A Mighty Fortress (14 page)

He checked the clock on the wall. “Ain’t it about time you got busy?”

I said yeah, it was. “But tomorrow, we’re going to call your bank and get this straightened out.”

He shrugged again. I had no confidence Rico would be making that call with me.
 

He winked at me before he said, “By the way, be careful out there.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Val. She’s liable to kill you.”

In the whirlwind of events that had gone down since I’d served Scalzo at Armani’s, I’d forgotten to get in touch with Val and apologize for standing her up. “Thanks for the warning,” I said, reaching for the door.

“And Porter,” Rico said, stopping me. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Don’t ask.”

Val was already warming up on the platform. Like her brother, she was a natural squatter: shorter limbs relative to a longer torso. That also meant she wasn’t built well for pulling weight from the floor. I’d taught her to deadlift with what we call a “sumo” stance, with her legs spread wide like a sumo wrestler.
 
It had added about forty pounds to her lift, but today she was warming up conventional style. And, I noticed, without enough arch in her lower back. “If you use bad technique warming up, you’ll use bad technique when you go heavy,” I said.

She grunted, dropped the bar, and glared at the platform for a long moment. Then she shook her head and returned her focus to the bar. “Asshole.”

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened to my face?”

“I could take a guess.”

I crossed the barbell and stood facing her. “Val, I’m sorry. I should have called.”

“But you didn’t. I tried calling you all night and all day today.”

“My phone, I guess you could say, well, I lost it.” I held up my new one. “See, I just got this tonight.”

She blew her bangs off her face, and her green eyes blinked with a flicker of relief. “What did happen to your face?”

“It was a tough job, that’s all. I was about to call you last night when things went south.”

“Is it over?” Her voice turned soft, too soft for the heavy metal blaring over the loudspeakers.

“Kind of.”

She put her fists on her hips and asked, “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I did what I had to do, and the guy who had this done to me is out of the picture.”

“So why isn’t the job over?”

At this point, trying to sugarcoat it would just make matters worse. “I’m trying to find out who killed him.”

“Jesus Christ, Milo!” She stepped away from the bar.

“Hey, you know the rules!” Rico had entered the gym, and was referring to his rule against using the Lord’s name in vain.
 

“Sorry,” I said for Val. “I elicited that one.”

I stepped closer to Val. “Listen to me.” I placed my paws on her shoulders and made sure she was looking me in the eyes. “I’m in no danger. This guy was a creep. Whoever did it probably did society a favor. I just need to find out who that was, if I can, and help this attorney out a little more.”
 

“So why not let the cops handle it?”

Val’s question made me think of C-Rod, and I realized for the first time that I didn’t trust him and the job he was doing for a variety of reasons. “Because they work differently. A different time frame, and different rules.”

“Different rules? Are you serious?”

I nodded. “Have I ever told you how cute you are when you’re concerned?”

The flattery almost broke her glower. Almost. “I’m serious. You promise me you’ll quit if it gets dangerous?” Her eyes drilled a hole through my heart.

I didn’t answer. I just kissed her.

“Get a room already!” It was Rico again.

I wished we could have.

There was nothing spectacular about the workout I had that night. I was tired and drained. I mainly did some recovery work to keep my back loose and work on my mobility since the meet Saturday. Plus, despite what I’d told Val about not being in danger, I really wanted to save all the strength I could for the week that lay ahead. I had a feeling I was going to need it.

After leaving the gym, I called Kara on my way home. She answered reluctantly.
 

“It’s Porter. This a good time to talk?”

“Not really. I’m on my way to pick up my kid from my mom’s.”

“I’m surprised Mattie let you out this early.”

“He didn’t really have a choice. Besides, I think he likes to practice alone.”

“So what can you tell me about Sal Barton?”

“Who?”

“Mattie’s go-to investigator? Who apparently hung himself today?”

Kara sighed over the phone. “Milo, I have no idea what you’re talking about. And like I said, I’m on—”

“So when can we talk?”

She told me she could probably get away for lunch tomorrow. Since I was planning on visiting Pilka in Palma Ceia in the late morning, I suggested we meet at Datz, an upscale deli and bar on MacDill, for an early lunch to beat the crowd.

