Murder Key (29 page)

             
I said, “We got your school records, and saw where you had given the school administration people your birth certificate and asked that all your records be changed to Birmingham from Horvath. The DEA didn’t pick that up when they did the back-ground on you. Somebody would have to be specifically looking for the change to find it.”

             
“I did that after my mom died. Just as well. When I started to school at UCF I had to work in a bar out i
n East Orange County.
I wouldn’t have wanted my mom’s friends in Sanford to know what I was doing. The pay was good, but I had to screw the owner twice a week to keep the job.”

             
I said, “I know from your personnel file that you went to work for the DEA when you graduated. How did that happen?”

             
“I met an agent during a drug bust at the hole I worked in during college, and he suggested I apply. My degree was in Criminal Justice, so it was a good fit.
I went through training and then
spent five years on the Mexican border tracking drug runners. Do you have any idea how much money is in that?”

             
“A lot.”

             
“More than you can imagine. Here I was, working my ass off for the pittance the government pays, and these third grade drop-outs were taking home millions of dollars a year.

             
“I made a couple of contacts on the Mexican end of things, and when I got transferred to Orlando I saw a chance to open a new pipeline. I’d begun to look into my father, hoping to find some dirt on him. I wanted to ruin the bastard. I stumbled onto his immigrant smuggling operation, and I knew I had a hook.”

             
“How did you find out about Foster’s smuggling gig?”

             
“Both Immigration and Customs were onto him. They couldn’t prove anything, and they thought there might be a drug conne
c
tion. That brought DEA into the picture, and I heard about it.

             
“I went to see the good senator, told him who I was and that I could protect him. The quid pro quo would be that he would use his immigrant pipeline to bring in drugs. My Mexican connection would take over the Veracruz end of Foster’s operation.”

             
“So you set up the distribution end of things.”

             
“Yes, that was easy. I was working undercover at Les Girls, and I found a guy who was mean as a snake and offered to set him up in business. He never knew who I was. We only dealt with each other on the phone. He recruited the sales force.”

             
“But you gave us Merc and Jeep in Orlando.”

             
“Those idiots. I knew they couldn’t tell you anything, and my snake had already scared the hell out of them with the head of the guy in Melbourne he had to take out. The only name they knew was Jimmy Wilkerson, and he doesn’t exist.”

             
“Do you know who killed Senator Foster?”

             
“I did.
O
r at least I ordered it done. The bastard was trying to run. I knew he’d make a deal and give me up. He was the only one in the world who could positively identify me.”

             
“How did you know he was running?”

             
“That’s the icing on the cake. His pilot is a Customs Service agent named Graham Rutan. He moonlighted as a drug courier for me sometimes. Foster didn’t know about that. He thought Graham was a free-lance pilot who worked for several jet owners.

             
“The senator thought he was going to Cancun to hole up while he made a deal with the feds. Graham took the stupid bastard to Veracruz and shot him. Good riddance.”

             
“Sounds like a good operation. What happened?”

             
“That lawyer, Conley was getting close. He was using Pepe Zaragoza as a mole in the senator’s organization, and Pepe stumbled onto me. I had to take him out, but I wanted it to look like a drug deal gone bad. Some of my Mexicans flew in and killed the other two, and thought they’d killed Pepe. Stupid bastards left them on the beach for you to find.

             
“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” she said. “If we hadn’t tried to kill you, we might have gone right on with our business.”

             
“Why did you try to kill me?”

             
“It wasn’t my idea. Mendez, my guy in Mexico, had one of his killers watching the beach that day to see what would happen when the bodies were found. He saw you bend down to Zaragoza and then call the police. He thought Pepe had said something to you, and he called Mendez. That idiot over-reacted and ordered you killed in Tiny’s. Stupid, stupid.”

             
“We have to talk to Chief Lester,” I said.

             
“I don’t think so, Matt,” she said, moving back a couple of steps and putting her hand in her purse. It came out holding a nickel-plated thirty-eight caliber revolver. She held it in front of her, pointed at the ground.

             
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry you got mixed up in this, and I’m sorry for all those dead people.”

             
“Liz,” I said, “you know that other people have the same information I do.”

             
“Probably. But I came here looking for you. I had to know what you knew.”

