Orchid Beach hb-1

by Stuart Woods

  “What can I do for you, Holly?”

  “I was just looking at the map you gave me, and I noticed that, with all the north-end developments, streets and lots are outlined.”

  “That’s right. We include everything in developments where the city or county has built roads or installed sewer and water lines.”

  “I notice that one place, Palmetto Gardens, is shown as just an empty space.”

  “That’s correct. It’s a completely private development, which has made no demands for city services. In fact, they petitioned, early on, to have the whole of their acreage removed from the city limits, but the city council didn’t buy it because of the tax situation. If they’d been outside the city limits, they wouldn’t be paying property taxes, which, I suppose, was their intent. They also petitioned to be removed from the oversight of this department for planning purposes, and the council gave them that. That’s why there are no roads or lots marked on the map; they built their own. It’s officially none of our business what they do out there.”

  “I see there’s a road called Jungle Trail along the river.”

  “Right. It starts up at the north end of the island next to the Sebastian Inlet and runs nearly all the way to the south bridge. I think that when the council cut Palmetto Gardens out of the planning authority’s jurisdiction, they didn’t realize they were giving them the right to close that part of the road on their property to outsiders. There was a lot of anger about it, because that road was practically a city park, and, in fact, the rest of it has now been given that status, even though it crosses a lot of private property. Jungle Trail is a big favorite with bike riders and hikers.”

  “I see. Thanks for the information. ’Bye.” Holly hung up.

  There was a knock on her door.

  “Come in.”

  Jane Grey stuck her head in. “The telephone man is here to put in your private line,” she said.

  “Oh, good, tell him to come ahead.” Holly had ordered the line at her own expense, because she felt uncomfortable talking to Jackson over departmental lines.

  A man wearing a tool belt and carrying a telephone came in. “Hi, I’m Al,” he said, and went to work.

  Holly was still looking at the map. “Al,” she said, “did you ever do any work on the phones out at Palmetto Gardens?”

  “I worked on putting in their basic service a long time ago,” he said.

  “What do you mean by basic service?”

  “Well, it’s like when you do an office building: you run in the lines they’ve ordered to a central box, then they complete the installation. They’ll buy a phone system from somebody like Lucent or Panasonic, and the supplier’s people will run all the lines and extensions.”

  “And that’s what you did at Palmetto Gardens?”

  “Well, yeah, but it was pretty elaborate. They ordered something like two thousand lines.”

  “That many?”

  “Well, you figure they have a few hundred houses, and what with fax machines and computers they might have, say, four lines each. Then you’ve got all the common lines—the clubhouse, shops, maintenance, security, all that. It adds up. In the case of Palmetto Gardens, the company had to open a new prefix, just for them. Nobody had ever asked for two thousand lines before. It’s like they built a small town, from scratch.” He screwed something together and placed the new phone on her desk. “There you are. All hooked up.”

  “Thanks, A1.”

  He went on his way.

  Holly called Jackson. “Okay, I’ve got a private line.” She gave him the number.

  “Does this mean I can talk dirty on the phone now?”

  “Certainly not, you pervert.”

  “Then what’s the point of having a private line?”

  “Oh, all right, you can talk dirty.”

  “Wish I could, but I’m due in court,” he said.

  “Promises, promises. See you tonight.”

  “Oh, I talked to my buddy at the airport. He’s shooting our pictures today, and for only twelve hundred bucks.”

  “A bargain. See you tonight.” She hung up, called Ham and gave him the number. “How’s Daisy?”

  “She’s okay. I think she misses you, though.”

  “I’ll come out there and get her later this afternoon,” Holly said.

  “Maybe I’ll get a dog of my own.”

  “Good idea.”

  “This one is kind of spooky.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, she brought me a beer yesterday.”

  “She does that. You just say, ‘Daisy, bring me a beer.’”

  “I didn’t say anything, she just did it.”

  “Maybe you looked thirsty.”

  “Probably.”

  “See you later.” Holly hung up and looked at the map again. Maybe it was time she saw Jungle Trail.

  CHAPTER

  38

  H olly drove out A1A to Sebastian Inlet, and took a left on an unpaved road marked JUNGLE TRAIL. The road ran along the northern end of the island for a mile or so, then curved south along the shores of the Indian River. Soon the river was obscured by heavy foliage; the road wasn’t called Jungle Trail for nothing.

  She drove slowly down the dirt lane, occasionally passing a jogger or someone on a bike. There were sometimes views of the river, or, looking east, pasture land or citrus groves. She crossed small bridges over creeks leading to the river. She passed a number of developments to her left and an occasional golf course or stable. The air was warm and muggy, with any breeze captured by the trees. Then, after several miles, she drove around a sharp bend and came hard up against a high chain-link gate. A large sign read:

  PALMETTO GARDENS

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  STRICTLY NO TRESPASSING

  ARMED RESPONSE!!!

