Baiting & Fishing Read online

Baiting & Fishing

  by

  Meredith Rae Morgan

  Copyright 2010 Meredith Morgan

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter 1

  Ray Bailey sat at a small round table outside an ice cream parlor in the tony shopping district of St. Armand's Key, across the intracoastal waterway from Sarasota, Florida. He sipped a chocolate shake, hoping he appeared to be merely reading the newspaper and casually people-watching. He recognized a number of other reporters from various Sarasota publications hanging around, as well. All of them were attempting to look as though they were doing something besides watching the entrance to the beauty parlor across the street. Ray noted with interest that the throng included an FBI agent who seemed to be trying to look like a reporter.

  Ray smiled behind his paper. The agent's act was probably fooling most people in the crowd, but Ray knew the guy. Ray was somehow aware that the agent had seen and recognized him as well. He didn't let his eyes linger or acknowledge the agent in any way but they definitely connected. He hated how sometimes cops could read peoples' minds from long distances and, somehow, let you know they were doing it. Ray was puzzled. He knew why he was there, and he suspected that the other reporters were there for more or less the same reason. He didn't understand why the feds were there. He thought they were finished with this case.

  Before he could get too caught up in his speculations about that, the door of the salon opened, and a woman walked out, crossed the sidewalk and stepped into a waiting Mercedes. Ray's focus zeroed in on her for the 30 seconds or so he could see her. She was probably in her fifties, but she was very well preserved. She had dark blond hair that looked pretty good to Ray. He figured it ought to look damned fabulous, given the fact that she had just plunked down about $300 for a haircut. She was statuesque but not model-tall. She was in very good shape for her age, and the word on her was that she maintained her figure with a rigorous regime of exercise and diet. The society columnist at the paper told him that Marcella Wilson was reputed to be about the only woman in her circle who had never had any kind of plastic surgery. That made her kind of a freak among society women. Ray was somehow pleased to hear that because the idea of cosmetic surgery repulsed him. He noticed that her clothes were obviously expensive, but not flashy or revealing.

  She had the aura of a woman from “old money” who was comfortable with her wealth. She did not flaunt herself or her money like so many of the nouveau riche women who filled the restaurants and malls of Sarasota in the wintertime. Marcella Wilson was different. She struck Ray as being “classy”. That was a commodity he appreciated and which seemed increasingly rare in his world.

  The limo pulled out into traffic and headed in the direction of Longboat Key where Ray knew Mrs. Wilson had recently purchased a condo. Ray thought she had the damnedest way of being broke he had ever seen. He polished off the last of his milkshake and noticed that the reporters were all gone. The FBI agent was still there, sitting on the bench pretending to read the newspaper.

  Ray tossed his cup in a trashcan and walked across the street toward the agent. He knew if the guy were on official business he'd get the brushoff, but then at least he would know that there was some kind of official investigation. He cleared his throat and said, “Afternoon, Steve. I don't know if you remember me. I'm Ray Bailey from the Times. We met a couple of years ago.”

  The agent looked up as though he had been waiting for Ray. He put out his hand and said, “Sure, I remember you. How's it going?”

  “Fine.”

  An awkward moment followed. Then the agent stood up and said, “I was just about to get a bite of lunch. Care to join me?”

  Ray had just inhaled a milkshake and didn't want anything to eat but it isn't every day that a FBI agent invites a reporter to lunch. It fell into the category of “an offer he couldn't refuse.” He chuckled to himself and said, “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

  The agent thought for a minute and then smiled. “Let's go someplace in town. These joints out here in St. Armand's are out of my price range.”

  Ray chuckled, out loud this time, and nodded, “Mine, too.”

  They decided to meet in an hour at an old fish market/restaurant on Tamiami Trail. Before making his way to the restaurant, Ray checked his voice messages and email on his phone and notified his editor he was working on a potential story and would not be back in the office. The editor asked for details. Ray sent her a brief email to the effect that there were no details to provide yet; he said he didn't even know if there was a story. He was just following a hunch.

  The editor responded with her standard instructions not to waste time or money where there is no story.

