Checked Out (17 page)

P
hil’s cell phone rang at eleven twenty-three that night.

“This can’t be good,” he said, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

He answered it, and Helen watched her husband’s face go from puzzlement to smiling recognition. “Markos,” he said. “You called. What’s going on? What? A dude’s selling a ruby necklace in Light Up the Night?”

Phil put his phone on speaker so Helen could hear the conversation—and the bar sounds.

“Yes,” Markos said. It sounded like “jess.” As he grew more excited, his slight Cuban accent thickened. “It’s big and there are diamonds on it. He wants five thousand dollars.”

“For a twenty-thousand-dollar necklace,” Phil said. “That’s a real bargain. How much cash do you have with you?”

“About five hundred in tips,” Markos said.

“Give him everything you have,” Phil said. “I’ll pay you back. Tell him you want the necklace for your girlfriend and your friend is bringing the rest of the cash.”

“Will do,” Markos said.

“Is he anywhere near you right now?” Phil asked.

“Dude’s at the bar,” Markos said.

“Is he short and brown-haired?” Phil said.

“Tall, with muscles and blond hair,” Markos said.

“And a sneer?” Helen asked.

Phil frowned at her, but Markos said, “He looks down at me, and I’m not that much shorter.”

“That’s our man,” Phil said. “Helen and I will be there in twenty minutes. I’ll call you when we get there.

“Helen,” he said, “run and get the whole five thousand out of the office safe while I track down a Peerless Point crimes-against-property detective I know. It may take a minute.”

Helen slipped on her shoes, raced upstairs and opened the Coronado safe, where they kept five thousand in cash for emergencies. She bundled forty-five hundred dollars into a big manila envelope, then put five hundred in her purse.

When she returned to Phil’s apartment, he was still on his phone. She heard him say, “Hey, Broker, sorry to wake you.”

Broker must have made some smart remark. Phil grinned and said, “You can bitch now, Detective, but you’ll owe me a beer for this. A college kid named Standiford W. Lohan the Third—goes by Trey—is selling a hot diamond-and-ruby necklace at Light Up the Night, the cigar and martini bar on Federal. Yeah, right now. He’s about six feet, blond hair, one-seventy. He wants five thousand cash. It’s worth twenty. The necklace belongs to my client.

“I’ve got an operative on the scene who’s giving Trey five hundred dollars until I can get there with the rest of the money. When I make the buy, want to arrest him? I thought so. Backup is a good idea. I don’t think he has a weapon, but he might run. Helen and I are leaving now.”

Phil wore a black shirt and Helen had changed into a black blouse and pants to blend in with the bar crowd. “We look like a pair of gunfighters,” she said.

They slipped out into the cool, quiet night. All the lights were off at the Coronado, even Margery’s. They tiptoed through the moon-drenched yard to Phil’s Jeep.

For once, Helen was glad his Jeep didn’t have air-conditioning. The temperature had dropped since their beer-scam bust. Now the night air felt cool and smelled of the sea. When they were on Federal Highway, Helen said, “I’m looking forward to this. I’ve wanted to wipe that sneer off Trey’s face since I first saw his picture. Looks like the cops will do it for me.”

“If Trey is still there,” Phil said. “If he took Markos’s down payment. If Trey believes I’ll show up with the rest of the cash, and if he lets Markos make the buy.”

“That’s a lot of
if
s,” Helen said.

“Here’s one more,” Phil said. “If Broker arrives in time to make the bust.”

“His name is Broker?” Helen asked.

“No,” he said. “It’s Stanley Morgan. Like Morgan Stanley, the brokerage house.”

“Oh, right,” Helen said. “I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer at this hour.”

The shopping center was on the left. Phil turned in and circled twice before he found a parking spot. Light Up the Night was living up to its name, its striped awnings overshadowed by a bright neon martini glass and a cigar with a swiggle of smoke. Young men and pretty women were clustered around the entrance, posing like models in a magazine shoot. The men—and some women—were smoking cigars.

Helen whistled. “They’re wearing some expensive clothes,” she said.

“They are? I don’t see any designer logos,” Phil said.

“The truly chic don’t brand themselves like cattle,” Helen said. “They expect anyone who counts to know.”

“If you say so,” Phil said.

