Castle Cay (22 page)

Matt was usually a very calm and rational
person, but now he was pacing back and forth. Sylvia couldn’t
recall the last time she saw him this agitated.

“It’s not that I oppose the sale,
necessarily, Sylvia. I just can’t swallow the highhanded way he’s
dealing with it. Or maybe I should say
underhanded
way.”

“Why don’t you call him?” she suggested.
“This has been bothering you ever since Marc’s death. Why not
confront him about it?”

Matt stopped pacing and looked at her.

“You’re right. I’m going to call him right
now.”

He left the room, went into his study and sat
behind the desk. He looked up Avram’s home number. It rang several
times, and then he got a generic “Please leave your name and
number” message. He hung up angrily. Searching through the business
card file, he found Solomon Chrysler, Boston, and called that
number.

“Good afternoon, Solomon Chrysler. How may I
direct your call?”

“Avram Solomon, please,” said Matt.

“May I say who’s calling, sir?”

“Yes. Matthew Castle.”

“One moment, sir…”

Matt waited impatiently, listening to music
interspersed with service department specials. At last, the
receptionist came back on the line.

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Solomon isn’t in,” she
said.

Matt was furious, certain that Avram
was
in, but ducking his call.

“Thank you,” he said tersely, and hung up.
That’s the last straw. I’m going down there and confront him
right now. He’s going to talk to me, damn it!

“Sylvia? I’m going out; I’ll be back in a
while!” he called out as he put on his jacket and grabbed his car
keys. He didn’t wait for her response.

It was only a fifteen-minute drive from
Beacon Hill to the Boston dealership. In Matt’s frame of mind, it
seemed even shorter. As he pulled into the car lot, he saw Avram’s
black Jaguar.

I knew that liar was here!

Matt walked into the showroom to the central
reception desk in the back of the room. He deliberately calmed
himself.

“I’d like to see Avram Solomon,” he said.

“I believe he’s gone out, sir,” said the
dark-haired young woman.

“Can you tell me why his car is parked out
front, then?” said Matt.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “but…are you Mr.
Castle?”

“Yes, I am. I am also Mr. Solomon’s uncle and
it’s important that I speak to him,” said Matt.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Castle,” she said. “We’ve
looked everywhere for Mr. Solomon since you called. He’s not here.
I don’t know why he left his car here. Have you tried him at
home?”

“Yes, I have. He’s not there,” said Matt.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know where Mr. Solomon
is, sir,” she said.

“Well…thank you,” said Matt, with
resignation. “Please tell him that I’m looking for him when he
comes back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Matt left the showroom and got into his car.
He sat there for minute or two, and then he pulled out his wallet,
searching through it. He found the card, and punched the number
into his cell phone.

“Dixon, here.”

“Mr. Dixon, this is Matthew Castle. I thought
perhaps I should give you a ‘head’s up’. My nephew, Avram Solomon,
seems to be missing.”

* * * * *

S
herman Dixon burst into SAIC Robert
Branson’s office. Bob Branson was on the phone with the DEA’s
Special Agent in Charge, Brian Torrington. Bob put his hand over
the phone.

“What is it, Dixon?”

“Solomon skipped!”

“What?”

“He’s missing.”

Bob Branson took just a moment to process the
news.

“Torrington,” he said into the phone, “I’ll
call you right back. Something important has come up. I’ll call you
within ten minutes. Yeah, bye.” He hung up the phone.

“Sit. Tell me,” said Bob.

“I just got a call from Matthew Castle. He
said Avram isn’t at his townhouse or Solomon Chrysler, although his
car is parked at the dealership in its usual spot. O’Brien and
Simmons saw him go into the dealership this morning at
nine-thirty,” said Sherm. “They said he never came out, but nobody
inside has seen him since this morning. Castle said they were
looking for Avram all over the place, but couldn’t find him.
Everybody in the store thinks he went out. They have no idea where,
or why he left the Jag out front. “

“Shit!” said Bob. “He knew we were watching
the Jag! He took one of the other cars! He’s had plenty of time to
get on a flight out of Logan, or Rhode Island…even New York!”

