Murder Key (9 page)

Murder Key

FIFTEEN

             
The house was little more than a hut, one of many
gracing the
side of a public dump on the outskirts of Veracruz. It seemed to have been constructed of plywood and covered over with tar paper. The door, oddly enough, was made of some kind of metal, steel perhaps.

             
As we entered, I noticed that the plywood was covering concrete block walls. Somebody had gone to considerable lengths to make this place look like all the other shacks surrounding the dump. But it wasn’t. There was running water and electric
i
ty. The steel door was bolted into the blocks. The windows had shutters that were also of steel, and could be closed to turn the hut into a veritable fortress.

             
“What is this place?” I asked, as we entered.

             
“It’s a DEA safe house,” said Harris. “It’s humble, but it’s home. We ran sewer and electricity underground, so it looks just like all the other shacks around here.”
             

             
Jock had pushed our guest of honor into a straight back chair resting against one wall of the room. He pulled a rope out of the gym bag Harris had provided and tied Diaz to the chair.

             
Emilio walked through the door. “That got a little dicey,” he said, to no one in particular.

             
“Good shot,” said Jock.

             
“We’ve got the see about the SUV,” Harris said. “The police will be looking for it by now, and they don’t like American cops in their bailiwick.”

             
“I’ll go with you,” said Emilio. “I need to check in with my agency and let them know what happened. I’ll leave the VW for you and Jock, Matt.”

             
They left us in the quiet room with Diaz. “Now,” said Jock, “tell me why you’re trying to kill my friend.”

             
“Fuck you,” said Diaz.

             
Jock pulled his pistol from the holster, reached into the satchel for a silencer and screwed it onto the barrel of the weapon. He pointed it at Diaz. “Try again,
muchacho
.”

             
“Fuck you again,
gringo
.” A barely suppressed smile teased his lips.

             
Jock shot him in the foot, the sound suppressed into som
e
thing that sounded like “
pfft
.” Diaz screamed in agony, cursed, and tried to wrench his leg from the chair to which it was bound. I stepped back in shock. I had never seen anything so calcula
t
ing, and I was suddenly mute. I opened my mouth, tried to speak. Nothing came out. My throat was as dry as a
desiccated
skeleton.

             
There was a buzz in my ears from the scream and the shouted expletives from Diaz.

             
“The next one goes in your knee,” said Jock, his voice low, controlled.

             
“I don’t know anything,” the wounded man said, a tremor in his voice. “I was just ordered to shoot the man.”

             
Jock hit him across the face with the pistol. “You can do better than that.”

             
Blood spattered from the broken nose. Diaz spit out two fractured teeth. Tears of pain welled in his eyes. Sweat had broken out on his face, and his voice, when he spoke, was strained.

             
I stood there, dumbfounded. I couldn’t square the casual brutality of my friend with the image I’d always had of him. This was not my junior high school buddy. This was some apparition clothed in the body of my life-long friend.

             
“Tell m
e about it,” Jock said to Diaz.

             
“
El Jefe
called me on Friday in Sarasota and told me to go to the bar on Longboat Key and kill Royal. He told me where he would be. That’s all I know.”

             
Diaz’ voice was strident, angry. He was afraid of more pain, but he wanted us to know that he was still dangerous. I could see agony etched on his facial features, but I could also see malice. He hated us, wanted us dead, was demeaned by our having the upper hand. He could be a dangerous man someday, lurking in a dark place waiting to wreak his vengeance on us.

             
“
What were you doing in Sarasota
?”

             
“I had come in the night before with a shipment.”

             
“Shipment? What shipment?”

             
“The illegals.”

             
“Do you ship drugs with the illegals?”

             
Diaz hesitated. Jock raised his pistol in a backhanded motion, as if to strike him again.

             
“Yes, yes, there are drugs,” said Diaz, his voice rising in fear.

             
“Talk to me,” said Jock.

             
“I don’t know much. Cocaine comes overland to Veracruz and we load it onto a tr
awler and take it to Sarasota.”

             
Diaz sounded resigned now to giving us what we wanted. He didn’t want to endure more pain, perhaps was afraid that
it
would make him lose all semblance of his ignoble dignity.

             
I was coming back to reality. “Why carry the illegals?” I
asked
. “The money you make must be peanuts compared to what the drugs bring.”

             
“The illegals are cover,” said Diaz.

             
“I don’t get the cover part,” I said, although it was starting to come clear.

