Chapter 52

Sherman Dixon walked briskly through the terminal at Logan International Airport in Boston, glancing at his watch. It was Monday, September 24th, ten past two in the afternoon, which meant he was ten minutes late. His carry-on bag was slung over his shoulder. He would have preferred a bag with wheels, but he was too tall and he walked too fast. They never made the telescoping handles long enough or stable enough. The big, black man looked more like a professional athlete than an FBI agent as his long strides covered the distance between the gate and the baggage area.

He was wondering how in hell he was supposed to recognize special agent Robert Branson, who was picking him up. Branson had described himself as “an average-looking guy with brown hair, driving a gray Ford Taurus”. But as it turned out, it didn’t matter.

Shortly after Sherm walked through the glass doors and crossed the street, Branson pulled up in the Taurus. It seemed to be the only car, being passed and honked at by various car-rental shuttle buses. The window slid down.

“Are you Sherman Dixon?”

“Yes.”

“Bob Branson. Hop in!”

“Welcome to Boston,” he said after Sherm got in. “How was your flight?”

“Good. No problems,” said Sherm. “Thanks for picking me up. Your timing was great.”

“Not really. That was my fourth time circling around,” he said, laughing.

“Got to keep the Homeland safe from airport bombers,” said Sherm.

“Yeah,” said Branson.

Neither of them laughed, too aware of the truth of Sherm’s remark.

“I booked you a room at a Quality Inn close to our headquarters,” said Branson. “You can check in anytime. You eat yet?”

“Yeah,” said Sherm. “I got one of those bagged lunches.”

“Good. I need to get you up to speed as fast as possible, Dixon. Plus, if you’ve got any info for me, I need it yesterday. You want to drop off your bag and go right to the office, or what?”

“Yeah. Let’s get that out of the way, as long as it’s close,” said Sherm.

They left Sherm’s carry-on in his room and headed for the field office. Branson wasted no time filling Sherm in.

“You know Silvio Tambini?”

“By reputation,” said Sherm.

“He’s the focus of the investigation,” said Branson. “The Tambini family has been bringing drugs into the northeast, principally through Boston and Providence, for years. We suspected that they were coming in through the Caribbean, but they shut down before we got our ducks in a row.

“About ten months ago, an undercover agent in southern California made a connection in Mexico and was able to trace the stuff over the border, into California, Utah, and on into Massachusetts.

Then…nothing. We had all the players, all the exchanges. But where the hell did it end up? It’s on the street here…that’s for damn sure.”

He stopped there, and pulled into a parking space behind a square, red brick, four-story building. He got out of the car and Sherm followed along, taking the elevator with him up to the fourth floor.

They entered a large, open room with a lot of desks and people, mostly men, many of them eating lunch. Branson signaled to a number of them to follow him as they passed. Finally, they were all assembled; eleven white men, one Hispanic and two black men, including Sherm…fourteen in all. They were in the conference room, seated around a big, nicked-up, rectangular table.

“This is special agent Sherman Dixon, from the Washington office,” Branson began, introducing Sherm. The men around the table spontaneously said their names, acknowledging him, one by one. Branson continued with his intro.

“He’s temporarily assigned to this task force. He has some inside connections in both Avram Solomon’s company and his family…where there are some other things going on, I understand. So we’re here to share information.

“I don’t want anybody to hold back. Free questions and answers, all around. I’ve been giving him an overview; so let me finish up with that, first.

“As I was saying, Dixon,” he said, turning to Sherman, “we traced the stuff coming into Massachusetts, and then it disappeared… a dead end. They’re cutting it and storing it somewhere, but damned if we can find out where. But we know it’s the Tambini family.

“Then this Avram Solomon’s unlisted phone number turns up on Guido, ‘Guy’ Tambini’s home phone log. There were calls to Solomon Chrysler before, but we never thought about it, because Silvio’s son, Guy, drives a Chrysler. And this was no wrong number, either. It was a ten minute call. And Avram Solomon lives alone, so he was the one answering the phone, talking to Guy Tambini, who also lives alone, and who called Solomon’s unlisted number.

