Trial & Error (15 page)

Thirty-three

PITCHING PRACTICE

“Does this mean I can’t pitch to you today?” Bobby asked.

“No way. We’re gonna work on the circle change-up,” Steve told him. “You’ve got to follow through all the way, make ’em think a fastball’s coming.”

They were in Steve’s Mustang, headed down South Dixie Highway toward Coconut Grove.

“What about finding the FBI agent?” Bobby asked.

“A fastball’s all about power. A change-up is about deception. I like the change-up.”

“Uncle Steve. What about Connie Parsons?”

“Gonna take care of that right now.”

Steve picked up his cell phone. It took a while to work through the automated menu of the local FBI office, but finally he reached a real person, the weekend operator.

“Agent Constance Parsons, please,” Steve said.

“The office is closed today, sir.”

“Do kidnappers and bank robbers know that?”

“Would you like to leave a message, sir?”

“My name’s Steve Solomon. I know you have emergency contact numbers for all the agents. So please contact Agent Parsons immediately. Tell her to meet me for drinks at six o’clock at the Rusty Pelican on the causeway. I’m buying.”

“Are you asking Agent Parsons out on a date, sir?”

“More or less. Please also tell her if she doesn’t show, I’ll subpoena her to testify in open court in the Nash case, and she’ll never work undercover in this town again.”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“Only that I have her wig and sunglasses.”

Steve clicked the phone off and winked at Bobby.

“Can I come along, Uncle Steve?”

“Nope. After we work out, I want you off your feet. You have a game tomorrow.”

“It doesn’t take much energy to stand in right field.”

“You’re pitching tomorrow, kiddo.”

“Does Coach Kreindler know that?”

“Not yet. But I’ll talk to him.”

“Riii-ght.”

“You gotta trust me, Bobby. On everything. At six o’clock today, I’m gonna solve the Nash case. And tomorrow, when the First Baptist Bashers come to the plate, you’ll be pitching.”

Thirty-four

THE PROVOCATEUR

The sun dipped toward the Everglades and painted a ribbon of clouds the color of pomegranates. The still water of Biscayne Bay sparkled with diamonds. It would have been a beautiful evening, Steve thought, if he didn’t have to threaten an FBI agent over cocktails.

The Rusty Pelican sat on the north side of the Rickenbacker Causeway, halfway between the mainland and the island of Key Biscayne. Arriving early, Steve had parked his Mustang in the restaurant lot, walked across a tropical walkway over a man-made waterfall, and entered the place, a tourist trap with average food but a stunning view of Miami’s skyline across the Bay. The Pelican had burned down once, and been blown away a couple of times by hurricanes. But like a chopped-down melaleuca tree, it kept coming back to life.

Steve chose the meeting spot both for the view and the fact that Agent Parsons would be unlikely to shoot him in such a public place. Now he sat under a wicker paddle fan, nursing a Clase Azul tequila, watching a triangular sailboat race just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He wondered if she would show up.

Passion Conner.

Animal rights activist. Girlfriend of the terminally dim Gerald Nash.

Constance Parsons.

FBI agent. Undercover operative. Instigator. And…

What’s the word I’m looking for?

Provocateur.

Steve was on his second tequila when someone came up behind him. “Mr. Solomon.”

Tall, great posture, athletic build. Brunette with a cute, Dorothy Hamill haircut. A blue canvas skirt with white stripes and a white cotton top with blue stripes. A sailor look. The handbag was made of straw and big enough to carry a gun, but not so big as to slow her down in a chase. She eased into the seat across from him at the small table.

“I don’t know what to call you,” Steve said. “Passion. Constance. Connie?”

“Agent Parsons will do.”

“I didn’t get a good look at you on the Jet Ski that night. But it was you, Agent Parsons.”

“I was on duty. You know that now.”

“You’d infiltrated the Animal Liberation Movement, but you didn’t know what you’d gotten into.”

“Not at first. But once Sanders came into the picture, we did a workup on him. We found the connection to Hardcastle, and the investigation expanded.”

“Fraud in government contracts by a huge defense contractor. It’s the parallel investigation the U.S. Attorney warned Pincher about.”

“What about it?”

“Big, important case like that. You sure it’s not a little over your pay grade?”

