by Tom Turner
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, and the guy started hemming and hawing.”
“And?”
“Finally tells me . . . he fell asleep last night, wakes up and sees this note on his windshield. It says, ‘Sorry I missed you. Nick G.’ ”
“That was pretty ballsy,” Crawford said, with a laugh. “Hey, Jaynes got his envelope a little while ago.”
“I know. I talked to McCarthy; she’s real excited about her new starring role. Chick’s way into it.”
“Yeah, Jaynes’s guys will be all over her after she meets with him, you know.”
“Tailing her, you mean?”
“Yeah, but they’re gonna know they can’t do it for long without getting made. So they’ll plant a bug, I figure.”
“So she’ll lead ’em up to Misty’s doorstep?”
“Exactly,” said Crawford, going up the station’s elevator.
“Probably bug her car while she’s meeting with Jaynes, right?”
“Yeah, that’s their best shot,” Crawford said, getting off the elevator.
He saw Ott in his cubicle thirty feet away.
Ott switched the phone from one ear to the other. Crawford saw a grin spread across his partner’s face.
“You got this all scripted out, don’t ya, Charlie? Just like Steven fucking Spielberg. Like you’re inside of Jaynes’s fucked-up head.”
Crawford watched Ott put his feet up on his desk as he approached him.
Ott looked up and saw Crawford.
He clicked off his cell. “Oh, hey, Charlie.”
Crawford sat down in the chair next to Ott.
“So then the pros show up to take out the sisters—”
“And we’ll be the welcoming committee,” Crawford said, grabbing a pen and tapping it on a coffee mug.
Ott looked away and didn’t say anything.
“Okay, Mort, what’s going on in that big, lopsided head of yours? It’s almost smoking.”
“Sure you don’t need to run this by Rutledge?”
“Don’t go soft on me now, Mort,” Crawford said, shaking his head slowly.
“I just—”
“You just what?”
“It’s just . . . we got ourselves a real high-stakes game goin’ here.”
Crawford put the pen down and smiled up at Ott.
“Yeah, no kiddin’ . . . just the kind of game a gnarly, old fuck like you was made for.”
FORTY-FOUR
When the blackmailer called, Jaynes was shocked to hear a woman’s voice.
“I’m the one who sent the pictures,” the voice said. “Meet you at your house at twelve.”
Jaynes knew it was time to grab the wheel.
“No, my office. 12 Philips Point.”
“Fine,” the woman said.
“Tell the guy at the parking garage you got an appointment with me. Save you a couple bucks.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Jaynes.”
“CHARLIE,” DOMINICA said on her cell phone, “meet’s set for twelve.”
“His place?”
“His office, told me to park in his parking garage.”
“He’s gonna bug your car there.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“No, that’s a good thing.”
“Why?”
“Just trust me. I’ll tell you later. I want you to leave your cell phone in the passenger seat, too.”
“Why?”
“So they can bug that, too.”
JAYNES GOT the call from the gate attendant a few minutes before twelve.
“Mr. Jaynes, your visitor’s in a dark gray Camry, license plate 1Z55431.”
“Thank you.”
Jaynes dialed a number. “Dark gray Camry, plate number 1Z55431.”
He hung up.
Jaynes looked at his watch. Five minutes later his secretary buzzed him. It was not unusual for her to work on Sunday. He paid her a big salary and she had no life. She told him his visitor had arrived.
A minute later she knocked on his office door. Jaynes was writing something. He didn’t look up until after his secretary had left the room and closed the door. A beautiful woman was standing there. She had a dark complexion, a body that looked hard and tight and an expression of focused enmity.
“You’re not exactly what I expected,” he said.
Her eyes drilled into his.
If she was nervous, Jaynes couldn’t see it.
“I was expecting someone with a shiny suit and thin black tie.”
He was trying to charm her. It didn’t take.
“My name is Jennifer Montell, I’m Misty Bill’s sister.”
Jaynes didn’t let his face show anything. Her sister? The girl and this woman didn’t seem to have anything in common except very dissimilar good looks.
