Murder Key (13 page)

Murder Key

TWENTY-TWO

             
We drove through the heat, the sun’s glare bouncing off the white detritus of man’s need to feed himself. I was driving Byron’s king cab pickup with Byron sitting next to me, his hands bound behind his back. Jock was in the back seat, a gun pointed at Byron’s neck.

             
Hewett directed us to a dirt road running eastward off the narrow blacktop we were following. We had seen only a couple of ca
rs since we left the Vagabond.

             
We came to a gate anchored into an eight-foot tall chain link fence.

             
“It ain’t locked,” said Byron. “Just pull the chain out from around the posts.”

             
I got out of the truck, nervous, exposed to anyone who might be watching for us. I unwrapped the chain that held the gate closed and swung it open. I got back into the truck, and we drove through, not bothering to close the gate behind us. We might need to make a quick exit.

             
We continued on the dirt road for a couple of miles and came to a small building, a shed of corrugated steel that looked like a World War II Quonset hut, hidden among mounds of phosphate waste.

             
There were no trees, no grass, no birds or other wildlife. Just the piles of waste and the hut. Byron told us to pull over.

             
“I don’t see his car,” said Byron.

             
Jock asked, “You’re sure this is where you were supposed to meet Jimmy?”

             
“Yeessir,” said Byron.

             
I said, “We’ll wait.”

             
We sat for fifteen minutes, the truck idling to keep the air conditioner blowing cool air. Hewett was visibly sweating, the cold air not making a dent in his fear. The time dragged by. We sat quietly watching for the dust cloud that would signal the approach of a vehicle.

             
“He ain’t comin’,” said Byron. “He must’ve seen you take me at the Vagabond. He’s smart like that, you know.”

             
“Where does he live?
” I asked.

             
“Don’t know,” said Byron. “He calls my cell when he needs me, and I meet him at a bar somewheres.”

             
Even the c
rackers had embraced technology.

             
Jock asked, “What do you do for him?”

             
“Sometimes he needs help with the Mexicans,” said Byron.

             
“What kind of help?” asked Jock.

             
Byron shrugged. “You know,
kinda slap ‘em around some
to keep ‘em in line.
Sometimes they get to thinking they can do better working som
e
where else and we got to change their minds.”

             
“Who does Jimmy work for?” I said.

             
“I don’t know, and that’s the gods’ honest truth,” said Byron.

             
Jock asked, “Is Jimmy in the drug business?”

             
Byron shook his head. “If he is, I don’t know nothing ‘bout it. I just work with the Mexicans.”

             
“Which Mexicans would those be?” I
asked
.

             
“The ones what lives in the labor camps Jimmy runs.”

             
“Who do the Mexicans work for?” Jock asked.

             
“I don’t know. Jimmy hires them out to farmers around here when there’s pickin’ needed to be done. He runs a lot of them south for the season down there, and then upcountry when he needs to.”

             
“Is Jimmy Wilkerson his real name?” I asked.

             
“Guess so
.
It’s the only one I ever knowed him by.”

             
“How long have you known him?” I
asked
.

             
“‘Bout three years. Met him at the Vagabond. I was gettin’ damn tired of working the phosphate.”

             
I didn’t think Byron had any more to give us. I glanced at Jock, who nodded.

             
Jock waived his pistol at Hewett and pointed toward the car door. “Get out of the truck,” he said.

             
“Now wait a minute. What you fixin’ to do?”
asked
Byron, fear making his high pitched voice climb several notes. “I told you everything I know.”

             
Jock placed the barrel of his pistol against the back of the agitated man’s head. “Get out, now, or so help me your brains are going to be all over this truck.”

             
Byron opened his door and climbed down from the cab. Jock walked him about fifty feet away and told him to stop.

             
“Oh, shit, man, don’t shoot me. I wasn’t going to shoot your buddy. I ain’t never killed nobody in my life. All I ever did was rough up a few Mexicans, and that don’t count for nothin’.”

             
“Shut up,” said Jock, as he untied Byron’s hands. “We’ll park your truck at the Vagabond.”

             
“You’re not leaving me way the hell out here, are you?”
Byron
asked, a whine taking over his voice
.

             
“Either that or I can shoot you,” said Jock.

             
“Okay, mister, okay. I don’t mind the walk.”

             
“You can probably catch a ride when you get to the hardtop,” said Jock. “If I ever see you again, I’m going to shoot your sorry ass. Understand?”

             
“Yessir. Don’t worry. You won’t see me again.”

             
We drove off, leaving Byron standing alone in a landscape as desolate as any I’d ever seen.

