A Hard Death (20 page)

R
udge was calling Jenner from the roadside, his jacket held tented over his head.

Jenner scrambled up the slope and climbed back over the fence. The detective was waiting, his cell phone in his hand.

“I found blood spatter down the side of the trench there. I lost it when it started to rain, but…”

Rudge interrupted him with a wave.

“They ID'd the crash victim. It's Adam Weiss.”

Jenner stopped. “The kid who called in the bodies?”

Rudge nodded.

“Jesus.”

Rudge nodded again. “You got that right.” They started toward the car together.

“Christ.” Jenner stared at him. “So it is connected…”

“Looks that way.” Rudge shook his head. “The sheriff's shitting a brick—we don't like it too much 'round here when the white folks start dying.”

“How'd they ID him?”

“The kid didn't call for his dad's birthday yesterday, so they called him up but he didn't answer. Then today they saw the news…NYPD e-mailed us his driver's license photo. Halvorsen took a look at the autopsy photos—he and Bartley took the kid's statement the other day; Bartley isn't so sure but Halvorsen says no two ways, it's Weiss. Mom and Dad are coming down to look at him and make it official.”

They climbed into the car, silent in the drumming rain; both had seen too many parents identify too many children.

Rudge popped the glove compartment, handed Jenner a fistful of McDonald's napkins, then took a fistful to mop his own face.

“So what now?”

Rudge shrugged. “Now you'll get to see Florida's finest in action…”

“What are you going to do?”

“Po-lice work, Dr. Jenner. Sheriff wants me to go to the kid's home, see what I can see.”

M
aggie looked at the dog Jenner had brought in.

Even to a dog lover, it was a ridiculous, stumpy-looking thing. There might have been a splash of corgi, or one of the uglier terrier breeds, but not enough to nudge him into any category either familiar or desirable. With his stubby legs and a conical head that sprouted from a body the shape of a pot roast, he looked more like a root vegetable than a dog.

She smiled at him, ruffled his floppy ears, and gave him a treat. The treat disappeared in a snap, the truncated tail waggling like a coin-operated mechanical toy.

Maggie shook her head. The dog was washed and fed, dewormed, brushed, as polished as he'd ever be. But he was also full-grown, bulky, and free of charm; in a word, he was pretty much unadoptable.

Except.

Her eyes gleamed.

The dog would be the perfect pet for a bachelor.

R
udge and Jenner ate in the parking lot next to the taco stand, in the pouring rain. They sat in the Taurus, the engine running, the AC blasting icy gusts of mold-scented air into the greasy fug of carnitas and refried beans.

Their visit to Weiss's shack had been uneventful. The cops at the Bel Arbre substation met them at the cottage with the landlord, an excitable little man who peppered them with questions about selling off the boy's things to cover the rent and the cost of the front door, replaced just that morning.

The cheap wooden door had been locked, with no evidence of forced entry through the door or windows. The place was no messier than any other apartment lived in by a twenty-two-year-old male. Nothing broken or obviously out of place. A good-quality wristwatch sat on the bathroom sink, and there was a laptop out in the open on the table.

There was nothing to see, but the case was high-profile, so Rudge had called in Crime Scene. They left the uniforms at the cottage to calm down the landlord, who was convinced the criminalists would tear up carpet and cut out sections of wall.

Before opening his dinner, Rudge set Weiss's notebook on the dashboard, open to a list of eight names. Six of the names were ticked off, and of those, four had been marked with a star: UFL Tomato, La Grulla Blanca, Pinewhite's, Endicott.

Rudge said, “They're farms.”

Jenner nodded.

They ate in silence, listening to the rain on the car roof, occasionally glancing at the list.

After a few minutes, Rudge maneuvered the rest of his last taco into
his mouth, cupping his hands around the tin foil to stop the juices spilling down his shirt. He wiped the corners of his mouth, then blotted his goatee.

“So, Jenner. Anything you want to share with me?”

Jenner looked at him blankly. “Such as…?”

“I see.” Rudge, nodding gravely, squeezed the damp napkin into a ball and pushed it into the paper bag. “Well, I think we need to have a little talk.”

“A talk?”

“Yeah. Time I straightened you out on a couple of things.”

They pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the highway.

