Danielle and I danced below the stage and worked up a sweat in the small room. The band finished their set and we refreshed our drinks; I switched to soda. Plastering my car all over a telephone pole was not my idea of a good time. As we waited for the second set, Sally leaned over to me.
“I forgot to mention,” he said. “I heard a little rumble about your car.”
“My car?”
“The F-88, was it?”
“Oh, that car.”
“The intermediary. I might know who it was.”
“You don’t say.”
He nodded. “He’s based in Detroit. But he has a winter home on the Palm Beaches.”
“Doesn’t everyone? Who is he?”
The band wandered back out from the green room in a haze of sweet smoke and the crowd cheered. Sal leaned in close.
“Call me tomorrow. I’ll give you the lowdown.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I didn’t have to go far to find the suspected intermediary in Dale Beadman’s car deal. Sally’s grapevine worked better than my cell phone service, and his people told him the deal was probably brokered by a guy called Dwight Eckhardt. Eckhardt was, according to Sal, an auctioneer based in Detroit, Michigan, and not surprisingly, he specialized in luxury and collectible vehicles. Eckhardt had a pretty nice setup. He sold cars at his auction rooms in Detroit during the summer, and when the snow came in and the buyers fled south, he followed them to his auction rooms in Fort Lauderdale.
But I didn’t have to go to Lauderdale. It turned out Eckhardt’s winter home was in one of the high-rise condo developments on Singer Island. Which meant I could have ordinarily walked from my home to his. But as my home was allegedly uninhabitable, I had to drive over from PGA National.
Finding him was one thing. Getting in was another. Unlike the houses around Lake Norman, high-rise condos had doormen and concierges and security guys and lots of apartments with no tenant list. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack with wild bulls running around in the field. Walking in all bold and gung-ho was pointless.
So I did the next best thing. I left a note. I simply scribbled handling stolen F-88 Oldsmobiles is a crime and my phone number on a piece of paper and slipped it in an envelope. I told the concierge at the building it was time sensitive because I expected a delay in the reaction, but I really didn’t care to wait all day. I wandered over to the Seaside Bar to wait. Seaside is my kind of place. It’s dark and there’s no view, so the tourists tend to stay across the parking lot, but the beers and the burgers and the people are first class. I was sitting on a bottle of craft brew an hour later when my phone rang. Mr. Eckhardt suggested we chat, and I said I’d be right over. I finished my beer and ordered another and an early lunch of fish dip and crackers before I left. I can keep people waiting with the best of them.
The car auction business must do all right, because Dwight Eckhardt had a penthouse apartment on the ocean side. It had to be worth millions. He met me at the door and ushered me in without a word. The view was expansive. I could practically see Freeport. Eckhardt was also expansive. I tried to come up with a more politically correct way to frame it in my mind, but I couldn’t get past very fat. He was only about five foot four and almost round. His shoulders joined his head at the ears. He might have sold cars, but I couldn’t see him getting in one. He sat next to the kitchen bar on a low stool that he could fall back into. Then the stool rose up like a hydraulic vehicle jack.
“So, Mr. Jones.” He took a deep breath before and after every word that sounded like someone in scuba gear. “What is it you think you know?”
“What do I know? I know you’re an auctioneer. You sell classic cars, whatever that means. I also know you facilitate the transfer of less legitimate cars. I know you facilitated such a transfer with Dale Beadman and parties unknown.”
“And how is it that you think you know all this?”
“Heard it on the grapevine.” I was tempted to sing it but I didn’t.
“Really.” Eckhardt took a drink of water through a mouth that looked altogether too small for his massive head. “The grapevine seems to have led you astray.”
“I don’t think so. I know you were involved. One hundred percent.”
“And how do you think you know this?”
“I’m standing in your living room. If I’m off-base, you don’t let me in the door.”
“Maybe I like to know things.”
“I’m sure you do. I expect it’s a pretty crucial part of your business. But you could have asked me questions on the phone. You didn’t, because you wanted some time to check me out. See if I really might know anything. And then you asked me in.”
“Not exactly a burden of proof.”
“I don’t need a burden of proof, Mr. Eckhardt. I just need to tell the Palm Beach Post. I just need to get my assistant, who is a lot better at these things that I am, to put posts on every relevant social media site that you handle stolen cars. I just need to get that message to every reputation-conscious dealer and collector and car owner in the state. I could probably do a reasonable job of it in Michigan, too.”
“And what could I do?”
“I don’t know. What could you do?”
“I could pass on information to the State Attorney’s office regarding the affairs of a certain Sally Mondavi. I could get photographs, I could get statements. I could provide an open-and-shut case regarding extortion, racketeering and the movement of stolen property that would see Sal Mondavi spend all his last days in prison.”
He watched me through slits in his face. I gave him nothing, but I knew I was walking a dangerous line. He knew where I had gotten my information, which meant the grapevine went two ways, which of course it always did. I had to ask myself, what would Sally do?
I pursed my lips and said, “The State Attorney, hey?”
Eckhardt nodded.
