Offside Trap

by A. J. Stewart

  “What about a Camry?” said Ron. “Plenty of room, and it blends in everywhere.”

  “You were saying something about the Jag not being my style?”

  Ron glanced at me as he drove. “You’re no spring chicken, Miami.”

  “I’m no granddaddy either. No Camry—keep driving.”

  Ron smiled. He was enjoying himself a little too much. We approached a Subaru dealership.

  “What about an Outback?”

  “Am I pregnant with twins?”

  “They’re not just for moms.”

  “Check out the library parking lot at story time. The place is thick with them.”

  “They’re very sporty.”

  “So they’re yummy mommies.”

  “Like Danielle,” he said.

  “Except she’s not a mommy, which is pretty central to the whole concept.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  “What are you saying, Ron?”

  “Nothing. I just think she’d be a good mom. That’s all. She has a very kind heart.”

  “And killer abs. There’s plenty of time to ruin them later.”

  “If you think so.”

  “Did she say something?”

  “Not to me. But I got eyes. Great women like that don’t wait forever.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “And she had lunch with Eric.”

  “That was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t lunch with you.”

  “You think Danielle’s going to leave me if I don’t get a boring car?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  He glanced at me and back to the road. “You’re no spring chicken.”

  We pulled into a dealership and a short test-drive, a couple calls to the insurance company and some faxed paperwork later, I drove off the lot in a new black Jeep Wrangler.

  I was following Ron back to the office, the wind blowing through my hair, when my phone rang.

  “Miami Jones.”

  “Mr. Jones, this is Senator Marshall Lawry. Would you have a few minutes for me this morning?”

  Senator Lawry was on the on the back nine of the Palmer course at PGA National when I caught up with him. Despite the nature of the game, I was the only person on the course traveling on foot. The senator’s foursome was surrounded by a posse of golf carts. There were so many I expected to see a carpool lane in effect. Lawry’s security guy took my name on approach, and after a drive that was short but straight, the Senator waved me over to his cart. He was a big man, broad in the chest and long in the chin, with thinning hair that struggled to cover a sweat-glistened pate. His handshake was strong and his smile warm. If one were to design a politician from scratch, Senator Lawry could provide a fair dose of the blueprint.

  “Mr. Jones, thank you for making time for me on such short notice.” His accent had a hint of the south in it. The fact that Tallahassee and the panhandle were part of Florida was simply an historical aberration, for the northern parts of the state had much in common with their northern neighbors in Georgia and Alabama, and almost nothing in common with the Miami end.

  “Any opportunity to take a walk around PGA National.”

  “You golf?”

  “Not these days, but I enjoy a good walk as much as anyone.”

  Lawry pushed the accelerator, and we zoomed along the path toward the senator’s ball.

  “I’ve heard some good things about your practice,” he said.

  “We aim to please.”

  “Can’t be easy in your line of work.”

  “Or yours.”

  Lawry smiled. It made me think of an alligator. “Indeed, Mr Jones, indeed.”

  Lawry stopped the cart and stepped out. I figured I should follow suit. We met behind the cart as the Senator selected a club from his bag.

  “Do you do much corporate work, Mr. Jones?”

  “Some. We have a decent business community in the Palm Beaches.”

  “Indeed.” He smiled again. Lawry took out a five iron and trotted out to his ball. Although I told Lawry I didn’t play golf these days, that didn’t mean I had never played. I just didn’t do it regularly anymore. But I had been a professional baseball player, and there were few things most baseball players liked to do more with their time off than play golf. So I had done it enough to know that based on the length of his drive, the senator had a snowball’s chance in hell of reaching the green with a five iron. He hit the ball crisply, but he failed to take advantage of his size, and he decelerated through his swing rather than accelerating into the ball. I’d seen the same thing in baseball hitters who had lost their confidence and were overthinking things. As it was Lawry’s ball flew straight and true and dropped a good thirty yards short of the green. He strode back to me looking neither pleased nor perturbed by the shot.

  “I have no doubt there are companies that could use your expertise,” he said slipping his club back into his bag.

  “We’re doing okay,” I said. We got back in the cart, and he drove us down the fairway.

  “Fortune 500 companies, Mr. Jones. I know a lot of people.”

  “People like Gino Rinti?” It was true I’d shown my hand, but I just wasn’t as good at tiptoeing around the mulberry bush as a politician. Lawry just smiled.

  “You have an interesting way of making friends, Mr. Jones.”

  “I have all the friends I need.”

  “We can always use more friends.”

  “Gino Rinti’s boys beat me up and smashed my car.”

  “That’s my point. Friends wouldn’t do such a thing to each other. But I think we can overcome all that. Everyone can win.”

  “Not Jake Turner.”

  Lawry stopped the cart at the edge of the green.

  “Terrible loss, Mr. Jones, terrible. But these things happen. We must do all we can to ensure they don’t, but occasionally, inevitably, they do.”

  “Like your nephew?”

  “Who?”

  “Sean. Didn’t you help your nephew out of a drug arrest and have him shipped to a new college?”

