The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  Chapter 18

  “Hey, Mather, drop me off at OTB. There’s just time for me to place a bet on the last race at Saratoga.”

  Cabrera had bemused me yet once again. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  He smiled impishly, his expression begging the question, “Well, am I or aren’t I?” The man was such an enigma. “Yeah, just kidding.” He checked the time. “We owe the good American citizens another two hours and twenty minutes by my count.”

  “I never thought of you as a clock-watcher.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m one of the best. I come from a long line of clock-watchers. You do understand the concept of overtime, don’t you? How else can I surround myself with extravagant Yankee memorabilia on a civil servant’s base pay?”

  Alas, I understood him well. The FBI dished out a lot of responsibility but paid very little. I loved Grace more than life, but the only reason my quirky and demanding mother was living with Liam and me was because it was the only way we could afford a house. Collectively, a federal agent, a local TV weathercaster, and a retiree made just about enough dough to own and maintain a modest home in suburbia. There’s got to be something wrong with that scenario. At any rate, I turned to Cabrera and gritted my teeth.

  The flight crew and passengers aboard the jet had been rescued successfully. Three of them were in good condition, but the pilot and copilot not so much. They had all been rushed to the hospital, and when we left JFK, emergency steps were being taken to prevent the aircraft from sinking. We’d have no access to Elias today, no answers of any sort—worse yet, there’d be no instant gratification for me, which made me an ungodly pain in the butt. “Why don’t you whip out your phone and call Rachel Rabin’s boss?” I said, letting my frustration fly. “Maybe we can swing by and say hello to the son of a bitch.”

  “Soto? I’ve been leaving messages for that slug for two days. The guy is never in the office. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he’s trying to avoid us.”

  Ya think? “Why don’t you try something clever? Call up and tell his secretary that he just won a million bucks in the Publisher’s Clearing House Giveaway.”

  “My, but you’re a crafty one, Mather.”

  “Yes. I’m completely devious. I routinely dupe octogenarians out of their hard-earned retirement savings.”

  Cabrera’s expression said, “Yikes!”

  “Give it a whirl, Danny Ocean.”

  His expression now said, “Huh?”

  “Ocean’s Eleven? Con artists? Flimflam men? Swindles? Hustles? Bunco? Is nothing coming to you?”

  He still appeared to be puzzled.

  “Never mind. Just give him a call, okay?”

  Records obtained from the Social Security Administration showed that Transglobal Freight Forwarders had employed Rachel Rabin. Their office was located in Queens, not far from JFK. All we had to do was confirm that Mr. Soto was in his office and voilà …

  Fifteen minutes later we stood in Transglobal’s reception area, which consisted of two chrome chairs upholstered with black vinyl. A monolith of an ashtray stood upon worn asphalt tiles between the two chairs. The weathered wall paneling was adorned with large calendars which had been supplied by commercial airline companies. They served as the only decoration on the walls of the spartan office. Painted steel desks were arranged in a seemingly haphazard manner. It was all very old looking—the walls, the floors, and the ashtray no one was legally allowed to use—the place was just one large relic. Young women of varying cultural backgrounds occupied the desks and were speaking on phones in a multitude of languages, English not among them.

  In addition to her clerical responsibilities, the woman sitting closest to the entrance seemed to serve as the company receptionist. Lorraine, as indicated by the plaque on her desk, looked to be thirtyish and was dressed in a tight sweater, jeans, and kicks.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Soto,” I said.

  “Are you the people from Publisher’s Clearing House?” she asked excitedly. “I can’t believe how lucky he is—a million dollars. Why is it that the rich only get richer?”

  “Nope. We’re not from Publisher’s Clearing House, but I’ve got a bigger and better surprise for him.” I flashed my credentials. “Ta-da!”

  Her eyes grew wide as she read my identification, and then she looked up at me. “Geez, you’re from the FBI? No way.”

  “Way. And we’re not from the FBI. We are the FBI.”

  Lorraine gritted her teeth. “Um, let me see if he’s in.”