“Did you invite me here to insult me, Mr. Solomon?”

A waiter in a Hawaiian shirt stopped at their table, and Agent Parsons ordered a passion fruit iced tea. Passion Conner. Passion fruit. Sure, why not?

Steve waited until the waiter was out of earshot. “All I’m saying is that one day you’re looking into some potheads knocking over puppy farms, and the next day you’re taking on a four-billion-dollar company with political connections. And not doing it very well, I might add.”

“What is it you want, Mr. Solomon?”

“I’m just wondering who’s gonna take the fall for your screwup. You or your superior? And what’s Hector Diaz say about all this? The U.S. Attorney can’t be pleased when the FBI instigates a murder instead of investigating one.”

“If you’re talking about Sanders—”

“You encouraged Nash to go on that raid. He wanted to hit some pet stores in the malls. But you said, ‘Let’s go big-time. Let’s do an amphibious assault on Cetacean Park.’”

“It was Sanders’ idea, not mine.”

“What’s the difference? You went along with it.”

“I was working undercover. Under Justice Department guidelines, when the proposed crime is nonviolent—”

“The ‘proposed’ crime,” Steve interrupted, “turned into something else, didn’t it?”

“There was no way of knowing that. I followed procedures.”

“You
knew
who Sanders was. You knew he was armed, and you brought my nitwit client along. There you are, a federal agent, and you provoked a crime. You’re the provocateur of a murder.”

She was quiet a moment, pretending to watch a golden lionfish dart in and out of coral rock caves in a table-side aquarium.

“I’m going to ask you one last time, Mr. Solomon. Then I’m going to leave. What is it you want?”

The waiter delivered the iced tea with a straw and a flower sticking out of the glass.

“It’s simple,” Steve said. “Start a daisy chain over there in government land. Tell your boss to tell the U.S. Attorney to tell Pincher to tell Victoria to offer Nash a plea. Simple trespassing. Time served. Case over.”

“It’s not going to happen.”

“Fine. I’ll subpoena you. You can explain to the jury why my naif of a client should go to prison because the FBI encouraged him to take part in a crime that turned into murder.”

“That sort of publicity would endanger the ongoing investigation of Hardcastle.”

“To say nothing of your career, Agent Parsons.”

Outside the windows, a trimaran with six partyers aboard slid quietly by, waving to the patrons inside.

“There may be one way I can help you,” she said after a moment.

Steve waited, wishing he were on a sailboat instead of here, playing hardball with the Forces of Evil, aka the federal government.

“There were two men on a boat that night, waiting to pick up the dolphins. They work security for Hardcastle.”

“We’ve met. They drive a Lincoln and offer rides to strangers.”

“Is your client willing to testify against them?”

“Why do you need my client? You can ID them.”

“Not without blowing my cover. We want to flip the two guys, go after Hardcastle executives for contract fraud and racketeering. If Nash will cooperate…”

“Consider it done. Where are the guys?”

“We don’t know, but we’ll find them.”

“Ah, geez. I’m in the middle of trial. Once Nash gets convicted, it’s too late.”

“We’re on their trail.”

“Yeah. Them and Osama bin Laden.”

“Look, Solomon, I’ll do what I can to help Nash, but I can’t make the case go away.”

“What
can
you do?”

“Share intel.”

“I’m listening.”

“We had Grisby under surveillance. Sanders stopped by Cetacean Park two days before the raid.”

“Did he talk to Grisby?”

“For about two or three minutes. Out on the dock. But we don’t know what was said.”

“It’s not much, but it’s something,” Steve said. “Grisby claimed he never saw Sanders before the night he killed him.”

“Another thing that never added up,” Agent Parsons said. “On three consecutive nights before the raid, Grisby took the two dolphins out into the Bay.”

“What do you mean, ‘took them’?”

“Around midnight, Grisby rode out to the channel on a Jet Ski and led the dolphins over to Hurricane Harbor. He left them there overnight, then went back in the morning and led them up the channel and into the park. Same thing each time.”

“Why? Why would he do that?”

“No idea.” Agent Parsons sipped the rest of her passion fruit iced tea through the straw until it made an unladylike slurping sound. “It didn’t seem relevant to our investigation of Hardcastle.”

“Maybe not,” Steve said. “But it might be damn relevant to why Grisby killed Sanders.”

