CHAPTER SEVEN

I left it to Wednesday before calling at the Herald building to check for replies to the advert and was astonished when the counter clerk handed over a thick bundle of envelopes and fax and e-mail messages bound together with a rubber band. I thanked her and started to walk to a coffee shop on Biscayne Boulevard.

Though it was still early, I had to thread my way through throngs of shoppers, brightly-clad tourists, and teenage in-line skaters handing out flyers.

In the Miami sunshine it is easy to feel good when you have some time to yourself, even without a fortune in your pocket. On Saturday, Ryder had announced the rota for the coming week as he handed out the wage packets. I was on day shift again, with Wednesday and Thursday off. Ryder's only comment on my no-show on Friday was to remind me that it had been deducted. My first wage packet was also light the fifty dollars kickback.

After ordering coffee at a sidewalk table, I ripped the band from the bundle and sorted through the replies. They were in no particular order, though each of the faxes and e-mails did have a 'time of message received'.

I started with them. Two were from private investigators offering their services; the next from a clairvoyant, who, according to her headed paper, specialized in the finding of missing children. In her note she wrote that she could guarantee results if she was allowed to handle something that the missing person had been strongly attached to. Her fee was five thousand dollars.

The rest came from opportunists wanting a crack at the ten grand. Most of them claimed to have seen Andy recently and suggested that a meeting be set up to discuss the reward. One writer claimed to be Andy and promised to be at Joe's Stonecrab Restaurant on South Beach every evening next week at six. He would make himself known only if the advertiser brought the ten thousand in cash in a Sony digital camera case. I couldn't help wondering what the South Beach police would make of the outbreak of tourist mugging at one of Miami's most popular restaurants.

I screwed up the messages and turned to the letters. I had read and discarded eleven before coming on one that rang true. It was from a Biscayne Gardens' motel owner, who claimed that Andy had checked in there three years previously. The owner had cause to remember the name because the guest had never checked out and had left some personal effects behind. I read the letter twice, then stuck it in my inside pocket.

I also struck gold with the next letter. It was a short handwritten note from Elizabeth Kove, Andy's mother, asking the advertiser to ring her. It joined the letter from the motel proprietor in my jacket pocket.

None of the remaining letters held anything of interest. I handed them to the waitress and asked if she would trash them for him. After paying for my coffee, I walked back to parking lot to retrieve my car and drove uptown towards Biscayne Gardens.

This time I had a white coupe with two men in it on my tail. Morrell's men had started to alternate vehicles after my stunt with the golf ball. I turned right and kept watching in the mirror as the coupe drove straight on. I pulled in to the curb, bought a paper from a vending machine, and spent ten minutes in the car reading it. Then I tossed it onto the rear seat and rejoined the traffic flow. Two blocks further on I turned right again onto a street parallel to the one the couple had continued on.

This time it was a red sedan that was dogging me. Morrell wasn't taking any chances. I took a left, then first right, and another left and another right. Stopping at the next set of lights I noticed that the coupe was three vehicles behind me.

I smiled and threw them a wave. I'd make it easy for them this time.

Milton Weaver, round-shouldered proprietor of the Pink Palms Motel and Grill Bar, boasted that he had been born there the week the motel had opened − fifty-one years ago. It was a white lie, he admitted, but he had greeted all his guests with the same story since he had bought the place ten years before. It gives them a reason to remember me.

It was believable, I had to admit. The place even resembled Weaver. Its cracked pastel stucco was the same color as his mottled skin, and both of them had seen better days.

We were talking in the manager's office behind the front desk. There was no manager any longer. The latest up-cycle in Miami's bust or boom tourist economy had yet to penetrate as far as the Palms.

"What's he done, this guy Kove?" Weaver asked.

"Nothing as far as I know. I've been working on the West Coast and lost touch with him."

"He must be one hell of a buddy to be worth ten K."

"He did me a big favor once, and now I'm a position to repay him."