             
“So, there’s no sorority reunion?” I said.

             
She laughed bitterly. “Those sorority snobs would
n’t let some
body like me into their houses. I was like a ghost on the UCF campus. I went to class, got my degree, and didn’t even go to graduation. They mailed me my diploma.”

             
“The others will come for you, Liz. Let’s go see Bill Les
ter.”

             
“I’ve got a head start on the others. I’ll be out of the country within an hour, and I’ve got enough money stashed away to live large for the rest of my life. Rufus can look for me forever, and he probably will, but he won’t find me.”

             
“So, Rufus wasn’t part of your operation?”

             
She laughed. “Good God, no. Old Rufus is Mr. Upstanding Citizen. He’ll come looking for me, that’s for sure. I’ve ruined his view of what a good little agent should be.”

             
“There’s still time to make some amends,” I said.

             
“No. Sorry, Matt, I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do.”

             
She raised the pistol, pointing at my chest.

             
An amplified voice boomed from the stand of pines. “Agent Birmingham, drop your weapon. Longboat Key Police.”

             
A look of surprise and then resignation crossed her face. She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Good-bye, Matt. I wish we’d met in another time and place.”

             
She raised the pistol, and was pointing it at my face when her head exploded. I was looking into her eyes when death shut them down. In the split second before, I saw the red dot of the laser scope painting the left side of her head. I tried to react, but only an instant had passed since she raised her weapon. Blood and brain matter and bits of skull exploded out of the right side of her head. She crumpled to the beach like a bag of rags.

             
Men were pouring out of the trees. Bill Lester and Jock Algren were in the lead. Five Longboat cops in battle fatigues followed, all armed with M-16s.

             
“You okay, Matt?” asked Jock as he ran up to me, a sniper rifle cradled in his arms.

             
“Yeah,” I said, and sat down on the sand.

             
“We got it all, Matt,” said Bill Lester. “That little device was broadcasting like a good stereo system.”

             
I pulled my knees up, put my arms across them and rested my head on my arms. “Let’s get her out of here, Bill. She needs to rest.”

             
Jock helped me to my feet, and we walked off the beach.

* * * * *

             
Jock drove the Explorer the mile or so to my condo. I felt like a zombie, empty inside, but yet an indescribable sadness was settling over me. I kept thinking about the moment life deserted Liz. I couldn’t get that image out of my mind.

             
We took the elevator to the second floor and sat on the balcony drinking bourbon. Beer did not seem somber enough to match our moods.

             
Jock lifted his glass. “To the end of death,” he said. “I’ve killed my last person.”

             
“You okay, buddy?”

             
“I guess. I liked her, but she wasn’t what we thought. She was going to kill you tonight.”

             
“I know. You saved my bacon again, Jock. Thanks.”
             
“You took the risks,
p
odna
. All I did was stand back in the woods with a rifle. Sometimes, it seems as if that’s all I’ve done my whole life.”

             
“She had a tough life, growing up as a bastard in a small town. She worked hard to overcome all that, got her degree, went to work for a good agency. What
made her take that wrong turn?”

             
“Money, probably. We’ll never know for sure.”

             
“She said it was the money, but I think it was more than that. She’d built up a lot of anger at the world. Life had dealt her a bad hand, but she was doing so well for so long. What in the world turns a decent kid into a killer?”

             
My cell phone rang. Bill Lester.

             
“I called Rufus Harris,” he said. “He’s not happy about Liz’s death, but he’s coming here in the morning. Can you and Jock be at the station at ten?”

             
“Can I bring Logan?” I said. “He needs to be brought up to date.”

             
“No problem.”

             
“We’ll be there. Bill, you covered my ass tonight, and I’m grateful. Tell your guys that for me. I wasn’t tracking too well when I left the beach.”

             
“Will do,” he said and hung up. Bill Lester was a tough guy.

             
Jock and I sat and talked and sipped good whiskey. I knew I was going to regret it the next morning, but I also knew I needed a little anesthesia for the night. I hoped Liz wouldn’t join those North Vietnamese soldiers in my nightmares
.

