Murder Key

by H. Terrell Griffin

  They were taken in an old blue school bus to the fields about five miles from the camp and put to work harvesting a late crop of tomatoes. They were there when the Border Patrol found them.

  Emilio laughed. “I’ve never seen a bunch of Mexicans so glad to see the U.S. Border Patrol. They were free, and knew they’d be deported to Mexico. They also know they’ll be back in Florida within a few weeks.”

  Kyle poured himself another cup of coffee. “What do you think happened to the man Arguilles had been dealing with before Mendez came into the picture?” he asked.

  Emilio said, “I think Mendez showed up at the same time the drug shipments started. Until then, they were probably just shipping illegals into Sarasota. I think Mendez killed Arguelles’ contact in Veracruz, but we’ll never know for sure.”

  “Kyle,” I said, “what do we know about the house on Longboat where the drugs were coming in?”

  “Bill Lester called about that a little while ago. Turns out it’s owned by an elderly couple who live in Traverse City, Michigan, and they only use it during the winter months. They leased it to some guy, who probably doesn’t exist, for the months of April through December. The renter paid the whole thing up front and in cash.”

  I drank some more coffee. “I guess that about wraps it up,” I said, “but I still don’t know who’s trying to kill me.”

  Jock finally stirred. “Wilkerson or Hewett or whatever his name is, is the one who knows,” he said. “He’s on the run. The feds will get him sooner or later. I think it’s over as far as you’re concerned.”

  “Then, let’s go home.”

  * * * * *

  Sheriff Kyle Merryman had one of his deputies drive Jock and me to Longboat Key. I called Logan to see about dinner, but he said he was too tired to move.

  We decided that eating in would make more sense than going out for dinner. I ordered a pizza, and we sat in the living room eating it and discussing our adventure. As we called it a night, it occurred to me that it had been exactly three weeks since Diaz had tried to kill me in Tiny’s.

  * * * * *

  Jock left on Saturday morning, headed back to Houston. I dropped him at the airport and swung back by Lynches for lunch with Logan.

  We re-hashed the events of the past few days. I hadn’t told him about Anne, so I recounted what I’d begun to think of as the “great dumping.” Logan was sympathetic, but not much concerned.

  Most of November had slipped by without my noticing. There was a little chill in the morning air, hinting at the colder days to come. Thanksgiving was less than a week away, and Logan was planning his annual feast. He always invited the singles and older couples who had no family in the area. He’d have The Market cater it, and there’d be more food than we could eat. I always went, and I always felt a little more like a member of our island family after the event.

  Logan was headed home for a nap, still tired from his ordeal. I was antsy, a withdrawal symptom from the flood of adrenalin that had suffused my body for several days. I went to Mar Vista for a beer, looking for a little conversation with the regulars. I found more than I expected.

  Cracker Dix was at the bar. An expatriate Englishman who had lived on our key for years, he was a popular figure on the North End. He was bald and wore a closely trimmed beard. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt advertising a pub in Dorset. His voice still carried the accents of his homeland. “Matt,” he said, “somebody’s looking for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know. He was around at lunchtime asking if you ever came in here.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Hispanic guy. About five-eight and wiry. Had a crew-cut. Know him?”

  “I don’t think so, Cracker. If you see him again, give me a call. He may not be friendly.”

  “I’ve seen him hanging around for the past couple of days. He shows up at odd times, both here and at some of the other places on the North End.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Somebody was stalking me.

  Cracker said, “I heard about all the crap coming down on you. I didn’t even tell the guy I knew you. You sure must have pissed somebody off.”

  “Wish I knew who,” I said, but I thought I knew the answer to that.

  Some of the early snowbirds had returned to the key and were taking the sun while they lunched on the patio overlooking the bay. Halyards on sailboats anchored just offshore rattled in the light wind huffing its way toward us. A bow rider, with two small children in front and mom and dad at the helm, idled toward the Mar Vista dock. A tranquil autumn day in our version of paradise.

  Cracker and I sat and talked for a while, letting the afternoon wind down. I stopped to pick up a sandwich at Whitney Beach and went home. I entered my condo slowly, ready to bolt if anybody was there. I had my pistol in my windbreaker pocket, and I’d use it if I had to. The place was quiet, and I wondered if the Hispanic guy looking for me was benign. I didn’t think so.

  * * * * *

  On Sunday morning, I jogged on my usual stretch of beach for the first time since I’d found the dead Mexicans. Things were getting back to normal, and I couldn’t see any reason not to resume my routines.

  A northwest wind brought cooler air tumbling off the Gulf, a reminder that what passed for winter in these latitudes was coming.

  I kept a steady pace, running south, the hard-packed sand left from the previous night’s high tide providing a sturdy track. The sea was dead calm, not a ripple on its surface. The tide had left globs of seaweed in its wake, and sea gulls were pecking at the tiny crustaceans mired in the damp masses of brown plant matter. A lone pelican skimmed the water fifty feet off the beach, looking for breakfast. Sandpipers scurried out of my path, their tiny feet leaving no tracks in the sand.

