Palm Beach Nasty (30 page)

“We’re gonna have one of our own before too long,” Fulbright said.

Donnie looked over at him. “When we start doin’ a guy a day, you mean?”

Fulbright snorted a laugh and nodded.

For the next hour and a half the two of them just observed.

Then Donnie left. They had decided on their choice of weapon . . . well, Fulbright chose it and Donnie would do the aiming and trigger pulling. Donnie was going over to their storage unit on Congress where they had an arsenal that included every conceivable size, shape and caliber of firepower. Fulbright thought this particular job called for the RPG, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Why screw around? he figured. They had it, why not use it?

Baseball cap pulled low, Fulbright gazed out from a bench and took in the billions of dollars worth of yachts bobbing on the Intracoastal. Unless you owned one, were a guest, or scrubbed one of their decks, this was as close as you got.

Fulbright was focused on just the small boats and there weren’t many of them. That was where the girl had to be. No way the sisters had a friend loan them a 200-foot yacht.

Forty-five minutes later, Donnie showed up in Fulbright’s new Navigator. Fulbright had it narrowed down to four boats and had a hunch it was one all by itself at the end of a dock.

Donnie walked over and sat down next to him.

“So?”

“It’s one of those,” Fulbright said, pointing them out. Then he smiled broadly. “Got the big sucker?”

“ ’Course . . . bet I could take out the whole fleet here with it.”

After a few minutes, Donnie got up from the bench and looked around. His eyes did a slow 180, checking out the cars and buildings behind him. Then he turned and looked back out at the boats. There wasn’t going to be anything particularly subtle about this job.

A surgical strike?
Not
.

As soon as Fulbright figured out which boat it was, Donnie was going to blow the fucker to smithereens—toothpick-sized slivers raining down in a 300-foot radius. Light up the sky like the Fourth of July. Treat Palm Beach to a pyrotechnical show the likes of which they’d never seen. Then pass go, collect $500 Gs and start going around looking for their own pleasure boat.

FORTY-EIGHT

“I
got our guys,” Dominica said, looking through the infrared binoculars, high up on the 1515 Building, and talking on her cell. “Short one’s wearing a baseball hat, sitting on a bench trying to dope out where Misty is. Tall, skinny guy’s in a blue jean jacket, just drove up a few minutes ago.”

“How far from us?” Crawford asked.

“Um, ’bout seventy-five yards. Skinny one keeps getting up and pacing around, like he’s ready to get the show on the road.”

Crawford looked at Ott.

Ott nodded.

“Well, okay, then,” Crawford said, “let’s get the show on the road.”

And Dominica dialed her phone.

“Hey, sweetie, it’s me,” Dominica said, a few seconds later, “how you doing?”

Fulbright heard the voice in his earpiece.

“Feelin’ really cooped up,” Misty said.

“Just stay there, a little bit longer.”

“I’m just going out for a cig.”

“No, goddamn it, Misty.”

That wasn’t part of the plan.

“Hey, check it out,” Donnie said, pointing.

Fulbright whipped the binoculars up to his eyes.

Misty was on the rear deck of the Mako. A cigarette dangled from her mouth. She kept moving, at least, something Crawford had told her to do.

Dominica dialed Crawford on the red phone. He picked up.

“Shit, Charlie,” Dominica said, her heart pounding, “see her, outside on the deck.”

Crawford tightened his grip on the Sig.

“Well, well,” Fulbright said, spotting Misty, “our little friend.”

Donnie was psyched, his prey in sight.

“Let’s do it,” Fulbright said.

They both got up.

“They’re moving,” Crawford heard Dominica say in his earpiece. “Heading toward the street . . . going across it now . . . into a building. Ah, 325, the sign says, Casa de Lago.”

“Mac, quick,” Crawford said, “call the girl, give her the code. Right now.”

A few seconds later, Crawford heard Dominica make the call.

“Hey,” Dominica said, tamping down her adrenaline, “looks like Jaynes stiffed us, I’m pickin’ you up in two hours.”