Jenner leaned back expectantly. “Okay. This oughta be good.”

“So, you lived in the city most of your life?”

“Pretty much.”

“Thought so. Well, Port Fontaine is different. Don't let the Armani and Chanel stores down on the Promenade fool you—this is still small-town Florida, and everyone knows everyone else's business.”

“Uh-huh.” Jenner grinned. “I've seen stuff like that on TV.”

“I'm serious. The whole of Port Fontaine—me, everyone at the municipal building, that fucker we just bought our tacos from—we all know all about your business.” Rudge turned onto the feeder road to the highway. “And don't think I'm kidding.”

Jenner was becoming wary. “Go on. This is interesting…”

“Jenner, everyone knows you got with Chip Craine's daughter.”

Jenner froze. “But…but that was only…”

“Last night? Sure, why not, whatever. But everyone already knows. Including the sheriff.”

Jenner was puzzled. “So what if the sheriff knows? What, he's going to enforce some weird sex law they still only have Down South?”

“Weird sex law?” Rudge pursed his lips. “What exactly did you do last night?”

When Jenner didn't answer, he grinned, then said, “Y'see, this is what happens when you go poking little Jenner around without knowing what you're getting into.” He shook his head.

“Maggie Craine is a fine woman—
very
fine. And for that, by the
way, mad respect.” Rudge paused, relishing his impending revelation. “But…she's also Tommy Anders's ex-wife.”

“What? His
wife
?” Jenner couldn't imagine Maggie and the sheriff in the same decade, let alone the same bed.

“Oh, relax, player—this is years ago. She went away to college, grad school or something in New York, came back pregnant and single. She knew Tommy from the Polo Grounds—his daddy was a big deal back then. Tommy saw his chance, she said yes, and they got hitched. She dumped him a couple months after the baby arrived.”

“Wow.” Jenner looked at the detective. “So why are you telling me this now?”

“I figure it's good to know when the guy you're working for probably doesn't like you too much.”

“Are you warning me?”

Rudge threw back his head and laughed. “No, doc, you're on your own…Maggie Craine is a fine-looking lady, no doubt—you know Charlotte Rampling, the actress? That's who she reminds me of. But just be careful with her, you know what I'm saying? She's been with a few men here, and the landings are never easy—once I had to arrest her at that motel out by the Miccosukee reservation, had to take her out of there in handcuffs.”

“Well, thanks for the heads-up.” Jenner looked at Rudge. “I don't know what's going on. I thought she'd have called me by now.”

“You call her?”

“No.”

Rudge shrugged. “Well…”

He grinned, then gestured to the road ahead. “It's getting late—let's hit the list. UFL first, then La Grulla Blanca on the way home.”

“Why those two?”

“Weiss may have visited these farms on Workers' Solidarity business, but we know he's been doing his own investigation, and these are the last names he wrote down.”

Jenner looked at the list. “I'm betting he's ticked off farms he's visited, then…what, put asterisks next to the ones that made him suspicious?”

“Maybe.” Rudge settled back against the headrest. “This is where it might get a little tricky. These are some big properties—big money here, know what I'm saying?”

“UFL Tomato has been in the news all year. Workers want a nickel more a bushel, the company and the fast food chains say no way. Last November, the WSM held a meeting to organize the workers. Maybe twenty showed up; when they were all inside the WSM building, someone blocked the door with a chair and tossed in a Molotov cocktail.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, we figured it was UFL Tomato, but no one saw anything, no one said anything, and the fire marshal finally shit-canned it. We tossed it to ATF, but they had nothing to go on and buried it a couple months later.”

“So UFL is high on the list?”

Rudge shrugged. “Eh. Maybe. But you gotta figure it'd be a pretty risky play for a company already under the microscope.”

“And the other three?”

“Well, we'll see.”

They drove on.

T
he UFL visit could've gone better. The farm manager mistook Jenner and Rudge for a state inspection team due that day; he greeted them extravagantly at first, then, when the true purpose of their visit became clear, shunted them into an outbuilding, where they waited for twenty minutes until a foreman arrived with a pale, harried-looking lawyer sweating through his gray worsted-wool suit.

