"I'm afraid the Board was insistent. They're concerned because of the limited time remaining before the claim has to be paid."
"If I take on this case, you'll know exactly where the vehicle is before the claim has to be paid. That's the best I can promise."
Schiller hesitated for a few seconds. He was over a barrel but knew I had the best reputation in the business for solving cold cases. "Okay, Mr. James. I'll take care of the Board— somehow. And I'll have the materials and the letter on the way in an hour."
"I should also have a letter of introduction to the insured party so I can examine the crime scene."
"I'll include that as well."
"I look forward to receiving everything. This case will get my immediate and full attention until it's solved."
~ ~
Three hours later I received a call from the guard in the lobby that there was a delivery for me. The delivery person wouldn't leave it unless it had been signed for by me.
I put on my jacket to hide my service weapon and went down to the lobby. A young woman was standing at the desk.
"Are you delivering a package from Charles Schiller?" I asked.
"Yes, sir, Mr. James. He sent me down by helicopter so you'd have it as soon as possible. It was my first helicopter ride."
I smiled, signed for the box, and thanked the young woman.
"It's my pleasure, Mr. James," she said with a smile. "We flipped a coin to see who would get to deliver the box. I won."
I didn't know what to say, so I simply smiled at her again.
"Uh, could I get your signature?"
"I just signed for the package."
"No, I mean as an autograph."
"An autograph?"
"You're famous in Hartford— at least among people in the insurance industry. We started a pool today for how long it will take you to find the missing car. Do you have any idea yet?"
I signed the small notepad she extended towards me as I said, "Not yet, but I'll do my best."
"We're rooting for you, Mr. James."
"Thanks. Uh, what's your name?"
"O'Neil. Susan O'Neil."
"Have a safe trip back to Hartford, Susan."
As I rode the elevator back to the eleventh floor I had to smile. I had my first groupie. A recovery expert groupie?"
~ ~
The previous investigators had done their best, and I couldn't spot any holes in their efforts. The crooks were just too good. They had disabled two very sophisticated alarm systems and made a clean getaway without hurting anyone. And without even having the crime discovered until the owner returned home from his business trip.
After reading through all the materials sent to me and verifying that the recovery fee letter agreed with our telephone conversation, I set up the gizmo and solved the case. If only it was that easy with the FBI cases, but they were focused more on prosecuting the criminals than recovering stolen goods.
Time was short, so I made reservations for the following morning to fly to Maryland. It was a brief flight lasting less than an hour, and I would pick up a rental car when I arrived. I didn't make hotel reservations because I would only be there for a few hours. With my plans made, I contacted the car owner and told him who I was and when I'd be there.
He agreed to meet with me. If he hadn't, I would just have walked around the storage garage and left. I only wanted to get a better feel for the layout and kill a day as well. My biggest problem each time was making it look like I was as smart as— or smarter than— all the great fictional detectives in literature or the movies. And that was always a stretch.
Mia was already in bed when I entered the bedroom. She was looking through magazines, seeking inspiration for decorating the co-op.
"All finished for the night, darling?" she asked as I stripped off my clothes and slipped into bed.
"Yep. I have to go out of town tomorrow. I should only be gone for one day. I might even be back tomorrow night. I don't know yet."
She dropped the magazines onto the floor and rolled over to me. "You're going to leave me all alone?" she said as she rubbed my chest with her hand while rubbing my left leg with hers.
"Not for long. It's for the new case I mentioned."
"The stolen car?"
"That's the one."
"Just one day?"
"That's what I expect. And I don't want you sneaking away from your security people while I'm gone. And whenever there are workpeople in the co-op, I want you to always have at least two of your people here."
"Okay, darling."
"Promise?"
"I promise, darling."
"I'm serious. The people who attacked me at my last apartment might try again."
"I promise, darling. My security people may not be as good as you, but they are all professionals. My uncle would not have hired them if they weren't among the best."
* * *
Chapter Eight
The special garage constructed to house the antique car collection looked more like a museum than a garage. I found it more impressive than a similarly sized segment of the Smithsonian. The car's owner, Jeffrey Thaddeus Bolimer by name, was waiting with another man when I arrived. After shaking hands, he asked to see my ID, so I showed him my FBI ID and badge.
"FBI? I thought you were a private investigator."
"I'm an independent property recovery expert. In between private cases, I help the FBI solve and close their cold cases. I'm sort of a consultant, but they required me to become a Special Agent as part of our work agreement."
"I see— I think. So you're getting paid by the government when you're working for yourself?"
"No, I only get paid by the government for each case I actually solve and close, according to a sliding scale. If I don't solve a case they assign to me, I don't get paid for any of the time spent investigating it. And I'm working this case purely as a private citizen."
"Okay, I see." Pointing to the other man, Bolimer said, "This is Peter Hollingshead. He's my security expert. He set up the two alarm systems."
"Hello, Mr. Hollingshead," I said as I extended my hand.
