“You mean you didn’t search under there?”
“Uh-oh. I sense another teachable moment coming on.” Before he took early retirement, Snoop had been a Port City police detective longer than I had been alive. When I was his partner, he’d taught me most of what I know about the detective business. He was my go-to guy when I didn’t know what to do. To call him a mentor would be a gross understatement of the depth of our friendship. He was almost a second father.
I sighed. “No, Snoop, I only searched the glove compartment. When I found the car rental contract, I thought ‘Oh goody’ and stopped looking. Let’s have the lecture.”
“Okay, consider yourself lectured to.” He opened the passenger door and squatted by the curb to look under the passenger seat. “Hand me your Maglite.” He flipped the back of the seat up and stepped onto the narrow floorboard in front of the convertible’s slender rear seat. “Help me get this seat out.”
I did. We found an unopened foil-wrapped condom beneath the seat, as well as thirteen cents. Snoop put the coins in his pocket without a word. He tossed me the condom. “Maybe you’ll get lucky, sport.”
We replaced the rear seat and took our places in the front. I tried to turn the flip-phone on. “Battery’s dead. Will your charger fit this?” I handed him the phone.
Snoop pulled a cellphone charger from his jacket pocket and tried it in the flip-phone. “Yeah.” He plugged the charger into the cigarette lighter. After a few seconds, the phone came to life. He scrolled through the address book. “There’s two numbers in the contacts list. An area code 212 number for a Jerry and a 302 area code with no name attached to it. Evangelina said Gracie’s agent was named Jerry Greenbaum. You want me to reverse look up the numbers?”
“Yeah. Write down both numbers while I check out the phone.”
Snoop jotted down the numbers and handed me the phone.
I punched a few keys. “There’s a text message from Jerry.” Sharky wants his money. He is becoming insistent. You cannot ignore this any longer. He has threatened me too. I scrolled to the earlier messages.
“The 212 number is listed to Jerry Greenbaum,” said Snoop. “The 302 number is in Wilmington, Delaware. It’s listed to XPVV Corporation.”
Gracie’s agent had sent the texts about Sharky. In the more recent ones, he became increasing more upset.
I checked for texts from the Wilmington number. Confirm you are on the guest list for the ferry. See you tomorrow. Regards, Vic.
I handed the Mango Island golf cart index card to Snoop.
He glanced at it. “XPVV Corporation. The same company that rented the rooms in the Port City Palace.”
“And owns the Mercedes that left the parking garage right before that Aerostar van. You know, when Terrence saw that XPVV name, he clammed up. He knew enough about it to be scared.” I tapped my cellphone screen. “Call Flamer,” I told the phone.
The phone call went through. “Flamer, you got anything on XPVV Corporation yet?” I put the phone on speaker.
“XPVV Corporation is a Bahamian corporation with a registered office in Newark, New Jersey. The New Jersey address is in care of Lambrusci & Partners. Lambrusci is a law firm with ties to organized crime and some legitimate casinos. The Lambrusci firm has an office three blocks from the Double Down Casino in Atlantic City.” Flamer paused. “Oh, yeah, and the Double Down Casino is owned by a privately-held REIT.”
“What’s an REIT?” asked Snoop.
“Real estate investment trust,” Flamer answered. “Some tax thing, Snoop. Guess where the REIT’s registered address is?”
“The same law firm,” said Snoop.
“Give that man the prize. The same REIT owns a Double Down Delaware Casino in Wilmington.”
I said, “We just found out that someone named Vic sent Graciela a text message from a number in Wilmington that’s listed to XPVV Corporation.”
“Hmm. You want me to check out the Delaware casino?”
“Yeah. Anything on the Aerostar van?”
“I ran the Jersey plates. It belongs to Lambrusci & Partners.”
“Okay. Another link to the Double Down Casino maybe.” I glanced at the index card. “See who really owns the house at 176 Mango Drive on Mango Island. There’s probably a land trust or a corporation involved. If there is, find out who’s behind them.”