Sherm nodded, rubbing a hand over his head.
“We need to get an APB out on him right away, Bob.”

“I’ll get his name and description out. Have
O’Brien and Simmons go in there,
now
,” said Bob. “Tell them
to find out who’s in charge, and close up that dealership! Tell
them to get the customers out,
tactfully
; but keep the
employees there. See if they can figure out which car he took, what
kind of a plate it had…the number.

“Shit! If Silvio Tambini finds out that
Solomon took off, he’ll clean house! The warrants are executable
now. We need to move this timetable up.”

“Damn right,” said Sherm, “unless we want to
raid empty buildings.”

“I’ll call the State police and the DEA. You
get the teams together, Dixon. You and I are going back to
Waltham.”

Sherm was on his way out the door and already
on his cell, calling Jack O’Brien.

* * * * *

I
t was dusk when Sherman Dixon drove
down Warren Street in Waltham with a six-member FBI SWAT team,
which, to his surprise, included Bob Branson. They turned quickly
into the parking area of the warehouse on the right, opposite the
car storage lot, and drove behind the large building where they’d
hidden before.

The Massachusetts State Police had an
eight-man Special Tactics and Operations team already in place on
the other side of the hangar. The STOP team was split up; six
hidden behind the stored cars, and two snipers in the woods.

The combined assault force wore dark, full
ballistic armor. They carried sub-machine guns and assault rifles.
Although Sherman was armed and wore a protective vest and helmet,
he was not a SWAT member, so he would go in last.

Bob Branson had just alerted the STOP unit
that an undercover DEA agent had confirmed that Vinnie Santoro had
picked up Guy Tambini. It was assumed they were headed for the lab
here. The narc also said they met with four other men; two of whom
got into the car with Santoro and Tambini, and two others who
followed behind them in a truck.

And so, they waited.

It was fully dark when the car and truck
turned onto Warren Street. They passed the hidden SWAT team and
turned left on the dirt road behind the hangar.

The SWAT team waited four minutes and then
scurried across the street and down to the hangar, hugging the side
of the metal structure. Sherm was amazed at how quietly the team
moved, despite being so heavily armed. Bob Branson was in the lead,
with Sherman bringing up the rear. Bob held up his hand to signal
the men behind him to stop.

The drug crew had backed the truck up to the
door and left one man outside, armed with an AK-47. There was a low
“
ph-h-t”
and the guard fell to his knees and then onto his
face in the dirt as the police sniper’s dart hit its mark.

Branson grabbed the guard’s assault rifle,
and the STOP team ran out from the other side of the hangar with
the battering ram. The flimsy door caved in immediately, frame and
all.

“
FBI! FBI! POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!
HANDS IN THE AIR! NOW!”

Everyone’s adrenalin was sky-high. Sherman
entered the building last. There were at least thirty people in the
building, including the police. Most of the actual workers…
cookers, cutters, and packagers…were minorities, and they all had
their hands in the air. It was easy to spot the bosses. Sherm
recognized Guy Tambini from the photo on the wall at the FBI field
office.

Suddenly, guns were firing, the air was
vibrating, and Sherm was knocked hard, back against the wall. He
slid to the floor, trying to process what had just happened. A man
next to him collapsed on the floor, blood shooting from his face or
his neck. Then Bob Branson was in front of him, shooting. Then it
stopped. Sherm felt like he was in a trance…like everything was in
slow motion. He knew he was shot…but oddly, there was no pain.

“Dixon! You okay?”

Bob sounded far away. Then everything went
dark.

* * * * *

O
n the same Tuesday, September 25th,
at half-past six in the evening, the Miranda was in the
northwestern part of the Gulf, out of fuel and tipping perilously
as she crested one wave after another and slid into the troughs.
She had been blown north of the storm, to a place where the rain
had stopped. Rolly was slipping in and out of consciousness. He was
strapped into his seat, being jerked around like a rider on a
mechanical bull.

He didn’t know it, but the Coast Guard was
covering about 500 square miles searching for him with helicopters
and boats.

