Sink, Swim, Die

by Jay Giles

  “Perfect,” Mackay said. “Will?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think we can we serve this realtor mid-afternoon, tomorrow, say around three? That’ll give her time to contact Heather Sloane and—if we’re right about all this—Sloane will contact Moreno. Since we don’t know where he is, we’re going to have to be ready for him as soon as the warrant is served.”

  “You think he’ll go to the house immediately?” Orahood wanted to know.

  “It’s a toss-up.” Mackay sighed. “He might if he’s in the Orlando area. If he’s not, it’s going to take him time to get there and he might not make his move until dark. If it were me, I’d have somebody keeping an eye on the house, make sure Will didn’t leave with the diamonds, and make my play when it got dark.”

  “Makes sense,” Orahood said. “I’ll be ready when you get here. I can involve more of our people if that would help.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Mackay said. “We’ve seen these guys in action and we’re bringing enough firepower to handle them.”

  “Mack, you know you’re welcome to use the MBI building as your base,” Orahood offered.

  “Thanks, John. We’ll take you up on that and park there until it’s time to deploy to the house.”

  Logistics settled, Mackay rang off. Orahood looked at his watch. I knew what he was thinking. We had a lot to do by two. While we worked, White called back again.

  “You win, Taggert,” White said. “They’ll pay you the ten million.”

  “Wise decision,” I said happily.

  “But they want you to know they expect all the diamonds, not a one missing. Got that.”

  “Got it. I’m going to have my assistant email you a contract to sign, detailing the exchange and the payment. Are you good with that?”

  “Is my signature good enough or do you want one of the big boys?”

  “Yours will do.”

  “Will this document have a timetable in it?”

  “No. But with recent events,” I looked over at Orahood, “I’d say we’re looking at something happening in the next 48 hours.”

  “Quicker the better.”

  “I agree. Start getting your money ready.”

  He laughed. “You’re a riot, Taggert.”

  An hour and a half later, Orahood and I were in the judge’s outer office. Despite being there at the appointed time, we weren’t ushered in until forty-five minutes later. A styrofoam clamshell and a Diet Coke can sat on the back of his credenza. Looked like the judge had just finished a late lunch.

  Sand, seated behind a massive desk, looked the part. He had snow-white hair combed stylishly to the side. He also had a well-tended, short white beard. What saved him from being mistaken for Santa Claus after a trip to the barber was a pair of high-fashion eyeglass frames—black around the lenses, purple paddles on the sides. He wore a blue button-down dress shirt with French cuffs and a burgundy and blue striped bowtie.

  He stood up, reached his hand out to Orahood. “Good to see you, John.”

  “You too, your honor. This is Will Taggert, an attorney assisting us in this investigation.”

  Sand swung his hand and attention my way. “Good to meet you, Mr. Taggert.”

  “Make it Will, your honor.”

  He smiled. “Please have seats.” He looked at his watch. It had a big round face and a metal band. Probably rare and expensive. “I have half an hour, so let’s get right to it.”

  Orahood looked at me, decided I might take too long, and gave Sand the summary overview himself. When he finished, he half stood and handed the warrant across the desk to Sand.

  Sand took it, swiveled his chair a quarter turn so he wasn’t looking right at us, and began to read. He read it once quickly, a second time in more detail. Two laps must have been enough. He swiveled to face us again, and fixed me with a stern look. “Mr. Taggert—”

  “Will.”

  “Mr. Taggert,” he said a note of admonishment in his voice. “While well prepared, this reeks of a fishing expedition. You have no idea if these diamonds are in the Sloane house, do you?”

  Orahood nervously glanced my way.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d been challenged by a judge. In fact, several of the judges I’d dealt with in my practice used this same tactic and tone—the judge taking the role of the disapproving parent and treating you as a troublesome child. It’s annoying.

  “With all due respect, your honor,” I said using a firm voice and a confident smile, “we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t know the diamonds were in the Sloane house. Our problem—and here’s where we need your assistance—is that they’ve had time to skillfully hide those diamonds, so we’re asking for a longer search window than you’d normally grant.”

