Shakedown (22 page)

THIRTY-THREE

A month later, a retirement party for Along-for-the-Ride Frank Tyde was held at Tyde's favorite restaurant, a German eatery which served stale beer and food John Novak considered inedible. The large banquet room was filled with federal and local law-enforcement officers and their wives. Tyde, wearing a novelty bow tie, was sitting at the head table flanked by supervisors from every police agency in town.

Novak sat at a table near the back with Red and Martha Haynes.

The new attorney-in-charge of the Las Vegas office of the Organized Crime Strike Force, a spindly man who Novak knew had never even met Tyde before he arrived in Las Vegas to take over the prosecution of Elliot and Parisi, finished giving a maudlin testimonial citing Tyde's selfless and dedicated work on the Parisi case. The crowd applauded. He presented Tyde with the standard government retirement plaque and a large cartoon of Tyde asleep with his feet up on a desk. More applause.

"Can you imagine your taxes paying that jerk's pension for the rest of his life?" Haynes said without any attempt to lower his voice.

"Red," Martha Haynes said reproachfully.

Novak chuckled.

The attorney-in-charge introduced the Las Vegas sheriff, a bloated, red-faced man, who proceeded to tell off-color jokes. Everyone laughed.

Lorraine Traynor returned to Novak's table with two drinks. She set them on the table and sat down next to Novak. "I thought we'd need these to make it through the rest of the speeches," she whispered.

"Thanks for coming with me tonight," Novak whispered back.

"It's about time people got used to seeing us together," she said. Novak kissed her.

She put her hand in his. "But you are hereby ordered not to come to my chambers during the day."

"Yes, your honor."

It was the middle of the day in West Palm Beach. The ocean was white-capped, rolling, and a steady breeze forced the trees along the strand to sway gently. Eddie Sands admired the scenery through the shaded glass that separated the restaurant from the beach.

The interior of the place was white latticework, starched table coverings, greenery and flowers. Waiters with French accents flitted among affluent diners dressed in the latest tropical clothing. The conversations that could be overheard involved nothing more pressing than whether dessert should be ordered from the pastry cart or the cheese-and-fruit tray.

As he lifted his wineglass, it occurred to him that though he and Monica were dressed properly in the latest designer fashion, they were probably the only ones in the place without deep cocoa tans. "Here's to our new home," he said.

"Courtesy of Uncle Sam's witness protection program," she whispered back.

Their wineglasses touched. They sipped. The gray-haired man and woman sitting at the next table looked at them and smiled. They smiled back.

A well-groomed waiter came to the table, carefully set plates in front of them: veal smothered with porcini mushroom sauce, baby carrots, and turnips. He moved away.

Monica made eye contact with the woman at the next table. "It's our first anniversary," she said.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"Just visiting Palm Beach?" the woman asked.

"We came here to take time off and relax, but now we're getting anxious to do something," Monica said.

"We know how that is," the woman said. "What sort of work are you in?"

"I'm in investments ... offshore banking," Monica said.

Sands offered his hand to the man. "Permit me to introduce myself. Edward Poindexter... my wife, Monica."

They shook hands, and the man introduced himself and his wife. "Welcome to Palm Beach," he said.

"I'm in investigation and security," Eddie Sands said.

"That must be an interesting line of work. Very hush-hush," the man said.

"It's certainly a challenge," Sands said.

The man wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. "How does one find oneself in such a profession?" he said.

"I was an FBI agent for twelve years."

"I see."

Eddie Sands reached into his shirt pocket, took out a business card, handed it to the man. "I specialize in handling private, sensitive matters," he said as the man examined the card. "Those requiring complete confidentiality." He smiled disarmingly.

The cocoa-tanned couple smiled back.

About the Author

GERALD PETIEVICH is a former U.S. Secret Service Agent. Mr. Petievich numbers among his novels
To
Live and Die in L.A., Boiling Point
(published as
Money Men
) and
The Sentinel
, all of which were made into major motion pictures His other novels include
Earth Angels, Shakedown, To Die in Beverly Hills
,
One-Shot Deal, Paramour
and
The Quality of the Informant
.