Naked Ambition

by Rick Pullen

  “The man who asked the hotel clerk if I was in my room that night?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Were the staff able to give you a description of the man?”

  “Only that he was Latino. The clerk said he eyed her strangely, and at first, she thought he was being fresh. Then she thought he was not especially bright.” Tomlinson sat back and folded his arms. “So, you’re back on the island because . . . ?”

  Beck shifted in his seat. “It’s personal. I feel responsible. They were looking for me.”

  “Not an easy thing to live with. I understand. But we’re handling this investigation. Don’t involve yourself. Your FBI has been around here asking questions as well. They think we are fools and can’t do the job. You Americans think you’re so special.”

  “Sometimes we’re guilty of that, but not this time. I’m following up on the story that brought me to Grand Cayman originally.”

  “Your story made headlines here as well. You stick to that story. Let us conduct our murder investigation. No offense, but you’re a reporter, not a police officer. You are not equipped to deal with this.”

  “I’m just here for my story.”

  “I don’t think you understand. These people are killers. They tried to kill you once. What makes you think that a pen and notebook will protect you?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m careful.”

  “Are you? Your history says otherwise. You were followed almost since the moment you first set foot on this island.”

  “You’re right. I’m not a cop. I work out in the open. I don’t care if you or anyone else is watching me. I’ve got a job to do. I’ve been doing this for years. I know what I’m doing.”

  Tomlinson shook his head. Beck saw the look in his eye. He knew this time it was different. Tomlinson was probably right. Beck was into this far deeper than he had ever anticipated, but he was determined not to show any sign of uncertainty. He was more worried about his safety than he let on. He hoped he didn’t give off a vibe that gave him away.

  AS HE FINALLY TURNED WEST ON THE winding island road in the blinding early morning sun, Beck was again on the north side of the island, headed west to a familiar place—the spot where this all began, the place yesterday’s stranger practically begged him to visit. He bounced along the nearly deserted, weather-beaten road, eyeing glimpses of the narrow beach that peeked at him between the dunes off to his right. Occasionally, he spotted a car on the shoulder—when a shoulder could be found—temporarily abandoned, no doubt, by eager swimmers and fishermen along with their coolers, beach towels, and umbrellas.

  Three cars sat in the driveway of Bayard’s mansion as he approached. Beck felt the surge. He slowed his car and found a spot to pull over just short of the senator’s property.

  He turned off the engine. He eyed a workman on his knees, digging with a hand trowel around a bush in the front yard of the mansion. A small plastic tarp lay on the grass, piled high with potting soil.

  Now what? thought Beck. He pulled his baseball cap down low, stuffed the cell phones in his pockets, and stepped out of his car. Walking toward Bayard’s house, he heard every step as his sneakers crunched on the crushed shells along the edge of the bleached, sun-drenched pavement. He felt them under his shoes, shifting ever so slightly as he took each step.

  The last time he was here, Geneva had been impressed by his deception of the neighbor, Bridges, although now he realized the old man hadn’t been deceived at all. Beck quickly needed another ruse. He didn’t want to just walk around the Bayard mansion again. He needed to get inside.

  His back to Beck, the gardener stood now, shoveling dirt back into a hole after removing a dying plant. Beck was no horticulturalist, but he recognized a dead plant when he saw one, even if he had no idea what it was. He spied a yellow hose snaking across the U-shaped driveway between the cars over to the gardener. It gave him an idea.

  The gardener looked in his direction as he approached, so Beck picked up his pace, striding deliberately along the drive. Showtime, he thought. “I’m with the Water Authority. You having pressure problems?”

  “No, sir,” said the gardener, pointing at the hose at his feet. “I got a call from dispatch. I’m here to check it out.” Beck noticed a pair of work gloves the gardener wasn’t using sitting on a wheelbarrow. He needed a prop of some kind. This would have to do. “Mind if I borrow these while I check?”