Chapter 13
“Okay, Eighty-Eight, what have you found out so far?” Bob Martinez chugged Gatorade as Snoop and I sat on the bench beside the practice field.
“We re-traced Gracie’s movements using the rent car’s GPS log.” I filled him in on the details. “Did Gracie mention anything about going to the Beach Cabana Resort in Naples?”
“Naples, Florida?”
“Yeah.”
Bob shook his head. “Why do you ask?”
“She looked up the address on her GPS right after she went to Mango Island.”
He shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Okay. Next, do you know anybody named ‘Sharky’?”
“Who’s that?”
“Somebody Gracie’s agent said wants money from her. Did she ever mention a ‘Sharky’?”
“Not that I recall.”
Snoop said, “Could he be her drug dealer?”
Bob glared at him and crushed the Gatorade bottle. “Gracie’s clean—ever since I sent her to rehab.”
I spoke to him in Spanish. “You’re living in a dream world, friend. Didn’t you hear me tell you that she bought cocaine from a lowlife named Eddie Yanez in northwest Port City? It’s a drive-in drug take-out market.” I switched to English. “This was in the bottom drawer of your bathroom cabinet.” I handed Bob a yellow prescription bottle.
Bob read the label. “It has Gracie’s name on it. What’s Desoxyn?”
“I looked it up,” Snoop said. It’s a highly-addictive methamphetamine, often prescribed for weight reduction. It’s popular with New York fashion models. I checked out the doctor who prescribed the pills. He’s a Park Avenue drug pusher for the rich and richer. Sources with the NYPD said he runs a pill mill. They’ve tried, but they can’t touch him.”
“That’s not all I found.” I handed Bob another bottle. “She had this Xanax, an anti-anxiety psychiatric drug—also subject to abuse—prescribed by the same doctor.”
Bob stared at the two yellow plastic bottles.
I showed him a picture I had taken when I’d searched his hotel suite the previous morning. “These purses were on the top shelf of your closet.”
Bob nodded. “I recognize those. They belong to Gracie.”
I pulled three hot pink plastic bill bottles from my jacket pocket. I unscrewed the lid of one. “See those pills?”
Bob nodded and I continued. “Gracie kept a supply of Desoxyn and Xanax in all of the extra purses. That’s where I got these pill cases. All three are identical. No matter what purse she took, she always had pills handy. Her drugs are her version of that old American Express commercial: Don’t leave home without them.” I paused to let him absorb that. “Then there’s the cocaine she bought.”
Bob looked at the artificial turf and said nothing.
I pulled a small baggie from my jacket. “This was left from the batch she bought off the drug dealer I told you about. I found it in a purse she left behind.”
Bob shook his head, still looking at the turf. “If she’s back on the drugs, maybe she’s sleeping off a cocaine episode. She’ll come back.” He looked me in the eye. “She always comes back.”
I put a hand on Bob’s forearm. “It’s been over twenty-four hours, amigo. Face it—Graciela may be in serious trouble.”
“But she knew those guys from the elevator. You said she met them on Mango Island the day of the party. She knows them, for crissakes. How could they have kidnapped her? Besides, she carried an overnight bag. She intended to go somewhere where she’d need a couple of changes of clothes.”
“You could be right. I didn’t find her toothbrush in your suite, so she planned to be gone at
least overnight. That’s why she took the birth control pills with her. Just because she knows the guys in the elevator doesn’t mean they’re friends. Maybe they have something on her—something she’s afraid of.” I held up Gracie’s tablet computer. “It’s time to search it and see if we can find any clues.” I stuck the tablet in my briefcase. “We think the main man is named Vic. That name mean anything to you?”
Bob frowned. “No.”
“He has a connection to the Double Down Casinos in Atlantic City and Delaware. Does that ring any bells?” Did the hint of an expression cross Bob’s face?
“Nope. Nada.”
“The Atlantic City casino is connected to a Newark law firm named Lambrusci & Partners with ties to organized crime. You ever heard of them?”
Bob didn’t say anything. A whistle blew in the distance. He put his helmet on.