One cigar smoker stood alone under a palm tree, away from the others, observing the crowd. “Broker,” Phil said, waving to him. “This is my wife and partner, Helen Hawthorne.”

“Your partner is a hell of a lot better-looking than any I ever had,” Broker said. He was thirtysomething, and dressed as stylishly as the customers. Helen recognized his well-cut outfit as Hugo Boss.

“I got here ten minutes ago,” he said. “Lots of blondes, but all girls. The only men had brown hair or were bald.”

“Not him,” Phil said, thumbing through his iPhone. “Here’s a picture of Trey and the necklace.”

“I’ll remember him,” Broker said. “The blond girl your client?”

“Her father is,” Phil said. “Our client wanted to keep this out of the papers. He never filed a police report, but he has the sales receipt.”

Broker nodded.

“Your backup in place?” Phil asked.

“Two uniforms at the entrance in back,” Broker said. “A car is parked in the next lot if we need it.”

“I’ll call Markos, our operative, and tell him I’m here,” Phil said. “I’ll meet Markos and the seller at the bar. I have the cash.” He held up the manila envelope.

Markos answered on the first ring. “I’m here,” Phil said. “I’ve got the money in a manila envelope.”

“He’s waiting,” Markos said, “but he’s impatient.”

“Order me a Bombay martini, straight up, lemon peel,” Phil said, “and I’ll meet you at the bar right away.”

“I’m borrowing your partner when I go in,” Broker said. “Maybe she’ll make me look less like a cop.”

Helen and Broker walked quickly to the bar door. “You nervous?” he said.

“I don’t get nervous,” Helen said, and hoped he didn’t notice she was only pretending to be cool. Her heart was thumping so loud she could hardly hear him.

“I’ll stand at the front entrance in case he runs,” Broker said. “As soon as he takes the money, I’ll move in.”

“I’ll hang out near Phil and signal when he makes the buy,” Helen said. “If you see me raise my hand, come running.”

Inside, Sinatra oozed from the speakers. There was very little smoke, but Helen definitely smelled the cigars. She rather liked the smell—it reminded her of her grandfather. But she was quite sure the fashionistas perched on the midcentury modern chairs wouldn’t want to hear that. Every table was taken and people stood three deep at the bar, drinking birdbath-sized martinis.

Helen spotted Phil’s silver hair. He was standing at the bar next to Markos, who looked so sweaty and shifty-eyed he could have been the thief. Trey, with his blond bangs, looked like he was doing Phil a favor by talking to him.

Helen watched Trey pull the necklace out of his shirt pocket. In the dimly lit room, it was a fiery beacon, but the smokers and drinkers didn’t seem to notice. Helen carefully elbowed her way past a couple drinking dirty martinis. Now she was closer to the action, close enough to see Phil’s martini in an icy glass, alone and abandoned on the bar. She wished she could drink it.

Focus, she told herself. You’ve got a crook to catch.

Trey was counting the cash now, and still nobody nearby noticed the deal going down. Then Trey smiled, the only attractive expression she’d seen on his face, and handed Phil the necklace.

Helen looked for Broker. The detective was near the door, trying—and failing—to look casual. He nodded, she raised her hand, and he pushed his way through the crowd.

Helen heard cries of “Hey!” “Watch where you’re going!” and “You spilled my drink, asshat!”

Trey turned his head, and Helen saw the stunned look on his face as Broker clamped his hand on the thief’s arm.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Trey said, giving a good impersonation of an innocent man.

“Detective Stanley Morgan, Peerless Point Property Crimes,” he said. “Do you have a receipt to prove you own that necklace?”

“Do you have a receipt for those clothes?” Trey said.

“Let’s step outside, sir, where we can discuss this,” Broker said, and guided Trey toward the door. Two uniforms materialized and walked beside them through the trendy crowd.

Markos grabbed Phil’s martini and drank it down. “Is it over?” he said. He looked frazzled, his thick, black hair standing up in spikes, his white waiter’s shirt soaked through with sweat.

“It’s over,” Phil said, “and you did great.”

Helen pulled a small envelope out of her purse. “This is yours,” she said. “You won’t have to wait for the police to give you your tip money back.”

“I’ll return this as soon as they do,” Markos said.

