Murder Key (11 page)

Murder Key

EIGHTEEN

             
The Cantina was not crowded on a Saturday afternoon. During the week the place was full of downtown workers enjoying lunch, and at night it turned into one of those clubs where young people spend too much time ruining their tympanic membranes with loud music. The doors were always open, and pigeons joined the people for a bit of lunch.

             
Amber took Jock and me to a table bordering the sidewalk. Barb came by with menus and
asked how I was enjoying retire
ment. I told her it was fine and that we were waiting for another person before ordering. We chatted for a moment and she left to take care of other diners.

             
I’d called Chief Bi
ll Lester in mid-morning
. He told me that the serial number on the transom of the small boat washed up on the beach with the dead Mexicans showed that it was a tender on a big yacht out of Ft. Lauderdale. The yacht was owned by a New York advertising agency and the tender had been reported stolen a year before. A dead
-
end.

             
Pepe Zaragoza had come out of the coma the day before. He had no memory of the events on the boat and no idea
how he ended up on the beach.

             
The last thing he remembered was leaving home on Friday morning to go to work on the truck farm in eastern Manatee County where he was a foreman, overseeing the Mexicans who harvested the crops. Since there were fewer vegetables to be harvested i
n October, most of his crew
had moved further south and w
ere
working other fields. Pepe’s job was full-time, and when there were no crops ripening in the fields, he oversaw the maintenance on the vehicles and farm machinery needed on large institutional farms.

             
“He’s not ready to leave the hospital,” said Lester, “but he’ll be arrested when he’s discharged.”

             
I was relating this to Jock when I noticed a woman with short brown hair walking toward us. She was wearing navy blue slacks, a cream colored silk blouse and low heeled shoes. A small gold cross hung from a thin chain around her neck. She appeared to be in her late-twenties. Her makeup was subdued to the point that it was not apparent she was wearing any. I was idly watching her, wondering who she could be, when she smiled at me. Liz. That smile would knock me over at a hundred paces.

             
Jock and I stood as she approached, and I moved around to help with her chair. This merited me another high
wattage smile and a thank-you.

             
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” I said. “You look a little different in the daylight.”

             
She laughed. “You liked my working clothes last night?”

             
“I have to tell you, I never saw a government employee dressed just like that.”

             
She smiled again. “Push-up bras are a great invention, and a big wig just makes a girl, don’t you think?”

             
Jock finally found his voice. “Good of you to meet with us.”

             
“Tell me why I’m here,” she said.

             
I told her the story of the past week, beginning with the dead Mexicans on the beach and ending with our trip to Les Girls.

             
“Your theory about the drugs is right,” said Liz. “Most of the coke we’re seeing is coming from the Tampa-Sarasota area. Our people thought it might be coming in by sea, but we haven’t found anything that would help us.”

             
“Did you ever talk to Dwight Conley?”
I asked

             
“No. That was all done through Rufus Harris and Paul Reich.”

             
Jock said, “Tell us about Maitland.”

             
“He seems to be the guy taking care of the drugs around here. I don’t think he’s smart enough to run the show, but he’s probably the area franchisee for the Sarasota bunch. We’ve got enough on him to take him down, but we’re hoping he can lead us up the food chain.”

             
I said, “Do you know how the drugs get here?”

             
“The Sarasota people hire low-level thugs to drive the coke to Orlando. Maitland stashes the drugs in a mini-storage facility on the Trail and doles them out to his people. A lot of this stuff gets sold on street corners and a lot more in the bars all over town.”

             
“How long have you known about all this?”
asked
Jock.

             
“Since I started working at Les Girls,” said Liz. “It’s amazing what you can pick up hanging around a place like that. We’ve confirmed what I’ve told you, but as I said, we’re hoping ole Merc will lead us to his bosses.”

             
I shrugged. “I don’t have time to wait for a slip-up by Merc,” I said. “Not if I want to keep breathing.”

             
“Do you know where he lives?” asked Jock.

             
“Yes, but I don’t want you guys busting up a project we’
ve been working on for months.”

             
Jock was quiet for a moment, thinking. “What if he thinks we’re another group trying to muscle in on his territory?” he
as
ked
. “Couldn’t we get what we need out of him without tipping DEA’s hand?”

             
“Possible,” said Liz. “But you’d have to be very careful. And you’d have t
o let me in on what you learn.”

             
“We will,” said Jock.

             
I said, “What else can you tell us about Maitland.”

             
“Not much. He served state time up at Raiford, but he’s pretty much a quiet guy. I don’t think he made any waves up there.”

