“That’s fine, Chief. You do that and we’ll talk to them.”
“You just work with Lieutenant Elfmont, Shayne,” Chief Painter, shaking a finger at the redhead, said. “He’s in charge. Understand?”
“Short of killing myself, Chief,” Shayne replied.
II
Outside Chief Painter’s office, Shayne said, “I think it best we work alone. I’ll see what I can dig up, and you see what you can come up with. I’ll call you, or you can call me, about six this evening. Try my office first. If I’m out, try my apartment. I’m in the book.”
Shayne went to a phone booth and called the Miami News, asked for Tim Rourke. He gave him a rundown on the situation.
“Wow! Do I get an exclusive on this, Mike?”
“Don’t you always?”
“Not always — but okay. What do you want from me?”
“I want to know if you have any information about a hood in town who owns a boat and where it may be moored.”
There was a long silence. Impatiently, Shayne said, “Tim?”
“Yeah, yeah!” Rourke replied. “I was thinking. First of all, the mob knows that Lieutenant Elfmont is investigating the Roselli killing, and that he’s coming close. Let me run it down for you.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“The word came down from New York, from the Big Guy who took over since Carlo Gambino died. A lot of the soldiers, and a few on the inside, were about to start singing a la Abe Reles. Murder, Incorporated, remember?”
“Yeah, I know the whole bit. Go on.”
“Don’t be so damned impatient. There’s a lot to this. When they knocked off Sam Giancanna in Chicago, that was the beginning. Next, Johnny Roselli. Street talk was that the CIA may have been behind the two killings to stop Giancanna and Roselli from talking about the Castro assassination deal. Big flopperoo. Rumors. Nothing behind them.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep. Now, the only Don in this town who owns a boat is Dom Colletti. Dom takes his orders from New York and Chicago. The boys there call him and tell him to bark. He barks. They tell him to jump and he says, ‘How high.’ That’s it.”
“So?”
“Mike, for Pete’s sake, have you lost all your marbles? The Council, the Grand Council of the Mafia, ordered Giancanna killed. And then, Roselli. Both were scheduled to testify. Roselli already had testified before the Committee investigating crime.
“Senatorial, Mike. The big guns, also wanted to delve into the CIA, and just how much the bureau was involved in assassination plots.”
“Nope. Let’s keep it local. Dom Colletti.”
“He could be the man behind the Roselli assassination, and so behind the snatch of Lieutenant Elfmont’s wife.”
“What’s the name of his boat and where is it moored?”
“The Angelina, named after his daughter. Colletti’s wife died about two years ago. It may be moored at the Marina, alongside Pier sixty-six, Seventeenth Street Causeway.”
“I know the place, Tim. What else?”
“You think Becky Elfmont may be held on the boat?”
“Could be. According to the note, which declared they would drop her in the drink, about three miles out on the Atlantic.”
“That’s a put-on, Mike. To throw Lieutenant Elfmont off the track. They may take her out and drop her three miles out, if this fuzz friend of yours doesn’t play it cozy. These guys play for keeps. The murder of a cop’s wife? So what? If I were you, I’d move fast.
“About the diamond heist, I’ll check around. Maybe a local or locals. Or a couple of out-of-town heavies. The tracks are open. The broads are running loose, looking for roadshow Johns. Try the Sly Fox on Ocean Drive in Fort Lauderdale. It’s a pickup place. High-powered broads and guys looking for a little fun and games.
“Some of those chicks can be had for two Martinis and a little sweet talk. You may hit pay-dirt there. If not, try the lounge in the Royal Admiral. Talk to Joey, the bartender on the night trick. He’s sharp and knows most everyone who comes into the joint.”
The Royal Admiral Apartment-Hotel catered to permanent and transient guests. It was one of the many of its kind that lined the Galt Ocean Mile. The tenants were as different from each other as the ever-changing weather during the seasons. Among the permanent residents was a former Broadway stage star; a corporation lawyer in his dotage, eighty years old or more, and a woman hearing fifty named Ann Waterman who looked years younger.
She was having an affair with the lawyer, if it could be called that. Actually she was using him, as he was using her. She needed someone to keep her supplied with liquor and meals, and he needed, or wanted, an attractive woman to feed his ego and bring back memories of his lost youth and virility.
When Shayne came into the lounge about seven o’clock Ann Waterman, thrice divorced, was sitting at a table alone. She was wearing a pair of tight blue slacks that hugged her figure, a top that was tied at her abdomen, loosely, so that her small round breasts were all but exposed. Shayne spoke softly to Joey, who was on duty.
“I don’t know if I can help you, Mr. Shayne.” He nodded toward Ann Waterman. “That gal there might. She knows half the men in the area. Hangs around the Sly Fox, the Galt Ocean Mile Hotel, and wherever there’s the prospect of a man she can pick up.”
“Is she a pro?”
“Nope.” There was disgust in the bartender’s voice. “Just a lush. We’ve had some ripe ones in here but she takes the cake. Nothing but trouble. Just go over and sit down, ask her if you can buy her a drink. That’s all it will take. After the second drink she’ll tell you all you want to know, if she knows it.”
Shayne slid off the stool and moved toward Ann Waterman. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’d like to buy you a drink, if I may.”
She smiled, nodded. “Please sit down.”
He sat on the bench next to her. She called the waitress — “Marge.”
The girl came over. “Yes, Ann?”
“A vodka Martini.”
“I’ll have a double brandy, straight.”
“My name’s Shayne,” the private detective said.
“Okay, Shayne. My name’s Ann.”
Marge set the drinks down and turned away after smiling broadly at Ann. It was more of a leer, as if to say, “You sure can get them quick, baby.”
Shayne appraised her. Long black hair, obviously dyed because at her age the gray should have been evident. If the bartender was right, and Shayne was sure he was, the woman next to him had kept her figure and face in remarkable condition. She was a little above average height, slim, good teeth, the eyes a little too small that excellent makeup enlarged and broadened. Attractive, yes, but there was something that suggested corruption in the way she smiled, about her eyes, the quirk she had of twisting her mouth at intervals when she spoke.
She finished her drink in two gulps. Shayne motioned Marge, who brought her another drink. Ann picked up the glass and took a long sip.
Shayne got into it then. “Do you like to fish?” he asked.
She shook here head. “Not at all. But I like to go out on boats. You know — sail up and down the Intracoastal. Things like that.”
“I’d like it too, if I owned a boat. Do you own one?”
“No. But I have a friend who owns one. No, I don’t think he does. He says it’s his but it isn’t.”
“A large boat?”
“Pretty big. It’s equipped. Everything you could want, and a fully stocked bar. I’ve been on it several times, most of the time in a party. Three or four couples.”
“Does it have a name, the boat?”
“Yes. The Angelina. It’s berthed at a private dock, near Stan’s restaurant. You know where Stan’s is?”