“Not the same father,” the woman said, like she was in his head. “Mine had an IQ.”
Jaynes laughed and pointed to a chair.
She shook her head. “Let’s take a walk outside.”
“What? You think I have a listening device in that pen or something?” Jaynes asked.
“You probably do.”
He shrugged and they walked through the reception area and out into the corridor.
“This okay?” Jaynes asked, stopping. “We could always go onto my roof garden. Or are you afraid I might have something planted in a potted palm?”
She was close to him now.
“No, that you’d throw me off.”
Jaynes laughed.
“If I was that kind of guy, I’d have some goon do it for me.”
“You saw the pictures?”
“Of course,” he said, and without warning he stepped into her space. “Open your blouse.”
She smacked him in the mouth.
“Meeting’s over,” she said, starting to walk away. “Photos go out after I call my sister.”
“Whoa, whoa,” he said, touching his mouth, looking for blood, “just wanted to make sure you weren’t wearing a wire.”
Her hands went to her top button. She undid it, then the other three. She pulled open her collared top.
“Okay?”
“More than okay,” Jaynes leered.
“Asshole.”
He laughed. “You’re a feisty one.”
“You’re gonna pay for taking my brother’s life.”
Jaynes took out his wallet, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and dangled it.
“Price just went up $5 million,” she said. “I want $25 million now.”
Jaynes chuckled. “Who doesn’t?”
“In unmarked hundreds.”
Jaynes smiled and held up his hands. “Let’s just say I play along. Agree to give you something—”
“Not ‘something’ . . . $25 million.”
“First of all, where would you suggest I get that kind of money? It’s Sunday. Think I got it under my mattress?”
“Not my problem. Just get it to me by eight tomorrow night. Last time I checked, banks are open on Monday. I did some math. If you’re worth $4 billion dollars, like I read, $25 million is around half a percent of your net worth . . . so just look at it as a tip.”
“You’re a piece of work. Sure you’re related to that girl?”
“That girl? You mean the sixteen-year-old kid who you—”
“Please, spare me,” Jaynes said, raising his hands. “Best thing that ever happened to you and her.”
Dominica’s face quickly morphed from a frown to a smile.
“You know, you might have something there.”
“You’re good, very good. Somebody I’d actually hire.”
“Thanks,” she said, heading for the elevator, “but I’ll be retiring soon.”
FULBRIGHT was reading the Palm Beach Press. About the hotshot New York homicide detective who liked to kick Spanish guys when they were down. Right after getting the call, they had driven west on Okeechobee, past the tree farms and evangelical churches, and located the house where the girl lived. They weren
’t surprised to find nobody there and the girl’s closet half-empty. They tossed the place anyway, looking for phone numbers or any sign of where she went. All they found were a couple of pictures of the girl.
The subcontractor told them the guy who ordered the job wanted them to go to a parking garage in an office building in West Palm at quarter past twelve. They’d have fifteen minutes to break into a car, plant bugs.
“A no-brainer,” Fulbright said, as Donnie drove them into the garage, “so we know the whereabouts of our intended . . . at all times.”
Donnie thought it was classy how Fulbright used words like “whereabouts” and referred to someone who would soon be dead as “our intended.”
“What kinda car again?” Donnie asked, as he drove up the ramp.
“Dark gray Camry, tag 1Z55431.”
It still impressed Donnie the way Fulbright would hear something just once, then memorize it for life. Ten-digit phone numbers, anything. Donnie was only good up to three numbers for about two minutes.
Fulbright pointed to a car, “There.”
Donnie parked right next to the Camry and popped the lock in under two minutes. This was another specialty of his, along with driving fast and shooting straight.
He saw the cell phone on the front passenger seat.
“It’s like they’re trying to make our job easy,” Donnie said, pointing to the cell phone.
“Awesome,” Fulbright said, “I got the perfect size bug for that.”
Fulbright opened the cell phone and put a fingernail-size chip in it, then found a spot under the dashboard and taped a bug there.
