Murder Key (23 page)

             
“Wish I knew who,” I said, but I thought I knew the answer to that.

             
Some of the early snowbirds had returned to the key and were taking the sun while they lunched on the patio overloo
k
ing the bay. Halyards on sailboats anchored just offshore rattled in the light wind huffing its way toward us. A
bow rider
, with two small children in front and mom and dad at the helm, idled toward the Mar Vista dock. A tranquil autumn day in our version of paradise.

             
Cracker and I
sat and talked for a while, letting the afternoon wind down. I stopped to pick up a sandwich at Whitney Beach and went home. I entered my condo slowly, ready to bolt if anybody was there. I had my pistol in my windbrea
k
er pocket, and I’d use it if I had to. The place was quiet, and I wondered if the Hispanic guy looking for me was benign. I didn’t think so.

* * * * *

             
On Sunday morning, I
jogged on my usual stretch of
beach for the first time since I’d found the dead Mexicans. Things were getting back to normal, and I couldn’t see any reason not to resume my routines.

             
A northwest wind brought cooler air tumbling off the Gulf, a reminder that what passed for winter in these latitudes was coming.

             
I kept a steady pace, running south, the hard-packed sand left from the previous night’s high tide providing a sturdy track. The sea was dead calm, not a ripple on its surface. The tide had left globs of seaweed in its wake, and sea gulls were pecking at the tiny crustaceans mired in the damp masses of brown plant matter. A lone pelican skimmed the water fifty feet off the beach, looking for breakfast. Sandpipers scurried out of my path, their tiny feet leaving no tracks in the sand.

             
The quiet was broken by the sound of unmuffled marine engines. I glanced over my right shoulder and saw a blue go-fast boat approaching at high speed, running in close to shore. A rifleman was setting up in the bow, trying to gain some purchase on the gunwale.

             
Geez
, I thought,
these guys never give up.
I turned to my left, accelerating into a sprint. The beach wasn’t wide at this point, and I ran toward the seawall of a condo complex. I knew the area, and if I could make it to the buildings, my pursuers would never find me. I didn’t think they’d come ashore, but one can never tell.

             
I zigged and zagged, and heard in my mind’s ear the long-ago shouts of a drill serge
ant in Ranger School. “Goddamit, s
ir
. Z
ag, don’t zig. Charlie will shoot yore ass off.”

             
I
heard the crack of the rifle and saw
spurts of sand kicking up around me. I was at the seawall and decided to take the four steps up rather than jump. Bad decision, but I made it, with only a splinter of wood lodged in my calf from a bullet strike on the step above my feet.

             
I hit the ground, rolled behind a cabbage palm and belly-crawled toward a hedge that ran the length of the property. I peeked through the branches and saw the go-fast headed out to sea, the rifleman stowing his weapon and waving at me.

             
I stood and gave him the finger. I didn’t know if he could see it, but I felt better for it. I assessed my wounded calf, and pulled out a half-inch splinter. Nothing to it.

             
I called 911 on my cell phone, identified myself and explained what had happened. I didn’t expect anybody to catch the boat, but I thought a good citizen should report a shooting.

             
In a few minutes, a police cruiser came into the parking lot, its siren blaring. The officer parked and got out of the car,
an apprehensive look on his face.
I waved to get his attention. He trotted over, his equipment belt rattling.

             
“You okay, Matt?” he asked.

             
I recognized the young cop, but couldn’t recall his name. “I’m fine, thanks.” I told him what had happened.

             
He grimaced. “I’m afraid there’s not much we can do,” he said, “but I’ll file a report. That go-fast is long-gone.”

             
I agreed, and he drove me back to my condo.

* * * * *

             
I called David Parrish at home. “I think somebody’s still after me,” I said. I told him about the man in Mar Vista and the go-fast incident. “I want to talk to
Senator
Conrad Foster.”

             
“What good will that do?”

             
“I don’t know, but I don’t think it can do any harm. Unless your people are closing in on him.”

             
“We’ve gotten nowhere with that. We can’t find anything on him at all.”

             
“Maybe if I talk to him, he’ll think you guys are close, and he’ll slip up som
e
where.”

             
“Let me check around, and I’ll get back to you. Keep your powder dry.”

             
Whatever that meant. Parrish was from Georgia, and he didn’t always make sense to sane people. I laughed and hung up.

             
Parrish called back at mid-afternoon. “Go for it,” he said. “But be careful, and let me know what happens.”

Murder Key

THIRTY-SIX

             
Monday morning. I called the senator’s office and told the receptionist who I was and that I needed to see
Foster
as soon as possible. She put me on hold, and then to my surprise, told me he could see me at eleven o’clock that morning. I had two hours to get downtown.

             
Foster’s office was in a tall glass enclosed building on the corner of Tamiami Trail and
Gulfstream Avenue
on the Sarasota
bay front
. The glass was tinted and the clouds hanging over the bay reflected off the face of the structure. There always seemed to be a piece of plywood covering a spot where a window should have been. Sea Gulls would fly directly into the building, not realizing it was mirrored glass, and in the process of killing themselves, would break one more window. I was sure this was not a hazard contemplated by the architect when he designed the place.

