Murder Key

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “Vietnam. But it’s not something you forget how to do.”

  Jock said, “There’s got to be people in the house, and if we try to make a run for it, they, or the guys on the other side of the chopper, are going to have clear shots at us. Our only chance is the helicopter. It’s about 20 yards from us, and the engine’s idling. It’s ready to go.”

  “What about the pilot?” I said.

  Jock lifted the M-16. “I’m going to take him out. The shot will alert the bad guys, but so will the pilot as soon as he sees us. The tail of the chopper is facing us. I know this rig. It’s a Bell 206. The rear passenger door is on the left.”

  He gestured toward the aircraft. “Matt,” he said, “go left when you get there. Take the front seat. The rear door’s open, and that’s where I’ll head. Logan will be going to the right for the pilot’s seat. Y’all go, and I’ll hang back. As soon as the pilot notices you, I’ll take him out and come on the run.”

  I looked at Logan. “You ready?” I asked.

  He grinned. “As I’ll ever be,” he said. “I gotta stop hanging out with you guys.”

  “Go,” said Jock.

  Logan went first, with me right behind him. We were almost to the helicopter when the pilot noticed us. “Hey,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. That was his last word in this life. I heard the crack of the M-16, and the pilot’s head exploded with the impact of the heavy lead entering it.

  Logan was at the pilot’s door on the right side of the chopper, and I was heading to the left. I saw the men across the field getting up from their breakfast, lifting their rifles, looking around in confusion. They’d heard the shot, but they didn’t know where it came from. I could hear Jock coming at a run behind me.

  I crawled into the seat next to Logan. He was already turning switches and pouring power to the engine. The chopper was getting light on its skids when I heard Jock climbing into the back seat.

  “Go,” he said, and we lifted off, Logan screaming in sheer joy, or perhaps fear. I never did ask him.

  I saw little flights of fire coming from the muzzles of the guards’ rifles. Jock was pounding away with the M-16 on full automatic, taking short bursts, holding down the guards. I saw one grab his chest and fall, and several others hit the dirt.

  Logan had the nose of the aircraft pointed up at such an angle I thought we were going to fall out of the sky. The rotary wings did their job, taking us higher. We passed over the building where we had been held. It was a small concrete block structure with a tin roof, just a shed. It might have been a place to hold workers who resisted the conditions in the camp.

  I looked back in time to see a car racing out of the camp gate. We were too far away to tell the make of it, but the driver was hauling ass.

  In a moment, we were out of range, flying over barren fields and then citrus groves.

  I turned in the seat. “You okay back there?”

  “Yeah. Close call. Logan hasn’t lost his touch.”

  I was still feeling the adrenalin rush, antsy as hell, but relieved. “Do you know where we are?” I asked Logan.

  “Yeah. This thing has a GPS system just like in my car. Sure could’ve used this in Nam.”

  “Well, where the hell are we?”

  “We were in the labor camp. We’ll be over the courthouse in a minute. You want me to put this thing down?”

  “No, let’s swing out and try to contact McClintoc. What time is it?”

  “Seven o’clock. Unless we’ve lost a day, we haven’t been gone long,” Logan said.

  “No, they were going to kill us,” I said. “They wouldn’t have taken a chance by leaving us alive for a full day. It’s still Thursday.”

  “Hey,” said Jock from the back seat. “Guess what I found? Now I know how they move the drugs from the labor camp.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a box full of it on the floor back here. At least I’ve got a box full of white powder. It’s probably coke.”

  I turned back to Logan. “Can you radio McClintoc?”

  Logan handed me a phone. “I can do better than that,” he said. “The pilot left his cell.”

  I didn’t know McClintoc’s phone number and I had no idea how to contact BLOC in Miami. I took the phone and called the Longboat Key Police Department. I identified myself and asked the dispatcher to patch me through to Bill Lester.

  “Matt, where are you?” Lester said when he answered. “We’ve got the cavalry scouring the woods around the camp.”

  “I don’t want to talk on the radio, Bill. Give me your cell phone number and I’ll call you right back.”

