Orchid Beach hb-1

by Stuart Woods

  As she drove north the subdivisions grew in size, and one or two of them had an actual guard posted in the gatehouse, who waved her in when they saw her police uniform. In these neighborhoods, the lots were an acre or more and the houses more elaborate, some with white columns out front and circular driveways. Here the tennis courts were behind individual houses, and the beach houses were well into the million-dollar bracket, she reckoned.

  She continued north and came to a state park, which turned out to be nothing more than a beach with a parking lot and rest rooms. Back on the road, the subdivisions were becoming more spectacular. She visited one, the reason for which seemed to be polo, and there were actually people on horseback swinging mallets at balls. “We’re in the two-million-dollar category now,” she said aloud to herself.

  She drove all the way up to the Sebastian Inlet, where the river emptied into the sea under a large bridge; then she turned around and started south toward town. Now she visited subdivisions on the river side of the islands, most of which had marinas and golf courses, sometimes more than one. She thought of her father and how he loved his golf. She had played with him a lot and enjoyed it, but she had been working too hard to have the time to play often. Nothing had changed in that regard.

  Now she came to a subdivision that was different from the others in several respects. It was larger, if the length of the twenty-foot-high hedge along the road was any indication; there was more than a mile of it before and after the main gate. Behind the guardhouse, she saw as she turned off the road, the interior of the development was shielded from the main road by an equally high hedge. The place was visually sealed off from the rest of Orchid Beach. There was a live guard at work, too, and this one was armed, the first time she’d seen that. She pulled to a stop next to the guardhouse. Ahead of her was an electrically operated wrought-iron barrier, and a few feet beyond that, steel claws erupted from the pavement. Anybody attempting to crash the gate would quickly lose all his tires to that contraption.

  “Good afternoon,” she said to the guard.

  He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “I’m Deputy Chief Holly Barker from the Orchid Beach Police Department,” she said. “I’d like to take a look around inside. I’m new and just getting to know the territory.”

  “Sorry, miss,” he said, avoiding using her rank. “Residents only.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” she said. “I’m a police officer, and this development is in my jurisdiction.”

  “Sorry, no one is allowed inside without a resident’s sticker or an employee’s badge.”

  “Who is your chief?” she asked.

  “Captain Noble,” he said.

  “Get him on the phone.”

  The man looked at her for a moment. He was large, muscular and very fit looking. His uniform fit him like a glove, and he looked capable of handling anything that might come along. He picked up a phone and, turning his back on Holly, spoke into it, then hung up. “Captain Noble will come down and speak to you,” he said. “Pull right over there and park your car.” He indicated a parking spot a few yards away.

  Holly parked her car and got out, stretching her legs. Daisy sat up and looked around, then lay down and curled up again. Nothing happened. She waited five minutes, then walked over to the guardhouse. “So where is he?”

  “On his way, miss.”

  As she was about to turn away, she glanced down and through the open door, saw an Armalite assault rifle in a rack under the countertop where the guard sat. She was about to mention it when the exit gate opened. A white Range Rover pulled out, made a U-turn and stopped at the guardhouse. On each front door of the vehicle was painted a symbol, a palmetto plant.

  “You’re Deputy Chief Barker?” the driver asked.

  “That’s right,” Holly replied.

  “I’m Barney Noble,” the man said, smiling and sticking his hand out the window. “I run the security operation at Palmetto Gardens.”

  Holly shook the hand, which was hard and cool. “Good to meet you. I was just driving around, getting to know the area, and I thought I’d take a look at Palmetto Gardens. Little did I know,” she said, indicating the guard.

  Barney Noble grinned. “I run a pretty tight ship,” he said. “Hop in, and I’ll show you around.”

  “Just a minute,” she said. Holly walked over to her car and said to Daisy. “Stay, Daisy. Guard the car.” She made sure the car was well ventilated, then she walked back to the Range Rover and got in. The gate ahead of them opened, the steel claws retracted into the pavement and the car moved forward.

  “Welcome to Orchid,” Noble said. “I’d heard you’d arrived in town.”

  “Yes, just last weekend.”

  “How’s Chet Marley doing?”

  “Not well,” she said. “He’s still in a coma.”

  “I heard he came out of it,” Noble said.

  That was interesting to Holly. How did he know that? “For a few minutes, then he went under again.”

  “Sorry to hear it. Chet’s a good man. We played a little poker once in a while.”

  They had passed the barrier hedge now, and the landscape opened up in a wonderful way. They were driving along the shore of a large lake on one side of the road and a golf course on the other.

  “This is beautiful,” Holly said.

  “Just between you and me, it’s the most beautiful real estate development in Florida, and I’ve seen most of them in my line of work.”

  “Why have I never heard of it?” she asked.

  “The folks who live here like to lead a quiet life. They’re among the richer people in this country—CEOs of large corporations, heads of conglomerates, billionaires of every stripe. It’s a private club, really; we don’t advertise for customers. It’s all word of mouth among friends. You’d recognize a lot of the names of the members, but I’m not allowed to mention them.”

