Located on the ground floor of a three-story tangerine French Colonial building on Pointe du Bout’s ritzy yet quaint main street, Caribbean Realty Solutions filled its broad front window with striking color photographs of the best listings. “Bait,” the Realtors called these pictures. “Fish” often stopped and lingered, openmouthed. Frank DeSoto, an eleven-year veteran of the realty game, sat at the reception desk, watching two such prospective catches, men wearing expensive polo shirts and Bermuda shorts, crossing the street. Without a glance at the bait, they entered the agency.
Fabulous, DeSoto thought. They know what they want.
Filled with the exhilaration a fisherman feels at a tug on his line, DeSoto did a five-second check of his hairpiece and breath.
The men approached the desk. Striking the proper balance between deference and social equality, DeSoto asked, “What can I do for you?”
The younger of the two men, who looked moneyed enough, said, “We’re interested in seeing the Ceron Island property.”
DeSoto’s exhilaration evaporated, although he continued smiling. Chances were these men were GCs-gate-crashers, a minor-league brand of thrill-seeker whose idea of a thrill was wandering around a property they couldn’t afford.
GCs were normally couples, however, and tended to dress as if they’d just stepped off a yacht. Like the authentic rich, this duo placed comfort ahead of appearance. The key was their footwear. The younger man wore the distinctive boat-shaped Bettanin amp; Venturi loafers, handmade in Italy. And he wore them without socks, as if he didn’t care whether they fell victim to sweat, sand, or saltwater. The other man, although at least twenty years DeSoto’s senior, wore a pair of Day-Glo orange Crocs, the overpriced neoprene beach clogs that were cute on little kids. Anyone over the age of eight wearing a pair of kiddie clogs didn’t give a hoot what others thought. He was loaded, DeSoto suspected.
He decided to find out for sure. “I would love to share Ilet Ceron with you,” he said, extending his hand, rattling his eighteen-karat gold Rolex. “I am Franklin DeSoto.”
The young man’s grip was firm and his eyes never wavered. “Brad McDonough,” he said. Then he cocked his head at the older man, who hovered by the entry. “And this is Mr. Larsen.”
Larsen stepped forward, bumping his young companion without apology. He placed his hand in DeSoto’s and let the Realtor do the work. “John Larsen,” he said as though it were some sort of secret.
“Great to meet you,” DeSoto said. “This happens to be the first slow day I’ve had since Thanksgiving.” If only. “I could take you to the island this morning if you’d like.”
McDonough looked to old Larsen, who nodded his consent, though grudgingly. Maybe he would have preferred a nap first. Or a Bloody Mary.
“The agency just has a minor security requirement,” said DeSoto. “I need to have my assistant photocopy either your passports or your driver’s licenses. Then I can call down to the dock and have Marcel ready the motor launch.”
Licenses in hand, DeSoto proceeded to the copier in the back room, glancing at his BlackBerry en route. Just the usual boasts from colleagues. Bettina Ludington was showing the old Delacorte estate to a Goldman Sachs senior partner. DeSoto replied with an insincere wish of good luck and btw, i’m showing ceron to a couple of whales.
But were they really whales?
Taking a few moments longer than necessary at the photocopier, DeSoto used an array of Internet tools to search for his prospective clients’ occupations, real estate holdings, and credit histories; Realtors were as adept as private investigators at getting the lowdown, and, by necessity, they were faster. If DeSoto’s digging indicated that his men were in fact whales, he would immediately plunk down fifty euros to rent a Riva Aquarama, a vintage mahogany runabout known alternately as the maritime version of a Ferrari and the Stradivarius of the sea. Should he discover that they were plankton, getting rid of them would be a simple matter of requesting a fax from a bank stating that they had the financial wherewithal to close on such an expensive property. Plankton usually claimed that they had to return to their hotels to get their bank information. Invariably they were never seen again.
It turned out that Larsen was CEO of New England Capital Management, LLC, about which DeSoto could find no useful information. He hoped that it was one of those ultradiscreet hedge funds. Larsen’s address was 259 Cherry Valley Lane in Greenwich, Connecticut. DeSoto knew Greenwich was a Manhattan suburb where two million got you a house in the part of town that formerly quartered the servants. Cherry Valley Lane was located in Greenwich’s lushly forested “Back Country.” According to a Web site that generated instant appraisals, the eight-acre property was worth $10.5 million.
McDonough lived on the other side of Greenwich’s proverbial tracks in a $3.2 million converted barn. He popped up on DeSoto’s computer as the proprietor of the nearby McDonough Thoroughbred Farm, whose Web site offered only the most rudimentary information. Like good restaurants and colleges, successful horse breeders had no need to advertise.
It was enough to go on, DeSoto decided.
If worse came to worst, he always had his Beretta.