  She got out and looked. The gate was set into a ten-foot chain-link fence, and along its top was a double roll of not ordinary barbed wire, but razor wire. She peered through the fence and saw, perhaps a dozen feet away, another, equally high fence, trimmed in the razor wire, and this fence had signs saying DANGER—HIGH VOLTAGE. The ground between the fences had been denuded of vegetation and run over with what appeared to be a shallow harrow, leaving long, unbroken grooves in the dirt. Whoever breached the first fence faced electrocution at the second, and if he chickened out between the two, he would leave sharply defined footprints behind for some passing security officer to see.

  Holly walked along the fence toward the river, but gradually, the vegetation made progress difficult, then impossible. The double fence went as far as she could see. She went back to the car and looked at the planning commission map. Jungle Trail ran through Palmetto Gardens and out the other side; she assumed that an identical fence closed off the south side, as well. There was nowhere to go but back, so she turned around and drove north on the trail. Back on A1A, she took the north bridge to Egret Island and Ham’s new house.

  She picked up the microphone of the police radio she had had installed and called dispatch.

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “I’m done for the day. You can reach me on my cell phone.”

  “Roger, Chief. There was a message for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Call Jackson.”

  “Thanks, over and out.”

  She dialed Jackson’s office number on her car phone.

  “Oxenhandler.”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hi. I’m going to have the photographs in an hour or so. He’s dropping them off at the office.”

  “Why don’t you bring them out to Ham’s?”

  “Okay. What time?”

  “Whenever you finish work. Bring some steaks, too, and a decent bottle of wine. All Ham ever has is beer and bourbon.”

  “Will do.”

  As Holly drove up to Ham’s house, Daisy bounded out to meet her, making yelping noises and laying her head onto Holly’s body, which was Daisy’s version of a hug. Holly knelt next to her and let the dog lic
k her face. “Hi, there, girl,” she cooed. “Yes, I’m glad to see you, too.” Daisy had spent several days with Ham.

  Ham came out of the house. “That dog has really missed you,” he said.

  “I’ve missed her, too.”

  “I guess you two have really bonded. She wasn’t exactly unhappy with me, but it always seemed like there was something I was supposed to do or say that I wasn’t doing or saying.”

  “I won’t leave her for so long again,” Holly said, rubbing the dog’s flanks and accepting the outpouring of affection. “Got a beer in there?”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  “Jackson is coming over and bringing some steaks; I hope that’s all right.”

  “Sure, I’ll be glad to see him.” Ham got them both a beer from the fridge. “You know, I haven’t spent this much time alone for a long, long time—maybe never—and I’m really enjoying it. All I’ve done is read and watch sports on the satellite.”

  “That’s all you ever did anyway, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I worked, didn’t I? You forget I was in the army?”

  “Why haven’t you played golf?”

  “I haven’t had anybody to play with. You and Jackson have been so busy.”

  “I’ll play with you this weekend, then.”

  They sat down and watched Tiger Woods sink a forty-foot putt on TV.

  “Holy shit,” Ham said.

  Jackson arrived at half past six, loaded with groceries and a cardboard tube. “I’m starving,” he said. “Can we eat before we do anything else?”

  Ham warmed up the grill and put on the steaks Jackson had brought.

  “Oh, Ham,” Jackson said, “I’ve got something for you.” He handed Ham a sheet of paper. “It’s your application for the Dunes Country Club. The committee meets later this week, so fill it out and I’ll get it over there tomorrow.”

  “That’s fast work,” Ham said, finding a pen and going to work on the form.

  “Glad to do it.”

  They finished dinner and cleared the table, then Jackson opened the cardboard tube he had brought. “Get me some transparent tape and some thumbtacks,” he said. He pinned rolls of photographic paper to the dining table and taped the seams. “Okay,” he said, “there you have it: Palmetto Gardens.”

  Holly pointed to where Jungle Trail met the fence. “I was here this afternoon,” she said. “There’s a double fence here with a plowed strip in between and signs about high voltage.” She pointed elsewhere on the photographs. “Look, it goes all the way around. In front, the wire is obscured by the high hedges.”

  “Here’s the building with all the antennas,” Jackson said, pointing.

  “What are these buildings here?” Holly asked, pointing to a series of parallel structures.

  “Looks like housing of some sort—for staff, maybe.”

  “You think all the employees live on the place?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve never met anybody who worked there, so maybe.”

  “What do you suppose they do for R and R?” Ham asked.

  “They’ve got an airfield. Maybe they fly them to Disney World or something,” Jackson offered.

  “Hey, look at this,” Ham said, pointing.

  “Looks like vegetation,” Holly said.

  “That’s not vegetation, it’s camouflage netting.”

  “Are you sure?” Holly asked, peering at it.

  “You think I’ve never seen that stuff? I lived under it for two years, in ’Nam. I’ve seen a lot of it in photographs, too. Look, here’s another patch, and another.” There were half a dozen patches, scattered over the area, and two more near the airfield.

  “What would they be covering up with camouflage netting?” Holly asked.

  “Antiaircraft-gun emplacements?” Ham offered. “Ground-to-air missiles?”

  “Come on, Ham, we’re not in Vietnam. It must be something else.”

  “What else would you need to hide from overflights?” Ham asked. “That netting doesn’t work if you’re on the ground, you know.”