Misty didn’t hesitate. “Good, I like dry land way better.”

Fulbright didn’t give a damn whether the older sister picked up the younger one in two hours or next July, because in ten minutes there wasn’t going to be anything left to pick up.

Donnie had a big aluminum golf case slung over his shoulder that he had taken out of the back seat of the Navigator.

Fulbright hadn’t noticed any lights on in the four-story building where Donnie was going to take the shot from and figured all they’d have to do was pick a lock or two. Worst case, knock a door off its hinges. Both things Donnie was an expert at. Fulbright’s only concern was that the big banyans between the building and the dock might block Donnie’s shot. But over on the left side of the top balcony there was a good-sized gap between the trees that Donnie had scoped out.

Turned out the only lock Donnie had to pick was the outside one. The stairs went straight to the top floor. From there it was just eight steps up to the door, which opened out to the balcony. Worst security Donnie had ever seen.

Donnie walked over to the south end of the balcony—pure focus now—put down the heavy golf case and exhaled. Fulbright knew Donnie had popped a Valium fifteen minutes before. He was hardly the high-anxiety type, that was just part of his routine, his way of cutting down on the adrenaline.

Donnie opened the case and broke out the RPG.

Fulbright loved to watch Donnie get into it. He was total concentration and economy of motion. Fulbright knew it was the army training. How doing something every day for a couple of years made it automatic. Eighteen years back, Donnie had almost gone to the Olympics for the army, part of the Fort Benning shooting team that did nothing but aim and fire all day long. But for this job he didn’t even need to be all that accurate. Wasn’t like he needed his sniper rifle. Just aim at the boat and blow the sucker to hell and gone.

Donnie had the RPG pointed in the direction of the boat now, resting it on the balcony rail. He wore the same soft, thin kidskin gloves he always used and had his earplugs in. Slowly, he adjusted a sight, then moved the big barrel to his right.

He looked at Fulbright and nodded. Fulbright put his hands over his ears.

Donnie closed his right eye and squeezed the trigger. Even with earplugs, the explosion was deafening. A chunk of loose stucco tumbled off the wall behind them.

Fulbright was mesmerized by the sight below. The color of the explosion was yellow and blue and reminded him of the hissing flare, then the flame, when you struck a wooden match—but times a thousand. Pieces of metal and wood came raining down, as if in slow-motion. It was a frozen moment of brilliant chaos.

Donnie grabbed Fulbright roughly by his shirtsleeve.

“Come on, man,” he said, strapping the RPG over his shoulder. He had wiped down the aluminum golf case and was going to leave it behind. “Time to get the sister.”

Fulbright got to his feet, followed him to the door and went down the steps.

They were on the street now. Donnie had just clicked the door opener for the Navigator when he saw two men running toward them from the dock. One of them shouted something, then a few seconds later Donnie heard a bullet thunk into the Navigator’s side. Donnie started the engine and accelerated, but immediately saw a police car with flashing lights blocking their way to the middle bridge. He hit the brakes hard, executing a skidding U-turn, and the Navigator started speeding south, its big engine whining like a stock car out at Moroso speedway.

FORTY-NINE

A
t least the real Avery wasn’t going to just show up unannounced the way Dickie had. Nick had ten days to get things done and Avery did Nick a huge favor by giving him advance warning. Ten more days gave him a lot of time to fatten up his bank account.

In that time he could make enough to live very comfortably in the south of France. He still wanted to stay in Palm Beach, but that possibility was a long shot now. Living where Scott, Zelda and the Murphys had spent their golden youths was a good second choice. As for learning French . . . screw that, everyone spoke English there, even if they hated Americans. Word was there were some very exclusive clubs like the Poinciana on the Côte d’Azur, too. All he needed was to meet some people who’d write letters for him, say what a swell guy he was.

