Murder Key (18 page)

             
He had grown up in eastern Sarasota County on a large truck farm owned by his father. Once he inherited, the senator, with a little help from his political cronies, expanded the holdings until he was one of the largest land owners in the state of Florida. His holdings included cattle ranches, citrus groves and truck farms.

             
He employed a lot of people, most of them Mexicans, and most of them illegal. He’d never been charged with any labor law violations himself, but once in a while the Border Patrol would sweep down on his farms and arrest some of the illegals. It didn’t happen often, and the number of arrestees was small enough not to make a dent in the senator’s operations.

             
There had been rumors for years that the senator paid off the politicians to keep his operations solvent and keep the flow of labor unimpeded. No one knew anything for sure, and there had never been an investigation.

             
Kyle leaned back in his chair, his booted feet on the desk. “A couple of years ago, the senator bought up several small cattle ranches in Merrit County, plowed them up and planted crops
. The old c
racker
cowmen
moved on, and the Mexicans started showing up.”

             
Jock said, “And nobody’s doing anything about the illegals.”

             
The sheriff grimaced. “No. The big farmers and the big construction companies don’t want to lose the cheap labor, and they put a lot of political pressure on the Border Patrol. They’ll make a show of raiding some small farmer from time to time, but the senator doesn’t get bothered much. I think once in a while he’ll lose a few workers, but that’s planned. Don’t want it to look like he’s getting any special treatment.”

             
“Where does Paul Reich fit in?” I asked.

             
“Far as I can tell, Reich is straight as an arrow. He’s probably got some juice in Washington, so the locals don’t mess with him. If we can find the proof, he’ll take the senator down, and the hell with the consequences.”

             
Jock leaned forward. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said.

Murder Key

TWENTY-SEVEN

             
Jimbo Merryman lived
out near the edge of town
in a small ranch house
that sat
on a large lot facing a short dirt roa
d that ran off the main highway.
No other houses were visible as we parked in his driveway.

             
A large banyan tree shaded the front yard, and azalea bushes filled the beds on either side of the front stoop. A well tended lawn of emerald green grass surrounded
the house like a thick carpet.
An ancient citrus tree sunned itself at the corner of the home. Spring would bring brilliant color to the flowering trees and hedges, and the smell of citrus blossoms would sweeten the air.

             
Jimbo had come home from the wars, at last.

             
We trooped up the sidewalk, the sheriff in the lead. Sud
denly, the front door burst open, and out came a large lady, moving at full speed. She was wearing a
muumuu in a
bright floral design, big red flowers nestled on a sea of yellow. Her gray hair was in a bun at the back of her neck, her large blue eyes hinting at the beauty she had been when she was young.

             
She rushed
passed Kyle, whooping with joy. “Matt, you rascal.
God, I’ve missed you.”

             
She enveloped me in a bear hug,
and then
leaned back, hands on my shoulders. “You’re still a handsome devil,” she gushed. “I don’t think you’ve changed at all. Still got all your
hair and there’s no gray. Wh
en old Jimbo croaks, I’m coming for you.”

             
I laughed. “Jock Algren, meet the inimitable Molly Merr
y
man, the woman who finally domesticated the Sergeant Major.”

             
“Not completely,” she said, chuckling. “Kyle, don’t just stand there. Get our guests inside and find them something to drink.”

             
“Yes, m
a’am,” said the sheriff, grinning as he led us into the house.

             
Jimbo was coming in through the sliding glass doors that led to his lanai and screened pool. “Got the charcoal going,” he said. “The steaks will be ready soon. The Border Patrol guy called for directions. He should be right along.”

             
Kyle was rattling around in the kitchen, the sound of ice dropping into tumblers reaching out to the family room over-looking the pool. “Name your poison, gents,” he called out.

             
Jock and I both ordered bourbon on the rocks. Jimbo asked for a
Scotch
, and told us to make ourselves comfortable. Kyle brought the drinks and joined us. We sat in the overstuffed furniture and sipped our whiskey, Jimbo telling us about his quiet life in a small town. He needed action, and was looking forward to the next few days. The old soldier was ready to join up and help us take down the bad guys.

             
The sheriff sat quietly, watching his dad, concern etching his face. Molly had excused herself and was making salads in the kitchen.

             
“Dad,” said Kyle, “tell Matt about the heart attack.”

             
“Nothing to it,” said Jimbo. “Docs fixed me right up.”

             
Molly coughed from the kitchen doorway. “No, they didn’t,” she said, “not all the way. He has to take it easy, Matt, so we need to keep him out of this mess with the Mexicans.”

             
“Ah, Mol,” said Jimbo, “I can take care of myself.”

             
“He’s like an old fire horse,” said Molly. “The alarms go off, and he’s ready to run, pull the wagon, get smoke in his nostrils. He doesn’t under
stand that he can’t do that any
more.

             
I raised my drink. “Top, you’re the best soldier I ever met, or even heard of, but you’re only a Sergeant Major, and Molly’s the General.”

             
Turning to Molly, I added, “We’ll follow orders, ma’am.”

