Murder Key (10 page)

             
“That’s cold, Jock.”

             
“The bastard had it coming. No telling how many kids he’s killed with the drugs he’s imported.”

             
“That’s why we have courts, Jock. He gets arrested, charged, tried and se
n
tenced.”

             
“Yeah, if you catch him, and some smart attorney doesn’t get him off. You lawyers have too many rules.”

             
“Those rules are the only thing separating us from anarchy.” I was in shock I think, and I couldn’t shut up. I didn’t need to give Jock a primer on the law. I was rambling, talking so I wouldn’t throw up. I wasn’t making a lot of sense even to myself.

             
“Okay, look at it this way,” Jock said. “If he
had been
coming at me with a gun, threatening to kill me, and I shot him, it’d be self- defense, right?”

             
“Yeah, but that’s not what happened here.”

             
“Sure it is. It’s what I call a pre-emptive strike. Someday, when he came for me with a gun, or a bomb, or God knows what else, I might not be armed. I’d be dead.”

             
“Then he could be charged with murder. You can’t just go around shooting people.”

             
“Or he might have come back to Tiny’s and shot your sorry ass.”

             
Put in that perspective, Jock’
s actions made a lot of sense.
“Yeah, I guess you’ve got a point. Let’s get a beer.”

             
And that’s what we did. Right after I chucked my lunch.

Murder Key

SIXTEEN

             
Emilio Sanchez and Rufus Harris were waiting for us in the bar near our hotel.
We told them what had happened.
Rufus left to make a phone call.

             
I was still weak around the edges. I wondered if Jock had killed Diaz to protect me or himself, or maybe just in a fit of anger. I couldn’t get the look on Jock’s face when he pulled the trigger out of my mind. There really was no look. Jock’s face had been expressionless, nothing showing, no feelings what
-
soever reflected. The face of a killer.

             
Emilio broke into my train of thought. “Jock,” he said,” that was pretty nasty back there. How’re you holding up?”

             
Jock reached over and patted me on the shoulder. “I did what I had to do,” he said.
“T
he man tried to kill my best friend, and he would’ve come back. There was no way Diaz would take that kind of humiliation and not want revenge. He’d come after Matt someday, and he’d kill him.”

             
I gave it a beat. “Thanks, Jock,” I said.

             
I couldn’t say what I wanted to, that I
would
have taken the chance that I could live with Diaz’ threat, but I wasn’t sure how I’d live with his murder. That letting h
i
m live would have been a better choice than shooting him in cold blood. On the other hand I couldn’t deny the sense of relief I felt at the knowledge that Diaz would never again pop up in my life with a pistol pointed at my face.

             
Jock had become a hard man during his service to a nation that didn’t know people like him existed. I had to understand that facet of my friend, live with the consequences, and hope never to have to be in need of that part of Jock again.

             
When Harris  returned, he told us that the safe house would be cleaned up. He also said that the head of the DEA office in Veracruz wanted to meet with
us. He’d
be along shortly.

             
In a few minutes, a tall man, perhaps six-feet-four, with close-cropped hair and a thin mustache came through the door. He was in his forties, and looked as if he worked out regularly. Rufus introduced us to Slade Thomas as the agent in charge of the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency in Eastern Mexico.

             
Thomas ordered a rum and coke and joined us at the table. “I’m told that you guys are trying to find this end of a smu
g
gling trail,” he said. “We might be able to help each other.”

             
I took a sip of beer. “What do you have in mind?”

             
“I need a man on one of the shipments. If we can follow this to the States, we can bust up that end of it. I’m not sure we’ll ever get to the main men on this end. The corruption is so pervasive we’d have to take down the government to do it.”

             
“How can we help?” I
asked
.

             
“I understand you’ve identified the trawler, and you know where the immigration smuggling operation starts. If I can get a bug on the boat and an agent in with the immigrants, we’ll be able to unravel both the drug and the people smuggling at the other end.”

             
Emilio leaned back in his chair. “It sounds like I’m going to become an imm
i
grant.”

             
“Are you willing to try it?” asked Thomas.

             
Emilio nodded. “If my agency says okay, I can probably get back to Tlapa and get on the bus from there. I’ll have to make sure that
Senor
Arguilles doesn’t give me away. If he’ll play ball, he can send me as just another client.”

