The Death Box(68)

“Bought all the latest titles,” Rockwylde said. “And this time he bought the Avenger Twelve.”

“Fuck me,” Rexx said, checking the display case and seeing a dust-free pattern where the device, a lifelike though hugely outsized rubber penis held in place by a wide leather belt – a strap-on, in the lingo – had resided. “The Babyface jumped up a notch since last time.” He paused and frowned. “You don’t think a weirdo like Babyface is gonna actually, uh …”

Rockwylde laughed. “No fucking way. This place is the guy’s girlfriend.”

“Then what’s the Babyface gonna use it for?”

“Early Halloween shopping, maybe,” Rockwylde grinned. “He’s going as a horse.”

I did catch-up paperwork in the office, hoping Leala would contact me. Gershwin arrived at eleven-thirty and I told him of my near-miss with the girl.

“A dozen feet away?” he said, pulling off a banana-yellow blazer and hanging it from the back of his chair, his blue tee freshly laundered. The jeans looked new and the skate kicks had been replaced by sedate black cross-trainers. He’d upped his fashion game, either to look more professional or because he’d run out of clean tees and jeans.

“I had no idea who she was.”

“You think she’s the key, Jefé?”

“All I know is that she’s in bad trouble.”

My phone rang and I had it to my eyes before the second ring, saw the caller was Vince Delmara. I switched gears, hoping his snitch network had come up golden. Give me something, anything.

“Vince … tell me a snitch came through.”

“Nada on a blade man. You know the problem there, right?”

“You rat out a knife pro, the knife starts looking for you.”

“The worse the guy is, the less likely we’ll hear anything. Hey … I do have some good news. I get to close a MP case, Detective. The lab just confirmed dental records on a corpse named Perlman, Bennet J. Some called him Benny the Books.”

“Bookmaker?” I asked. Though it didn’t affect me, I was always buoyed by someone else’s success.

“Bookkeeper. Got his CPA degree from Indiana University in ’84, got hired by a manufacturing company in Elkhart, Indiana. I guess he found the winters a tad frosty and moved to Miami in 1990 and went to work for a private brokerage firm, long gone. Reason the firm died was the top dogs were running a pyramid.”

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Perlman was keeping a fake set of records for the investors and FEC, one for his bosses. When the FEC took down the company – with help from FCLE, I should mention – the boyo lost his CPA accreditation and couldn’t get the big gigs. He played Bobby Cratchit for a couple of slinky bail bondsmen around town, then turned up not turning up. Like for last year’s family reunion  . Not a sighting or financial transaction since. I figure Perlman fucked someone over and went swimming with the sharks.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Perlman claimed the bail-bond accounts as his employment, doing basic payables and receivables. True, and they paid him thirty-two grand last year. But Mr P. has a big red Benz gathering dust outside his condo. And a flat-screen TV you could play handball off of.”

“Expensive tastes, your Mr Perlman.”

A barking laugh. “Your Mr Perlman, Detective. He is, or was, JDMS in the cistern. Second from the bottom. Wanna see where Perlman lived before he moved to the concrete condo?”

Benny Perlman had lived in a complex in North Miami, a four-layer pink and aquamarine cake with six units per layer, each with a long balcony, a palm-shadowed swimming pool in back, numbered parking slots to the side. We pulled into the lot and saw Delmara relaxing against a red Mercedes beneath a carport, the paint dulled by dust and its tires soft from sitting.

Delmara patted the Benz. “Two years back Perlman bought it second-hand off a two-year lease. It still cost seventy-three thou.”

“Not bad for a man making under forty,” Gershwin said. “But as an accountant, you expect him to be good with a budget, right?”

“Stellar,” Delmara said. “Given that Perlman was paying fifteen grand a year on the condo and upkeep.” He tipped back the hat and pointed down the opposite side of the street to a restaurant named The Cascades. “Toney joint, three bright stars in the Michelin. Big bucks, in other words. Credit-card records show the Perlster ate there three or four times a week.”

“They must have been sad when he stopped showing up,” I said. “Anything else come from the cards?”

“Only that his biggies in life were eating and drinking and a pretty car.” Delmara pulled his fedora and brushed the crown with his palm. “How about we head inside? You’re gonna love it.”