Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island

by H. Terrell Griffin

  David sat back down and asked, "Do you guys know anything about why you're here?"

  The FBI agent spoke up. "We've been briefed about a possible church bombing in die area. That's all we know."

  "That's about all we know too," I said.

  The FBI agent turned to me. "Tell me just exactly who you are."

  Parrish fielded the question. "Mr. Royal is in charge. Mr. Hamilton is assisting him. That comes from the very top, and that's all you need to know for now"

  I could tell the two federal agents didn't like that. "Gentlemen," I said, "I don't like this any better than you do. I've got my assignment though and, if it'll make you feel better, I'm taking my orders from somebody who works for the government and outranks almost everybody in the world. If and when I give an order, I'll simply be conveying it from my principal. Clear?"

  "Not really," said the AFT agent, "but I know how to take orders."

  "Good." I then told them everything I knew, including the garbled information Jock was getting from Simmermon.

  The FBI agent shook his head. "That's not much to go on. I know we've got all our people and ATF's people ready to go to work. Our counterterrorism guy is in charge. We just don't know what to do."

  My cell phone rang. It was Paul Galls.

  "Michelle tells me they have a whorehouse in Orlando," he said. "There's one in Atlanta too."

  "Where's the one in Orlando?"

  He gave me an address and hung up.

  I looked at the men gathered at the table. "We may have a starting place." I explained how the Heaven Can't Wait Spas operated, and their ties to Simmermon.

  The ATF agent looked up from the table. "That might be their staging area. I can get some dogs in there that'll find any explosives in a matter of minutes."

  I shook my head. "If the bomber isn't in the house, a raid will spook him. He'll go to ground, and we'll be sitting here wondering where lie is when a church goes up."

  Parrish leaned forward. "Any suggestions?"

  I nodded. "Let's send somebody in undercover. See what we can find out before we go breaking down doors."

  "We can send in an agent," said the FBI.

  "I'11 go," I said. "I may have a better sense of what we're looking for. I've been in one of these places before, and I might see something that's out of the ordinary. Something someone else might miss."

  "That could be dangerous," said Parrish.

  "I know," I said.

  I just didn't realize how dangerous.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The day was winding down as Logan and I left the courthouse. It was almost four o'clock. Light traffic was passing by on 1-4, tires singing on the asphalt. Two blocks to the east the bars and clubs along Orange Avenue were already starting to fill up with the young people who every night made downtown Orlando their own.

  "Let's find a hotel," I said. "We can grab a few winks before I go whoring."

  We'd decided to wait until late that evening to approach the spa. The federal agencies were doing everything they could, and it wouldn't matter if we put off our visit. The bomber would either be there or he wouldn't. The feds already had somebody watching the place, and if anyone who didn't look like a customer entered or left, we'd know about it immediately.

  Our plan was for Logan and me to drive to the spa at about ten that evening. Logan would stay with the car, fully armed, and be in constant contact with me via a small radio attached to my body. If I gave a code word, he'd notify the federal agents surrounding the place, and they'd come running. It was a good plan-in theory.

  We found a hotel near downtown, checked into separate rooms, and went to bed. I woke up at eight, and immediately thought of Laura. I don't think I was dreaming about her, but she was the first thought that entered my mind as I regained conscious thought. She was dying, might already be dead. Her death was going to be a permanent part of my life, and I wondered if I would spend the rest of it waking to regret and loss.

  I shook off the grim thoughts, showered, shaved, and ordered hamburgers from room service. Logan joined me, and we talked over the plan again. I made a call to make sure the feds were in place around the spa. No one had seen anybody enter or leave the place other than the typical middle-aged client. There was nothing else for us to do.

  Logan drove. The spa was only a few blocks away in an area of Orlando known as Thornton Park. It was a trendy part of town, peopled mostly by young urban professionals who owned the condos in the towers that lined East Central Boulevard and spread out south of Lake Eola.

