Ten minutes and a couple of stops later, the shuttle eased up a ramp and out of the airport, eventually pulling into a Thrifty Rental Car location a half mile or so away. Ben got off and headed around the corner to the entrance. As the automatic door whirred open, a blast of air conditioning hit him in the face and blew his hair back. It felt good. He now wanted to get rid of the wind shirt. Ben walked through the rope maze and up to the counter stopping at the lone open clerk, a big-boned blond who looked as though she hadn’t spent much time doing her hair that morning.
“Good afternoon sir,” she said with some level of sincerity, “welcome to Thrifty Car Rental. How can I be of service today?”
Ben pulled his reservation from his briefcase and placed it on the counter. “I have a reservation. The name is Lohmeier. L-O-H-M-E-I-E-R.”
“One moment,” she said, “let me see if I can locate your reservation.” She punched in a series of keys and then another and then another before finally locating his reservation in the system. “Sir, we have you with a four door, midsize sedan. Is that correct?”
“I think so.”
“We could upgrade that to a convertible for an extra twelve dollars a day.”
“A convertible?” Ben said. “What kind of convertible?”
“A Chrysler Sebring.” Twelve bucks wasn’t that much considering he wasn’t paying for it. He turned and looked out the glass doors for the parking lot, hoping to spot one of the convertibles. Noticing, she said, “You see it? It’s that red one in the first row right by the sidewalk.”
“Yeah, I see it,” he said. “Okay, that’s fine. I’ll take it.”
Five minutes later, he peeled off the wind shirt and tossed it in the back seat of the red Sebring, pulled his sunglasses out of his briefcase and climbed inside. He took a couple of minutes to figure out how to lower the top and pretty soon, he was ready to roll.
Following the directions he received from the woman behind the Thrifty counter, which seemed slightly different from the directions he had printed off the internet while back home, Ben took a couple of turns, got off one expressway, got back on another, paid more tolls than he could count and then finally hit the ramp for the exit pointing in the direction of “North Turnpike”. Ben spent twenty minutes fumbling for a good radio station. He never really found one - only occasional good songs. Unlike northern Illinois, where a driver is lucky to find dead grass in the middle of a divided highway, the Florida Turnpike, apparently now known as the Ronald Reagan Turnpike, came replete with palm trees, flowering plants and other lush vegetation, and even a pine forest or two along the way.
Ben kind of liked the Sebring. It handled well and had good acceleration, and Ben enjoyed the feeling of his wispy blond hair flying in the breeze. He pushed the case and the reason for his visit to the back of his mind and concentrated on the heat of the sun, the roar of the engine and the speed of the Sebring as it blew past scenery heading north up the Turnpike in excess of eighty-five miles per hour. About twenty miles south of Ocala, Ben split off onto I-75 North and ten minutes later, as he slowed to a more respectable seventy miles per hour, he began to see horses grazing with the cattle in the pastures by the side of the highway. Just south of Ocala, he spotted a small group of buffalo, maybe six or eight. He didn’t know what groups of buffalo were called grazing there in a semi-circle. He always liked buffalo. They seemed to be such powerful, almost regal animals. He thought of Jim Schulte raising buffalo in Hayward, Wisconsin and shivered despite the heat. Since Jim Schulte was just about the last person he wanted to think of blazing up the Ronald Reagan Turnpike in central Florida, he turned the radio up for the rest of the trip, which wasn’t long.
He flew down the ramp at the Ocala/Silver Springs exit and took a hard left onto College Road. Passing through the underpass, he saw the hotel, a Marriott Courtyard, just up on the right. He parked the Sebring out front and went inside to check in. A small lobby greeted him with a restaurant/lounge at the far end. A glass case stood against the wall next to the front desk filled with New York Yankees memorabilia - autographed hats, balls, pictures and gloves. This puzzled Ben a little bit because he didn’t think that Ocala was a spring training town. He couldn’t understand the connection to the Yankees until he noticed a gold plaque on the wall which proclaimed, “This is a Steinbrenner-Company Hotel.” That explained it.
