”

  “He’s dead, Angel. Trouble doesn’t get much worse.”

  She shrugged.

  “So he was a dealer?”

  “No. He wasn’t.”

  “But he happened to have a huge stash of expensive designer pills.”

  “You don’t get it. It was supposed to be just the sports stuff.”

  “Sports stuff? You mean performance-enhancing drugs?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t know. Then last semester one of my teammates got injured and asked me if I could get something for her, since I was friends with Jake. I asked him about it. He said it wasn’t a big deal. He said he was just helping athletes perform at their best. I didn’t think it was that great, but we never really talked about it much after that.” She shuffled in the pine needles, and kicked a pinecone with her instep. “Then over the summer it changed.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I went home for summer.”

  “Jake didn’t?”

  “No. He never went home. He got a summer internship.”

  “Where?”

  “Some property developer. Jake was majoring in construction management.”

  “So what changed?”

  “When I got back, he was quiet. Moody. He seemed to be darker. I asked him and all he said was there was bad stuff going on. He said, I remember him repeating it, that it was about making people better, athletes better, the program better. Not putting poison into people’s bodies. He said they’d given him some bad stuff, but he wasn’t having anything to do with it.”

  “So who sent him the bad stuff?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. The same guys who got him the other stuff, I think. But you just need to give it back now.”

  “I can’t give it back, Angel. You planted it in my car and called the cops. I flushed it.”

  For the first time she looked at me. She didn’t look good. She was puffy and tired. Her young eyes carried the baggage of a middle-aged bank executive. She shook her head more.

  “That’s not good. He wants it back.”

  “Who wants it? Pistachio?”

  Her mouth fell full open. “How do you know . . .”

  “That’s what I do.”

  “He wants it back.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen. What did you think would happen if they found it? It would’ve become evidence.”

  “I don’t—I didn’t.”

  “Where will I find this guy?”

  “I don’t know. Really. But you don’t want to find him.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “No,” she said, stepping away from me. “And stay away from me. He’ll think you’ve got it. So stay away from me.” She turned and ran toward the quad, and her dorm beyond. I let her go. She was right. If this guy Pistachio was responsible for Jake’s death, and he was firming as favorite, and he was looking for me, then she shouldn’t be anywhere near me. I ambled over and leaned against my car. The clouds that had come in from the Bahamas began to leak misty rain, like a brush-free car wash. I jumped into my car and watched the tiny drops cover the windshield. I wondered how Jake Turner had gotten in so deep, and whether his refusal to play ball was the reason for his death. I was trying to figure out my next step when my phone rang.

  “Jones, it’s Eric Edwards. We need to meet.”

  “Okay. I’m in Lauderdale. I’ll be back later today.”

  “No, I’m in Miami today. Meet me down here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I MET ERIC Edwards in a small restaurant in Little Havana. He was in a booth at the back and looked like a skinny gangster. He wore a double-breasted suit and autumnal orange tie. His stubble had reached five o’clock by noon. I slid in opposite but didn’t shake hands. He was drinking ice water, and a short Cuban guy brought me one, along with the menu.

  “What’s good here?” I asked.

  “Cuban sandwiches are excellent.”

  I looked at the menu. It was entirely in Spanish. Not a single conversation in the restaurant was in English, except ours.

  “Wouldn’t they just call them sandwiches?”

  “Probably.” He really had undergone a humor bypass. I ordered Bistec de Palomilla, which sounded like grilled horse but was actually a thin cutlet of steak with sautéed onions. Eric got the Ensalada de la Casa.

  “So you called?” I said.

  “What exactly are you into?” He sipped his water and tapped his moist lips with the cloth napkin.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, there are all kinds of red flags going up on this one.”

  “That so? Like what?”

  Eric looked around the restaurant like he was about to spill the beans on Jimmy Hoffa’s resting place. Not only was no one in the place interested, most would have struggled to
comprehend what was their second or third language.

  “So I put in a few calls,” he said. “I spoke on the quiet to a junior staffer I know in Tallahassee. Guess who called back. Senator Lawry.”

  “State Senator Lawry? Boondoggle Lawry?”