"I didn't write to you to give you no lies," Weaver said, letting me know with a reproving glance what he thought of my cover story. "I could do with some of that reward money. Nevertheless I'll tell only what I know, which isn't a lot, and if it's of any value to you, maybe you could slip me a few bucks."

I nodded.

"Thanksgiving night three years back, a man called Kove booked the room for a fortnight and paid cash up front. I never set eyes on him; the guy working the desk dealt with him."

"Where can I find him?"

Weaver grunted. "The Cedars of Lebanon cemetery. He was shot dead six months ago, right there in that chair. For a lousy couple hundred bucks."

I resisted the impulse to switch seats. "You mentioned in your letter that you had some belongings of Andy's. Could I see them?"

"Yeah, I'd be grateful if you took it with you. It's been cluttering up the place long enough. People think they can treat this place like a left luggage office." He climbed stiffly to his feet. "It's through here."

The storeroom stank of old mops and pine disinfectant and was cluttered with broken furniture and pool-cleaning equipment. Against the back wall was an eight foot high stack of suitcases. Weaver ran a hand down them until he found the one he was looking for. He pulled it out, causing those on top to sway precariously. The case was a zip-up fabric-sided model with a bold print design. Andrew Kove was written in ballpoint on the label.

I opened it and made a quick survey of the contents. There were a couple of yellowing paperbacks, a wash-bag with a razor and a can of shaving foam, a none-too-white shirt and several pairs of socks. Running a hand around the elasticized pockets I pulled out a small ring note-pad. I flicked through the pages but only the first had been written on. A set of eight figure numbers, with letters at either end. I recognized them at once. They were the serial numbers that Andy had selected for the counterfeit money. Although the numbering boxes that we had installed into the impression cylinder meant that no two numbers were ever duplicated, we still had to make sure that the series they were taken from was a current one. Counterfeit bills with an invalid serial number were just so much waste paper. I slipped the pad into my pocket.

"Is that all there is?"

"Yeah. We're obliged to keep the stuff for no more than three months."

"Not a lot of clothes for a man who had checked in for a fortnight," I said, my eyes boring into his.

"The rest were sold to defer our costs. It was done legit," Weaver said defensively.

"I thought he paid you up front."

"He did, but because he didn't bother to check out we ended up holding his room for an extra day."

"Didn't you think it strange when he didn't come back?"

Weaver looked at the pile of cases. "We couldn't raise twenty bucks for this pile of crap. There's plenty of jokers who think it's fun to run up a bill in return for a two dollar suitcase."

"So you didn't report it to the cops?"

"Do I look stupid, you ask me a question like that?"

Back in the office I wrote my number on a twenty dollar bill and handed it to Weaver. "Thanks for answering the ad. If you remember anything else, give me a ring."

Weaver's hand shot out and seized the money as though he thought I might take it back. "Don't you want the suitcase?"

I shook my head and left.

Floyd was at the gym. He had left a note inviting me to join him for a couple of drinks later in the evening. I made myself a cup of coffee and picked up the phone to ring Elizabeth Kove.

Second thoughts stopped me.

My first bunky at Butler, a cell-block lawyer, had filled me in on accepted federal procedure. There was every likelihood that by now Mike Morrell had convinced a judge to authorize a Title III authority under the Crime Control and Safe Streets Act for a wire-tap on Floyd's phone.

I found a pay-phone at the rear of a bar across the street.

The number must have been for a private line because it was answered by mater herself.

"My name's Steve Stricker. You sent a reply to my box number in response to an advert. I'm a friend of Andy's."

"Thank you for calling, Mr Stricker. Why are you looking for my son?" Kove asked. Her voice was slurred and, as with other whisky-drinking women I knew, slightly throaty, as though her vocal chords were raw.

"Call me Steve. I ran into Andy some time back and have a couple of things of his that I would like to return, but nobody seems to know where I can find him. Can you help me out?"

In the background there was the crash of the phone being dropped and a subsequent scrambling.