He found his room at the end of a corridor not far from the laundry. The room was nice and clean, with a single king-size bed and a small sitting area consisting of a love seat and a Williamsburg-style desk. Good enough. Ben tossed his stuff on the bed and pulled the curtains open to crack the window and let some fresh air inside. He shuffled through his briefcase looking for the map to Nora Fleming’s house. According to Yahoo, the house was about twelve miles from the hotel with an approximate travel time of twenty-nine minutes, which seemed long.
Ben looked at his watch - almost five o’clock local time. He didn’t want to call ahead and tip her off that he was coming, but he didn’t know what time she would be home either. He decided that one way or another he needed to find her house. He would set off now and if she was there, great. If not, he could grab some dinner and try back again later. At least he would know where the house was. He made sure that he had a couple of business cards on him and set out.
He pulled the Sebring out of the parking lot and turned right onto College Road with the top down and the radio on. College Road appeared to be one of the main drags through Ocala and Ben assumed there must be a college or university associated with it someplace. The road moved generally from northeast to southwest and Ben headed southwest, apparently away from town. After a mile or so, College Road became Southwest State Road 200 with the usual assortment of car dealers, restaurants and the ubiquitous vacation property sales offices. After about seven miles, Ben took a sharp left on Southwest 103rd Street, which appeared to be largely residential in character. The homes were nothing to get excited about, mostly one-story ramblers made of cement block construction in a slightly Spanish style motif. Occasionally, he’d see some odd-for-Chicago colors like turquoise blue, pale pink or lime green.
After about four miles, the houses began to thin somewhat and the area became less developed. He looked at the map. He had to be getting close. He had gone about the right distance. He saw a sign for Ocala Waterway Estates, which looked promising at first, but didn’t pan out into anything. He took a right and went down a small road that led off toward a row of scrub trees in the distance, then abruptly stopped. He paused at the intersection beyond which Ocala civilization seemed to cease. To his left, a teenage girl in cut-off jeans and a halter top showing way too much skin for someone her size washed an SUV with a garden hose. He looked back at the map.
“God damn it. It should be right down here,” Ben said aloud. The roads he saw on the map should be right in front of him, but all he saw was open landscape. “There must be a way to get back there,” he said. The sun was beginning to sink low in the sky. He took a left and sped along looking for a road where he could cut in on his right hand side. All he found was more trees. Several blocks down, he saw a bulldozer parked off to the side of the road as though road construction was about to commence. He continued a few more blocks and reached a dead end in the road. Now the undeveloped land stretched in front of him and to his right. The only houses were to his left and back behind him. “Fuck,” he said.
He spun the Sebring around and headed back in the other direction. Maybe he could go back down the other way and then find another crossroad and come back at it from the other side. Ben reached the intersection he had stopped at a few minutes earlier and pulled the car to a stop. The area where he needed to be was now on his left, but he was at least three or four blocks away from it. The problem was he had no way of getting in there. He decided to keep going.
About three-quarters of a mile later, Ben hit a two-lane road and took a left. The road seemed to bisect several developments in various stages of completion. On his right, there was
a development with mostly paved roads and a smattering of houses. A sales trailer sat near the main entrance to Norwood Estates. He had to be close now. Up ahead on the left, he saw what appeared to be a road. When he got there, he concluded that the term “road” was more than generous. It seemed to be more of a path made out of packed-down dirt, somewhat like the precursor of a paved road. It looked like the roads had been plotted, just not built yet. Off in the distance, Ben thought he saw a small house. The last thing he wanted to do was get the rental car stuck back there so he took a long, hard look down the path. It appeared solid enough to support a car and wide enough for two cars to pass in opposite directions. He looked in the rearview mirror - nothing coming behind him and nothing in front of him. He could sit here and think about this for a minute. He glanced to his right - the sun was setting now and daylight rapidly began to fade. Ben could feel the air growing cool and damp. If he was going to find the house, it had better be soon.
