“You’ve got a point,” said Jock, “but I was under the impression you thought the murderer was probably a professional.”
“It looked that way, but I really wasn’t thinking about Guatemalan gangs. I thought you were off base on that one.”
Jock smiled. “Wouldn’t have been the first time.”
“Those gangbangers grow up killing people,” she said.
“Usually in a blood bath,” I said. “This one took some finesse.”
“Or maybe just practice,” said J.D. “What if the gang has a designated hitter, so to speak? One they use for their contract murders when they don’t want it traced back to them.”
“Could be,” said Jock. “Can you get me the name and address of the landscaping crew chief? The shooter couldn’t have gotten onto that crew without the crew chief’s knowledge.”
“It’s in my file back at the station. I’ll get it for you tomorrow.”
“I’d like to go see the guy tonight,” Jock said. “You up for a little action, Matt?”
I nodded. “I’ve got nothing else going on.”
“I’ll go with you,” said J.D.
Jock shook his head. “J.D., this is the place where you should bow out. There’re some things an honest cop shouldn’t be involved in.”
“I thought we were going to be a team,” she said.
“We are,” said Jock. “I’ll give you all the information we get, but you don’t need to be involved in how we get that information.”
“I’m not sure I like that.”
“You wouldn’t like the way I work, either.”
“I’m not a kid, Jock. I watched you work over a bad guy once.”
“And it made you sick,” I said.
She was quiet for a moment or two, chewing on her need for evidence and her gut-level hatred at the methods Jock was sometimes required to use. But she knew there was more at stake here than solving Gene’s murder or the whale tail killings. I could almost see the wheels turning in her head. Finally, she raised her arms in a show of surrender. “Let’s go to the station.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The man standing in the doorway of the ramshackle house was big and beefy, a vision of adiposity rapidly overtaking muscularity. His long hair was tied in a ponytail, his face showing annoyance at being bothered at home. His name was Chico Suarez and he was the crew chief we’d come for.
The yard was dirt and dark, no street lights in this disheveled neighborhood in East Bradenton. A king cab pickup was parked in the yard, a van-type trailer still attached to it. The Islandwide Landscaping Service logo was on both. The sound of a Spanish-language television station blared from the living room. Jock was speaking English to the man and asked him if he was indeed the Chico Suarez who was the crew chief for Islandwide.
“Yeah,” said the man. “What do you want?” His English was very good. I wondered why he’d told J.D. he only spoke Spanish.
Jock punched him in the abdomen, a quick, powerful blow to the solar plexus that brought Suarez to his knees, gasping, trying to catch his breath. Jock grabbed the ponytail and was pulling him farther into the yard, Suarez scrambling on his knees, trying to keep up, his breath ragged. Jock rolled the man onto his back, straddled him and poked a .45-caliber pistol under his chin.
“Who was the Guatemalan you let on your crew on Friday?” Jock asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t think this is a good time to be lying to me, amigo.”
“They’ll kill me.”
Jock screwed the barrel of the gun further into the tissue beneath the man’s chin. “If you don’t start talking, I’ll kill you right now,” he said. “Save the gangbangers the trouble.”
“No. Don’t shoot. What do you want to know?”
Jock pulled the pistol back and pointed it at Suarez’s face. “This better be good.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” said Suarez.
“With what?”
“The killing.”
“You know about that?”
“Yes. It was on the television news. And the cops came around asking a lot of questions about it.”
“How did the Guatemalan get on your crew?”
“Some guy with a bunch of tattoos came to see me early Friday morning. Told me he would be working with my crew. It was about to rain. I told him we didn’t work when it was raining. He said we would work that day, and I should call my men and get them ready to go. Said he’d kill me if I didn’t. He had a gun.”
“Were you scheduled to work in Emerald Harbor that day?”
“Yes. We always work there on Fridays.”
“But you weren’t planning to go out there in the rain.”
“No. We’d work Saturday if we had to. If it rained all day on Friday.”
“How did the man with the tattoos know about your Friday schedule?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’d seen our truck out there on other Fridays.”
“What did you do?”
“I did what he said. I called my men and went to pick them up.”
“What about the tattooed guy?”
“He went with me.”
“What did you tell your people about the new guy?”
“Just what I’d been told to say. That he was joining the crew.”
“What happened when you got to Emerald Harbor?”
“We went to work. The tattooed guy told us to do one of the houses last. He sat in the truck until we were about finished with that house and then he went around the back of it. He came back a few minutes later and we left.”
“Did you hear a pistol shot after he went to the back of the house?”
“No, but we had all the equipment going.”
“All of it?”
“Yeah. Mowers and blowers and edgers. He told us to make as much noise as possible.”
“You didn’t find that a little odd?” asked Jock.
“Odd as hell, but what was I supposed to do? I was just hoping he wouldn’t kill us all.”
