( 2011) Cry For Justice Page 13

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I replied.

  “Oh?” the smirk vanished.

  “I was much worse.”

  “How much worse?” she said in a conspiratorial tone.

  “I did the racing thing, and yes, I suppose there were a few girlfriends.” She cocked an eyebrow, and I laughed.

  “The bad part, at least where my father was concerned, was the time I spent in Afghanistan. I did two tours. I got injured.”

  “My God, I had no idea!” She sat forward and put that lovely hand on my arm again. “How bad?”

  “Not so bad the first couple of times,” I admitted. “The one that brought me home was shrapnel from a rocket attack.”

  “Oh my God. What happened?”

  “An ambush. Three of my guys were hurt badly.” I took a moment before continuing. “One of them was my best friend. He didn’t make it.”

  “I’m so sorry. That must have been very hard.”

  Unwanted memories came gushing in, and a long silence ensued a silence so loud that for some time the din of lively conversation around us faded away. We had fallen into that murky, awkward silence that occurs when a conversation between the newly acquainted accidentally strays onto sensitive ground and neither party sees a ready way out of the encroaching awkwardness. Mercifully, she was the first to speak.

  “Were you two were really close?”

  “We roomed together, became instant friends. Went to law school together after the service. We planned on working together in New York live the life for a while. Then Nine-eleven happened, and everything changed with it. We were with the first troops to arrive in country.”

  I took the last luxurious sip of brandy and put the snifter down on the travertine tabletop.

  “I came home,” I went on. “He didn’t. I followed through with the plans. Even before I finished law school, his father, whom I knew well, had offered me a job with his firm. So, I accepted the offer and moved to New York. Stayed there until my dad became ill.”

  The rude buzz of my cell phone interrupted. It was Sammy. I excused myself and answered. He had been able to figure out the name of Baumann’s attacker: one Hamilton M. Gage, age forty-nine, of Jacksonville. For his troubles, Mr. Gage had been sentenced on a plea deal to ten years for assault with a deadly weapon. He had served four of the ten and was currently paroled in Jacksonville, where he worked at a luxury European auto dealership as a parts assistant manager. His sister, Baumann’s apparent victim, still lived near Jacksonville.

  I ended the call and looked at my watch. It was after eleven, and much as I hated to say good night to Mackenzie, I had no choice.

  “You found him?” she asked.

  “Not quite yet,” I said, getting up. “But we have a new lead.”

  “Where?”

  “Jacksonville.”

  I thanked Mackenzie for her gracious hospitality and said good night to Chase Roebuck and Admiral Bond. On the long walk back to the front door, we chatted away as if neither of us wanted this encounter or the conversation to end. I wondered if we would ever meet again. Then she asked about my law practice, and this led to the subject of prenuptial agreements, marriages, and bitter divorces. She revealed that she had once been married. For a while they had a great life together, until she learned of his cheating. The illicit affairs had started long before they stood at the altar. In fact, she found out later, he had bedded one of her good friends the very morning of the wedding. When she grew suspicious of his many meetings and overseas trips, calls at odd hours, the need for multiple cell phones with an ever-changing list of numbers, she hired an investigator. The following week she filed for divorce, swore off marriage, and never looked back. Hearing those words, I couldn’t help but smile. My kind of girl.

  We reached the front door, and after thanking her yet again for her kind hospitality, I started down the wide slate steps, which were glistening with moisture. A light rain had started to fall.

  “Hey, counselor!”

  I turned around. She stood a few feet above me, silhouetted against the soft lights of the porch, hands hugging her arms, head tilted a little to one side. “Got a business card?”

  I felt myself actually grinning at the implications of her request. I fished a card from my wallet and gave it to her.

  “You must have the names of a dozen lawyers in your address book,” I said. She smiled but said nothing. I wasn’t going to let her off that easy. “Why add mine?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied with a smile. “Something tells me you’re much different from any lawyer I know.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I said. “But that still doesn’t answer my question: why would you ever need the services of someone like me? I don’t even have a staff just a one-man show. And you’re not even married.”