  “Oh, he’s in all right.”

  “But-but—”

  “No buts, Lorraine. We know he’s here.”

  She stared at me with a puzzled expression.

  “Let’s just say the FBI works closely with Publisher’s Clearing House.”

  “Oh shit!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes,” I repeated. “Oh shit!”

  “Tell Mr. Soto we’re here and we know that he is as well.”

  Cabrera seemed more interested in Lorraine’s appearance than in what she had to say. She was made up like a Barbie, with dramatic eye makeup and bright red lipstick over her full, pouty lips. Cabrera leaned on his fists and made steely eye contact with her. “So, sweetheart, are you going to produce this Mr. Soto character, or do we have to barge in on the gent?” He spoke to her forcefully and with confidence. I could see by her expression that he had definitely made an impression on her. There’s nothing like a confident man to win over a woman.

  “I’ll-I’ll go check on him,” she said, and tripped as she got out of her chair. It was hard to believe how quickly he had gotten to her. If only she had seen him a few hours earlier, before I noticed him smuggling two members of ZZ Top under his shirt.

  I spoke in the voice of a southern belle. “Why, Dominic, I had no idea you were such a ladies’ man. Sweet little Lorraine seems to have come down with a sudden case of the vapors.”

  “Yeah, some women like a man who’s a little rough around the edges.”

  Rough around the edges? Cabrera was absolutely crag-like. “So you’re sort of the Robert Mitchum type, I guess.”

  Cabrera seemed to ponder my comment for a moment and then winked roguishly.

  Before we knew it, Lorraine was on her way back. “You can go right in,” she said. “Mr. Soto is just getting off the telephone.”

  “Thanks, hon,” Cabrera said. He paused a moment to drink her in, sending a message with his eyes.

  I could see that Lorraine’s blood pressure jumped twenty points. Who would’ve believed it?

  The man sitting before us was Faiza Soto, the president and owner of Transglobal Freight Forwarders. We’d done a full background check on him, which should have been far more illuminating than it was. Unfortunately, Soto had spent a good deal of his life in Europe, which made his file incomplete at best. A formal request had been made to obtain any international records the CIA and Interpol may have on him, but they had not yet been received. According to immigration records, Soto had become a US citizen in 2003 and purchased Transglobal shortly after his naturalization. Other than traffic violations, Soto had no police record in the US. According to the IRS, he was unmarried and had no children. I was unhappy about the small amount of knowledge we possessed as we headed into the meeting. All things being equal, I would’ve preferred to delay our interview until the CIA responded with his pre-immigration records, but with Elias already in the country …

  The matter had also reached the office of Israel’s prime minister, who had reached out to the White House. The president had phoned the director of the FBI himself, demanding “quick work.” It was an election year, and the president was not going to forsake the powerful Jewish vote.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” Soto said. He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “I must say I was surprised to receive a phone call from you.”

  Mr. Soto was a well-aged gent. Rising to greet us, he appeared to be as wide as he was tall, no more than five foot three or so
. He had thinning hair, a moustache, and long fuzzy sideburns. His skin appeared dark and greasy. The room reeked of his cologne. Soto took a cigar from the humidor and offered one to each of us. “It’s a filthy habit I’ve acquired, but don’t worry, I won’t light up.”

  Of course you’re not going to smoke. Oddly, I’m always given pause when I meet a man who enjoys the feel of a phallic symbol in his mouth. I examined one of the cigars, savored its bouquet, and replaced it in the humidor. I mean, does he really think I smoke cigars? “Monte Cristo, I hear they’re wonderful.”

  “Yes, I’m positively addicted to them. Please take one,” he insisted in his thick accent. “If not for you, take one for your husband.”

  “I’m not married, and it’s not a good idea for a law enforcement officer to accept contraband.”

  “Sorry, Agent … Mather.” Apparently Soto had to fish for my name. “I don’t follow.”

  “Monte Cristos are rolled in Cuba.”

