Murder Key

by H. Terrell Griffin

  Yet, someone in a go-fast was stalking me, and somebody else was asking my friends about my routines. They had to be the senator’s men.

  I’d asked Rufus Harris about Merc Maitland and Jeep in Orlando and was told that they had been left in place in hopes that when the drug connection came back up, Merc and Jeep would be part of it.

  Interestingly, there was no thought among the various government agencies that they had stopped, or even hindered, the flow of drugs. When they rolled up one group, another took its place within a matter of days. Rufus said it was like King Canute trying to roll back the ocean waves.

  I’d cut a man’s throat, and the fact that he deserved it didn’t make me feel any better. This wasn’t the first time I’d killed somebody, and it wasn’t even the first time I’d cut a throat. I remembered them all. I had committed that most intimate act, homicide, and I didn’t even know the names of the men I’d killed. They’d died knowing I was their executioner, and they had no idea who I was. Most of them had been soldiers, good men probably, who were just doing their duty. And I knew for a certainty that they would have killed me had I given them the chance. Still... .

  Recently, I’d killed two bad guys on Egmont Key and felt no remorse. Yet, now, knowing that the man I’d killed in that shed at the labor camp was looking forward to throwing me out of a helicopter, I was feeling - what? Regret? I didn’t think so, but I’d have to chew on it a little; maybe talk to Jock who had more experience with this sort of thing.

  Perhaps we hadn’t solved anything. The drugs were still coming in, and the government seemed incapable of even slowing the tidal wave of illegals slipping across the border. We were no closer to finding out who killed the Mexicans or Dwight Conley. Pepe Zaragoza was in jail, charged with the murders of the migrants I’d found on the beach, and I thought he was innocent.

  At least Buddy Gilchrist and the Mexican Consulate in Orlando had gotten Pepe a good lawyer. Richard Wright was as good as they came in a courtroom, but the clerk’s computer had randomly assigned Pepe’s case to Judge P. R. Linder. I’d heard that he and Wright were old friends, and that might help. Linder was known in the circuit for his conservatism and was widely thought of as a hanging judge.

  I briefly considered offering my legal service to the defense team, but then came back to reality. I was retired from the practice of law. Wright was one of the new generation of trial lawyers, feisty, brilliant and tenacious. But then, so was Judge Linder. Pepe was in good hands under the circumstances.

  My thoughts circled back to my predicament. I could only guess at who was after me. I could prove nothing. I hoped that my conversation with the senator that morning had backed him off.

  Marie Phillips was another matter. I’d been surprised to see her in the senator’s office, and I was unsure of what her place was in the scheme of things. The coincidence of the blonde Marie Phillips in the senator’s office and the blonde van driver was too exquisite to dismiss.

  On leaving the building, I had stopped to speak to the security guard in the lobby. They usually knew everything going on in their bailiwick. I asked if he knew Marie.

  The man grinned lasciviously and winked at me. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “she’s Senator Foster’s administrative assistant.” He winked again as I thanked him.

  What about the deputy we’d seen her with at the Bridge Tender Inn? Was he the source of the leaks? Was she using the poor guy, or was he part of the drug ring?

  I’d called bill Lester as soon as I’d left the building, and he was looking into both Marie and the deputy.

  Every time I thought I knew what was going on, something cropped up to change my outlook. I did know that I was dog-tired of people trying to kill me. I wanted my old life back, the one where my biggest worry was what kind bait to use for the fish.

  It was nearing five o’clock; time to give up on the self-pity and head for Tiny’s. A beer and conversation with friends never failed to cheer me up. I’d call Logan and meet him there. He’d recovered from his ordeal at the labor camp, and was talking about renewing his helicopter license.

  * * * * *

  I left the beach and crossed Gulf of Mexico Drive, walking at a fast clip. I didn’t want to become road kill for some snowbird on his way to the Publix. The island was filling up with our winter visitors. They always brought an energy with them that was lacking during the summer, and I looked forward to their return. I also watched the traffic a little more closely.