  Many of the old houses in the neighborhood remained. Some had been turned into art galleries or restaurants. One, a beautiful three-story brick Federal mansion, had become a spa. An upscale whorehouse.

  When I'd lived in Orlando, the building had housed a firm of lawyers. Some would say that the business of the place hadn't changed, just the occupants.

  We circled the block several times, looking for a place to park that would give Logan quick access if I needed him. I didn't see any sign of cops or feds, which was good. If I didn't see them, nobody else would.

  Finally, as we rounded a corner, a car pulled out of a space right in front of the spa. Logan parked and turned off the engine. He put an earpiece in place and said, "Let's make sure this thing is working."

  I got out of the car and walked a few feet. I turned to look back, and tested the mic. "You know, as much as you keep grousing about not getting laid, you could be doing this."

  He grinned and held up his right hand, forefinger and thumb circled in the OK signal. I turned and walked toward the front door.

  The porch was not large, more of a stoop. Several steps led up from the street. I crossed to the front door. There was a small sign attached to the brick next to the entrance. It was identical to the one at the spa in Key West.

  I opened the door and walked into a large entry hall. A small desk was set in the middle, and a woman of about thirty, wearing a business suit, sat behind it.

  "May I help you, sir?" she said, smiling.

  "I'd like a massage," I said. "Do you have someone available?"

  "Certainly, sir. Just have a seat in the living room."

  She pointed to an arched doorway leading to a room off the entrance hall. I sat on a reproduction Chippendale sofa and waited. The whole drill was reminiscent of my visit to the spa in Key West. If something worked, why change it? McDonald's and Burger King used the same concept. Sort of. I wondered if I would be greeted by a wiser and older version of Sister Amy.

  In a few minutes, a young lady entered the room. She was wearing a sundress in a bright floral pattern, pulled low on her shoulders. I could see the swell of her breasts under the fabric, but it was a dress that wouldn't have been out of place at an afternoon tea party. Her blonde hair was done up on the back of her head in some sort of a twist. Her feet were encased in high-heeled sandals, her toenails freshly painted light pink to match her perfectly manicured fingernails.

  As I stood, she held out her hand, palm down, an old-fashioned lady handshake. "I'm Marta Sweeney. I'll be your hostess this evening."

  I shook her hand and introduced myself as Miles Leavitt.

  "Have a seat," she said. "Have you been here before?"

  "No. First time. I'm a little nervous."

  "Where're you from?" She was trying to put me at ease.

  I was going to say Nahant, Massachusetts, just because nobody had ever heard of the place, but I was sure my accent would give me away. "Atlanta," I said.

  "Here on business?"

  "Yes. I had to stay over the weekend."

  "Well," she said, favoring me again with her smile, "let's see if we can make it a positive experience. How did you find your way to me?"

  I told her the name of the hotel where Logan and I had rooms. "The bell captain mentioned this place."

  "Oh, that would be Jaime?"

  "I don't know his name. He's a Hispanic gentleman."

  I'd noticed the man when we checked into the hotel.
I was hoping he had a tie-in to this place, or at least he wasn't someone the management would be suspicious of. Apparently, I'd made a good guess.

  "Would you like to come upstairs?" she asked.

  "This is a beautiful house," I said, trying to buy some time. "Do you live here?"

  "Oh, yes. I live on the third floor with some of the other girls. The second floor has our public rooms." She giggled. "Although, they're very private, if you know what I mean."

  If Marta had ever had a regional accent, she kept it well hidden. Her diction was just about perfect. She was a well-trained young lady. In another time, she would have been described as a courtesan.

  "Ali," I said, stumbling a little over my words, "what about payment?"

  "You can give Ms. Young at the desk a credit card, if you like, and settle up when you leave. The card will show that you spent some money at an upscale restaurant in downtown Orlando. You ordered a couple of bottles of wine for your business associates." She giggled again.

  "I don't have a credit card. How about cash?"