“Was he carrying anything when he came out of the house?”
“I didn’t know then that he’d been in the house, but he was carrying a laptop. And what looked like a big cell phone.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. We loaded up and drove back to our shop in Bradenton. We had to clean the equipment.”
“What happened to your guest?”
“He called each one of us by name, told us where we lived, our addresses. Making sure we understood that he could find us. He said he’d come kill us if he heard anything about his being with us on Friday.”
“And you believed him.”
“He wasn’t kidding.”
“Did you get a name?”
“From the guy? Hell no. He didn’t tell me and I wasn’t about to ask.”
“What do you know about the man who was killed while your crew was at his house?”
“Nothing. The cops took us in, interviewed us, and then I saw the television news. It said the man’s wife was killed last week or something.”
“The cops interview your whole crew?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you tell the cops you didn’t speak English?”
“I never said that. They interviewed me last, and I guess the officer just assumed I didn’t know English because she started out giving the interpreter the questions for me to answer. I just went along with it.”
“Could you identify the tattooed man if you saw him again?”
“Probably, but I’d be signing my own death warrant.”
“How did you know he was Guatemalan?”
“The tattoos are very distinctive. Everybody knows who those guys are.”
Jock had relaxed more as he questioned Suarez. He was standing now, and Suarez was sitting in the dirt. “Okay,” Jock said. “Here’s the deal. I’m not going to rat you out. What you’ve told me stays between you, me, and my friend here. But I’m going t
o need a description of this guy. Something that will tell me how to find him.”
“What about the cops?”
“I’m not a cop.”
“But you’ll have to tell the cops who told you about the Guatemalan.”
“No,” Jock said, “I won’t.”
“Then how are you going to arrest him?”
“Do I look like a man who arrests anybody?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Let’s just say that the dead man was my friend, and I’m not in the habit of letting people get away with killing my friends.”
The man was quiet for a beat, trying to decide what to do. His choices were limited. If he didn’t tell Jock what he wanted to know, his life was over. If he did tell Jock and the word got back to the Guatemalan, then he would die tomorrow or maybe the next day. Trust Jock or die now. The choice wasn’t really that hard, and I could see in his face that Chico had made his decision. “He didn’t have a right ear,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Jock.
“His right ear was missing. Like it’d been cut off. Only I don’t think so. More like he was born without it. A skin flap had been sewn over the ear hole. I don’t think they would have done that if he could hear anything out of it.”
“Do you know where the Guatemalans live?” Jock asked.
“I’ve heard they’ve got sort of a compound. East of here, but I’ve never been there.”
“Do you know an address?”
“No. Never heard one.”
“Okay, Chico,” Jock said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You keep your mouth shut about tonight and I’ll do the same. Nobody has to know we’ve talked. I don’t want the Guatemalans coming after you or your men.”
“If you go after the tattooed guy, he’ll know it was one of us who talked. He said he’d kill us all if one of us ever said a word.”
“Trust me,” said Jock. “That won’t happen. If I go after him, I’ll find him, and he’ll never bother anybody again. Ever.”
We walked down the block to Jock’s rental, a nondescript Chevrolet that he’d picked up at the Tampa airport when he’d arrived in Florida. He’d used one of the many aliases he always seemed to have access to, so if for some reason our tag number was checked, it’d come back as a car rented by Mr. Hertz to somebody who didn’t really exist.
“Why do you think the Guatemalan let those Mexicans live?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it have been cleaner if he’d killed them?”
“Maybe not. Even if he’d been able to dump the bodies quickly, people would have missed the dead guys and questions would have been asked. I think he just figured he’d scared them shitless and they wouldn’t ever mention anything to anybody. Even their best friends.”
“I guess you’re right. Are we going after him?” I asked.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“Far as I know. What’s next?”
“We need to find out where these guys live,” said Jock.
“I’ll call David Parrish in the morning,” I said. “He’ll know where they are, or he can get to somebody who does know.”
“Good idea. Ready to head home?”
“Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
I called Parrish early the next morning, Monday. He made a habit of being in the office before six each day, setting an example for his employees, he said. He didn’t know much about a Guatemalan gang, just that one existed. He said they were involved in the drug business and he would have an agent of the Drug Enforcement Agency get in touch with me.
Thirty minutes after I talked to Parrish, my phone rang.
“Matt,” a deep southern voice said. “This is Rufus Harris.”
Rufus was a DEA agent based in Orlando who tracked gangs throughout the middle district of Florida. Jock and I had worked with him before. “Good to hear from you, Rufus,” I said. “It’s been a couple of years.”
“Too long, Matt. I hear you and Jock are stirring things up again.”
“We’re being discreet.”
He laughed, way down in his belly, the sound rumbling along the airways that connected us. “You guys are about as subtle as your average freight train.”
