A Mighty Fortress

by S. D. Thames

  I shrugged back. “I guess you don’t. What about the cops? They been back recently?”

  He apparently took that as some kind of threat. “Actually, they’re up there now.”

  “You don’t say? One of them named Lieutenant Rodriguez?”

  “I don’t get their names,” he said. “They just flash their badges. You want me to call them for you?”

  That wasn’t a bad idea, albeit a bit premature, so I told him to hang tight.

  I had to knock a few times before Bev opened the door. When she finally did, her eyes were red and swollen, and she wore a long T-shirt. She wiped her nose and held the door open just enough for me to enter. “I didn’t think you’d come,” she said as she closed the door behind me.

  I glanced around the condo. It looked like she’d started packing. “I’m here, Bev. Are you okay?”

  “We had a memorial service for Don today,” she sniffled. “Do you know who came?”

  I shook my head.

  “No one.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Who are you, anyway? And why the hell did Don trust you so much?” She looked me up and down with exaggerated derision.

  “Because he was desperate, Bev. Desperate to trust someone.”

  She lost whatever restraint was holding her back and started sobbing. “He could trust me. I was the only person that, that piece of human garbage could trust! He should have trusted me, not you!”

  I placed my hands on her shoulders and tried looking her in the eyes, but she looked away. “I’m sure he trusted you. He just didn’t want to put you in danger.”

  That was enough for her tired eyes to meet mine.

  “Are you moving?” I asked.

  She nodded with another sob. “I can’t live here anymore.”

  “Maybe a fresh start will do you good.”

  She lowered her head and looked at the floor. I was beginning to wonder if she’d called me over just because she wanted company or wanted a punching bag. “You said on the phone that you had something for me?” I prompted.

  She took a few deep, ruminating breaths.

  “Bev?”

  She sighed and, without saying a word, turned and left me for the kitchen. I watched her glance around the room, seemingly lost, until she focused on a stack of mail on the counter. She lifted it and removed a small envelope that she’d apparently hidden on the bottom of the pile. “Here,” she said, and threw the envelope at me.

  I caught it and asked, “What is this?”

  She shrugged. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  It was a small stock envelope, addressed to Bev. The return address was a label with Don’s work address. I could tell Bev had already broken the seal and tried to reseal it. Inside, there was a small sheet of paper wrapped around a small key. “Read it,” she said. So I did.

  The note was written in block print and read:

  Bev,

  If something happens to me, get this to Porter. Only if something happens to me.

  and if that happens, know that i love you. i love you very much bev and im very sorry. i wish we could start over.

  Don

  I raised the key and asked, “What’s this to?”

  “I have no idea. Why’d Don want you to have it?”

  I studied the key. I didn’t recognize it, and I didn’t remember Don ever mentioning a key. “Did he have a safe deposit box anywhere?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “And you’re sure this doesn’t go to your mailbox downstairs?”

  She frowned, and took the paper back from me. “What do you think, I’m stupid?” She threw me her keyring off the counter. “The smallest key on there, that’s the one to our mailbox.” She nodded at the even smaller key I still held in my hand. “I have no idea what that one’s to.”

  “I’m sorry, Bev. I know you have a lot on your mind. But I need you to think. Anything else out of the ordinary with Don lately?”

  “I told you, he’d been acting suspiciously recently, but I guess that’s nothing new for Don.”

  “You mean taking the walks?”

  She nodded. “And the phone calls. They increased a lot, too. I could tell he had something on his mind all the time.”

  “And you’re sure he never mentioned this key to you?”

  “I’m sure, Milo.”

  “What about the gun range? Could this be to a locker or something he had there?”

  “You’re the investigator,” she snapped. “You figure it out.”

  I put the key in my pocket and set Bev’s keychain back on the counter. “Have you heard anything else from the police?”

  “That Rodriguez putz has checked in a couple of times.”

  “When he does that, is he alone or with his partner?”

  “He’s alone.”

  I waved Don’s note. “He know about this?”

  She shook her head. “Am I going to get in trouble?”

  “No, Bev. You’re doing the right thing. I’ll look into this and let you know if I think it’s anything we need to take to the police.”

  She nodded faintly. “You’ll let me know if you find anything out about Don?”

  I told her I would, though I feared what I would be telling her when this was all over.

  I stepped outside. The traffic on Ashley was light. Across the river, the lights at UT had dimmed but not died, and the minarets shone like an attraction at a theme park. The air was warm, but the humidity was taking a break, allowing a faint breeze to blow over downtown.

  I imagined I was Don Alexi. I liked to take frequent walks around the block here. I had a key that didn’t fit my mailbox. It didn’t fit any mailbox at SkyGate. I closed my eyes. I knew downtown well, or so I thought. I drove through it every day. It was really the façade of a downtown: office buildings filled with lawyers, accountants, financial advisors, all hoping to get their grubby paws on some of the money flowing through Tampa Bay.

  I thought about the corner of Kennedy and Ashley. I thought about the cars always parked illegally at that intersection—because there was a small post office right there on the corner.