  "You can leave a five hundred dollar deposit with Ms. Young. I think that'll be sufficient, don't you?" She made a small moue, kind of cutesy, and out of character for a whore.

  This was certainly a different place than the one in Key West. This must be what happens to the girls after they get used to their new lives and get the drugs out of their systems. They transfer up the line into better and better houses. Michelle and Simmermon had put together an assembly line of whores, turning them into newer and better models of their old selves. I wondered what happened to the girls when they got too old for this line of work.

  I pulled five one hundred dollar bills out of my pocket and gave them to Ms. Young. Marta led me upstairs, and into a room dominated by a fourposter bed. A large man sat on the bed, shirtless, his abdomen swathed in a bandage. He was pointing a .22-caliber pistol at me. The last time I'd seen him was on a Key West street three nights before. When I'd shot him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  "Ali," the man on the bed said, "I can see that you're surprised to find me here."

  "A bit," I said. I knew Logan was listening, but he wouldn't panic and send in the troops unless I said the magic word. I wanted to hear what this muscle-bound ape had to say.

  He grinned. "We have wonderful security. Our video cams are high resolution. I recognized you as soon as you came through the door. I owe you something, I think." He waved the gun around a little for emphasis.

  I had to let Logan know what was going on. "So, you're the guy I shot in Key West."

  "You got that right, asshole." He wasn't smiling anymore. A slight grimace of pain crossed his face.

  "Still hurting? I'm surprised you could travel."

  "A doc on our payroll in Key West fixed me up, and the boss sent me here to recuperate. I sit and watch the fucking video screen all day. It ain't a lot of fun."

  Marta had stood silently during our conversation. I turned to her. "Marta, you brought me into the first room at the head of the stairs. Is this where you always stash your friends with .22 pistols?" Logan needed to know exactly where I was and what kind of firepower he was facing.

  She giggled. I think it was a habit she'd developed. An annoying habit in a whore.

  "Well," I said, "recess is over."

  Recess was the magic word. The cavalry would be on its way. I turned back to the man on the bed.

  "I think you need to know," I said, "that in about two minutes this place is going to be swarming with cops and federal agents."

  "Right," he said, and laughed. "And I'm supposed to let you go."

  "That'd be the smart thing to do."

  I heard a loud voice from downstairs. "Federal agents. Put your hands on your head." Then, heavy boots bounding up the stairs.

  "See?" I said.

  Marta giggled.

  "Shit," said the man, and put the gun on the floor.

  The door burst open, and Logan dove into the room, his nine millimeter in his hand. Another man wearing a bulletproof vest was right behind him, a shotgun pointing into the room.

  "Hell of an entrance, Logan," I said.

  He rolled to his feet. "I thought you'd like that. Learned it in the Army."

  The man on the bed had his hands in the air. His face was impassive. Marta was crying softly, tears running down her pretty cheeks. Their lives had just taken a big detour.

  Two Orlando police officers came into the room, handcuffed Marta and the gunman, and took them out. I went to the door of the room and saw other cops leading more women down the stairs.

  Logan said, "They'll be searching the place with explosive sniffing dogs. Let's go to the command post."

  A pickup truck was parked in the street in front of the house, a large box trailer attached to it. Truck and trailer sported the logos of the Orlando Police Department. Cops and their handcuffed prisoners were milling around, waiting for transportation to the county jail.

  The FBI agent we'd met in Parrish's office was in the trailer talking to the police commander. He invited us in and introduced us to the cops on duty. A radio receiver sat on a table attached to one wall of the trailer. It was crackling with information from the officers and agents inside the house.

  We sat, sipping cups of coffee poured from a large thermos, listening to the radio reports. They were all negative.

  After about ten minutes, the FBI agent said, "That's the last one. No explosives."

  "What about the people in the house?" I asked. Any other men?"

  "I'll check." He went outside to talk to one of the officers.

  Logan asked, "What do we do if we don't get anything out of this?"