“Gracie is in serious trouble. You should file a missing person report. That way the cops will help me search for her.”
He shook his head. “You’re making progress, Eighty-Eight. Let’s hold off for now. Just keep on truckin’.” He ran back onto the field without looking back.
Chapter 14
“Holy shit. Vicente Vidali is the man in the black tuxedo.” Snoop handed Flamer’s report back to me. “Teflon Vic, the New Jersey mob boss. He’s supposed to be a ghost. I didn’t know anyone ever got his picture.”
I set the report on my desk. “I found a mug shot from twenty-five years ago when he was booked for running numbers, but nothing since. Maybe this is the first time anyone’s managed to take his picture in the last twenty-five years, Snoop. The VV in XPVV must stand for Vicente Vidali.” I laced my fingers behind my head and stared at the ceiling.
Snoop sipped his coffee and waited.
“Okay, what do we know?” I said. “Gracie had a generous supply of drugs, so the envelope Vidali passed her in the elevator wasn’t drugs. What else would you pass someone in an envelope?”
“Cash, of course,” answered Snoop.
“Right, cash. Teflon Vic owns two casinos. He handles lots of cash.”
“Remember the Mango Island mansion,” Snoop said. “Flamer said it belongs to a Florida Land Trust and the trustee is Lambrusci & Partners, the casino’s lawyers in Atlantic City.”
“Right. Mango Island is an hour’s drive or more from downtown Port City when you allow for the ferry ride. Vidali has rented a suite in the headquarters hotel. Maybe he wants to be close to the Super Bowl action. People bet billions of dollars on the game each year.” I sat up. “Snoop, you’ve been to Vegas, haven’t you?”
“Sure. Janet and I take in a few shows and drop a few bucks once in a while. We go whenever we can. Why?”
“You ever bet on football in Vegas?”
“Yeah.” Snoop smiled. “I’m actually pretty good at it.”
That was hard to believe. “You mean that you win?”
Snoop looked like the cat that ate the canary. “Like I said: I’m pretty good at it.”
“But the odds favor the casinos.”
“They do on the most popular games like blackjack, craps, and slot machines. Yeah.”
“But not on sports betting?”
Snoop rocked his hand back and forth. “Not so much. The casinos try not to bet their own money on the games. They prefer to act as broker for the bettors from each side of the bet. They make their money on the vig.”
“The vig,” I repeated as I looked into my empty cup. “I see that my education will take a while. Let’s get fresh coffee.”
We carried our empty cups toward my executive suite’s kitchen. I filled Snoop’s cup. “You mentioned ‘the vig.’ What’s that?”
Snoop tore open a sweetener packet. “Vigorish. The bookie’s commission on the bet.”
I filled my own cup. “I’ve never set foot in a casino. Tell me how football betting works.” I added a little non-dairy coffee creamer and we walked back toward the office.
Snoop began my lesson. “In a straight wager on a game, you gotta bet $110 to win $100. The ten buck difference is the vigorish. That’s the commission the bookie gets for handling the bet.”
“If I bet $110 on the Jets, and the Jets win, I get back $210?”
“Yeah. The bookie is basically a broker between you and the guy who bets on the other team. The bookie earns his vig for handling the bet and transferring the funds between the bettors. The guy on the other side also puts up $110. He gets back bupkis if he loses.”
I held the office door for Snoop and we set our coffees on the table in the conference room. Snoop wrote some numbers on a notepad on the table. “The bookie collects $220, half from each bettor, and pays the winner $210.”
“So the more money bet on the game—on both sides—the more vig the bookie gets.”
“That’s right.”
“What happens if more people bet on one team than the other? Won’t the bookie have his own money on the line?”
“Sure,” said Snoop. “That’s why he changes the line up or down—to attract more bets on the other side. It’s like a store lowers prices to attract more customers.”
“How do the bookies set the point spread in the first place, before any bets have been made?”
“The big casinos set the initial betting lines. Their experts analyze each team’s past performance, player injuries, home field advantage, and anything else that could affect the game. Then their bookies take bets on the lines they publish. People can bet on December games as early as August. A lot happens in five months.”