Still, it was hard, the idea of uprooting himself from here. He had actually been toying with another idea. One that would allow him to live happily ever after in Palm Beach. It would require him to do something he wasn’t absolutely sure was worth the risk, but he was giving it serious thought. He still had that detective and the Palm Beach Police Department looking for him, describing him as a “person of interest.”

F
IRST AND
foremost, Nick wanted to keep Lil focused on selling options until every painting on the swirled stucco walls of the palatial Robertson mansion had been sold. Nick couldn’t tell Lil the real reason they only had ten days, so he told her he had booked a flight a long time back to leave town next week. Big party on a friend’s yacht in Cap d’Antibes, he told her.

Nick was disappointed she hadn’t begged him to stay in Palm Beach or insisted on going along with him to Cap d’Antibes, but figured she knew her biggest priority was to get out her Rolodex and dial. Spencer Robertson’s house at 101 El Vedato turned into a Madison Avenue gallery, as Lil shepherded in eager buyers with the irresistible offer of being able to buy world-class paintings for one-third off. On Wednesday alone she brought in seven prospective optionees and ended up with sales of $500,000, $1.5 million, and $800,000. On Thursday she got another commitment for just over $2 million for two Bacons, plus $100,000 for the Hepplewhite chest in the living room that they weren’t even trying to sell. Friday was a slow day but by the end of Sunday, they had a total take of $9.2 million. Not bad for a week’s worth of work.

The only problem was that Nick had set a goal of $5 million for himself alone. Or in his new country’s currency: 3.5 million Euros.

So in order to make his quota, he had called up a real estate broker whose name he had seen in
Glossy
ads and invited him over. Nick showed him through the house and the property in back, then described to the broker what he had in mind.

“What you’re talking about is called a life estate,” the broker said as they walked through the house. “It’s not all that uncommon.”

“Oh,” Nick said, disappointed, having thought he had invented the concept. “So how does it work exactly . . . I mean, I want to get the money right away.”

“Well, the best way,” the broker said, “is you get an appraiser to price the house, then you look at what are called actuarial charts, figure out approximately how long the, ah, owner is expected to live, then you discount—”

“But I don’t have time for all that, just tell me what it’s worth, I’ll show you papers that prove I inherit it, then we’ll draw up an agreement. Like if you say it’s worth, I don’t know, $20 million—”

“A little less,” the broker said.

“Okay, fifteen . . . then I discount it by 50 percent, so that’s $7.5 million, then I sign an agreement selling it to a buyer for that and they give me 20 percent now—” Nick said, gesturing wildly with his hands—“the rest after my grandfather passes away and it closes.”

“That’s a huge discount,” the broker said; “you sure you want to do that?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I want to make a quick deal.”

The broker nodded. “Okay, you’re going to need your grandfather to sign off on it, you know.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Forgery was child’s play compared to the other things he had pulled off.

“If that’s what you want to do, Mr. Robertson,” the broker said, “I’m sure I can make a few calls and . . . make a quick deal.”

Nick nodded to the broker as they walked to the front door. “That’s exactly what I want to do. Make your calls, get back to me as soon as possible.”

“You got it,” said the broker, turning and shaking Nick’s hand.

Nick said good-bye and closed the front door.

He was on to his next project now, a man who had a lot to get done. No one was around so he figured it was a good time to take the big Bacon in the front closet over to his storage unit on Okeechobee.

He called Yellow Cab on his cell, figuring it was safer than taking Spencer’s Rolls Cloud Three or Alcie’s Corolla. It wasn’t likely, but what if he got a flat? Palm Beach cops were so damn accommodating. He could just picture a cop trying to help him, then recognizing him from the flyer. Why take a chance? Just in case the cabby had seen one of the flyers, he’d wear his wraparounds and Spencer’s yellowed Poinciana golf cap.

He told the dispatcher to have the cab there in twenty minutes. That would give him time to bubble wrap the big picture from the closet.

He turned to the closet and flipped on the switch. He didn’t see the picture right away. He pulled out Spencer’s big golf bag, then the canes and the two umbrellas that it had been behind. But it was nowhere in sight.