Deep Dirty Truth

by Steph Broadribb

  Memorising the number on the Florida Oranges licence plate, I glance inside as I pass. I see it’s completely bare of clutter; no go cups, no sandwich wrappers, no discarded sweater or shades. It could be a federal vehicle for sure, but it could also belong to someone who’s a fan of big, roomy cars. I need to know which.

  Slowing my steps, I pull out my cell and text Monroe: Florida licence 893 2QX. One of yours?

  His reply comes before I reach the automatic glass door into the lobby. It’s short, to the point.

  YES.

  My pulse quickens. They’re here. Now I have to find out precisely where.

  16

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20th, 15:26

  The smart play is to get a room. I can’t sit around in the parking lot for long without the FBI spotting me; even though they don’t seem to have a lookout, they’re likely to have some junior agent on regular patrol duty. And as the Old Man’s instructions are that I go in alone, I’m going to need darkness plus a power blackout to have a hope in hell of busting out Carlton North. Sundown isn’t for at least another four hours. Until then I need to blend in, like the Feds try to. I need a reason to be here, and the best excuse is to be on vacation. So that’s the card I play.

  It’s a different guy taking afternoon shift on reception. This one’s a little younger and a whole lot keener. He smiles, genuine and enthusiastic, as I enter the lobby. His voice has the slightly desperate tone of a sales assistant getting scored on customer service. ‘Welcome, ma’am, how can I help you this afternoon?’

  I fake a broad grin. Try on a nasal Boston accent to disguise my roots. ‘I’m looking for a room.’

  ‘Well, sure. How many nights would you like to stay?’

  ‘One for definite, maybe a couple more.’

  Up close the reception guy is even younger than I first thought – nearer eighteen than twenty and still plagued by pimples. He makes a show of checking the ancient computer on the desk, but I can see there are at least twenty keys still hanging on their hooks on the wall behind him. Looking back at me, he smiles. ‘You’re in luck, we have availability tonight.’

  ‘Great.’ I lean in a little closer and lower my voice. ‘A little bird over at Joe’s Diner said you have a few smoking rooms?’

  He fidgets in his seat, looking uncomfortable. ‘We do, but the thing is, most of them are booked.’

  ‘Most of them?’

  ‘Well, there’s one left but I’ve been asked by management to hold it until the rest are booked out.’

  I remember Monroe’s words. How he’d said that the Feds would book three rooms in a row. This place only has four smoking rooms. I guess the FBI would prefer the fourth stays empty. But that’s too bad. I want to be as close to the action as I can, and the room alongside theirs is the obvious choice.

  Giving the guy a seductive smile, I drop my voice an octave and make it a little husky. ‘But if it’s free, couldn’t I use it? Is it around back? I’d sure love a view of the forest. I just love trees, don’t you?’ I use the tip of my tongue to wet my lips. Lean closer so he gets a look-see down my top, and say suggestively, ‘I can’t wait to hike your trails.’

  He blushes and holds my gaze a little longer than necessary, then nods. Turning to the wall behind him, he plucks key number forty-five from its hook and hands it to me. ‘Up the stairs and along, fourth from the end.’

  I smile and take the key. ‘Appreciate it.’

  Leaving the lobby, I fetch my go bag from the Jeep and head around the building to the back. The place is busier than it was earlier. Rock music comes from the room closest to the stairs. The smell of cooking spices and garlic wafts from the open window of the room a couple of doors along. I keep walking.

  Up ahead, standing between the last room and the top of the metal fire escape, I spot two men – one shorter, heavy-set guy, the other taller and more athletic-looking.

  Feds. That’s my first instinct.

  It’s the way they hold themselves that alerts me; the slight rigidity in the spine, the bulge around their right ankles. The deep creases in the front of their pant legs as if they’ve just taken them out the packet, and the whiteness of their fresh-on T-shirts. They can’t wear suits here – they’d stick out rather than blend in – so they’ve had to take a trip to the local clothes store and buy a different kind of uniform; average, nondescript. Forgettable.

  But I can’t forget them. Old Man Bonchese won’t allow that. What I need to know is how many of them there are.

