Deep Rough

by A. J. Stewart

“So who is in your consortium, Keith?”

  “I did it the way I did it so that the major player couldn’t control things, couldn’t take it over.”

  “Okay, but who?”

  “Martin Costas and Barry Yarmouth are in it. To keep the club safe, you understand?”

  “But they aren’t the money, Keith. Who’s the money?”

  He hesitated. He didn’t want to share. But I was going to make him.

  “This would be a great story in the Palm Beach Post. I know a reporter there.”

  “You wouldn’t. This is in confidence. This is a privileged conversation.”

  “That’s your concern, counselor. Not mine. And all bets are off if you’re lying to me.”

  His jaw clenched. It was like getting blood from a stone, but I was getting it or I wasn’t leaving the damned golf course.

  “The money is Nathaniel Donaldson.”

  I blew air, a long slow exhalation. “You’re in bed with Nate Donaldson?”

  “No, we are not in bed with Mr. Donaldson. Listen, Miami. Sometimes the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “And sometimes your enemy acts like your friend and then turns around and shanks you in the guts.”

  “You have a very evocative turn of phrase, Miami. But you don’t see. We needed his money, but we hold the cards. He can’t build a damn thing on that property without our say-so, and if he tries to get his hands on this club he won’t get any such thing. Once the tournament is done and we have solidified our position with the PGA Tour, then we might consider a project. But it will just be residential housing. It will have nothing to do with the club. No on-course properties. Just apartments that happen to be nearby.”

  We looked at each other and then turned to watch the putting on the green. It was only practice, but everyone seemed to take it pretty seriously. I wasn’t sure what to make of Keith Hamilton. He talked a good game. But I reminded myself he was a lawyer. They were paid to manipulate language to their advantage. They were about as trustworthy as novelists.

  I felt my phone ring in my pocket and Keith gave me a dirty look that I nearly shoved back down his throat. I skipped away from the green and answered the call. I always answer calls from Lizzy. The wrath of God is too great not to.

  “Lizzy, how are things in the real world?”

  “Underpaid. You asked me to do some digging about your friends at the golf club.”

  “Country club,” I said for no other reason than to be a smarty.

  “Which country?” she replied. I had nothing to say to that.

  “What did you find?”

  “First is Martin Costas. He’s into a lot of stuff. Has a lot of clients in Palm Beach, but he doesn’t live there. He’s been a member of the chamber of commerce there for years, and according to Cassandra has been courted by plenty of nice clubs. But he has declined every offer. He attends a lot of stuff, but has kept all his club affiliations in West Palm.”

  That all married up with what he had more or less told me.

  “He handles some of the legal affairs for Dig Maddox. Mr. Maddox also has in-house counsel.”

  “So the board shares a bit of work around. Figures.”

  “You asked about Dig Maddox’s projects. He lays more grass than I can believe the world needs. I made so many calls my ear hurts.”

  “You should get an ice pack for that.”

  “Thank you for your concern. He grows most of his grass out past Wellington, and some out west of Port St. Lucie. When the economy tanked he let everything in PSL die, and then claimed the insurance. The insurance company wouldn’t pay so he sued. They settled out of court.”

  “For how much?”

  “They don’t talk about that stuff, Miami. Anyway I found one project where Sod It All was the supplier to a project linked to your club.”

  “Do tell.”

  “It’s a new development west of Palm Beach Gardens. Capricorn Lakes. Does anyone believe that lakes stuff? They’re like bathtubs. Anyway, it’s one of those eco-friendly communities. Solar power, reclaimed water for gardens, charging ports for electric cars, that sort of thing.”

  “What’s the link?”

  “The sales agent for the community is Barry Yarmouth, and the escrow for the first sales was facilitated by Martin Costas.”

  “Okay, so more of the board doing each other favors. Anything suspect about it?”

  “Not really. It looks like it’s only ten percent built. Sounds like they can’t get enough builders.”

  “That’s Florida. Sell the dream, ’cause the reality’s a swamp.”

  “And you love it.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I do. Thanks for the info. Let me know if you hear anything more.”

  I watched the sun falling below the distant Australian pines, and the last of the golfers were finishing their practice and heading for the locker rooms. I was fairly sure I could make out the silhouette of Heath McAllen out on the driving range. The kid worked hard. And so did I. Granted, neither of us worked in a coal mine. It wasn’t that kind of hard. But I was tired and the sun was low. I knew Ron would hang at the club and I could avail myself of free beers, but I needed to recharge the batteries and come at things with fresh eyes in the morning. I needed a comfortable stool and a cool beer, and a place where everybody knew my name and didn’t speak ill of it.

  I called Danielle as I wandered around the clubhouse. I saw another old red Tacoma pickup and it felt like a ghost.

  “Hey you,” she said.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I got a ride over to the diagnostic lab. They’re testing the bleach bottle.”

  “Gotta think that bleach would kill the virus, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would, but leave no stone unturned. What are you doing?”

  “I feel Longboard’s calling.”

  “I’m at Gun Club Road. Come get me?”

  “It would be my honor.”