"Hello, Mr. James. I've heard of you. I sort of expected to see you with a deerstalker hat and one of those fancy pipes with a curved stem and large bowl."
"What?" I said with a smile. "No magnifying glass?"
"I thought we'd see that once we were inside."
"I'm sorry. I'm just an ordinary man."
"Not to hear Charles Schiller talk," Bolimer said. "He told me my car is as good as recovered now."
"I'll do my best. Would you care to give me a tour of the museum, pointing out all of the security measures as we walk?"
"This way, Sherlock," Hollingshead said.
I accepted his remark as a compliment.
~ ~
Hollingshead showed how the thieves had bypassed his alarms and praised their ingenuity. He promised that the shortcomings had been corrected and could never be exploited again. The investigative reports I'd read praised his system and expressed genuine surprise anyone had been able to disable it. But that's the way it always seemed to be. Every time someone invented a better mousetrap, the mice got smarter.
"Thank you, gentlemen," I said as we wrapped up the tour. "I see no fault with the alarm system or theft-prevention measures. We just have a slightly more intelligent class of crooks this time around. I'll find your car, Mr. Bolimer."
"I hope so. It's not like I can just run out and buy a replacement. The last one sold allegedly went for over thirty-nine million. If I have to settle for the insurance, I can't afford to get a replacement. I know where there's one available, but the owner wants forty-eight million."
"Incredible," was all I could say in response.
"Yeah. I don't think he'll get it though. At least not for a couple of years. But the way the prices have been climbing, who knows?"
"Thank you for your time, gentlemen. I'm going to do my absolute best to recover the car, Mr. Bolimer, so don't put any nonrefundab
le deposits down on another car just yet."
~ ~
I made it back to the airport in plenty of time to catch my flight. When the announcement came that we were descending into Hartford, I put my tray table up and prepared for the landing.
After picking up my bag and arranging for a rental car, I called Schiller.
"Hello, James," he said when the connection went through. "Any problem with the agreement?"
"None at all, Mr. Schiller. Can you spare me a few minutes for a face to face?"
"Sure. When?"
"Now."
"Now? Like in today?"
"Like in an hour or so. I'm at Bradley International Airport."
"Uh, sure. Whenever you can get here."
"I'll see you within the hour."
~ ~
When I arrived at Schiller's outer office, I was immediately escorted into his office. Schiller stood up and extended his hand, and I shook it as we exchanged the usual greeting pleasantries. I then sat in the chair he indicated.
"So, to what do I owe this visit?" Schiller asked. "You said the recovery fee agreement is acceptable."
I took a deep breath and said, "Normally, I take my time and wrap up all the little details before contacting the insurance company, but we're in a time-imperative situation."
"Yes, we only have six weeks. Less than six weeks now, actually."
"I wasn't referring to the date you're obligated to pay the claim but that we have an opportunity to prevent the car from being shipped overseas if we act quickly. I'd much rather receive the six million than the ten percent, and I'm sure you'd rather avoid all the international entanglements involved with trying to get the car returned."
"What are you saying? That you know where the car is? That's impossible. You've only been working the case since yesterday."
I took an envelope from my inside vest pocket and held it out towards Schiller. He looked at me with some skepticism but took it, then opened it and read the brief report.
"Is this a joke?" he asked as he looked up.
"I never joke when there's six million dollars involved."
"But you couldn't possibly have located the car since yesterday."
"Why not?"
"Because— because— it's impossible."
"Then, what I think you should do is— call my bluff."
"What do you mean?" Schiller asked.
"Hop over to the airport and fly down to the Port of Savannah in the company jet. Give the shipping-container information I recorded in the letter to the customs people. Ask them to examine that container for illicit cargo. If you leave today, you can have them do that before the container is loaded aboard ship tomorrow."
"You're sure about this?"
"I wouldn't be here now if I wasn't."
"How did you possibly track down the missing car in one day."
"Computers."
"Computers?"
"Once upon a time, I was an IT guru. I lived and breathed computers. Anyway, these days most containers are weighed when they arrive at the shipping terminal. I simply estimated a weight range using the minimum weight of the car and the minimum weight of the shipping container as the base, and then searched all available shipping records in the U.S. looking for containers that fell within a certain range.
"Since it's too late to stop containers that have already completed their journey, I started with the latest recorded shipments and worked backwards to the date of the theft. If a check of the shipper credentials showed the company to be reliable, I skipped them and concentrated on the unknowns. Then I examined the manifests they had filed and their destinations. Anyway, to make a long, boring story short, I came up with a list of possible illegal transports. The weight of the container I identified in the letter is almost precisely what that container should weigh if it had the Ferrari inside. And with all of the other dynamics and requirements factored in, the odds that this container houses the stolen vehicle are ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent. So, it's the one most likely to contain the car."
"Most likely? You want me to fly down to Georgia on a hunch?"
"A hunch? Why did you come to me, Mr. Schiller?"
"Because— you're reputed to be the best."