I laughed. “We’re trying to do better.”
“The big man himself called me this morning. Told me you needed some information and I was supposed to tell you what I know. What’s up?”
“We’ve had three murders out here on the islands in the last week. We don’t know if they’re connected, but one of them appears to have been committed by a Guatemalan gang member. The Sarasota cops killed two of them in a shootout at the police station last week.”
“I heard about that.”
“On Friday,” I said, “a man named Gene Alexander, who worked for Jock’s agency, was killed here on Longboat. The director thinks his murder might be connected to something Alexander was working on for the agency.”
“I take it this isn’t something you want me talking about in the break room.”
“No, and I wouldn’t be telling you any of this if I thought you would. We’re pretty sure a Guatemalan gangbanger killed Alexander.”
“What led you to that conclusion?”
“Sorry, Rufus. I can’t tell you.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Okay. I understand. Don’t like it, but if Jock’s involved, I guess it has something to do with national security.”
“Right. Can you tell me anything about a Guatemalan gang operating in this area?”
“They’ve had a presence in Tampa for the past couple of years. We think they’re working with a Mexican cartel, probably as enforcers. If any of the locals working for the Mexicans get out of line, the Guatemalans take care of them.”
“What about Bradenton?”
“Yeah.” Rufus said, “They’ve sent some of their guys down there to help with the distribution.”
“Do you know where they live or hang out?”
“They’ve got a compound out east of I-75. We’ve got it under loose surveillance, but that’s about all we can do. We’ve never been able to infiltrate them. I’ll e-mail you directions and a map.”
“Do you know anything about one of them who doesn’t have an ear?”
“No ear? Like cut off in a fight?”
“Yeah, or bit off. May be a birth defect. We don’t know. That’s the only description we have.”
“I’ll take a look at the pictures we have. I think we’ve caught the ones in Tampa and Bradenton on film, but new ones show up all the time. They don’t seem to have any problem getting across the border.”
“Thanks, Rufus. I owe you one.”
“Hell, Matt. You already owe me three or four.”
I laughed. “What can I say?” The phone went dead.
My week was starting out with some sizzle. I’d know in a few minutes where the gangbangers lived and might even get a picture of our buddy with one ear. Not that I thought a picture would matter a lot, since the severed ear was a pretty distinctive identifier. Still, it might help.
Jock was running on the beach. I’d begged off, planning to go later. Sometimes running helps me concentrate on things, solve puzzles, get a new direction on a case or an issue. It had always worked for me when I was practicing law. But it only worked if I was running alone. I looked at my watch. It was only a few minutes after eight. I’d do my four miles on the beach later.
Unfortunately, I didn’t make it to the beach that day.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
J.D. called a few minutes later. “Bagby died from an overdose,” she said.
“The guy who knifed you?”
“That one.”
“The lab got that done in a hurry.”
“They put it at the front of the line.”
“Does anyone know how the drugs got into the jail?”
“No, but it’s no big secret that the jails are full of drugs,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I was hoping he’d give us some information. W
hat about talking to his lawyer? Any attorney-client privilege would have died with the client. Maybe Bagby told him something that he’d be willing to give us.”
“Good idea, Matt. I’ll call him. See if he’ll meet with me.”
“Let me know if you learn anything.”
“Did you and Jock find out anything last night?”
“Yeah. The Guatemalans killed Gene Alexander.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure.” I told her what we’d found out.
“How reliable is the information?”
“I think it’s solid. Our informant wasn’t holding anything back.”
“How do you want to handle getting the one-eared guy?” she asked.
“Jock’s out running. Probably thinking about that. I’ll let you know what he decides.”
“So you think we’ll just do what Jock decides?” There was steel in her voice. She wasn’t happy.
“I think this one is Jock’s call.”
“I don’t have to like it.” She hung up.
I put on my running clothes and headed for the beach. Jock still wasn’t back, but I thought he’d probably decided to take advantage of the beautiful day and run a little farther than usual. I walked up to Broadway and turned toward the Gulf, taking my time, enjoying the warm weather. A car turned off Gulf of Mexico Drive onto Broadway and was coming toward me. It was riding low on its axles, traveling well under the speed limit of twenty miles per hour. Loud bass sounds emanated from the vehicle, so loud I thought I could feel them in my toes. As the car drew abreast of me, I saw two men in the front seat wearing the dark skin of the Central American Indian. The one on the passenger side, the one nearest me, had tattoos on his neck, visible above his collar. Bells began to ring in my head. Guatemalans? Maybe. If so, where the hell were they going?
I watched until they turned off Broadway, and then I began to run after them. They had turned onto the street that led to my house. That couldn’t be a coincidence. As I rounded the corner onto my street, I saw the car parked in front of a house two doors down from mine. I stopped.
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