  “You’re right: I do know plenty of lawyers. But if I’m ever faced with a real special situation, or in a tight spot, like the one that brought you to my door, I’ll know whom to call.”

  Touché. She didn’t take the bait. I just hoped that if she ever did call, she wouldn’t be disappointed. I tended to look my best at night, like now; mornings, on the other hand, were not my strong suit.

  “Fair enough,” I replied. “You ever need me, you know how to find me.”

  “I do now,” she said, smiling in the lamplight. “Good night, Jason. It was a pleasure meeting you. Good hunting, and please give my regards to Amy.”

  “The pleasure was all mine,” I said, and headed down the steps again. It was time to leave. “I’ll be sure and pass on your regards.”

  “Jason!” It was her voice again. I turned. She was still on the porch.

  “Let me know how it goes with Amy, will you, please?”

  “Sure.” I felt myself grinning like a teenager. She had just given me an open invitation.

  I started the Escalade, and the powerful growl of the six-liter engine echoed in the night. As I turned out onto the street, a big Mercedes sedan blazed by at high speed. A memory hit me, an unpleasant thought.

  Nora.

  I had experienced it many times and still failed to comprehend why a relationship could not exist without the complexities of contractual obligations. Why did it have to be more than just enjoying time together? Why must it be more when “more” is precisely the reason most relationships flounder? Why is that so difficult to accept? Were the romantic novels and films of old to blame? They are fictional tales, nothing but idealized make-believe renditions of life that imbues our collective subconscious with endless hyperbole, forever fomenting the unrealistic notion of marriage as a universally desirable and necessary state of adult existence. Why must society continue to promote a futile endeavor when the chances of finding true lasting bliss are less than one in ten? Even less, by some accounts. And yet, like sheep led to slaughter, people clad in their best finery still went willingly and blindly, in a delusional haze, to the altar of perennial discontent.

  But I already knew the answer. Often, a woman’s perceptions and, therefore, the state of a relationship hinge precariously on a man’s timing and a woman’s chemistry. And we all know hormonal levels experience peaks and valleys that tend to keep things “interesting.” And often in a very unkind way. I was painfully aware that my timing was never right when it came to expressing anything emotionally significant, and last night I had, once again, been true to form. I saw the pain in Nora’s eyes, an image I would never forget. I felt guilt and remorse, and I also felt the pain of knowing we had reached the end of the road. I still felt a strong emotional connection to Nora. I really cared for her. But more than that I was not prepared to offer. I felt a compelling urge to hear her voice, a need to know how she was. I pulled the SUV into a parking spot and speed-dialed her number.

  “Hello?” She sounded as though she had been asleep.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Jason?”

  “Miss me yet?” She had always liked that line before. Somewhere deep within, I prayed she still did.
<
br />   “Is everything okay?” she asked. It was obvious my line had not had the intended effect.

  “I’m fine. I’m checking up on you.”

  “I’m fine, too.” I heard her turn on her bedside lamp. “Where are you?”

  “Naples.”

  “The one in Florida?”

  “Yep. Leads for Amy’s ex-stepfather lead me here.”

  “You think you’ll be able to help her?”

  “I’m doing everything I can.”

  Silence. I hate silence.

  “Jason...”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, please.”

  I knew what was coming, and I suddenly felt a pang of dread and the weight of the Blackberry in my hand. I knew all the possible lines that could come after such an opening, and they all led down the path of oblivion. We were as done as week-old pizza.

  “Then why say it at all?”

  “I’m serious, Jason.”

  “So am I.”

  I heard her sigh. “Please let me finish. This is very hard for me.”

  And what about me? Why are notices of impending doom always harder for the deliverer? Is it not true that the party being dumped is also a human being? A being capable of human-like feelings? Feelings that are rarely spared in these situations.

