Murder Key

by H. Terrell Griffin

  Reich said, “Actually, I think we do have a few days. If we want to bust both the immigrant and the drug rings, we need to wait until the Princess Sarah gets to Florida. She hasn’t left port yet, and Emilio is still in Tlapa waiting for the bus.”

  Jock grinned. “So,” he said, “Emilio pulled it off.”

  “Yeah,” said Reich. “He’s made contact with Arguilles and is in the next group to be taken to Veracruz. Apparently, Arguilles was contacted by Mendez’ replacement and he’s still in business. Arguilles is pissed about Pepe and the two dead guys, so he’s cooperating.”

  Jimbo had been quiet during the entire conversation. Now he asked, “Does anybody have any idea when the trawler will start toward Florida?”

  Reich turned to Jimbo. “The DEA folks think they’ll time their arrival to coincide with the new moon. That’ll happen next Wednesday night, so we’re betting the boat will leave Veracruz on Wednesday or Thursday of this week. It’ll take six days to make the crossing, so they’ll get here just as the moon goes dark.”

  “So,” I said, “We’ve got nine days to get everything ready. How’re you going to set this up?”

  Reich said, “We’ll put together a task force. I’ll have either the Customs people or my folks in Miami send us some agents on a need-to-know basis. We’ll keep everything under wraps until the day of the bust, so there’ll be little chance of a leak. We’ll involve Longboat Key PD and the Coast Guard, but they can come in at the last minute. Rufus and I’ll be the only ones in the Tampa and Orlando offices to be in on it.”

  The rest of the evening was given over to quiet talk, good steaks and one more drink. Some of us had to drive. Jock and I would head back to Longboat Key, and Paul Reich was going to make the three hour drive to Orlando.

  37

  Murder Key

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  On Tuesday morning, Jock got a call on his cell phone from Emilio. He’d be boarding the mini-bus in Tlapa that afternoon, headed for Veracruz. Everything was going well, so far. Jock told him to be careful.

  On Tuesday afternoon, Jock left for Houston. We couldn’t do anything more until the trawler arrived off Longboat Key, so he was going to get a little work done in his office.

  Logan had decided to go about his business, and left that morning for Atlanta.

  Life on the key settled back into routine. I began jogging on the beach at sunrise, but I drove to a different spot on the island each day and ran on a part of the beach that was not my customary route. It didn’t hurt to be careful.

  On Wednesday morning, Anne Dubose called and asked if I could have lunch with her at the Sport’s Page Bar and Grill on Main Street in downtown Sarasota. She said we needed to talk. I agreed, and drove there with much the same enthusiasm as that of a condemned man shuffling toward the gallows.

  I was early and took a seat at the bar to wait for Anne. I ordered a diet coke and told the bartender that I’d be having lunch as soon as my friend arrived.

  I was focused on the TV above the bar, watching the noon news on a local channel, when Anne came in. She tapped me on the shoulder, and as I turned, she kissed me on the cheek.

  “Hi, Handsome,” she said.

  She was wearing medium heels, a beige linen dress adorned with small embroidered flowers. She was carrying a briefcase, looking very much like a lawyer.

  “You look great,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Can we get a table?”

  “Sure,” I said, and led her across the room to a table in the corner.

  I didn’t think for a minute that she hadn’t heard me tell her I’d missed her. She just flat hadn’t missed me. I’d been around long enough to know that when a guy’s significant other mentions the need for “talk,” some bad stuff is about to fall in on him.

  I helped her with her chair, and then I sat. The waitress showed up and took our drink orders, a diet coke for me and a glass of Chardonnay for Anne.

  I raised my eyebrows. She didn’t usually drink until the evening, and then not very much.

  “Oh,” she said. “I’m taking the afternoon off. I’ve been in court all morning.”

  “I’ve missed you,” I said.

  “You already mentioned that.”

  “It’s been over a week since we went to Egmont.”

  “You were in Mexico.”

  “For part of the time.”