  The gardener shook his head, squinting at Beck. But the sun was directly in his eyes, making it impossible for him to look Beck’s way. Beck grabbed the gloves, approached the front door, and knocked. It seemed like he waited forever. He knocked again. Finally, a tall, bald man answered the door. “What do you want?” “We’re having some water pressure problems in the area. I need to check your pump and water heater.” He slapped the gloves in his hand. “This is the Bayard place. Right?”

  “Not now. I’m in the middle of a meeting,” the man said. Beck recognized the man’s large, round Greek eyes. Though he knew the face from photographs he had seen while researching Bayard’s background, Beck couldn’t place him.

  The Greek began to close the door, and Beck stiff-armed it. “Sir, if your water heater explodes, you won’t be having a meeting—or a house, for that matter. If water is drained from your water heater, it could blow you sky-high.”

  The man growled something in Greek that Beck couldn’t understand and then mumbled a profanity he could. He waved Beck through the door. “This way.”

  A short, stocky man and an attractive, older woman with blonde hair sat in the large living room, the same room he and Geneva had spied from the patio just over a month ago. Decorated in shades of white and pale blue, the overstuffed furniture was placed in a semicircle facing the Caribbean. The outdoor furniture, which had been stacked in the room when Beck was here last time, now stood on the patio outside. They looked up from their discussion. “Sorry, folks. Just checking on a water pressure issue.” They turned away and immediately ignored him. “In here,” said the tall, bald man. He pointed to a utility room off the kitchen and rejoined the group in the living room. Beck immediately walked up to the kitchen sink and turned on the water. The sound interrupted their conversation again, and they looked his way.

  Beck shrugged apologetically. “Seems okay to me. Bathroom?”

  The tall man pointed to a doorway across the hallway from the living room. Beck crossed the room, trying to listen to their conversation. But they had stopped talking. Then he heard the woman, the slender blonde wearing designer reading glasses, complain about the public services on the island.

  “I’ll just be a moment. Sorry,” Beck said. He turned on the water and flushed the toilet in the bathroom. He quickly scanned the room, looking for a spot where he could hide Fahy’s burner phone. Nothing. It was all clean lines and no clutter.

  He stepped out of the room and quietly crossed through the living area, heading toward the utility room just behind the open kitchen. A large water heater stood near the utility room door. Afraid he might be watched, Beck pretended to inspect it and twisted a few water knobs slightly. He then pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at it. Anxiety washed over him. Which one was it?

  He pulled the second phone from another pocket. Shit. He couldn’t tell them apart. Which one had the bug?

  He hit redial on both. One called his condo. He hung up the other. He waited for the voice mail to answer, then hid the phone behind a bottle of cleaning liquid on a shelf above the water heater. He pretended to hold a conversation on the other.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Now listen up.” Beck spoke loud enough so that everyone in the other room could hear him. “There’s plenty of pressure here at the Bayard place. Might even be a bit too high. Can you have a tech come out here and adjust the meter?” He paused for effect. “Tell Red to keep better records next time.”

  “Something wrong?”

  Beck jumped. The Greek was standing in the doorway behind him. Beck turned to him. “Sorry, I—you startled
me. I didn’t see you. The folks at the office apparently got their records mixed up. I think the issue is at one of your neighbors. I’ll have to check next door. Some people can’t keep their water meters straight. Everything seems fine here. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  A nervous surge shook his body. The Greek must see this, he thought. Beck knew he tended to talk too much when he was nervous. Had he overdone it?

  The man blocked his way and stared at him. Beck paused. Standing in silence, he did not move. Was he on to him? Why wouldn’t he let him leave?

  The Greek continued to examine him. Then just as quickly, he stepped back, and Beck slid by him and strode quickly toward the front door. His heart pounded so hard he thought he could actually hear it.

  He apologized to the Greek again and quickly pulled the door closed behind him. He turned to leave and stopped dead. The man in the white straw hat stood some thirty feet away with his back to Beck, talking to the gardener. It was Franz. Dressed in a white suit, Franz towered over the gardener, who was on one knee with his hands wrapped around a small flowery plant. From their animated conversation, it was obvious Franz and the gardener were acquainted.

