Chapter 57

Robert Branson pulled into the portico of the Quality Inn at half-past nine on Tuesday morning, September 25th. Sherman Dixon was waiting outside on a wooden bench, reading the Boston Globe and drinking a cup of coffee.

“Morning, Dixon,” he said, as Sherm got into the Taurus.

“Morning, Bob.”

Sherman noticed that Bob had stopped to get coffee, too.

“I got a call from Jack O’Brien,” said Bob. “They saw a woman go in and out of the garage next to Solomon’s Boston store last night. She was carrying a large bag, and there was someone else driving the car. Smells like a drug pick-up. They didn’t follow her, just kept circling like I told them. They left at midnight, reported no other activity. Solomon worked late, and went directly to his townhouse. The other team logged in his arrival there.”

“Do they know who the woman was?”

“No. They said she had blond hair, wore high heels and was carrying big metallic bag over her shoulder. They didn’t see her face,” said Bob.

“I wonder if she’s somebody in the Tambini family?”

“We don’t know. But the guy driving the car was,” said Bob. “They traced the plate. It was Vincent Santoro, Silvio Tambini’s nephew.”

“Is that enough to go in there?” asked Sherm.

“No,” said Bob. “We need to watch the garage tonight, and follow the pick-up with another car. In the meantime, you and I are relieving the team in Waltham today. I want to take a closer look at that location. I pulled off the team watching the Lynn dealership.”

“Yeah,” said Sherm. “There’s nothing going on there. Not with Pete Soldano in charge.”

“No,” said Bob. “You know, this Solomon is a real piece of work. It’s amazing how he’s stayed under the radar for so long.”

They continued to speculate about whether Avram Solomon could be connected to the murder in Florida. Soon, they were pulling into the Solomon Chrysler dealership in Waltham.

“Appears Pete Soldano was right,” said Bob. “There’s not a lot of cars on this lot… they’ve got plenty of room.”

“I bet the problem is that this is the only dealership on this road. In Lynn, there are several dealers in a row. Customers like to hit more than one place at a time when they’re shopping around for a car.”

“Yeah. I do,” said Bob.

They pulled into a spot in front of the showroom. A salesman separated himself from the pack out front, and sauntered up to them.

“Hi! Beautiful day! Al Giordano. Can I help you?”

“Yeah, maybe, I’m Bob Smith,” said Bob, shaking the guy’s hand. “I need something bigger for my business, but comfortable, you know? I was thinking about an Aspen. But it doesn’t look like you’ve got much of a selection here, Al.”

“Believe me, Bob, I can get you anything you want. What, specifically, are you looking for?”

“Well, here’s the thing,” said Bob, “I don’t want to have to order it. I don’t want to wait.”

“No problem. Solomon Chrysler’s been around a long time, Bob. It’s a big outfit. Did you know we’ve got three dealerships? We’ve got a huge storage lot at the end of Warren Street, right here,” said the salesman, indicating the street running along the side of the service department. “If we haven’t got the vehicle you want here…I guarantee you…we’ve got it there.”

“That’s good to know, Al. Tell you what; I don’t have a lot of time today. I stopped in for a quick look-see. Give me your card and I’ll come back when I’ve got more time,” said Bob.

The salesman’s face changed in an instant. He knew a brush-off when he heard one.

“Sure,” he said, handing Bob his card. “Have a good day.”

The two agents got back in the Taurus and drove out of the lot through the Service exit, turning right on Warren Street.

“Ooh, that hurt,” said Sherm, smiling.

“Hey, it’s better to pull off a band-aid fast,” said Bob.

Warren Street was mostly rural, spotted with warehouses. About a mile in, they came to the huge, unmarked storage lot on the left. The salesman hadn’t lied. It was loaded with new cars. There was a padlocked chain-link fence around it, and just beyond the cars was a building that looked like a small pre-fabricated hangar.

The road dead-ended at the woods, where they did a u-turn. There was nobody around. Bob headed back toward the main road.

“Wait, Bob,” said Sherm. “Pull in there, behind that warehouse, on the left.”

“What for?” said Bob.

“The dirt road behind the hangar. It’s not overgrown. Somebody’s still using it,” said Sherm. “Let’s sit here awhile.”

“Right. Good idea.”

An hour later, a car came down the road and turned in at the hangar. Both men strained to see the license plate before the dark car disappeared behind the metal structure. About thirty minutes after it arrived, the same car left. Bob quickly scrambled out of the car and sneaked a look around the corner of the warehouse to confirm his hunch.

“It’s Vinnie Santoro,” he said, climbing back in the Taurus.

“Damn!” said Sherm. “Are you sure it’s the same car?”

“Same car, same number. The lab has to be in the hangar!” said Bob.

“Right…with the old garage in the city for storing and distributing the stuff,” said Sherm.

“Absolutely! We’ll trace the pick-up tonight and hit both places tomorrow morning.”

Both men were excited as they drove down Warren Street and hooked a left onto the main drag, heading back to Boston. They never noticed Avram Solomon pass them in a gray Sebring sedan, driving in the opposite direction.

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