“You mean like a player gets injured?” I asked.
Snoop warmed to his subject. “Or the other team wins more games, or a blizzard comes in. A lot of different things make bets move to the other team. The bookie raises or lowers the line throughout the season depending on which way the betting goes.”
“How do you beat that ten-dollar-vig disadvantage?” I picked up my cup.
Snoop wrote on his paper again. “I pay a $10 vig to win back $200. That’s a five percent disadvantage on each bet.”
“Yeah. I see,” I said.
“But I’m not a bookie; I don’t bet on every game. I pick and choose where I put my money. I look for games where I think one team will cover the spread with better than 55% probability.”
“What do you know that the other gamblers don’t?”
Snoop shrugged. “Nothing, really. It’s just that some people are schnooks. For example, some people here in Port City love the Pelicans so much that they’ll bet on them no matter what the odds are. Some people hate the New York Mets so much that they’ll bet against them no matter what.” He sipped his coffee. “You have good coffee here; you know?”
“Thanks.” I took a sip. “Back to our subject of how you win: You find games where other people bet with their hearts instead of their heads.”
“I take advantage of that.” He smirked. “I usually win enough to pay for our trip to Vegas.”
“Why don’t you become a professional gambler?”
Snoop laughed. “I don’t have the stomach for it. I’ll bet a few hundred on five or six games, and I sleep all right if I lose. But if the bet was a few thousand…I couldn’t take that.” He smirked. “Besides, Janet would kill me.”
I laughed with him. “Okay, Snoop, I want you to check the betting line on the Super Bowl at both Double Down Casino sports books.”
“What are you thinking, Chuck?”
“I’ve got an idea how someone like Teflon Vic could fix the Super Bowl game. It scares the hell out of me.”
Chapter 15
“Flamer, I want a complete report on Graciela Perez. She’s the super model they call the Latin Angel.”
“How good a report you want?”
“I want everything. Credit report, education, hobbies, friends—the whole nine yards. You know the drill.”
“I’ll even get you her kindergarten teacher’s name.”
“I’ll send you her tablet. It’s password protected. I want you to
hack it and crack it.”
“Piece of cake.”
“I want everything you can find on the mansion at 176 Mango Drive.”
“That on Mango Island?”
“Yeah. High-rent district.”
“You want blueprints too?”
“Yeah. Could come in handy.”
###
I scrolled through the screens and selected pages to print. “Snoop, would you believe Flamer got me the name of Gracie’s kindergarten teacher? I thought he was kidding.”
“The man takes pride in his work.”
“He found an article in a tabloid where Gracie happened to mention she met her best friend in kindergarten. She mentioned the name of the kindergarten, and Flamer hacked their computer files. Wow.”
“We gonna talk to the best friend?” asked Snoop.
“I’ll do that alone. I want you to research Vicente Vidali and the Double Down Casinos—both of them. Go deep.”
###
“Ms. Takashi, I’m Chuck McCrary. Thanks for seeing me on short notice.” I handed her a business card. Maybe I need a logo of a Sherlock Holmes hat.
Miyoki Takashi glanced at the card. She stepped back and held the door open. “No problem. Gracie’s a dear friend, so it’s no trouble. Bob said it was important. Come in, come in. My studio is a mess. I’m preparing a gallery showing. I have to finish three more paintings this week.”
She glanced out the window. “I’m about to lose the light.” The spacious room had been designed as a combination living room/dining room. The balcony at one end overlooked Seeti Bay. The clerestory windows above provided ample natural light, now fading in the late afternoon. If she owned this penthouse on the top floor of a Port City Beach high-rise, or if she even rented it, she must be a successful painter, or else come from a rich family. Maybe both.
She pushed back a stray wisp of hair with her wrist and flashed me a smile. “On the other hand, I always make time for a good-looking…” she glanced at my left hand, “…bachelor.” She raised her eyebrows. “You are a bachelor, aren’t you?”
Quarterback Trap (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 3) Page 5