“No,” Helen said. “It’s your payment. You were our freelance operative.”

Markos straightened his shoulders and smiled. “I’m an operative? Like in the movies?”

“Exactly,” Helen said. “We couldn’t have closed this case without you.”

B
ut the case wasn’t closed, not yet.

Trey tried to brazen it out, as if his supercilious sneer and privileged blond-boy haircut were protection. “Bree gave me that necklace to sell for her,” he said. “Her old man’s a tightwad and she needs money. She likes to party, if you know what I mean.” He made sniffing sounds.

“Then let’s ask him,” Broker said. “Phil, will you call Mr. Coakley? And put your cell phone on speaker so we can all hear.”

Amis Coakley was not happy that Phil woke him up at twelve thirty a.m.

“Couldn’t this wait until a more civilized hour?” he asked.

“No,” Phil said. “I’ve recovered Bree’s ruby necklace.”

“I still don’t see why that news can’t wait until morning,” Amis Coakley said.

“Because the necklace was stolen by Trey, your daughter’s boyfriend,” Phil said.

“What!”

Helen could feel Amis’s anger boiling through the phone, like a controlled explosion that demolished whole buildings.

“He says Bree gave him the necklace to sell,” Phil said.

“She did nothing of the kind,” Amis said. Helen expected Phil’s cell phone to burst into bits of plastic, metal and melted chips.

“Trey says you’re a tightwad and she gave him the necklace to sell so she could have the cash.” Phil was grinning now.

Helen gave him a warning look. It isn’t smart to tease an angry client, she thought. Not when he hasn’t paid our final bill.

Amis gave a low, guttural growl, a predator ready to rip out a throat.

“If you can prove that you bought the necklace and if Bree will say he’s lying—” Phil began.

Amis cut him off. “Of course he’s lying! I’m extremely generous to my daughter.”

“The detective needs you to show him the necklace receipt,” Phil said.

“My word isn’t enough?”

“Sorry, but we need paper, sir, if the police are going to arrest him,” Phil said. “And could you bring Bree so she can swear out an affidavit that she did not give Trey her necklace to fence?”

“I’ll see if she’s home,” Amis said. “Hold on.”

Home? Helen wondered. Oh, wait—she’s twenty-one, it’s Friday night, and we’re in Florida, not the Midwest.

They waited. A curious crowd of martini guzzlers and cigar smokers had gathered in the parking lot, until the uniforms started asking the beautiful people if they knew anything about stolen goods being sold at the bar. Then they melted away like . . . well, like smoke.

Amis was back on the line. “Bree is here. Where should we see you?”

“We’re in the parking lot of Light Up the Night, the cigar and martini bar,” Phil said.

“I prefer not to conduct my personal business in public,” Amis said.

Broker took the phone. “This is Detective Stanley Morgan, Mr. Coakley,” he said. “We can come to your home with Mr. Lohan, or you can meet us at the Peerless Point police headquarters.”

“I don’t want that scum in my house again. I want you to take him straight to jail after we leave. We’ll meet you at the police headquarters.” Amis Coakley clicked off his phone.

“Let’s roll,” Broker said.

“What about my car?” Trey said, and pointed to a red Ferrari still in the lot.

“Son, that’s the least of your worries right now,” Broker said.

“But what if it’s—”

“Stolen?” Broker interrupted. “I hope not, for your sake. I hear this place is crawling with thieves.”

They had a parade to the Peerless Point police station. Trey was loaded into a patrol car that followed Broker’s unmarked Dodge Charger. Helen and Phil brought up the rear.

Like many police stations in upscale communities, it was hard to tell that the Peerless Point building was a cop shop. Outside, it was prettily painted and landscaped. But inside were the same Wanted posters, depressing decor and lowlifes.

Trey was left in a drab interview room like a piece of luggage, while the private eyes and Broker waited for the Coakleys.

“Trey did more than steal Bree’s necklace,” Phil said. “He also took the family’s golf cart. Hauled it off in his father’s pickup truck. At least I think it was his father’s truck. I’ve got a TAR request in for the license plate.”

“You got the license number with you?” Broker asked. “I can look it up in the line of duty.”

“Yep.”

