Detective (54 page)

Through a series of coincidences,
he moved closer to finding his man.
These coincidences, initially
unconnected to Patrick, involved the
police, a group of disabled veterans
from Vietnam and the Gulf War, and
drugs. The vets, who had suffered
wartime wounds that confined them to
wheelchairs, were once mired in a
postwar life of drugs, but had
kicked the habit and were now
anti-drug crusaders. In the uneasy,
mixed-race area where they
lived between Grand Avenue and Bird
Road in Coconut Grove they had de-
clared a private war on those who
sold drugs and helped ruin the lives
of so many, especially young people.
The group's members were aware that
others in their community were
trying to fight drugs and
traffickers, but mostly not
succeeding. However, the vets in
wheelchairs were succeeding and, in
their special way, had become
vigilantes and undercover police
informers.

Paradoxically, their leader and
inspirer was neither a military
veteran nor a reformed drug user,
but a former athlete and scholar.
Stewart Rice, age twenty-three,
sometimes known as Stewie, had
suffered a fall four years earlier
while climbing a sheer mountain
face, leaving him permanently
paralyzed below the waist and
confined to a wheelchair. He, too,
felt strongly about young people and
drugs, and his alliance with the
vets resulted from shared opinions
and the camaraderie that people in
wheelchairs feel instinctively for
each other.

As Rice expressed it to newcomers
to the group, which had begun with
three Vietnam vets and expanded to a
dozen, "Young people, kids, with
whole bodies and active lives, are
being destroyed by the drug scum who
should

454 Arthur Halley

be in jail. And we're helping put
them there."

The wheelchair group's modus
operandi was to collect information
about who was dealing, where, when,
how often, and when new supplies
were expected, then pass all that
information anonymously to the
Police Department's anti-drug task
force.

Rice again, speaking with a
trusted friend: "Those of us in
chairs can move around where the
drug action is, and hardly anyone
takes notice. If they think about us
at all, they figure we're
panhandling, like all those guys on
Bird Road. They believe that because
our legs are paralyzed or our arms
don't work, we're that way, too, in
our heads especially the druggies
and dealers who've destroyed the few
brain cells they once had."

At the police end, anti-drug task
force members were skeptical when
the informational phone calls
began calls Rice always made
himself, using a cellular phone to
avoid tracing. Immediately after a
tip-off, whoever answered would
demand the caller's identification,
but "Stewie" was the only name Rice
gave before hanging up quickly. But
soon, after discovering the
information was usable and
dependable, a call beginning, "This
is Stewie," was greeted by, "Hi,
buddy! What you got for us?" No
tracing was attempted. Why spoil a
good thing?

As a result, gang drug trafficking
was increasingly disrupted by
police. Arrests and convictions
mounted. Parts of Coconut Grove were
becoming cleaner. Then the pattern
broke.

Major drug traffickers, aware that
some kind of espionage must be
occurring, began asking questions.
At first there were no answers. Then
an arrested dealer overheard one
drug cop say to another, "Stewie
sure came through this time."

DETECTIVE 455

Within hours a question was buzzing
through the Grove: "Who the fuck is
Stewie?"

The answer came quickly. Along with
it, through neighborhood gossip, the
wheelchair group's tactics were ex-
posed.

Stewart Rice had to die, and in
such a way as to warn others like
him.

The contract killing was ordered
for the next day, which was the point
at which through coincidence Patrick
Jensen became involved.

Jensen had become a regular at the
Brass Doubloon, a noisy, smoky bar
and lounge well known as a hangout
for drug dealers, and that night when
he walked in, a voice from a table
called across, "Hey, Pat! You writin'
somethin' new, man? Come tell us!"
The voice belonged to a narrow-faced,
pockmarked ex-con with a long rap
sheet, named Arlie. He was with
several others, also part of the
scene that Jensen had come to know
during his search for a crime story.
One in the group whom Jensen had not
seen before was a huge, hard-featured
man with wide shoulders, powerful
arms, close-cropped hair, and a
mulatto's complexion. The stranger,
dwarfing the others, was scowling. He
growled a question, which another at
the table answered.