  His brow furrowed, lips pursed. “I see.” He shifted his gaze and bore down on Orahood. “John, I’m assuming you and your people will be handling this search?”

  Orahood hesitated, probably trying to parse his answer so he couldn’t be caught in a lie. It was the your people that might have had Orahood nervous. His people wouldn’t be there, Mackay’s would. But we hadn’t wanted anything about that in the warrant because we’d be giving the warrant to Mimi. Orahood had hoped he could get by with the sin of omission. “Uh, yes. Of course, I will.”

  “Just you? You’re not talking more people. I knew Ban Sloane, and my wife and I’ve been to a dinner party there. That house is huge. How are the two of you, by yourselves, going to search it all?”

  Orahood knew he’d been caught. His gaze dropped to his hands. He was on a slippery slope.

  Sand’s brow furrowed, again. Deeper furrows this time. He leaned forward, his gaze hard on Orahood. “What aren’t you telling me, John?”

  Orahood took a deep breath, pretty much sucked all the air in the room into those big lungs, blew out. His gaze met Sand’s. “I should have probably explained, earlier, that this is a joint operation with the Sarasota force. I’ll be at the Sloane house, but they’ll have people there, too.”

  “Huh,” Sand sat back in his chair. “Now I’m really confused. Why would they have people there?”

  Down the slope and picking up speed.

  “Well, as you know, Judge, the diamonds were, uh, taken from the Sarasota police, so they have experience with the criminals who took them.”

  “But what’s that got to do with—” Sand started. Then it clicked. “You expect these people to show up at the Sloane house, don’t you?”

  Orahood nodded. “Yes, we do.”

  Sand looked horrified. “So we’re luring dangerous criminals to our community to engage in a firefight, is that it?”

  “Well, hopefully not a firefight,” Orahood answered.

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. This has disaster written all over it.” He gestured toward the warrant that rested between us on his desk. “I won’t sign it.”

  I felt sick.

  No diamonds. No Moreno. No ten-million buckos.

  Chapter 20

  Sand looked at his watch. Probably wanted us out of his office immediately. By my much-less-expensive Fossil, we still had three minutes in our allotted half hour. I was determined to put those three minutes to work. “Your honor, I was at the Sarasota police headquarters right after these criminals blew their way into the building and executed six people in cold blood. One of those murdered was a pregnant woman.”

  Sand grimaced.

  “One was an older man weeks from retirement. Another an officer I’d worked with who had become a friend. It was a horrific scene that left a lot of families grieving for loved ones. This may be the last chance the Sarasota police will have to capture the men responsible for those murders, the last chance to provide closure to families who desperately need it.

  “Yes, there’s a chance there will be a firefight. But as you know, the Sloane house is in the middle of an empty development. There’s very little risk outsiders will be hurt. It’s the good this could do for those families. I ask you to th
ink about that. Don’t dismiss this warrant because we did a poor job of explaining the issues behind it; sign it because it’s the right thing to do for those grieving families.”

  Judges hear a torrent of emotional appeals so I didn’t know how much sway mine would have. Other than that grimace, Sand had maintained a stone face worthy of a seat on the World Poker Tour.

  He frowned, drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the arm of his chair. Finally, looked over at Orahood. “Is all that true?”

  “Every word.”

  “Well, goddamit, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” He snatched up a pen, signed the warrant, handed it to Orahood.

  To me: “Nice closing argument, counselor.”

  He stood, indicating our meeting was finished, stuffed a pile of papers in his briefcase, and strode around his desk toward the door. On his way out the door, he looked back at Orahood. “Don’t let any of our people get killed.”

  • • •

  Orahood drove the Bureau Ford past wrought-iron gates, down the long pea gravel drive to a light pink Mediterranean modern sited to overlook the 5th hole of the very snooty Royal Palms Country Club. The façade featured different elevations, interesting window shapes, balconies, and those roofline gee-gaws that give Mediterranean modern an almost castle look. The grounds had to have been the work of a landscape architect. A good one. Palms and plantings were artfully placed and looked impeccably maintained.