They followed him to a computer at a paper-piled desk, and Broker typed in the plate number and quickly had the information. “Black 2012 F-150 Ford pickup,” he said. “Registered to LCC, Lohan Construction Corp.”

“That’s him,” Phil said.

“Lohan,” Broker said. “He the one who builds those insta-slums with the hollow-core doors?”

“That’s Trey’s dad,” Phil said. “How’d you know about the flimsy apartment doors?”

“I’ve put my foot through more than one in the pursuit of justice,” he said. “LCC apartments are magnets for stolen goods. Where’s the golf cart?”

“Trey sold it for two thousand cash to a shop called Fore! Sale. The owner, Dave, took it out of the showroom and promised to deliver it once I was ready to return it. Trey’s on the store security footage, delivering the stolen golf cart.”

“This just gets better,” Broker said. “You two realize that if Trey really did steal that necklace, you’ll have to be witnesses for the state.”

“Fine with us,” Helen said.

“I’ll get a warrant for the Lohan home and see if Sonny Boy’s been stockpiling other stolen goods. There’s a shoplifting ring that’s been driving us crazy. I’d be tickled pink to finally make an arrest.”

“You’d look good in pink,” Phil said. He gave Broker the ruby-and-diamond necklace. Helen was hypnotized by its glitter.

That was when a grumpy Amis Coakley showed up with a sleepy Bree. Amis looked like he kicked puppies for fun. Bree was posing as a model citizen in a pink polo shirt and white clam diggers. Helen saw a delicate rose-gold Tiffany T wire bracelet on her wrist.

They crowded into the interview room, Helen and Phil against a wall, Amis and Bree facing Trey. He’d been handcuffed to the scarred table.

The thief didn’t flinch when Amis glared at him—or when Broker read Trey his rights.

Broker produced the necklace. “Mr. Coakley, did you purchase this necklace?”

“I did,” he said. “For my daughter’s twenty-first birthday. Here’s the receipt from the jeweler.”

Trey’s sneer stayed steady.

“Ms. Coakley,” Broker said, “did you give Mr. Lohan permission to sell your necklace because you wanted more money?”

Broker didn’t mention Trey’s charge that Bree wanted drug money, Helen thought. Maybe he doesn’t want to damage his witness.

“I did not!” Bree said. “And I never, ever said Daddy was cheap. He’s the most generous daddy in the world.” She was crying now, but Helen couldn’t tell if she’d cleverly turned on the waterworks or those were real tears. She did notice Bree had the gift of crying prettily. Her eyes didn’t redden and there was no unattractive sniffling. Her father put his arm protectively around her shoulders.

“You liar,” Trey said, suddenly flushed with anger. “I had to listen to you bitch for weeks because your father would only give you one party—in Fort Lauderdale yet—and he wouldn’t pay for any A-listers.”

“That’s not true,” Bree screeched. She shook off Daddy’s arm, then pulled the rose-gold Tiffany bracelet off her wrist and held it up. “Did you steal this, too? Did you steal my birthday present? Answer me!”

“I want a lawyer,” Trey said.

“You did steal it,” she said. She threw the bracelet at Trey, then punched him in the head.

Helen saw that Broker didn’t move. She thought the detective enjoyed watching Bree beat Trey, but it was hard to tell. She did know that Bree packed quite a wallop. By the time Broker and her father stopped her, little Bree had not only knocked the sneer off Trey’s face, but had also given her ex-boyfriend a bloody nose and a split lip. Her punch must have dazed Trey. He covered his face with his hands, but didn’t fight back.

“The four of you will give me your statements while I wait for Mr. Lohan’s lawyer,” Broker said.

“Yes, Detective,” Amis Coakley said. Bree nodded.

“We will,” Helen said. “And we’ll testify that you did not hit Trey Lohan, Detective.”

Bree tried to retrieve her bracelet from the floor, but Broker said, “Sorry, miss. I have reason to believe that’s stolen property. It stays with me.”

“I’ll buy you a new one, sweetheart,” Amis Coakley said.

Helen was tired and groggy. She needed sleep. She wanted to go home. As she left the room, she looked back at Trey.

He was alone. His bloody nose dripped on the table and his right eye was swelling and turning into a rainbow. His air of entitlement was gone, along with his smirk.

Well, she thought. This might be more rewarding than a fat check.