J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 02 - No Time to Die

by J. D. Trafford

  Michael and Kermit pulled in front of Jane’s office on Main Street. He parked the rental SUV. Michael got out, leaving Kermit inside with the engine running. He waved at Jane.

  Jane was in the back of the office at her desk. She saw Michael wave through the front window, put her file away and came out the door.

  As she locked the office, Michael looked at the large front window.

  “Nice and shiny.” The contents of the paper bag thrown from the pickup truck had been cleaned off. Its remnants were gone. “Kermit and I could’ve done that for you … or maybe just Kermit.”

  “Very gentlemanly.” Jane laughed.

  Michael opened the door of the SUV.

  “That’s me, a complete gentleman,” he said. “Been washing windows all afternoon?”

  “Not all afternoon. Got most of the poop off with one spray, and then worked on some green card applications.” She shrugged. “I’m still a lawyer, sort of.”

  “Me too.” Michael shut the door. “But not really.”

  As he walked around the front of the SUV, Michael ran his hand through his hair. As he did it, Michael looked down the street. Behind them, just around the corner, he saw the front of a blue Taurus. It was parked with two people sitting inside. He was being watched.

  ###

  The trailer complex sat about two miles off of Gopher Ridge. It was a bigger cluster than the one where Tommy had lived. This one had about 20 trailers. They were all white and beaten. Rust crept up their metal seams. Every window screen was either torn or missing, and garbage bags filled the spaces between each unit.

  Michael parked the SUV, and the three ventured into the complex. As they walked, Michael noticed a few people in the trailers sneaking peeks through the windows.

  “Any ideas about where to start?” Michael didn’t want to knock on a door again. The last time he had done that he and Kermit had been arrested.

  “Where there’s smoke; there’s fire, mi amigo.” Kermit pointed to a small stream of smoke tracing up into the air a short distance behind the trailers. “Looks like the party is back there.”

  They walked past the trailers and a handful of dented garbage cans and dumpsters, and into a clearing.

  There were about 20 men sitting around a bonfire. Foil packets filled with food lined the edge of the fire, reflecting the orange flames and absorbing the heat. In the middle of the fire, there was a metal coffee pot. When Michael saw the coffee pot, he couldn’t help himself from smiling.

  He remembered an infamous case he had read in law school. The Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals had held that immigration agents were justified in checking the papers of men sitting around a fire with a metal coffee pot in the middle. The court opined, “The agent’s investigation and detention of the men was reasonable under the Constitution, because only illegal immigrants brew coffee in metal coffee pots in the middle of an outdoor fire.”

  Michael, Kermit, and Jane continued to walk up to the group of men, and then stopped. The men looked up. A few whispered, “immigracion,” but none ran.

  Jane stepped forward.

  “I’m from the Community Immigrant Legal Services in town. I think I know some of you. I’m looking for my client, Tommy Estrada. He’s missing.” They sat in silence, staring at her. Nobody said a word, and then Jane repeated herself in Spanish.

  Again, no response.

  “Somebody knows where he is. I need your help. We were trying to make your life better, but now he’s gone. I know some of you were in a van. You were going to the fields on the morning he disappeared. You stopped and waited for Tommy, but he didn’t come. I want to know what you saw.”

  A young man with a thick black moustache and a barrel chest stood up.

  “You are only making things worse.” A few of the men nodded in agreement. “Tommy was making trouble, and whenever there is too much trouble, they just deport us and bring in new people.”

  “They can’t do that. They need you to work the fields,” Jane said.

  “Jolly Boy struck a deal,” another man said, standing. “They come get us, deporting us in waves – not all at once – that way the companies keep going. Fields still get picked.”

  Jane looked back at Michael for help. She knew they were right. In fact, the politicians in Florida were incredibly proud of their solution for “orderly” deportation. Everybody wins, except the field workers.

  Michael put his hand on Jane’s shoulder, and then took a few steps closer to the men.