  As I approach, the heavier of the two men moves towards the door for room forty-seven and pauses outside. He watches me stop at the door of the room two along from him. I give him a half-smile and fumble with my key in the lock. Use my Boston accent again: ‘Jeez, these things are sticky, huh?’

  He says nothing, but his expression tells me he’s pissed that I’m staying so close. Pretending not to notice his scowl, I turn back to my door, make as if I’ve wrestled the lock open and step inside my room.

  Throwing my go bag onto the bed, I take a look around. The room’s nice enough. Clean, with the usual inoffensive décor of cream and fawn most places use these days. Aside from the bed it’s got basic furnishings – a closet, a desk with a coffee-maker, an easy chair – but they don’t interest me none. What does is the connecting door between my room and forty-six, next door. I stand stock-still and listen. I can hear movement, maybe in forty-six, maybe a little further over. But one thing’s for sure: the walls in this place are paper thin.

  Crossing the room to the window, I pull the heavy blackout drapes back as far as they go but keep the lace voiles drawn. The heavier of the two Feds is still outside room forty-seven, keeping watch. There’s no sign of Carlton North.

  I think on my next move. Chances are the Feds won’t let North out of the room. That means I’m going to have to go in blind, hoping I’m right and that luck has my back. Sure, I could sit around here, waiting to see if I can spot him, but that doesn’t seem a good use of time. Assuming I can get him free and clear of this place, we’ll need an escape route. And on that I’ve gotten an idea.

  Always be prepared; that’s one of the rules of the trade that I learned from JT. Use what you’ve got to get the job done; that’s a rule I added myself. This place isn’t any of our home turf – not mine, not the Feds and not Carlton North’s. I figure I can use the local terrain to my advantage.

  Pulling the map I got from the rest stop out of my go bag, I look for the Silver Point Trail and Carter Lake. Like the guy in reception this morning said, neither are printed, but he’s drawn the trail and the lake in pencil real neat so I can see how they link to the local roads and other trails. Opening the internet browser on my cell, I bring up the maps app. Using the ‘find my location’ search, I magnify the view to the maximum and search the surrounding area. There are plenty of hiking trails around Missingdon marked, but none that lead directly out the back of Hampton Lodge.

  I wonder if the Feds know about the trail. Hope that they don’t.

  Judging by how the reception guy has drawn the Carter Lake, it looks like I can get to it by road. I remember him saying it was a good place for camping so I figure it must also be accessible with a vehicle. Leaving my go bag in the room, I grab my keys and head for the door.

  The drive takes twenty minutes. The route takes me out of town a few miles before looping back into the forest. The road is narrower here, the blacktop new and starkly artificial against the green of the trees. It doesn’t feel like I’m in Florida.

  A few minutes later I see a wide expanse of water a little ways ahead. The light catches the surface, making it sparkle and shimmer. It’s beautiful and, with the trees circled around it, makes for an unlikely oasis in this forest. Carter Lake, I assume. On my right I spot a wooden sign with a tent symbol carved into it. Pulling off the blacktop onto a dirt track, I follow the signs between the trees towards the lake. I think how much Dakota would love it here then immediately push the thought away. I miss my baby, but I can’t thin
k on her now; I have to stay focused.

  The campsite is little more than a clearing in the trees. It’s fifty yards or so from the lake and is empty. I’m not surprised. First, there’s no restroom facilities here, so it’s really only a site for tougher campers. Second, any serious camper will know that pitching a tent this close to water in Florida is as good as inviting a gator for dinner. But that doesn’t effect me none. It’s perfect for my needs.

  Parking the Jeep at the far end of the clearing, where the trees are most dense, I grab my cell and a bottle of water, get out and lock up. According to the Silver Point Trail the reception guy drew, the start of the path should be a little ways south-east of this campsite. I can’t spot any obvious trail, so, using the compass on my cellphone, I check my bearings and move in that direction.

  The ground is dry beneath my boots. Old branches and leaves crack and rustle as I step on them, causing the birds singing in the canopy above to scare and fly away. Ignoring them, I keep my eyes on the ground, watching where I walk, vigilant for snakes. I check the compass; I’m walking south-east, but there’s still no sign of the path.

