Dance With Death

Chapter 1 - 07/15/15, The Bulls

It has been twenty-two months since my orderly little world was turned upside down. Twenty-two months since I attended a charity benefit. Twenty-two months since I left with the grand prize – the longest drink of water I have ever seen. Grand prize? Believe me when I tell you, had they been giving away Ferraris, she’d still be the grand prize. We’ve been together ever since. She is in the employ of the American Broadcasting Company and is both star and executive producer of her own show, which airs four times a year. In her spare time, she anchors the 5pm local news and is licensed to practice law in the State of Florida. Add to this, her name is Marcia Colleen Glenn – known for her brains, her Titian hair, and her legs that end in Montana. One more thing, I am very much in love with her. For the purposes of this discussion, we will hereinafter refer to her as the redhead.

We do all the boyfriend-girlfriend things. We love baseball, golf, motor racing, and movies – especially old movies. We’ve also been known to go to the drive-in in Ruskin, park in the back, and make out…as I said, all the boyfriend-girlfriend things. We do one thing, however, that most other couples don’t – we solve murders.

It’s been five days since we arrived in Madrid. We, in this case, means the redhead, her shooter Dave Bushner, her audio man Ken Becker, her producer Betsy Burnett, and her baggage handler – that would be me. Why are we in Spain, you ask? Well, the only plausible explanation is the redhead got every executive at ABC drunk. There’s no other reason why they gave one of their stars permission to run with the bulls in Pamplona.

The Running of the Bulls - in Spanish "encierro from the verb encerrar," meaning to corral or enclose - is a practice that involves running in front of a small group of cattle, typically six, of the toro bravo breed that have been let loose on a course of a sectioned-off portion of the town's streets. The toro bravos are the fighting bulls. And while this occurs in towns across Spain, the most famous runs take place during the eight-day festival of Sanfermines in honor of San Fermín in Pamplona.

Each July, a million revelers pack into Pamplona for the raucous Festival. They come to this proud little town in the Pyrenees foothills for music, fireworks, and merrymaking. But most of all, they come for the Running of the Bulls, when fearless - or foolish – adventurers called mozos thrust themselves into the path of six furious bulls. So, here we are, and for six days, the redhead and her crew have interviewed officials, locals, visitors, participants – and their nervous wives. And do we rest on the seventh day? Seriously? One of us is participating, and it is not moi.

Costumes? Although you can wear anything, mozos traditionally dress in white pants and shirts with red bandanas tied around their necks and waists. Two legends explain the red-and-white uniform. One says the white honors San Fermín, martyred saint. The other says it pays homage to the butchers who began this tradition. How the redhead finds a pair of white pants with a forty-inch inseam in this six-bull town is beyond me. By the way, the bulls are color-blind. They don’t care what you wear.

This morning, we are up at dawn to ensure that the crew and Betsy have an ideal spot to shoot from. The reason? Spectators start assembling shortly thereafter. For many of these fun seekers, early morning is just the tail end of a night of partying. The event is staged just once each day, and the redhead’s run will take about twenty seconds – and there will be no Take two. The streets have been barricaded and the alleyways blocked off. I assume it’s in case one of the bulls decides to make a run for it.

In the past century, fifteen people have been gored to death during this little tableau, and a couple of dozen more have been trampled. Since cattle like to herd, a few heifers are mixed in with the bulls. Want to get your machismo stomped on? Make a poor choice and be chased through the streets by Bessie. Through it all, there is one piece of advice, Better to be trampled by six bulls than to be gored by one.

Following a very long kiss good-bye and her famous last words, don’t worry, the redhead is off to join the boys. There she goes, my not-at-all-little girl, going to play keep-away with several tons of flank steak. Spectators cover every square inch. In the middle is a tall gringo with a worried look. That would also be me.

The time has come. The sight of a single rocket signals that the bulls are running. Resembling hundreds of pogo sticks, a sea of runners spontaneously begins jumping up and down, trying to see the rampaging bulls so they can time their flight. And, at the head of the crowd is a ridiculously tall redheaded pogo stick.

Like a rogue wave pounding a beach, the bulls rush through the street. It's a red-and-white tidal wave of scrambling bodies and desperation. Californians would recognize the sensation - the ground is quaking. As the bulls charge down the street, the mozos scramble to stay out in front of the thundering herd, diving out of the way at the last possible moment. The mozos I mentioned - the one with the red hair? Well, she is taking advantage of her insanely long legs to stay well ahead of this prime rib tsunami. And now it’s over – the bulls are gone. According to my stopwatch, the whole thing took two minutes and ten seconds. In American terms, that’s ten seconds longer than the Kentucky Derby.