  When I got the chief on the phone, I explained what had happened. He told me a Customs Service SWAT team was about to raid the labor camp. They were going in without a warrant, because three citizens, us, were believed to be held there against their will. They’d waited until the busses took the laborers out for the day’s work. They didn’t want to kill any more people than they had to.

  I said, “I don’t think you’re going to find the ringleaders there. We left some dead people, and there were a few guards still shooting at us when we pulled out. We’ve got the cocaine.

  They’d loaded it into the chopper and were going to drop us in the Gulf on the way to wherever the drugs were going.”

  “I’m on the state road, headed for Merrit County. I can be at the sheriff’s office in about five minutes. Can Logan land that thing anywhere near the courthouse?”

  “There’s a McDonald’s next to the courthouse. Have the sheriff clear the lot and we can put down there. We ought to have some firepower standing by in case the bad guys are tracking us somehow.”

  “I’ll see to it. Give us about ten minutes.” He hung up.

  “Logan, can you find the courthouse?” I asked.

  “Didn’t I hear you say that once about a lawyer? That he wasn’t smart enough to find the courthouse, let alone try a case?” Logan was still high on adrenalin, or maybe just the sheer joy of being in control of a helicopter again.

  I gave him my stoniest look. “Can you?” I said.

  “You find it, and I’ll land this thing.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I could see a road below us, but I had no reference points that would tell me which road it was or which direction it ran. I was straining to see in front of us, hoping to catch a glimpse of the county seat, or a church steeple, anything to give me some perspective.

  Logan chuckled. “Hey, Sherlock,” he said. “Look at the GPS in the dash. It gives you highway numbers and everything.”

  I slapped my forehead, which only reminded me that my head still hurt. I could tell we were about five miles north of the courthouse. I told Logan that we needed about ten minutes more and then we’d head south. By then, the sheriff would have cleared us a landing zone in the McDonald’s parking lot.

  Logan swung the chopper toward the east in a sharp banking turn. We approached Lake Okeechobee, and our pilot went down on the deck, skimming just above the water. Birds began to rise from the surface, frightened by the noise of the jet engines powering our ride. Logan was having the time of his life.

  Finally, as we approached the Port Myakka lock on the east side of the lake, Logan took us back up and set a course for the county seat. We had seen a demonstration of an extraordinary flying skill, undiminished by the passing of years.

  We came in low over the town, and I could see the twinkling blue lights of a police cruiser parked on the road next to the McDonald’s. The cars had been moved out of the parking lot. Customers were standing by the vehicles, munching on their breakfast and sipping their coffee. A team of fatigue-clad figures, about five-strong, was placed around the perimeter of the lot, their rifles at port arms.

  Jock finally stirred in the back seat. “Don’t crash this thing,” he said.

  “Looks like a hot LZ,” said Logan. “We’re going in fast.”

  “Shitfire,” said Jock.

  “Just kidding,” said Logan. “I’
ll put her down nice and easy.”

  And that’s what he did.

  Kyle and Jimbo Merryman came running over as I opened my door. Logan was busy shutting down the big machine.

  “Hey, Loot,” Jimbo said over the dying whine of the turbo, “looks like a chopper jock pulled your ass out of the fire again.”

  I laughed. “Wasn’t the same without you, Top.”

  Kyle winked at me. “Appreciate the helicopter, fellows. It was used in a crime in my county and now it belongs to me.”

  McClintoc strode up. “Not so fast, Sheriff. This is a federal task force. We get the chopper.”

  Bill Lester had driven up and gotten out of his car. “Whoa. We started this thing. It belongs to Longboat Key,” he said.

  Logan came around the front of the aircraft. “Like a bunch of piranha going after a hog in the river,” he said, shaking his head.

  Kyle laughed. “I got a feeling this will get sorted out later,” he said. “Do you want the drugs, Agent McClintoc?”

  “Yeah,” said McClintoc. “I’ll have one of my people inventory it and put it in an evidence locker.”