“I mean, this was a surprise to us, Dixon. This Solomon looks like a damn pillar of the community! He moves around in society… he’s at every charitable fundraiser…he’s on the board of the museum! He’s a successful businessman. His uncle is a prominent, respected attorney. He lives on Beacon Hill, for God’s sake!

“So what’s he doing talking to a Mafia boss? That was the question. So we started watching the Solomon dealerships and his townhouse. And everything looks as normal as apple pie. And then you started asking questions about him. And here you are…and I hope you can help us.”

Branson sat down, and everybody looked at Sherm.

Sherman stood up and began to tell them about Joe Garrett and Julie O’Hara investigating the death of the artist, Marcus Solomon, in Key West, about Marc being Avram Solomon’s half-brother. He also told them about the impending, multimillion- dollar sale of the island, Castle Cay, which was evidently used by drug traffickers in the past.

“How does the death fit into our present investigation here, agent Dixon?” asked the gray haired fellow. Sherm thought his name was Jack, but he wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know,” said Sherm. “But in the course of the murder investigation, they met with Avram Solomon’s uncle…the attorney…plus a GM in one of his dealerships, and a former employee in his central payroll department.

“All of these people suspect Avram Solomon of criminal activity, and I’ve set up meetings with them for this afternoon and this evening to see if we can connect the dots. They are very concerned about confidentiality, but I’m sure I can bring agent Branson along.”

“Is Solomon an official suspect in his brother’s murder?” asked the Hispanic guy, who had introduced himself as ‘Alvarez’.

“No,” said Sherm. “He has a solid alibi. He was here when it happened. Another thing, he doesn’t profit from the sale of the island. He doesn’t appear to have a motive.”

“Still,” said agent Alvarez, “a murder and a multimillion-dollar deal happening at the same time?”

“Yes,” said Sherm, “that’s what has aroused all the suspicion surrounding Avram Solomon. He is both the brother of the murder victim and the trustee in charge of the sale, and there is some question as to whether Marc Solomon was cooperating.”

“So who inherits?” asked the black agent at the end of the table. He was a studious looking man, probably in his late thirties, with rimless glasses. Not surprisingly, Sherm remembered his name, Thomas Bailey.

“I’ve been told the uncle, attorney Matthew Castle, at Connor, Castle & Mann here in Boston, inherits the bulk of the estate, agent Bailey,” said Sherm.

“Maybe there’s a conspiracy between Castle and Solomon,” said Bailey.

“That’s even weirder,” said Branson, standing up. “The Castles are rich and they came over on the damn Mayflower. Let’s stop speculating on the murder in Florida, and stick to the drug investigation here.

•

“Okay, Dixon. Your turn,” he said. “What questions have you got for us?”

“I’m assuming you’re working in teams,” said Sherm. “Who’s handling the surveillance of the Boston dealership?”

The gray haired guy that had opened the question and answer period raised his hand, as did the dark haired, mid-forties guy next to him.

“Sorry,” said Sherm, “I didn’t catch everyone’s name on the first go-round. Is it Jack?”

“Yeah, Jack O’Brien. This is my partner, Mike Simmons,” said the older man. “We’ve only been watching a few days. So far, we haven’t seen anything unusual going on. We spoke with the local cops who patrol that area, and they didn’t have anything much to say about Solomon Chrysler, either. They did mention that our guy comes back in after closing one night a week to work, but we haven’t seen him do it. He waves to them when they drive by, they said. That’s it.”

“That could be interesting,” said Sherm. “There’s been some suspicion of money laundering. Solomon is more than the son of the owner; he’s an accountant, and he’s listed as both the President and Treasurer of the company. The Boston store is where all the money is handled; the other stores are satellite operations. “

“’Some suspicion’? Got anything more solid than that? Anything we could go in on, Dixon?” asked Bob Branson.

“Not yet, but maybe today,” said Sherm, thoughtfully. “The people we’re meeting are highly credible, in my opinion, and they know this guy well. I’m beginning to think that he’s the missing piece in two puzzles…”

* * * * *