Murder Key

TWENTY-THREE

             
We left the truck at the Vagabond and drove our cars back to Longboat Key. Logan lived in
the gated community of
Bay Isles in a large condo over-looking Sarasota Bay
.
The guard came out of the gatehouse as I pulled up. He recognized me from my regular visits and said, “Good evening, Mr. Royal. Go on through. I’ll let Mr. Hamilton know you’re on your way.”

             
“Thanks, Bill. The guy behind me is with me.”

             
“No problem, Mr. R.”

             
We drove through the gate and down a street lined with shrubs, most still blooming in the fall. In about a half-mile we came to Logan’s condo, parked and took the elevator to the fifth floor. The door was open.

             
“Come on in, guys. You look like hell. Where’ve you been all day?”

             
We sat and sipped bourbon on the rocks, telling Logan about our day. “It was pretty much a bust,” I said. “We didn’t find Jimmy Wilkerson, but we did let the bad guys know I’m back.”

             
Jock rattled the cubes in his tumbler. “That might not be such a bad develo
p
ment,” he said. “Now that they know we’re closing in, somebody’s going to get itchy. They’ll come looking for us, and we’ll be ready.
”

             
“I’ve canceled my week,” said Logan. “I might be able to help you guys.”

             
I took a slug of my drink. “I’m pretty much out of ideas. Jimmy knows we’re looking, but I’ve got
no clue as to how to find him.
That name’s probably an alias anyway.”

             
“If we stay holed up on the key he’ll have to come here,” said Jock. “Just think of yourself as bait.”

             
I laughed. “That’s comforting. I’d rather be moving, taking the initiative. I just can’t figure out how.”

             
Logan poured himself another drink. “Let’s look at what we’ve got,” he said. “We know the drugs and the illegals are connected. We know they’re both coming in by trawler from Veracruz, and from what Diaz told you, we can pretty much count on Longboat Key being the drop site.

             
“We don’t know who the Mexicans on the beach were,” Logan continued, “
and
we
don’t
know why they were killed. There’s got to be a connection, but we can’t see it yet.”

             
Jock shifted on the sofa. “I think the lawyer, Conley, must have been using one of the Mexicans Matt found on the beach as a mole in the smuggling operation,” he said. “Probably the legal one. Somebody caught on and took them both out.”

             
“But why kill the other two illegals?” I asked.

             
“Maybe it was nothing more than an attempt to cover up Pepe’s murder,” Logan said.

             
“Then why try to kill me
?”

             
“Somebody thinks you knew more than you do,” said Logan. “The loose ends are Jimmy Wilkerson and the senator. Jimmy is working the illegals, and maybe he has some connection to drugs. If he’s in the distribution end of it, there has to be some central location where the drugs are shipped from. And where do the illegals go once they hit the ground?”

             
I thought about that for a minute. “Jeep, in Orlando, said Wilkerson was their guy,” I said. “That means he’s into the drug business. Byron said Jimmy hired him to keep the Mexicans in line. So, Jimmy is the one person we know at the intersection of the drugs and the illegals.”

             
Jock no
dded. “Don’t forget the senator.
”

             
“He’s probably the guy pulling all the strings,” I said.

             
“We’ve got to find Jimmy,”
Logan
said. “But we knew that yesterday. We haven’t accomplished much.”

             
I said, “I called Bill Lester from the car and gave him the tag number on Byron’s truck. He checked it out, and it is registered to Byron, with an address in Myakka City. The chief’s going to see what else he can dig up on Hewett. Maybe that’ll give us a shot at Wilkerson.”

             
Jock said, “Y
eah, but Wilkerson’s only a gofe
r. If Emilio can get aboard that trawler, and we can track it, we might be able to find the head of this monster.”

             
Jock leaned forward on the sofa. “If the boat’s headed here, it’ll take her six days,” he said. “That’ll give us some time to stir the pot. Maybe we’ll shake something loose.”

             
Logan said, “If we can find where either the illegals or the drugs go when they come ashore, we’ll be ready when our ship comes in.”

             
Jock and I both groaned at the bad pun.

             
I said, “I think our best bet is to follow the drugs and the immigrants after the boat gets here.”

             
They both nodded in agreement.

             
Logan grilled steaks on his b
alcony overlooking the moonlit
bay, and we enjoyed a quiet evening as we ate. The moon was up, casting a soft glow on the still water. Occasionally, we’d hear a sea bird grumble from the rookeries where they slept at the edge of the bay. We discussed our options, and none of us could come up with anything to get us closer to the senator before the arrival of the
Princess Sarah
.