             
Thomas said, “I think we know where the
Princess Sarah
is docked. We’ll try to get a tracking device aboard tonight. We’ll hook it into the boat’s power system, and it’ll send a signal by satellite to the Customs Service office in Miami. We’ll know exactly where you are Emilio.”

             
Emilio laughed. “That’s
comforting
. I hope the device and I don’t both end up in a shark’s belly.”

* * * * *

             
It was time to get out of Mexico. Harris told us there was a seven
A.M
. flight the next day from Veracruz to Houston. We’d change planes there for a flight to Orlando. Rufus thought it prudent for him to leave with us. Emilio would fly directly to Acupulco, and then drive to Tlapa.

             
Jock and I spent the night with Emilio in the hotel room Jock had secured for us. Harris left for his own accommod
a
tions and told us that he’d pick us up at 5:30 the next morning for the ride to the airport.

             
Rufus arrived on time, and one of his agents dropped us at the airport’s departure gate. I was glad to be going home. I’d missed Anne more than I thought I would. I knew the romance was cooling, but there was still something there, and I didn’t want to give whatever it was a chance to wither.

             
I was concerned about Jock. He had been quiet since the shooting, saying even less than usual. The flight to Houston gave me a chance to talk privately with him.

             
“What’s the matter, old friend?
” I asked.

             
“I’m fine,” he said.

             
“I don’t think so. Is it the killing?”

             
“It’s strange, Matt. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’ve never been particularly bothered by it. I only killed people who were trying to harm me or my country. There’s a kind of rough justice to that, but lately it doesn’t feel right. I don’t know.”

             
“Maybe you’ve reached your limit.”

             
“Maybe. But it’s like there are two people inside me. I don’t mean like a multiple personality kind of thing, but just two sides of me. One part is fine with doing what I’ve been trained to do, but the other side seems softer. After an operation, I feel a sort of formless melancholy about what I did.”

             
“Remorse?”

             
“Not exactly. Diaz needed to be killed. He was an evil man, and he had no qualms about killing those poor immigrants or poisoning our children with drugs. Still, he was a human being, and I’m not God. And I wonder if I killed him because he was evil or because he threatened me.”

             
I let him be. Sometimes a man needs to think it out and make his own decisions. At some point, we all come to that ancient fork in the road of life where we have to decide which path we’ll take. I couldn’t help him with this one.

* * * * *

             
We had no problems with customs and arrived in Orlando
at mid
-afternoon. A taxi took the three of
us to
the Federal Building for a meeting with David Parrish and Paul Reich, the Border Patrol agent. Security had been alerted and a uniformed deputy marshal took us to the same conference room we’d been in only three days before. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

             
I told Parrish and Reich everything that had happened and everything we had learned in Mexico, leaving out the part about Jock shooting Diaz. 

             
“Where is Diaz now?” asked Reich.

             
“He tried to escape,” said Harris. “He came at me with a knife and I
had to shoot him.”

             
Nobody seemed bothered
,
or even displeased
,
about the demise of Diaz, and I figured Harris’ version would look better on the reports.

             
I asked, “Whe
re do we go from here?”

             
Parrish shrugged. “I’ll have to go to the bosses at Justice about that. Maybe this is what Conley stumbled onto and it got him killed. I still don’t understand why they came after you, Matt.”

             
“I don’t either,” I said, “but they’re probably still out there. They might be a little pissed that we took out their boss.”

             
Harris said, “I don’t think anybody can tie that to you. I don’t think we left any tracks.”

             
I said, “If they tie me to Diaz, they might put it all toget
h
er.”

             
“Nobody will ever find Diaz’ body,” Harris said with a cold formality.

             
“What about this senator?”
asked
Reich. “
Is
he in the  state senate
or U.S.?”

             
“Don’t know,” said Jock. “All Diaz said was that somebody had mentioned a senator. We don’t know who he is or what his role in this might be.”

             
Harris rocked back
in his chair. “If that stuff’s coming into Sarasota, some of it’s probably ending up in Central Florida,” he said. “I think you need to talk to Liz Birmingham. She’s one of our agents, and she has better contacts in the drug world than anybody in our division.”