  I remained silent. This was her show, and she had to see it through.

  “Jason, I’ve had some time to think about this. About last night, about everything... what I want for myself.”

  More silence.

  “And I’ve made a decision,” she declared, her voice heavy.

  “Nora ”

  “Jason, please! Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

  “Does this mean the vacation is off?” Jason Justice, meister of the inappropriate lighthearted remark. She didn’t dignify it with a response.

  Another long moment of silence followed.

  “Jason,” she finally began again, “things got away from us. Things have become more… complicated, for lack of a better word. Things have changed. I’ve changed. You haven’t. And that’s okay. That’s what we agreed. I knew this going in.”

  Another long, tense silence.

  “But at least for me, our current arrangement is no longer acceptable. I want more. No, I need more.”

  So this was it. The end of the road. There were so many things I wanted to say to her. None of it, I knew, was what she wanted to hear.

  She said, “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

  There wasn’t much I could say that wouldn’t make me even more of a loser, so I took it upon myself to cut to the chase and help her out.

  “So does this mean we’re breaking up?”

  “I’m sorry, Jason. I really am.”

  “Not more than me.”

  “I’ll always love you, Jason. Take good care of yourself.” And she hung up.

  I glanced at the phone in my hand. It had doubled its weight in the past three minutes. So why had I called? Maybe I called her because of my annoying need to see things through. Or did I just need to hear her say it? What she said was significant. She made her feelings pretty clear. She had reached the point of no return. She had fallen in love, and therefore, for reasons beyond my Neanderthal level of comprehension, we were done and she wanted nothing else to do with me. I knew now exactly where we stood.

  I rubbed my nose, and my olfactory lobe was immediately flooded by the strong scent of fine Cuban tobacco. Memories of the pleasant time just spent in Mackenzie’s company overwhelmed the pang of sadness I was experiencing. That thought quickly brought me back to the reason I was here in the first place: the hunt for the man of many names, among them Stefan Baumann.

  Thirteen

  The morning had started routine enough. The phone in my room buzzed me awake at the prescribed time, four-thirty in the morning. I got dressed and checked out of the hotel. It had started to rain once again but at least the wind had turned into an almost pleasant breeze. I wondered how much longer this front was going to last. I had driven the Escalade in the early morning darkness to the rental agency and left the keys in the locked box designated for after-hours drop-offs. It was deserted at this hour of the morning. Sammy arrived almost on cue. He had a tall cup of coffee and an egg and bacon sandwich waiting for me. We drove off and quickly headed north toward the Tamiami Trail which would eventually take us to Interstate 75.

  The European auto dealership where Hamilton Gage worked was located in a commercial section of Jacksonville along State Route 9. It was a “fast and wide” area of town crisscrossed by several wide four lane roads, wide sidewalks, plenty of car dealerships as well as an odd assortment of related businesses, all stuffed in nondescript cinder-block boxes. Along the way, we drove past an endless stream of caramel-colored strip malls.

  After driving into the car lot, Sammy parked in a slot marked “Parts Customers,” and he waited while I went in alone. The air inside the building was cool and sanitary as were the plain gray walls and the standard white counter surface. Soft music hummed in the background as I approached the solitary parts attendant. He was leaning over the white Formica counter, chin cupped in one hand, his gaze lost in the popular car-racing rag spread before him. He was a thin cadaverous man in his mid-fifties with a mop of curly blond hair. The red letters embroidered above his shirt pocket declared that he was “Mike.” He never looked up from his rag. I don’t think he even noticed me, or at least he pretended not to. I said hello, and Mike the parts guy regarded me with the same level of weariness that noncommissioned salespeople often exhibit. I asked to see a Mr. Hamilton Gage. Without a word in response, he disappeared through a glass door to his right. A minute later, the door opened again, and a different man appeared, in a gray shirt with “Ham” embroidered on it. Ham, who appeared to be in his early fifties, had brown hair going to gray at the temples. The dark eyes under thick brows revealed nothing. This was the countenance of a man who didn’t fear much, a man who had seen more than his fair share of hard times. He was clean-shaven and had the thick arms and the fit appearance of someone who took time to stay in shape or spent his weekends mixing concrete or building stone fences. He looked like a man who could take care of himself in a pinch. If Baumann had subdued him as effortlessly as Chase had described, then I must be careful as I got closer to my quarry. One thing I didn’t want to do with someone of Baumann’s skills was let him know I was hot on his trail and have him circle back on me.

