Chapter Two – The Office
Downtown Miami
One Day Before the Explosion
Leslye Larrimore’s office at Pace-Larrimore, Incorporated, was an expansive, opulent room with a stunning city view. Mahogany and brass shone everywhere around Leslye as she read her mail at a desk the size of an aircraft carrier.
Harry Pace entered without knocking and sprawled in one of the elegant, upholstered guest chairs across from the desk. Leslye set her mail aside.
“Missed you at Silvie’s last Saturday,” she said.
“I doubt if my daughter would agree with you,” said Harry. “Surely Dan Stern was there to fill the void.”
“Jealous? Harry, really.”
“I’m not jealous, Les. I’m her father.”
“And he’s your business partner,” said Leslye. “I should think you’d be pleased that they like each other. She’s not daddy’s little girl any longer, Harry. She’s going to have other men in her life.”
“Fine. Let her have other men. Les, can’t you get Stern to lay off?”
“You want him to lay off, you tell him. Why are you so against Danny all of a sudden?”
Harry pursed his lips and clinched his fists. He bounced one fist on his knee. “He’ll get his tail in a crack someday and do something desperate to get himself out of it. Heck, he may have done it already. I don’t want Silvie to be caught in a crossfire.”
Leslye smiled and used her most soothing tones. “I really think you’re overreacting,” she said. “I don’t see any of that happening. Really I don’t.”
Harry pushed himself up from the chair like a much older man. “I’ll pass on dinner tonight, Les, if you don’t mind,” he told her. “Think I’ll go out to the boat and spend the weekend alone. Try to get my perspective back. Chill out. Okay?”
Leslye couldn’t quite hide her disappointment, but she tried. “Sure, Harry,” she said. “You take care of yourself. It’ll all look better Monday morning. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, maybe not,” said Harry. He left her office, closing the door behind him.
Immediately, Leslye dialed a number on her desk phone. She was irritated when she reached an electronic device instead of a human.
“Stupid machine,” she said beneath her breath. Then, into the phone, she said, “Yeah, it’s me. Call me at home when you get in, no matter how late.”
Then she hung up the phone and chewed at the edges of her expensive manicure.
…
It was 2:45 a.m. by the digital bedside clock when Leslye’s cell phone vibrated with a loud clatter on the nightstand and she writhed across silk sheets to answer it.
“Hello,” she said, and looked at the clock while listening to the caller. “Well, it’s about time. Listen, I think we’d better pay Harry a visit first thing in the morning. This thing could blow up in our faces if we’re not careful. Meet me at the marina at nine thirty.”
Without giving the other party a chance to argue, Leslye hung up and went back to sleep.
…
Dinner Key Marina, Coconut Grove, Florida
The Day of the Explosion
A silver Bentley pulled in and parked beside the black Jaguar sedan in the yacht basin parking lot. The Jaguar disgorged a 50-ish, elegantly coiffed woman who sported designer business attire. Balancing effortlessly on five-inch stilettoes, the woman approached a younger man, in Ostrich-skin boots, who angled out of the Bentley.
The woman, attorney Leslye Larrimore, slung her Louis Vuitton briefcase over her shoulder and extended her hand to the man. He shook her hand perfunctorily before shoving his soft, manicured hands into his pockets, ruining the perfect drape of his linen Euro-style slacks. “Where’s Pace? It’s hot out here,” he said.
Leslye focused her practiced charm at him and assured, “It’ll be cooler on the boat.”
“It would be cooler in your office,” he muttered. “This is what I get for doing business with Harry Pace. No offense, Leslye, but your client is a certifiable kook.”
Leslye touched the man’s elbow and steered him toward the nearby pier.
“Where is Harry?” he asked, scanning the yachts lining both sides of the long, floating pier.
“Out there,” Leslye pointed to a sailing vessel moored a hundred yards out into the bay.
“Of course he is,” the man sighed.
Together they walked to the end of the central pier, where Leslye flagged down a marina employee who drove a Zodiac pontoon runabout. In moments the Zodiac had pulled up directly before the couple, and it’s pilot assisted them in boarding the twelve-foot inflatable.
Leslye negotiated the pier-to-craft transfer with amazing poise even in a pencil skirt and high heels. The man in Ostrich boots removed his suit jacket and loosened his collar; he produced a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his head and face.
“Can we hurry this along, please,” he said, commanding rather than asking.
Leslye’s smile never faltered. She gestured to the pilot, and the Zodiac putt-putted away from the pier.
Minutes later the runabout, with its company of three, was about halfway between the shore and an outmoored sailing yacht with “Helen” in florid gold lettering on the stern. Leslye delved into her briefcase and lifted her cell phone.
“I’ll just let Harry know we’re coming,” she said.
Seconds later, the faint ring of a telephone could be heard coming from the Helen – and a deafening blast vaporized the yacht in a cloud of fire and debris.
Concussion from the explosion rocked the Zodiac. Leslye, her companion, and the marina employee hid their faces from the glaring flames and covered their heads from falling debris. The marina employee shouted “Mister Pace!” and moved as if to dive overboard and attempt a rescue.
Leslye stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, a look, and a wag of her head. Harry Pace, master of the good ship Helen, was no more. Nothing remained but a burning oil slick, black smoke, and floating shards of teak decking.
“You absolutely sure Pace was on that boat?” said the man in Ostrich boots. His voice held amazingly little emotion.
Leslye kept her eyes on the burning, sinking, unrecognizable mass of wood and fiberglas. She nodded.
The man looked back toward his parked car then glanced at his diamond-studded Rolex watch. “Okay. We’re done here, then. I need to get back to work.”