  She frowned. “Are you being difficult?”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to be.”

  The waitress brought our drinks and took our food order. Anne asked for a small salad with vinaigrette dressing, and I ordered a Caesar.

  I sat quietly, waiting. Whatever Anne had to say would be said, and I didn’t want to prolong things. When you know somebody is about to stomp on your heart, all you can do is take it and get on with your life.

  She was quiet, too, not wanting to get into it. I’d wait her out, I thought. She raised her wine glass to her lips, thought better of it, and put the glass back on the table. “I’ve met someone,” she said, finally.

  The shoe had dropped, and I could feel the pain dancing at the edges of my soul, building in intensity, threatening to overwhelm me, to burst out in anger and calumny. But I didn’t have the right. Anne didn’t belong to me, and she was now slipping inexorably beyond my grasping need for her, a need I had not fully appreciated until that very moment. I’d anticipated her leaving, but I hadn’t expected the searing pain that was even now coursing through my consciousness.

  “And?” It was all I could manage, and my voice cracked on that single syllable.

  “And I think we shouldn’t see each other anymore. Not like that, is what I mean. Of course, we can see each other as friends, but not lovers. I don’t want to lose the friendship.”

  She was rambling, trying to put a good face on an ugly event. Then she was quiet again.

  I let her stew for a beat. “Who’s the guy?

  “You don’t know him. He’s a stockbroker here in Sarasota.”

  I was quiet, trying to marshal an argument to convince her to stay with me. It was fruitless, and I knew it in my gut. I just sat there.

  “Well,” she said, finally, “say something.”

  I pushed back my chair and stood. I dropped a twenty- dollar bill on the table. “I love you, Anne,” I said, and I walked out of the restaurant.

  The October sun was blinding as it reflected off the cars parked along the street. I was making a fool of myself, and I was well aware of it. I would have to apologize to Anne later, but I couldn’t continue this conversation at that moment.

  I started walking west, toward the bay. This was the same pain I’d felt when my former wife Laura told me she was leaving. Only, I hadn’t seen that one coming. I had been so absorbed in myself that it never occurred to me that Laura wanted more than I was willing to give.

  I knew what was coming with Anne, but that knowledge did nothing to blunt the pain of the reality. Suddenly, my arm was caught in a tight grip.

  “Matt, you bastard,” Anne said. “You can’t tell me you love me and then just run off.”

  I stopped walking and turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Anne. I just can’t handle this right now. I’ve been swimming in a tub-full of crap for the past ten days, and now this. It’s just very bad timing.”

  “Matt, you don’t love me. You’ve never told me that before. We’ve had something pretty wonderful, but we both knew it wasn’t forever.”

  “I know, Anne, I know. I’m sorry I said that. I guess I was trying to make you feel bad about this, because it does hurt.”

  “I know, baby, but we’ve got to move on.” She leaned in and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Call me next week.”

  I mumbled something that must have sounded like “yes” or “okay,” and she turned on her heel and walked off, her pretty butt swinging down Main Street like she owned the place. And maybe she did, in the way that beautiful young women can make an otherwise drab place light up just by being there. They make the place th
eirs, and they may not even know it.

  Then, she was gone. We both knew I wouldn’t call. And the rottenest surprise of all was that in that moment I understood that I did love her.

  On Thursday, I got a call from Rufus Harris. The Princess Sarah had put to sea at midnight. Emilio was aboard.

  37

  Murder Key

  TWENTY-NINE

  On Wednesday afternoon, a week later, I was sitting in Bill Lester’s office, a cup of black coffee in my hand. I sipped it, while Bill worked his phone, talking quietly to the people he needed to reach.

  The key had been quiet during the last week. In a fit of caution, I’d changed my routine again, doing my jogging on the sidewalk that ran along Gulf of Mexico Drive. I hadn’t heard from Anne, and I didn’t think I would.