  "I don't know. We may have a bunch of dead people on our hands tomorrow."

  "Shouldn't the authorities warn people not to go to church in the morning? Wouldn't that at least stop the carnage?"

  "I would think so. Let's see what happens."

  The FBI agent returned. "Other than the guy holding the gun on you, we found two other bouncer types. Both are in their thirties. They don't fit the profile of the young men Simmermon has brainwashed."

  "No," I said, "they don't."

  A uniformed police officer came into the trailer. "Mr. Royal?" he asked.

  "I'm Royal."

  "I'm with die bomb squad, sir. We didn't find any explosives, but my dog did get a little crazy at one point in a room on the third floor."

  "What do you think that was all about?"

  "We searched the room completely. I think the dog may have smelled explosives that had been there and were moved. I can't prove that, but my boss said I should let you know."

  "Thank you, Officer," I said.

  I turned to the FBI agent. "Will you find out how the gunman got here from Key West?"

  "Sure," he said, and left the trailer.

  "What are you thinking?" asked Logan.

  "I'm not sure, but the explosives may have come from Key West with the idiot I shot."

  The agent returned and brought the gunman with him. "He won't talk," the agent said. "Wants a lawyer."

  The prisoner's hands were cuffed behind his back. His face was an impassive mask, but his darting eyes gave away a level of nervousness about his surroundings.

  I directed the agent to let the man sit in a chair, and asked him and the officer manning the radios to leave. It was just Logan, the gunman, and me.

  Logan went to the door and locked it. I brought my chair over to the handcuffed man and sat facing him. "You know we're not cops," I said.

  He nodded his head.

  "Then you know we don't have to play by the same rules the cops do."

  His mask cracked a little, his mouth twitched, he blinked twice, rapidly.

  "Okay," he said. "So what?"

  "I'm going to ask you some questions, and, if I don't get honest answers, I'm going to hurt you. Understand?"

  "Oka Y"

  "What's your name?"

  He grinned. "John Smith."

  I pu
nched him in the stomach. He screamed. Blood began to seep from his bullet wound and a flower of red took shape on the bandage.

  The door rattled, and then a knock. Logan opened it slightly, said something to the person outside, and shut it again. He turned the lock and nodded at me.

  "See?" I said. "Nobody's going to save you. What's your name?"

  "Peter Johnson."

  "Okay, Peter. That's better. Where do you live?"

  "In Key West. At the spa."

  "What's your job?"

  "I'm security."

  "Ever been to Blood Island?"

  "Yes, to pick up the girls sometimes."

  "How did you get to Orlando with a bullet wound?"

  He hesitated. I drew back my hand, a threatening gesture.

  "Okay," he said, "okay. Michelle got a private plane to bring me here. She said it wasn't wise for me to stay in Key West."

  "Was anybody with you?"

  "Just the pilot."

  "Did you bring anything with you?"

  "Just some clothes, and a suitcase for the Rev."

  "Did Michelle give you the suitcase?"

  "No. The pilot had it. Said one of the guys from the island brought it to the plane and told him to send it here."

  "What was in the suitcase?"

  "I don't know It was locked."

  "What did you do with it when you got here?"

  "I gave it to Ms. Young."

  "The receptionist?"

  "Yeah. She runs the place."

  "Did you ever see it again?"

  "No. Man, I'm bleeding bad."

  The bandage was getting redder. I was finished. Logan opened the door and the FBI agent came back inside.

  "He needs a doctor," I said.

  "On it," said the agent, and grabbed Peter by the arm, lifting him out of the chair.

  "His name's Peter Johnson," I said.

  "Come on, Peter," said the agent. "We'll get you fixed up.

  "Can you find Ms. Young and bring her to me?" I asked.

  "Sure thing," the agent said and led Peter Johnson out the door.

  The agent came back with Ms. Young. She was still in her business suit, dark hair in a bun, subtle makeup on her face. Except for the handcuffs, she could have been on her way to a business meeting.