  As I walked there in less than five minutes, I thought of all the reasons why Don Alexi might have developed the habit of taking frequent walks, and why he might keep a private mailbox there.

  The lobby was open, so people like Alexi could get in at any hour of the night. I walked from one end of the lobby to the other and surveyed the mailboxes. I figured there were at least five hundred of them, all numbered, starting with 001 at the top left.

  I thought I’d start at the end, away from the traffic.

  Number 599, the far right.

  I went through a few dozen. The key didn’t go in all the way on any of them, but I felt hope because the key seemed the right size for some of the locks. Somewhere around #300, the key went all the way in, but it didn’t turn. It was just the motivation I needed to keep going.

  I heard the door open, so I grabbed some junk mail and took it to the counter. Acted like I was going through my mail. I could feel the woman checking her box keep one eye on me at all times. She was slow going through her mail. Left the mailbox door open. Read it all, every piece of it… As if she were waiting for me. Inviting trouble. Or something else.

  She finally left, and I resumed where I’d left off, in the low two hundreds.

  I was on the last section now, the section in plain view of Ashley Street, where a car was still passing every thirty seconds or so even though we were well past midnight.

  I cleared the nineties with no luck.

  Eighties, nada.

  Same for seventies.

  Sixties, zilch.

  Fifties. Not even a false alarm.

  When I tried forty-nine, I felt sick to my stomach. What if I had missed one along the way? Would I have to start back at the beginning? No, if I reached 1 with no luck, I’d go back the other way.

  I was on the point of giving up when I slid the key into Nu
mber 46 and turned. I almost fell over when the mailbox door opened.

  At first glance, the box looked empty; then I saw a small white envelope, addressed to Chad Scalzo. I pulled it out, held it up to the light, and wasted no time opening it. That might have been a federal offense, but the mail was of no use to Mr. Scalzo now.

  It was cash. Thirty hundred-dollar bills, with no note, no return address. Just cash.

  Why did Alexi want me to see this? Better yet, was this even what Alexi wanted me to see?

  I glanced in the mailbox again. Turned out there was another envelope inside. I’d nearly missed it because it was long and flat and almost camouflaged at the bottom of the mailbox. I pulled it out.

  This one was addressed to yours truly. I felt something hard and flat in it, like a compact disc. I turned on the light on my iPhone and shone it inside the mailbox, just to make sure I wasn’t missing anything else. The box was empty, so I returned my attention back to the envelope Alexi had sent me, and opened it. Inside were six unmarked DVDs. Though there was no note or explanation, I was pretty sure what I’d find on these discs when I got to a computer.

  I considered what to do with the envelope holding the cash. Then I put it back in the box, closed it, and locked it up.

  I took a long, circuitous walk back to Taps. Along the way, I paid a lot of attention to my surroundings. The office buildings. The campaign signs. They were all talking to me. Helping me make sense of everything I’d seen, learned, and lived through during the preceding week. I knew I’d made some mistakes, but at least I felt I had them figured out now. And I knew what I had to do next.

  I returned to Taps. The crowd was cut in half, but most of those who remained had achieved some level of drunkenness. I ordered something cold, sweet, and Belgian. And I kept thinking. I thought a lot about Don Alexi. He hadn’t intended for me to see the envelope addressed to Scalzo; he had no reason to suspect that anyone he was blackmailing in Scalzo’s name would continue sending money after Scalzo had died. It was just the break I needed, though, and now it was becoming clearer why Scalzo had been hit.

  Whoever had taken him out had probably assumed he’d also taken out his blackmailer. Alexi would’ve been smart to stop the blackmailing once Scalzo was out of the picture, but he probably got greedy and made another demand. Whoever he was blackmailing discovered the ruse, and knew just who to frame for Scalzo’s murder.

  But to do that, he’d need help. Professional help, on the inside.

  The beer came and went quickly. I drank it too quickly to enjoy it. Then I hid the DVDs in my backpack, and went outside to make a call.

  I wasn’t sure yet how much I’d tell him, but I called Lieutenant John Shields.

  “Porter, do you have any idea how serious these allegations are?” It had taken him about fifteen minutes to get here, and now Shields was nursing a Stella Artois after listening to my theory.

  “Hear me out, Shields. We’re in the middle of an election season. Your guy Mitchell is running for the county’s State Attorney seat. C-Rod is his right-hand man. Look at the interest Mitchell has taken in this case. I’ve seen him in court. Someone is killing to protect someone else, and that’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  He set his chalice down and crossed his arms. “That’s my partner you’re talking about.”

  “And it’s not easy for me to say this, either. But look into it. This guy who died tonight? He said his name was Tony Abner. I saw C-Rod there at the crime scene. It was like he was there to keep an eye on things. He wasn’t investigating. He wasn’t with the other cops.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, Porter.”

  “Then let me ask you this, since this is your partner we’re talking about: did you have any idea he was there tonight?”

  He took a sip of his beer and sighed before he shook his head. “I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “I know it doesn’t prove it, but all signs point in that direction. I mean, what a coincidence that the day I tell him about the video, Wilcox’s office gets cleaned out.”