             
I nodded to Jock. “We need to make a run at him. We’ll report in, Liz, as soon as we know something.”

             
“Deal,” she said, and gave us Maitland’s address. And smiled.

Murder Key

NINETEEN

            
 
Merc Maitland lived in a gated community that sprawled around a lake on the western edge of Orlando. The gate guard would want proof that we belonged there or we wouldn’t be let in.

             
It’s one of the conceits of the rich and nearly rich that
a minimum-wage gate guard
would keep criminals out of their neighborhoods. A common burglar would be slowed down, or maybe even defeated in his designs, but the real criminals probably lived among the ever-so-pompo
us denizens of these newly minted fortress
es.

             
We stopped at a military surplus store and bought identical sets of clothing; work boots, gray long sleeved shirts, matching gray pants. We changed into the clothes in the dressing room. Our old clothes
went into a plastic bag
. We got two plain gray baseball caps, paid cash and left.

             
“We need a truck to go with these uniforms,” said Jock.
“Let’s see what we can find.”

             
We drove by the yard
s of several industrial compani
es, but found their trucks either too big for our
needs or locked up behind chain-
link fences.

             
We stumbled onto a local cable TV company’s maintenance yard, filled with panel vans left haphazardly in the
unfenced
parking lot.

             
“Looks like the Saturday crew left in a hurry,” said Jock. “Let me out.

             
I stopped the rental car and Jock got out carrying a small leather packet and a slim jim, a flat piece of metal that will fit between the window and door frame of a vehicle. He was into the van in a second and bent over under the steering wheel. The van started, and Jock sat up and wheeled out of the parking lot. The whole thing had taken less than a minute.

             
We drove to a shopping m
all called West Oaks Center and
parked the rental. We’d pick it up later. I climbed into the passenger seat and we headed for Mai
t
land’s house.

* * * * *

             
The gate guard came out of his
air conditioned hut, smiling.
“Somebody having cable trouble?” he asked.

             
“Nah,” said Jock, “it’s the whole neighborhood. We gotta check all the nodes until we find the problem. Great way to spend a Saturday afternoon, isn’t it?”

             
The guard laughed. “Know what you mean. Go on in.”

             
He hit the button to raise the
red and white pole that guarded
the entrance road.

             
We drove to the address given us by Liz. “Got your piece?” asked Jock.

             
“Yep. You?”

             
“Always.”

             
“Ready?”

             
“Yep.”

             
“Let’s go.”

             
We went, Jock carrying a tool box from the van in his left hand.

             
The house was large, built in a style often called McMa
n
sion
,
because of its ostentatious appearance. It was a two-story with a triple garage opening onto the driveway in front of the house. The lot was small, and the houses on either side crowded in. The double doors at the entrance were inlaid with beveled glass, stained so that we couldn’t see inside. I knocked on the door and then, as an afterthought, pushed the bell button set into the facing. In a moment a large black man appeared
.

             
“Can I help you?” he asked. He was wearing shorts, athletic shoes and a white T-shirt.

             
“We’ve got to check out the TV cable,” I said, gesturing back to the van emblazoned with the logo of the cable comp
a
ny.

             
“We don’t have a problem with the TV,” he said.

             
I looked at a notebook from the truck, holding it so that the man at the door couldn’t see anything written there. “A Mr. Maitland called about a problem,” I said.

             
“Hold on,” he said. Then turning to the interior he called, “Merc. Cable guy’s here.”

             
“What cable guy?” A scra
tchy voice came from what I pre
sumed to be the family room.

             
“Said you called them,” said the black guy.

             
“Coming,” said the voice, and a moment later Merc Maitland waddled into the foyer. He looked just like he did the night before, and he was wearing the same clothes.

             
“What’s this about a cable problem?” he asked.

             
Jock and I pulled our pistols from under our shirts. “Back into the house,” I said.

             
“What th
e hell!” roared the black man.

             
Jock grabbed him by the front of his shirt and stuck the nine millimeter up u
nder his nose. “Just be quiet.
Anybody else in the house?”

             
“No. Just us,” said Maitland, his voice quivering. “You’re not the cable guys?”

             
“Duh,” said Jock, grinning.

             
Jock produ
ced two pairs of handcuffs and
placed them around the men’s wrists, hands behind them. Jock was always prepared. We moved them into the family room and told them to sit on the so
fa.
Jock went to search the house, while I held my gun on the men. He came back in a few minutes to tell me that we were alone.