Eventually Kove sorted herself out and said, "I would like to know what sort of man considers spending ten thousand dollars so he can return some property. Are you the same man who spoke to my daughter last week?"

"Yes. She told me that Andy is in Europe."

For a few moments there was no sound from the other end and I began to think that the woman had passed out on me.

Kove's voice, when she eventually spoke again, had gained some metal. "I think it would be best if we met face to face, Mr Stricker. I have something I want to tell you. Do you know the Columbus Bazaar on Biscayne Boulevard?"

"Yeah."

"There's a store called The Black Moor. It's run by a friend of mine. I could meet you there tomorrow morning at eleven."

"Suits me."

"Until then," she said, hanging up.

Before I could cradle the phone, I was doused in liquid poured over me from behind. Gasoline. I spun around, and came face to face with the grinning Napoli brothers. One of them was holding a disposable lighter and thumbing its wheel menacingly.

"Give us any trouble and you'll burn.. The man wants to meet you."

In a fair fight, I reckon I could have taken both of them. They must have suspected the same thing so they'd brought a can of lighter gas along to tilt the odds in their favor.

"Okay, just watch what you're doing with that. I don't want your thumb slipping."

They took me out through the emergency exit to a waiting car. I eased in, praying that there would be no spark of static from the nylon seat covers. I took a look out the rear window. There was no sign of Morrell's men. For once I hoped that they were paying attention. One of the brothers slid in alongside me, the other got behind the wheel.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To see Angelo. Now shut the fuck up."

Any hope I had of the Secret Service coming to my rescue was dashed by a series of skilled driving maneuvers. He made a couple of illegal U turns, jumped a red light, drove through a pedestrian precinct, and finally squeezed under automatic barriers as they were dropping down at a swing bridge. I hated to admit it, but the guy knew what he was doing.

My clothes had dried out by the time we arrived at Angelo's house, on the shores of Lake Okeechobee, a dozen miles north of Belle Glade. We were waved through the steel gates by two men in taupe shirts and combat pants carrying shotguns.

The brothers talked as though I didn't exist. Apparently they didn't rate Angelo's choice of pets. The high hurricane fence around the perimeter was not so much intended to keep intruders out as to keep Angelo's Vietnamese potbelly pigs in. The man bred them and had more than a dozen running wild around his property, crapping all over the place and tearing up the St Augustine grass making mud holes.

It was a little before eight and neither brother had had dinner. Maybe hunger was making them feisty.

I could appreciate the potbellies; it was all the crud surrounding the house I was having difficulty with. In every direction were rows of army transport vehicles, parked neatly in line as if for inspection, reminding me of the plastic models I had played with as a child. According to my captors, Angelo bought them at government surplus auctions and had them shipped here. We drove past a section where at least two hundred cargo trucks were parked. Next came rows of Jeeps and Huinvees, then an expanse of semis. There were more military transport vehicles parked there than Schwarzkopf had had under his command during Desert Storm.

"What the hell does he want with it all?' one of the brothers asked, slowing the car to a crawl. "It's not as if any of it still works. In Arizona they have this place in the desert where they store all the old planes - the dry air stops them from rusting. Which makes some sort of sense. In this frigging humidity the metal melts faster than mozzarella cheese."

"Hollywood buys a load of it whenever they're shooting a war movie and need something to blow up."

"Yeah, but a couple dozen vehicles now and again isn't going to make much of an impression on this graveyard."

"The man knows what he's doing. He ships the engines, gearboxes and axles to India."

"What do the curry bandits want with them?"

"They stick them in a new chassis and body, I guess."

The driver pulled a face. "With his money, Angelo could have a mansion on South Beach. What does he want to live in a fucking scrap yard for?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

"I might just do that."

The house was a sprawling Moorish villa, with amber walls and green pantiles and an arched framed patio at the front. We parked beside Angelo's Cadillac and, making sure none of the potbellies were about, they walked me up the steps to the front terrace. The main door was oak and was embedded with iron studs. It looked as if it could have come over with Columbus, but it swung open with the slightest push.