“Old Eric Edwards. Yeah, he’d be interested in that all right.”
Eckhardt nodded again.
“Of course, knowing Eric as I do, and I know him very well, he’s a very pragmatic guy. He’s like a big game hunter. He’ll take what he can get, but he’ll always trade in small game for a shot at something bigger. So I’m wondering what he would go for? Two column inches in the Palm Beach Post about the takedown of a two-bit pawnshop on the wrong side of the turnpike, or a lead item in the national section of the New York Times about a massive conspiracy in Motown?” I tapped my fingers on my chin like I was considering this great conundrum.
“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Mr. Jones.”
“Ditto.”
“What is it you want, exactly?”
“To get the answers to a few questions.”
“Confidentiality is the bedrock of my business.”
“I’ve no doubt. And let’s be clear, Mr. Eckhardt. I don’t give a damn about your business. I don’t care about rich people buying and selling and stealing each other’s cars. Except as far as I have been retained to find one such stolen car that I know came via you. The question is, and this is the big question, did it leave via you?”
“Mr. Jones, I don’t know what you think it is I do, but I can assure you that I do not steal cars.” He said steal cars like he’d eaten a bad pickle. “Provenance can be complex, but I would not knowingly handle a vehicle that I knew belonged to one of my clients that was not being sold by said client. I have my standards.”
I watched him. Hard. He was tough to read because his eyes were hidden below layers of skin and his facial tics were smothered by flab. But I believed him.
“So I assure you, the vehicle you mentioned in your note did not belong to a current client, and it was transferred to Mr. Beadman in good faith.”
“And then stolen.”
“What do you mean, then stolen?”
“I mean, I’m not saying it was stolen and then you sold it to Mr. Beadman. I’m saying you sold it to him and then it was stolen.”
I thought I saw him flinch, but I cou
ldn’t be sure. “The F-88 was stolen?”
“Yes. The day it was delivered, or thereabouts.”
“And you think I sold it and then stole it back?”
“There’s no honor among thieves.”
“As I told you, I do not steal vehicles. And I am a man of honor, Mr. Jones, regardless of what you may think. I had no idea. Mr. Beadman never mentioned . . .”
“I think he’s embarrassed about it. He wouldn’t even tell me who you were.”
“Mr. Beadman is a man of the highest integrity. That is why I chose to do business with him.”
“So I have to cross people off my list. You’re on it, obviously. But let’s assume I believe you and cross you off, I still have two other possibles.”
“Who?”
“Whoever sold it, and whoever else wanted to buy it.”
“I can’t divulge that information. But I can tell you that the seller is most unlikely to be involved.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say the seller was a legal structure.”
“Like a company?”
“No. A personal legal structure.”
“I was away the day we did law school at college, Mr. Eckhardt. Throw me a bone.”
“I am not speaking out of turn to say it was an estate.”
“An estate? As in someone died and the heirs sold it?”
“That would be a reasonable assumption.”
“So why can’t they be involved?”
“Let’s just say that the estate was only interested in one thing, as a group.”
“Money.”
“Another reasonable assumption.”
“Still doesn’t answer my question.”
“The individuals were, shall we say, at arm’s length. They were not involved in the liquidating of the estate. The attorneys for the estate were under instruction to get what they could and divide up the pie. I’m not even sure they knew that F-88 wasn’t a file name for something.”
“Okay. So, other buyers.”
“I cannot.”
“Tell me how many.”
“Just the one.”
“Why didn’t they get it? Price?”
“There is more to these things than price.”
“You approached Mr. Beadman because he’s a good guy.”
“We have dealt with one another at auction. I found him trustworthy and reliable.”
“And the other buyer?”
“The attorneys for the estate may have asked some questions about the vehicle before engaging me.”
“And this other buyer contacted you?”
“That would be a reasonable assumption.”
“And did this other buyer know who the final buyer was?”
“Not from me.”
“But maybe the attorneys.”
“Unlikely, but I cannot vouch for them completely.”
“And this other buyer would be some kind of well-known authority on cars?”
“That would—”
“Be a reasonable assumption, I got it. So would this other buyer have the initials: Ansel Brasher?”
Eckhardt had amazing muscle control. He raised an eyebrow. I’m not sure he meant it. It was hard to say, but it was as close to a tell as I had seen from him.
“Those are not initials, Mr. Jones.”
“Right on.”
I pushed myself off the back of his sofa and glanced across the water. “Nice view.”
“Yes.”
“I run down on that beach.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Depends on the view.”
He frowned. He had clearly never run with Danielle.
“Thanks for your time,” I said.
He didn’t move from the bar. “You were never here.”
“What?”
“This conversation never took place.”
“What are you, the CIA now?”
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You don’t want any of this to get back to anyone and you don’t want me to ever speak about it.”
“That would be a reasonable assumption.”
Chapter Thirty
I had the vague sensation that I needed a shower or to walk through a car wash after meeting with Dwight Eckhardt. I settled for a happy medium. I headed for Longboard Kelly’s. For me, it’s like going to the spa. It’s therapeutic. I was aware that these were the words of a trainee alcoholic, but I was confident that people like Danielle and Muriel and Lizzy would pull me back long before that might ever become a reality.