As some of the participants pick themselves up and dust themselves off, I move to collect my redheaded dare devil – it’s time for another very long kiss.

What was that for? I was only gone for two minutes.

It seemed longer – much longer.

So, how was it?

Keep in mind that behind her, I can see a young man being placed on a stretcher, and medics attending to three others.

That? It was nothing. Back home, I’ve been on cattle drives with more action.

Speechless.

Now, as boarded-up shops open and barricades are taken down, there is time for one more ritual. This is a solemn ceremony the redhead would understand. The mozos will drop into a bar right after the running, have breakfast, and together watch the rerun of the entire spectacle on television — all one hundred and thirty seconds of it.

Come on, Lefty, I’m starving.

And with that, our week in Spain has come to an end. In this whole world, no one loves paella more than I do, but even yours truly has had enough to last quite a while. We catch a flight to Madrid and connect to an Iberia 747 to New York. The redhead needs one coy smile and one 8x10 to get the B’s upgraded to First Class. As always, movie lines are flying around the fuselage.

You want me on that wall! You need me on that wall!

Eight hours later, it’s wheels down at JFK. When you travel abroad with the looker, one of the high points is customs. The inspector gives the redhead the long, critical look they give everyone, notices her mountain range of baggage, and then asks,

Ms. Glenn, since this must be all of your clothes, are you moving back to the United States?

Seriously? Next time you’re in Sarasota, take a good look in her walk-in closet – or mine.

Two town cars are standing by – one to take the crew directly to Manhattan, and the other to take The Marce and your humble servant to La Guardia.

Chapter 2 - 07/16/15, First Federal

I’m going home alone. The redhead has a Special to put together, and I have a cold case that has suddenly become quite warm. It could be a scene out of some forties war movie. The hero off to fight the Nazis, but not before one never-ending kiss from his girl. All that’s missing is pounding rain, the sound of distant guns, and some syrupy music. This is the end result of pairing two people who love old movies. Conductor, cue the schmultz!

Will you miss me while I’m gone?

Every minute of every day.

I love you.

I love you more.

Not even close, Irish. Not even close. Far be it from me to ruin a perfect moment, but she’ll be home in three days – not exactly, I’ll see you when the war is over.

Now it’s time to get my butt home. La Guardia is a blessing to New Yorkers. It’s much closer to Manhattan than JFK, and you can avoid I-678 - the always-despised Van Wyck Expressway. The easy access comes with a price, however – the runways are short. It’s not unlike landing and taking off from a carrier. No wonder pilots call it the USS LaGuardia - my brother would understand.

LaGuardia to Hartsfield to SRQ, and I am home at last. Just in time to take up the case of the missing bearer bonds.

Bearer bonds are securities owned by whoever is holding them rather than having registered owners like most other securities. Like most other bonds, they have a stated maturity date and interest rate, but coupons representing interest payments are generally physically attached to the security and must be submitted to the company for payment. In this way, bearer bonds are different from most other securities because they aren't physically issued anymore. They exist on the computerized records of brokers and custodians. As a result, bearer bonds are often referred to as coupon bonds, and the exchange process is called clipping coupons. These bonds have historically been the financial instrument of choice for money launderers, tax evaders, and those generally trying to conceal business transactions.

Germany issued gold-bearer bonds back in the 1920's and 1930’s to U.S. investors. A client of mine, an eighty-year-old widow named Sally Faulk, has possession of some of these bonds. They were thought to be worthless since the issuing government no longer existed. Her late husband had left her the bonds, and she held on to them as a keepsake in a safety deposit box at the First Florida Bank - the branch on University Avenue.

Enter the United States Court of Appeals. The court upheld a ruling that Germany must face a default-claim lawsuit and that the U.S. has jurisdiction. In essence, the Germans are on the hook for these bonds. Plus, these are gold-bearer bonds, which means that the bonds are redeemable by the investor in gold. No doubt Germany and the bondholders will reach a settlement, but for now, the bonds have gone from worthless to almost priceless.

The day we arrived in New York, I received a text message from Mrs. Faulk. A close friend told her of the court’s ruling, and she promptly went to the bank to retrieve her bonds. The box was empty. That’s the case. Where are the bonds?

The next morning, I climb into my Volkswagen R32. After ten days riding in a plodding mini-bus, it is heaven to be back in my pocket-rocket. She fires on the first try, and it’s over the bridge to Mrs. Faulk’s condo on Longboat Key. This is a pricey neck of the woods, but Mr. Faulk had left his widow financially secure.

Good morning, Mrs. Faulk.

I’ve told you before, it’s Sally.

She may be eighty, but she is sharp as a pin and her eyes still sparkle - no senior moments for this lady. As my mother would say, all her buttons are still buttoned.

