Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

27

The next morning, I met Nathan Epstein at the Puerto Sagua diner in South Beach.

Epstein had changed little since I’d seen him last. He was still thin and balding, with round, dark-rimmed glasses. Although he had developed a nice tan since moving from Boston to become the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Miami office.

“May I recommend the perico breakfast platter with a side of Cuban toast?”

I studied the description on the menu. “You may,” I said.

The diner was out of sync with the rest of the neighborhood. It was more a time capsule from the sixties: Spinning barstools fronted a Formica-topped counter. Glass cases displayed guava pastries and empanadas. A small refrigerator held only Hatuey beer.

“Surprised to hear from you.”

“One foot on sea, and one on shore,” I said. “To one thing constant never.”

“Well,” Epstein said, lifting his coffee. “That sure explains it.”

“Peter Steiner,” I said.

“No small talk?” Epstein said. He had on a light blue guayabera and well-worn khakis. He didn’t look like a federal agent. He looked like a tourist in from Topeka.

“Long drive back to Boca,” I said.

“I never heard of Peter Steiner,” he said. “But I looked him up.”

“And?” I said. The waiter wandered over and refilled our cups of café con leche.

“I can neither confirm nor deny we have a file on him as thick as the Dade County phone book.”

“Might you confirm or deny if the substance of the file is financial or with possible violations of the Mann Act?”

Epstein took a long sip of coffee. He set down the mug and thought about the question.

“Theoretically?”

“Of course.”

“Theoretically, a file that big would contain many indiscretions.”

I nodded. The waiter reappeared, and I ordered the perico with an extra side of Cuban toast. Epstein had the same.

“Is there an active case on Mr. Steiner?” I said.

“Since I’m just hearing about him, I will let you draw your own conclusions.”

As we waited for breakfast, I told him every detail, from Chloe Turner’s missing backpack to the Blackstone Club, all the way through to Captain Glass’s experience with the Suffolk County DA’s office.

“Mr. Steiner appears to be well insulated.”

“Like an Igloo cooler.”

“I only had time to read the file once,” Epstein said, “but it appeared my predecessor decided to drop the investigation with little or no explanation.”

“Meaning?”

“This guy has to have some powerful friends,” he said. “A lot more powerful than the Suffolk DA.”

“The cop up in Seagrass said he takes VIPs to his own Fantasy Island in the Bahamas.”

“Yep,” Epstein said. “Apparently that’s been going on for a while. Again, theoretically speaking, that island might be a hell of a way to gain access to rich sickos with specific tastes.”

“He uses the jet and the island and the girls to rope in new clients.”

“On the way over, I called up an agent who worked the case,” Epstein said. “He said they called his plane the Lolita Express.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Epstein said. “Plenty of American elected officials, foreign heads of state, and international CEOs lined up for the journey.”

“Sounds like a timeshare pitch,” I said. “Come for the sun and fun but leave your money with Steiner and Associates.”

“Something like that.”

Epstein tapped his fingers against the laminated menu. As impassive as a sphinx.

“There’s more?”

Epstein shrugged. He looked like a riddle wrapped in an enigma inside an empanada.

“In your experience,” he said. “Isn’t there always more with guys like Peter Steiner?”

“Always.”

“And if you had a big island under your control, where you catered to every whim of these VIPs, wouldn’t you perhaps tape a few of these encounters? You know, for posterity and safekeeping.”

“Jumping Jehoshaphat.”

“Yep.”

“How many?”

“At least three blackmail cases. But in every one of them, the so-called victim walked away,” Epstein said. “Nobody wants us to look into what happens on Fantasy Island.”

“As a veteran federal agent, what would you surmise?”

“About the same as what your pal Steiner is into in Boston,” Epstein said. “Booze, blow, and underage girls.”

“How young?”

“One of the reports says he brings some in from Vietnam,” Epstein said. “Some from Russia. Maybe as young as twelve. You sure know how to find some real heroes, Spenser.”

“What else can you tell me?”

Epstein leaned back and placed his hand on his chest. “Might I remind you I am the special agent in charge of the Miami Field Office.”

“So?”

“So,” he said. “It would be highly unethical and perhaps illegal to divulge information from a confidential and active case.”

“Active?” I said.

“It is now.”

The waiter returned with our breakfast and set the hot plates in front of us. He refilled our water glasses and coffee, and as he walked away, Epstein grinned like the Cheshire cat.

“So who are these guys Steiner blackmailed?”

“Very rich. Very famous. You’ll know the names,” Epstein said. “But none of them will ever talk. Steiner has everyone by the short hairs.”