             
“Thank you, Matt,” she said, and returned to her kitchen.

             
Jimbo frowned, and then smiled, and waived his drink in a dismissive gesture. “Okay, okay, I know when to retreat,” he said. “I’ll stay out of it, but keep me posted on what’s going down.”

             
A car door slammed. “That’ll be Paul Reich,” said Kyle, getting up and moving toward the front door.

             
When introduction
s were made, and he had a tall
Scotch
and water in his hand, Paul began to talk. He was excited about what we’d put together so far, but he was concerned about a leak in his operation. He hadn’t told any of his people that he’d contacted me about Juan Anasco, nor had he ever told them about Viper. No one knew he’d come to meet us, and he wanted to keep it that way.

             
“We’ve known about the leak for some time,” Paul said. “That’s why I was brought in from D.C. The people at the top gave me a blank check on this one. I can g
et pretty much anything I want.

             
“A lot of the information that comes directly to me stays with me. I never told anybody about Viper, because he was giving me good intelligence, and I was afraid somebody would leak the information to t
he bad guys. If that happened,
they’d shut down before we could get to them.

             
“Jock, you and Matt turned up at just the right time. I was able to use you for intelligence gathering when I couldn’t use my own people. I’ve kept David Parrish in the loop, and Rufus Harris has been a big help. He’s clean, but we’re not sure about his people. The leak may be in DEA instead of in our shop.”

             
Jimbo settled himself deeper into his chair, and said, “Matt, what about this guy Logan Hamilton? You’ve kept him in the loop. Is he good people?”

             
I nodded my head. “He was a chopper jockey in Nam, Top. Won a silver star for pulling some grunts out of a bad situation. Got shot up doing it, too. I think he was a lot like our old buddy Scholfield. I’d trust him with my life.”

             
“Good enough for me,
”
said Jimbo.

             
Kyle rattled the ice in his glass, took a last sip of gin and said, “You know the problems in my department. I’ll be taking some heat in the next few days over that idiot Casey Caldwell. His old man is going to stir up a shit-storm with the County Commission.”

             
Reich frowned. “How’s that going to affect what you do?”

             
“It won’t
.
I got more votes in the last election that any of the commissioners, and they won’t screw with me too much. It’ll all die down in a few days.”

             
Jock nodded. “We may not have a few days.”

             
“I know,” said Kyle. “I’ll be here for whatever you need. Just keep in mind that the only manpower I can provide is myself. I’m down to two deputies, and I wouldn’t trust either of them on this thing.”

             
Reich said, “Actually, I think we do have a few days. If we want to bust both the immigrant and the drug rings, we need to wait until the
Princess Sarah
gets to Florida. She hasn’t left port yet, and Emilio is still in Tlapa waiting for the bus.”

             
Jock grinned. “So,” he said, “Emilio pulled it off.”

             
“Yeah,” said Reich. “He’s made contact with Arguilles and is in the next group to be taken to Veracruz. Apparently
,
Arguilles was c
ontacted by Mendez’ replacement
and he’s still in business. Arguilles is pissed about Pepe and the two dead guys, so he’s cooperating.”

             
Jimbo had been quiet during t
he entire conversation. Now he asked
, “Does anybody have any idea when the trawler will start toward Florida?”

             
Reich turned to Jimbo. “The DEA folks think they’ll time their arrival to coincide with the new moon
.
That’ll happen next Wednesday night, so we’re betting the boat will leave Veracruz on Wednesday or Thursday of this week. It’ll take six days to make the crossing, so they’ll get here just as the moon goes dark.”

             
“So,” I said, “We’ve got nine days to get everything ready. How’re you going to set this up?”

             
Reich said, “We’ll put together a task force. I’ll have either the Customs people or my folks in Miami send us some agents on a need-to-know basis. We’ll keep everything under wraps until the day of the bust, so there’ll be little chance of a leak. We’ll involve Longboat Key PD and the Coast Guard, but they can come in at the last minute. Rufus and I’ll be the only ones in the Tampa and Orlando offices to be in on it.”

             
The rest of the evening was given over to quiet talk, good steaks and one more drink. Some of us had to drive. Jock and I would head back to Longboat Key, and Paul Reich was going to make the three hour drive to Orlando.

Murder Key

TWENTY-EIGHT

             
On Tuesday morning, Jock got a call on his cell phone from Emilio. He’d be boarding the mini-bus in Tlapa that afternoon, headed for Veracruz. Everything was going well, so far. Jock told him to be careful.

             
On Tuesday afternoon, Jock left for Houston. We couldn’t do anything more until the trawler arrived off Longboat Key, so he was going to get a little work done in his office.

             
Logan had decided to go about his business, and left that morning for Atlanta.

             
Life on the key settled back into routine. I began jogging on the beach at sunrise, but I drove to a different spot on the island each day and ran on
a
part of the beach that was not my customary route. It didn’t hurt to be careful.

