Naughton stopped while the waitress refilled our coffee cups. “Boynton’s played this pretty smart so far, except for this girl, Kristi Mayhew. He couldn’t have known about Chu’s list. And going to the Cayman Islands is a good choice. The place is a British Crown Colony, but they have their own local laws. For a tiny place they have quite a few banks — over four hundred. Their banks are like Swiss banks, but more so. They allow private, numbered bank accounts and the government won’t touch them. It’s a good source of income for the place and it also attracts a lot of people who spend money. It’s reported that drug and mob money goes there very quietly. Go see if Boynton’s down there; see if the money’s there. Then we’ll decide what to do.”
The last thing Naughton said as we left was, “The bank can stand the loss, McDermott... Mike. But I don’t want Boynton to get away with it. I want the money back.”
I had never been to the Caribbean, so I was going to need some help. Cuban-born Olivia Campanas had walked into our office about five years ago. She was a private investigator from Miami and worked cases there and all through the islands. She had been looking for someone in the L.A. Cuban community, and we helped her out. Since then we had kept in touch, traded a little business.
“Olivia? Mike in L. A. I’m going to the Cayman Islands and I need a local man. I’m looking for two Americans, a man and a woman; they have bucks. Any ideas?”
“Sure, Mike. I got a man in Georgetown. Used him there a few times, and also in Jamaica. He runs a sport fisher. Name’s Robert de Montigue. That OK?”
“Perfect, Olivia. Next time I’ll ask for something difficult.”
“Stop in and see me on your way through. You can connect here to get to Georgetown.”
Miami, even at midnight, was hot and muggy. Olivia met me at the airport. The plane to Georgetown wasn’t due to take off until 10:43 A.M. I got a room at a nearby hotel. Olivia filled me in on Robert de Montigue. He was in his early forties, black polyglot stock, very outgoing. A wheeler and a dealer. He had made a few trips to Cuba over the years, don’t ask what about.
“He’s good people, Mike. If your couple is in the Caymans, or was there, Robert can find out. I talked to him; he’ll meet you at the airport. If he likes you, he will do anything you want, otherwise you’re in the swamp with the alligators. I told him you are my compadre. He may not hold that against you.”
The Cayman Airways made a leisurely left-hand bank as it descended to the Georgetown airport. I had a good look at Grand Cayman Island as we came in. The water was crystal clear; you could see the sandy bottom just like in all the tourist brochures. The Cayman Islands would make more than an adequate substitute for paradise. White sand beaches, tropical vegetation, hotels, and villas were scattered up and down Seven Mile Beach. Georgetown itself was low-lying white buildings, quiet tree-lined streets, clean. It was hard to imagine that there were over four hundred banks down there.
Midday in early November was cool, breezy, and bright. Robert de Montigue was waiting in the airport lobby.
“Mister McDermott? I am Robert. I take the bags. I have hired a car and driver while you are here. And I have arranged accommodations at my Aunt Tilly’s. She run a guest house with a few rooms. It will be more quiet and very private. That be OK?”
Robert’s smile was mostly a set of dazzlingly white teeth. He was a good operative. The car was nondescript, about five years old, obviously a local one, not a Hertz or Avis rental. The car was driven by Robert’s “cousin,” Thomas. Thomas was in his early twenties and as light as Robert was dark.
Aunt Tilly was in her sixties, heavyset, Scotch-African, laughed all the time, kept a spotless home, and could cook like no one I had ever met. She also did not ask questions. Most everyone I met was “related” or connected to Robert.
That night I told him about Boynton and the five point seven million dollars. I showed him a photo of Boynton and one of Kristi Mayhew; she hadn’t used the Callander name for a passport.
“Where you get the pictures, man?”
“The one of Boynton came from his personnel file at the bank. The girl’s was more difficult.”
I told Robert about Susan Emerson and her trip to Ten Snips. All the employees had their photos mounted on the wall. Susan had noticed Kristi’s down behind the reception desk and had unobtrusively appropriated it before she left.
The next morning I told him that we would have to be very careful looking for Boynton. We didn’t want to scare him into running, or let him know that we were looking for him.
“Don’t worry, man. It be OK. This feller never know we look for him. We be real circumspect.” Robert was infatuated with crossword puzzles.
We visited stores, hotels, restaurants, beaches, docks, and homes the rest of the day. At each Robert would “confer” with another relative. If Boynton and Kristi were in the Cayman Islands I didn’t think it would be long until we found them.
The second and third days we spent driving around the island checking on the outlying hotels and clubs. No luck, but this business is mostly foot slogging, eliminating possibilities until only one remains. Robert wasn’t anxious either, “It OK, man. Not to worry. We find them pretty soon.”
The morning of the fourth day Robert and I were sitting on Aunt Tilly’s veranda drinking iced coffee when this skinny little kid came up to the bottom of the steps. She looked about twelve or thirteen, dusky, curly hair, and very shy. She kept her head down and sort of beckoned to Robert. He went down the steps and squatted to her level.
“She say her name Michelle. Her mama work in one of the private villas near Old Robin Point on the north side. The house is owned by an Englishman who comes a few times a year. The rest of the time he rent the place. Mister Boynton and his lady friend have been there about a month.” Robert’s “family” intelligence network had come through.
The next few days we spent dogging the couple. Terrance and Kristi, now known as William and Patricia Goldman from New Zealand, sunbathed on their private beach, went scuba diving, shopping, dancing, and dining at the local hotels and clubs. They were the perfect picture of a married couple on an extended holiday.
This was the first time I had seen Boynton in the flesh. He was forty-two, six foot, a hundred-eighty-five pounds, brown hair, mustache, worked at staying in shape. Kristi had good taste, both as regards looks and bank accounts.
On Friday morning Boynton left the villa alone. “Cousin” Thomas and I followed him into Georgetown. He parked his car and walked into the Inter-Island Overseas Bank, Ltd., on Edward Street. I was right behind him. The teller passed over a green form and Boynton filled it out. The teller made an entry in his computer terminal, waited for the answer, smiled at Boynton, and excused himself. He came back in a few minutes and counted out a large amount of cash, maybe one or two thousand dollars. After Boynton left, I was able to check the type of form he used. It was a withdrawal slip for a private numbered account.
It was time to see Naughton again and get reinforcements. A plan was beginning to form. I worked it out in more detail on the flight back to L.A. A lot of it would have to be played by ear, but the outline was there. I dubbed it Operation Just Desserts.
Naughton was in New York. His secretary forwarded my message and he called back Sunday night. “Did you find Boynton, Mike? How about the money?”
“Yes, sir, and I think so. Look... how bad do you want the money back? Are you willing to invest some more money on the chance we can get back all or part of the five point seven million?”
“Yes! This thing is really getting to me. What do you want to do, Mike?”