Chapter One
The sign on the door of my Georgetown office read: “Vic Carella, Private Investigator and Finder of Lost Objects.”
As proprietor of this firm and its sole employee, I had just given myself permission to knock off early for the day after delivering the goods to my client’s attorney on a nasty divorce case. It was tricky, but I managed to track down the missing assets the lying little jerk—I mean, my client’s husband—had stolen, and now, she and the kids could remain in the family home while her attorney strategized on a settlement. I believe the satisfactory results justified a few celebratory adult beverages, don’t you?
I dragged a chair over to the corner to water the hanging ivy geraniums before leaving for the weekend. The springy seat wobbled underfoot as I overextended to raise the water bottle above the rim of the basket.
Preoccupied as I was, I did not hear the door to the outer office open and close, and I nearly fell off the chair when a gruff voice behind me said, “Nice. Very nice.”
I turned to find Charlie Chaplin’s doppelganger leering at my legs, except this reincarnated version was heavier around the bottom with thinning hair.
“Young lady, come down from there and inform Mr. Carella he has a client waiting,” said the last dinosaur roaming the earth. He stood in the middle of the room and took in the office décor with a critical eye.
Well, excuuuse me! Why I didn’t kick the guy out of my office on the spot is a total mystery, even to me. My instincts told me he was a nuisance, itching to unload his problems on someone and lining me up as the designated recipient.
Lucky me!
“Is Mister Carella expecting you?” I asked, wondering whether I had missed a voice message when I checked the machine this morning.
“Does it matter? Tell him Mitch Goldberg is here,” he said, like that settled the issue. He brushed his sleeve as if to remove a spot of lint. He wore a natty pin-striped suit, and the handkerchief that spilled from his breast pocket resembled an artful floral arrangement.
“And may I ask the nature of your visit?” I continued with maddening politeness.
“I need his help, dammit! Why else would I be here? I heard Carella has a reputation for discretion, which is good because he’s going to need it. Someone stole my yacht, and I want it back!”
“Hold it. Hold it.” I held up my hands to stem the torrent of words.
Okay, I understood that owning a yacht was kind of a big deal, not that I would know anything about it. And I imagined losing one was an even bigger deal. Even so, boys and their expensive toys did not impress me.
“Who has time to play with boats anyway? A grown man like you should be out there working the mean streets and making a decent living like everyone else.”
He drew himself up to his full but diminutive height and said, “I do make a decent living, young lady. How do you think I can afford a yacht? Now, will you kindly find Mr. Carella?”
As I carefully stepped down from the chair, I noted Goldberg didn’t miss a second of my impromptu floor show. I approached with my hand outstretched and said, “Vic Carella. So very pleased to meet you.”
“You—? But . . . you’re a woman,” he said. Surprise registered on his boorish face.
“Thank you for noticing, Mr. Goldberg. And you’re a Neanderthal. Now take a seat.”
Goldberg started for the door, hesitated, and then turned back as I punched up the cushions on my old leather wingback.
“Sit,” I commanded. After two tours of duty with the military police, one learns to take charge and short-circuit problems pronto. Besides, I was in a rush to get started on a well-deserved, liquid-refreshed weekend. I felt like a school kid held past the bell as I thirsted for my afternoon recess.
I settled in behind my desk and said, “Shall we start again? You mentioned something about a missing yak?”
“Yacht,” he corrected me. My needling clearly annoyed him, but I could see he wanted to get something off his chest. I waited him out, and at last, he said, “The night before last, I hosted a party aboard my yacht, but yesterday morning when I went back to tidy up, she was gone.”
Goldberg reached inside his coat pocket and handed over a picture of the missing vessel. I gave it the once-over. I didn’t know squat about boats, but I had to admit it was an impressive-looking rig. I glanced at my watch, hoping this would not take long. I gave him my standard spiel on services and expenses, thinking he might change his mind and go elsewhere. Goldberg didn’t blink for a full ten seconds, and then gave me a brief nod.
Trapped in a web of my own making, what else could I do except smile at my new client?
“It’s like this, Ms. Carella—”
“You can drop that ‘Ms.’ stuff right now. It’s just Vic.”