It was a painful process. Every question Rudge asked was run by the lawyer before the foreman could answer; the lawyer had no understanding of the day-to-day workings of the farm, and the foreman's English was terrible.

After half an hour, Rudge had had enough; he excused himself to use the bathroom.

Jenner waited under the eaves of the grain house and looked out over the fields, watching the farm machines move slowly through the drizzle. Near the central farm buildings, most of the land was freshly tilled, dark and rich, and narrow red vehicles with insect-like limbs crawled across the soil, small groups of farm workers following like drones.

Rudge called his name and they moved on, the lawyer, foreman, and detective all hugely relieved. There was one odd thing, though: Jenner had the distinct impression that two of the Mexican farmhands had been watching them. The impression deepened when they got back into Rudge's car; one of the men pulled out a cell phone and made a call as he watched them drive away.

North of Bel Arbre, the land got wetter. They crossed a low bridge over a channel dug through mangrove swamp, the twisted branches and trees knotted dense and thick, the water gray as old tin. The late-afternoon
sun appeared in a fissure in the clouds; the rain-washed tarmac was sleek and black as a new tuxedo, the fields and trees streaming by on either side a vibrant pale green, as if they'd just burst from the earth.

La Grulla Blanca was north of Bel Arbre, wedged between I-55 and the Everglades. They were waved past the gatehouse, under a high white arch painted with the farm's name in block letters. They followed the long drive to the main farmhouse, a white clapboard affair with green shingle roofs and shutters, a deliberate echo of the Polo Grounds clubhouse.

The drive divided the property into a big upper field and a smaller lower one. The property, built on earth dug to create a boat channel through the swamp, sloped gently down to the waterfront, hemmed in by the dense press of mangroves stretching off to the west, toward the Gulf of Mexico. Next to the farmhouse, at the top of the low rise, were two bunkhouses and the remains of a demolished barn. The lower field tilted down to a boat shed and dock on the water.

On the upper slope, there were two open structures with corrugated tin roofs over poured concrete floors; metal slop troughs lined the single full wall in each building. A smaller enclosed building nearby was a miniature of the farmhouse, with the same white clapboard walls and green-shingled peak roof, down to a small version of the tin rooster weathervane. There was a white picket fence around the building; as Jenner watched, a flap door opened and three small pigs trotted out. Everywhere, hoses sprayed mist for the pigs, which tromped the water into the earth and lolled in the cooled mud.

They were met at the farmhouse by the manager, Mr. Brodie, a dour man in blue-and-white La Grulla Blanca–logo polo shirt and cap, and the farm overseer, Mr. Bentas.

They introduced themselves, but before Brodie could even begin to speak, Rudge turned to Bentas and said, “Sir, I have to inquire if you have a concealed carry permit for that pistol.”

Brodie flicked the back of his hand toward Rudge, as if he were waving away a card at a blackjack table. “Detective, of course Mr. Bentas is licensed. We have a problem with snakes here, copperheads and rattlers, especially in the cleared land, and last year we lost a pig to gators.”

“Mr. Brodie, I support the right of our agricultural workers to superior firepower, I surely do. But the concealed carry permit? You're telling me Mr. Bentas needs to get the drop on a gator?”

“Glad to see you have time to joke, detective—you find this funny?” Brodie tipped his head to one side and spat, the white ball landing two feet from Rudge's foot.

Rudge stiffened and grew still, his eyes small and black in his wide face. His head dipped slightly and he peered up at Brodie from under a heavy brow.

Brodie continued, “Mr. Bentas accompanies the payroll deliveries to the farm every Friday. He needs the weapon—Bel Arbre can be a dangerous town, particularly 'round payday. As you know.”

He spat again.

Jenner quickly said, “So, we're here…”

Brodie said wearily, “Yeah, about the missing farm workers. Well, we ain't missing any farm workers. We told that to the deputy who called, told that to the guy who came by yesterday.”

Rudge said, “What guy came by yesterday?”

Brodie put his hands on his hips and leaned back. “Oh, some kid, asking questions about missing farmhands, and were people happy with working here.” He worked his lip a bit, then spat again. “I'm telling you the same thing: all our workers are present and accounted for, all of 'em happy to have a job here with us. And we pay well, and they're happy. The end.”