When I got there, two guys were putting up a new fence between the parking lot and the courtyard. It was cedar and it smelled fantastic. Like my mother’s closet. It also served to ensure I got maximum effect from the surprise.
My heart soared when I walked in and saw the freshly restored palapa over my barstool. It wafted gently in the breeze. There were bodies on either side of my stool. Ron was on one side and Danielle on the other. Muriel stood at the taps and when she saw me she stretched her arms out and up like she was a Price is Right model offering me a new car. This was better. I smiled like I’d hit a hole in one and slipped up onto my stool, looking up like I was an astronomer. The fronds were thatched to perfection, as far as my layman’s eye could tell.
Muriel put a beer on a mat in front of me, and I looked at it and then looked at her.
“How? When?”
“Two guys showed up. Said they had been working in Palm Beach and said the guy they were working for told them they were needed here. You know anything about that?”
I thought about Dale Beadman and vaguely recalled mentioning it. I didn’t even think I had mentioned the name of the bar.
“Nothing to do with me. But this is awesome. I’m so glad Mick didn’t go with shiplap.”
“And risk losing your business? He’s not stupid.”
“He’s not that.”
“I told him you wouldn’t have gone anywhere because you’d miss me.”
“I wouldn’t have missed you.”
Muriel’s face dropped.
“Because you would have followed to wherever I was drinking. That’s where the tips are.”
Muriel looked at Danielle. “Do you believe the mouth on this boy?”
Danielle smiled. “I do.”
I wasn’t sure where to go with that, so I kept quiet.
“Anyway, Mick couldn’t say no to a free palapa,” said Muriel.
“Free?”
“Yeah. The guys did the work and then refused to take payment. They said it was taken care of.”
I took a deep breath and surveyed the courtyard. The table and chairs and umbrellas were back, the longboard with the bite out of it was back on the wall, and there were no jellyfish anywhere to be seen. I turned back to my beer.
“Where’s Mick?”
“Out,” said Muriel. “He said you’d go and get all mushy over the fact the palapa was back, so he took off.”
“He’s so sentimental. Here’s to Mick.”
“To Longboard’s,” said Ron.
“To Longboard’s,” said Danielle and Muriel.
We took sips of our drinks. Ron smiled and placed his beer down delicately.
“So I found something out about your real estate guy, Juan Gotlieb.”
“Do tell.”
“Turns out he is a real estate agent in Boca Raton. But he lives in West Palm, in one of those starter mansions down on Washington Road.”
“Must be doing all right for himself.”
“Seems to have plenty of good listings, but then so does every other agent. Word is he’s leveraged to the hilt to afford the lifestyle.”
“How does that get from him to me?”
“I’m getting there.”
“I knew you were.”
“It looks like a fake-it-’til-you-make-it type thing,” Ron said. “He’s living like the rich and famous to fast-track into getting the business of the rich and famous.”
“Okay.�
�
“That’s why he has a driver.”
“Domingo.”
“Right. As you know, the former telenovela actor and part-time driver for old Juan. Plus he does a bit of hard talking for his boss.”
“He’s actually a pussycat.”
“In the end.” Ron nodded. “So it turns out Juan represented the buyer on the house next to yours on Singer Island.”
“The wedding cake. Okay, the plot thickens.”
“The owner of the house is a C corporation owned by another corporation out of the Bahamas.”
“Doesn’t anyone just buy a house anymore?”
“But as you learned, the guy behind that corporation is an Argentine.”
“Or Argentinian,” I said.
“You say potato. So there’s not much on him yet.”
“Why do I feel like you’re building up to the third act?”
“Guess who our estate agent Juan Gotlieb lives next door to?”
I looked at Danielle. “This is going to be good, I can feel it.”
Ron drum rolled his fingers on the bar. “Kent Fulsome.”
A better man would have seen that coming. “The Great Southeast CEO?”
“The same.”
“So piece it together for me, Ronnie, my brain is frazzled.”
“Argentine buyer has a property his wife wants to visit, but husband won’t come because it doesn’t have a pool. Buyer asks real estate agent Juan about the likelihood of expanding. Juan sees the hurricane come in, gets an idea. What if he could get the next-door lot for his buyer? So he sends his actor/driver/henchman over to put an offer.”
“Which I don’t take.”
“Even though it would buy a pool home in Wellington.”
“Why would I want to live in Wellington?”
“There are some good schools out there.”
“I already finished school.”
Ron looked at Danielle, who shrugged. Ron shook his head. “Anyway. Juan’s guy, Domingo, sees the Great Southeast claims guy come to your house while he’s there to make you the offer. He mentions this to his boss and his boss thinks, aha, that’s my neighbor. Juan sticks his head over the side fence, or whatever those mansion types do, and says, ‘Hey neighbor, how about a favor? Can you deny the claim on this guy in Singer Island?’”
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