  Stopping, I check the map. The direction I’m going is correct according to the hand-drawn line, but I’m thinking it’s not so accurate as I’d hoped. Retracing my steps back to the Jeep, I think about the roads I drove to get here, and find the spot on the map where I turned off the blacktop onto the dirt track. I keep my finger on the place – it’s an inch higher and across from where the reception guy drew Carter Lake – and find Hampton Lodge with my gaze. Damn. By my reckoning the direction is more directly south than south-east. Folding the map, I check the compass reading on my cell and head in the new direction.

  I find the path fast. It’s narrow, already starting to get overgrown with creepers and lichen. Following it through the trees I march in the direction of Hampton Lodge. I check my watch. It’s almost five. I want to get back before the sun starts setting so I can see every inch of the trail, commit it to memory, ready for later.

  The hike is longer than I expected, the path snaking between the trees rather than taking a straight route. The sun beats down, the light blinding when it flares through the canopy. I stay alert to markers that I can use later: a gnarled fallen tree; a collection of grey boulders at the side of the path; what looks like an ancient rope swing hanging from a nearby branch. I see no one else.

  It’s hot and humid. The path has been on a gradual incline for at least a half-mile, and now there’s a film of sweat over my skin, making my T-shirt stick to my body, damp and clingy. I halt for a moment and finish the last of my water. Looping my hair up into a bun to get some air to the back of my neck I start walking again, hoping that I’m getting close.

  The terrain ascends sharply to a ridge. As I step up to the crest I see that the ground slopes gently away, down to the back of Hampton Lodge. Standing under the shade of the trees, I catch my breath. Take in the view. The door to room forty-seven is open; the taller Fed is framed in the doorway. On the upstairs walkway, a little ways along from my room, I can see another man standing at the top of the fire escape. His body shape is different to the heavier Fed I saw earlier. I wonder if he’s a third Fed or someone different. There’s only one way to find out.

  Staying under the cover of the trees, I hustle down the slope towards the building. With the sun high above me, the canopy casts deep shadows on the ground. The man is staring back towards the parking lot, away from me. I move faster, aiming for an area just to the side of the fire escape. Stay real quiet. Get closer.

  The tree line ends a few yards short of the building. Halting on the edge of the shadows, I watch the man at the top of the fire escape. He’s a little shorter than the Fed in the doorway, but in his fitted black tee and black jeans I can see he’s more muscular and athletic than either of the two Feds I’ve seen. His black hair is short and styled up at the front. He’s wearing shades. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, pauses then exhales. As the smoke plumes around him, he turns and looks straight towards were I’m standing. Now I know for sure that it’s him.

  I’ve found Carlton North.

  17

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20th, 17:01

  It’s almost twenty-four hours since she left, and JT still hasn’t heard from her. He picks the flowery dress out of the trashcan in the bedroom and stares at it. Lori said the Old Man made her wear it. Asshole. He’s always enjoyed playing mind games, and his son Luciano is a vindictive son-of-a-bitch. JT hates that Lori’s out there on a job for the pair of them, that they’ve forced her into doing it. It’s a suicide mission, trying to bust Carlton North out from FBI custody.

  The bell chimes and JT hears Dakota running along the hallway to the door. He hurries out of the bedroom. Calls out, ‘Dakota, wait.’

  Dakota skids to a halt in front of the door. Turns. ‘Why, JT?’

  He strides over to join her. ‘Let me get it.’

  She looks confused, but moves aside for him.

  Standing outside on the mat is Dakota’s little friend, Krista’s youngest kid, from next door. She looks up at him. Her brown hair is coming loose from her braids, and there’s a dirty smudge on her cheek. She bites her lip. Looks nervous.

  He cracks a smile. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Dakota wasn’t in school today.’ The kid’s voice is hesitant. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘She’s doing just fine.’

  ‘So does she want to come to the mall with us?’

  JT shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry she can’t today. Maybe next time.’

  The kid blushes, already turning away. ‘Okay.’

  Closing the door, JT turns back to Dakota. She’s standing with her hands on her hips. ‘Why do I have to stay in? I’m not sick.’