Rudge shook his head and took a step back with a wide smile. “Well, Brodie, I figure you'd have to pay them extra because of the goddamn smell. Tell the truth—you use that gun to keep the vultures away, right?”

Brodie's eyes had narrowed to slits. “Detective, we don't take to cursing around here. I gotta ask you to speak to me civil, or not at all.”

“Sorry, Mr. Brodie. I figured you'd be used to the question by now.” Rudge spat.

Jenner looked down the field, where two Mexican farmhands were herding pigs down to another mud bath. “So, Mr. Brodie…Why pigs? Not too hot for them down here?”

“The sprayers keep 'em cool.” Eyes still fixed on Rudge, Brodie lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug; it was like watching a snake slowly rise and uncoil before striking. He glanced back at Jenner. “Owner wants pigs, he gets pigs.”

Behind Brodie, Bentas stood, face somber, hands on his hips. When he turned, Jenner saw the blocky shape of a pistol grip under the man's shirt, wedged inside his waistband; he had no idea how Rudge had spotted it. It occurred to Jenner that they were out in the middle of nowhere, Rudge antagonizing a man with an armed bodyguard. What was it Douggie Pyke always said?
Don't poke a skunk.

Jenner was about to suggest they move on when Brodie tipped his head back, took off his cap, spit again, then said to Rudge, “You got anything else, boy? Because we got work to do.”

The stiffness instantly slipped away from the detective's body. Rudge's smile grew wider. “Nothing for now, Mr. Brodie. But we'll be back with a warrant, get a good look around here without having to disturb you.”

He turned to Jenner, nodded at the car.

Brodie said, “You're welcome to look around all you want! But hell, yeah, you go get yourself a warrant! Let's keep it nice and legal.”

Now Brodie was smiling too. “Y'know, we got lawyers, too. We know that game. This is a working farm, we got shit to do, can't be giving tours of the property all the time. So, you go ahead, you just show your probable cause to the state attorney. Tell you something, though: when you do, he'll tell you you can kiss his fat white ass with your warrant.”

The smile stopped. “Now get the fuck out of here, boy.”

Rudge's smile didn't falter. “Well, Mr. Brodie…I guess we'll come on back tomorrow, y'all! Y'hear?”

As they walked back to the car, he called out, “I'm gonna need to see your associate's carry permit and his state or federal ID.”

As Brodie and Bentas watched, they climbed into the car.

Jenner said, “Well, that went well!”

Rudge's smile was gone. “I'm going to ram that warrant so far up his ass I can play Whac-A-Mole with his tonsils.”

“You think you'll have a problem getting it?”

Rudge started the car; he exhaled slowly. “Maybe. We'll see. Don't know who owns this spread, but like as not they play golf with the judge at the Polo Grounds.”

They drove in silence, looping down the driveway, between the fields. As they passed the miniature barn on the way back up the drive, the door opened, and Jenner glimpsed a farmhand standing in a room filled with piglets, surrounded by wall-mounted shelves stacked high with red-and-white feed bags. The piglets poured around the man's legs like bubbles, charging out to lose themselves in the mud.

“Why did you ask about the carry permit?”

“I didn't like that guy. See his hand? On the base of his thumb, he's got a pachuco cross tattoo—they say you get them for doing a rape, a murder, and an arson. The guy smells of gangs and the joint to me, and if he's got a record—any felony, domestic violence, whatever—he shouldn't have a permit.”

Jenner looked out over the farm. Near the mangrove swamp, there was a large airboat tied to the dock, and next to it a shallow draft swamp boat. The Everglades stretched beyond the fields in an infinite green swath, shot through with glimmering gold threads as the water caught the setting sun.

When they reached the gate, their path was blocked by a large white box truck. Rudge steered the Taurus onto the grass shoulder so the truck could pass; the truck had a logo Jenner couldn't quite place, a pale blue globe with the letters CBM.

As the truck inched past them, Jenner glanced back toward the main buildings. In front of the farmhouse, another man had joined Brodie and Bentas, tall and skinny, in a black cap; Bentas and the new man went to meet the truck but Brodie stayed on the porch, staring at the Taurus, talking on his cell phone. Even after they'd passed out of sight, even after they'd reached the highway, Jenner felt Brodie's eyes still on them.