“Of course,” he said and killed the better part of an hour describing how his friends had arranged a little birthday party for him.
Oh, did I mention they held it onboard his brand-new yacht? Goldberg certainly did, only about a hundred times.
From Goldberg’s description, it was quite the gala affair, complete with captain and crew hired for the occasion, while Goldberg and twenty of his closest friends enjoyed a carefree night of sailing and drinking without the worry of mundane things such as navigation or tricky docking maneuvers.
Goldberg recounted in great detail how his golfing and sailing pals who were along for the ride enjoyed playing pranks on the other guests. Who knew that a toilet bowl covered in transparent wrap could be so much fun? Apparently, stuff goes everywhere but down.
“How do you know your pals didn’t move your boat just for a joke?”
“They may have. It’s something they would do, but they all denied it.”
I felt sure Goldberg’s pals were playing one of their infamous pranks and having a big laugh at his expense right about now. Still, I would follow up on this possibility anyway for my client’s peace of mind. I hit him up for a hefty retainer and jotted down some information about his closest associates.
As the saying goes, who needs enemies with friends like his?
Goldberg rose to leave and then sank back down in the deep cushions. Something else was visibly troubling him, so I gave him time to sort it out. All the bluster had deserted him, and he was no longer the force of nature he’d been when he first arrived.
He fumbled around for a minute and then blurted out, “I haven’t been totally forthcoming with you, Miss Carella. . .uh, I mean Vic. There are a couple things I neglected to mention.”
Oh, really? This could be illuminating. What could this little man possibly have gotten into? Several obnoxious thoughts paraded through my mind, which I promptly dismissed. I didn’t want those images stuck in my head for the rest of the day.
“Don’t worry. Whatever we discuss is entirely confidential.”
“Good.” He licked his lips before continuing. “I’ve gotten into something way over my head with those guys,” he said, indicating the list of names he had given me.
“I’ll bet your friends are into some kind of smuggling racket. Am I correct?”
Fast yachts. Fast times. Little men wanting to be bigger men. It would have been obvious to a blind man. You guessed it too, right?
At least he had the grace to look contrite. Now it made sense why he came to me and didn’t file a report with his insurance company or the Coast Guard.
Oh, the shame of it all. Mitch Goldberg was a bad boy and afraid of getting caught.
“What kind of contraband are you dealing? If it’s drugs, you can walk out that door right now because I won’t get involved with any crazy drug dealers.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. Mostly, we picked up people from one location and dropped them off at another, and occasionally, we delivered a few crates of guns.”
Was that all? Was that even illegal anymore? A little human trafficking . . . a little gunrunning. Goldberg made it sound almost trivial.
“Are you out of your tiny mind? How did you let yourself get talked into something like that?”
“In the beginning, it was easy money,” he explained. “We cruised down to Florida and back every couple weeks. It was just one big party after another with a little business thrown in on the side. You know how it is.”
“Actually, I don’t. Your friends have you over a barrel, and now they want more?”
“Oh, it’s gone way beyond that.” He shook his head. “I just want to get my yacht back and fade away. I’ve tried, but I can’t locate it anywhere.” He kept wringing his hands.
Hell, he made me nervous just watching him.
His breathing quickened and sweat beaded on his forehead. “I may have tipped my hand when I confronted them. They said if I went to the police, they would kill me.”
“They used those exact words? They made specific threats?”
“No, not specifically, but the message was clear enough. I believed them. That’s why I came to you. Well, not you in particular. I mean, I expected to find Victor Carella. . .”
“Mr. Goldberg, may I suggest when you find yourself in a hole, it’s best to quit digging. So tell me, do you want me to find your yacht or not?”
“You’re damn right I do. My yacht’s disappeared, and I want it back.”
“Why not hire some muscle? There are plenty of repo men about.”
“It may come to that, but for now, I want a low-key approach.” He inched forward to the edge of his seat. “Forget your standard rates. Just locate my boat, and I’ll double your usual fee. And if you make it happen within the next forty-eight hours, I’ll even throw in a bonus.”