"And yet suddenly you doubt me, and call my painstakingly careful and accurate investigative analysis a hunch?"
"You've only been working on this case for one day, James."
"And you feel that no one could possibly solve the case in one day because your people couldn't do it in ten months?"
"No. I mean— yes. You couldn't possibly accomplish in one day what they failed to accomplish in almost a year."
"Very well. I've just put the stolen car into your hands. If you refuse to follow up and recover the car while it's easily within your grasp, I won't be held responsible. I've had customers who were skeptical of my findings, but this is the first time anyone has refused to follow up when I've told them I found the stolen item. I guess there has to be a first time for everything." Standing up, I said, "Well, I'm headed back to New York. Good luck recovering the car once it arrives in China."
"China?"
"That's its destination. Just another one of those dynamics and factors I used in my analysis that you're calling a hunch. There are a great many nouveau-riche comrades in that country. And the Chinese government has been remarkably uncooperative in matters of international law so it's doubtful you'll be able to recover the stolen car within the six month policy payment exception."
"Wait a minute." Schiller stood up and took a turn around his office before saying, "If I go to Savannah and the car isn't in that shipping container, you owe me dinner at the best restaurant in New York City."
"I'll go you one better. Just for going to Savannah and examining the shipping container I've named in the letter, I'll buy you dinner at the best restaurant in New York City."
"Whether I find the car or not?"
"It's the least I can do for someone who is going to be giving me six million dollars this week."
~ ~ ~
The following afternoon I received a call from Schiller. I was working in my safe-room and had shut the vault door in an effort to block out the noise of the decorating efforts. It worked, and it was so quiet that I half jumped out of my chair when the phone rang.
"You owe me dinner at the best restaurant in New York City," Schiller said.
"The car wasn't in that container?" I said in complete surprise.
"Yes, it was. You owe me a dinner because I'm the man who is going to be handing over six million dollars."
"A promise is a promise."
"What about the perps?"
"I still have a bit of work to do there, but we've done the most important part by recovering the stolen car. I bet Mr. Bolimer is going to be happy."
"Happy? I naturally couldn't see him through the phone, but I suspect he was dancing on the ceiling of his museum as we talked."
"So everyone is happy. Except the thieves who lost their loot."
"I hope you can identify them before they get out of the country."
"I'll do my best."
"Colton, I apologize for doubting you. You are the best in the business."
"Thank you, Charles."
"Call me Charlie. Can I call you Colt?"
"Of course."
~ ~ ~
I had really hated to turn over the car to the insurance company so quickly, but it was absolutely necessary if I was to get the entire six-million-dollar recovery fee. The problem was that people would either start to get suspicious or perhaps expect me to do it every time. And I was sure that when Delcona heard, it would confirm to him that I really did have the gizmo. Of course, any crime I solved would probably have that result, but solving a crime like the car theft in one day would leave no doubt in his mind. And it might provide greater impetus for him to come after the gizmo again, even if he was being watched by law enforcement people.
I spent the next several days matching names to the perps who had
stolen the Ferrari and the names of the people with whom they'd had contact just before and just after the theft if I thought they might have some possible connection to the robbery. My final report was complete, as it should be for six million dollars. I couldn't provide any proof the perps had stolen the car, so they couldn't be arrested, but simply identifying them as suspects might make practicing their chosen profession more difficult for them in the future if the police named them as suspects.
The insurance company wired the recovery fee directly to my bank, and it swelled my depleted bank account tremendously. It would look impressive until the next quarterly income tax filing date. Using my bank's on-line account access, I moved three million dollars into the account where I stored the government's half-share of my earnings until it was time to send it to Washington and Albany.
When I had been a virtual pauper, I'd always chuckled when I heard political hacks say the wealthy had to pay their fair share. I knew even then, as I struggled to pay my rent each month, the wealthy paid at a much higher rate than the little people, many of whom paid no income taxes at all. During the 2012 presidential elections, a video of candidate Mitt Romney stating that forty-seven percent of Americans in the bottom tier of households paid no income taxes at all was used as part of the usual mudslinging. The clip was later credited with significantly damaging his chances of becoming President. One of the current presidential hopefuls had proposed that fifteen million people at the lower range of the employment scale be totally exempt from all payroll taxes. His idea of them paying their fair share was to give them a completely free ride. I'd often wondered if there'd ever been a politician who hadn't promised to lower taxes while increasing government services and benefits. Now that I was no longer a pauper, I grimaced as I turned over millions of dollars to the government because I imagined I could hear hacks spouting the party line that I still wasn't paying my fair share.
My mortgage with Fodor's company permitted me to make advance payments on the principal without penalty, and that naturally reduced the monthly interest payments, so I used two million to start paying down the balance. Two million down and fourteen million to go, I thought. Judging from the richness of the new furnishings, courtesy of Mia's wonderful taste, the million I held back might not even cover the co-op decoration efforts. It might soon be time to get another recovery job.
Vengeance Is Personal (A Colton James Novel, Book 2) Page 10