  “Hey, you.” Beck heard a familiar voice from behind. He turned to see the Greek standing in the front door. “You left this.” He held up the burner phone.

  Shit, thought Beck. He stepped back to the door. “Hey, thanks, man. I would have been lost without this.”

  The Greek handed him the phone and grunted, then closed the door in his face.

  Dread filled him. He’d been busted. His scheme was ruined. Beck had lost his only chance to tie the drug money directly to the campaign.

  He shoved the phone in his pocket, disgusted with himself. Then he realized there was nothing there. His pocket was empty. The other phone, where was it? In the commotion in the utility room, when the Greek had startled him, he must have left both phones behind. Which one did he have now?

  He closed his eyes, hoping there was a chance, then turned away from the front door. The Greek’s voice had drawn the attention of the gardener and Franz, who now looked in his direction. Beck hesitated and turned his face away from them. Finally, he pulled his cap lower and walked quietly down the driveway, away from their conversation.

  “Amigo,” said the gardener.

  Beck kept walking.

  “Mister water supervisor,” the gardener said in a soft voice.

  Beck kept up his pace.

  “My gloves,” the gardener rasped.

  Should he run? If he did, he would surely give himself away, but Franz would recognize him if he turned around. He looked up. The sun blinded him.

  Beck thought about donning his sunglasses, but the yellow pair in his pocket would surely give him away. Damn, why didn’t he fit in with convention and wear expensive stylish eyewear like everybody else? And then he realized. He didn’t need sunglasses.

  He turned toward the two men. They both looked in his direction, but the morning sun was still low in the sky and at Beck’s back. The sun blinded them as it had Beck, forcing them to shield their eyes and look away.

  Beck walked back toward the gardener and then picked up his stride. The workman still knelt on the lush Bermuda grass surrounded by a trowel, rake, plants, a pile of freshly dug dirt, and Franz’s shadow.

  He took several steps closer. Sancho Franz turned sideways, looking away from Beck, rubbing his eyes. The brim of his hat was not wide enough to shade his face.

  Though Beck picked up his pace even more, he felt like he moved in slow motion, his feet encased in lead. He watched Franz for signs of recognition, but Franz continued to look away.

  Beck stepped closer. Finally, he reached the gardener. He squatted to the ground, at the gardener’s level, so that Franz would not see his face hidden under the brim of his baseball cap.

  Beck handed the gardener his gloves. “Thanks. False alarm. The pressure problem must be at one of the neighbors.”

  The gardener stared at him. “Gracias.”

  Beck gazed back at the gardener’s pockmarked face. The man smelled of sweat, and his eyes seemed distracted, almost wild, and they looked right through him. Beck shuddered. Up close, the gardener looked menacing, not like a man who loved to mix his hands in the soil.

  Beck glanced away. He stared at Franz’s white shoes next to the gardener. They rocked back and forth on both heels, the cuffs of his white linen trousers rising over his pale, speckled socks with each impatient sway. It was the motion of a man in charge who had grown impatient. He needed to get away quickly before Franz discovered who he was.

  In one motion, Beck stood, careful to keep his back to Franz, and stepped back into the protective cocoon of the glaring sun. The bright curtain safely enveloped him and blinded the two men’s probing gazes.

  He heard their conversation pick up again in perfect English. Franz was berating the gardener. “It’s a good thing your hearing is so damned good, ‘cause otherwise I’d have never hired you, you one-eyed bat.”

  Beck tried to control his pace and not walk too quickly. As he reached the safety of his car, the conversation faded, but his thoughts sharpened. Bad eyesight mixed with acute hearing . . . of course. What he was beginning to understand gave him goose bumps. That far-off stare. It was the look of death. The man breathing life into plants and shrubs at Senator Bayard’s home had murdered the couple in the hotel and was still willing to kill Beck if he got the chance.