  How the hell do you know whether or not there is a story unless you look? Ray was a sort of “old school” reporter. In his opinion there was a continental divide in the world of journalism. Those reporters who had been in the business or who at least had gone to journalism school before Watergate operated according to “old rules” where the idea was to tell stories and write well. Reporters who came up in the immediate post-Watergate world wanted to be the next Woodward or Bernstein; their focus was on investigation and digging up dirt. Ray couldn't tell what the hell the really young reporters were doing; their focus seemed to be on gossip that required neither good writing nor any kind of research beyond the occasional Google search.

  Ray had worked as an investigative reporter early in his career, but he moved away from that for the most part by the late 1970's. Since then, he concentrated on feature articles, occasional sports writing (mostly so he could score free tickets to significant games), and “hard” news. Ray was a story teller, not a detective. He was a decent investigator and researcher, but he did those things for the purpose of writing a good story not for the purpose of digging up dirt.

  He thought most of the stuff in the newspapers today was abominably written crap. He took longer to research and write his features than any other reporter on the paper, and it was a bone of contention between him and his editor, a woman less than half his age who couldn't write a grammatical sentence if her life depended on it. She was not a journalist. She was a businesswoman, dispatched by a media conglomerate to tighten up the newsroom operations in order to maximize profits for the new owners of the paper.

  Ray had been with The Sarasota Times for 35 years and was its highest paid reporter, which wasn't saying much given the fact that until recently it had been an independently owned paper in a relatively small market in Florida. He was keenly aware the new management would love to get rid of him. Frankly, he had contemplated retirement just to get away from the hassle, except he had no earthly idea how he would function if he didn't have a deadline.

  If only out of pure stubbornness, he hung onto his job and, made a sport of annoying his editor, which wasn't hard to do because it sometimes seemed that she was always annoyed about something. In return, she seemed to take inordinate delight in pissing Ray off on a regular basis. They both knew that the only thing that saved his job were all the journalism awards he had won, most significantly the two Pulitzer prizes. In the past, he had kept the Pulitzer certificates hidden away in his credenza but he recently had them framed and hung them prominently behind his desk, just to drive her crazy.

  The corporations buying up the few small, independent papers around the country were considered, by every reporter Ray knew and most serious readers, to be destroying the quality of America's newspapers. While the corporations that owned the papers vigorously denied it in public, they were systematically initiating policies that made it virtually impossible for reporters to do their jobs well. The few remaining journalists who wrote carefully-researched, thoughtful and well-written stories were being driven out. The only old-
timers who were “safe” (relatively speaking) were the ones with prestigious awards because the corporations used those awards in their advertising. His awards gave Ray a tiny measure of breathing room, but he knew that there was definitely a line which his editor would love him to cross so she could get rid of him. The problem was: she knew where the line was, but he didn't.

  Forty-five minutes after he left St. Armand's Circle, Ray pulled into the parking lot of Walt's Seafood Market and Restaurant. Steve Johnston was already there. They each ordered a crab cake sandwich and hush puppies with sweet tea. Ray raised his eyebrows and nodded at Steve's food, saying, “I never took you for a Cracker.”

  Steve laughed, “Not a Cracker. I'm originally from coastal Georgia, near Savannah. I was stationed for a long time in Pennsylvania, so I lost a lot of my accent; I can even pass for a Yankee if I have to, although I wouldn't admit that to the Bureau. I don't ever want to be stationed up north again if I can help it.

  “I enjoy this posting. I love being near the ocean, where I can go deep-sea fishing whenever I want. I especially love good seafood, and Southern-style sweet tea.”

  Ray laughed, “Used to be tea automatically came sweet. Now there are so many damned-Yankees around here, they ask you if you want it sweet or unsweet. I hate that. Why the hell would anyone in his right mind drink unsweetened tea, for God's sake?”

  Steve chuckled, and asked, “Are you a native of Sarasota?”

  Ray shook his head. “Worse than that. I was born and grew up in Key West, back when Key West was: (a) a Naval Station; (b) a fishing village; and, (c) a haven for various misfits who were pretty much unwelcome anyplace else. When I was a kid, there were no cruise ships or fancy restaurants or designer stores in Key West. I don't think I even owed a pair of shoes other than flip flops until I went to school – and it wasn't because we were poor. My dad owned a bar: in Key West that put us close to the top of the economic food chain at the time.

  “My wife used to tell people that Jimmy Buffet fashioned his persona after me. That's not true. The fact of the matter is that Jimmy's persona belongs to him. It just happens that there were a bunch of us living the Margaritaville lifestyle when he came to Key West. He sort of joined in the party and then made the lifestyle known to the public.”

