Breaking Point - Chapter 31 - Greed is Good
Except when it isn't
The jet’s wheels smacked the tarmac. The engines roared a reverse thrust greeting to the Sunshine State. A sign over a hangar read Boca Raton.
“Hang on,” I said to Mother. “I thought we were flying into Miami?”
“We declared a medical emergency.”
“What? Who?”
“No one. Hides our flight plan.”
And just like that, my FBI backup was gone.
Leaning against the hanger wall: a slim, handsome young man in a blue dress shirt, white pants, a Panama hat and a pair of sunglasses hanging from his shirt. He looked like nothing so much as a leopard seal waiting by an ice hole.
Two equally fit-looking men in dark pants and silk Hawaiian shirts flanked the cartel jefe. They watched our approach with a distinct lack of aloha spirit.
Mother gathered her things. I pressed the end of my shirt collar, activating the FBI’s listening/tracking device – hopelessly hoping the transmitter had a 50-mile range.
I followed Mother down the steps into the stifling heat.
“Pedro,” Mother said, air kissing her client. “This is my son John.”
“The policeman?” Pedro Salazar asked in a clipped coastal Mexican accent, his friendly tone hiding a whiff of menace. His pillow-soft hand held me in a firm grip as we shook hands.
“John’s going to be very useful,” Mother assured Salazar, paying me the only compliment to ever come out of her mouth. “Let’s get out of this heat. Please.”
Salazar released my hand and nodded at his men.
One of the Mexicans walked up to me. I put my arms out. Few bodyguards checked ankles. That one did. He pulled the polymer pistol out of its holster, showed it to the boss and smiled, delighted with his new acquisition.
A tiny man with an oversized mustache emerged from the limo and stashed our luggage in the trunk. There were five us onboard: me, Mother, Salazar and his “associates.” The limo smelled vaguely of ammonia, but the champagne was chilled, the atmosphere cordial.
“I am excited to be seeing this painting, Elizabeth.”
“Le retour des régates is magnificent,” Mother said, sipping Dom. “Dufy at his best.”
“Impressionists make a big impression, no?” Salazar joked, winking at me.
“It’s one of his most important regatta paintings. The blue is to die for.”
“I love anything with water,” Salazar said, turning to me. "It reminds me of family trips to Cozumel. Before the unpleasantness.”
Salazar was referring to a recent attack at a five-star hotel on Mexico’s island playground. Two Americans died in the beach equivalent of a drive-by. A drug dealer was quickly named, blamed and disappeared.
“Do you like art, John?” Salazar asked.
“My tastes are unconventional.”
“Dime.”
“You know Duane Hanson?”
“I saw one in Mexico City. Everyone walked right past his waxwork security guard. I must get one of his. Elizabeth?”
“I told you he’d be useful,” Mother said, silently calculating her commission.
“Do you have any paintings in the Harlem Freeport?” I asked.
Lisa had prepped me on the latest news about Yves Bouvier, the Swiss art dealer who built tax-free storage facilities in Geneva, Luxembourg, Singapore and New York City.
“Is there a problem?” Salazar asked, eyes narrowing.
“They’re closing it,” I announced, admiring the bubbles ascending through my champagne.
“Por qué?” Salazar asked, cocking his head.
“The fraud case again Bouvier brought too much attention. Your paintings would be safer with Fritz Dietl in Delaware.”
“I like this son of yours,” Salazar said, reaching over to clap me on my shoulder, hitting me with a whiff of sandalwood.
I could see Mother trying to decide if I was stealing her thunder, helping her business or both.
“Your mother and I have been good partners,” Salazar told me, sensing Mother’s discomfort. “Elizabeth, do you remember Bonifazio Veronese?”
“Of course. You should have kept that one.”
“We sold it to that man in Malaysia. What was his name? Razak bin Osman. How much did we sell it for?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
Salazar picked up his Panama hat from the seat next to him. He rotated it slowly, inspecting it for damage or imperfections.
“One million, three-hundred and fifty-four thousand dollars.”
“Yes that’s right. A lot less than you paid for it.”
One of Salazar’s henchman gave me the stink eye.
“Three hundred thousand dollars is missing,” Salazar said calmly, placing his hat back on the seat. “Where is my money Elizabeth?”
I saw a gun racing towards my head, just before I saw nothing….