  Beck slipped silently into his rental car and looked back toward the mansion. The gardener was on his knees, back at work, and the man in the straw hat stood in the doorway of the mansion. The Greek greeted him with a bear hug. Wow, he’d gotten out just in time. Franz surely would have recognized him in the house.

  Beck was sweating profusely, despite the blast of cool air streaming from the rental car’s AC unit. He pulled the cheap phone from his pocket and nearly ripped off the back cover to check the battery. Tension drained from his body. It did not contain the listening device. That one was still in the mansion. He couldn’t help but smile as he wiped his brow. He immediately made a U-turn and headed back toward George Town.

  He punched redial on his phone. “Detective Tomlinson,” he said, “I think I know who your murderer is. The killer didn’t see the hotel clerk dial the room number when she called it the night of the murder. He heard it. He has very keen hearing. And you mentioned something about one of the clerks saying he had a strange, almost wild look in his eyes. This guy has that too.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Tomlinson asked. “Where are you right now?”

  “He’s the gardener at the Bayard place. I suspect if you match his DNA, you’ll have your man. And where am I? I’m out of here.”

  BECK WAS ON THE NEXT PLANE home. During a layover in Charlotte, while awaiting his connecting flight to DC, he called his landline at the condo. The answering machine picked up. He punched in his code to listen to his messages.

  Fahy’s telephone had picked up the conversation from the living room and transmitted it to Beck’s answering machine, something he wasn’t sure would work until he tested his theory in his hotel room in Florida. That’s when he realized all he needed to do was to figure out a way to hide the bugged phone in Bayard’s house and dial his own number.

  “We’ve got the money in various accounts here.” Beck heard Franz’s distinct voice.

  “Kertsos, have you all of your advertising time reserved?” Beck did not recognize this voice. It had to belong to the third man—the one who never got up from the couch. But as soon as he heard the name Kertsos, he finally remembered. He was the man at the front door. The Greek.

  “Everything’s ready.” Beck recognized Kertsos’s voice. “We just need the money moved immediately. I’ve got more than four hundred million in pro-Patten campaign ads ready to run, and we’re still waiting.

  You said we would have the funds two weeks ago. Betz, those ads won’t run if we don’t pay up front. And this Bayard fiasco has us clawing for e
very vote we can get. We’ve nearly lost a seven-point lead. If we don’t get this money now, we will lose this election.”

  Betz? Who was Betz? Beck wondered. The unknown Betz spoke again. “You shouldn’t have spent so much on your early get-out-the-vote drive. How much good does early voting do anyway?”

  “You know that wasn’t my decision. I’m the advertising guy,” Kertsos said. “I don’t do ground game. I wanted the money for advertising. That decision was made at the top. So now I’m short of cash. Don’t blame me.”

  Beck remembered now. Kertsos was William Kertsos, the communications director for Bayard’s defunct campaign. Beck had dug his name up from news clippings during his early research on Bayard. The press had labeled Kertsos “the General Store” for his ability to provide anything to a political campaign. His friends called him Wild Bill. If you needed something difficult done, you turned to him. But who were the others on the recording?

  “Patience. The money will be moved this afternoon,” Franz said. “I’ll funnel the money through the ten nonprofits we discussed. Only those ten. They have shown they can move efficiently and quickly. You figure out how you want to distribute the funds. That’s your problem.”

  “We will take care of that,” came a woman’s voice. It had to be the blonde, Beck thought. “All of our organizations are ready to move quickly as soon as the funds arrive.”

  “Then let’s celebrate,” Franz said. “There should be champagne in the fridge.”

  Beck heard his flight called and hung up. He would listen to the rest of it when he got home. See you on the front page, he thought.

  62

  Baker closed his office door behind Nancy and Beck and motioned them to sit down. Beck had arrived home late and was still sleepy from listening to the entire recording. It ran about thirty-five minutes before he heard the group leave the house.