             
Parrish cleared his throat. “That’s a good idea, Rufus
.
I’ll talk to the Coast Guard in St. Pete. They’ll be interested in anything coming in by boat.”

             
Harris nodded his assent. “I’ll set up a meet with Liz for this evening. Dress casually. We’re going to a titty bar.”

             
Vanessa picked Jock and me up in front of the Federal Building and took us home for an early dinner cooked by her sister Mandy.

Murder Key

SEVENTEEN

             
Orlando is the epicenter of the world of theme parks. They’re clustered on the southern edge of the city, surrounded by the tourist ghettos of hotels, restaurants and gift shops. On any given day there are over a hundred thousand tourists crowding into Central Florida. Few are aware that Orlando is more than a family fun destination.

             
A new city has arisen from the ashes of the citrus groves that fueled the area before Walt Disney discovered it. The office towers and condos that jut upward from downtown have replaced the one and two story retail shops that were once the business center of a small city.

             
The tourists never see the high-end gated communities where the very rich live side by side with the upwardly mobile middle-class. Neither does the visitor see the shabby neighbo
r
hoods that house the workers
who every day willingly enter the maw of the theme park beast to earn their minimum wage paycheck.

             
Like every city, Orlando supports an underworld where drugs and sex are sold or bartered with an insouciance that would stun the law-abiding citizen. In Orlando, much of this business hugs a thoroughfare called Orange Blossom Trail, a name that evokes the sweet smell of citrus tr
ees in the spring. Not anymore.

             
The sickly sweet odor of cannabis permeates the clubs that sell nudity along with cheap booze. Those dives line the street, their facades filled with flashing neon displays advertising naked dancing girls.

             
It was into this squalid milieu that Jock, Harris and I ventured shortly after dark on Friday. It occurred to me that it had been one week since Diaz had tried to kill me at Tiny’s.

             
We were making progress, I thought, but not very quickly. I knew who had tried to shoot me and who had given the order, but I didn’t
know why, and I didn’t know who
had
told Mendez to have me killed. My life would be at risk until I figured it out.

             
The bar named
Les Girls was housed in a square stucco building with a flat roof supporting a large neon sign adverti
s
ing the place as a “Gentlemen’s Club.” I didn’t think a real gentleman would ever enter the double doors that opened from the parking lot. But we did.

             
There was a large man standing just inside the door beside a table at which sat a young woman in a negligee right out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. She was smiling. He was scowling.

             
“The cover charge is ten bucks a head,” said the large man. “Pay the lady.”

             
Harris pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off three tens and passed them to the woman at the table. The big guy scowled some more, and the lady at the table smiled as if we had granted her most extravagant wish by simply walking through the door.

             
The room was square with enough smoke hanging in the air to gag a goat. Not all the smoke was from regular tobacco. There was a bar along one wall with a thirty-foot runway jutting at right angles into the room. There were brass poles situated at either end of the runway, anchored in the ceiling. Small vinyl-covered chairs were placed along the bar and runway.

             
The joint was noisy with raucous comments uttered by drunks sitting at the runway, gazing upward, mesmerized by the hairless bodies of the dancers. Rock music pounded from large speakers along the wall, the decibels outstripping a
jumbo jet on take-off. Waitress
es in skimpy outfits were serving drinks and kibitzing with the customers. There were about fifty men and two women sitting around the space, intently watching a pair of nude girls
making love to the brass poles.

             
We took a table near the back of the room. A dancer stopped by to ask if we were interested in a lap dance for fifty bucks. We declined
A
waitress made her way over to us. She was tall with blonde hair falling to her waist,
her
breasts pushed out of the top of a lace camisole, barely hiding the nipples. She wore high heel shoes and a pair of shorts riding low on her hips
.
A
gold stud
glittered in her navel
. Her face was thin with dark eyebrows that perhaps gave the lie to her hair color. She flashed a smile, revealing even white teeth and generating so much energy that I sat bac
k in the chair. We ordered beer, and she left us.

             
Jock rubbed his hands together. “Now that is some hunk of woman
.
”

             
“I’ll introduce you when she comes back,” said Harris.