             
Diaz spit out more blood. “The cocaine is put into weighted bundles and stored in a compartment between the boat’s hull and the floorboards
.
There’s a door in the hull, and the captain can open it from the bridge. If the coast Guard stops us, we throw a few of the illegals overboard and then drop the coke to the bottom of the Gulf. The Coast Guard is so busy picking the illegals out of the water that they don’t see the coke.”

             
Diaz laughed as he said it, a look of scorn creasing his pock-marked face, his fear being overcome by his innate
machismo
.

             
“If we’re arre
sted it’s only for the importat
ion of illegals, not drugs,” he said. “Nobody ever goes to jail for that. We’re sent back to Mexico, and a judge on our payroll sets us free.”

             
“How do you get the drugs into the country?” Jock asked.

             
“We stop well off-shore, and small boats come out and take the drugs and the people ashore.”

             
“Where do the small boats go?”

             
“I don’t know. I only came in that way once, and I was dropped off at a house on a canal.”

             
“Where?”

             
“I don’t know. Some
gringa
came
in a van and got the illegals and the drugs.”

             
“A woman?” I asked.

             
“Yes, a pretty blonde woman.”

             
“Did you get a name, any markings on the van?”

             
“No.
N
othing. Do not shoot me again. I’ve told you ever
y
thing I know.”

             
I said, “Describe where you were brought in on the boat.”

             
Diaz sneered, knowing we were about finished, some of his arrogance beginning to resurface. “To a house,
mi amigo
, a big house on a canal. I don’t know where it was.”

             
“Did you leave with the illegals?” Jock asked.

             
“Yes. The woman let me out in downtown Sarasota, and I got a hotel room.”

             
“Describe the trip. How many bridges did you cross?” I asked.

             
“We crossed two bridges
. O
ne was very tall and long. I could see the buildings of Sarasota from there. The first bridge was smaller, what you call a draw bridge. I could see many boats stacked on racks near the water.”

             
I turned to Jock. “That sounds like Longboat Key,” I said. “The first bridge would be over New Pass. You can see the Marine Max boat storage yard from there. Then they would’ve crossed over the Ringling Causeway Bridge to the mainland.”

             
Jock nodded. “Anything else?”

             
I looked at Diaz. “Why were you there?” I said.

             
“
El jefe
sends one of his men on a trip sometimes. I think it
i
s to make sure the captain stays trustworthy. I was supposed to catch a plane out of Tampa the next day and fly back to Veracruz.”

             
“When was this?” I asked.

             
“I got there last Thursday night. On Friday morning
el jefe
called me on my cell phone and told me to kill Matt Royal.”

             
“Did you kill the men from Tlapa?” I asked.

             
“No,
senor
. I knew nothing about that, as God is my witness.” The smarmy smile came again.

             
“Who was the motorcyclist you were with at the bar on Longboat Key?” I asked.

             
“I do not know. He was just some Mexican kid. I paid him one hundred dollars to take me there and back.”

             
“How did you get back here?” Jock asked.

             
“The guy on the motorcycle took me to a Mexican doctor who put the cast on my arm. I called
el jefe
to tell him that Matt R
oyal still lived, and then I spent the night with a Mexican family that owed
el jefe
a favor. I took a taxi to the Tampa airport on Saturday morning and came home.”

             
“Who gets the drugs in Sarasota?” asked Jock.

             
“I do not know,” said Diaz.

             
Jock raised his pistol and pointed it at Diaz’ knee.

             
Diaz’ vo
ice rose an octave. “Honestly, s
ir, I do not know,” he whimpered, the
machismo
giving way to fear. “I have heard some people talk about a senator, but that is all I know.”

             
“Does the trawler have a name?” I asked.

             
“
Princess Sarah
,” said Diaz.

             
Jock looked at me and I nodded my head. We were through.

             
Diaz was slumped in the chair, held upright by his bindings. We had gotten everything out of him that was coming. Jock and I stood in front of him, staring down at the arrogant bastard who had tried to kill me. Jock was holding his gun at his side, the silencer reaching past his knee.

             
Diaz raised his head, a look of sheer malevolence shooting like darts from his eyes. He knew that the questioning was over, and he had survived. His
machismo
, like an inflated balloon in the water, was again rising to the surface. He just couldn’t help himself.

             
“You will pay for this,
gringo
,” he muttered, spitting blood and saliva on the floor. “I will kill you the next time I see you. I will piss on your grave.”

             
Jock raised the pistol and shot Diaz through his left eye.

             
“Good God almighty, Jock!” I shouted. “What the hell did you do?”

             
“Anybody stupid enough to threaten me while he’s tied to a chair and I’ve got a gun is too stupid to breathe our air.”