CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Las Olas Boulevard was Fort Lauderdale's answer to Rodeo Drive. The three-mile-long, tree-lined street was filled with pricey clothing boutiques and epicurean restaurants. A handful of watering holes were within my price range, but mostly it was stuff I only dreamed about.
Trojan Communications was located one block south of Las Olas in a dramatic two-story building made of chrome and tinted glass. The company's logo-a crooked T made from shiny aluminum-sat by the front entrance in the grass.
At eight-thirty, I pulled in front of the building and called Linderman. He was waiting for my call, and I gave him the address and told him that our suspect worked for the company. I didn't give him Paul Coffen's name, and he didn't ask for it. He agreed to meet me in thirty minutes and said he'd call if traffic was bad.
I then drove east to the beach and walked my dog. The tide was up and the waves were big and loud, and I drank up all the sights and smells, my conversation with Kumar still fresh in my mind.
At eight-fifty I drove back to Trojan Communications and entered the company parking lot. A cream-colored Mercedes 500 SL was parked in a space marked Reserved P. Coffen, President amp; CEO. I parked beside the Mercedes and waited.
At eight fifty-five, Linderman arrived and parked beside me. Sitting beside him was a sandy-haired man with a purple scar on his cheek shaped like a question mark. He wore Ray-Bans and a dark suit, as did Linderman. The three of us got out of our cars. Linderman introduced the second man as Special Agent Richard Theis.
“The suspect is named Paul Coffen,” I said. “He owns the company and appears to be here. I think we should enter the building separately, in case he happens to be watching the front door on a surveillance camera. I'll go first, then you and Theis follow.”
Both men nodded. Theis said, “What's the deal once we're inside?”
“I spoke with one of Coffen's phone operators earlier,” I said. “I'm going to use her name with the receptionist, and tell Coffen I'm interested in hiring his company to process calls from a group of Checkers restaurants I own in Tampa.”
“What's our role?” Theis asked.
“You're my business partners.”
“Works for me,” Linderman said.
Theis simply nodded.
I checked my watch. Nine o'clock on the nose. Without another word, I crossed the lot and entered Trojan Communications. I walked with my head bowed, my eyes peeled to the ground. Thirty seconds later, Linderman and Theis followed me.
When I was a cop, I was good at putting myself in the shoes of criminals I dealt with. It allowed me to anticipate how they were going to react when I confronted them. Most cops are good at this, but I was particularly good at it.
I entered the reception area assuming that Coffen had taken precautionary measures to avoid being arrested. Like bugging his reception area or having a surveillance camera trained on the door. I scanned the reception area and, not seeing any cameras, approached the receptionist, a purple-haired young woman in a miniskirt sitting at a Lucite desk.
“Can I help you?” she asked, snapping her gum.
I was still wearing yesterday's clothes and hadn't shaved. It wasn't my best side, but it would have to do.
“I'm here to see Paul Coffen,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Sorry, Mr. Coffen is busy.”
“I spoke with an operator named Sherry Collins about hiring your company to handle orders for several fast-food restaurants that I own in Tampa,” I said.
Her eyes touched briefly on Linderman and Theis, who flanked me.
“Are these gentlemen with you?”
“Yes, they're my business partners.”
“Let me see if Mr. Coffen is available. Can I have your name?”
I nearly said my real name, then caught myself.
“Ken Linderman,” I said.
Linderman laughed under his breath. The receptionist pressed a button on the intercom sitting beside the phone. It came alive with a man's voice.
“I'm busy, Heidi.”
“I have three gentlemen who are interested in hiring our company to service their restaurants.”
“Then I'm not busy,” the voice said with good humor. “Would you mind asking them to wait? I'm on a conference call.”
The receptionist looked up into our faces expectantly. “Would you gentlemen mind waiting until Mr. Coffen is free?”
“How long do you expect him to be?” I asked.
She asked Coffen how long he was going to be.
“I don't know,” Coffen said. “Just ask them to have a seat. I'll be out when I'm done with this call.”
No smart businessman made potential customers wait, and I sensed that Coffen was stalling. I looked around the reception area again, then at the desk. The receptionist acted embarrassed and crossed her legs. A tiny button on the intercom caught my eye. It was a miniature camera. Coffen was looking right at us.
“He's onto us,” I said.
Behind the desk was a black door marked Private. I started to walk around the desk, and the receptionist rose from her chair.
“You can't go in there,” she said.
Linderman pulled out his wallet and showed his badge.
“FBI. Sit down and don't move,” he said.
She dropped into her chair.
“Jesus,” she said.
The black door was locked. Lifting my leg, I kicked three inches above the knob. Both hinges broke at the same time, and the door came crashing down.
I pulled the door out of the way and entered a windowless hallway that ran the length of the building. Through its walls I could hear female phone operators processing fast-food orders from around the state. Their voices seemed to be coming out of nowhere.
Theis and Linderman were right behind me. Theis went left and started checking doors. I headed in the opposite direction with Linderman breathing down my neck.
“Are you armed?” Linderman asked.
“Yes,” I said. “How about you?”
“You're a funny guy, Jack.”
The hallway's carpet muted our footsteps. I assumed that like most CEOs, Coffen occupied the corner office. At the hallway's end I found his name printed on a plaque nailed to a door. The door was locked and I took it down with my foot. We rushed in.
“FBI,” Linderman announced.
The office was light and airy. One wall was nothing but windows; the other three were decorated with paintings of naked girls in provocative poses. Coffen sat at a cherry-and-walnut desk wearing a black designer T- shirt and an array of gold necklaces, his chubby fingers banging the keyboard to his computer. His face was crimson and reminded me of someone having a heart attack. As I came around the desk, I saw why.