He retrieved the check he’d just given me and tore it up, then wrote out another and handed it to me. I glanced at the growing string of zeroes. Things were getting serious, and he certainly had my attention, but with these new revelations, I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved.
“If you’ve been smuggling guns and people for some time now, how do you know the police aren’t already aware of your little racket?”
Goldberg closed his eyes and groaned as if in pain. “I suspect you’re right. However, we’re talking about a seven-figure boat here, and I’m not taking a loss on it. If they leave me no other choice, I’ll go to the Feds with everything I know. And I know plenty.”
“Is that a wise move? Why antagonize everyone until you have explored your options?”
“You sound like my attorney. He said the same thing. I’m not playing nice while someone rips off my boat. I want to see some positive results. Are you in or out?”
His generous check appealed to the mercenary in me, but I wasn’t sure I could keep Goldberg’s involvement from reaching the big ears of the law, assuming they didn’t already know. On the other hand, if Goldberg spilled the beans on his own, it would be a moot point.
While I pondered his predicament, I drummed my nails on the desktop; the sound was like the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun on full auto. Goldberg sat there with sagging shoulders and a hangdog look on his face, like he was all done in. The emotional effort of confessing his sins together with the potential heavy financial loss had taken its toll on him.
It was a challenge that pulled at me, and with a reputation as the ace “finder of lost objects,” how could I refuse?
“Okay, I’m in,” I said at last. “Right now, I want you to go home and get some rest. You look like you need it. I’ll take it from here.” The relief on his face was immediate and piteous. He reached across the desk and pumped my hand with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“Thank you! Call me immediately when you have some news. I’ll let my attorney know it’s all in hand at the moment. He advised me not to contact the police because the situation would likely resolve itself, but now we’ll see some action!” He hurried from my office like a recalcitrant schoolboy escaping the principal’s office.
After Goldberg’s hasty departure, I leaned back in my chair and propped my feet up in an unladylike manner while I considered his situation.
It took a lot of brass to steal a man’s boat right out from under his nose, so I did not doubt the lengths to which his so-called friends might go if crossed, assuming they were the ones who stole Goldberg’s yacht in the first place.
My commonsense side nagged me to return his retainer and forget the whole business; this was not my field of expertise. I tend to take on cases I’m reasonably certain I can resolve; for me, failure is not an option. It’s taken quite a few years, but after experiencing my share of setbacks during my teens and early military days, I’ve pretty much overcome any fear of failure I may have harbored back then. Doing the job correctly and accurately was all that mattered. And I wasn’t about to backslide just because Goldberg waltzed in promising a big payday. Besides, I already had my doubts about Goldberg and his associates.
On the other hand, I’ve never been one to take sound advice, not even from myself.
Although I had anticipated a weekend full of delightful diversions, and in spite of the nagging doubts, Goldberg’s problem intrigued me, so I decided to start right away.
Alas, work is my virtue, and I’m its slave.
Before I tracked down his guest list in earnest, and despite the threats to Goldberg, I thought it best to notify the Coast Guard to be on the lookout for the missing Bella Michella, a sixty-foot Hatteras motor yacht that had slipped her cleat hitch.
My next call was to Pete Beckham. Pete was my oldest friend and a political junky on staff with the Washington Statesman. He was an absolute ferret whenever I needed background on anyone in the Washington Metro area. I guess that comes from being a top-notch investigative journalist.
Pete and I were old comrades-in-arms. We met while stationed together in Wurzburg, Germany. Pete was a member of the division’s communications group responsible for all information and press releases concerning military affairs in that district.
We frequently ran into each other at the local gasthaus, or tavern as you might call it. We got discharged from service at about the same time, and since I was at loose ends, Pete suggested my background as an MP would prove more lucrative if I moved to DC. Pete’s never steered me wrong. When he came on the line, I started right in.
“I need some fast info on a guy named Mitch Goldberg. Ever heard of him?”
“Is that Michael Q. Goldberg?”
“Yeah, I’m looking at the name on his check now. Why? Is he some kind of VIP?” I asked as I recalled the ridiculous caricature who presented himself at my office.