  “What sort of security force do you have?”

  “I’ve got fifteen men—twelve usually on duty or on call—there’s always somebody on vacation or out sick or something.”

  “Are they all armed?” she asked.

  “All armed and very well trained to use their weapons,” he replied. “We’ve got our own firing range back in the woods there.” He waved a hand vaguely to his right.

  They passed what looked like the business district of a tiny village—grocery, drugstore, news shop, dry cleaner, doctor, dentist.

  “We’ve got just about everything we need here,” Noble said. “None of our members ever has to go to town.” He slowed and pointed at a low building. “That’s my bailiwick right there. It’s like a small-town police station, really. We’ve got a small lockup and the usual equipment.”

  “Does that include assault weapons?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I assume everything is properly licensed.”

  “Sure. Florida as a state is pretty liberal about gun ownership, and we’re licensed by the state as a private security service.”

  They drove through the village, and homes began to appear on both sides of the road, at widely separated intervals—or rather, gates began to appear. The houses were nearly invisible behind lush tropical plantings.

  “How long has this place been in business?” Holly asked.

  “A little over twenty years,” Noble replied. “The first five was mostly the construction of the village and the infrastructure, which is considerable. We’ve got our own water and sewage treatment plants and a backup generating system that pops on if there’s a power failure. None of our members ever goes more than five seconds without electrical power, even in a hurricane.”

  They passed a house under construction; it was huge.

  “Is that representative of the size of the houses in this place?” Holly asked.

  “Sure is. There’s nothing under ten thousand square feet here.”

  They passed the Palmetto Gardens Country Club, with a clubhouse that was large and comfortable looki
ng.

  “We’ve got three eighteen-hole courses here,” Noble said. “Every one of them the equal of anything in the country.”

  “For how many members?” she asked.

  “That’s confidential, but let’s just say that our people don’t like to reserve tee times. They like to walk out there and play, so we keep it uncrowded.”

  “My dad is a big golfer,” she said. “He’s a senior master sergeant in the army, stationed in North Carolina.”

  “Does he ever get down this way?”

  “He plans to.”

  “Tell him to call me, and I’ll give him a round here. Certain employees are allowed to use the facilities.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said, meaning it. “Ham would love that.”

  “Ham? Ham Barker?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t get the connection. I did a tour with him in Vietnam.”

  “No kidding. That’s three people he knows here, then.”

  “Yeah, except two of them…I heard about Hank Doherty. That’s a tough way to go when you’ve been through what he has.”

  “Did you serve with Hank and Chet, too?”

  “I knew them both in the army, but we were never in the same outfit, like Ham and me. How is the old fart?”

  “He’s got his thirty in; he’ll be retiring one of these days. Did you know my mother?”

  Noble shook his head. “There weren’t any wives where we were.”

  They passed a sign saying AIRFIELD.

  “You’ve got a landing strip here, too?”

  “Six thousand feet of it. We can take anything up to and including a Gulfstream V. All of our people arrive and depart by private aircraft. We’ve got the only instrument landing system in the country at a private airport. When our foreign members arrive, we arrange to have customs and immigration here to clear them, so they can fly directly here, nonstop, from any airport anywhere. It’s a great convenience not to have to stop at a port of entry to clear.”

  “These people have their own little world here, don’t they?”

  “Now you’ve got the picture. These guys work like slaves most of the time; they’re glad to get down here for a little golf or tennis and some R and R.”

  They could see the Indian River now, and a marina with some large motor yachts.

  “Some of them come by sea, now and then,” Noble said.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Holly replied.

  “Neither has anybody else,” Noble said.

  “I was surprised to be denied entry to part of my jurisdiction.”

  “Sorry about that, but you have to remember that this is private property. Legally you couldn’t come in without a search warrant, but if ever you want in, just give me a call and I’ll tell the gate man you’re coming.”

  “Thanks. You should warn your people, though, that if we have an emergency or a crime out here, my people are not going to wait at the gate.”

  Noble laughed. “Well, we’re what you might call a crime-free area,” he said. “We’ve never had so much as a burglary, so I don’t think we’ll be needing the services of the Orchid Beach PD anytime soon.”

  “Tell me,” Holly said, “why does such a crime-free development need a security force of fifteen, armed with automatic weapons?”

  Noble laughed. “Let’s just say our people like us to err on the side of caution. You have to understand the mind-set with people at this level: most of them have bodyguards, armored limousines and elaborate security precautions at their other homes. You never know when somebody is going to try to kidnap some corporate executive, as happened in New Jersey a few years ago. Remember the oil company president who was taken and died of a gunshot wound?”

  “Yes, I read about that.”

  “That case and the Unabomber made a big difference in the way corporate America looked at personal security. A lot of boards of directors insisted that their top execs beef up their protection.”

