Chapter 11

Vanessa took one sip of the claret that bore The Globe’s label. She sniffed first, then swished and swallowed. “It’s not plonk, Winter. Decent. About like you’d expect in a mail order wine club.”

“Price?”

“Around $15 or $20. Certainly under $30.”

“Is it a Bordeaux?”

“No, it’s definitely California. Over-oaked. Maybe Central Valley. That’s just a guess, I can’t really narrow the location that much.”

All house wines were to be a minimum of a $200 value. It says so right on the menus. And on the invoices that The Globe paid. Many invoice wines were a multiple of $200.

Vanessa said, “It’s no surprise that ... what’s his name ... Hirsch’s partner?”

“Pierre LaFons. Sommelier with 30-plus years. Restaurants, cruise ships, two years on The Globe.”

“Well, it doesn’t surprise me that he’s getting away with it. That the passengers couldn’t tell the difference. The Globe wine label doesn’t give much information. This one has decent nose, pleasant taste. Most palates aren’t calibrated much beyond that.”

Vanessa tasted wines at lunch and dinner for three days. She had to take her time because she needed intervals to refresh those sensitive taste buds. Plus she wasn’t into spitting.

As with many things, the scam that LaFons and Hirsch was working wasn’t that simple. No, easy Aha!

LaFons bought more legitimate wines than inexpensive ones. Bottles of splendid wines, each one costing hundreds of dollars wholesale. For the fakes, there were no absolute cheapies that would set off alarm sirens. Roughly one in three bottles was part of the scam. The rest, legit.

Reds, whites, bubblies.

Vanessa tasted, I took careful notes by recording her comments. Under the table where other diners and the staff wouldn’t see.

In the meantime, The Globe was abuzz. Yes, Vanessa is that stunning even to the jaded, seen-it-all international set. And to the international crew.

Liz Claymore introduced herself to Vanessa, shooting me a significant look. ‘Yes, Vanessa merely confirms what everyone knows -- Winter Jennings is the slut of sluts.’ Poor Eamon Nilsson. His little world was rocked. The lad was confused. I had obviously enjoyed sex with him so much. Yet here I was shacked up with another woman.

I was so proud to be seen with Vanessa. I like to think she was pleased to be seen with me too. We strolled, in various stages of undress. And strolled.

That first morning Vanessa rocked a simple off-the-shoulder pink top with torn jean shorts. I wore a casual white lace play suit that spotlighted my tan. We both were barefoot.

Ordinarily it would have been difficult for the guys to hit on us. Most were living with wives, mistresses, girlfriends. But they had managed with me. I have a little stack of contact numbers from about 20 guys. Slipped to me surreptitiously. Although most of them were kidding themselves if they thought their women were clueless.

Vanessa had her share of numbers too. More than her share. Giggling, we cross-checked them one night. A lot of duplicates. No real surprise there. I saved both stacks. Not for followup romances. Just because the names told me a little bit more about the passengers. Might be useful intel some day. Or not.

I was sorry to see Vanessa head back home. But she had a restaurant to run, a restaurant to get into the black. She carried the wine records with her. Jessie Sullivan would encrypt the damning evidence and send it in some secure, mysterious, way to Phillip Montgomery.

I didn’t know what he and his hedge fund would do about this scam and the others that Damien Hirsch had going. It would probably be something quiet, they wouldn’t want the news, and the accompanying embarrassment, to spread among the insular world of the wealthy.

And that was one of my concerns about my little investigation into Reginald (call me Reggie) Angstrom. I had no idea what, if anything, he was up to. If it did turn out to be something naughty, would that cause Envoy Assets unwelcome scrutiny?

Well, that’s Descartes before dehorse at this stage.

There is only one axiom I live by. I call it the Winter Jennings Code: A woman needs a reason. All a man needs is a place.

Phillip Montgomery called me, classy guy. “You were absolutely right, Winter. Those three early condo sellers had purchased forgeries at Globe auctions.”

“Somebody at OneBank talked to them?”

“No, didn’t need to. We braced Hirsch and he broke, confessed to everything.”

The tour scams, the wine scams, the lecturer scams. “Even the forgeries?”