  I crossed the parking lot of my complex and took the elevator to the second floor. As I entered my condo, I noticed that the drapes covering the sliding glass doors out to my balcony had been drawn, casting gloom into an area usually awash with sunlight and a view of the bay. I assumed the maids had been in and for some reason decided to darken the place.

  I was walking toward the drapes when I became aware of another presence in the room. My eyes had adjusted, and I could see a man sitting on my sofa.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Royal.” It was the cracker accent of Byron Hewett.

  He reached up and turned on the lamp that sat on the table at the end of the sofa. He had a twenty-two-caliber pistol in his right hand, a long silencer affixed to the barrel. It was pointing right at me.

  “If you’d have let me know you were coming, Byron, I’d have put some coffee on.”

  He laughed. “I won’t be here long enough to drink it,” he said.

  “What do you want, Byron?”

  “Ah, Mr. Royal, I brought you a message. ‘Some bugs aren’t so hard to squash after all.’” He laughed again, a low rumbling from deep in his throat, ending in a snort. He stood up and took a step toward me, raising the pistol.

  I’d moved a step or two closer to Byron while he sat on the couch. “So, you work for the senator,” I said. “If that’s all you wanted to say, you can leave now.”

  “Can’t do that, Mr. Royal. Me and this little old twenty-two are about to squash you, just like the man said.”

  I was only an arm’s length from him now. His eyes tightened, his mouth twisting into a rictus of malevolence. “You pretty much ruined a good deal for a lot of people,” he said.

  “It wasn’t much of a deal for the Mexicans, or the kids you infected with your damn drugs.”

  “Screw ‘em, is what I say. Who gives a shit about a bunch of Mexicans? And those kids are gonna get their drugs somewhere.”

  “But not from you. And not from the senator. At least not for a while.”

  “You sure got a way about you, Mr. Royal. You just flat-out piss me off.”

  He raised the pistol higher, pointing at my face. I had to take the chance. I’d probably be dead before I touched him, but I wasn’t just going to stand there and take a bullet.

  In the split second that I was willing my arm to move toward the pistol, I heard a key slide into the lock of my front door. It turned loudly, back and forth. Out of habit, I had engaged the dead bolt when I came in. A key wouldn’t open the door from the outside.

  It was probably Larry, the condo maintenance supervisor, trying to get in for some reason, not realizing that I was home.

  No more than a second had elapsed, though it seemed longer. My arm was coming up, when the noise from the lock distracted Byron. His eyes went to the door in a reflexive movement, and I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, twisting it up as I brought it over my head. I clasped the fist holding the gun with my right hand and twisted it down behind his back. That action put me behind him. I still gripped his wrist, and I brought it up forcefully behind his back, pushing toward his shoulder blades.

  The pistol fired as I brought the arm around. Pfft. Almost no sound. The bullet hit the ceiling, and plaster fell around us. Byron screamed in agony as the head of his humerus was jerked out of the shoulder socket. The gun dropped on the carpet.

  We went to the floor, my knee in his back. I was still exerting upward pressure on his wrist, twisting his arm up toward his shoulder.

  Larry yelled through the door. “Matt, are you in
there?”

  “Call 911, Larry. Get the police here. Now!”

  “Okay, Matt.”

  I could hear him talking on his cell phone, summoning help. I leaned down close to Byron, talking quietly, directly into his ear. “Listen, you scumbag. You’ve got one chance to get out of here alive. Tell me who runs this thing.” I put more upward pressure on his arm.

  “The senator,” Byron said, between gasps of pain.

  “How does he distribute the drugs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I pushed his wrist higher on his back, my right hand grabbing a handful of greasy hair, pulling his head backward.

  He screamed. “Honest. I don’t have anything to do with the drugs. I don’t think the senator does either. We just handle the Mexicans.”

  I pulled harder on his head. “Who’s in charge of the drugs?”