Thirty-five

DOLPHIN DOUBLES

“Training them,” Bobby said.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked.

“Mr. Grisby must have wanted Spunky and Misty to know that if they ever left the channel, he’d come get them. He’d lead them back to the park.”

“Is that even possible—training the dolphins to wait for him?”

“When you tell me to wait somewhere, what do I do?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Spunky and Misty aren’t like that. They try to please. And they want to be fed.”

Steve was driving along Miracle Mile in Coral Gables and speaking into his cell phone. Bobby was at the house, watching an instructional baseball video with the sound turned down. He should have been taking a shower and getting ready for dinner. A Saturday night tradition. Steve always took Bobby and Victoria to whatever restaurant they chose to celebrate the weekend. Tonight, it was Restaurant St. Michel in the Gables.

“Grisby knew Sanders was coming for the dolphins,” Steve said. “That’s why he fired the security guard. That’s why he had the shotgun. He prepared everything, including a safe place for the dolphins to hide until the shooting stopped.”

“Makes sense, Uncle Steve. He’d lost his two best dolphins before and sure didn’t want it to happen again.”

Steve hit the brakes and pulled over to the curb. “Say that again.”

“Say what? Mr. Grisby lost two dolphins before, and—”

“That’s it, Bobby. It happened before! Grisby’s place in California was hit and his two star dolphins released. Grisby got the insurance money and used that to open Cetacean Park here. That’s the missing piece of the second puzzle, which helps solve the first puzzle.”

“What piece is that?”

“Most people can’t tell one dolphin from another, can they?”

“Most people don’t know what to look for.”

“But Sanders knew.”

“Me, too. Misty has a pink belly and a nick in her fluke—”

“Go on the Internet, kiddo. Find Undersea World in California. Dig up newspaper stories about the raid, old websites, anything that’ll have pictures of Grisby’s dolphins. If the two headliners aren’t doubles for Spunky and Misty, I’ll eat a can of tuna without opening the can.”

“You’re saying Mr. Grisby
stole
his own dolphins?”

“I’m betting the ALM never hit Undersea World. Sanders figured that out but paid Grisby’s insurance claim anyway.”

“Why would he do that?”

“So he could blackmail Grisby. For a while, Sanders probably took cash. Then he demanded Spunky and Misty. He’d make it look like another ALM raid. Grisby can’t refuse. But he plans his own double-cross, to keep the dolphins and get out from under the blackmail. He knows when the raid is coming. All he has to do is kill Sanders and claim self-defense.”

“Wow. That’s totally devious. Can you prove it, Uncle Steve?”

“Not a word. Not yet, anyway. You have any ideas?”

“Only one,” Bobby said. “If Mr. Grisby trained Spunky and Misty to come back to the park, that’s where they’ve got to be now.”

SOLOMON’S LAWS

11. If you can’t keep a promise to a loved one, you probably aren’t going to keep the loved one, either.

Thirty-six

THE OFFICE FLOW CHART

“Didn’t I talk to you an hour ago?” Agent Parsons sounded irritated.

“I just figured out what Grisby did,” Steve said. “Actually, my nephew helped a lot, but he always lets me take the credit.”

Steve pulled into a parking spot on Ponce de Leon Boulevard. He was meeting Victoria and Bobby for dinner in ten minutes. But Agent Parsons had given him her cell phone number, and now he told her his theory about Grisby’s double-cross.

“Grisby has a building he calls ‘the infirmary.’ It’s an oversize quonset hut, out of sight behind some palm trees. It has a big dolphin tank with a spillway into the channel. Bobby says that’s got to be where he’s keeping the dolphins. If you get a search warrant and a squad of marshals, we can hit the place tonight.”

“Now? Saturday night?”

“What’s the matter, they don’t pay you overtime?”

“I don’t have the authority to seek a search warrant on a Wednesday morning, much less call a federal judge at home on a Saturday night. I need to speak to my superiors.”

“Fine. Do it now.”

“And just what crime am I supposedly investigating?”

“Murder, for starters. Grisby assassinated Sanders.”

“No federal jurisdiction. You know that, Solomon.”

“How about insurance fraud?”

“Outside the scope of my investigation. I’m not after the fish-park guy.”