  I was in the lot when I saw Special Agent Nixon. He was headed for his bland Crown Victoria.

  “Headed back to Miami?” I asked.

  “No. I’m here for the duration. You know a hotel around here?”

  “It’s Florida, pal.”

  “With a golf tournament on. I might end up driving all way home after all.”

  It was only a couple hours to Miami, maybe three if he lived south and hit traffic. I don’t know why, but I took pity on the wannabe G-man.

  “I’m headed for a drink—you wanna join us?”

  “As long as it isn’t at a golf club.”

  “Doesn’t get more un-golf club.”

  “Maybe one then. If I gotta drive home.”

  “I got a sofa. You’re welcome to it.”

  He nodded. “We’ll see how we go. Appreciate it.”

  I told him I was going to the Justice Center on Gun Club Road first, which got a frown, but he knew it and followed me there. I didn’t see his face as Danielle came down in a white T-shirt and jeans and threw her uniform bag on the poor excuse for a backseat of my Porsche. I figured he’d hate me forever, but I could live with it.

  But he didn’t. We got to Longboard’s and sat under the colored glow of the fairy lights and drank beers and ate smoked fish dip that the owner, Mick, made from scratch. Our agreement was that there would be no work talk, and Nixon was good to his word.

  When we got home to Singer Island I threw some sheets and a pillow at him and he thanked me.

  “Mi casa, su casa,” I said, as I turned to follow Danielle to the bedroom.

  “You’re a lucky man,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “She’s pretty lucky, too,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I took it as some kind of compliment, so I gave him a nod and headed off to find the sandman.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Nixon was an excellent houseguest. He was awake and on calls when I dragged my carcass out of bed, and he had folded the sheets and left them on top of the pillow. Based on tha
t I found him a towel and offered him the shower. Then he exceeded all expectations and took us all out for breakfast.

  Danielle had a veggie omelet with feta cheese and Nixon ordered corned beef hash. I grew up in New England so I knew a thing or two about hash. Boston was the only place in the world I ordered it anymore. It had been a few years. Nixon’s looked passable but not Boston wicked. I took an egg and bacon bagel. I usually don’t go for bagels outside New York, but the owner of our diner was an ex-pat Brooklyn Jew, so I was in excellent bagel hands.

  “We’re back on the clock, right?” Nixon said with a smile. He had a very clean shave, and it made me wish I’d bothered.

  “We are,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “Let me fill you in on a few things I’ve learned. Nathaniel Donaldson is a major donor to the governor—I’m sure this comes as no surprise. But they are also golfing buddies. I know some guys on the governor’s protection detail. Word is Donaldson’s majorly miffed about not having a world-class course north of Boca. He’s been petitioning the governor—on the quiet of course—to help him fix the situation. Now, the governor can’t be seen to be doing anything to hurt a private club. Especially one that also has a membership roster full of donors. The feeling is he was positioning Donaldson as some kind of white knight in case one club or another fell on hard times.”

  Danielle pointed her fork at Nixon. “You said he was positioning Donaldson.”

  Nixon smiled and nodded. “Right. I heard last night there was call between the governor and Donaldson. There were raised voices. At least on the governor’s end. He wasn’t happy. He seems to be of the mind that this whole alligator thing could have gone bad for Florida tourism. He’s still not convinced it will work.”

  Nixon ate some corned beef hash and chewed his food before he spoke again, but he was clearly going to, so we stayed quiet. I sipped my iced tea.

  Then Nixon said, “Ask me why he’s not convinced.”

  I played. “Why is he not convinced, Nixon?”

  “I’m glad you asked, Miami. It’s because word is in Tallahassee that the whole box and dice was the idea of one Miami Jones.”

  I sat back in my chair. Danielle smiled wide, shook her head and stabbed her omelet.

  “That wouldn’t make the governor happy.”

  “You have history?” asked Nixon.

  “We do.”

  “Well, my buddies say the governor went wild-eyed when Nate Donaldson tried to claim the alligator tournament idea as his own. The governor was heard to call him a self-aggrandizing f—.” He stopped and looked at Danielle. “Sorry. You know what I mean.”

  The guy had excellent manners. My office manager Lizzy would love him. She’s big on things like that.

  “Sad thing is, it was Donaldson’s idea,” I said.

  Nixon beamed. “Really?”

  I nodded. “I basically accused him of feeding a caddy to a gator he had put there. He went ballistic. Not because I had more or less called him a murderer—that’s water off a duck’s back—but because I didn’t see the damage I had caused him. He figured the publicity would save the tournament, and the club.”

  “The man knows publicity,” said Danielle.

  “Got that right.”

  “And now you’re getting credit for it?” Nixon looked as happy as a clam. “That’s got to get in his craw.”

  “But here’s the thing,” I said. “I didn’t think he was faking it. I think the whole gator thing was a surprise to him.”

  “So you don’t think he’s involved?”

  “I think he’s as bent as a mountain road, but I don’t think he had anything to do with gatorgate.”

  Nixon laughed. “Gatorgate. Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  “That one’s all me. I’m here all week.”

  “So if not Donaldson . . .” Danielle left the thought on the air.

  I sipped some tea.