             
On Wednesday morning, Anne Dubose called and asked if I could have lunch with her at the Sport’s Page Bar and Grill on Main Street in downtown Sarasota. She said we needed to talk. I agreed, and drove there with much the same enthus
i
asm as that of a condemned man shuffling toward the gallows.

             
I was early and took a seat at the bar to wait for Anne. I ordered a diet coke and told the bartender that I’d be having lunch as soon as my friend arrived.

             
I was focused on the TV above the bar, watching the noon news on a local channel, when Anne came in. She tapped me on the shoulder, and as I turned, she kissed me on the cheek.

             
“Hi, Handsome,” she said.

             
She was wearing medium heel
s, a beige linen dress adorned
with small embro
i
dered flowers. She was carrying a briefcase, looking very much like a lawyer.

             
“You look great,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”

             
“Can we get a table?”

             
“Sure,” I said, and led her across the room to a table in the corner.

             
I didn’t think for a minute that she hadn’t heard me tell her I’d mi
ssed her. She just flat hadn’t
missed me. I’d been around long enough to know that when a guy’s significant other mentions the need for “talk,” some bad stuff is about to fall in on him.

             
I helped her with her chair, and then I sat. The waitress showed up and took our drink orders, a diet coke for me and a glass of Chardonnay for Anne.

             
I raised my eyebrows. She didn’t usually drink until the evening, and then not very much.

             
“Oh,” she said. “I’m taking the afternoon off. I’ve been in court all morning.”

             
“I’ve missed you,” I said.

             
“You already mentioned that.”

             
“It’s been over a week since we went to Egmont.”

             
“You were in Mexico.”

             
“For part of the time.”

             
She frowned. “Are you being difficult?”

             
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be.”

             
The waitress brought our drinks and took our food order. Anne asked for a small salad with vinaigrette dressing, and I ordered a Caesar.

             
I sat quietly, waiting. Whatever Anne had to say would be said, and I didn’t want to prolong things. When you know somebody is about to stomp on your heart, all you can do is take it and get on with your life.

             
She was quiet, too, not wanting to get into it. I’d wait her out, I thought. She raised her wine glass to her lips, thought better of it, and put the glass back on the table. “I’ve met someone,” she said, finally.

             
The shoe had dropped, and I could feel the pain dancing at the edges of my soul, building in intensity, threatening to overwhelm
me, to burst out in anger and
calumny. But I didn’t have the right. Anne didn’t belong to me, and she was now slipping inexorably beyond my grasping need for he
r, a need I had not fully appre
ciated until that very moment. I’d antic
ipa
t
ed her leaving, b
ut I hadn’t expected the searing pain that was even now coursing through my consciousness.

             
“And?” It was all I could manage, and my voice cracked on that single syllable.

             
“And I think
we shouldn’t see each other any
more. Not like that, is what I mean. Of course, we can see each other as friends, but not lovers. I don’t want to lose the friendship.”

             
She was rambling, trying to put a good face on an ugly event. Then she was quiet again.

             
I let her stew for a beat. “Who’s the guy
?

             
“You don’t know him. He’s a stockbroker here in Sarasota.”

             
I was quiet, trying to marshal an argument to convince her to stay with me. It was fruitless, and I knew it in my gut. I just sat there.

             
“Well,” she said, finally, “say something.”

             
I pushed back my chair and stood. I dropped a twenty- dollar bill on the table. “I love you, Anne,” I said, and I walked out of the restaurant.

             
The October sun was blinding as it reflected off the cars parked along the street. I was making a fool of myself, and I was well aware of it. I would have to apologize to Anne later, but I couldn’t continue this conversation at that moment.

             
I started walking west, toward the bay. This was the same pain I’d felt when my former wife Laura told me she was leaving. Only, I hadn’t seen that one coming. I had been so absorbed in myself that it never occurred to me that Laura wanted more than I was willing to give.

             
I knew what was coming with Anne, but that knowledge did nothing to blunt the pain of the reality. Suddenly, my arm was caught in a tight grip.

             
“Matt, you bastard,” Anne said. “You can’t tell me you love me and then just run off.”

             
I stopped walking and turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Anne. I just can’t handle this right now. I’ve been swimming in a tub-full of crap for the past ten days, and now this. It’s just very bad timing.”

             
“Matt, you don’t love me. You’ve never told me that before. We’ve had som
e
thing pretty wonderful, but we both knew it wasn’t forever.”

             
“I know, Anne, I know. I’m sorry I s
aid that. I guess I was trying
to make you feel bad about this, because it does hurt.”

             
“I know, b
aby, but we’ve got to move on.” She leaned in and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Call me next week.”

             
I mumbled something that must have sounded like “yes” or “okay,” and she turned on her heel and walked off, her pretty butt swinging down Main Street like she owned the place. And maybe she did, in the way that beautiful young women can make an otherwise drab place light up just by being there. They make the place theirs, and they may not even know it.

             
Then, she was gone. We both knew I wouldn’t call. And the rottenest s
urprise of all
was that in that moment I understood that I did love her.

             
On Thursday, I got a call from Rufus Harris. The
Princess Sarah
had put to sea at midnight. Emilio was aboard.

37