37

Murder Key

37

Murder Key

FORTY-FOUR

             
Hammers were pounding my head when I awoke on Saturday morning. I hadn’t pulled the drapes shut when I went to bed, and light was streaming into the room, adding to the pain brought on by too much bourbon.

             
I crawled out from under the sheets, stood for a moment to make sure that I could, and then padded to the bathroom. I took four aspirins and stepped into the shower. I stood quietly, letting the hot water and the analgesic
s
work their magic.

             
I dressed in a T-shirt, cargo shorts and boat shoes, and made my way to the living room. Jock was sitting on the sofa, a look of pain on his face.

             
“We gotta stop this crap,” he said. “I’m getting too old for it.”

             
I laughed. “I know what you mean. Let’s go get some pancakes.”

             
I called Logan to meet us for breakfast. We drove to the Blue Dolphin Café and Jock and I ate a stack of pancakes, a side of bacon and about a gallon of coffee each. Logan sipped his tomato juice. I drank enough ice water to fill a swimming pool, and suddenly, I was feeling better. I suspected I was going to survive the hangover, and that is the first hope that slips into the psyche of the m
an who drinks too much bourbon.

37

Murder Key

             
Hope brings with it a resolution to never do it again. But that resolve will fade, along with the memory of how bad one can feel on a sunny fall morning in Sout
h
west Florida. And in a few days, the bourbon will inevitably flow again.

             
Logan found our predicament humorous. He’d spent the night watching a full evening of “Cops,” his favorite TV program. He was feeling a little superior.

             
I groaned as I finished my stack of batter. “Have you seen the morning paper?” I asked, looking at Logan.

             
“No. Anything interesting?”

             
“Yeah,” I said. “While you were goofing off in Atlanta yesterday, we were busy. There was a shoot-out at Beer Can, and Liz Birmingham is dead.”

             
“The DEA agent?” Logan asked, his face reflecting his alarm.

             
I said, “She was dirty, Logan, and she was going to kill me, when Jock got her with a rifle.”

             
“I don’t believe this. What happened?”

             
“We’re going to the police station. Bill Lester will fill you in while he brings Rufus Harris up to speed. It was a bad night.”

             
Logan said, “Wh
at about Reich at Border Patrol?
”

             
“He’s out of it,” I said. “Once the illegal ring was busted, he moved on to other things. DEA is in charge of the drugs.”

             
We left the restaurant feeling better and drove the half-mile to the police station. The receptionist waived us through the gate leading back to the offices. Lester and Harris were waiting for us. Rufus didn’t look too happy.

             
Bill told us to take a seat and said, “I’ve been telling Rufus about what went down last night. I’ll finish up and you two can add anything you want to.”

             
He told the agent that I had come up with the possibility that Liz was in fact Beth Horvath and Foster’s daughter. He explained how we came to
get the DNA sample, and how we matched
it to Liz.

             
Bill apologized for not bringing Rufus into the action. “We weren’t sure who we could trust at DEA,” he said. “Yesterday, we were trying to decide how to approach you when Liz showed up at the Colony.”

             
Rufus interrupted. “How did you know she was on Lon
g
boat
?”

             
“I called McClintoc down in Miami on Thursday and told him what we suspec
t
ed,”
Bill
said. “He had one of his guys in Orlando put a satellite tracking beacon on Liz’s car. BLOC
k
new where she was from the time she started her car. Customs was going to get involved, because they didn’t know who to trust in DEA either.

             
“She left Orlando at mid-morning yesterday and drove straight to Longboat. That surprised us, but it gave us all afternoon to set up.”

             
I turned to Rufus. “We didn’t think you were on the wrong side,” I said, “but things were moving fast, and we didn’t have time to sort it out.”

             
Bill nodded his head. “After BLOC let me know that Liz had stopped at the Colony
,
I called the front desk, and sure enough, she’d checked in. I called Matt to bring him up to date, and he told me that he always went to t
he Colony on Friday nights. If
Liz’s people had been tracking him, they’d know that.”

             
The chief continued with the story, telling Rufus the whole thing, step by step. We’d decided that I would follow my usual routine and see if Liz tried to contact me. We put another tracking beacon on my Explorer and wired me for sound. I had a small device stuck to my chest that would broadcast ever
y
thing said to a receiver Bill and Jock were monitoring.