Steve didn’t take the time to explain that dolphins aren’t fish. “What are you, a salesclerk at Macy’s? This isn’t your department?”

“We have procedures, Solomon. We have an office flow chart.”

“That’s why people hate the government. And department stores.”

“Relax, Solomon. First thing Monday morning, I’ll bring it up in a staff meeting. Don’t bother me till then.”

The phone clicked off just as Steve called her a word that rhymes with “rich.”

A moment later, Victoria pulled into the parking spot in front of him, swinging her Mini Cooper to the curb without having to back up. She got out of the car, and Steve waited for the passenger door to open. But it didn’t.

Where’s Bobby?

“Bobby said you wanted him to stay off his feet,” Victoria told Steve. “Something about tomorrow’s game.”

“I didn’t mean he shouldn’t come to dinner.”

They were seated at a corner table in Restaurant St. Michel, a romantic dining spot in a 1920’s hotel. A pianist played “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and diners whispered to one another in the elegant art deco room. Steve figured that Victoria, consistent to her core, would order sugarcane skewered pork tenderloin with a rum molasses glaze. She wouldn’t touch the grilled pineapple plantain chips, so he would clean off her plate along with his filet mignon tartar. Bobby loved the crab cakes, so it puzzled Steve that his nephew hadn’t come along.

“What was Bobby doing when you left?” he asked.

“Eating a cheese sandwich and working on the computer.”

Steve made a
hmm
-ing sound.

“What are you worried about?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“I told Bobby we’d be home early and we’d bring him dessert.”

“What’d he ask for? Tiramisu or key lime pie?”

“Neither. He said he didn’t want to overload on sugar.”

Steve thought that over. Maybe the boy was just worried about the game. “I told Bobby he was pitching, and I think it scared him a little.”

“How’d you get Ira Kreindler to let Bobby pitch?”

“I haven’t yet, but I’ll persuade him.”

“How? You know what a hardhead he is.”

“You still have that gun Pincher gave you?”

“I’m serious, Steve. You shouldn’t get Bobby’s hopes up if you can’t deliver.”

“I never make a promise to you or Bobby that I can’t keep.”

“What bothers me are the methods you use to keep those promises.”

“Let’s not fight about it. Let’s eat and get home, so I can talk to Bobby.”

Victoria picked up the menu and studied it.

“I’ll eat your pineapple chips,” Steve offered.

“I’m not ordering pork tenderloin. I’m getting the yellowtail snapper with the curry sauce.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so disappointed. You can order pineapple chips on the side.”

“It’s not that. You’re becoming less predictable.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“People grow, Steve. They change.”

“They become prosecutors.”

“Don’t start on that. Now, tell me everything that happened today.”

“I thought I already had.”

“You gave me bits and pieces. Start at the beginning.”

Steve did as he was told. It had been an eventful day.

Mai Ling leading him to FBI Agent Constance Parsons.

Agent Parsons turning out to be Nash’s girlfriend Passion Conner.

Sanders meeting with Grisby two days before the raid and likely blackmailing him long before that.

Parsons letting the raid go ahead in order to nail Hardcastle.

Bobby figuring out that Grisby still had the dolphins.

Victoria listened attentively. Unlike Steve, she seldom interrupted. She liked to vacuum up every bit of information and process it a moment or two before responding. This time a glass of California wine helped the processing. A Sangiovese from Eberle Winery. Victoria said it tasted of cherry cola and raspberries, with a hint of licorice. Steve thought it tasted like a damn good Chianti; but then, he was no expert.

“Look at all of Grisby’s connections to Sanders,” Steve said, summing up. “The first insurance claim. Sanders showing up at Cetacean Park just before the raid. Grisby lying in wait for him with a shotgun. I’ll bet I can find a money trail from Grisby to Sanders, proving the blackmail and furnishing the motive for murder.”

“What about those two guys from Hardcastle, the ones in the Lincoln?”

“Yeah? What about them?”

“Grisby double-crossed them, too, right?”

“Sure. They thought Sanders had it all worked out with Grisby. Make it look like an animal rights attack and haul the dolphins away in the confusion.”

Victoria signaled the waiter for a refill on the wine. “So, if Bobby figured that the dolphins are back at the park, wouldn’t those two guys figure the same thing?”