He eased the car off the road and onto the path. It inched along for about a quarter of a mile before he came to a house on the left, a one-story, lime green job quite reminiscent of the ones he had seen earlier. He looked at the number on the mailbox. He was about two blocks away. He crept along until he came to another larger house on the right. This one was set back in a grove of trees. The driveway was packed dirt just like the path. Next door, a new house began to rise up out of the ground, its cement block foundation sticking out of the dirt.
Ben came to something of an intersection, where another fairly wide dirt path crossed this one. He looked in both directions, but did not see any houses. Further up on the left-hand side, he saw a mailbox sticking out behind a small clump of trees. As he approached, he could see the name Scott painted in red on the black mailbox. “Bingo,” he said. He moved the car forward until he was even with the mailbox and his heart sank. There was nothing there, just the mailbox, behind it a stand of scrub trees and wild overgrown bushes. There was no house anywhere.
25
Ben leaned against the hood of the Sebring and pulled out his cell phone. The car was running and the driver’s door open, the headlights illuminating the trees in the distance. The sun had fallen behind the forest off to the west and daylight quickly slipped away.
“Where the fuck am I?” Ben said into the phone.
“How do I know?” Disko answered from back in Illinois.
“You gave me the address and the directions. The only thing this place lacks is alligators, oh yeah, and roads. This is the place they go to to dump the body so no one will ever find it.” Disko didn’t answer. “Okay, well, it’s obvious that I’m not finding anything else out tonight. It’s almost dark here, so check it out and I’ll try and call you when I get back to the hotel. I’m hungry. I need to get something to eat.”
Ben took one long last look around, thankful that he was alone, and climbed back into the car. Ten minutes later, he was back on State Road 200 heading in the direction of the hotel. When he reached the hotel, he kept going down College Road looking for a place he could find a decent meal. About a mile past the hotel, he came to a large glass complex lit up like the Fourth of July against the night sky. He spotted a sign - Central Florida Community College. That explained College Road. A bit further up on the right, Ben saw the sign for the Lone Star Steakhouse.
“Good enough,” he said and pulled the Sebring into the lot and parked under a lush green tree. He had only been in Florida a few hours, but had already gotten used to the weather. The warm sun, blooming flowers and soft breezes sure beat the hell out of Chicago in February. He struggled with the roof of the Sebring for a few minutes trying to get it latched before finally heading inside. He was seated at a table in the middle of the room. He ordered a draft beer which came in a frosted mug. Just the right temperature, he thought savoring the first sip. He ordered a rib eye steak, medium rare, baked potato, tossed salad with Italian dressing and ranch toast and considered his options while waiting for his meal to arrive.
He thought he remembered that Ocala was the county seat for whatever county he was in and he decided to head out to the county government complex in the morning, he assumed they had one, to poke around the real estate records if Disko didn’t come up with a better address by then. Having done a little real estate investigation work on a few of his Forest Preserve District files, Ben knew he should be able to dig something up from either the property transfer records or the tax assessor’s office.
After he finished his meal - the steak was large, tender and cooked just right - he asked his waitress for the name of a local watering hole where he could grab a beer. He needed to kill a couple of hours and maybe blow off some steam. She directed him to Cal’s, about a half mile away on the other side of the Community College.
“You should be able to find whatever you want there,” she said with a knowing smile. Ben didn’t think she understood quite what he was looking for, but decided not to set her straight. He paid the check, left her a nice tip and headed back to the Sebring.
Cal’s proved that all college bars are pretty much the same - lots of loud music, cheap beer and guys looking to score. Ben almost didn’t find the place at first, but once he did, he realized he felt really out of place, about like he expected. Cal’s occupied two stories next to a Foot Locker store on a busy corner just north of the Central Florida Community College campus. Clearly the local hang-out for the students, the place was hopping pretty good for a Monday night. Ben grabbed a Rolling Rock long neck and took a slow tour around the first floor and then up to the second. He felt a little like a parent doing a reconnaissance mission for an Oprah show on wild teens.
