[Jake Lassiter 03.0] False Dawn Page 3

  Ordinarily, I would never repeat what a client told me, not even to his boss, the guy paying the fee. But Francisco told me to share everything with Yagamata:

  Señor Yagamata es mi amigo.

  El jefe was waiting for an answer, so I said: “Francisco didn’t say it in so many words. But I can tell he’s holding back.”

  “How? What special powers do you have, Mr. Lassiter?”

  “I’ve known Francisco Crespo a long time.”

  “Then your representation of him is fortuitous, is it not?”

  For whom, I wondered. Maybe for Yagamata. Get one of his lawyers to clean up that little mess, some nasty blood on the floor of his warehouse.

  “Actually, Mr. Yagamata, it’s tougher for me to defend Francisco. His mother is a saintly woman who was very kind to me when I didn’t have a friend in this town.”

  “Ah, now I see. You are a sentimentalist.”

  “I just like to help out people who’ve helped me.”

  “An excellent quality. So what is stopping you?”

  “Crespo told me a cock-and-bull story about how he killed the Russian all by his lonesome. It didn’t hold up.”

  Yagamata shifted his weight ever so slightly, and a look of discomfort crossed his face. “The authorities, they also will not believe it?”

  Something about the question struck me as odd. A faint tone of disappointment, maybe.

  “No, if Crespo takes the fall, the prosecution will be so happy to close the case. Keeping files open doesn’t help the state attorney’s statistics when it’s appropriations time.”

  Yagamata smiled and let some light into his eyes. The foibles of government seemed to be something he understood. “Fine. If Mr. Crespo says he killed the man, who are we to say he did not?”

  I’m not one of those self-righteous lawyers given to glorifying the lonely warriors of the courtroom, righting wrongs wherever we find them, blah, blah, blah. I’m just a lead-footed ex-linebacker trying to wade through the muck of the so-called justice system. I don’t even mind getting dirty so long as the stains come out. But I’ve also got a big mouth, and sometimes the guy who sits on my shoulder puts words into it.

  “My job is to do my best for Crespo whether he wants it or not.” I sounded tight-assed, even to myself.

  Yagamata’s smile disappeared. He appraised me, probably wondering if I was a fool. That made two of us. The corporate lawyers in the firm had been glomming handsome fees from Yagamata’s business interests for several years. I was meandering on the fringes of an ethical thicket. No lawyer can serve masters with conflicting interests.

  “I’m sure you will do your job splendidly, Mr. Lassiter,” Yagamata said. “But perhaps you read too much into the situation. If Mr. Crespo is shielding someone else, it could be from a sense of honor, a commitment he has made. In my country, that would be praiseworthy.”

  “But it warps the system.”

  Little lines formed creases at the corners of his eyes and he chuckled. He liked bantering with me. Maybe nobody ever argued with him, even politely. “The system,” he told me pleasantly, “is made to be warped. As it is, Mr. Crespo is quite fortunate to have you as his attorney and me as his employer.” Yagamata moved closer and used his broad back to shield us from the party guests. His voice became a whisper. “They tell me you are a pleasant fellow and a decent if undistinguished lawyer, but that you have problems with authority.”

  Who was I to argue with the truth?

  “In my country,” he continued, “the failure to adhere to a rigid structure is considered a major personal failing.” He looked toward the channel just off the patio where a huge Bertram chugged along at no-wake speed, its running lights glowing in the darkness. “On the other hand, I have always believed life is more interesting if you have your own identity. Japan cultivates faceless technicians. But a man needs personality, singularity. That is why I love your country so much, Mr. Lassiter. Land of the cowboys. Rugged individuals. You understand this, I know.”

  Somehow I heard a “but” coming.

  “But it is one thing to be an individual and another to be disloyal to those who are willing to assist you. In our lives, Mr. Lassiter, we cross paths with many people. Most will be of little use. Loyalty to them is misplaced, a waste. Others will be in a position to further careers, to look after interests. Loyalty to these people will be rewarded. Disloyalty will bring shame and dishonor, pain and ruin.”

  “What happens,” I asked, “if personal loyalty conflicts with moral principles?”