  “You know Buffet?”

  “I met him a few times when I was a kid. He and his buddies used to come into Dad's place occasionally. I think his band may have played there a few times very early in his career, when they still worked mainly for beers and the chance to get up in front of people. At the time there were a lot of guys like Jimmy in Key West. It was sort of South Florida's Party Central. It sure as hell was a fun place to be young.”

  Steve looked impressed, “I'll bet it was a lot more fun than my home town, where the Southern Baptists were in firm control of every aspect of everybody's life, whether you were Baptist or not. My dad was a Baptist preacher, which meant that my life was particularly dull. I don't think I had any fun at all until I went away to college.”

  They both laughed and turned their attention to the delicious sandwiches, which they ate quickly, but savoring every mouthful. Ray smiled, “God, this place has great food! Every time I eat here I'm afraid it'll be the last time.”

  “Me too. I think all these old joints are soon-to-be history. I'm afraid I'll starve when this place closes. I have lunch here at least three times a week and sometimes dinner, too.”

  “You're not married?”

  Johnston made a face, “Divorced, for the last four years.”

  Ray nodded, “Me, too. Fifteen. It sucks.”

  The conversation petered out. They looked at each other, each considering what to say, or not to say. Ray knew the next move was his, so he decided to simply be honest. Steve was not one of those arrogant would-be-Elliot Ness feds. He was a “good ol' boy” -- which merited a different approach. Ray said, “So, how's come you were hanging around St. Armand's Circle today? I thought Techtron was a closed case.”

  “I guess I was doing the same thing as all you reporters were doing. I was sniffing around to see what's up with her. I've always felt there was something we missed. What do you think of Mrs. Wilson?”

  Ray smiled slowly and stretched. He drawled, “Well, I think that if you hadn't been in the crowd, I'd have gone back to work and told my editor I was moving on to another subject. I have no interest in doing celebrity journalism. If Marcella Wilson is just a celebrity widow who spends obscene amounts of money on her hair, the tabloids can have her.”

  He paused for effect and added, “But, as soon as I noticed a federal agent in the crowd, I decided to stick around.”

  Johnston put his elbows on the table, “Do you think there's a story?”

  “I don't know. Could be just sharks circling around someone who's already bleeding. Frankly, I'm a bit embarrassed to tell you I know very little about Marcella Wilson or her infamous late husband and his failed company. I guess I was in the crowd because I wanted to get a look at her, and because I've heard rumors that made me curious.”

  “You didn't follow the Techtron story?!”

  Ray shrugged. “When that story first broke, I was working on my Everglades piece. That story was my life for almost three years. I actually spent most of the time when the Techtron story was on the front pages practically living with a Miccosukkee family in the 'Glades. During that time, I barely followed the news from the outside world at all. I'm a reporter, but I'm not exactly a news junkie.

  “I don't know how the hell the former owners of the paper let me go on that long researching one story, but it turned out to be a great series, won me a Pulitzer prize and is, in my opinion, the best thing I ever wrote in my life. I was so totally consumed in my research and I spent so much time in the 'Glades, I had only the dimmest awareness of the Techtron disaster.”

  Johnston smiled. “That may be a good thing.”

  “How so?”

  “You're coming into this with virgin eyes. You have no preconceived notions. If you are so inclined, I think you should go back and look at the story. Now that it's over, go back and review the whole thing. I worked on the investigation. The investigation is officially over and the bad guys are in jail. A little of the money has been recovered. The Bureau closed the book on it and there'd be hell to pay if my chief were to find out where I spent the day today. Believe me, I was not in St. Armand's Square today on official business. I was there because my gut has always told me there is more to the Techtron story than we know, even now.”

  “Those rumors are true?”

  “You mean the rumors that she was somehow involved?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don't know if they're true or not. I do know we never turned up any evidence. But, then, at the time, we were not looking at her. She was just the wife of the Bad Guy. The rumors about her didn't start circulating until after the whole thing was over, and she seemed not to be as destroyed by Techtron's collapse as you would have expected.”

  “Hmmmm. That's very interesting. So we have a giant corporation that implodes in a huge scandal. The top corporate officers are convicted of a laundry list of crimes. The Biggest Baddest Guy of all goes to Miami and offs himself in an expensive hotel suite a few days before he's supposed to report to Club Fed. Most of the money is still missing. Wilson's widow supposedly was left with nothing.