“I can’t leave until noon,” she said.

“I’ll get there early and save us a table.” I figured a beer or two wouldn’t hurt.

We hung up and I dialed my dinner date. He answered on the first ring, and I said, “We still on?”

“I told you to stay the hell away from Scalzo, didn’t I?” Hector yelled as he pushed the capping press and sealed off a twelve-ounce bottle of Milo’s Pale Ale.

“I never doubted you,” I said as I siphoned the brew from the secondary fermentation carboy into the next bottle. After he’d capped his bottle, Hector pulled another cap from the box and got it ready to go for the next bottle. Since we were doing a job better suited for three people, it took us over an hour to finish bottling the entire batch by ourselves. Once we were done, we returned to the dinners I’d brought home from La Teresita’s on Columbus.

We both had Hector’s favorite:
mofongo
, a crispy mound of garlicky plantains mashed together with a mortar and pestle. I liked mine cooked with lardons, but Hector seemed to be watching his cholesterol. He had black beans and rice on the side, with extra onion, and I opted for boiled yucca and greens. We’d eaten about half the dinners before we started working. Now it was time to finish the other half.
 

I grabbed something special to drink from the beer fridge in my garage: two bottles of a Belgian triple I’d brewed earlier that summer. “Excellent choice,” Hector said after chasing another mouthful of plantains with the beer.

I concurred.

“So the cops believed you?” he asked.

“I have no idea. But I guess I’ll be finding out soon.”

Hector set his fork down and said something in Spanish.
 

I sensed he was asking for elaboration, so I elaborated. “Wilcox, the lawyer you saw yesterday morning? He hired me to find Scalzo’s killer.”

“And this Wilcox guy, what does he think?”

I shrugged. “I think he might be a little suspicious of his client.”

Hector picked his fork up again and started picking at his plantains.
 

“So what do you say, buddy? I might need your help this week.”

He grimaced, as if to say he didn’t like the sound of that. “What’d you have in mind?”

“I’d like to see the crime scene.”

“SkyGate?”

I nodded.

“That could be arranged.” Just then, something flashed in his eyes. Something that resembled guilt.

“Something you need to tell me, Hector?”

He grinned. “Not that I’m aware of.”

Maybe I was being paranoid or overly cautious, but he looked like he was hiding something. I began to retrace the time we’d spent together the night before, and tried to remember exactly when he left my house. “You didn’t by any chance go after Scalzo last night, did you?”

Hector laughed like I’d never seen him laugh before. At least the guilty grin had disappeared. “Right, Milo. You know me. The vigilante cable guy.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “So what do you know about lingerie shops?”

“What do you
think
I know about lingerie shops?” He sounded offended now.

“Just curious if you’ve ever been to one.”

Hector set his fork down. “Milo, I thought you knew me better than that.”

I stared at him, and his frown softened. “You’re hiding something.”

“Okay, I’ve been in a few of them for work. I’ve installed their cable. Turns out the girls can get bored waiting for their clients, so they like to have something to watch.”

“Which ones?”

He started naming their addresses, with surprising detail and accuracy, and I realized I’d have to make a map of all of Pilka’s businesses in the Bay area. I also wanted to see how many of them were located in premises owned by Mr. McSwain.
 
“It’s gonna be a busy morning,” I muttered to myself.

Even on a Tuesday morning, the parking lot at the Palma Ceia Country Club was filled with the most expensive cars Germany and Japan could engineer.
 
Palma Ceia is located in the heart of affluent South Tampa, and the country club sits at its center. The sprawling white colonial exterior looked at odds with most of the surrounding Mediterranean and bungalow-style homes. Then again, throw in a few Georgian mansions, some ivy-clad walls here and there, and there’s some odd consistency to the place. Lots of money crammed into too small of a space. Still, Datz, the redeeming grace of Palma Ceia, was just a block away, so at least I had lunch with Kara to look forward to.
 