At 12:21 they were done and had wiped the Camry clean.
Donnie got behind the wheel of Fulbright’s new Navigator and calmly drove down the ramp of the parking garage, putting his Aviators back on and pulling down the bill on his Seattle Mariners baseball cap. Fulbright slumped down in his seat and held the paper up over his face. Donnie paid the attendant on the ground floor, nodded and drove out.
OTT WAS handy with a camera and even better at making sure he never got spotted. He and his telephoto lens were fifty yards away when the two drove up. He watched them from behind a dark-tinted rear window. He got twelve good shots of the two. They reminded him of Mutt and Jeff on a bad day.
DOMINICA, STANDING next to Jaynes, pressed the elevator button. Within seconds the high-speed elevator hummed to a stop. Dominica got in and pressed the button, but the doors didn’t close. She looked out at Jaynes. He had his hand on one of the doors to prevent it from closing.
“You sure you know what you’re doing, Jennifer, or whatever your name is? That you’re not in over your head?”
The predatory look on his face chilled her, but she forced out a smile.
“It would be terrible for something to happen to that beautiful face.”
“Just worry about getting my $25 million,” she said, then leaned back casually against the rear of the elevator.
“Give me your cell number.”
Without moving a muscle, she recited it as he wrote it down.
“Tell you what, I’ll give you ten million. You bitch about it not being enough, I drop it a million for every word you say.”
She didn’t hesitate.
“Twenty-five million.”
“That makes it $7 million. Take it or leave it.”
“Leave it,” she said, pushing the elevator button.
He just stared at her and kept his hand on the door.
She pushed the button again.
He let go of the door.
“I look forward to spending your money, Mr. Jaynes.”
FORTY-FIVE
Nick high-fived Lil just inside the front door at El Vedato.
“You were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”
Ward Jaynes had come to the Robertson house right after meeting with Dominica.
He was just about to stroke a check for $2.7 million—for a painting which Lil referred to as an “important” Bacon, and an option on two Freuds—when Lil asked him if he would wire transfer the funds instead. Nick was certain he detected a barely suppressed smirk on Jaynes’s face as he left, like he felt he’d gotten one over on Lil.
Somehow, Nick doubted it.
So far—including the $800,000 for the Hopper—Jaynes had committed to a total of $3.5 million. That was after having Lil and Nick sign a twelve-page contract he had his lawyers draw up, ensuring that he got the paintings just as soon as Spencer Robertson went cold. Nick had volunteered—not too eagerly, he hoped—a copy of a bogus will he’d paid a lowlife lawyer 500 bucks for. The guy was a Viggo’s regular who owed him a favor. Jaynes looked over the will carefully, then looked up and said menacingly to Lil, “Hey, if there’s any problem, I know where to find you.”
Before finalizing the sale, though, Jaynes demanded to see Spencer Robertson.
Nick wouldn’t have been surprised if he had shown up with a team of doctors. Jaynes told them the last time he saw Robertson was at the Poinciana five years before. Said the old guy was starting to babble even back then. Giving people weird nicknames, too.
Robertson was asleep when they went in to the dark room. Jaynes clicked on the bedside lights on either side of the bed, but Robertson didn’t wake up. Jaynes pressed in close to the old man, studied his crazy quilt of liver spots and pried open one of his egg yolk eyes with thumb and forefinger.
“Six . . . eight months max,” Jaynes declared.
Then he turned away and, not bothering to turn out the lights, walked out of the room.
Nick slid a pillow under the old man’s head and turned off the bedside lights.
After Jaynes left, Lil asked Nick whether he had any champagne. It was time to celebrate, she said.
Nick said he’d check. He didn’t think there was any left, remembering how Dickie had powered through copious amounts of it, until he wised up and started hiding it.
Nick went to the wine cooler in the kitchen. There was one bottle left, but it was chardonnay, not champagne.
Lil seemed disappointed, but forced it down anyway. The whole bottle, in fact.