  Logan had flown in late on Thursday, and the next evening we had a few at Tiny’s before I headed down the island to the Colony, my regular stop on a Friday evening. The smooth voice of Debbie Keeton, the jazz singer who performed in the Monkey Bar on weekends, was the best way for me to wind down a week.

  Logan always had some adventure to relate, and the one for this week was worse than most. It seems that he’d been to a barbeque with his boss on Thursday evening, and he’d consumed a lot of baked beans. His flight from Atlanta to Sarasota late that night was in a small regional jet, and he was crammed into a seat next to a fat elderly lady who smelled of gin and moth balls.

  The beans were doing their dance in Logan’s stomach, causing the usual rise in gaseous pressure. He would quietly release the gas as he pretended to sleep. The old fat lady would grunt every time he let go. Finally, she took to elbowing him, which, according to Logan, only increased the effusion of noxious odors.

  When they landed, Logan smiled at the lady, and said, “I hope you enjoyed the trip, ma’am.” He left the woman sitting in her seat, sputtering in her rage and stabbing futilely at the flight attendant call button

  That image brought a chuckle, and the chief looked sharply at me, bringing me back to the present. Finally, he hung up the phone, rousing me from my revere.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking of a story Logan told us Friday night.”

  “Okay,” Bill said. “The Blue Lightning Strike Force is up and running. We’ll meet here tomorrow afternoon at five. You and Jock are welcome. Logan will be your liaison with Sheriff Merryman.”

  “Tell me about this Strike Force,” I said.

  Bill told me that some years before, in a rare spirit of co-operation, the U.S. Customs Service had set up a joint command structure with local police that could be activated on an ad hoc basis. Each local department would cross-designate a few officers as U.S. Customs agents. After training, in which the locals learned about boarding practices, space accountability, detention on the water, and other duties not normally encountered by them, they were certified as customs officers. This gave local law enforcement agencies jurisdiction in federal and international waters.

  Bill laughed ruefully. “Most of the time, the feds just leave us out. It’s a money thing,” he said. “If we confiscate a boat or other property used in the crime, we sell it and the money goes into the Asset Forfeiture Fund. That money is then divided among the agencies involved in the take-down. The fewer the agencies, the more money each gets.”

  “So, crime does pay,” I said.

  Bill smiled, “Pays us, sometimes,” he said. “They can’t really cut us out when we initiate the bust. Like now.”

  * * * * *

  It was late afternoon when I left the police station. Jock had flown in from Houston, and Logan picked him up at the Sarasota-Bradenton airport. We’d agreed to meet at the Bridge Tender Inn in Bradenton Beach for a drink. I pointed the Explorer north.

  When you cross the Longboat Pass Bridge onto Anna Maria Island, you leave New Florida and pass into Old Florida. The state has changed drastically in the past twenty years, and what’s left of the Florida of my childhood is sequestered in little enclaves like Anna Maria Island.

  The big condos have not yet invaded, and there are still places where working people can afford to live. The bars are not as trendy, and they’re louder, more real somehow. Small motels run by the same owners for a generation cling to the beaches, their guests returning year after year.

  But taxes keep rising, and the mom and pop places are beginning to dry up. For some reason, not apparent to the average person, Florida mandates that property be taxed at a rate that reflects its highest and best use. If a forty year old motel with twenty rooms could legally be turned into a high-rise condominium with twenty units, it’ll be taxed at the condo rate.

  This obtuse tax philosophy was driving the mom and pop beach motels out of business. All along the coast, the owners were selling their property to condo developers. Fewer hotel rooms meant fewer tourists, and the gift shops and restaurants that depended on visitors for their livelihood were being forced to close.

  The reality of this onerous tax structure is that it signals the imminent death of the Florida of my childhood. It’s turning the state into Baby Boomer Heaven

  Reality is not something that Florida politicians recognize, so Old Florida is slowly dying, its demise hurried along by developers and the tax man. It’ll all be gone soon, and those of us who love the state will be poorer in spirit.