  The quiet was broken by the sound of unmuffled marine engines. I glanced over my right shoulder and saw a blue go-fast boat approaching at high speed, running in close to shore. A rifleman was setting up in the bow, trying to gain some purchase on the gunwale.

  Geez, I thought, these guys never give up. I turned to my left, accelerating into a sprint. The beach wasn’t wide at this point, and I ran toward the seawall of a condo complex. I knew the area, and if I could make it to the buildings, my pursuers would never find me. I didn’t think they’d come ashore, but one can never tell.

  I zigged and zagged, and heard in my mind’s ear the long-ago shouts of a drill sergeant in Ranger School. “Goddamit, sir. Zag, don’t zig. Charlie will shoot yore ass off.”

  I heard the crack of the rifle and saw spurts of sand kicking up around me. I was at the seawall and decided to take the four steps up rather than jump. Bad decision, but I made it, with only a splinter of wood lodged in my calf from a bullet strike on the step above my feet.

  I hit the ground, rolled behind a cabbage palm and belly-crawled toward a hedge that ran the length of the property. I peeked through the branches and saw the go-fast headed out to sea, the rifleman stowing his weapon and waving at me.

  I stood and gave him the finger. I didn’t know if he could see it, but I felt better for it. I assessed my wounded calf, and pulled out a half-inch splinter. Nothing to it.

  I called 911 on my cell phone, identified myself and explained what had happened. I didn’t expect anybody to catch the boat, but I thought a good citizen should report a shooting.

  In a few minutes, a police cruiser came into the parking lot, its siren blaring. The officer parked and got out of the car, an apprehensive look on his face. I waved to get his attention. He trotted over, his equipment belt rattling.

  “You okay, Matt?” he asked.

  I recognized the young cop, but couldn’t recall his name. “I’m fine, thanks.” I told him what had happened.

  He grimaced. “I’m afraid there’s not much we can do,” he said, “but I’ll file a report. That go-fast is long-gone.”

  I agreed, and he drove me back to my condo.

  * * * * *

  I called David Parrish at home
. “I think somebody’s still after me,” I said. I told him about the man in Mar Vista and the go-fast incident. “I want to talk to Senator Conrad Foster.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think it can do any harm. Unless your people are closing in on him.”

  “We’ve gotten nowhere with that. We can’t find anything on him at all.”

  “Maybe if I talk to him, he’ll think you guys are close, and he’ll slip up somewhere.”

  “Let me check around, and I’ll get back to you. Keep your powder dry.”

  Whatever that meant. Parrish was from Georgia, and he didn’t always make sense to sane people. I laughed and hung up.

  Parrish called back at mid-afternoon. “Go for it,” he said. “But be careful, and let me know what happens.”

  37

  Murder Key

  THIRTY-SIX

  Monday morning. I called the senator’s office and told the receptionist who I was and that I needed to see Foster as soon as possible. She put me on hold, and then to my surprise, told me he could see me at eleven o’clock that morning. I had two hours to get downtown.

  Foster’s office was in a tall glass enclosed building on the corner of Tamiami Trail and Gulfstream Avenue on the Sarasota bay front. The glass was tinted and the clouds hanging over the bay reflected off the face of the structure. There always seemed to be a piece of plywood covering a spot where a window should have been. Sea Gulls would fly directly into the building, not realizing it was mirrored glass, and in the process of killing themselves, would break one more window. I was sure this was not a hazard contemplated by the architect when he designed the place.

  I took an elevator to the top floor and entered the double mahogany doors that had “Foster Enterprises, Inc.” in polished brass letters attached to them. I was welcomed by a brunette who could have graced the pages of Playboy Magazine. She wore a short skirt and a body hugging cotton blouse that didn’t quite hide her nipples. High heel sandals completed her wardrobe. She wasn’t tall, about five-feet-four, and her hair flowed to a point below the shoulders. I guessed her age at twenty-five, no more.

  Lisa, as she introduced herself to me, was a study in efficiency. She scurried about the office, getting me coffee and apologizing for the fact that the senator was running a bit late. I sipped my coffee and assured her that I was in no hurry.

  After about fifteen minutes, I heard a discreet buzz from the phone console in front of the salubrious Lisa. She answered crisply, listened for a moment, and said, “Right away, sir.”

  She rose and came out from behind her desk, smiled, and said, “The senator will see you now, Mr. Royal.”

  Who could ignore that invitation? I was on my feet and following right behind her, like a loyal dog. I was not unaware that the wasted fifteen minutes was deliberate on the senator’s part, but I had enjoyed the view of Lisa so much that I decided not to mention it.

  The senator was a tall distinguished looking man wearing a fifteen-hundred-dollar suit. He was about six-feet-two and trim as an athlete, with a long patrician face topped by a full head of white hair. He was in his late seventies, but could have passed for twenty years younger.

  Lisa opened the door and stood aside as I walked in. “Senator Foster, Mr. Matt Royal,” she said, and softly closed the door, retreating from the room.

  I was quite impressed. The office was plush, and the large windows overlooked Sarasota Bay and Big Pass out to the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Mr. Royal,” the senator said, coming around his desk, hand outstretched. “I’m Conrad Foster.”

  “I appreciate your seeing me, Senator.”