  McClintoc’s phone rang, and he walked off to the side, talking quietly into it. We stood silently, letting the adrenalin subside. Logan was still a little giddy from the flight, but I only knew that because he couldn’t stop grinning.

  I was trying to blot out the image of a dying man whose throat I’d just sliced open. I looked at my hands, and was startled to see the blood stains still there. I wiped them on my pants, but it didn’t help. I’d wash as soon as I could, but I thought those stains would likely stay for a lifetime.

  I poked Logan lightly on the arm. “Good flying, buddy,” I said. “You saved our bacon.”

  “Man, I’d forgotten the thrill of taking one of those babies up. Bad guys shooting at you, pulling out of a hot LZ. Just like the old days. Straight up and fast.”

  Jimbo laughed. “I always said you chopper jocks were nuts.”

  McClintoc re-joined us. “That was the SWAT commander. They’ve got the camp cleared and about twenty men under arrest. There are a few women and some small children left. All the others are in the fields. Border Patrol will round them up and decide what to do with them.”

  I said, “What about the van and the boat?”

  McClintoc shrugged. “The van and the boat and the pickup pulling it are at the camp.”

  Jock asked, “Did you find Emilio?”

  “He’s apparently in the fields somewhere. Border Patrol will find him. They know he’s one of ours.”

  I told them about Byron Hewett. “Did your guys find him?”

  “No,” said McClintoc. “I’m willing to bet that Byron Hewett is an alias, too. The big guys must have left right after they got you and Jock. Probably figured we were closing in. Didn’t want the drugs to be found on them if they got stopped, so they arranged for the chopper.”

  Jock was frowning. “Don’t tell me the pilot was just some slob who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “No,” said McClintoc. “Our guys identified the body from his driver’s license. He’s been running drugs for years, and Miami-Dade PD thinks he’s good for at least three murders. Did some state time up at Raiford on drug charges, but we haven’t been able to pin anything on him in years. Nobody’s going to miss him.”

  Jock looked relieved. “Okay,” he said quietly.

  I knew his ghosts were hovering nearby, whispering to him of remorse and regret. Eventually, because of those fears, he’d hesitate to act when he needed to, and that would prove fatal. But his icy performance at the labor camp was done without equivocation, and it had saved our lives. He still had time to get out alive. I’d talk to him, soon.

  I was bone tired. I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, and the knock-out drugs were still circulating in my body.

  37

  Murder Key

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I came awake with a start, my body jerking. I smelled frying bacon and fresh coffee. I didn’t know where I was for a moment, and then I remembered. I was in Jimbo Merryman’s guest room. Jock was next door.

  I looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was after five. The afternoon sun was creeping through the drawn drapes. I’d been asleep for most of the day. I got out of bed, slipped into my jeans and a shirt that smelled like Sasquatch had slept in it, and headed toward the kitchen.

  Jock, Jimbo and Emilio were sitting at the table, talking quietly.

  “Ah,” said Jimbo, “here comes the sack rat.”

  I found a cup and poured it full of coffee. “Emilio,” I said, “I’m damn glad to see you.”

  He shook his head, a smile playing over his lips. “And I’m damned glad to be here. Every time Jock shows up, something bad happens to me.”

  “Any news?” I asked.

  Jimbo spoke up. “I just talked to Kyle. The Coast Guard boarded the trawler a couple of hours ago. They’ve got the crew in custody and they’re taking the boat to the St. Pete Coast Guard Station. Nothing else on the others. Hewett, or whatever his name is, has disappeared.”

  “Where’s Logan?” I asked.

  “Headed for Longboat,” said Jimbo. “He and the chief spent the day sleeping in a hotel room in Port Charlotte, and then headed home. McClintoc left for Miami with the drugs. The helicopter was stolen in Orlando, and the owner sent a pilot down today to pick it up.”

  “What are your plans?” I asked Emilio.

  “I’m headed to Miami too, as soon as the agency gets a chopper here to pick me up. I’ll spend some time with the task force guys getting debriefed, and then back to D.C.”