  “Then it would be the truest test of loyalty, would you not agree?”

  “Or the truest test of principle,” I said.

  He gave me a wintry smile, then turned to greet two local politicians who attended every high-society bar mitzvah, communion, and bayside soiree on the public service gravy train.

  I guess it hadn’t been a question after all, the struggle between loyalty and principle. It was a message. Francisco Crespo was a damn lucky guy to have his stinking rich boss paying a downtown mouthpiece to look the other way. And me, I was being handsomely rewarded to keep the boss’s name out of the papers and to deliver Crespo into the garbage disposal we call the criminal justice system.

  Do the job right, there’d be others to follow.

  Screw it up, there’d be pain and ruin.

  You and me both, Francisco. Just a couple of lucky guys.

  4

  THE SOLID GOLD TRAIN

  Ten minutes later, Yagamata was perched on a small stage, introducing his local celebrity pals: judges, commissioners, TV anchors, business executives, a monsignor and even two members of the water and sewer board. Then Yagamata announced he was giving three million dollars to preserve some Art Deco properties on South Beach. In lieu of the mayor, who was on trial for bribery and extortion, the vice mayor handed him a plaque, and all the politicos applauded politely and jockeyed for position as a local TV crew taped the event.

  Doc Charlie Riggs and I moseyed over to a Henry Moore sculpture that looked like a gray marble camel. It made a fine, if lumpy, picnic table. I dug into a second portion of stone crabs, dipping the white meat into a tangy mustard sauce.

  Charlie speared one of the claws on my plate. “Mmm. Sweeter than lobster.”

  “Bad for your cholesterol, Charlie,” I warned him, hoarding my remaining stoners.

  While Charlie was making slurping noises, leaving a trail of mustard sauce in his beard, dignitaries on the stage were heaping praise on our host. The director of a local art museum gave his thanks for Yagamata’s generous gifts, and the head of the symphony did the same.

  Around us, Biscayne Bay shimmered black under a soft easterly breeze. Across the water, the lights of Miami Beach hotels and condos winked, and an occasional jet from M.I.A. soared overhead. It was a beautiful night filled with beautiful people doing beautiful things. As usual, I didn’t quite fit in.

  “Will you look at that,” Charlie Riggs said, interrupting my reverie.

  Yagamata stood alone on the stage now. He had opened a red velvet box and withdrew what appeared to be a green and silver egg-shaped sculpture. At its base, two winged creatures stood with swords and shields raised high.

  “Come closer, Jake,” Charlie said, moving toward the stage.

  Yagamata spoke into a microphone: “As many of you know, I have given many gifts of art to museums both in Japan and in the United States.” He allowed himself a modest chuckle. “I thought you might like to see a little something I gave myself.”

  The crowd tittered at the “little something.” Yagamata was showing off and enjoying it.

  “I love art, and I love jewelry. So the jewelry-art of Carl Fabergé is most attractive to me. When Fabergé made imperial eggs for the family of the Russian czar, he often enclosed a surprise.” Carefully, Yagamata lifted the lid of the egg and delicately pulled out what at first looked like a thick gold chain.

  Moving closer, I saw it clearly. A miniature train with an engine, a tender, and five c
oaches of solid gold.

  “The Trans-Siberian Railway Egg of 1900,” whispered Charlie Riggs, who knows everything worth knowing and a lot that isn’t.

  “I don’t know if you can appreciate the incredible detail from where you are standing,” Yagamata said to the crowd. “One coach has a miniature imperial chapel. There are tiny signs for ‘smokers’ and ‘ladies only.’ It is really quite special.”

  Charlie made a harrumphing sound that he sometimes uses to clear his throat and his mind.

  I nudged him from behind. “What do you suppose that thing cost?”

  “You couldn’t buy it, Jake.”

  “I know I couldn’t, but what do you suppose Yagamata spent?”

  “He couldn’t buy it, either. Not if it’s the real McCoy.”

  “You think it’s fake? Skim milk masquerading as cream?”

  “Trust me, Jake. The original could not be bought. What I don’t understand is how anyone could afford to copy something so intricate. It would simply be too expensive to duplicate today, even if you could find the craftsman who knew how.”