“Listen, I’m tied up in meetings the rest of the afternoon, but come over now, and I’ll have something for you by the time you get here.”
I left the office and cabbed over to Fourteenth Street near Thomas Circle. I entered the lobby of the Statesman to the sound of catcalls and whistles from the familiar faces at the security desk. I flashed a “get bent” smile in their direction and clacked my way across the marble expanse to the Information Center, the sound of my Gucci heels reverberating in the four-story atrium lobby. I handed the receptionist my card and asked for Pete.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Carella,” he said, reading my business card. He was new, young, and fresh looking.
“Ms.? Next, you’ll be calling me Mizz Fuzzy Britches. It’s just Vic. And get Pete down here ASAP, buster. I haven’t got all day.”
I smiled and batted my eyes at him to soften the tone, but he wasn’t buying it. In the background, I heard the security guards snicker as the receptionist’s ears turned red. Perhaps I should brush up on my people skills.
“I’ll see if Mr. Beckham is available,” he said and turned his back on me as he spoke into the phone.
As I waited, I reflected that in eight years of practice, this was the most unusual commission I’d ever accepted. Errant spouses and hidden community assets were my specialty. Then again, I’d grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, plus I’d just wrapped up my latest case. And although I was reluctant to take the job, I liked the steady cash flow. Besides, it would make a welcome change of pace from my normal routine. As the saying goes, any port in a storm.
Hey, now that’s funny. I’ll bet old Goldberg would drink to that!
“Hello, gorgeous. You’re looking too good.” Pete was the only person who could get away with a line like that with me. That’s because I knew he reserved his ulterior motives for his divine Melanie.
“What did you find out?”
“I thought I recognized that name. Your boy, Mitch Goldberg, is in big demand as an investment counselor to the rich and famous. He’s made quite a name for himself. Unfortunately, he’s also under federal investigation for possible money laundering. What’s this all about?”
The money-laundering angle troubled me. Funny how that had not earned an honorable mention when Goldberg described the smuggling operation; the two went together like ice cream and cake. I’d bet Goldberg was up to his eyeballs in that as well, the little rat. I wondered what other important tidbits he neglected to tell me.
“The plot thickens, but I’ll take it up with my client when I see him. Here’s the deal. Goldberg thinks his business associates boosted his shiny new yacht, but he’s deathly afraid of them. Can you give me the rundown on these guys as well?”
Pete gave me a quizzical look and wriggled his fingers as I handed over Goldberg’s guest list. His eyes lit up as he scanned the names.
“Marvin Bocci, assistant to the assistant to the mayor.”
“‘Assistant to the assistant?’ For crying out loud. Is everyone a niche specialist these days?”
“What the hell have you gotten into? Marvin Bocci. . .he’s the mayor’s dirty trickster. And Andre Adema . . .” Pete ticked off each name in turn. “He imports produce from Mexico. He’s another guy known to work the shady side of the street. I don’t like this, Vic. What gives?”
I’d seen that look of consternation on Pete’s face before, usually when I was about to get into something way over my head that could land me in trouble.
I pushed on like I hadn’t heard him. “Anyone else?”
If I had a telephone directory handy, I could have gotten the scoop on half the population in the city. I marveled at the depth and breadth of his connections. Pete knew everyone worth knowing—and some not worth knowing, if you know what I mean.
“Yeah, Boots Johnson,” he said, tapping the list. “Don’t let the name fool you. This guy’s a dangerous piece of work too. You need to slow down and listen to me, girl.” He waved the list of names under my nose. “Any one of these guys will eat your lunch for breakfast. Whatever it is you’re thinking of doing, don’t!”
“Do I tell you how to jimmy information out of a crooked politician? What’s the story on Johnson? Is he some kind of assassin?” The open foyer amplified my voice, and several people looked in our direction. Pete took my arm and steered me away from the reception desk.
In a quiet voice, he said, “I came across Johnson’s name last year while researching how easy it was to buy weapons on the black market. As I heard it, there was a dustup between several federal agencies over the ‘unexpected retirement’ of a couple of Columbian arms dealers, and Johnson was somehow involved. It’s possible he’s the one the Feds are really interested in, and they’re using your client as bait.”
