The motel wasn’t doing the business of those along any coast, but there were a few cars in the lot. Through the window in the front office, I could see the little innkeeper was behind the counter. She was dressed this morning, but the dour countenance seemed to remain.
When I checked in, the thought occurred that announcing my presence might not be a tactically-sound idea. Now that morning was here, I needed to find some answers.
“Good morning,” the woman greeted me as I came through the door. She faked the sincerity, but at least she tried.
“Morning,” I responded. “I’m sorry I got here so late last night.”
“Happens all the time,” she informed me. Her voice began to lose the faux enthusiasm.
Offering her a smile, I asked, “Would you point me to someplace that has some breakfast?”
She nodded, grateful that our conversation might end before she lost the sense of Xenia she was supposed to maintain. Pointing up the street, she directed, “Becky’s Kitchen was right over there. But she closed down a month ago.”
She spoke like someone recalling a passed relative with a reverence for the dead and some condemnation for the living. The realization that someday death, and possibly economic ruin, will come for her.
She added, “You can get some fruit over at Ferris, but the only restaurant is Las Palmas. They open for lunch.”
“Thank you. Where is Ferris?”
“Two miles east of here.”
Prodding, I asked, “This is a pretty small town, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she answered carefully.
“Do you know Joe Loggins?”
Her face was blank. She shook her head.
“I think he owns a big piece of property around here.”
She continued to shake her head. “Never heard of him.”
Sighing, I thanked her and left. She was already faking her sincerity, so it was difficult to tell if she actually knew who Loggins was. A mogul like Loggins might not mingle with the locals, but in a small town, he was sure to create some bold legends whispered over a cup of coffee. Assuming there was a place to even have coffee now, given the demise of Becky’s Kitchen.
“I think I’ll stay another night,” I suggested. “I don’t want to have to bother you later.”
She nodded. “It’ll be another $47.”
After paying her, I decided to hike the two miles to Ferris. The fresh air was good, and I desperately needed to stretch my legs. Finding a decent pace that fell below marching and well above strolling, I reached the orange and white building. The sign over the circus-like structure read “Ferris Groves the First Name in Citrus” in neon lighting. The neon gas was still glowing in the daylight.
A historical sign gave some details about L.G. “Doc” Ferris, who came to Florida in the 1920s to build a golf course but instead built a citrus empire. The placard continued to connect Doc Ferris to his great-uncle, the man who invented the Ferris wheel. One had to wonder why the fruit stand didn’t invest and install a Ferris wheel on-site to really play into the gimmick.
Selecting several fresh oranges and a couple of grapefruits, I approached the counter. The girl that ran the cash register was under 20. She was full of smiles and cheer as if life was so good she couldn’t stop bubbling over.
I decided to ask her about Loggins, too.
“I don’t know,” she confessed, “I live over in Inverness. I just work here.”
Shrugging, I thanked her for my fruit and started back to the motel.
This little town was a blip on the map. Situated along several sloughs that really just looked like a swamp, this wasn’t much of a tourist destination. Airboat tours might be up my alley, but the average college student doesn’t flock to the swamp for spring break.
Still, there was something comforting about the hamlet. Despite the vacant store-fronts and the perpetual yard sales set up at every 10th house, it had a quiet appeal.
The fruit sustained me until the late morning. I visited the Post Office in hopes that someone could point me toward Loggins. No luck. I was told unequivocally that the Post Office wasn’t an information desk, and even if it was, that kind of information wasn’t accessible. The library, a small building that could have been a shed, provided no information either. The newspapers were archived, but not digitally. The librarian just shook her head when I asked if she heard of Joe Loggins.
Las Palmas was empty when I arrived, but it was only 11 in the morning. Being the only joint in town with food, I expected the local crowd to fill in by noon.
The server was a 20-something Hispanic woman with a prominent scar on her cheek that she attempted to cover with a heavy layer of makeup.
“You guys are the only place in town, huh?”
“Yes,” she answered, offering me a bowl of salsa with warm tortilla chips. “We stay pretty busy.”
“Do you live here?”
She nodded warily. A stranger making small talk with her made her nervous. She steered me back to the menu. “Are you ready to order?”
After ordering a couple of enchiladas, I commented, “I’m looking for someone that lives around here.”
“I don’t know many people,” she insisted.
“I understand, but maybe someone else knows him.”
Slipping a 50-dollar bill out of my wallet and sliding it across the table to her, I watched her smile a little.
“I can ask,” she assured me.
“His name is Joe Loggins. He’ll have a big house. Something nice.”
Her fingertips caressed the bill as she pulled it to her. “I’ll get your food right out,” she promised.
Five minutes passed as I studied the Latin art adorning the walls. A young man, carrying a plate of enchiladas, walked toward my table.
“The plate is hot,” he informed me.
“Thank you.”
He continued, “Amaris said you were looking for a Loggins?”
Looking up at him, I nodded.
“Mi hermano…My brother…and I helped Señor Caleb out at a house after the storm. Cleaning up and cutting orange trees. Señor Caleb was talking to a man he called Mr. Loggins on the telephone.”