He found a spot up against the wall on the second floor and sipped his beer. The room was hot and Ben began to sweat. He couldn’t hear much of anything above the din and probably didn’t need to. He had enough to look at. Girls in mini-skirts and thin halter tops bumped and grinded with their boyfriends, or at least Ben assumed they were their boyfriends. Guys danced with girls, girls danced with girls, groups of girls danced with groups of guys. Guys didn’t dance with guys, at least not here. This was sensory overload for a guy Ben’s age. When he decided to come here, he hadn’t factored in the whole Florida weather thing, the fact that girls could dress this way all year round in Florida’s warm and sunny climate. Back home, even the best looking college coeds would be all covered up this time of year.
Ben finished his beer and ambled over to a bar along the near wall for another. An hour or so later, after fending off two perky college roommates who tried to convince him to go back to their apartment with them to party a little, a shocked, but relieved Benjamin Lohmeier headed back to his hotel. Although he thought the girls were probably just toying with an older guy to try and make him feel good, he nevertheless did wonder about what might have been.
He called Disko back. Nothing new on the address front. Then he called home before turning in. He left out the part about the roommates. Nothing good could come from that. Ben had a pretty good night’s sleep. The great thing about hotels is that you can always get the room cold enough and dark enough, both of which Ben liked when he slept. He slept until almost eight local time and then took a quick shower. On his way out, he stopped at the front desk and got directions to the County Complex. It was only about fifteen minutes away, roughly two miles east of the County Courthouse, located in downtown Ocala. Ben took a left on College Road and headed back in the direction of the Community College, which seemed larger and newer in the light of day. As community colleges went, it looked fairly impressive. A couple of miles further down the road, he took a left on Pine Avenue, which took him right into downtown Ocala. After about half a mile, he took a right on Silver Springs Boulevard heading east. As he turned the corner, he saw what looked to be the Courthouse a couple of blocks up and over to his left.
The County Complex was on 25th Avenue, a couple of miles down Silver Springs Boulevard. He turned into the Complex at the first light and came to a fork in the driveway. Sig
ns pointed in every direction. Geographic Information Systems, Building, Zoning and Property Management, Museum, Green Clover Hall, Property Appraiser, Tax Collector, County Attorney, County Administrator, County Commissioners. The sign looked like the totem pole on M*A*S*H. Ben took a minute to figure out where he was going and chose the Property Appraiser’s and Tax Collector’s offices, both of which seemed to be housed together in a large building just off to his right.
He parked the Sebring in the lot not far from a vendor selling pretzels. As he strolled up the walk to the building’s entrance, Ben noticed that the cement walkway and rambling single story brown brick structure looked almost new. He couldn’t decide if that was a function of the climate or whether the building was in fact new. He figured that the harsh climate of the north, complete with wild temperature fluctuations, snow and salt, probably aged buildings before their time. Inside, he discovered that the building was essentially split in two - the Property Appraiser’s office was located on the left side of the building, with the Tax Collector housed in a much smaller space to the right. He chose the Property Appraiser first and pushed through a set of glass doors into a large open area with countless desks arranged in rows. The room was fairly dark and they had the air conditioning turned up high to guard against the coming afternoon heat. Ben walked up to the first desk, where a Hispanic woman in her early-fifties sat behind a sign that read, “Information.”
“I was wondering if you had any public access computer terminals?” Ben asked.
“Yes, we do,” she said, gesturing to a long counter on the near wall which housed eight to ten PC’s. She led Ben over to the first computer and got him set up. Within a couple of minutes, he was able to perform rudimentary searches on county real estate records. He figured out how to do name searches and punched in Nora Fleming and Nora Fleming Scott. He confirmed that Nora’s husband’s name seemed to be Andrew and that Andrew seemed to buy and sell quite a bit of real estate. Ben assumed that Andrew Scott probably worked as a real estate developer or was otherwise involved in rental properties. Ben located their likely residence, a warranty deed transferring the property from a land trust to Andrew Scott and Nora Fleming Scott, husband and wife, in tenancy by the entireties. The deed gave an Ocala address on Northwest Palisades Parkway. Ben had no idea where that was. After a few more minutes of searching failed to uncover anything new, Ben decided to go across the way and double-check what he had discovered with the Tax Collector.
Final Exam: A Legal Thriller Page 17