“So he’s a shooter?”
“Nah, he’s a negotiator, more of a backroom boy. But rumor has it that when Johnson doesn’t get his way, the opposition disappears.”
“Great, I’ll start with this Johnson guy. Know where I can find him?”
“Go easy, will you?” Pete gave me a wary eye. “Try the Grill. You’ll appreciate this; Johnson’s been cultivating several international contacts. By the way, how did you get mixed up with Goldberg in the first place?”
“Picked me out of the phone book for all I know. Who cares? He showed up crying about losing his toy boat, and I promised to find it.”
“I would have thought his own people would do that for him. Don’t those big boats have GPS or something?”
“It’s more complicated than that. Just get the information and call me.” I left Pete standing by the elevator, studying Goldberg’s list of assorted guests.
If the Feds had Goldberg on a watch list, that could make things more difficult. Several questions came to mind, but for the moment, I didn’t dwell on them. Three blocks over, I pushed through the revolving doors of my favorite watering hole for a beer, some conversation, and to test my luck.
The Old Market Grill had what the food critics liked to call a sedate ambiance with its dark-paneled walls and an outsized antique mirror behind the well-burnished oak bar.
The late-lunch crowd was in full swing, so I knew getting a table was out of the question. I headed for the bar where I saw Sally, the usual midday bartender, pouring drinks as fast as the servers could plop down a ticket. She saw me and gave me a quick smile.
We were best friends, but I hoped she didn’t think the only time I ever stopped in was to pump her for information. That wasn’t true . . . okay, except for today. The fact was I hadn’t been around in over a week. We’d become close friends ever since I came to DC. It happens like that sometimes when two personalities click. I liked to think our friendship worked on several levels: she was a bartender and I liked to drink beer; and although she wasn’t a detective like me, she was just as curious about people as I was which is code that we both were downright nosy. Like I said, we clicked.
If I worked for one of the three-letter federal security agencies around town, I would classify the things Sally heard from her side of the bar as “vital to the nation’s interests.”
The open secret in this town is that people privy to sensitive information liked to brag. There’s an inherent need to feel important even among the high-dollar lobbyists and consultants that congregate in DC. There is a powerful allure, like a siren’s call, to being the one-in-the-know.
Sally leaned forward to place a tallboy in front of me. She had smooth dark skin, a flirtatious laugh, and big, beautiful eyes that melted hearts all over town.
“Hello, stranger. It’s been a while. What can I do you for?” she said as she wiped the bar with a towel.
“For starters, thanks for not busting my chops. Believe it or not, I’m hunting for a stolen yacht, but there could be a money-laundering angle as well. Anything come to mind?”
“Federal, state, or local?” she asked with a straight face. It was a sad commentary on our times, but too often true.
“I’d have to go with private. Ever heard the name Boots Johnson?”
Sally turned her head to look down the length of the bar where a group of men stood drinking their lunch. “I hear there are some new players in town looking to fund a small militia.”
“Are you kidding me? Sounds like a bad joke—‘A guerilla walks into a bar. . .’”
Sally shrugged. “You’re the one who’s asking.”
“Okay, okay. So, which one is my cowboy?”
“Um, I’d strongly advise against it,” she said, again glancing sideways down the bar. “But if you’re hell-bent, Johnson’s the one in the cashmere. He’s been hanging around the past few weeks collecting new friends.”
I followed her gaze and easily picked out the one she mentioned. The guy had “player” written all over him. I judged him to be in his mid-thirties. With his dark gray suit, overstarched shirt, and wavy hair combed straight back, he exuded the look of the stereotypical Washington lobbyist. His silk tie was shades of pastel purple and pink. Cowboy, indeed, although he was wearing the obligatory Western boots in tooled black leather.
Don’t you find some things are so predictable they don’t bear mentioning?
He caught me looking at him and flashed a perfect smile in my direction. I’ll bet he closed a lot of deals with that smile. Hell, I wouldn’t mind taking a peek at whatever he was selling. He came over and sat on the barstool next to me. I’m a sucker for the shy type.