Yes, ma’am.

Background questions come first.

When did you sign up for a safe deposit box?

September 2012, right after the death of my husband.

Why did you get the box?

To hold the bonds.

Is there anything else in the box?

Nothing.

Before Tuesday, when did you last open the box?

I haven’t been in the bank since I opened the account.

Who knew what was in the box?

My friend Ilsa. She’s the one who called to tell me about the lawsuit and the court ruling.

Does she have an account at your bank?

No, she’s at the Royal Bank of Canada on Orange Avenue.

Anyone else?

Just the bank manager, that nice Mr. Gunderson.

Bingo. One more question.

When we find whoever copped the bonds, do you want them returned, or do you want the perp sent up the river?

Mrs. Faulk is very much a lady – most of the time.

Nail him to a cross – with rusty nails.

All I ask is the opportunity and a letter from you authorizing me to access your box.

Oh, God, is it too late to walk that line back?

Why, Mr. Landell, I’m flattered.

Yes, it is. Let the fumbling begin.

Please accept my apologies – that came out wrong.

Don’t sweat it, Honey. It’s been quite a while since a good-looking man has wanted to access my box.

She opens the desk drawer and hands me an envelope.

I figured you would need this.

As I said, all her buttons are still buttoned.

The next morning, I’m back in the R32 and northbound on the Tamiami Trail. The Beretta, now reloaded with a fourteen-round magazine, is in the safe. The State of Florida has a long list of places where you cannot carry a firearm – and at the top of the list - banks. No problem, there is no way I’m going to trip the metal detector at the front door, and then have some nervous rent-a-cop draw down on me and get double-tapped in the chest.

So, it’s up the Trail and around the Bay. There is the usual bow as I pass the Van Wezel Performing Arts Hall. Why? This is the spot where the redhead fell out of the sky and into my lap. Past Ringling Boulevard, past the former site of the Ringling Hotel, and a right at the Ringling Museum – detect a trend? It’s two miles on University to the corner at MacIntosh – and the bank.

Gilbert Gil Gunderson was born in Birmingham. He passed up the University of Alabama and opted for the State’s other prestigious college – Auburn. By the way, in Alabama, prestigious is defined as having a good football team. He left Auburn with a degree in banking and was hired on at Bank of America. It was, however, slow going at one of the world’s biggest banks. Four years ago, when the chance presented itself to run a branch at First Florida, he took it.

Entering the bank, I am approached by a pert little blonde in a black blazer and perhaps a too-short skirt for a young banker. Remember, I’m a professional private investigator - I’m trained to spot these things. The look screams University of Florida, probably a cheerleader. The accent says the same thing.

May I help you?

My name is Vic Landell, and I have an appointment to see Gilbert Gunderson.

Have a seat, Sugah.

Jeez - this one is exactly as advertised, all the way down to her sorority pin. At BC, we had a saying about Florida cheerleaders, If you laid them all end to end - it would be Saturday night. No worries, in two years she’ll be married to the Bank’s president.

Mr. Landell, I’m Gil Gunderson.

He is five feet, ten inches tall with sandy hair and a stock Florida suntan. He also has the requisite requirement for his position – he’s condescending. I put his age at about thirty-eight. He shows me to his office – the only enclosed office in the bank.

What can I do for you, Mr. Landell?

I represent one of your customers, Sally Faulk.

He has a computer on his desk. A dozen key strokes later,

Ah, yes, Mrs. Faulk, safe deposit box #2472. Is there a problem with her box?

Oh no, not me – I’m not going there.

You could say that. The day before yesterday, she went to remove the contents.

And?

The box was empty.

"That’s impossible. Here is her record. There are two entries, the day she purchased the box and forty-seven hours ago.

Your records notwithstanding, the box is empty…

From an underground silo, it takes two keys to launch a nuclear missile – the same number of keys will open a safe deposit box. For the moment, I say nothing – one long, menacing stare later...

…Who has both of the keys required to open the box?

I know the answer.

As the manager, I have master keys to all parts of the branch.

That was a form question – this one is not.

Are you aware that you are one of only three people in the world who know the contents?

Gunderson starts to squirm.

No, I was not.

Let’s see, there is Ms. Faulk, her best friend Irma who has never been in this bank, – and you.

What are you getting at? Are you accusing me?

Now we enter the realm of hypothetically.

Speaking hypothetically, Mr. Gunderson, where could the contents be?

Hypothetically, I have no idea.

He’s not interested in fessing up – let’s try something else.

It doesn’t matter. The only place that the bonds could be cashed is at a bank tied to a German Consulate. The last time I checked, Mr. Gunderson, Germany does not maintain a diplomatic delegation in Sarasota.