  “The very same.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to know how my campaign was going. If I needed any help.”

  “Generous.”

  “Very. He’s known to be very good to his friends.”

  “And not so good to his enemies.”

  “Exactly. He said I was doing sterling work and he saw a bright future for me, maybe even in Tallahassee.”

  “Tallahassee. Everyone’s dream.”

  “You can mock all you like, Jones. But some of us aspire to public service, and some aspire to self-service.” It was smug beyond belief, and I was dying to stick in a crack about aspiring to nail your paralegals, but I didn’t think it would help my cause.

  “And some, like Boondoggle Lawry, aspire to both. So are you getting frightened off there, Eric? Seeing your political future flash before your eyes?”

  “You won’t believe me, and I don’t care either way, but I will do my job as state attorney as best I can, consequences be damned. But what I won’t do is shoot myself in the foot for no reason.”

  “For what reason would you shoot yourself in the foot?”

  Our food arrived and we both leaned back as it landed on the table. Eric rubbed his hand down his tie as if the steam coming off my lunch might help press it smooth.

  “What do you have, Jones?”

  “Beef and onions?”

  “On Millet.”

  I cut the thin steak. “Not much more than hunches. A dead kid, a connection to a drug organization, and an unnatural predilection against athletes.”

  “What’s the drug angle?”

  “I don’t know. Seems to be headed by some character calls himself Pistachio.”

  “Pistachio? Where do they get these names?”

  I ate some beef and onions. It was typically overseasoned, but delicious.

  “Search me. You know him?”

  “No. Where is he based?” Eric leaned over his salad and ate with one hand, using the other to hold back his tie. It made the whole thing look like too much work. I resolved that should I ever buy him a Christmas gift it would be a tie clip.

  “I’m told he has an office here in Miami. So what do you know about Millet?”

  “City planner tells me there are provisional plans for a new biotech facility, and a research center.”

  “Provisional?”

  “It’s big. Think four or five box stores. The size of a decent hospital.”

  “So?”

  “So city ordinance doesn’t permit that kind of development in what is now essentially a residential area. Basically anywhere east of the Everglades.”

  “Okay,” I said, pausing to swallow. The salt was making me thirsty. “How do you overcome that?”

  “State override. But that’s a long process.”

  “Things can happen with a bit of motivation. Even in Tallahassee.”

  “There’s something else. Because the university is private, any state funding has to go through considerable oversight. Unless.”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless someone is motivated to fast-track it.”

  “Someone like Boondoggle Lawry?”

  Eric shrugged and stuffed some lettuce in his mouth.

  “So the college is paying him off.”

  He shook his head. “Hard for a private university to give large sums of money to politicians.”

  “So who? Who’s motivated?”

  He ate and watched me, waiting for me to put it together myself. Who had the most to gain from a huge research facility, other than the college itself? I tossed around what was involved. The planning, the money, the infrastructure.

  “The developer,” I said. Eric raised his eyebrows.

  “Who is?” I asked.

  “Rinti Developments.”

  I sat back in the booth.

  “You’re familiar with them?” he said.

  “I’ve had cause to be involved with old man Rinti once or twice. It was called Rinti Construction then.”

  “Now it’s Rinti Junior. He changed the name. I hear the old man’s got the big C.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow. What’s the word on the son?”

  “Cut from the same cloth, just meaner.”

  “Oh, joy.” I finished my steak. I had eaten so much sodium that I thought I might have a stroke in the booth.

  “It explains how things might get expedited,” I said.

  “And why I don’t want to dance this dance unless I’m damn sure.”

  “Fair point. Any connection between Lawry and Rinti?”

  “I’m looking into it. But prelim, Lawry’s nephew was one of three kids from the college who did a summer internship with Rinti.”

  “Internship?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Nothing. Just processing.”

  “Well, process this. There’s nothing I can find regarding the land. A project this big would take a lot of space. The university is in a built-up area, so that’s not it. But I can’t find where they’re planning to put all this.”

  “Five big box stores, you say?”

  “Yes, a lot. Maybe ten football fields. Possibly more.”

  “How big is a football field compared to soccer?”