  Yagamata was still fondling his little gold train, and Charlie Riggs was still chewing over something I didn’t understand.

  “Didn’t that magazine publisher own a lot of those eggs?” I asked.

  “Yes, Malcolm Forbes. But he bought them from private collections.”

  “So, maybe Yagamata—”

  “The Trans-Siberian Railway Egg is in the Armoury Museum in the Kremlin, and not in the gift shop, either. You can’t buy it, Jake, any more than you could buy Lenin’s Tomb. It belongs to the Russian Republic.”

  Yagamata folded the train together. The cars fit snugly together by minute gold hinges that connected them. He put the train back into the egg, and the egg into its red velvet box. The guests began gravitating toward the dessert table, where white-gloved waiters served chocolate eggs filled with white mousse and a raspberry for a surprise. I just love theme parties.

  “Sometimes, Charlie, you make life too complicated,” I said to my old pal. “Sometimes, things are just the way they seem.”

  “Meaning what?”

  I seldom arrive anywhere quicker than Charlie Riggs, so I wanted to prolong the moment. “If Matsuo Yagamata wanted that shiny little choo-choo train and it wasn’t for sale, what do you suppose he’d do?”

  Doc Riggs eyed me suspiciously but didn’t say a word.

  “He’d just take it, Charlie. He’d steal the damn thing.”

  5

  THE LATINA P.I.

  The day of the arraignment and not even a paragraph about State of Florida v. Francisco Crespo. Fine with me. I’ve never tried my cases in the newspaper. The press always convicts.

  The lack of publicity wasn’t surprising. Murders occur every day in our little slice of paradise. That morning’s Miami Herald featured a map of the county showing where each of last year’s 441 homicides occurred, according to zip codes.

  In some cities, folks buy their homes depending on the quality of the school district. In Greater Miami, cautious citizens check the neighborhood’s body count. Best I could figure, 33039 was the safest zip code. Not one homicide all year. Unfortunately, that’s Homestead Air Force Base. As I’m not real good at saluting, I continue to live in the coral-rock cottage tucked alongside chinaberry and live oak trees between Poinciana and Kumquat in Coconut Grove. It’s quiet except for an occasional police siren, and my pillbox of a house could withstand a hurricane and has.

  ***

  A fine layer of dew covered the old canvas top of the convertible. Only April, but the humidity was picking up already. I headed to the criminal justice building, happy to stay out of the downtown civil courthouse. On the exit ramp of the Dolphin Expressway, a black Porsche Testarossa with dark tinted windows downshifted and powered past me on the right berm. Ordinarily, in that situation, I hit the horn, shout, and make a few obscene gestures. But the bumper sticker on the Porsche said, “Honk if you’ve never seen an Uzi fired through a car window,” and I already had.

  There weren’t any reporters in the courtroom when I pleaded Francisco Crespo not guilty to second-degree murder. That’s right. The plea is “not guilty.” A defendant doesn’t have to be “innocent.” That’s for the gods to decide.

  A jury only determines whether the state meets its burden of proving guilt to the exclusion of a reasonable doubt. If the state fails, the defendant is adjudged “not guilty,” even though the jurors may believe the guy is a slimeball who hasn’t been “innocent” since kindergarten.

  I did the usual: waived reading of the criminal information, demanded trial by jury, and requested all the discovery materials in the state’s possession. I also asked the state not to inadvertently lose evidence favorable to the defense, which prompted the prosecutor to ask if I thought he was unethical or incompetent, and I simply said “yes.”

  The judge set the trial for June. Stone crabs would be out of season, and rich Miamians would be headed out of state. The jury panel would be comprised of folks angry at the heat, the mosquitoes, and the person responsible for their involuntary civic duties, one Francisco Crespo.

  I didn’t tell Crespo any of this. We had only a moment together. He stood next to me, looking deceptively puny in an oversize pale yellow guayabera. I asked him if there was anything else he wanted to tell me, and he shook his head. I told him I wanted to talk about Matsuo Yagamata, and he gave me a sad smile that said no.

  “But please thank el jefe for posting bail.”