LIL WAS going around the library, wine glass in her left hand, pad in her right, a pen between her teeth. Going from painting to painting, she was taking inventory of those she hadn’t yet optioned. She’d get to one, stop, put down the glass, write the name of the artist, the year it was painted and—if there was one—the name of the painting.
Nick watched her closely. He got the sense that what she was really seeing were giant dollar signs.
He watched her go into Spencer’s bedroom like Jaynes had done before, and seemingly oblivious to the smell of rot, flatulence and VapoRub, inventory the four paintings on the walls there. Nick waited for her in the living room. He went and turned on the TV and caught the tail end of The Real Housewives of New York City.
The bitchy one, Ramona, was going off on the ditzy one, Robin, when Alcie walked in. He had been in his room, apparently fully confident of his partners’ abilities to conduct their flourishing new business.
“Where’s Lil?” Alcie asked.
“Looking at paintings.”
“Think she’d get sick of all that shit.”
The phone rang. A rare sound at 101 El Vedato. Nick looked at Alcie.
“Hey, I’m retired, don’t do phones no mo’.”
Nick noticed how Alcie had gone from speaking the King’s English before to talking street now . . . with a little Ebonics thrown in.
“Hello,” Nick answered the phone.
“This is Avery,” said the voice, “who’s this?”
Ho-ly shit. Nick felt like someone had bitch-slapped him across the room.
“Ah, this is Nick,” he sputtered.
Alcie inched closer, knowing something was wrong.
“Hi, Nick,” the voice said, “I’m Spencer’s grandson, you work there?”
Nick felt a surge of panic; the whole gig was about to crash and burn.
“Yes, I do,” he said, wobbly.
“Do me a favor, I know my grandfather’s not doing so hot, just tell him I’m coming down to see him.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll tell him.”
“Make sure you do.”
The guy sounded just like his cousin, Dickie.
“When, will you, ah, be arriving, Mr. Avery?”
Alcie flinched when he heard Nick say the name.
“I’ll be there in ten days.”
Thank, God. At least they had a little time.
“Very good, sir. I’ll tell your grandfather. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. I look forward to the pleasure of meeting you.”
Avery had already hung up.
Nick’s legs felt shaky.
“Avery Robertson,” Nick said, “gonna be here in ten days.”
“The real deal,” Alcie said, a frown appearing on his shiny face. “Shit.”
Quaking, Nick went and sat down.
“We’re gonna be okay,” Nick said, struggling to focus. “Just need our partner to pick up the pace.”
Lil walked into the living room. She looked a little unsteady from the chardonnay.
“What’s wrong?” she said, seeing their faces.
“Oh, nothing. How long do you figure it’ll take you to option off everything in the house?”
“All of it?” Lil asked, then a pause. “Bet I could get it done in two weeks.”
Nick didn’t hesitate.
“You got a week.”
FORTY-SIX
Jaynes went back to his office, sat down at his desk, put his hands together as if in prayer, and thought about his next move. Number one—the obvious—was to stall Jennifer Montell on the money. Number two, he decided, was to call the “lawyer” and get him to dial up the subcontractor right away, add a bonus to get the job done fast.
Then he relaxed a little. In a little more than twenty-four hours it would all be history. He could go back to busting the kneecaps of Fortune 500 corporations and buying art on the cheap.
THE SUBCONTRACTOR called Fulbright right after he heard from Jaynes’s “lawyer,” a man who he called Mr. Williams, even though he had dug around and found out his real name and identity. The subcontractor told Fulbright that the man who ordered the hit now wanted a double. The girl, Misty, and her older sister, Jennifer. Said the client was a very impatient man and wanted it done yesterday. He had upped the fee to $500K—if they got it done in the next twenty-four hours. But he had thrown in a penalty clause, only two fifty if it took longer than that. Fulbright grumbled, but what could he do? He was already on the case. Psychologically committed. That was how he got. Besides . . . $500K. That was serious money, just for offing a couple of low-rent bitches. Just as important, it would catapult Donnie and him to the top of hitter hierarchy. No other guys got that kind of cash.