"Pat's okay, Virgilio. He writes
books, see. You tell him shit, he
makes a story. Just a story nothing
real, don't do us no harm."

Someone else added, "Yeah, Pat
keeps his mouth shut. He knows he'd
better. Right, Pat?"

Jensen nodded. "Absolutely."

A space was opened for him and a
chair pulled in. Facing the huge
newcomer, he said easily, "No need to
tell

456 Arthur Halley

me anything, Virgilio, and I just
forgot your name. I'll ask one
question, though." Everyone stared.
"Can I buy you a drink?"

The huge man, still scowling,
looked at Jensen steadily. Then he
said, in a heavily accented voice,
"I buy drinks."

"Fine." Jensen did not look away,
either. "A double Black Label."

A barman behind them called, "Coming
up!"

Virgilio stood. Looming even
larger on his feet, he announced
tersely, "First I piss." He turned
away.

When he had gone, the second man
who had spoken, whose name was
Dutch, told Patrick, "He's sizin'
you up. Better hope he likes you."

"Why should I care?"

"Because nobody messes with
Virgilio. He's Colombian; comes and
goes here. On his home turf, four
finks double-crossed their boss,
talked to Colombian cops. Virgilio
got the job of showin' 'em they did
bad. Know what he did?"

Jensen shook his head.

"He found them, tied 'em to trees,
their arms stretched out. Then he
used a chain saw on every one cut
off their right arms."

Jensen took a hasty sip of Scotch.

Arlie whispered, "Do you some good
to know Virgilio. Be some action
tonight. You interested?"

"Yes." Even as he spoke, a new
thought occurred to Jensen.

"When he gets back," Dutch said,
"wait for a bit, then go to the can
and take your time. We'll ask
Virgilio if it's okay to let you
in.''

Jensen did as he was told. Soon
afterward, a nod.

DETECTIVE 457

"Keep on following the jeep," Dutch
instructed Jensen. "And when they
stop and turn off their lights, do
the same."

It was almost 3:00 A.M. They were in
Jensen's Volvo, having driven
thirty-five miles south on Florida's
Turnpike, led by a Jeep Cherokee
ahead, with Arlie driving and
Virgilio his passenger. Then, just
past Florida City, an entrance to the
Everglades, they turned onto Card
Sound Road, a desolate byway leading
to Key Largo. By the light of a half
moon, Jensen could make out the
tidewater and broken-down houseboats
nestled along mudbanks on either
side. There were no homes or villages
to provide ambient light, nor was
there any sign of other cars.
Motorists shunned this route at
night, preferring the more traveled
and safer U.S. I Highway.

"I sure as hell couldn't live in
one of those shitheaps," Dutch said.
"Could you?" Their headlights had
revealed a pile of debris that was
once a boat, with a crude sign
reading, Blue Crabbs for Sale.
Jensen, wondering by now why he was
here at all, didn't answer.

At that moment the jeep in front
swung off the road onto a gravelly
area, stopped, and its lights went
out. Jensen followed, turned off the
Volvo's lights, and got out. The two
from the jeep stood waiting. Nothing
was said.

The big Colombian walked to the
water's edge, peering out into the
darkness.

Suddenly, headlights appeared. A
tradesman's van, with a "Plumber's
Pal" logo on its side panel, pulled
off the road and stopped next to
Virgilio and Arlie's jeep. Im-
mediately two male figures left the
van; Patrick noticed they were
wearing gloves. The newcomers went to
the van's rear doors, where the
others joined them. Jensen hung back.

Inside the van, a shape was visible.
As the object was

458 Arthur Halley

pulled to the rear, Patrick saw it
was a mechanical-type wheelchair
that had been transported on its
back. A figure was in the chair and,
though secured by ropes, appeared to
be struggling. Virgilio moved
forward; he, too, had slipped on
gloves. Then, as if the heavy chair
were weightless, Virgilio lifted it
out and stood it upright. Patrick,
who now faced the chair, could see
that the seated figure was a young
male, gagged and bound. He could see
the captive's eyes moving
desperately from side to side, and
the mouth working, too, trying to
eject the gag. Somehow, for a
moment, the man in the chair
succeeded and spat part of the gag
loose. Looking at Jensen, who was
separate from the others, he
blurted, "I've been kidnapped! My
name's Stewie Rice. These people
will kill me! Please help "

The words had barely finished when
Virgilio smashed an enormous hand
against Stewie's face. A spurt of
blood emerged from his mouth along
with a sharp cry, stifled as Dutch
reached out and readjusted the gag.
Still the captive's eyes roved,
frantically pleading. Jensen had to
look away.