  Helluva boss, I thought. Yagamata had put up two-hundred-fifty-thousand cash to get Francisco Crespo out of jail, but he wouldn’t let him talk to his lawyer.

  Francisco asked me to tell his mother that he was okay, and then slipped out of the courtroom, trusting me with his life.

  ***

  An hour later, I was seated at the Versailles, the Cuban restaurant with a French name. I was having lunch with Lourdes Soto, a woman I’d never met. She’d called this morning and suggested we meet. Actually, on the phone this morning, she asked if I could use a good investigator.

  “Already have one,” I told her.

  She knew that.

  “I’ve used Ernie Palmer for years.”

  She knew that, too.

  “What’s your experience in homicide—”

  “You just came from the justice building, didn’t you?” she interrupted.

  I had, but how did she know?

  “I watched you pull into the parking lot coming east on Calle Ocho,” she answered without being asked. “If you’d been driving from your office, you would have been headed west on Calle Ocho. There’s also a layer of brown dust on your hood. They’re repairing the trestles on the ramp to the interstate just south of the justice building. I’d say you parked in the shade next to the pilings where the construction is going on.”

  Not exactly Sherlock Holmes, maybe, but noticing details makes for a good investigator. “I’m impressed.”

  Now, seated across from each other at the Versailles, she tilted her head and gave me a mischievous smile. I figured it might have been my twinkly eyes or suave manner.

  Then I caught sight of myself in the mirrored wall: I had a splendid guava milkshake mustache. Resisting the urge to use my shirtsleeve, I wiped my mouth with a napkin, swallowed a mouthful of my sandwich— sliced pork, turkey, and cheese with a pickle on crunchy Cuban bread—and got down to business.

  “So why should I hire you, Lourdes?”

  “Women have certain advantages as investigators. We take people by surprise.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Men underestimate us.”

  True, few men would think Lourdes Soto would be pulling surveillance duty in an old Ford van filled with stinking ashtrays and body odor. She had that rare combination of jet black hair and flawless porcelain skin. The contrast makes the black velvet eyes even darker, the ivory skin even whiter. She had a prominent, forceful nose that went well with her strong cheekbones. She wore her hair in
a short shag, and her makeup was understated, her lips brushed with just a hint of rosy gloss. Pearl earrings gleamed pure white against her dark hair. A trace of perfume, not too sweet, wafted my way. She wore a white knit dress with a fitted waist and padded shoulders.

  “It’s easier for women to get witnesses to talk,” she continued. “Men especially. They always want to help a lady.” She smiled again. “One way or another.”

  She dug into her ropa vieja, the stringy Cuban beef in a piquant tomato sauce. A petite woman with a healthy appetite.

  “Tell me about your work,” I said.

  “The usual. Asset reconstruction, missing persons, surveillance, witness interviews, sworn statements in both civil and criminal cases.”

  She told me she had started working eleven years ago, right after she graduated from Florida State. Her first job was with a big company, Wackenhut. Then she went with a three-investigator firm in a seedy building with a flashing neon sign and a boss who kept a bottle of bourbon in his desk, just like in the movies. Recently, she opened her own shop, and now she was hustling business from semi-respectable lawyers such as my own lonesome self.

  “I thought it would be glamorous,” Lourdes said, “for about twenty minutes. My first job was sorting a guy’s garbage for two months. Every Monday and Thursday at four A.M., I’d be in his driveway, substituting my trash for his.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Proof of assets. He’d gone into bankruptcy to defraud creditors. Buried in the coffee grounds was a magazine for owners of private aircraft. Found a twin-engine Beechcraft under a phony name at Tamiami. Plus a property tax bill from North Carolina. We located a nicely furnished A-frame near Boone plus thirty acres of land just off the Blue Ridge Parkway.”

  She smiled and speared a sweet plantain with her fork. “I love the challenge.” Running a hand through her shag hairdo, she told me a few more war stories. I listened, thinking she was a neat package of woman in total control. But just what was going on?

  In the guise of friendly patter, she was revealing her resume one page at a time. I was supposed to be impressed with her competence, and I was. At the same time, there was that faint air of flirtation, the sidelong look, the smile that slid from friendly to provocative without crossing the border of good taste.