  Orahood parked behind a black Mercedes CLS coupe. The plate read TOP DOLR. Guess if you pay that much for a car you spring for the vanity plate, too.

  “Nice,” Orahood said looking at the house as he stepped from the car.

  Oh, it was nicer than nice. Everything about his place was perfect. The design. The colors. The detailing. All that perfection came at a handsome price.

  Orahood quit gawking first. “Shall we?”

  We made our way to a large, arched front door made of aged Cyprus. Above it was an intricate wrought iron and glass awning. To the right side, an ornate brass plate with a doorbell in the center.

  Orahood pressed it; chimes sounded inside.

  We stood waiting expectantly.

  Orahood glanced at his watch, pressed the button again.

  We waited three more minutes. When no one appeared, Orahood tried the door handle and found the door wasn’t locked. He pushed in open. “Hello, anyone home?” he called out as we entered.

  “Hello, anyone here?” he tried again, his big, booming voice echoing in the two-story entry hall.

  Mimi appeared on the second floor landing. “The two of you, leave immediately, or I’m calling the police.” She waved her iPhone at us angrily to show she was serious.

  Orahood held up his badge. “Ma’am, I am the police. We need to speak with you. Will you step down here for a moment?”

  “How do I know you’re really police?” She questioned imperiously. “No one here called the police.”

  “I’m John Orahood with the Metropolitan Bureau of Investigation. Call—” He gave her the phone number. “They’ll verify who I am.”

  The prospective buyers appeared on the balcony with her. “What’s going on?” the husband wanted to know.

  “Police,” Mimi said tersely as she punched in the number. She asked about Orahood, listened for a moment, lowered the phone and said, “I don’t care who you are; this is not a convenient time for me. Call my office and make an appointment.”

  “Ma’am, please. Step down here for a moment so we can speak to you.”

  “No,” she said adamantly. “I’m in the middle of a showing. You can’t just show up like this.”

  “Yes, we can,” Orahood said firmly. “And if you aren’t cooperative, you’ll face obstruction of justice charges.”

  “Ridiculous.” She stormed down the stairs. “Obstruction? I’ll sue you for harassment. That’s what this is—harassment.” When she reached the bottom of the carpeted stairway, her six-inch high heels clack clack clacked on the hall’s white marble floor. “Nobody messes with Mimi. You’ll be a traffic cop when I’m done with you.”

  Mimi was drop dead gorgeous and knew it. Flaunted it. Put her in a line-up with Jennifer Lawrence, Mila Kunis, and Scarlett Johansson, and you’d pick Mimi. She had long ash blond hair that framed an oval face with mesmerizing deep blue eyes, high cheekbones, straight nose, and pouty red lips. She also had the body to go with that face. Long legs. Curvy hips. Thin waist. Lots and lots of cleavage. Very visible thanks to the scooped black sheath dress she was wearing.

  She stomped her foot on the floor, pointed at the door. “Get out.”

  Orahood appeared unfazed. “Are you Mimi Tophover?”

  Major eye roll. “What rock have you been under?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Orahood handed her the warrant. “You’ve been served.”

  Mimi looked aghast. “What?”

  “As the agent for Ms. Heather Sloane, I’m serving you with a warrant authorizing us to search the premises of the Sloane home.“

  Mimi stared at the papers in her hand as if they were radioactive. “That’s crazy. I won’t—”

  “I’d advise you to read the warrant, then we need to leave immediately for the Sloane house.”

  “Not going to happen.” She looked over her shoulder at the young preppie couple standing open-mouthed on the balcony. “I have the Muellers—”

  “That warrant gives us immediate access,” Orahood said gesturing at the warrant. “The Muellers can accompany you on the way over. You’re not required to stay during the search.”

  While the two of them were dancing around, I was looking at Mimi. Up close, her nose was too sculpted, lips too full, cheekbones too sharp. Boobs, well, her boobs looked several sizes too big for her frame. I wondered if she’d been the one to recommend Magic Miguel to Heather.