I stepped out of the Volvo, feeling proud to have parked between a black Mercedes CLS 550 (clearly Darth Vader’s car of choice, were he to retire to Florida) and a silver Lexus LS (perhaps the Emperor’s?). I scanned the massive building in front of me as the traffic from MacDill Avenue screeched and scratched behind me. It was a windy, humid morning, a bloated one that seemed to want to rain but just couldn’t get it out.
 

Fortunately, the dining room had its own entrance, and that was where I first showed myself. I always try to give a maître d’ the benefit of the doubt. Whether fat or thin, short or tall, even if he’s white, I presume he’s not going to be a snoot. I’m wrong every time.
 

“Can I help you?” this one asked. His tone was clear:
you don’t belong here
. His eyes gravitated upwards, to the heavens, a gesture they must teach at snooty school.

I showed him my card. “I’m working for Mr. Pilka. I need to see him.”

He took the card. “Mr. Pilka?” Another roll of the eyes. It made sense to him now. Of course, a guy like me would be there for a guy like him. He huffed off a sigh and checked his book. His bony finger traced the history of diners.
 
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pilka finished dining twenty minutes ago.” His face froze like a statue.

“Do you know where he went?”

The freeze wore off and he shook his head. “One moment.” He quickly turned, uncradled the phone and dialed. He tried talking under his breath but I could hear every word: “Yes, there is a Mr. Porter here, a
Milo
Porter, who says he works for Mr. Vincent Pilka and needs to see him.” He was listening. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I can’t say.” A weak sigh. “Yes.” He turned to me with another roll of his eyes.
Oh, the agony
. “Very well. Thank you.”

He held the receiver close to his chest: “Please wait outside.”

“And for whom am I waiting?” I asked with my best snooty tone.

“Sir, I need to ask you to please wait outside.”

“Where?”

He pointed to the door where I’d entered.

“I guess I’ll know him when I see him?”

He closed his eyes, unable to endure speaking another word to me.
 

I considered asking him what time his shift ended, but I left without saying another word.

It felt ten degrees hotter outside than when I’d entered the club, but the heat had done nothing to burn off the humidity. Even standing under the awning, I felt the sun crisping my neck. After waiting what seemed like five minutes, I contemplated leaving or returning to Herr Asshat to voice my frustration.
 

“Are you the one here to see Mr. Pilka?”

I turned to see a moderate-sized muscle man: a nice square jaw, thick blond hair glued together with a few pints of gel, and baby-blue eyes. He wore his clothes tight: a charcoal Nike DRI-Fit shirt, and black Nike lycra pants. He even had Nike cross-trainers to boot. His arms were bulging and hung at his sides like he was waiting for me to draw.

I smiled. “Why yes, I am.”

“The dining room said your name was Porter. Mr. Pilka doesn’t know a Porter.”

“Does Mr. Pilka know the name of everyone who works for him? I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jace.” He crossed his arms. “And yes, he knows the name of everyone important who works for him.”

“So all those strippers across town shaking their ass for Mr. Pilka—he knows all their names, or they’re not important?”

“You comparing yourself to a stripper?” He grinned and laughed. You could have parked that CLS 550 in the gap between his two front teeth.

I’d had enough of the bro-off: “Here’s the deal, Jace. I work for Mr. Pilka’s attorney, Matthew Wilcox. He hired me to investigate the murder of Chad Scalzo.” I waited for his response, and his head jerked back a few degrees. My best bet was it was Scalzo’s name, and not just the word
murder
, that had drawn his attention. “So I’d say right now I’m the most important person working for Mr. Pilka. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Jace stared at me for a very short second. “Give me a minute.” He disappeared and reappeared in good order. “This can’t wait?”

I shook my head. “My schedule’s tight.” I thought about telling him I was going to spend the afternoon working out my arms to garner his sympathy, but I saw no need to elaborate.

“Follow me.” He showed me to the entrance. “Follow me, and don’t say a word.”

We took a few turns through the gaudy hallways adorned with dark wood and oil paintings of hounds hunting foxes. A few more turns, and more of the patrons were dressed in lycra and spandex. I sensed we were nearing the athletic center. “By the way, Jace, how do you know Mr. Pilka?”