  “I think they killed Tommy.” His stomach lurched, unsure whether he should continue. He was just supposed to follow Jane and keep his mouth shut.

  Michael looked at the men, and then he looked at Jane. Neither knew what actually happened to Tommy, but she didn’t stop him. So he kept going, hoping somebody would come forward with more information.

  “They took him and they killed him. Nobody wants to say it, but it’s obvious. He had a family that I care a lot about. I’d like to hold these people responsible. If you care, call Jane. Go to Jane. If you don’t care, say nothing. It’s your decision. But know that you’re probably going to disappear next.”

  As they turned and started to walk away, Kermit smiled.

  “You’re always Mr. Happy.” He put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “That’s what I like about you.”

  Michael laughed, his mind already drifting to the blue Taurus and Agent Frank Vatch. He wasn’t planning on saying anything, but he needed to make something happen and get out of Jesser. Whoever was in the blue Taurus wasn’t going to wait forever.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Morning came early. It was a hot day in Jesser. The temperature already hovered around 92 with no breeze, baking the dirt. Standing in the middle of a field, a person could hear a soft crackle as the earth dried out, moisture evaporating.

  The farmer sat atop a shiny green John Deere tractor with a 23-row applicator attachment, meaning it could fertilize 23 rows at one time. The cab was new and soft. A 7-Eleven Big Gulp of Mountain Dew rested in the cup holder. Jerry Jeff Walker’s “Trashy Woman” played loudly on the stereo.

  He rumbled across the vast field of soybeans. The sky was clear blue with no obstructions.

  It was a good day to be a farmer, he thought. Nobody looking over his shoulder. Nobody telling him what to do.

  His wife could deal with the screaming kids and the credit card bills.

  He was working. And, more importantly, he was working his way – six hours to drive tractor, listen to music, and maybe smoke some weed.

  In total, he farmed about 3,000 acres. He owned 1,000 and rented the rest of the acreage from neighbors and absentee landlords who were looking for a tax write-off and a government subsidy.

  The farmer drove the land in loops. At the eastern property line, he cranked the wheel and circled back. At the western property line, he cranked the wheel and did it again. The whole thing had a simplicity and rhythm.

  After a few hours, it was time to switch music. He turned the tractor, and then slowed it down to a stop.

  He put on AC/DC’s “Back in Black,” and then opened the glove compartment and found his bag of weed. There were a few joints already rolled. He took one out of the bag, put it in his mouth and lit up. He took a big drag and let it settle over him. Then, with new tunes and a new state of mind, he was ready to go.

  He put the tractor into gear, moving slowly at first. He was about a quarter-way down the row, about to accelerate, when he saw it.

  There were two pale tree branches ahead, one large and one thin. He wondered how pieces of wood that size got into his field and whether he could just roll over them.

  Kids, he decided, teenagers partying in the fields again, probably hauling in wood for a fire and a keg. He remembered those days. Good parties. Good memories.

  As he inched closer to the wood, he saw an even larger chunk of the tree. It was dirtier and misshapen.

  The sun hit it just right and a light reflected back. Odd.

  He stopped.<
br />
  The farmer stared at the reflected light, and then figured out that it was shining off of a large silver belt buckle.

  His eyes followed the edge of the dirty stump as it tapered down. At the end of the stump, he saw a pair of cowboy boots.

  “What the hell?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Deputy Maus sat and waited at the modern E.C. Honour gastropub off of Thirteenth and Bickell in downtown Miami. There was a lot of dark wood, leather, and shiny brass fixtures. About 250 people fit comfortably in the place. There was a wall of glass separating the bar from the brewery. The gastropub was set up for patrons to eat food and socialize while watching the hops and barley turn into something magical through the window. In an hour, the pub would be bustling for lunch, catering to all the suits with expense accounts. but for now, it was quiet.

  Maus sat alone. Most of the restaurant’s staff prepped for the lunch service. A few waiters wiped down menus. Others rolled bundles of silverware in red cloth napkins.

