He sat back in his chair and laced his fingers on top of his head, gathered up his hair and tugged. Not a good day to be king.
Roberge’s employment file noted that he worked as security guard for the company. It also noted that he’d previously been convicted of a felony. On the line where it said, “If Yes, Please Explain” Roberge had scrawled, all in caps ASSAULT, EXTORTION, ETC. It shuddered Fiona to imagine what ETC. meant. If you put assault and extortion on an application, what aren’t you admitting? Drowning puppies?
She handed the file back to Sherman, who looked at it like it was contagious. “Job title?” Fiona said, even though she already knew. Didn’t want poor Mr. Sherman to know she’d been peeking, though it’s hardly covert activity when you do it right in front of someone; though it must have been hard for Mr. Sherman to pay attention to much of anything at that moment.
“Consultant,” Sherman said. “Security.”
Companies who hired ex-cons for security deserved all of the bad things that happened to them. Personally, Fiona thought she had a very strong work ethic and while she occasionally worked on the other side of the law, it wasn’t like she was breaking arms for drugs. Robbing a bank is a victimless crime, really. And selling guns, well, at least in America people had the right to bear arms. She was sure most people who purchased guns from her did so for perfectly reasonable purposes. And anyway, it wasn’t her commitment in question. If people needed guns, they’d get them from somewhere.
“And purpose of Mr. Roberge’s presence at the location?” Again, Sherman looked nervous, maybe on the verge of tears. “Sir, it’s required for the insurance. If we do this the right way, your insurance won’t be contacted, the police won’t press charges and everyone sleeps like little babies.”
“He was investigating a possible security breach,” Sherman said. “Look, Ms. Bowes? I can’t have this getting in the newspaper, okay? This is really sensitive. The slightest sense of impropriety and this whole race could go down the tubes. Did you see that yacht that blew up? Those are the kinds of people who want to breach security, ma’am. Mr. Roberge was sent to check out a possible negative, uh, person of interest. That’s all I can say.”
A negative person of interest. That’s all he had to say.
“All right,” Fiona said. She figured her ruse could only last so long and that if she kept hammering Sherman, he might not last much more, either. “All I need is Mr. Roberge’s signature on this form and I think we can avoid prosecution.”
“He’s not here,” Sherman said.
Of course he wasn’t. Fi suspected he was lurking about the city somewhere, however. And it would be good to know where that was. “Well, if you can fax the form back to our office by five this evening, I think that should be fine.”
“Yes, yes, fine,” he said. He stood up and Fiona decided to give the man his dignity and allow him to dictate when the meeting was over. Besides, she was eager to get to her car to hear his next conversation.
She walked back through the cubicle maze and into the foyer, where unfortunately the receptionist was back on duty and the security guard woman was now standing and looking threatening by the door, though when Fiona got near she gave her a nice smile. “Everything go well?” she asked Fi.
“Crisis averted,” she said. The guard looked saddened by this. “But I’m sure something bad will happen later.”
Unfortunately for the security guard, it turned out the bad thing wasn’t going to happen on her watch. This was made clear to Fi as she slipped her cell phone from her purse and listened in on Timothy Sherman’s conversation. He was screaming obscenities at someone, telling them they’d nearly destroyed the entire boating organization with their stupidity and that if he didn’t get a signature from him there was a good chance someone from “Catch A Predator” would be waiting for him at his shitty apartment when he got off work. He then told the man-presumably Roberge-to stay right where he was, that he was bringing the form to him.
Fi got into her car and waited for Sherman to appear, which he did a few moments later. He jumped into a matching Lexus-this one had the official seal of the race stuck to the side door, like he was a real estate agent-and pulled out of the lot.
Fi didn’t think she needed to be particularly savvy in her tail, since it was clear Sherman wasn’t looking to be followed, particularly since he was talking into a cell phone the entire time he drove and nearly sideswiped a bus and then quite nearly rammed a Miata being driven by a woman who literally had blue hair.
While paying attention to surroundings was not Sherman’s strong suit, it was Fiona’s, and when it became clear after twenty minutes of driving that she was following Sherman back to a rather familiar destination-a loft above a nightclub in a not so nice part of town-she began to realize things we’re not going to be as simple as planned. So when Sherman made his final turn down the street where the loft is, Fi just kept going, especially since she could hear an ambulance siren in the distance and saw that people were mingling on the sidewalk and looking about with their hands over their mouths. Never a good sign.
Fi parked her car around the other side of the block and walked to the mouth of the street, where another group of people were already assembling.
There was a fire engine, a Lexus and quite a bit of mess on the street. And Timothy Sherman walking towards the scene in what looked to be a rather significant state of agitation. “What happened?” Fi said to a teenage boy wearing a backwards Marlins cap.
“Man got shot,” he said. He pointed to the Lexus. “Half his head is over there on the ground.” He was so nonchalant it almost startled Fi. She looked at where the kid was pointing and sure enough, a good portion of Roberge’s head was on the pavement, along with glass and blood and brain matter. Bad day to be Rob Roberge, Fi thought. After spending some time observing the scene, she decided it would be prudent to give me a call and fill me in.
“Still not seeing the funny,” I said when she was through.
“Neither was Mr. Sherman’s proxy,” she said.
“He look to be involved?” I said.
“He seems to be cooperating with the police, mostly by sobbing and shaking.”
“Who would have wanted us away from Gennaro?” I said, but even as I said it, I knew the answer. The only way someone would know about me as it related to Gennaro prior to my meeting with Bonaventura this morning would be if they were privy to our conversation at the Setai the night previous. Which meant Dinino. But it didn’t explain why this poor sap was dead on my street.
“I think you’ve been set up, Michael,” she said. “I think you’ve been given a nice round of diversions.”
“Seems that way,” I said.
“Who do I get to shoot?”
“I’ll let you know,” I said. “Stay close and I’ll call you when I know what the plan is.”
“Yay,” she said without much enthusiasm.
I hung up with Fi and looked back outside. Gennaro was still making adjustments on his boat. He was due to launch shortly.
“You need to stay here and watch Gennaro while he’s on land and on the water. He’s not safe.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s a good chance someone might shoot him.”
“What’s going on?”
“Timothy Sherman’s driver from yesterday is dead,” I said. “And I have a pretty good feeling that Dinino bugged Gennaro’s room at the Setai. We’re in the middle of something here, Sam, and it’s not just about this job.”
“Got it, Mikey.” He dusted off the rest of his beer and stood up. “Sea looks nice and calm.”
“That’s the bay. The sea is a little farther out.”
Sam seemed to consider this. “You think they sell Dramamine in this joint somewhere?”
“Maybe try the gift shop,” I said. “Maybe see if they have more appropriate clothes, too. When you get back, get your friend Jimenez on the phone and have him find out who planted this girl, who might have the juice to pull something like this on Dinino. I need a name.”