“Yeah, we pushed him pretty hard, had an NYPD Lieutenant do the grilling. Hirsch thought he was going to jail for sure. But here’s the rich part. Those forgery buyers confronted him. Demanded refunds which he provided. Then they went too far, wanted bonus money for their troubles.”

“Why was that too far?”

“Because Hirsch isn’t stupid. He recorded them. It was blackmail and it sounded like blackmail. It became a standoff. And the three of them just wanted to be shut of the entire mess, so they dumped their condos.”

I didn’t puff my chest out, but I did feel a little burst of pride. My instincts had been right. And, I had actually delivered on my original assignment from Phillip.

“What will happen to Hirsch? Jail time?”

“No, although that’s tempting. But the news would be embarrassing for The Globe.” I could hear the smile in his voice, “And for the owners.” Such as Phillip’s hedge fund.

“Hirsch should be liable for something.”

“Yeah, we want him to make full restitution for the scam money. He claims he only has around $100,000 left.”

“Let me call you back on that, Phillip.”

Jessie Sullivan. Didn’t take her more than 15 minutes. Dapper Damien Hirsch has $476,522.16 in a Bahamian bank. Plus a safe deposit box. Envoy Assets will know how to extricate a great deal of that.

I expect, or at least hope, that a portion of the recovered loot will wend its way toward me. A bonus for success. But if there is a bonus, it certainly won’t come until the Angstrom puzzle is sorted out. A puzzle not assigned to me by Envoy Assets.

Fuck.

If I remember my middle school gossip, the acronym FUBAR stands for Fowled Up Beyond All Recognition. Now I’m not sure what chickens have to do with this particular apothegm, perhaps it’s a fryer versus roaster type of thing.

Fowled Up, Fucked Up, Whatever Up, that’s how my Angstrom investigation began.

I didn’t go to a lot of trouble to avoid him. I just tried to make sure we weren’t constantly bumping into each other. This was easier during the day. He was a late riser. And I was Otherwise Occupied. Eamon Nilsson, thank you very much.

Eamon was still puzzled at me, but so glad to be back between my thighs that he stopped his Vanessa-interrogation when I raised a palm-out hand and said, “Don’t.”

Angstrom and his wife, ... um, Mrs. Angstrom, I forget her first name, were six condos aft of me. Or fore. One.

They were in their 50s, both had aged well. Reggie had a little bit of a pot, nothing offensive. Natalie, that’s it, was trim and together. Like most of the wives, mistresses, girlfriends, aboard The Globe.

They had two grown children who apparently had zero interest in The Globe. It was full of geezers.

Reggie Angstrom was a little under six feet and thick-chested. Muscled arms. Taut legs. Thick hair that he let go gray where it wanted. On the sides.

Natalie had her own business interests. She came from family money -- IBM -- but had an entrepreneurial streak. Or flair, or talent. Whatever. She had developed a hookup app for over-50s. Refined it to filter out the riff-rafferties who didn’t have the means to buy original art work. College graduates only.

The app also tracked your whereabouts if you clicked on the permission ... um, clicker thing. The app was sort of a mash up of Tinder, AARP, Facebook, Pinterest.

Social media for the social set.

Jessie Sullivan had run Reggie through the mill the last time I was home. Angstrom had been born in Lowell, Massachusetts. A state where my memories are not the fondest. My best friend, Bear, had been shot in the chest, doing a favor for me. Some favor.

But Massimino was behind bars for the rest of his life. Getting raped on a regular basis, I hoped. Maggot.

Angstrom’s grandfather had emigrated from Stockholm at the end of the 19th century. With Eamon Nilsson, that’s my second Swede. A clue? A trend? A conspiracy? Nope, just one of the many coincidences that crop up in every investigation.

But, just to be safe, I may need to grill Nilsson more thoroughly.

Grampa Angstrom arrived in Lowell with some money. And bought half ownership in a shoe factory. One that had fallen on hard times decades earlier when the Civil War ended. Damn that Lincoln.

Reggie’s father closed the factory and moved some of the equipment to South Carolina. Heartland of the War of Northern Aggression. In addition to shoes and boots, he expanded into textiles.