  Scowling, Mimi punched a number into her phone, shook her hair so she wouldn’t muss it holding the phone to her ear. “Lisa, Mimi. Listen, I have a policeman here with a warrant.” She gave Orahood the evil eye. “Can you believe it? He expects me to let him into a client’s house. I don’t have to do that, right?”

  We couldn’t hear Lisa’s side of the conversation, but judging by how Mimi’s expression soured, Lisa was saying if it was a court order she had to abide by it.

  “Thanks.” She clicked off. “What a nightmare.”

  She was still muttering as she herded the Muellers into her car. We followed close behind as she led us down the pea gravel drive to the street. As soon as we reached asphalt, she punched the accelerator and the big Mercedes shot ahead.

  Orahood, leaning forward and squinting through the windshield, pushed the Ford to keep up. “Look at the guy in the passenger seat. What’s he doing?”

  I looked. Orahood was right; he was doing something, but I couldn’t make out what. Then I got it. “He’s reading the warrant to her.”

  Mimi’s phone went abruptly to her ear.

  “Must have gotten to the part about the diamonds,” Orahood said with a dry chuckle.

  “Let hope its Heather Sloane she’s calling,” I sighed.

  Orahood snorted. “She’s already called her lawyer. Who else could it be?”

  Twenty-five minutes later—quarter after four by my watch—our little caravan arrived at The Castle. Heather parked her Mercedes in the circular drive, threw open the driver’s side door, and stormed back to confront Orahood.

  “Diamonds? That’s what this is all about. You can’t be serious.”

  Her gaze shifted to me. “This is all your fault,” she raged. “You’re nothing but a troublemaker. You brought that boat back. Got Ban killed. Now you’re harassing Heather.”

  I smiled.

  Nobody likes that kind of verbal abuse, but she was ranting about things she wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t talked to Heather. “It’s a big house,” I goaded Mimi, “but I’m going to search all night, and by this time tomorrow, I’ll have found the diamonds.”

  The Muelle
rs had wandered over and were ogling The Castle’s façade. It was as if the McMansions Mimi had shown them previously were on the dollar menu. The Muellers, it seemed, had a taste for the combo meal.

  To Mimi, the wife said: “Not crazy ‘bout the neighborhood, but the house looks really interesting. Are we going inside?”

  “No,” Mimi barked. “Get back in the car.”

  She punched in the code on the lock box, took out the key and unlocked the oversized double front door. “This property is immaculate. It better stay that way, understand?”

  Orahood smartly held his tongue.

  Mimi gave him a final hard look and walked angrily away. Before her car door slammed shut and she sped off with a flurry of flying gravel, I heard her say, “I know a place that makes the best fresh-mint Mojitos.”

  Orahood seemed relieved as we watched the Mercedes wind its way out of the unfinished development. I know I was. “Shall we?” I opened the front door, and we both stepped into the entry hall.

  Orahood’s gaze traveled the depth and breadth of the space. “Unbelievable. My whole house would fit in this one room.”

  My thoughts traveled back to a black-tie cocktail party held in this very entry hall. There’d been two bars set up and seventy or so guests mingling. It hadn’t felt crowded at all. Some new furniture had been added since I’d been here last. A baby grand piano was centered between the curved double staircases at the far end of the room. A large round, carved-leg table with an inlaid top was centered under the Italian crystal chandelier. On top of the table was a dried flower arrangement I’d heard Ban bellyache about. Can you believe it? Five thousand dollars for some shriveled-up old flowers in a vase that looks like a flea market find.

  Orahood had his phone to his ear. “We’re in.” He listened for a moment. “Good. We’ll watch for you.” He rang off quickly. “Mackay’s on his way.” His gaze, however, was taking in the room. “How much a month you think it costs to heat and cool this place?”

  “More than I make a month.”

  His head was shaking. “No concept of money.”

  “None at all.” I agreed as a blue Chevy panel truck with the words Dietrich Electric punctuated by crossed lightning bolts on the side pulled up to the front door.