  ‘That’s true, you’re not. But for the next day or so I think we should stay put.’

  ‘Why?’

  JT doesn’t want to tell her what’s going on and worry her, not after everything she’s been through already. He keeps his tone firm. ‘Because I think it’s best.’

  She tilts her head to one side. ‘What aren’t you telling me? Are we in danger?’

  Damn, thinks JT. She’s real perceptive, just like her momma. ‘It’s just grown-up stuff is all,’ he says, heading out of the hallway to the kitchen.

  Dakota follows. ‘But I’m nearly ten. I can handle it.’

  He pours himself another cup of strong black coffee. He’s not slept since Lori left last night – been too busy scanning the internet and the news channels for information. So far there’s been nothing. His daughter might act tough, but his worries about Lori and his need to keep the three of them safe from the Miami Mob are his alone to bear. Sharing the burden with Dakota would be pure selfishness.

  ‘I’m sorry sweetheart, this is between me and your mom.’

  Dakota frowns. She leans back against the countertop and watches him closely as he drinks. He can tell she doesn’t believe him. ‘If it’s just about you and momma, why can’t I go to the mall?’

  ‘Because it’s almost dinner time.’

  She glances at her watch. ‘It’s only five o’clock. Momma says it’s too early for dinner before seven.’

  He tries to keep his tone light-hearted. ‘Maybe I say different.’

  Dakota narrows her eyes. ‘Momma will be mad.’

  ‘Sure, could be that she will.’

  Dakota holds his gaze for a long moment then smiles. ‘Well, if she’s going to be mad anyway, we could have ice cream.’

  JT knows Lori doesn’t allow too much of the sweet stuff, but this could be his opportunity to get Dakota on-side. He raises an eyebrow. ‘Well you’re quite the negotiator, aren’t you?’

  ‘Did it work?’

  He laughs. ‘You want mint choc chip or chocolate swirl?’

  ‘Mint choc chip, please.’ Dakota grins. ‘Guess that I am a good negotiator.’

  As JT fetches the ice cream, he thinks back to last night and how he’d tried to negotiate with Lori – persu
ade her not to take the job, or if she insisted on doing it, take him with her. He’d failed on both counts, and now she was out there somewhere alone, with no one protecting her six. The thought makes him sick to his stomach.

  He passes Dakota the mint choc chip. Nods. ‘You’re a whole lot better at it than me, for sure.’

  18

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20th, 17:54

  The moment I step out from the trees, the tall Fed moves fast. He lunges out from the doorway, grabs North and shoves him into the room. As I reach the bottom of the fire escape the Fed slams shut the door to room forty-seven. When I get to the top of the steps I see he’s standing guard outside the room.

  I smile and gesture back towards the trees. Use my fake Bostonian accent again: ‘Amazing trails. You here for the hiking?’

  The tall Fed looks at me, his expression neutral. Shakes his head. ‘Not my thing.’

  ‘Well, if you’re planning a hike tomorrow be sure that you take a lot a water.’ I fan myself. Pull my empty water bottle from my back pocket. ‘It’s humid in there, and I just wasn’t prepared enough today.’

  He’s obviously reluctant to engage in conversation, but doesn’t want to be rude. He glances at the bottle. ‘It’s important to stay hydrated.’

  ‘For sure.’ I keep my tone bright, carefree and unthreatening. Oftentimes it’s easier as a woman to get a whole lot closer to your target. Both men and women tend to view a female as less of a threat. It’s everyday sexism at work, and something I’m not sorry about using to my advantage. With my peripheral vision I scan the door behind him and its surroundings. ‘I’ll take two bottles tomorrow.’

  Sensing I’ve pushed him to talk to me as long as he’ll tolerate, I continue towards my room. As I walk past forty-seven I see that the blackout drapes are still drawn across the window, so there’s no view of North or the other Fed inside. I wonder if there’s just two Feds or if there are more in the room. If the Crown Victoria in the parking lot is the only vehicle they have, that limits their number to a maximum of four Feds plus North. Considering the distance they’ve come from Miami, chances are they wouldn’t travel so bunched together, so my money is on there being three Feds, no doubt all male.