             
The Longboat Key Police Department
didn’
t have anybody qualified as a sniper, and Lester
was going to ask to borrow some
one from Sarasota County. Jock volunteered instead, and
Bill only had to borrow a sn
iper rifle from the county. Jock went to the sheriff’s firing range to zero in the weapon.

             
There were four crews of Longboat Key Police officers stationed at intervals along Gulf of Mexico Drive, ready to go where the chief directed them. Bill and Jock were in an unmarked car parked in the Colony lot while Liz and I were in the Monkey Bar. They saw us come out and walk toward the beach. Bill was about to move his men into place when he heard Liz suggest that we go to Beer Can Island.

             
The chief radioed the crew near
the north end of the key to take up position in the pine trees along the beach at Beer Can. He and Jock headed north, running at high speed. A police crew stationed near the New Pass Bridge got in position to follow my car as I left the Colony property.

             
Bill and Jock arrived at North Shore Road minutes before I did. They parked the unmarked in a parking lot at the Whitney Beach Condominium complex, next to the personal car driven by the team from New Pass Bridge. They were tracking my Explorer on a hand-held receiver and knew when I pulled into North Shore Road. They were able to pick up my and Liz’s conversation from the transmitter taped to my chest.

             
The team following me arrived and took up position with the rest of the officers. The moon provided some light, and Jock’s rifle was equipped with a night vision scope that had the laser finder built in. Bill was wearing military issue night vision goggles that painted Liz and me with an eerie green hue.

             
When Liz pulled the pistol from her purse, Jock raised the rifle to his shoulder.

             
Bill whispered, “Not yet.”

             
Jock held his position, watching us through the scope. When Liz pointed the pistol at my chest, Bill put the bullhorn to his mouth and ordered Liz to drop her weapon.

             
She didn’t. When she raised it to point at my head, Jock flipped on the laser sight and pulled the trigger. Liz was dead.

* * * * *

             
Bill was quiet then, letting the story sink in. Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Rufus turned to Jock, “You had no choice, Jock,” he said. “You did what you had to do.”

             
Jock made a face of resignation. “Yes, I did, Rufus,” he said, “and I’ll live with that for the rest of my life.”

             
The chief said, “There’s something else. One of Customs’ pilots killed the senator. A guy named Graham Rutan.”

             
“Did you notify McClintoc?”

             
“Yes,” said Bill. “He was going to personally arrest the bastard.”

             
Logan spoke up. “What about Marie Phillips and the deputy we saw her with?”

             
Bill said, “Turns out Marie is what she said she was, an Administrative Assistant. She has an MBA from the University of Florida and has worked for Foster for about three years. Her job was on the legitimate side of his business, and she didn’t know anything about the illegals or the drugs.”

             
“Logan asked, “Was she his squeeze?”

             
“No,” the chief said. “She inherited that condo on the south end when her husband was killed in a car wreck a few years back. She also got a bundle in a settlement with the owner of the truck that hit him. The deputy is her brother.”

             
I shook my head. “Man, I sure jumped to the wrong conclusion about her,” I said. “Have they released Pepe Zaragoza?”

             
“That’s being handled as we speak,” said Bill.

             
Rufus turned to the chief. “I’d like to hear that tape now.”

             
I didn’t want to re-live any of that night. I told them I’d wait outside, and Jock and I left the office. Logan stayed.

             
We were standing in the police parking lot talking quietly when my cell phone rang. It was Anne.

             
“Matt, I just read the morning paper, and there’s a story about the death of that woman at Beer Can last night. It said you were there. Are you okay?”

             
“I’m fine, Anne. I think the troubles on the key are finished. I found out who was trying to kill me and why. Now, it’s over. How’re you?”

             
“I’m doing good. I miss you.”

             
“How’s the stock broker?”

             
“I don’t know. Turns out he’s kind of a jerk.”

             
My heart beat a little faster, but I’m nothing, if not cool.

             
“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

             
“If I come out tomorrow, will you take me to Egmont? It’s supposed to be a nice day.”

             
“Sure,” I said. I wasn’t exactly playing hard-to-get.

             
I closed the phone and related the conversation to Jock. He said one word. “Sucker.”

             
I agreed, and smiled for the rest of the day.