A violent jerk momentarily aroused him, and
he looked out the windshield.

The Eiffel Tower?

He passed out.

•

The oil company employees still left on the
huge deep-water drilling rig were relieved that Carlo was headed
west, well to the south of them, and no threat to the US coastline.
They were located 270 miles southwest of New Orleans, and during
the day half of the crew had elected to leave. But now, to the
west, beneath the clouds, the remaining crew could see pink and
purple streaks from the setting sun, and the rain had stopped.

The environment on the 200-foot tall derrick
and its platform was hazardous, the threat of an explosion ever
present. It required the men’s full attention at all times. The
smell of oil and grease permeated everything, and they wore
earplugs to protect themselves from the deafening noise as they
went about their work. Given that, it was somewhat surprising that
anyone noticed the
Miranda
at all.

Ken Pritchard was an engineer. He’d been
working his tail off all day. He had just stretched, straightened
up his back and taken off his hard-hat for a minute. He twisted his
neck around to relieve the ache.

“Hey! There’s a boat out there!” he yelled,
signaling to the man next to him.

They began waving their arms, pointing.

“
She’s going to hit the rig
!”

There was absolutely nothing the men could do
to stop it. The boat was too close, and the huge swells were
pushing it too fast. Nothing like this had ever happened before in
all Ken Pritchard’s years working for the oil company.

He braced himself, watching helplessly,
wondering if the guy in the boat was dead, and wondering if they’d
be next. He was thinking what every other man on the rig was
thinking:

Would the collision tear the rig from the
well a mile down?

* * * * *

T
uesday, September 25th, was a long
day for Julie and Joe in Key West. The pleasures of the night
couldn’t dispel the daytime gloom at Twelve Gulf Wind Drive. David
was inconsolable. The probability of losing Rolly after losing Marc
was a one-two punch to his heart. The sun was setting and David had
begun crying, once again retreating to his bedroom.

At last report, Tropical storm Carlo was
making landfall on the Yucatan Peninsula. Florida had been spared,
but dark clouds moved over the Keys and continued to whip up the
warm waters of the Gulf.

Julie and Joe stood at the window, watching
the yacht across the canal in fascination.

“Good God!” said Julie, shivering as she
watched the violent water tossing the big yacht like a toy. “It
looks like it might break loose!”

“I don’t think it will break the lines, but
it’s going to be banged up pretty bad before this is over, even
with all the tires along the dock,” said Joe. “I’ll tell you one
thing, Merlin. If Rolly Archer is out there in a small boat, he
isn’t coming back.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I think Susan
knows more than she’s saying about Rolly” said Julie. “The
Sandpiper was closed today; I called earlier and got voicemail.
She’s probably at home working on the paintings. I think I’ll go
over there, Joe…talk to her a little more…see what else I can find
out.”

She grabbed the keys to the VW off the
bar.

“Want me to come with you?”

“No…please stay with David,” she said. “He’ll
be out again soon, and he needs company. I won’t be long.”

* * * * *

S
usan Dwyer hung up the phone,
wondering where the hell Avram was. She had tried to reach him on
both his home number and his cell phone. She thought that he must
be working late, and it irritated her because she was forbidden to
call him there. She wondered if he’d heard about Rolly Archer
taking off. What a stroke of luck that was! After all, who would
run, if they weren’t guilty?

She studied the two dark paintings she was
about to put in the crate. She couldn’t wait to tell him that she
had his precious paintings! She couldn’t, for the life of her,
imagine what he saw in them. As far as she was concerned, they were
depressing.
He should have just asked Marc for them, anyway,
even if they weren’t for sale. They were brothers, after all! But
no, it fell to her to lie to Marc, telling him there was an
“anonymous” buyer who had offered fifty thousand for the pair.

And then, unbelievably, Marc had turned it
down! Who did he think he was, Picasso? Marc had gotten pissed with
her for showing them at all. How was she supposed to know he didn’t
want anyone to see them? That they were
private
? How stupid
was that? Did he paint to sell, or what?