“Who is Señor Caleb?”
“I think,” he spoke carefully as he thought of each word in English. “Lo siento. My English…”
Offering a smile, I encouraged him, saying, “Your English is great. Much better than my Spanish.”
He grinned at me. “Señor Caleb works at the house.”
“Do you know his last name?”
He shook his head slowly as if he disappointed me.
“Do you know where the house is?”
“Yes. I don’t know the address, but it is on Quartermain Road. After the bridge.”
I gave the boy another 50-dollar bill and thanked him.
“Gracias, Señor.”
29
The iPad was displaying The Wall Street Journal’s recent article about a senator in Idaho. The politician had taken to social media espousing hate-filled rhetoric concerning a transgender woman fighting to keep her job as a librarian. Joe read Senator Isben’s comments, and he made a mental note. Isben’s constituents didn’t care how much vitriol the media pundits threw at him. The majority of the voters in Idaho didn’t like the idea of a transgender librarian. Isben wasn’t playing to a national audience, just the microcosm of southern Idaho. Joe admired true politicians. Not admired in the sense that Joe respected the man. No, a politician like Isben was a perfect piece to maneuver. Senator Isben would do whatever he was told if it supplemented his power and status. Joe could always use that kind of politician.
So, he made a mental note. Keep an eye on Idaho.
Joe was sitting in the high-back chair. The drapes on the western-facing windows were pulled open. The afternoon sun was shining through, casting long shadows along the square beams of sunlight. A crystal candelabra glistened as the sunlight bounced off the facets.
The study had not changed when Joe bought the orchar
d. The oak walls and hardwood floors were balanced with the natural light that every afternoon brought. The 14-foot ceilings and the two timber beams slicing through the room made it seem too expansive for one man to use as a reading room. When Haynes built the house, this was intended as a conservatory. Three indentations were warped into the cypress floor where a piano once sat. Music was too frivolous for Joe; however, he considered acquiring one for entertaining.
The oak door swung open. Blake stood with a trembling figure. Lily Porter edged into the room with Blake’s powerful hand steering her. Her feet barely came off the floor as she resisted each step.
Averting his eyes from the screen, Joe examined the girl as she moved into the room.
“Ah, my guest,” he announced. “Do come in.”
Joe rose to his feet and gestured for the girl to take a seat. Lily let her eyes move around the room; the antique furnishings and artwork adorning the walls gave her an uneasy feeling. The man in front of her wore a crisp jacket and white shirt. He looked like he was about to sell her something, but Lily didn’t trust it. The man had beady brown eyes and hair that was too well-manicured. He was like a Ken doll, she thought. No, she decided, something much worse.
“Have a seat,” he offered, not yet introducing himself.
“Who are you?” she asked after a deep breath to gird herself.
“It doesn’t matter who I am.” Joe’s voice was calm.
“You’re Joe Loggins, aren’t you?”
Smiling, Joe masked his surprise. His eyes cut over to Blake standing behind the girl. His head of security couldn’t feign the shock. He shook his head at Joe, indicating that his people hadn’t revealed Joe’s identity.
Nodding slightly, Joe responded, “I am. And you’re Lily Porter.”
“You killed J.J.” The emotion and passion were gone from her voice. She was pushing the growing rage in her chest back down.
Joe shook his head. “I don’t know who J.J. is, but I can promise you that I didn’t hurt him.”
Lily remained standing. Her resolution was growing exponentially the longer she stared at the man she knew was responsible. Her arms folded. She demanded, “I want to see my father.”
Joe cocked his head. The girl in front of him was bold. He liked that about her. She was fierce, especially in front of someone that she thought was a killer. A brief moment of regret that he couldn’t mold her into something more passed over him.
“Please, have a seat,” he repeated.
Her arms tightened around her chest, and her legs stiffened.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist,” Joe said.
The girl didn’t move. It was going to be a struggle of wills, Joe noted. His eyes narrowed. The thought that a girl like her could be made into something greater was gone. Joe Loggins was not a man of patience, and the notion that someone would deign to refuse him infuriated him. He snapped his fingers at Blake and pointed at Lily Porter. The former Ranger shoved her forward. His hands grasped her shoulders and pressed her down until her knees buckled, and she came to rest on the couch.
Letting the anger subside, Joe started again, “See, there’s no point in defying me.”
“You’re a damned murderer!” she hissed through a clenched jaw.
Joe glanced at Blake, who slapped her with the back of his hand. Lily’s head snapped to the right. Her hand reached up and covered the stinging cheek. The moisture in her eyes grew, and the girl fought to keep even one tear from escaping. Her brow furrowed as she ground her teeth.
“I think we can see that this isn’t going to help you,” Joe pointed out as he sat down beside her on the couch. His voice modulated to sound more reassuring.
Lily spat in his face. Before the saliva hit him, Blake struck her again. When she straightened up, her cheek was speckled with red splotches matching Blake’s fingers, but her eyes were dry.
Joe wiped his face clean. “You have some fire in you, you little bitch!” Joe snarled. “What do you think this is going to accomplish?”
“Go to hell,” she growled. “I want to see my father.”