  Soto chewed the end of his cigar and pushed comfortably back in his chair. “I didn’t realize,” he said, dismissing the comment in a cavalier manner.

  My antennae went up. I immediately sensed the kind of person we were dealing with: a complete and utter phony. Puh-lease. I’d dealt with his kind before—always hiding behind I-don’t-understand, or sorry-my-English-is-not-so-good, attempting to convince you that they didn’t understand what you were saying when, in fact, they knew what you were going to say before the words came out of your mouth. “Mr. Soto, what can you tell us about a former employee of yours, Rachel Rabin?”

  “Rachel … Rachel Rabin? Let me see.” Soto drew circles in the air with his cigar as if he were drawing her image on an air canvas. “Yes, yes, I remember now. Rachel. Yes. I hope nothing is wrong.”

  “For starters, how long did she work here and in what capacity?”

  “I’m trying to picture her in my mind. Let’s see … Rachel, Rachel.”

  His demeanor bothered me, exaggerating the notion that he remembered her in only the most vague sense. It was like sitting down at the table with a fortuneteller. I had the feeling that at any moment he might ask us to join hands so that he could communicate with the great beyond.

  “Let me refresh your memory Mr. Soto. Rachel Rabin, pretty kid, age twenty-five, worked just on the other side of your door. Does that clear things up for you? Oh, and let me add one more detail. She’s dead.”

  “Oh no … poor Rachel.” Soto suddenly appeared to remember her. “The poor child. What happened to her?” He seemed completely stricken. I watched with amusement as he transformed himself into the picture of concern. “Tell me, please, Agent … Mather.”

  I couldn’t believe that his memory denied him again. What a douche.

  “What has happened to that darling child?”

  “We were hoping that you could tell us.”

  “Me? How could I tell you?” He appeared to be troubled, but I took it as just one more tool in his acting repertoire. “All I can say is that she worked here. Rachel was multilingual. I do business with many foreign countries. It’s helpful to have someone who speaks the tongues.”

  “Good. I see your memory is improving,” I interjected sarcastically. “How did she come to stop working here?”

  “She took off. I don’t know. Like many of the girls who’ve worked here.” Soto pointed to the front office with his cigar. “They work, they work, they work, and then they disappear. This is not new in my business. There are no Gehrigs or Ripkens out there, I can tell you for certain. None of them are looking to break the Iron Man record. They work until they’ve had enough, and then they leave.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Just like that.” Soto threw his hands skyward. “You try to figure it out.”

  The man bent with the wind, assuming whichever emotion best suited his predicament, but I was determined. “Ya know, Mr. Soto, please excuse my English, but I have the sense that you’re completely full of shit.”

  Soto looked bewildered. He pointed his cigar at Cabrera, hoping to distract me. “What? This one doesn’t talk?”

  “Talk to me, Mr. Soto,” I demanded. “We hear this girl was important to you, speaks a hundred languages, and negotiates all your foreign deals. Seems like she was pretty important around here. She disappears into thin air and what, it’s business as usual? I don’t know; if this was my business, I think I’d try to find out what the hell happened to a valuable asset like that. Did you ever think of picking up the goddamn phone?”

  He looked nervous. Sweat broke out across his forehead. “Of course I called her, but she never called back. I left messages on her machine, but she never replied.” He looked at Cabrera, hoping he’d throw him a bone.

  Cabrera saw that Soto was struggling and piled onto the fray. “Sounds like one goddamn long line of bullshit to me. You’d better fess up, Soto. We’re not here to fuck around with you.”

  Short but to the point. “Anything else you want to tell us, Mr. Soto?”

  Soto pulled himself up to his full five foot three inches. “I’m telling you the truth.” He pounded his fists on the desk. “I’m telling you everything I know.”

  “All right, you don’t want to talk to us, fine, but you can bet your slimy ass that we’ll be back.” I stared directly into Soto’s eyes and took a business card off his desk. “I’ll need your home phone number as well. Write it down on the back of your business card. Who knows what else I’ll think of … or when? My inspirations usually come to me in the middle of the night.” I turned to Cabrera. “Let’s go.”