  Jackson spoke up. “Does it strike anybody that this place looks more like a military installation than anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Ham said. “I mean, there’s lots of big houses and the golf courses, but if you don’t count those, it looks military to me.”

  “Look,” Jackson said, pointing. “Radar at the airfield. Orchid Beach Airport doesn’t have radar.”

  “Ham,” Holly said, “if you had to take Palmetto Gardens, how would you do it?”

  Ham looked at the photographs again for a moment. “I’d chopper in a regiment of airborne, take the airfield and overwhelm the rest of the place in a hurry.”

  “How would you do it if you were the cops, instead of the military?”

  Ham shook his head. “I wouldn’t,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  39

  H olly started the next day by asking Jane Grey to run all the employees of Palmetto Gardens who were licensed to carry firearms through the state’s criminal records section.

  A couple of hours later, Jane came into her office. “Not one of them had anything on his record more serious than a juvenile offense or a speeding ticket,” she said.

  To Holly, that meant one of two things: either they had screened every applicant for a record and discarded those who had one, or they had cleaned up the records of some of their employees. There was no way to judge, from the state’s records, which was the case. And, if they had done some record scrubbing, there was no way to determine for which employees, except the five that Jackson knew about. There was another way, though.

  “I’ve got a lot on my plate today, Holly. Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, Jane, and thanks. You get back to work.”

  Holly turned to her computer and logged on to the national crime computer, in Washington. One by one, she entered the names from the list she had run through the state computer, printing out individual files. It took her a couple of hours, but when she was done, she was astonished at the results.

  Holly picked up her private line and called Jackson. “Can we meet at Ham’s?” she asked.

  “What’s up? Why don’t we go to my house?”

  “Just meet me there as soon as you can.”

  “I’ll see you around six.”

  She called Ham and told him they were coming.

  “You young people sure like it here,” Ham said, as Jackson arrived. “Holly’s already here.”

  “What’s going on?” Jackson asked her.

  “I didn’t want to meet at your place or mine, because I thought there was an outside chance that one or both of them had been bugged.”

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just feeling paranoid.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Holly took the stack of criminal records from her briefcase and laid them on the dining table. “This morning I ran all the gun-toting employees of Palmetto Gardens through the state crime computer. They were all clean. This afternoon I ran them through the national crime computer. Of a hundred and two, seventy-one had criminal records, lots of them for serious crimes.”

  “That many?” Jackson said, sitting down.

  “That many.”

  “And all of them clean with the state?”

  “All of them.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I guess they couldn’t fix the FBI records.”

  “I guess not,” he said.

  “I don’t know what to do, Jackson,” Holly said. “There’s something going on at Palmetto Gardens, but I just don’t have the resources to figure it out.”

  “Maybe it’s time for the feds,” Jackson said.

  “Maybe so, but I’d like to feel them out informally, if I can.”

  “Like I told you, I know an agent in the Miami office; he’s in the organized crime division.”

  “Let’s talk to him.”

  Jackson dug an address book from his pocket, look
ed up his friend, and looked at his watch. “He’s probably on the way home from work. I’ve got a cell-phone number.” He dialed it. “Harry? It’s Jackson Oxenhandler. Yeah, pretty good, how about you? Listen, Harry, can you call me right back from a land line? Yeah, here’s the number.” Jackson gave it to him and hung up.

  “What’s his name?” Holly asked.

  “Harry Crisp. He’ll call us back soon. If you’re worried about bugging, I thought a land line would be better.”

  “What are you…” The phone interrupted her.

  Jackson picked it up. “Thanks, Harry. Listen, I’m in Orchid Beach with the local chief of police, a lady named Holly Barker. She’s stumbled onto something extraordinary that I think you ought to know about, and I don’t think we should talk about it on the phone. Could she and I come to Miami to see you? Where? What are you doing there? Well, great. Yeah, I’m buying, and I’ll put you up for the night. You got a pencil? I’ll give you directions.” He dictated directions from A1A. “See you later.” Jackson hung up. “He was at a filing in Fort Pierce, less than an hour away. He’s coming up here for dinner.”

  “Great,” Holly said.

  “I’ll make some spaghetti,” Ham said, and headed for the kitchen.

  Jackson looked at Holly. “What’s the matter? You look worried.”

  “I just hope I’m not making an ass of myself,” Holly said.

  CHAPTER

  40

  H arry Crisp looked less like an FBI agent than Holly had imagined. He was fairly tall and skinny, and wore horn-rimmed glasses. She thought he looked more like a bank loan officer than a lawman. He shook everybody’s hand and sat down to dinner, declining wine.

  “So what’s up, Jackson?” he asked, twirling spaghetti on his fork. “What’s so mysterious we needed a land line?”

  “We’re just being careful, Harry,” Jackson said. “Holly is beginning to worry that there might be bugs at both our houses, and…well, maybe we’re just paranoid.”

  “Paranoid about what?”

  “Holly, you tell him.”

  Holly put down her fork. “Orchid Beach has a lot of upscale residential developments—houses, tennis courts, golf courses, polo, the works.”