“Can I get you another drink?”
“No, thanks. I just stopped in for a quick one, but I’m still on the clock. You know how bosses can be,” I said, playing the office mouse routine.
“Boots Johnson,” he said.
When I shook his big, warm hand, I noticed the manicure. But of course!
“Boots? That’s an unusual name. Vic Carella.”
“As in Victoria?”
“Yes, but I prefer just Vic.”
“Do you work around here?”
“Actually, I’m all over DC. I’m with a courier service,” I said, giving him my standard off-putting cover story. “We hand-deliver packages and important documents between offices, you know, for local clients who can’t wait for overnight service.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him giving me the once-over. We talked for a while, trying to get beyond the standard drivel of who-what-and-where, but I won’t lie to you. I was working him hard—cooing in all the right places, lots of fluttering lashes and big-eyed wonder at the lines he handed me.
I had his number though. He wasn’t even getting into the ballpark, much less running the bases—which he clearly had in mind—no matter how many times he tried to step up to the plate. Hey, can you tell I like baseball? Go Nats!
We sparred with each other a bit more trying to size each other up, and then I let him talk me into meeting him for drinks the following evening. I left the Grill and headed home to my two-bedroom apartment in the Grosvenor Building over on Forty-Second Street that I shared with my watch-cat, Marlowe. He greeted me at the door as he did every night. I reached down and gave him a couple of good, hard rubs, and his back arched with pleasure.
He was a handsome Snowshoe, a cross between a Siamese and American shorthair. The four white paws were a dead giveaway, and he had a white blaze down his nose. He twitched his Hercule Poirot half moustache at me and trilled a welcome in that melodic purr of his.
I popped open a fresh can of tuna and placed the dish next to his water bowl. Some nights the darn cat ate healthier than I did. He had a strong sense of smell and could navigate room to room and around furniture so well you’d never know he was blind.
I pulled an ice-cold Corona from the fridge and sat down at my kitchen desk to check emails, hoping Pete had dug up something on the list of names. I wasn’t disappointed.
Pete sent me a short bio on each of the lug nuts with Goldberg the night his precious yacht went missing, including Boots Johnson. For a guy who supposedly worked in the shadows, Johnson was pretty well-known in certain circles. His name popped up on quite a few law enforcement databases.
I was scanning Pete’s descriptions, looking for anything odd that stuck out, when I noticed a pattern forming. Goldberg’s friends were all successful small business owners, each with cash-intensive and low-profile but highly profitable enterprises, in which splurging on conspicuous luxuries, like yachts, would raise little concern.
Goldberg said his friends enjoyed playing jokes. No wonder they could laugh it up with such confident abandon; they could well afford it.
The thought occurred to me again that Goldberg’s buddies shifted his yacht to another marina for safekeeping to rein him in and teach him a lesson. Was this, as I originally thought, nothing more than a prank, and Goldberg had taken the bait all the way? If that were true, he was going to be in for a good ribbing, but I still needed to make the effort. I hoped his sense of humor held out when he got my final invoice.
If it wasn’t a practical joke, then who among Goldberg’s acquaintances had it in for him? How close were these guys? Did they go way back together, or was Goldberg trying to run with the big boys? Who might be jealous, or who got screwed on a deal? These questions and more ran through my mind as I read each summary to see if someone stood out as a likely suspect. No one did, but I wasn’t worried; it was early yet.
What gave me pause for concern was the nefarious smuggling operation Goldberg had described. Regardless of whether he got pranked by his friends, Goldberg still painted a dark picture that was hard to ignore. If caught, the entire crew would take the full federal rap, not to mention the scrutiny they’d get from a plethora of international agencies who might want a piece of Goldberg and his merry band of pirates as well.
I closed the email thread and searched the internet for local marinas. I had not expected the sheer number in the immediate Potomac River area, much less those along the Chesapeake Bay and nearby Virginia coastline. I knew that no matter how persuasive I was, there was little chance I’d get any useful information over the phone about someone’s private boat.
There went my weekend. It looked like I’d be chasing down Goldberg’s elusive yacht.