Joe looked up at Blake. “She wants to see her father,” he told him with some amusement in his voice. “Show the little bitch her dad.”
Blake left the room, and Joe turned back to Lily. “I am a man that gets what I want.”
“You just take it,” she barked.
“I didn’t take anything,” Joe explained. “Your daddy is the one that stole from me. He took my money, and foolishly, he dragged you into this. I think you should blame him for your little boyfriend’s death, not me.”
Lily’s fingernails dug into the couch. Her eyes darted around the room for anything she could use to hurt him with. Anything. In her mind, she imagined crushing his throat the way Chase did the man on the Madge.
After a second, she just smiled. It was more of a smirk. The kind of look one has when the outcome is set. When the king is only a few moves away from checkmate, and all the pawns are gone.
Joe saw the look. He began to say something when the door opened. Travis Porter stumbled in and crashed to his knees. He barely caught the weight of his torso with his remaining hand. The other arm was wrapped with a blood-encrusted cloth. His eyes were filledwith tears when he saw Lily on the couch.
She rushed over to Travis and wrapped her arms around him. Hoisting him up, she tried to lift him to his feet.
Joe shook his head slightly, and Blake drove the sole of his boot into Porter’s back. The man collapsed to the ground.
“Travis,” Joe commented, “I think it’s time you started talking. I want to know where my money is.”
Travis Porter strained to turn his head up toward Joe. His lips quivered as he stared past Lily at his captor. Slowly, he nodded.
“No!” Lily snapped. “He’s going to kill us either way.”
“Lily,” Porter pleaded in a weak voice.
“Dad,” she insisted, “he can’t win.”
Joe squatted down. “I think I already have,” he gloated.
“You’ll never get your money,” she spat the words at him.
“It’s four million dollars,” Joe laughed. “I couldn’t give a shit about that. This was never about the money. It’s about understanding. No one steals from me. No one defies me. No one interferes with my business.”
Joe continued, “Your dad caused some problems. The money was already cleaned. Replacing it was difficult. But it was only four million dollars. It represented something more. I can’t very well let some pathetic bastard like him steal from me. What would Blake think? Suddenly, it’s okay to take a little from me.
“No, this was an insult. A blatant attack and those must be dealt with accordingly.”
He finished, “So, yes, you’ll die today. Slowly and painfully. And he gets to watch it. Right before I kill him. Unless he wants to talk. Tell me where the money is, Travis, and I’ll simply shoot her in the head. Otherwise, I will slice her up, piece by piece, and feed my alligators.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lily whispered.
“What doesn’t matter?”
“What you do. Cut me up or shoot me in the head. Either way, I’m dead.”
Joe smiled. “Your bravery is commendable.”
“I’m not brave,” she told him. “I’m just reveling in the idea that you’re going down. It’s not like no one knows who took me.”
“Gordon?” Joe questioned. “That won’t matter; we’ll take care of him too.”
Lily smirked again.
“Haven’t you already tried?”
Joe’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Blake. He refocused on Lily. “Don’t worry, little girl,” he demeaned her, “he is nothing.”
“He knows who you are,” she rose to her feet. “He’ll be coming for you.”
Joe turned his attention from Lily and glared at the broken figure of Travis Porter. “You have one hour, Travis. At that point, it’s a question of what I carve off your daughter first.”
He moti
oned for Blake to follow, and the two men left the Porters alone in the study.
“How does this Gordon know my name?” Joe demanded.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“One of your men talked,” he remarked. “That’s unacceptable.”
“I don’t think so,” Blake refuted. “They wouldn’t.”
“Where are the other two? Walter and Todd?”
Blake shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”
“We can assume that he killed them, too, right?”
Blake offered a weak nod.
“Maybe I should be hiring him instead of your Rangers.”
“He’s taken us by surprise. Walter said that it was just chance that Dave hit his head when Gordon knocked him into the water.”
“Chance?” Joe asked. “What about Carl? I’d say your little team is underpowered or damned near stupid.”
“I’m sorry, Joe,” Blake mumbled.
“Don’t be sorry!” Joe nearly shouted. “Find this bastard and put him in the ground!”
Blake nodded again.
“Can he find us here?”
Blake shook his head. “I don’t see how.”
“How did he find out who I am? Is he working with the Feds?”
“Our contact said that no one knows who is behind FC Investments. Nothing can tie back to you.”
Joe grumbled, “Except it did. Someone is talking somewhere.”
Blake swallowed as Joe left him standing in the foyer. With Walter and Todd in the wind, they were the most likely leaks. Gordon must have gotten them to talk. There wasn’t anything Blake could do about it. If they were still alive, he’d kill them. But he knew they weren’t.
Joe was right. His men had underestimated Chase Gordon; he was one man. If his men were the weak link, it wouldn’t take long for Joe’s devotion to Blake’s father to lose ground to Joe’s pragmatism. Blake wasn’t about to fall prey. The Army instilled in him the need to prepare for any contingency. He wasn’t his father. Going to prison, much less dying, for Joe Loggins because of some undying loyalty wasn’t on Blake’s agenda.
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