  “Glad to do it. Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you. Lisa took good care of me.” I sat in one of the high back chairs facing his desk.

  The senator took a seat beside me, abandoning the large executive chair behind the desk. “Sorry about the wait,” he said. “There’s always something unexpected coming up that I have to deal with it.” He smiled. “I understand that you’re working for one of my Mexicans.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Aren’t you representing Pepe Zaragoza?”

  “No, why would you think that?”

  “I’m mistaken. I know you’re a lawyer, and I just assumed you were working for Pepe.”

  That was an impossible leap of logic, unless he knew I was involved some way in the mess of the last few weeks. Even if he thought I was coming to see him on a legal matter, it didn’t follow that it had anything to do with his Mexican.

  “No,” I said. “Somebody’s trying to kill me, and I’m trying to figure out who and why. Your Mexican, as you call him, and I have the same interest. We want to stay alive.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Call off your goons.”

  “My goons? What in the world are you talking about Mr. Royal?”

  “Senator, I know you’re behind this. I just don’t know why you want me dead.”

  “Are you out of your mind, sir? I’m a responsible businessman and a respected member of this community. Why on earth would I want to kill you?”

  “Maybe because you think I know something about your drug running and immigrant smuggling operations.”

  “Mr. Royal,” he said, his voice steely, “I’m appalled that you’d think I’d be involved in anything like that. I hire my Mexican workers through brokers, just like every other farmer. I pay a fair wage, and I don’t look into their legal status. That’s not my job. I sure as hell don’t know anything about drugs.”

  “Do you know Byron Hewett?” I asked.

  “Yes. He’s one of the labor brokers I use. He leases land from me down in Merrit County to house his employees.”

  “Ever heard of Jimmy Wilkerson?”

  “Can’t say that I have.” He smiled.

  He was lying, but I had no way of proving it.

  “Senator,” I said, “you’re a liar.”

  He blanched, the color draining out of his face. “You impudent bastard,” he said, “I’ll squash you like a bug.”

  “I might be harder to squash than you think. Why don’t we just call a truce? You leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone.”

  He had raised his voice, anger flooding his face. “Get out!” he shouted.

  His finger stabbed a button on the phone, and he said, “Marie, come show Mr. Royal out.”

  I can take a hint. I turned to leave and found Marie Phillips standing at the door, a look of trepidation on her face. I was as shocked to see her as she was apparently to see me. I was surprised to find that her “corporate world” was the senator. She smiled tightly, more in dismay, I thought, than surprise. I didn’t think this was the kind of day she had in mind when she got out of bed that morning. I was quite certain she hadn’t planned on seeing me in Conrad Foster’s office.

  “Thank you, Marie,” I said, as I brushed past.

  37

  Murder Key

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Large clouds painted in shades of gunmetal gray hung low on the horizon, their faces lightly daubed with the burnt orange glow of the setting sun. Lightning flashed at their edges, signaling the coming of the small storm that would sweep in from the Gulf during the night. An eddy of cool air teased my face, reminding me that it would rain soon. The sand beneath my bare feet was still warm, holding the last vestige of heat from the daytime sun.

  I missed Anne. This was our time of day, walking the beach, holding hands, sipping from flutes of white wine. She would giggle at the antics of the sandpipers running from the small surf that passed for waves on our shores and rail at the raucous gulls, scavengers who chased the smaller birds and stole their food.

  I hadn’t heard from her since that day at the Sports Page. I hadn’t called her, either. It’s a fine idea for lovers to remain friends after the fires of passion have died, or been transferred to someone else, but the reality is altogether different. For me, there was pain, and regret
, and pride, and loneliness, all wrapped together to create a bundle of irresolution. I was in that state where I didn’t want to think about her, but couldn’t get her out of my mind. Every mundane little thing reminded me of her.

  I’d walk into a restaurant, or a bar, and remember the times we’d been there together. A song, or a scent, or the sight of a long-legged brunette would send daggers to skewer my heart.

  Waning love is like a balloon that deflates over time, growing ever less robust, until finally it’s only a wrinkled mess; a mess that was once a beautiful emotion floating above an uncertain world. And when the air goes out of only one of the lovers, the other is left with jealously, a monster with a voracious appetite that sucks the logic from an otherwise engaged brain, leaving only memories that were once lovely, but at the end are bitter shadows that haunt the daylight.

  So I walked the beach in the late afternoon, two days before Thanksgiving, feeling sorry for myself. People were trying to kill me for reasons I didn’t understand, and my love had dumped me like so much outdated food.

  I knew the senator was the bad guy, but I couldn’t figure out a way to prove it. If the whole weight of the local, state and federal governments couldn’t get him, I didn’t think I would.

  If we could get a line on Byron Hewett or the blonde woman who drove the van, we might be able to get somewhere. The crew of the Princess Sarah had been no help. They just knew that they delivered their cargo to the go-fast boats, and they were paid when they returned to Veracruz.

  The go-fast boaters were low-level people who were paid in cash by their leader, who in turn was paid by the blonde woman at the house on Longboat Key when he delivered the drugs and immigrants. They seemed to be otherwise uninvolved.