  Maus didn’t want to be there. He had predicted that it was going to be a mess. He just had a bad feeling that the guy was going to be trouble.

  Maus thought about his dad. His dad was a Marine. He was so proud that his son was a Sheriff’s deputy. “My son the cop,” is how his dad introduced him at the Jesser VFW hall. “Still not a Marine, but pretty good.”

  Maus thought about his wife and two kids. She would ditch him in a second at the first sign of trouble. And divorce was the best-case scenario. He ran his hand through his cropped hair. Cops don’t do well in prison, he thought.

  It was typical for cops like him to have another job working security. Businesses liked having off-duty cops in uniform hanging around. They were a deterrent.

  So when Maus had started working for Jolly Boy on the side, it had been for the same reason that other cops get a second job. He wanted the money. It paid for the extras that made life worth living. It kept his wife out of his way. It paid for vacations and for any sporting event he wanted to see. It also paid for the toys: a big screen television, ATV, guns, and the boat. I love that damn boat, thought Maus. Now it could all be gone.

  Maus ran his hand across his scalp again. He was in rough shape. Being in the big city made it even worse.

  Unlike in Jesser, the big city people didn’t respect him. They didn’t fear him. The nerds and freaks ruled Miami. He looked around at the skinny waiters and the even skinnier waitresses. They all had piercings, gelled hair and at least two visible tattoos.

  It wasn’t natural. Strength and size were supposed to dictate who had power. Power shouldn’t be given to the wimp who wrote the best computer code or a chick with glasses who could speak funny languages.

  Big cities were filled with the people like the ones that he used to harass in high school. They fled Jesser; he stayed, and Maus liked it that way. It was natural.

  Maus ordered a Lone Jack Golden, because the bartender said it was the closest thing to Budweiser that they served. He prayed that Dylan wouldn’t take too long. He needed to get back to Jesser. The Sheriff was going to be looking for him. There weren’t too many murders in Jesser. Lots of bar fights and drunk drivers, but murders were rare. Everybody at the station was excited to catch the killer except him, for obvious reasons.

  What a mess.

  ###

  Dylan McNaughten arrived with a burst. His black hair was slicked back. He wore a tailored pale Michael Kors suit with a white open-collared dress shirt. He also wore black sunglasses to hide his bloodshot party eyes.

  He looked around the gastropub. His attitude was one of entitlement. He was born rich, raised rich, and expected to become even richer.

  His title was “Senior Vice President of Operations” for Jolly Boy, but he didn’t know much about the business. He and his brother had inherited the company.

  His brother, Brian, ran it, and Dylan just did the dirty work. In short, Dylan was in charge of finding and housing the immigrants that worked the fields. He didn’t care if Dylan kept regular office hours and he didn’t really care how hard Dylan partied, as long as he got the fields picked.

  Dylan simply needed to keep the workers in line, pay them as little as possible, and ensure that there was no paper trail, no e-mails. The company always needed to be able to deny actual knowledge and thereby avoid responsibility.

  That was the thing Brian insisted that Dylan understand – the company can’t know what happens in the fields. And for Dylan, his knowledge was the only thing that kept the easy money from his brother coming. His secrets gave him power.

  “Mausy.” Dylan put his hand on Deputy Maus’ shoulder. “We should get a booth.”

  Maus nodded, and got up. Maus took his beer in hand, and the two walked to a booth in the corner. They were an odd-looking couple.

  As soon as they sat down, a waitress came over with two menus. She eyed Dylan, knowing who was in charge.

  Maus watched as the waitress purred at Dylan. Dylan took the menus from her. He winked, she giggled, and Maus was ignored. The world was upside down in the big city, Maus thought.

  Dylan handed a menu across the table to Maus.

  “Just transfer my friend’s tab from the bar over here, and we’ll order in a minute.”

  A big, perfectly white smile stretched across the waitress’s perfectly tanned and perfectly smooth face.

  “I’ll do that.”