  He rubbed his brow. “Have you heard anything from Wilcox?”

  “Not a peep. But back to my theory. What are the chances C-Rod would be there at the hotel tonight when that all went down?”

  “And you say this guy’s name was Tony Abner?”

  I nodded. Shields sighed again as he thought it all over. “Please look into it,” I said.

  “I’m thinking about it, Porter.”

  “And talk to Mitchell. Tell him about the hearing tomorrow. See if he isn’t eager to go. Hell, I bet he already knows about it.”

  He sighed again, picked up the drink again, and made it disappear. “Give me a minute.”

  I watched him walk outside to the sidewalk. I hadn’t told him about the DVDs; I saw no reason to tell him more than what was necessary to get him to do what I wanted him to do. Now it was just a matter of whether he was going to do it or not.

  It looked like he was doing just that. First he looked at his phone, apparently reading emails, and shook his head. Then he turned so that his back was to me and he was facing UT across the river. He dialed. It looked like someone answered quickly, as Shields was shaking his head and gesticulating as he talked in no time flat. A moment later, it looked like he was making another call and duplicating the entire drill.

  Finally, he closed the phone, slid it into his pocket, and slowly walked back to the barroom. He took his seat and glanced past his empty glass. It looked like I wasn’t the only one who wanted another pull. “Well?” I said.

  “You’re right about this Abner guy. Looks like he was some kind of professional or something.”

  “And C-Rod?” I asked.

  He shook his head, and then nodded wearily. “Yeah, C-Rod had no reason to be there.” He sighed. “Mitchell checked out too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re right. He’s already planning on attending the hearing tomorrow.”

  I tried not to gloat. “Can you get C-Rod there, too? There’s someone I’d like to get a good look at him.”

  He studied me for a moment. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Why the hell are we even going to this hearing?” Angie leaned forward on Pinkerton’s couch, glaring at me. “Talk about stepping right into the devil’s den.”

  Pinkerton nodded. “She does have a point, Porter.”

  “I know she does. But what place is safer than the courthouse? There are bailiffs and deputies everywhere.”

  Pinkerton shook his head. “One problem with that, Porter. You think this Rodriguez is the bad guy, and he’s the only interested person allowed to bring his gun into the courtroom.”

  I looked to Angie and tried to get us back on track. “I just want you to take a look at him. That’s all.”

  “So you really think he’s Mr. Silver?” she asked.

  “I think Mitchell is Mr. Silver. I think Rodriguez is helping him.”

  “And if I recognize them?” she asked.

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then we can cross him off the list too.”

  Pinkerton rose out of his recliner, obviously uneasy with my plan. “Isn’t there another way she can ID him?” he asked.

  “There might be,” I said. “But it’s a long shot.”

  They both looked for me to elaborate.

  I pulled out the envelope with the DVDs. “Alexi planted this for me the day he died.”

  “What is it?” Angie asked.

  “I think it’s a backup of all the videos Alexi was using to blackmail Scalzo and Pilka’s clients.” I handed the discs to Pinkerton.

  “What do you want me to do with these?” he said.

  “I want you to get your computer.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  I glanced at Angie and replied, “Mr. Silver, of course.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  A Morning Dismissal

>   We didn’t sleep much that night; there was too much work to do.

  We started with the first disc. It was the same grainy footage I’d seen on the video of McSwain. Since she was most familiar with the layout of the rooms, Angie helped me confirm that Alexi must have planted hidden cameras and taped all of the customers—including the ordinary ones like McSwain, who only came in for a tug and run, not just those who came in to record their escapades for a high-definition souvenir. Little did Scalzo’s clients know that Alexi was making his own set of tapes that probably made him at least a hundred grand but, eventually, cost him his life.

  The biggest problem with reviewing the videos was that Alexi’s backups included hours upon hours of blank footage. It seemed the cameras were running constantly, and there were hours of footage on each disc. It was difficult to safely fast-forward, or click on a later time frame, without skipping over valuable minutes of footage.

  So we played the discs on fast forward and took turns watching all the footage. Still, it took us almost all night to cover one disc, and Alexi had sent me six. “What’s the point of this?” Pinkerton asked as I popped the first disc out of the computer.

  “Angie says there are only a few clients of Scalzo’s that he’d want to keep happy enough to call her away from her date with Blare. He’d have to be someone with connections. A LEO, or someone running for office. Mitchell fits both bills.”

  Pinkerton nodded, but not in agreement.

  It was nearly four A.M. “We need to get some sleep,” Angie said.

  “What kind of hearing is this going to be?” I asked the judge.

  “UMC,” he muttered. “Uniform motion calendar.”

  “What’s that mean?” Angie asked.

  “It means it will be a zoo,” I said. “Dozens of cases will be heard.” And that gave me an idea. “It also means you can go undercover easier.”

  I got up and told them to get what sleep they could. I had an errand to run.

  I wasn’t happy to find Val sleeping at her house. I was hoping I’d find her house empty, so I could borrow what I needed without bothering her. I knocked on the door, knowing she wouldn’t be happy to be woken up at five in the morning.