  “There were no charges. Sean never took anything.”

  “No, he gave it, is what I heard. Doped a girl to take advantage of her.”

  “There were no charges.”

  “But you hushed it up and even got him a job with your friend Rinti.”

  “Like I told you Mr. Jones, friends help each other.”

  “Then you must be great buddies with your nephew.”

  “I never speak to the boy. He’s had all the chances he’s going to get. But he’s making a go of it, I hear. His father got him a nice apartment, a cleaning lady and the whole nine yards, so he can focus on his study. Look Mr. Jones, you’ve met him. The boy’s young and he’s stupid, I’ll admit, but he’s family. You do things for your family, don’t you, Mr. Jones?”

  In a way, that was what I was doing that very moment.

  “What is it you want, Senator?”

  We repeated our dance to his bag where he selected a pitching wedge.

  “I want you to know you have friends. Mr. Rinti is prepared to let bygones be just that. I think you’d do well to do the same. There is a lot of upside. Powerful friends could do you a lot of good.”

  “I already have powerful friends.”

  “Not this kind of power. And the downside of not having friends? Well, I understand that a private investigator license, once lost, is almost impossible to regain.”

  “I don’t see much danger of that.”

  “I’d hate for someone to have a word to the governor, telling him you are standing in the way of Florida jobs. No telling what he might do.”

  “Go ahead and tell the governor. I think you’ll find he’ll take my side.”

  Lawry smiled. “Aah, I see. You have a marker there. Good, good. You keep it close, but remember, governors come and go.”

  “So do development projects.”

  “That they do, son, that they do.”
He took a couple steps toward his ball and then he looked over his shoulder.

  “This could be a great opportunity for you. Or not. Your choice. But I urge you to choose wisely.” He smiled and waved his club in the air. “I’m sure you know the way back to the clubhouse.” The senator turned away to his ball, and I watched him take two practice swings at his chip, and then scuff the shot with the bottom of his club. The ball never left the grass and scooted across the green, hitting the flag stick, bouncing up and dropping into the hole. I didn’t wait to see Lawry’s reaction. I just turned and began my long trudge back toward the clubhouse. Sometimes this game truly was a good walk ruined.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  BOONDOGGLE LAWRY LEFT a sour taste in my mouth, one that only a cleansing ale could wash away. I stopped by the office to rouse Ron from his slumber, and had just pulled into the parking lot when my phone rang.

  “Jones, it’s Stoat, Miami PD. You driving?”

  “No, what’s up?”

  “He’s out.”

  “Who?” The word popped out before my brain played catch-up.

  “Montgomery, Pistachio. Whatever you want to call him.”

  I flopped back heavily into my seat. “What happened?”

  “He didn’t even spend the night.”

  “What happened!”

  “We booked him, and his lawyer turns up, which is par for the course. Me and Dorsey drop off the evidence, then we clock off. When we get in this morning we find out the lawyer called the state attorney. All hell broke loose, and the SA wants to know what we’ve got on him, and the answer is nothing.”

  “Nothing? What the hell you talking about?”

  “He checked the evidence room. There was none.”

  “What happened to the stuff?”

  “We signed for it, and logged the case file in the system. But the SA calls, and there’s no evidence logged and no case file.”

  “How is this possible?”

  “Vice. Montgomery owns someone, or someones, in Vice. They did it early, and they did it clean.”

  “But there was video. I saw it.” I slipped out of the car and rubbed my face.

  “Dorsey checked after we heard about the SA. Our patrol car went in for refurb last night. The whole video unit was replaced. The whole thing. There was a postdated rec order, but no one knows who did the work. Or they’re not saying.”

  “What kind of a show are you guys running down there?”

  “This guy has some serious pull. That was your mistake. Doing it in Miami-Dade. This is his turf. If he’s got bent cops anywhere, it’s here. You should’ve done it in Broward. Or up in Palm Beach. Or we should’ve involved the feds.”

  “I just don’t believe this crap goes on.”

  “Miami, it doesn’t go on. Not like this. This guy is seriously connected.”

  I stopped and looked up at my office.

  “If he’s that connected, I don’t know how we touch him.” I took a deep breath and paced a couple of circuits of the length of the Jeep.

  “It’s worse than that. He’s got to know he was set up,” said Stoat.

  “He’ll know that. But there’s no reason to think it was you.”

  “Not us,” said Stoat. “We’ve been taken care of. Other cops are involved now, crooked but still cops. This morning Dorsey and I both found, shall we say, a brown paper bag in our locker. An incentive to keep quiet. No doubt it came from Vice, not Montgomery. They’ll tell him they’ve handled it. And I’m sorry about your situation, but we’ll keep quiet because there’s no upside in doing anything else.”

  “So what do I do?” I said.

  “Watch your back, that’s what. Montgomery overreacted by approaching your partner’s woman. But now there are cops involved, there’s a chance they advise him to cool his jets. No one wants bloodshed, eventually it attracts too many eyes. If you let it lie, I think he will too. It’s in his interests.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Sorry it went down like this.”