  “So, what's she doing moving into an expensive condo on Longboat Key? Where's she get the money for a $300 haircut? And, maybe most of all, where does she get that aura of old money and class? I only saw her for a few seconds, but she reminded me a whole lot more of those old-money, blue-blooded barracudas who run the Symphony Society and the Yacht Club Auxiliary than the nouveau-rich corporate tycoons' wives in whose company she supposedly belongs.”

  Johnston smiled, sipped his tea, and commented, “Must be the good-old-boy radar or somethin'. You're new to the story. I've worked this case since day one. It's interesting that we both have that gut feeling that there is
something about Marcella Wilson that just doesn't add up.”

  They were quiet for a while. Johnston looked out the window. Ray closed his eyes and drummed his fingers on the table. After a few minutes he nodded and opened his eyes, “I guess I'll be spending some time online reading some of the news I missed. Any tips on where I should start?”

  Johnston shook his head. “Not really. I don't want to steer you too much. I will say you should probably not start with the Big Story itself. I think that's where we went wrong. We were focusing on the internal workings of Techtron and all the financial shenanigans that led up to its failure. I'm convinced we figured that out. We know who did it, what they did and how they did it. I am pretty sure we got that stuff right. The people who are in jail are guilty of what they were convicted of.

  “What I am not sure we got right is the 'why'. I am also not 100% sure that all of the guilty people are in jail. If I have any suggestion for you at all, I would say: don't focus on the accounting side of the Techtron melt-down. We took care of that. Don't worry too much about the employees who are in jail. Instead, look at the people who aren't in jail. Look at the group of people who created Techtron, most of whom left the company before things went bad.

  “While you're at it, look at Marcella Wilson, too.

  “Frankly, I hope I'm wrong to suspect her of anything. I interviewed her several times. She was clearly devastated by what happened to her husband, both the collapse of his company and his subsequent conviction and suicide. She struck me as a nice lady, maybe too nice for the circles she moved in. I guess maybe the fact that we never found the money still bothers me. I don't believe anybody, even Roland Wilson with his extravagant lifestyle, could have spent so much money over such a short period of time and had so little to show for it.”

  Ray grinned and laid his hands flat on the table. “Okay. You have my attention.”

  Johnston stood up and headed for the door. Ray followed. Before Ray got into his car, Johnston handed Ray his card, saying, “Call me if you turn up anything you think I should know about.”

  Ray put the card in his pocket. He doubted he would need it. He reckoned that anything he could find out, the cops could discover as well. There had been a couple of times when he'd stumbled across information the authorities could not have known; in those cases he had shared the information with the police, but generally he preferred to let cops do their own investigating. Ray worked alone.

  After driving home, he ran for a while on the beach at Siesta Key, taking Midnight Pass Road all around the island. He couldn't run very fast, but he still could run pretty far for a 62 year old geezer who previously smoked three packs of cigarettes a day. Besides the house, the running habit was the only good thing that had come out of his short and stormy marriage to a local news anchor who has swept him off his feet and then flown off on her broom when a larger TV market came calling.

  When he first moved to Sarasota in 1974, he bought a ramshackle house on Siesta Key, where condos and hotels were beginning to sprout around the edges but the interior of which was still almost completely Old Florida. After he got married, his wife convinced him to tear down the wooden house and build a more modern concrete block and stucco structure. They fought about that a lot, like they had fought about every other damned thing in the world, but in the long run he was glad she had made him do it. He bought his original house for $20,000 in 1974; his wife spent $55,000 on the renovation. He thought that was an exorbitant amount of money at the time, and had raised plenty of hell about the extravagance of the project. Ray's house was the smallest and plainest house in the neighborhood, but it was valued at well over a million dollars. He took delight in thinking of all the property taxes he was not paying to the State of Florida since, according to its screwed up tax structure, his property tax rate was based on the original purchase price of his home, not its present assessed value. He was grateful for that screwed up tax structure because he knew if he had to pay taxes on the current value of the house, he'd have to sell it and, on his salary, he would not be able to touch another property anywhere near the coast.

  When he got home from his run, he flipped through the mail and then showered. After that, he took a pitcher of mint tea and his laptop out to the screened-in porch which was his “home office” and logged onto the Internet to begin his review of the Techtron story.