  Cabrera grinned at me after we got back into my SUV. “You came on pretty strong in there, Gumdrop. For a minute I thought you were going to punch out his lungs.”

  “Puh-lease. I can’t stand phonies like that. He was obviously completely full of shit. It just picks at my last nerve.”

  “So you think he knows something?”

  I nodded dramatically. “Oh, he knows plenty.”

  “You think Soto did it? You think he murdered the girl and hacked her up?”

  “I doubt it. More likely he’s covering for someone, someone a lot more ruthless. I’m curious to see if the CIA’s got anything on him. One way or another, this guy’s going to get tied into the case—count on it.”

  A light bulb flashed in my mind and made me grin.

  “What’s with that look, Mather? You look like the devil just whispered in your ear or something.”

  “Let’s see if you’re really the lady-killer you claim to be. Why don’t you take Lorraine out for a meal? I’ve got a feeling that she might be a real talker once you warm her up a little. Lots of good cafés around here—fill her belly and her imagination.”

  Cabrera faked a shiver. “Geez, Mather, you make me feel so cheap. You do know that I’m more than just a pretty face, don’t you?” He laughed at his own comment. “I’ll see what I can do.” He pulled out his smart phone and checked his schedule. One appointment popped up. It read Pisher, Pecker, and Weiner: Urologists.

  Pisher, Pecker, and Weiner: Urologists? Geez. You just can’t make this stuff up.

  “I can see her after I go to my doctor’s appointment in the morning.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “I’m trying to pass a kidney stone the size of Mount Rushmore. It looks like I may need a Roto-Rooter job.”

  I grimaced. “It’s stuck in there?”

  “Yeah. I think it’s hung up on Thomas Jefferson’s nose.”

  I smirked. “Sorry. That’s got to be painful.”

  “Man problems,” he stated reluctantly. “They say it’s worse than having a baby.”

  “Well then, you’ll be a better man for the experience.”

  He shook his head in bewilderment. “Anyway, if I want Mr. Pacino to keep flapping like a windsock during a crossfire hurricane …”

  I wonder if the Rolling Stones would have appreciated his reference to “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” I thought that I had a sharp tongue, but it appeared that I had truly met my match. “My
, but you’ve got a way with words.” I started the SUV and put it in gear. “It’s been an interesting day, Mr. Cabrera.”

  I was feeling pretty worn out as I drove home. We’d been called in to investigate the murder of a young woman, a matter I never expected to solve simply, but after today’s events, I had the sense that we had only seen the tip of a giant god-awful iceberg.

  Chapter 19

  “You’re kidding? That was the man you were supposed to meet at the airport?” Grace was absolutely flushed with excitement. The story about the Israeli Air Force jet’s emergency water landing was the top story on all of the TV news shows. “I can’t believe it. He landed the plane all by himself? And in the water?”

  “Yes, Grace. All by himself.”

  My mother had lived most of her life stateside but had never completely lost her English accent. She cherished her heritage, and although she said bathroom instead of loo and elevator instead of lift, she left you with no doubt as to her British birthright. “That’s unbelievable. He must be like that other pilot, Sullenberger, the one who landed in the Hudson River.”

  I thought about her comment. “Well, kind of but not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

  “Sully Sullenberger was an active commercial pilot who landed a compromised jet. Elias is a retired pilot who landed a perfectly good private jet that had a compromised flight crew.”

  “Tomato, to-mah-toe, what’s the difference?” She shrugged. “The marines did this to you. Everything isn’t black and white, Chloe. Why do you always have to be so literal? Does everything have to be so orderly? For God’s sake, I look at your bedroom closet and I get the willies.”

  “What’s wrong with my closet?”

  “What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong—it looks like a robot organized it for you. Every suit is on a matching hanger and spaced exactly two inches apart. I mean, my God, do you measure the spacing with a ruler? And your drawers—socks and underwear in stacks and rows—it’s not normal.”