  “Don’t know. The blonde woman handles all that.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I’ve never heard it. Honest.”

  I put more upward pressure on his arm, eliciting another scream of pain. “You can do better than that, Byron,” I said.

  “No. We’ve been doing the Mexicans for about five years now, and last year the senator told me we were going to be bringing in drugs with the illegals.”

  I could hear sirens in the distance. “Tell me the rest of it, Byron. You’ve got about one minute.”

  “That’s all I know. The senator didn’t want to get involved with the drugs, but he said somebody was putting pressure on him.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. He did say something about his daughter once, and I thought she might be involved, but I never met her.”

  There was a pounding on the door. “The police are here, Matt,” Larry shouted.

  “I’m coming,” I said.

  Then to Byron, “I’ve got your gun. If you move, I’ll kill you.”

  I got up, backed to the door and opened it for Larry. He stood aside as two policemen came in, guns drawn.

  “You okay, Matt?” said one of them.

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s Byron Hewett. He keeps trying to kill me.”

  Byron lay on the floor, groaning, his right arm resting at an unhealthy angle.

  * * * * *

  As soon as the cops left with Byron, I called Bill Lester and told him what had happened. “I think we’ve got enough now to arrest the good senator,” I said.

  “I’ll have Sarasota PD pick him up. You okay?”

  “Yeah. I guess I’m getting used to this crap.”

  Bill laughed. “Come on down to the station and give us a statement while it’s fresh.”

  “Can I take a shower first?”

  “Probably a good idea. Don’t want you stinking up the place.” He hung up.

  * * * * *

  Thirty minutes later, I walked into the Longboat Key Police station. The receptionist looked up and smiled. “Glad you’re okay, Matt. Go on back. The chief’s waiting for you.”

  Bill Lester was at his desk in the small room that served as his office. Stacks of documents and loose leaf binders full to overflowing covered every surface. He always complained about the futility of trying to keep up with the paper work. He’d rather be on the street chasing criminals, even though there weren’t that many bad guys on Longboat Key.

  He looked up as I knocked on his open door. “Bad news, buddy,” he said. “The senator’s disappeared.”

  “Any idea where he’s gone?”

  “No, but his private jet left Sarasota-Bradenton about an hour ago. His pilot filed a flight plan for Key West, but they’re not there. We don’t know where he’s headed.”

  I sat in the chair across from Bill. “He must have been feeling the heat,” I said.

  “Guess so.”

  “At least we’ve got Byron.”

  Bill grinned. “There’s that,” he said. “Let me get a stenographer in here and get your statement.”

  “Bill, we’re back to square one, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was thinking this afternoon that the senator might have backed off, but he obviously hasn’t. The fact that we’ve got Byron isn’t going to stop others from coming after me. And I don’t think Pepe Zaragoza killed those Mexicans.”

  “I agree with you about Pepe, but the forensic evidence is probably enough to convict him. I told the State Attorney I didn’t think Zaragoza was guilty, but he’s looking for a conviction.”

  “Maybe we’ll find the senator, or maybe Byron knows something. Maybe pigs will fly.”

  Bill sighed. “Don’t give up on the system, Matt. Byron’s in the hospital pretty well sedated right now, but I’ll make a run at him tomorrow. You put a hurtin’ on the bastard.”

  “Somebody else will come, Bill. Maybe I ought to take out an ad on the front page of the Observer and let the idiots know that I don’t know anything.”

  “I don’t think it’s about what you know, now. I think it’s about revenge. You were responsible for busting up a pretty good little racket. They’re not likely to forget that. But, maybe since Byron’s out of the picture and the senator is off to parts unknown, they’ll leave you alone.”

  I thought he was whistling in the dark, but I didn’t say it.

  Darkness had descended while we talked, and a light rain had begun to fall. Through the window of the chief’s office, I could see that the asphalt parking lot that served both the police station and the firehouse next door, had acquired a wet sheen, causing the lights on the buildings to reflect into the night sky.