Reggie moved the entire operation to Vietnam, sold the South Carolina machinery, and retired to the family manse in Lowell. He also owned homes in Martha’s, in West Palm Beach and on The Globe.

So far as Jessie could determine, the Vietnam operation was steadily profitable. A few labor violations. Small fines.

My Angstrom plan, which I thought of as brilliantly simple, was to get inside his condo and get a look inside that accordion file. Assuming it was still there and hadn’t been passed on to Martians with universe-domination schemes.

The first FUBAR was that the fucking Angstroms rarely did anything as a couple. They dined separately, each had a separate set of friends. They frequented different entertainment and cultural events. At different times.

It was difficult enough to keep track of Reggie, let alone Natalie at the same time. I should have packed Buster Fagin in my steamer trunk. Had I owned one.

Well, Lina and Pilar were coming for a Sunday - Tuesday visit. One or both of them could handle the distaff side of the Angstrom family tree. Maybe.

Focus is a vital part of my investigative rigor. And, so far as The Globe investigation goes, so is working on my tan. In addition to the secluded veranda that comes with my condo, there are state-of-the-science tanning beds in the salon.

No slave to pattern, I alternate.

Eamon seems appreciative.

Lina Paloma and her married boyfriend, Matt Whitney, were growing closer. Getting serious. He was now talking about leaving his wife. Marrying Lina.

She had her papers. She seemed interested. Pilar was encouraging her.

Matt was about 10 years older than Lina. An attorney, apparently successful. I shouldn’t do this on personal matters, but I had Jessie Sullivan background him.

No secret life other than Lina. Financially comfortable.

The next Angstrom challenge was access. How to get in that fucking condo. I doubted I’d need much time. That accordion file was large enough to spot. Unless it was in a safe. Another challenge.

But the condo entrance required a computerized card key and pupil identification. Eye pupil, not the other kind. I could probably finesse the card key -- a housekeeper that Eamon knew, a maintenance guy, someone.

Perhaps I could hypnotize Reggie, sleepwalk him to his condo, and place his head in front of the retinal scanner. Or perhaps not. FUBARed again.

Because I had spotted Angstrom around two in the morning, I began going to bed early and setting my alarm for one. I spent eight mornings in a row, huddled under a dark blanket in the deepest deck-shadows I could find.

Quite a few crew “Bonsoirs,” but no Angstrom.

So I didn’t know if I’d seen a one-off that probably meant nothing. Or the exchanges were irregularly timed and infrequent. Of course the biggest thing I didn’t know was what the fuck was in that fucking file.

Angstrom wasn’t hurting for money. But the wealthy know better than the rest of us that too much is just right.

I considered, just briefly, trying to seduce him. But that would be dumb. He wouldn’t tryst in the married domicile. Unless he and his wife were into threesomes. Which would make the file-search doubly difficult.

Stymied, I deployed my backup strategy, a long nap.

Then my alarm drill payed off. This time the woman in the white uniform was early, waiting. I sat 20 feet away, barely breathing. But she was facing the other way, searching for Angstrom.

She had a brown accordion file secured by three black velcro straps under her left arm. She fidgeted from right foot to left. Nervous energy. Or just nervous?

I couldn’t hear a word this time, because neither of them said a word. Angstrom just grabbed the file and turned back. She watched him for a moment, then started down that same hallway. Away from me.

I ditched the blanket and followed her. If nothing else I wanted to catch a glimpse of her face.

She reached for a door handle that I knew led down to the crew section. I said, ‘Miss?” and she jumped. Gasped. Froze.

I did tipsy. Not drunk. Drunk is too hard to pull off. I barely slurred, “Are any bars shhtill open?”

She was, like most of the crew, trim and neat. Latina. Black hair worn in a short bob. Uniform as crisp as if she’d just put it on. Maybe she had.

I didn’t risk taking a photo, but I would remember that pretty face. Jessie Sullivan had head shots of the crew and we’d identify her.

Despite the fact that I had no idea what was going on, it felt like progress.

“Winter?”

“Walk.”

“How much larger, you know, do you think I’ll get?”

“Don’t fish.”

“Sorry.”