  We ended the call, and I leaned against the fender and looked back to the office. Stoat’s theory was logical, but I lacked confidence in it. Logic was not the domain of those who believed themselves untouchable.

  I heard a car pull in behind me and tensed.

  “Hey, you,” I heard Danielle say. I spun around. I tried to muster a smile but it didn’t come.

  “You okay?” she said.

  “Montgomery was arrested last night. But the state attorney in Miami dropped all charges and let him out.”

  “Why?”

  I gave a humorless laugh. “Long story.”

  “Let’s go for a run.”

  “I’d kill for a beer.”

  “First we run.” She winked. “Then a beer.”

  We got in our cars and headed for Singer Island. The clouds had pulled together and then pushed apart leaving the sky postcard azure. I drove the Jeep in a funk, wanting to believe that Montgomery would leave us be if we left him. Which meant that Angel would not be avenged, and my guilt would fester. It wasn’t a great feeling. I really longed for that beer, but I had already broken one promise to Danielle in the past twenty-four hours, and I’d lost. So if she wanted to run, she’d get a run.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  WE AMBLED PAST the bars and restaurants at City Beach, and quickened our pace as we crossed the concrete path that acted like a drawbridge across the sand moat between the beach and the promenade. As we came up over the grassy dunes I saw the lounges and umbrellas set out for rental, looking barren and vacant, the beachgoers turned off by the mild day and earlier cloud. Now the ocean sparkled and soft white foam played on the hard sand, just short of our feet, which didn’t suit my mood. Our normal running positions were reversed. I took the lead and pushed hard. My lungs burned before my muscles did, but then my muscles did too. I still ached from the beating I got from Rinti’s boys, so now everything hurt equally. I ran an extra half mile from our usual turnaround point, and waited, hands on knees, for Danielle to arrive. She was a better runner than me, lighter on her feet and technically proficient. She moved like a gazelle. When she got to me she was breathing hard, and she frowned.

  “Working some stuff out there?” she puffed.

  I nodded. “Good to go?”

  She returned the nod, and we headed back, footprints deep in the wet sand. I negative split the run back, and it hurt. Everything burned by the time I reached the lifeguard tower nestled on the dunes, and that was the point. Danielle came in at her regular pace. I was still grimacing when she arrived.

  “You okay?” she said.

  I shrugged as we jogged up the back and over the dunes. We walked toward the falling sun in silence for a time, and then Danielle touched my arm.

  “You worried about this guy, this Montgomery?”

  “Not really. I just think he should be in jail.”

  “Did he get out on bail or something technical?”

  “He got out because all the evidence disappeared.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “The drugs, video, officer’s report, the whole shebang. Within hours.”

  “I can’t believe it. You hear of things like that, but I’ve never seen it. I mean the odd traffic citation, or rich guy’s DUI sure, but not drugs.”

  “Conceptually the same. Just more drugs in Miami.”

  “I guess you’re right. But it doesn’t give him a get out of jail free card. The system still works.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s like water in a barrel, isn’t it? There might be a few rusty holes, and a little water might escape, but most of the water gets captured most of the time.”

  I didn’t respond. We crossed North Ocean Drive and headed down to my house. I was tossing Danielle’s words around in my head, but I wasn’t thinking about the water captured in the barrel. I was more concerned with the stuff that had spilled out, and who was going to clean it up. And if no one did, what kind of damage it would do.

&
nbsp; Danielle showered and then switched out with me. I turned the water down cold and let it ice my muscles until they ached. When I got out I was blue and Danielle was leaning against the door jamb. She watched me toweling off.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” she said. There’s a certain unfair advantage to interrogating someone when they’re naked, which may not have been Danielle’s point, but with her being a deputy I couldn’t rule it out.

  “Probably a lot, but what are you referring to?”

  “It’s more than just this girl, Angela.”

  “I’m struggling to get her off my mind.”

  “You’re naked in front of me and you have another woman on your mind? I’d tread carefully if I were you.” She raised an eyebrow, which didn’t tell me anything. She might be playful or she might be about to slug me in the chops for the wrong answer. I wrapped my towel around my waist and faced her.

  “Ron’s friend Cassandra received threats.”

  Danielle’s eyebrow lift turned to frown. “Montgomery?”

  “Not enough to take to a judge, but yes, Montgomery.”

  “So you told Palm Beach PD.”

  “They don’t think it will happen again. We got Cassandra out of town just in case until Burke gets somewhere.” I left out the part about going well outside normal operating procedure. I didn’t think after the barrel-of-water speech Danielle was up to hearing about our attempt to plant evidence.

  “I spoke to the forensic investigator on Angela’s case,” I said. “She said the case will go on the back burner. Says they have no evidence, and no probable cause to work over Montgomery.” I padded out into the bedroom and slipped on some chinos and a St. Lucie Mets tee. The shirt always stirred up a few passions at Longboard’s, and I was in a combative kind of mood.