Angelo was waiting for us at a bare wood table under a date palm in the central courtyard. Behind him were three colossal stone olive oil jars. His short black hair was cut in a monk's tonsure and he carried a surplus hundred pounds around his middle. He was wearing swimming trunks under an open cotton robe and was sucking on an asthmatic's inhaler. He waved a hand for me to sit down and join him. The Napolis took up position on slightly behind on either side.

Angelo didn't feel it was necessary to introduce himself.

"I heard what happened with the Benedict girl," he said, his voice wheezy, as though air was escaping out the side of his nose. "You were behind that? It was very imaginative."

He wasn't expecting an answer.

"I could always use a man with brains."

"I've already got a job."

Angelo pulled a paper handkerchief from a box on the table and patted his glistening forehead. "I'm sorry, I should have offered you a drink. What will you have?"

"Nothing right now."

"You must be wondering why I had you brought all the way out here?"

"It has crossed my mind."

"The answer is very simple." He stopped to take another shot from the inhaler. "You owe me three million dollars. Your partner contracted to supply me with a quantity of counterfeit currency for which I agreed to pay twenty cents on the dollar in genuine paper."

His claim had the ring of truth to it. Andy had promised that the counterfeit would earn each of us two hundred thousand, but had intractably refused to name his fence.

"I'll take that drink now. Bourbon."

Angelo dipped his head at one of the Napolis and the man walked through into the house. If I was going to try anything, now was the time. Then I thought about hurricane fences, potbellies, and men with shotguns.

"I want what I was promised," Angelo said.

"The money was destroyed. The deal's off."

"I don't think you appreciate how I do business. Plans had been made for the three million; my people were expecting it and had geared up for it. Your failure to deliver involved us in considerable financial restructuring."

A glass of bourbon was placed on the table in front of me.

"You could have filed for Chapter Eleven."

Angelo smiled briefly. "I'm looking to you to provide me with some form of recompense.

"You'll have to stand in line. The Secret Service seems to think they have first crack."

My mention of the Service didn't seem to trouble Angelo.

"Perhaps not for much longer," he wheezed. "Governor Kemple has offered Agent Mike Morrell the post of Assistant Director in Charge of the Presidential Protection Detail should he win the big one in November."

Angelo must be paying plenty for information of that quality. "He'll not accept. The Washington winters are too harsh."

"On the contrary. I'm told that he's very keen to relocate; Morrell harbors political aspirations of his own. There's just the one small matter that he would like to clear up before then. He has agents scouring Boca Raton for your print shop. They have already interviewed a paper wholesaler who remembers supplying a quantity of paper with forty percent linen content under unusual circumstances. Thanks to your imprudent advert, Morrell now knows who your partner is."

For a second I was mystified as to how Angelo found out about the ad. Then I realized that it too would have come from his Service source. "You're so well informed, maybe you can tell me where Andy Kove is?"

Angelo pulled an unhappy face. "Unfortunately, even with all my resources deployed − with considerably more discretion than you've displayed − I have been unable to locate your friend."

"You're afraid that Morrell might find him first."

"There is that. But of greater immediate concern to me is that he'll start to explore how the counterfeit currency was to have been distributed. My name may figure in his thoughts."

"It would be a logical step."

"Naturally one I would prefer wasn't taken, but you seem determined to see it happen."

"I don't see there's anything I can do to prevent it."

"But there is. I want you to stop searching for Andy Kove."

I allowed him to carry on.

"Up to now Morrell has found it difficult to convince his superior to approve a full-scale investigation. Your foolhardy blundering could change that."

Did Angelo really expect me to believe him? If he was so damned keen to prevent Morrell making a connection between himself and Andy, having the Napolis risk picking me up from under their noses was a strange way of going about it. Had something he gleaned from his intelligence-gathering forced him into such a rash move? I thought of what I had said to Robin over Loomis. My words were coming back to haunt me.

"What's in it for me?" I blustered.