             
“Jock,” I said, “I’d rather not shoot these people if we can help it.”

             
“Okay. Did you bring the cattle prod?”

             
“Cattle prod?”
asked
Maitland
, alarm sounding in his voice
. “What do you need a cattle prod for?”

             
“It’s electric,” said Jock. “It’ll help you think.”

             
“I don’t need any help,” said Maitl
and, his voice rising in panic.
“Just tell me what you want.”

             
I pointed my gu
n at the black man. “How about d
ufus here?” I said,

             
“Jeep don’t know a damn thing,” said Maitland. “You can shoot him if you want.”

             
“Merc!” yelped the black man. “Don’t be talking like that.”

             
“Well, it’s true,” said Merc. “You don’t know shit.”

             
“See?” said Jeep, looking at Jock. “Ain’t no need to be shootin’ me. I don’t know shit.”

             
“I’ll get the cattle prod,” I said.

             
“No! Wait,” said Merc. “You don’t need that. What do you want to know?”

             
“Where do your drugs come from?” I asked.

             
“Drugs? What are you talking about?” said Merc, a slight tremor audible in his voice.

             
I turned toward the door. “I’m going for the prod,” I said.

             
“No, wait,” said Merc. “Who are you guys?

             
Jock grinned, mirthlessly. “We’re your new competition.”

             
“What do you mean?” asked Merc.

             
“Our boss in Miami is getting a little pissed about you squeezing him out of Orlando,” said Jock.

             
“I’m not squeezing anybody,” said Merc. “I’m just helping out some friends.”

             
“Which friends?” I asked.

             
“I can’t tell you that,” Merc said reasonably. “They’ll kill me.”

             
I pointed the automatic at him. “I think you’ve got a choice to make. If you don’t tell your friends about our little discu
s
sion, you’ll be all right. But if you don’t tell us what we want to know, you’ll be dead in a few minutes.”

             
“What about him?” Merc said, pointing to the black guy named Jeep.

             
“We’ll kill him, too,” I said.

             
“No, I mean, if I tell you anything, he’ll know and rat me out.”

             
Jock grinned again. “Then you’ll both be dead You guys are tied together, and if the senator decides to kill one of you, he’ll kill both of you.”

             
Merc blanched at the mention of the senator. “Oh, shit,” he said, “I don’t know who they are. People bring me the stuff and I give them cash and they go away again.”

             
“How does it work?” asked Jock.

             
“They bring me a bunch of the stuff and I pay them for the last bunch they brought. It’s kind of a consignment thing. I make a few bucks profit on each deal.”

             
“What happens if you don’t pay for the last shipment?”

             
“I don’t want to know,” said Merc. “One day this dude comes by the house carrying a big garbage bag. He tells me that a guy I know in Melbourne didn’t come up with the cash like he was supposed to. I said, ‘What’s that to me?’ He opens the friggin’ sack and the Melbourne guy’s head’s in it. I ain’t gonna miss no payments.”

             
“Who’s the senator?” I asked.

             
“I don’t know, I tell you,” mumbled Merc. “I’ve just heard about the senator, but not a name. All these guys live in Sarasota.”

             
“How did you get involved with these people?” I asked.

             
“Well, you see, I did a little time in prison.”

             
“How little?” Jock said.

             
“Thirty years.”

             
“That’s more than a little,” I said. “Were you selling drugs?”

             
Merc shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”

             
“What were you in for?” I asked.

             
“Murder.”

             
“Murder?  Who did you kill?” I
asked
.

             
“My wife.”

             
“Why?” I asked.

             
“She was doing drugs and I wanted to put her out of her misery.”

             
“Never mind,” I said. “How did you get involved in this deal?”

             
“I met a guy named Charlie Peters at Raiford, and when we got out he helped set me up. He knew the Sarasota guys from somewhere.”

             
“Where can we find Peters?” I asked.

             
“I don’t know. The last time I saw him, all I saw was his head in a garbage bag
.”

             
“The guy from Melbourne,” I said.

             
“Yeah.” Merc said.

             
“Go get the prod,” said Jock.

             
“Why? I’m cooperating,” said Merc, his voice rising again.

             
“You’re holding back,” said Jock. “I need a name.”

             
I put the barrel of the gun under the black guy’s nose. “If you don’t give me a name now,” I said, looking at Merc, “I’m going to shoot your friend, and then I’m going to shoot you.”

             
“Don’t,” said Jeep. “I know a name.”

             
“You don’t know shit,” said Merc.