  They had completed a huge circle now and were approaching the gate. Noble pulled the Range Rover up to her car, stopped and held out his hand. “You let me know when Ham visits, and I’ll get him on the course.”

  “Thanks, Barney,” Holly said, shaking his hand. “I’ll call when you least expect it.” She got out of the vehicle and went to her car, profoundly impressed with what she had seen. It was a dream world for a privileged few—and their security force. She wondered what would happen if one of these people murdered another. She’d probably never even hear about it, she reckoned.

  CHAPTER

  22

  H olly worked seven days a week for her first two weeks on the job. She concentrated on getting to know her force by name and assignment, and on getting to know their experience and capabilities. There were four women on the force, none of them on the street; she rotated them onto patrols and decided that the next four vacancies she had would go to women applicants. She discussed this with Hurd Wallace, who nodded and said little. She was becoming accustomed to his reptilian stillness and his reticent manner, and she began to know that he had a good grasp of the department. He was a capable man, and she wondered why Chet Marley had been reluctant to promote him further. Chet occasionally showed signs of coming out of his coma, but always regressed.

  Late in her third week, on Friday afternoon, she had a phone call.

  “Holly Barker,” she said.

  “It’s Jackson.”

  She had been dreading this. She wanted to see him, but was reluctant to do so.

  “You were supposed to call me two weeks ago,” he said.

  “Jackson, I’m sorry. Look, let me lay my cards on the table. I feel that I’m under the gun here. The city council has already told me they’d prefer to have somebody else in this job, and I don’t want to give them anything to use against me. I think they might frown on a police officer seeing somebody who’s on the opposite side in the courtroom.”

  “Do you really think that’s a legitimate concern?”

  “No, but it’s a concern.”

  “Let me ask you straight out, Holly: do you have any interest in me?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said without hesitation. “But I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t think we should be seen together in restaurants and at the movies, not until I’ve got my feet firmly on the ground here and have more political support.”

  “That’s prudent, and I understand completely.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” she said.

  “I think the solution to our problem is not to appear together in public.”

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  “I think the immediate solution is for me to cook you dinner at my house tonight.”

  She laughed. “Well, I guess that’s not too public. Can I bring Daisy?”

  “Do you go anywhere without that dog?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Here’s what you do: When you leave your trailer park, turn right and drive three point three miles south—I measured it—then turn left into a dirt driveway. There’s no sign, not even a mailbox. Follow that road to its end, and you’re there. Seven o’clock?”

  “Okay, you’re on.” She hung up and sighed. Her resolve had vanished at the first opportunity.

  Holly missed the driveway and had to turn around and hunt for it. It was no wonder: the narrow dirt road was nearly overgrown on both sides, and branches scraped against her car as she drove. Daisy was sniffing the air.

  “Smell the ocean, Daisy? It’s got to be down here somewhere.” It was. By the time she came to the house, she could hear the surf. The house appeared to be fairly old and was neatly painted white, with green hurricane shutters. Jackson Oxenhandler was standing on the porch, waiting for her.

  “You’re fashionably late,” he called as she got out of her car, walked up the stairs and presented her lips for a light kiss.

  “My mother brought me up not to appear too eager,” Holly replied. “What
a nice place.”

  “Come on inside,” Jackson said. He led her into a large room that seemed to cover most of the first floor, along with a kitchen, separated from the living room by only a counter.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, stopping and looking around her. “How does a public defender who wears unpressed suits and drives a fifteen-year-old car afford a place like this in Orchid, and right on the beach?”

  “You’re a suspicious person,” Jackson said.

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “Well, I’m only occasionally a public defender. A decent litigator gets paid fairly well in Orchid, and occasionally I get a plum. This place was a plum. Come have a look out front.” He led her out onto a broad front porch overlooking dunes that led down to the sea, less than a hundred yards away.

  “This is just perfect,” she said. “Tell me about the plum.”

  “I defended a rather well-off citrus grower who was stopped by the cops for speeding, and who turned out to have twenty kilos of cocaine in his trunk, which came as something of a surprise to him.”

  “Did you get him off?”

  “Of course. He was innocent. One of his fruit pickers had used his car to transport the goods when the boss was out of town. The owner returned unexpectedly, before the man had a chance to transfer the dope. It took me nearly a year to get him off, and he ran up quite a legal bill. I took this property in exchange for services, then I saw something in the paper about an old Florida farmhouse that was about to be torn down and was being offered practically free to anyone who would move it. I took a look at it, paid a hundred bucks for it, had it sawn in half, moved down here and reassembled. A couple of hundred grand later, it is as you see it. I had to get a mortgage, but it was quite a bargain.”

  “It’s just grand,” she said. “How’d you ever get the house down that driveway?”

  “There was no driveway when I moved it, just open land. I planted all that foliage you drove through. Things grow fast around here. Take a rocking chair, and I’ll get you a drink. What would you like?”