             
I grinned
. “
You come here often?”

             
“Only on
business,” Harris
said, chuckling.

             
“Some business for a hard working government employee,” said Jock. “I guess you make sure the taxpayer gets his money’s worth.”

             
“Of course,” said Harris. “I’m a good steward of your tax dollars.”

             
The waitress was back with three six-ounce glasses of beer. “That’ll be twenty-four dollars,” she said, “not counting the generous tip.” The smile flashed again, suddenly, and like lightning on a dark night, it lit up the room. I’m not kidding.

             
“Sit for a minute,” said Harris. “I want you to meet a couple of friends.”

             
She sat, putting her drink tray on the table. “Hi, I’m Tiffany.”

             
Rufus laughed. “It’s all right, Liz,” he said. “These are our guys.
”

             
He was talking loudly to be heard over the ambient noise. Nobody was close to us, so he wasn’t divulging any secrets to anyone other than Jock and me.

             
Rufus put his hand on the waitress’ shoulder. “Liz Birming
ham,” he said, “meet Jock Algren and Matt Royal. Jock works for the government, I think, and Matt’s a lawyer, but he doesn’t take that too seriously.”

             
She stuck out her hand to shake with Jock and me. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

             
             
I was dumbfounded. “You’re the undercover narc?” I asked.

             
“Yes, but that’s our little secret,” she said. “I’ve only got a minute before I have to get back to slinging drinks.”

             
“I wanted you to meet these guys so that when they come talk to you tomorrow
,
you’ll know they’re with me,” said Harris.

             
“And they’re coming back tomorrow night?” she asked.

             
“No, they’ll meet you at the
Wall Street
Cantina at noon. Tell them anything you know that’ll help,” said Harris.

             
Liz frowned. “If you’
re looking into drugs in Central Florida, yo
u need to remember Merc Maitlan
d. He’s sitting over there.”

             
She nodded toward a heavy-set man just getting out of a chair on the far side of the room. Maitland was about five-feet-eight and must have weighed 250 pounds. His hair was short, almost a buzz cut, blonde going rapidly to gray, probably in his early 60s. He was wearing cargo shorts, boat shoes and a golf shirt.

             
“That’s the kingpin,” Liz said. “Gotta go. See you tomo
r
row.”

             
Jock looked at Rufus. “Where is this Cantina you’re talking about
?”

             
“On Wall Street, around the corner from where Matt’s office used to be,” said Harris.

             
I didn’t ask how he knew where my office had been, but it sounded as if he’d been checking me out. I’d eaten often at the Cantina when I practiced law. It had sidewalk dining that would be pleasant on a Saturday afternoon in late October.

             
We had a couple more drinks for appearance sake, ogled the sweeties dancing on the bar and runway, and took our leave. Harris dropped us at the Embassy Suites Hotel in downtown Orlando, where we had taken a couple of rooms for the evening.

             
I hadn’t talked to Anne since Houston, and I was beginning to miss her. I’d have to be careful with that. I was pretty sure our relationship was edging toward an end, and I didn’t want to be left with that terribly empty feeling that
accompanies lost love affairs.
I called her.

             
“Hey, Sugar,” I said. “Miss me?”

             
“I sure did. Who is this?”

             
“Awwww.”

             
“I really have missed you, Matt. Where are you?”

             
“I’m in Orlando. Jock and I learned a lot in Mexico, and we’ll be coming home tomorrow evening. Can you have dinner?”

             
“You’ve been in Mexico?”

             
“Long story. Don’t mention that to anybody. What about dinner tomorrow?”

             
“I wish I could, Matt, but I’ve made other plans.”

             
She didn’t explain the plans, and the jealously monster in my brain gnawed at me to ask. I stood my ground, though. A macho man has his pride, and I’d have to learn to live with this.

             
“Well, I’ll give you a call later, and maybe we can get together,” I said.

             
“Are you okay?” Her voice had softened.

             
“Sure.
W
hy?”

             
“You just don’t sound quite right.”

             
“It’s been a long week, Anne. I’ll talk to you next week.”

             
“Bye,” she said, and I hung up.

             
I turned out the lights and drifted off to sleep thinking about the end of an affair. It was going to be rougher than I had imagined.

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