  The Bridge Tender Inn takes up space at the foot of Bridge Street, across from the city pier in Bradenton Beach. Jock and Logan were at the bar, Jock sipping a beer from its bottle and Logan nursing a scotch and water. I pulled up a stool and ordered a Miller Lite.

  Jock tipped the bottle toward me. “How did it go?”

  “We’re in,” I said. “The chief has set something called the Blue Lightning Strike Force in motion. It’ll be a joint effort by Sarasota PD, Customs, DEA, and the Longboat police. We’re going along as observers. Logan, Bill wants you to go to Merrit County and be our contact with the sheriff.”

  Logan asked, “When?”

  “Tomorrow night. We’re meeting at the Longboat Police station at five tomorrow afternoon. The Blue Lightning people in Miami told Bill that the trawler is moving northeast and should be in position off Longboat by then.”

  “I hope Emilio’s all right,” said Jock.

  I raised my glass in silent agreement.

  Logan pointed to a couple at a corner table. “Isn’t that Marie Phillips?” he asked.

  I hadn’t seen Marie since the evening at Pattigeorge’s, but there was no mistaking her striking good looks. She was seated across from a man who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt hanging loose over khaki pants. Marie was in shorts, golf shirt and sandals. A casual night on the island.

  I said to Logan, “Do you know who her date is? He looks familiar.”

  “I’m not sure, but isn’t he one of the Sarasota County deputies who came to the Hilton the night somebody shot at us?”

  “That’s it,” I said. “I wonder what he’s doing with a woman whose monthly condo fees are more than he makes.”

  Nobody had an answer.

  We ate at the bar, talking quietly about things that had nothing to do with the pending operation. Night had fallen, and we could see the twinkling of mast lights on the sailboats moored in the bay in front of the restaurant. Nearby, the Cortez Bridge winked at us with the colored lights mounted on its superstructure. At some point, Marie and her deputy slipped out without our noticing.

  “Nobody’s tried to kill me in over a week,” I said. “I wonder if I should be insulted.”

  Jock chuckled. “Probably, you just aren’t worth killing.”

  I laughed. “That’s a sad state of affairs,” I said.

  “I’m serious,” said Jock. “Whoever was trying to take you out probably wanted to stop you from talking to the cops. Since they didn’t get you early on, they must have figured you didn’t know anything, or if you did, you already told the police.”

  “
Makes sense, I guess.”

  “We’re not letting our guard down, though. You never know.”

  37

  Murder Key

  THIRTY

  The conference at the Longboat Police station was packed. Rufus Harris and Paul Reich were there, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups with the Starbucks logo. Two uniformed Sarasota police officers, the Longboat Key marine cop dressed in shorts and a golf shirt, a tall thin man in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, and Bill Lester had the other seats. Introductions were made by the Longboat chief.

  Pointing to the black suited man, Bill said, “This is Abe McClintoc from Customs. He’ll be in tactical command.”

  McClintoc nodded. “Let’s get to it, then,” he said. “We’ve got a delicate operation here. We need to get the go-fast boats in and unloaded and the immigrants off the premises before we bust the drugs. We’ll have the Coast Guard standing by to intercept the trawler after everything else goes down. We don’t want somebody shooting or dumping the immigrants because they find out we’re onto them. And we’ve got an agent aboard the trawler posing as an illegal.”

  A Sarasota cop raised his hand. “Do we even know which island they’re going to?” he asked.

  McClintoc shook his head. “No. But we know they’ll be coming into Sarasota Bay. At least that’s what they’ve done in the past, and they’re on course for Longboat as we speak. Once we find out where they’re going we’ll be ready to take them down.

  “We’ll have a P-3 surveillance aircraft out of Jacksonville flying cover. It’ll have the trawler on radar. We also have a tracking device on the trawler that’s being monitored through satellite downloads to our operations center in Miami. In case everything else fails, the Florida Marine Patrol platform and its hundred-mile radar will be anchored off Casey Key.