  The waitress turned and walked to the bar to transfer the tab. Dylan watched as she went. She knew his eyes were on her – in that way that all women knew when they were being watched – and so she gave Dylan a little extra bounce.

  “Nice girl,” Dylan smiled, and then turned back to Maus. His smile went away, but the confidence and flash did not. “What’s the big emergency? I had to …” Dylan tried to think of something better than the truth, which was that he usually partied late and didn’t get up until noon. “Uh, I had to cancel, like, two appointments and, uh, rearrange my whole morning for this.”

  Maus leaned in. He looked around, confirming that nobody was nearby.

  “They found him.”

  Dylan’s eyes narrowed; his mind already working the angles.

  “I thought you took care of it.” Dylan played it cool. He made eye contact with the waitress across the room and gave her a smile and a nod. Then he looked back at Maus. “You get paid really well so that we don’t have problems.”

  “I must not’ve dug deep enough.” Maus bit his lower lip. It was his mistake, and he thought it would be better to admit it. He cracked his neck, and then took a sip of beer. “Animal dug him up and pulled him into a farmer’s field. The farmer found pieces.”

  “Anybody identify him?”

  Maus shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “But it’s not like you left his wallet on him. Right?”

  “Of course I didn’t leave a wallet on him.”

  Maus wasn’t that dumb, but there were other ways to identify a body.

  Dylan shrugged, still playing it cool.

  “I think you’re blowing this up,” Dylan let out a little laugh. “We got nothing to worry about. Nobody cares about these people. Nobody is going to claim him, and even if somebody wants to, it’s too expensive and too complicated. They won’t be able to figure it out.”

  Dylan thought about some of the crime shows he’d seen on television.

  “It’s not like he’s got dental records. He probably never even went to a dentist.”

  Dylan flashed some more of his sparkle, trying to calm down Maus. Dylan needed Maus on his side. They were The Keepers Of The Secrets.

  “Cheer up, Mausy. He was just a wetback. I bet his face was all messed up, too, like rotted, right? Nobody is going to identify him.” He laughed a little more at the thought, and then waved the waitress over.

  “I gotta run, honey, but put whatever my friend wants on my tab.”

  Dylan got up. He took out a credit card and one of his business cards. He handed the credit card to the waitress, and then he wrot
e his cell phone number on the back of his business card. “And here’s my number if there are any problems.”

  The waitress took the card. She read the front, and then turned the business card over to read the cell phone number on the back.

  “Like what kind of problems are we talking about?”

  “Like if you get lonely.” Boom, and a little more flash.

  ###

  The McNaughten brothers waited for Harrison Grant in the firm’s main conference room. The conference room was on the top floor of the Millennium Tower. Green and Thomas, LLP, had the top 25 floors of the tower’s 50 stories.

  The conference room had all the accoutrements that one would expect. A large oak conference table surrounded by two-dozen high-back, black leather chairs. One wall had all of the gadgets necessary to conduct video-conferencing around the world. Another wall featured the obligatory, inoffensive piece of abstract art. And the outside wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, which provided a picturesque view of Biscayne Bay.

  Biscayne Bay defined Miami – a beautiful marine ecosystem stretching along the ocean’s coast and out for hundreds of miles. It was a place of recreation and fishing, but it was also under constant pressure from the millions of people living in Miami as well as one of the largest shipping ports in the world.

  “Where is he?” Dylan McNaughten stood-up and walked to the window. He stuck his hands in his pants pockets while he paced the room.

  Brian McNaughten, Dylan’s twin, rolled his eyes.

  “Calm down. I just want to run this situation past Grant. I want to make sure we’re prepared if this worker is traced back to us. He’ll figure it out. He always does.”

  “I told you.” Dylan glared at his brother. “It isn’t coming back to us.”

  “But it might,” Brian said. “An ounce of prevention, brother. We need to protect ourselves.”

  “I don’t have time to wait in conference rooms.” Dylan looked around, and then looked back at his brother. “Does he understand who we are?”