  “Not sure. Roughly the same, give or take. Why?”

  It was my turn to give the pious look as Eric played catch-up. The borders of the puzzle were beginning to fill in. Things were far from clear, but I could feel some momentum picking up. I watched the idea plant itself in Eric’s brain.

  “The sports fields at the university. Are they big enough?” he said.

  “Close, I’m guessing. And if you don’t have sports fields, you don’t need coaching offices, admin, that sort of thing. Might free up a bit of extra room.”

  “A college with no sports?”

  “My point exactly. But El Presidente Millet is hell-bent on getting rid of the athletics programs.”

  “And now we know why.”

  The check came, and Eric pushed it toward me. “You’re not going to make the people of Florida pay for lunch.”

  “The favor I’m about to do the people of Florida, they owe me more than a Cuban steak lunch. But no, it’s not on them. You’re picking this one up. We both know what this could do for the corruption-fighting politician in waiting.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, snatching up the check.

  We walked out into a break in the rain. Eric told me to tread carefully and not use his name, and then dashed to his car. Fat drops fell on my head and the wet pavement. The sky prepared to peel open again. I got in the Mustang and took out my phone. I had an itch I needed to scratch.

  “Yes?” she said. Her voice was robotic, from her mood and the heavy atmosphere.

  “Angel, it’s Miami. Where did Jake do his internship?”

  “I told you, at a construction company.”

  “Do you know the name?”

  “Off the top of my head, no.”

  “Does Rinti Developments ring a bell?” It was leading the witness, but I’d worry about that if I ever went to law school.

  “Rinti? Yeah, that sounds right. What about it?”

  “Where was the job?”

  “Brickell Avenue.”

  “Thanks, Angel.”

  I wanted to know more about the internship and what role it played in Jake Turner’s demise, so I called Kim to get me the names and addresses for the Lawry nephew and the third intern. She was in a meeting, but her ever helpful boy-servant Brian said he’d pass the request on. I hung up and watched the splatters on my windshield turn into dinner plates, and waited for the heavy stuff to end before I paid a visit to El Presidente.

  Chapter Thirty
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  I THOUGHT I’D be cunning and park somewhere different, so I took a visitors’ space outside the university administration building. The glass facade reflected the dreary sky and made the building look like it had a veneer of sheet metal. I made my way up to the executive floor. The stained glass atrium threw a cathedralesque light across the space, somber and gothic. Water streaks on the windows were shadowed on the wood-paneled walls, making it look like the room was weeping. I strode up to the reception desk. The receptionist who had attended me on my last visit was typing into her computer and took her time to look up with a perfunctory smile. The smile dropped when she realized who I was, and that I had no intention of stopping for a chat.

  “He’s expecting me.” I smiled as I dashed by.

  “But, sir, you can’t—“

  I punched open the double doors to Millet’s vast office. Even though I had been in it before, I was impressed all over again. It was more a small but grand library than an office. Millet’s desk could easily have been a reading table. The space was everything a wood-paneled, leather-bound library should be. Opulent, elitist and pretentious as hell, and I have no doubt if I had the money I would get one in a New York minute. Millet was sitting at his desk, reading through half glasses. He looked over the top of them at the commotion, and in a well-practiced move snapped them off his face as he stood.

  “You can’t come in here like this. You can’t even be on this campus.” I kept marching toward him. “I’m going to call security. Genevieve!”

  So that was her name. It suited her well. He came around the desk, calling for his secretary. I grabbed him by the lapels of his beige suit. The material was sumptuous, perhaps Egyptian cotton. I wrenched him around and threw him into a wingback leather reading chair. He hit the leather with a crumpled pftt, the bravado knocked out of him. Physical confrontation does that to a lot of people.

  “I tell you what, you call security, I’ll call the Miami Herald, and we’ll all sit down and have a nice chat about dead lacrosse players and Rinti Developments.”

  Millet wasn’t a physical man, but he was smart and he processed information quickly. He waved a shaking hand at Genevieve and told her to give us a moment alone. She retreated from the office, pulling the double doors closed.

  “Tell me about the research facility. Tell me about your involvement with the Rintis.”