             
I took an elevator to the top floor and entered the double mahogany doors that had “Foster Enterprises, Inc.” in polished brass letters attached to them. I was welcomed by a brunette who could have graced the pages of Playboy Magazine. She wore a short skirt and a body hugging cotton blouse that didn’t quite hide her nipples. High heel sandals completed her wardrobe. She wasn’t tall, about five-feet-four, and her hair flowed to a point below the shoulders. I guessed her age at twenty-five, no more.

             
Lisa, as she introduced herself to me, was a study in efficiency
.
S
he scurried about the office, getting me coffee and apologizing for the fact that the senator was running a bit late. I sipped my coffee and assured her that I was in no hurry.

             
After about fifteen minutes, I heard a discreet buzz from the phone console in front of the salubrious Lisa. She answered crisply, listened for a
moment, and said, “Right away, s
ir.”

             
She rose and came out from behind her desk, smiled, and said, “The senator will see you now, Mr. Royal.”

             
Who could ignore that
invitation?
I was on my feet and following right behind her, like a loyal dog. I was not unaware that the wasted fifteen minutes was deliberate on the senator’s part, but I had enjoyed
the view of Lisa so much that
I decided not to mention it.

             
The senator was a tall distinguished looking man wearing a fifteen-hundred-dollar suit. He was about six-feet-two and trim as an athlete, with a long patrician face topped by a full head of white hair. He was in his late seventies, but could have passed for twenty years younger.

             
Lisa opened the door and stood aside as I walked in. “Senator Foster, Mr. Matt Royal,” she said,
and
softly closed the door,
retreating from the room.

             
I was quite impressed. The office was plush, and the large windows overlooked Sarasota Bay and Big Pass out to the Gulf of Mexico.

             
“Mr. Royal,” the s
enator said, coming around his desk, hand outstretched. “I’m Conrad Foster.”

             
“I appreciate your seeing me, Senator.”

             
“Glad to do it. Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

             
“No, thank you. Lisa took good care of me
.”
I sat in one of the hi
gh back chairs facing his desk.

             
The senator took a seat beside me, abandoning the large executive chair behind the desk. “Sorry about the wait,” he said. “There’s always something unexpected coming up that I have to deal with it.” He smiled. “I understand that you’re working for one of my Mexicans.”

             
“Excuse me?”

             
“Aren’t you representing Pepe Zaragoza?”

             
“No, why would you think that?”

             
“I’m mistaken. I know you’re a lawyer, and I just assumed you were working for Pepe.”

             
That was an impossible leap of logic, unless he knew I was involved some way in the mess of the last few weeks. Even if he thought I was coming to see him on a legal matter, it didn’t follow that it had anything to do with
his
Mexican.

             
“No,” I said. “Somebody’s trying to kill me, and I’m trying to figure out who and why. Your Mexican, as you call him, and I have the same interest. We want to stay alive.”

             
“What can I do for you?”

             
“Call off your goons.”

             
“My goons? What in the world are you talking about Mr. Royal?”

             
“Senator, I know you’re behind this. I just don’t know why you want me dead.”

             
“Are you out of your mind, s
ir? I’m a responsible busines
s
man and
a respected
member of this community. Why on earth would I want to kill you?”

             
“Maybe because you think I know something about your drug running and immigrant smuggling operations.”

             
“Mr. Royal,” he said, his voice steely, “I’m appalled that you’d think I’d be involved in anything like that. I hire my Mexican workers through brokers, just like every other farmer. I pay a fair wage, and I don’t look into their legal status. That’s not my job. I sure as hell don’t know anything about drugs.”

             
“Do you know Byron Hewett?” I asked.

             
“Yes. He’s one of the labor brokers I use. He leases land from me down in Merrit County to house his employees.”

             
“Ever heard of Jimmy Wilkerson?”

             
“Can’t say that I have.” He smiled.

             
He was lying, but I had no way of proving it.

             
“Sen
ator,” I said, “you’re a liar.”

             
He blanched, the color draining out of his face. “You
impudent
bastard,” he said, “I’ll squash you like a bug.”

             
“I might be
harder to squash than you think. Why don’t we just call a truce? You leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone.”

             
He had raised his voice, anger flooding his face. “Get out!” he shouted.

             
His finger stabbed a button on the phone, and he said, “Marie, come show Mr. Royal out.”

             
I can take a hint. I turned to leave and found Marie Phillips standing at the door, a look of tre
pidation on her face. I was as
shocked to see her as she was apparently to see me. I was surprised to find that her “corporate world” was the senator. She smiled tightly, more in dismay, I thought, than surprise. I didn’t think this was the kind of day she had in mind when she got out of bed that morning. I was quite certain she hadn’t planned on seeing me in Conrad Foster’s office.

             
“Thank you, Marie,” I said, as I brushed past.