"We move quick," Virgilio
pronounced, propelling the
wheelchair toward the water, again
lifting it easily when it stuck. The
pair who had arrived in the van
followed, one carrying a chain, the
other a cement block. Dutch joined
them and beckoned Jensen to follow.
Reluctantly, he did so. Arlie
remained on shore.

Now they were in the water, whose
course had been dredged out years
before as a canal. Although shallow
at the edge, farther out it plunged
down to eight or ten feet. The two
who had brought the wheelchair waded
forward, maneuvering around a tangle
of mangroves.

Ahead through the blackness was a
mangrove islet, one of several,
surrounded by shallow water and sea
grass. The two from the van, who
appeared to know the locale, had

DETECTIVE 459

stopped where they felt the water
deepen. One said, "Here'll do."

Virgilio, propelling the chair and
its panicked occupant on his own,
pushed it forward until the captive
was more than half immersed. Now the
other two used the chain to secure
the chair, passing it in turn through
each wheel, now underwater, then at
one end fastening it to a plant stump
on the islet, and at the other end to
the cement block they had brought.

"Sure as hell won't float," Dutch
said. "Tide's rising now, be over his
head in a couple hours." He laughed.
"Give the bastard some time to
think."

The figure in the wheelchair, who
had clearly overheard, moaned and
struggled harder, but the only effect
was to shift the wheelchair deeper in
the water.

In the darkness Jensen shuddered.
Since facing the captive, he had
known he was part of a murder, as an
accessory at least. But he knew, too,
that if he had tried to leave, he
could become a victim also. Virgilio
would not hesitate to make that
happen.

Deep within, a small voice from the
past asked, What am 1? When did I
stop caring? . . . And Jensen was re-
minded of his earlier thought: The
person I once was no longer exists.

"We go," Virgilio pronounced.

As they moved toward shore, leaving
the wheelchair and its occupant,
Jensen tried not to imagine what
Stewie Rice's dying would be like.
Inevitably he did. He envisioned the
tide rising gradually while Rice
watched helplessly until salt water a
little at a time began to lap at his
face . . . Soon he would hold his
head as high as possible, inhaling
when he could, preserving each breath
against the inexorable rise of the
water. . . Survival until the
absolute last moment would be
instinctive . . . Perhaps

460 Arthur Halley

he would succeed in breathing
intermittently, though knowing he
would shortly fail . . . Then, as
the water rose still more, in
desperation he would choke and
splutter. . . and finally, as his
mouth and nose were covered and his
lungs filled, mercifully he would
drown. . .

Jensen pulled his thoughts away.

On shore, Virgilio approached. He
put his face near Patrick Jensen's.
"You keep this big secret. Or I
fuckin' kill you. "

"I have to keep it that way, don't
I? I'm in it, too." Jensen kept his
face close to the other's and his
voice level. He had decided the only
way to deal with Virgilio was not to
be intimidated.

"Yeah," the big man conceded. "You
in it, too."

"I want to talk to you privately
sometime," Jensen said quietly.
"Just the two of us."

Virgilio seemed surprised. His
mind clearly working, he raised a
questioning eyebrow.

"Yes," Jensen said, knowing a
message had passed between them and
was understood.

"I go Colombia," Virgilio said.
"When I back, I find you. "

Jensen knew he would. He also knew
he had found his killer.

A couple of Harley-Davidson riders,
passing by in the early morning,
were the first to see the wheelchair
partly submerged. From Alabama
Jack's, a popular bikers' bar a
short distance ahead, they called
911, and Metro-Dade police
responded. Two uniform officers and
paramedics waded out from shore; the
senior paramedic declared the man
dead. Stewart Rice was readily
identified from credit cards and
papers on him. By this time the
local news peo