  “I’m Hamilton Gage,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Jason Justice, Mr. Gage,” I replied. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “What about?” His eyes narrowed as he studied my face.

  “We’ve never met before,” I replied. “I’m an attorney from Palm Beach.”

  “Yeah, and... ?”

  I decided to get to the point. “I’m searching for Stefan Baumann.”

  That got his attention. His back straightened, and he swallowed. He regarded me again with intense curiosity. “Why come to me?”

  “Well, to be honest, Mr. Gage,” I replied, “I need help tracking down this man. Something tells me perhaps you can help.”

  A customer and a man in a mechanic’s jumpsuit came in. Ham welcomed them both and said someone would be by to assist them. Then he lifted a phone from the counter, spoke briefly, and hung up. Almost instantly, Mike the parts man came to take care of the customers. Hamilton pointed to the opposite end of the counter, where we could talk in relative privacy.

  “Because of that man,” he whispered with a deep-burning rage that seemed to build with every syllable, “my sister lost everything. Hell, she almost killed herself. I confronted the prick myself. For my troubles, I spent close to five years in a cage, so believe me when I tell you I’d like nothing more than to help that bastard get his due. But I don’t have a clue where he is.”

  “After what he did to your sister, you’re telling me you haven’t kept tabs o
n the man?” I was a bit skeptical.

  His mirthless grin revealed a row of yellowish teeth. “I’m under court order to stay away from Baumann. I get anywhere near him, I’m back in the slammer. It’s taken me a long time to get back on my feet. I don’t intend to mess that up, you get me?”

  “I can appreciate that, Mr. Gage,” I replied. “Maybe you can point me to someone who might help me find him.”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “He did something similar to my client’s mother.”

  He shook his head and then asked, “How much did he take her for?”

  “Everything.”

  “She rich?”

  “She was.”

  He looked surprised. “How much we talking about?”

  “Let’s just say it’s in the tens of millions.”

  “So good ol’ Stefan struck it big in Palm Beach, did he?” He shook his head and smiled, mostly to himself. He didn’t seem surprised. “That son of a bitch.”

  “Help me find him. Put an end to this predation.”

  His smile vanished, and he looked to his left. The two clients were examining some sort of auto part in a large white box. Mike the parts guy was laying a sales pitch on them in a drab monotone.

  Gage returned his attention to me and said, “I can’t help you.”

  Not exactly what I wanted to hear. I was tired, and my spirits sank.

  “You need my sister.” Pulling a pen from the pocket beneath his monogram, he scrawled something on a notepad, then carefully ripped the page out and offered it to me.

  “She’s not doing so well. She’s screwed up alcohol, drugs, you name it,” he added. “If you can get her to talk to you, maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  I examined the notepaper. It had a name and an address.

  “I appreciate it, but...” I had to be mindful of the circumstances and tread carefully. This family had already been through enough pain thanks to Baumann. “With all due respect, how can your sister help?”

  “Easy,” he said. “Baumann is her obsession, her passion. Every sober hour my sister has not that she has all that many she spends thinking about ways to make him pay. What he did to us... She used to disappear for days, never said where she’d been. I’m told she keeps a framed map in her house. When she comes back from one of her trips there are one or two more pins on the map. You do the math.” He nodded to himself and then, through a malicious yellow smile, added; “If anyone knows where to find him, she’ll know.”