More squirming.

In addition, all the banks have been put on alert. They are to confiscate any of Mrs. Faulk’s bonds and then inform the FBI.

In the detective business, we call this a bold face lie.

So, hypothetically, anyone who tries to cash the bonds or for that matter are in possession of the bonds will face grand larceny charges and whatever else the Feds can pile on.

World-class squirming, and I’m just warming up.

This is what’s going to happen. Tomorrow at this time, Mrs. Faulk will come to the bank and open her safe deposit box. If the bonds are not there, she will go to the Sarasota police and the District Attorney to explain that her bonds were stolen.

Good so far – now for a twenty Hail-Mary fib.

The D.A. will ask for and get a warrant to search your branch. Brick by brick, they will take this place apart - and then get another warrant for your home.

All that assumes the District Attorney can get a warrant. This is a grey area – can you get a warrant for something missing from a safe deposit box? Or, will a judge issue a warrant based on Gunderson having the only key? Not likely. Oh, the last part? That brick by brick stuff? This is just yours truly embellishing.

And, they will close the bank for the duration of the search.

There it is, the kill shot. Millions of senior citizens make their home in Florida. Many remember the horrors of the Great Depression when banks would close and deny them access to their savings, assuming the banks still held their savings.

We cannot let that happen.

Again, hypothetically, if she opens the box and the bonds have been returned, she might be willing to forget the matter.

Right after she moves all her business to another bank.

We look forward to seeing Mrs. Faulk, tomorrow.

Twenty-four hours later, Sally Faulk checks out her savings box. She opens it in the private room and finds every one of her bearer bonds. She’s on the phone now.

Vic!

Mrs. Faulk.

They are here – every one of them. You’re a genius.

That’s what I keep telling the redhead, but she doesn’t buy it.

My pleasure.

How did you do it?

I convinced the bank manager that it would be in his best interest if the bonds magically reappeared. Unfortunately, no one is going to jail.

I don’t care – I got my bonds back. I’m sending you your usual fee plus a five-thousand-dollar bonus.

You are very generous. Will you please make the check out to the Jimmy Fund?

The kids at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute need the money far more than I do. My mother would approve.

Done.

Thank you and let me apologize again for that slip of the lip.

Oh, please. I was on the phone all day telling my spinster friends that a young, handsome man was interested in my box.

Just don’t tell the redhead – I’ll never hear the end of it.

Chapter 3 - 07/18/15, Saturday Night

Alert the media, schedule a press briefing – the redhead is back in town. This afternoon, I picked her up at SRQ – along with her department store full of luggage. This would never work in the movies. There is sunshine instead of rain, whistling palms instead of German howitzers, and Jimmy Buffett in place of Glenn Miller. The action, however, is the same – big, wet kisses.

How long has it been?

The last night in Pamplona.

Not that. Since we’ve been home?

Sixteen days, six hours, four minutes – but who’s counting?

Have I missed anything?

Mrs. Faulk got her bonds back.

The bank manager?

Of course.

Good work, Lefty. Just for that, you can buy me dinner.

What were the odds?

It is Saturday morning on Siesta Key. I’ve got my nose buried in the Sarasota Herald, and the redhead is going through the two buckets of mail she received while we were gone.

Baby, do I want a credit card from the Bank of Uzbekistan?

Maybe, what are the terms?

I don’t know – they’re in Russian.

What is the rate?

I don’t know - it’s in rubles.

Is this the girl Sarasota trusts for its news?

Don’t bother - I’m sure Uzbekistan takes American Express.

And, if they didn’t, she wouldn’t be caught dead there.

Our first weekend at home in almost a month, and tonight, we are reviving our Saturday night ritual – dinner and a movie with our friends Matt Voorhies and Brandi LaMore.

Matthew Matt Voorhies is lead detective for the Clearwater Police Department. We’ve been friends for a year-and-a-half, although the friendship got off to a rocky start. When my buddy David Murdoch was killed, we immediately bumped heads over yours truly doing my own snooping. It all came to a head when I was dragged before a judge for hindering the investigation. They tried to lift my P.I. license, but my redheaded attorney knocked their Assistant District Attorney into the next county. The judge ordered us to co-operate, and we did – very well in fact. Don’t believe me? Ask Bump Fleming – he can be reached at the State Penitentiary in Railford, Florida.

The Matt that I worked with was a serious fellow - bordering on the sullen. In time, I found out why. A drunk driver had killed his wife and child five years before. From that point on, his work was his life. By careful computations, I deduced that he hadn’t had a date in five years. I took steps to change the situation.

During the investigation, I interviewed a stripper – excuse