  I joined them at the table. “Tell us about your cruise. Hard to beat a few days at sea.”

  “Lousy food, bad accommodations,” he said. “I wouldn’t recommend it for a honeymoon.”

  Emilio had gone back to Tlapa and met with Sergio Arguilles. The old immigrant handler was distressed to hear that some of the people he was sending to Veracruz were ending up as virtual slaves in Florida. Emilio didn’t tell him that Mendez was dead.

  “I only started dealing with Mendez about a year ago,” the old man had told Emilio. “The man I had worked with for years died, and Mendez took over. Now, somebody else has replaced Mendez.”

  Emilio told him that the authorities in Sarasota had identified the two dead men found with Pepe. Arguilles had sent them to Mendez, and he felt a personal responsibility for their death. He was willing to help Emilio put the smugglers out of business.

  Emilio boarded the mini-bus in Tlapa with three other young men. There was an air of excitement among the group, which grew to twelve as the bus stopped in two other villages along the way to Veracruz. They were going to America, and for the first time in their lives, they were experiencing a feeling of something like hope.

  The group arrived in Veracruz late at night and was taken directly to the dock where the Princess Sarah was moored. They were each given a bunk in the hold of the small ship, and told not to come topside during the day and only with express permission from the captain at night.

  The bunks were stacked three high in four tiers on either side of the hold. There was a small table in the middle, between the bunks, that was used for card games and eating. The food was mostly fish and a few potatoes, but there was plenty of it.

  The immigrants were told that if the boat was boarded, they should go quietly with the Coast Guard. If they didn’t say anything about the men who brought them this far, they’d get a free ride on the next trip. A money-back guarantee.

  The crew consisted of the captain, a mate and the cook who doubled as a deck hand. They were pleasant enough, and didn’t abuse the passengers in any way. There was no hint that drugs might be aboard, until the night the men were loaded into the go-fast boat off Longboat Key.

  Emilio told us that all twelve immigrants were put into the one boat, and then a duffel bag was handed over by the trawler’s captain. It was taken by a man with a rifle and stowed
in the stern of the go-fast. If Emilio hadn’t known about the drug smuggling, he would not have picked up on the transfer as anything but innocent. Just a bag of gear or clothes.

  Once in the house on Longboat Key, the immigrants were given bottled water and a sandwich and loaded into the van driven by the blonde woman. Emilio had removed the tracker beacon from his scrotum when he relieved himself in the house. He attached it to the underside of the back seat in the van when he boarded.

  “There was no water for showers on the boat,” he said, “so we pretty much stank when we got there. I didn’t mind that so much, but that damn beacon taped to my balls was about the worst thing I’ve ever been through.”

  The men were told by the blonde woman, in passable Spanish, that they were going to their new home and would be introduced to the labor boss the next morning. They’d be put to work in the fields, and would have to remit part of their salary each week to the labor boss to pay for room and board and their passage on the Princess Sarah. She did not tell them that they would be held as slaves, or that the payments to the boss would never be enough to pay off the debt, which rose incrementally with the interest tacked on each day.

  They were driven to one of the barracks in the labor camp and told to get a shower and settle in and get some sleep. The building was one story and held fifty single beds, twenty-five to a side. There was a locker beside each bed for personal belongings. A bathroom took up one end of the building, with a large shower stall and several lavatories and toilets.

  “They got us up at dawn,” said Emilio, “even though we’d only had two hours sleep. They told us we’d have to work off our passage before we could leave the camp. One of the men who came over with me told them that his family had paid Arguilles. This big Mexican guy holding a baseball bat told us that there were some other charges for the boat, and we’d have to work that off.”

  Emilio talked to some of the other workers as they were waiting to leave. He was told that some of the men had been held for a year or more. They had to buy their food and clothing from a store in the camp, and the cost was deducted from their pay, as was the rent for the bunkhouse. Most of them were charged more than they made, and the interest was building at a high rate. Many of them had decided they would not get out of the camp alive.