  “You hungry?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Give the girl your statement and let’s go to the Haye Loft. I get an erection every time I think about their coconut cream pie.”

  “You’re getting old, Chief,” I said.

  37

  Murder Key

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  On the day before Thanksgiving, the sun rose over the bay in burnt orange and yellow splendor. As dawn crept over the island, I sat on my balcony drinking coffee and reading the morning paper. Cold air was sweeping out of the north, and I was wearing a sweatshirt and long pants for the first time that year. The breeze kicked up small whitecaps on the gray surface of the bay. The tide was out, and the sour smell of the mud flats tickled my nose. Sea birds were wading in the shallows, picking at their breakfast. Gulls, the eternal scavengers, hovered nearby, squawking their displeasure at each other, waiting for a morsel of food to fall their way. Occasionally, a small boat with rods poking out of their holders would move up the Intracoastal channel, bound for the fishing grounds.

  My phone rang. Bill Lester asked if I wanted to join him while he interviewed Byron Hewett. He would be by to pick me up at nine o’clock.

  We drove across Anna Maria Island, turning east on Cortez Rd. At 59th Street we turned north and pulled into the parking lot of Blake Hospital. Bill parked in a spot marked for police vehicles only. I suggested that his unmarked might get towed. He shrugged, and we went inside.

  We took the elevator up two floors, and the chief stopped at the nurse’s station, his identification in his hand. He had a whispered conversation with a middle-aged nurse dressed in scrubs. He motioned to me and I followed him down to hall to where a Manatee County Deputy Sheriff sat in the hall outside a room. He recognized the chief and opened the door for us.

  Byron was shackled to the bed by his left wrist. His right arm was in a sling, resting on a pillow placed across his chest.

  “Byron,” said the chief in a conversational tone, “you’re in a heap of shit.”

  Hewett gave Bill a sullen look. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Bill Lester, Longboat Key Chief of Police. I want to ask you a few questions.”

  Byron moved in the bed, and grimaced in pain. “I got nothing to say to you,” he said.

  Bill pulled up a chair and sat. “I think you do. The sooner we get finished the sooner you’ll get some meds for that pain.”


  “You can’t do that,” said Hewitt.

  “Do what?” said Bill.

  “Withhold my medication.”

  The chief gave Byron his most innocent look. “I’m not withholding anything,” he said. “The nurse just told me she can’t give you any meds until we’re through here. Afraid they might make you incoherent. We might have to stay a while, just to keep you company.”

  Byron shifted in the bed, trying to find a comfortable spot. “I’m expecting to hear from my lawyer any time now,” he said. “He’ll straighten you out.”

  Bill chuckled. “Ah, Byron,” he said, “didn’t you know that the senator took off in his jet yesterday about the same time you were getting the hell beat out of you by my buddy Matt? I’m betting he didn’t call a lawyer for you, and besides, you’re not under arrest, yet.”

  “If I’m not under arrest, why am I handcuffed to the bed?”

  “Just looking out for your welfare, Byron,” the chief said. “If we arrest you before you finish your stay in the hospital, the town will be liable for your bill. We can’t have that, now, can we?”

  “You’re lying about the senator,” Hewett said.

  Lester picked up the bedside phone. “Here.” he said, holding it out to Byron. “Call him. I know you’ve got an emergency number. Let’s see if he answers.”

  Byron looked at the phone. “How the hell do you expect me to hold that thing with no hands?”

  The chief looked perplexed. “Tell you what, Byron,” he said, “give me the number, and I’ll dial it and hold it up to your ear.”

  The dumb cracker recited a number from memory. I knew that within minutes of leaving this room, the chief would know where that phone was located.

  Bill dialed the number and held the receiver to Hewett’s ear. I could hear the sound of the rings coming out of the ear piece. The longer it rang, the more Byron’s face drooped, the look of hope draining slowly away. He was beginning to realize that he alone would take the full weight of retribution demanded by society and the U.S. Attorney.