  Nixon said, “There’s the Keith Hamilton angle you told us about yesterday.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll be honest, I can’t read Keith. He seems genuinely upset by the whole affair, and he does seem to love the club as it is. So he might be telling the truth. He might have put the consortium together to save the club. I just don’t know. I never play poker with lawyers.”

  “You never play poker,” said Danielle.

  “Conceptually.”

  Danielle continued. “There’s also the Donaldson link to that deal. If he isn’t involved in all this stuff as you think, then that suggests the deal is as Keith says. To save the club.”

  “All right,” said Nixon. “Moving on.”

  I raised an eyebrow and watched him. I didn’t know who made him chairman of the board, but I figured someone had to keep my thoughts on track, so I went with it.

  “What about the sod deals. Maddox?”

  Nixon shook his head. “I spoke to some folks. Just between us, there’s a case building, but the feeling from those guys is that this is just typical Florida stuff. An insurance hustle. There’s no real angle for Maddox to make money at the club. But . . .” He chomped into a forkful of hash and we waited as he chewed. Then he took some coffee just to completely milk the moment.

  “The same cannot be said for some of the folks he deals with. First, there’s Martin Costas.”

  “What’s his story?” asked Danielle.

  “I did some checking and he is actually under observation by our federal friends.”

  “The FBI is interested in Martin?” I asked.

  Nixon nodded. “Observation. It’s what they say when they don’t have enough to mount a full investigation. But I went to college with one of the liaisons for territorial field offices. She’s getting intel from Guam.”

  “Guam?”

  “Yes, Guam. It’s a US territory. The FBI has an office there. Actually I think it might just be one guy working out of his spare room, but regardless. My college friend says there is interest in Martin Costas because of irregularities in a property deal there. She didn’t know too much, but she said there might be some sort of property scam going on. Using down payments on apartments there to cover losses on a development here called Capricorn Lakes.”

  That name rang a bell. It was one more layer peeling from the onion.

  “And who would be more expert at pulling a property scam than a Florida lawyer?”

  “Right,” said Nixon.

  “So you think Martin might want to cash in his chips with a big payday at South Lakes in order to cover his losses?” asked Danielle.

  “The thought had occurred.”

  We ate and drank and let that thought percolate. We finished up and Nixon took care of the check and I liked him more and more. When we got out to the lot the day was in full swing. The sun was high and hot, but not as hot as the previous day. The forecast for the tournament was Florida postcard stuff. A white cloud might arrive to add depth to the sky, but that was about all. It was the kind of stuff Florida boosters dreamed of, and they don’t have to dream that hard.

  “What’s on today at the club?” asked Nixon.

  “Pro-am,” I said.

  “What is that, exactly?” asked Danielle.

  “It’s where the professional golfers play a round with the amateurs. Usually the amateurs are corporate guys who have bid on the right to play with a certain golfer, and the money they bid goes to the tournament charity.”

  “All ten percent of it,” she said.

  “Better than a poke in the eye with a putter. And for the pros, it’s one more chance to play the course before things get serious on Thursday.”

  Nixon said, “What does your gut say? Is there likely to be another attempt to disrupt the tournament?”

  I shrugged. “Vandalism, viral poisoning, murder. My gut wonders why you would go that far and then give up?”

  “Unless you thought you might get caught?” Danielle mused. “There’s a lot of extra security now. And the PBSO will have a full complement from today.”

  “
Which reminds me. Do you need to be at the course?”

  “I do. But first I want to speak to Connie Persil. Find out about that bleach container.”

  Danielle stepped away to make a call. Nixon eyed me.

  “I need to warn you,” he said.

  I frowned.

  “About Danielle.”

  I frowned more. It was like an aerial photograph of the Sahara desert.

  “I want her.”

  I took a deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. It calmed me. The other option was breaking Nixon’s pretty little nose.

  “You want her?”

  He nodded. “Special Agent Marcard speaks very highly of her.”

  “You mentioned.”

  “He also said that she rejected the idea of joining the FBI because she didn’t want to leave Florida.”

  “He said that, did he?”

  “He did. But the FDLE, we’re like the FBI for Florida. It could be the best of both worlds for her.”

  “So why are you having this conversation with me?” I asked. “You asking me for her hand in marriage? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but folks don’t do that stuff anymore.”

  “Call it courtesy. I know you’ve got a thing. I can see what she means to you, and vice versa.”

  “It’s really her call.”

  “I know. I wasn’t asking your permission. I guess I wanted your opinion, as biased as it might be.”

  “You asked Marcard. He’s not biased.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s a good guy. His words were I’d recruit her in a second.”

  “There you go.”

  “You’d be okay with that.”

  “I’m okay with whatever Danielle wants to do. I’ll tell you straight, I think she’s wasted as a deputy. But she seems to love it. So like I say, it’s her call.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  We fell silent as Danielle wandered back with her phone in her hand.

  “Connie says she wants to meet at the lab.” She looked at Nixon. “You want in?”

  “If you want me there.”

  “Three heads are better than two.” She looked at me. “Right?”

  “In everything but lovemaking and chess.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine