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  It was only 6:00 a.m. when I arrived at the office and found Lou Dewey already at his desk.

  “You’re in early,” I said.

  “I never went home,” he sighed, looking up from his computer. “I’ve been here all night researching B. I. Grover.”

  “And?”

  “I have more to verify, but based on what I found so far … I believe the man could be running a Ponzi scheme.” Lou referred to the old scam where early investors are paid high interest rates from the money of new investors without any actual profits being made. “I came across another name, too, Bernard Madoff. I think he may be even bigger than Grover.”

  “Forget Madoff for now. Focus on Grover. How long before you’ll know for sure if he’s a bad guy?”

  “A few weeks,” Lou said. “But, as a former bad guy myself, I can sense these things and I sense a bad result.”

  “I thought Grover was supposed to a genius?”

  “Maybe he’s a genius at fraud.”

  “Everyone praises him.”

  “Not everyone,” Lou disagreed. “Some people see him as God’s T-bill, but some see him as the devil’s disciple.”

  “Why doesn’t everyone see the same thing?”

  “Greed can be blinding,” Lou said.

  “What about the thousands of clients he has all over the world.”

  “If I’m right … they’re thousands of frauds or fools. Or they’re in on the con.”

  “Steve Coleman just invested, and he’s no fool. He’s a very successful man.”

  “You can be a successful fool.”

  “Why hasn’t someone blown the whistle on Grover already?” I asked.

  “Someone did … years ago. A fraud specialist named Harry Chan. He submitted a damning report on Grover to the SEC, and they ignored him.”

  “Why?”

  Lou shrugged. “The human condition. Sometimes people look away when something is too horrible to be real or too good to be true.”

  “I have to tell Steve Coleman about this.”

  “Wait, I could be wrong. But, honestly, I think it’s just a matter of time.”

  “How much time?”

  Lou shrugged. “Not much. Taking money from small groups like Steve’s is uncharacteristic, which means he needs cash. That’s not a good sign.”

  I stood up. “I don’t care if Steve won’t listen to me. I have to tell him.”

  “Let me finish my research before you say anything to anyone. I don’t want to be wrong.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait, but work fast,” I said, sitting down again.

  “What are you doing here so early?”

  I told him about Bailey, my visit to St. Mary’s, and the ledgers full of money in the priest’s desk. “Something’s not kosher at that church,” I said. “I think Willie stumbled into a con game and had to be shut up.”

  “A Catholic priest would never do something like that.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “On second thought …”

  I stood at the bathroom sink staring at the diamond-shaped, electric-blue pill on the counter. I looked in the mirror and saw a short, rugged-looking man in good shape for his age … with erectile dysfunction.

  “No more carefree erections for you,” I said to the mirror. “You’re not in the sixth grade anymore.”

  I still remembered the day Mr. Johnson, my talking penis, made his first public appearance. I was retrieving a pencil I had purposely dropped on the classroom floor so MJ and I could look up the skirt of the girl sitting next to me … when the teacher called my name.

  Not now, I begged MJ silently as I stood up. Defiantly he stood up with me. Mrs. Thompson, the teacher, did a double take as I approached her at the blackboard, and she took a step back when I reached for the chalk in her hand. A friend of mine in the class whispered, “Boner,” and all the other boys laughed. Some girls covered their eyes … some didn’t. Mr. Johnson took notes for future reference. I got the math answer wrong, but I didn’t care. I had a new best friend.

  I know a dog is supposed to be man’s best friend, but Mr. Johnson became mine. I could have chosen a dog. A dog is loyal. Mr. Johnson was not. A dog can learn tricks. MJ could only sit up and beg. A dog follows his master. I followed my Johnson.

  He got me in a lot of trouble, but I always forgave him. When we were young, we would lie awake in bed at night and talk for hours about the wondrous things we would do when we grew up … and then we did them. We let the good times roll and thought they would never end. But they did. The thrill was gone, and Mr. Johnson’s one eye was growing dim. I knew I would outlive my best friend unless I did something drastic. I took the pill.

  “Did you take the pill?” Claudette asked an hour later when we got into bed.

  I nodded.

  “And?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t we have to be active for it to work?”

  “I don’t know. This is my first time.”

  “Mine, too,” she said.

  “Viagra virgin,” I joked, but neither of us laughed.

  “Why did you choose Viagra?”

  “The Cialis ads show a man and a woman in separate bathtubs on top of a mountain,” I said. “We only have one bathtub, and even if we had two, we couldn’t have sex after moving them up a mountain.”

  “Who could have sex in separate bathtubs, anyway?”

  “Another good point,” I said. “And who wants an erection to last more than four hours?”

  She raised her hand to volunteer. We both laughed.

  “I draw the line at three hours and forty minutes,” I bragged.

  “We’ll see,” she said, reaching for me.

  Foreplay became five-play, and we were up to eight-play before I became aware that my nose was running. Viagra wasn’t giving me an erection. It was giving me nasal congestion.

  “I can’t breathe,” I told her, gasping.

  “I’ll be right back.” She hurried to the bathroom. She returned with a pill and a glass of water.

  “I’m not taking another Viagra. I’ll have a hard-on and a heart attack at the same time.”

  “It’s Sudafed for your nose.”

  I took my medicine.

  “Now where were we?” she asked, snuggling close to me.

  “If I recall correctly, we were nowhere,” I said, feeling useless.

  “Oh, really? Then what’s this?” she asked, squeezing.

  “What’s what?” I looked under the covers. “Where did he come from? He never said a word.”

  “This is no time for talking.” Claudette pounced.

  I wish I had been there.

  In the morning I called my urologist. “I had sex with a stranger last night.”

  “Was it safe sex?” Dr. Koblentz asked.

  “It was with Claudette.”

  “Who was the stranger?”

  “Mr. Johnson,” I explained.

  “Did you take a pill?”

  “Yes.”

  “The feeling of detachment is not unusual with a Viagra pill,” Dr. Koblentz said. “You’re dealing with a chemical reaction rather than a purely physical one.”

  “Actually, I took two pills.”

  “Two Viagra pills?”

  “No, one Viagra and one Sudafed. The Viagra pill opened my arteries and blocked my nose. Plus sex ain’t what it ustabe.”

  “Of course not. You’re not who you used to be. You’ve changed.”

  “I didn’t feel any changes,” I said, frustrated.

  “Did you feel your hair turning gray?”

  “My hair is salt-and-pepper,” I protested.

  “My point is that you don’t feel every change you go through. At least now you can have sex.”

  “Yeah, but it’s weird sex, which was always okay with me. But this is different. Before I took the Viagra pill, I felt guilty for cheating Claudette, but when I took the pill, I felt like she was cheating on me with my own penis.”

  “Do you think she
noticed a difference in you?”

  “I think so,” I said. “I wasn’t very lovey-dovey. She likes that. I just didn’t feel it. Mostly I was nervous. What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Stop putting pressure on yourself. Adapting to changes is never easy. Think of something else.”

  I thought about when having sex was easy and finding someone to have it with was the hard part.

  After Lou Dewey had investigated B.I.G. for three weeks, he was convinced Grover was a fraud.

  “I can’t believe he got away with this con for so long,” Lou said, tossing a folder on a pile of folders on his desk. I was good, but this guy is great.”

  “Are you sure you’re right?” I asked.

  “Positive. Harry Chan, the investigator I told you about, was 100 percent right. His problem was, he couldn’t relate to average people. He didn’t know how to simplify his complicated formulas. He confused people, and they ignored him.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Sure it does. First of all, the SEC has a conflict of interest,” Lou said. “They’re employed by the people they’re supposed to regulate. They don’t want to find anything wrong.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It gets worse. The SEC doesn’t have one forensic examiner in the agency capable of understanding Chan. They wouldn’t know a complicated scam if it bit them in the ass. So we have to prove Grover’s a fraud in terms the average person can understand. Then we have to take that information to the FBI, not the SEC.”

  “What happened to Chan?”

  “He died in an automobile accident,” Lou said. “His whole family was with him.”

  “You think Grover had something to do with the accident?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “If they did something to Chan, they can do something to you,” I said.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “No, you can’t. Your girlfriend can beat you up.”

  “No, she can’t.”

  “My girlfriend can,” I said.

  “What’s your point?”

  “Danger is not your specialty. That’s my job.”

  “Look, they’re not scaring me off,” Lou insisted. “I’m going to bring this sociopath down.”

  “You seem to be taking this personally.”

  “I am. I was a con man in the old days. But I was never evil. I never set out to destroy people. Grover is evil. He’s going to financially ruin anyone who trusts him and not give a shit. I have to stop him.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I hate guys like Grover, too. But if he’s dangerous, you’ll be out of your element. Let me take your proof to the FBI. Grover can’t scare me off.”

  “I’m not afraid. I’m committed.”

  “You should be committed.” A thought occurred to me. “Lou, the truth.” I looked into his eyes. “Are you trying to prove you’re smarter than Grover?”

  “Absolutely,” he said without blinking.

  I phoned Chief Burke the next day to talk about Lou and Grover. He had an agenda of his own when he answered the phone.

  “I heard you were at a pill-mill raid a few nights ago in Fort Lauderdale,” Frank said as a greeting.

  “I was on a case,” I explained. “The raid was coincidental.”

  “What kind of case?”

  “The uncontrollable distribution of controlled substances.” I gave him Hurwitz’s details.

  He asked if I trusted Doc.

  I said I didn’t.

  “Is this another Boca Knights crusade?”

  I said it was and I welcomed him to join.

  He said he was too busy. “Haven’t you been reading the papers? We have county officials, local lawyers, and corrupt commissioners being led away in cuffs for fixing state bids for roads, bridges, and canals. Corrupt county commissioners are being indicted … not to mention sex scandals.”

  “You can mention them,” I said.

  “Do you know Dr. Al Minkoff?”

  “He’s my dentist. Don’t tell me he’s dirty … especially not his hands.”

  “We arrested him for stealing $400,000 from the Florida Medical Association,” Frank said. “He used the money on hookers and a girlfriend.”

  “His hands are probably diseased. Jeez, I know his wife. She’s a hygienist in the office.”

  “His soon-to-be ex-wife. She’s suing for divorce.”

  “I better cancel my cleaning appointment.”

  “We arrested the headmaster of Addison Academy for forging parents’ signatures and attendance records to get millions of dollars in state aid. It’s a disgrace.”

  “Talking about disgraces, Frank. Can you explain how a fifteen-time convicted rapist was arrested for attempted rape in Delray last week?”

  “Ask the judges,” Frank told me. “They released him.”

  “How about Ira Cantor?”

  Cantor was a mental case who had been arrested and released 190 times for crimes and misdemeanors throughout Florida.

  “He’s in jail again.” Burke sighed.

  “What did he do this time?”

  “He threatened to shoot a motorist for not giving him a ride.”

  “Was Ira armed?”

  “Of course not,” Frank said. “But this time, the victim is pressing charges. This is going to look very bad for the Boca police force. We’ve arrested that lunatic fifty out of those 190 times.”

  “In all due respect, Frank, that’s horrible.”

  “I agree. But the police aren’t the ones turning him loose. It’s the system. His arrests are mostly misdemeanors … loitering, prowling, intoxication … stuff like that. The victims usually don’t prosecute because Cantor never really hurts anyone, he’s mentally unstable, and his mother always offers to pay restitution.”

  “So, a potentially dangerous, mentally ill person is put back on the streets 190 times?”

  “It’s the law,” Frank sighed.

  “It’s not justice. He should be in an institution being treated for his problem.”

  “I agree,” Frank said. “But the state of Florida rates forty-eighth in the country for mental-health funding. It’s a numbers game. Palm Beach County receives less than $1,000 a year per patient.”

  “What’s going to happen to Cantor this time?”

  “Unless the victim drops the charges, and it doesn’t look like he will, Cantor could get thirty years.”

  “Thirty years after 189 second chances?” I asked. “Where’s the sense in that?”

  “I said it was legally possible. I don’t think it will happen, but it could.”

  “Florida has to work on consistency,” I said.

  “Every state has inconsistencies. In Alabama, corrupting morals is only a misdemeanor.”

  “Why would you know a statistic like that?” I asked.

  He laughed.

  I told him about Lou’s BIG investigation and my concern for Lou’s safety.

  “Lou’s probably got a dose of computer courage,” Frank said. “Some people feel indestructible behind a keyboard and monitor. There’s a sense of power being anonymous. You’ll just have to watch out for him.”

  “I’ve already got a full schedule.”

  “I’m sure. How are you doing with the Weary Willie case, by the way?”

  “I’ve got a few leads but nothing solid,” I said.

  “That’s what I figured. I haven’t seen anything in the paper.”

  “How are you guys doing?”

  “I can’t talk about an active case,” Frank said, “but I can tell you it won’t stay active for long if something doesn’t happen soon.”

  The world is all about priorities.

  Three nights later, I took my second Viagra pill. It was a different experience from the first. My nose got stuffy again, but this time the Mr. Johnson impersonator talked to me.

  Do I know you? he asked.

  We met once before.

  I don’t remember. Was I on drugs?
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  Yes, like you are now.

  When we were done, Claudette went to sleep, my new associate went away, and I went into a mild depression. I still hadn’t adapted to change, and I sensed Claudette was having trouble, too.

  My cell phone rang an hour later. It was Three Bag Bailey, my newly appointed assistant investigator.

  “I’m watching two big guys walking up the stairs behind St. Mary’s,” she told me.

  “What do they look like?” I rolled out of bed, trying not to wake Claudette.

  “Like Brooklyn bouncers. Work shirts, jeans, both wearing Yankees baseball caps.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Leaving, I think.”

  “I wonder why they’re using the back door,” I said.

  “They seem to be looking for something.”

  I heard a sharp, scratching sound, like metal on metal.

  “Where are you?”

  “Hiding behind the Dumpster in the back parking lot.”

  “Do you hear that scratching sound?”

  “Yeah, it’s coming from above me,” she said. “But I don’t see anything. It’s too dark.”

  “What are the two guys doing now?”

  “I can’t see them either. They moved out of the light.”

  I heard a hiss, louder than a snake. “Oh, shit,” Bailey screamed. “Get away from me.” She cried out in pain.

  “Bailey, what’s happening?” I shouted.

  “Oh my God,” she screamed. “Stop.”

  I heard a gruff, male voice call out, “Who’s there?”- followed by the sound of running.

  “Call my sister,” Bailey said breathlessly. “Tell her I’m going to the baker.”

  I heard the clatter of metal, followed by an inhuman howl.

  I didn’t bother to call her name again. I knew Bailey was gone and St. Mary’s was probably a crime scene. I should have called the police, but I had given Bailey my word not to.

  I was at the church in thirty minutes with my homemade forensic kit and my old Glock nine. The parking lot was empty. The Mini’s headlights illuminated the Dumpster. I parked behind it and walked to where I guessed Bailey had been hiding. My flashlight showed fresh blood on the outer wall. I cursed myself for letting her get involved. The grass behind the trash bin was trampled, and I saw a scarf on the ground. I picked it up. It was wet with blood.

  This is bad. Call the police.

  I gave my word I wouldn’t.