Orchid Beach (23 page)
“Jesus,” Jackson said, “they’ve practically got a private army there, haven’t they?” He was looking at the lists. “Uh-oh,” he said.
“What?”
“This list of the security guards at Palmetto Gardens—sixteen of them, counting Barney.”
“What about them?”
He tapped his finger down the list. “I know four of them besides Cracker and Barney. They were all kicked off the Miami police force because of felony convictions, three of them in the same racial beating. All four of them did time.”
“That means their police records have been doctored, like Cracker’s, or they wouldn’t have been licensed by the state.”
“And those are just the ones I know,” Barney said, checking off their names. “God knows how many of them I
don’t
know. Wait a minute, I recognize another name: Eduardo Flores. He was on the Tampa force and was convicted of assaulting a series of motorists he’d stopped for traffic violations. It was a famous case six or seven years ago.”
“So that’s half Barney’s security force who are convicted felons.”
“And all of them convicted of
violent
crimes.”
“I’d be willing to bet the rest have records, too, records that have been scrubbed.”
“I wouldn’t take that bet,” Jackson said. He handed Holly back the lists. “You should take this to the state attorney general’s office tomorrow. Blow it wide open.”
Holly shook her head. “Not yet. There’s a reason that people like this are carrying guns around that place, and I’m going to find out what it is. I’ll bet it’s bigger than falsifying state records; otherwise, why wouldn’t Barney just hire guys who were clean? Why go to all the trouble and risk of altering records?”
“Let’s look at the menus,” Jackson said. “Here comes our waitress.”
They sat drinking coffee over the remains of their dessert.
“All right, let’s go through what we know so far about Palmetto Gardens,” Holly said. “One, the place is sealed off. They don’t want the locals taking Sunday drives through the place. Two, at least half the security force are convicted felons, and there must be a reason. Three, the club members are solicited privately, not by the usual advertising that sells lots and houses in ritzy developments. What are the membership requirements, besides great wealth? And four, if they don’t want anybody visiting the place, what are they hiding? Is there something there that, if seen by outsiders, would tip them to something unusual going on?”
“Well, on our brief overflight, we did see that building with all the antennas. They must have some extraordinary
communications equipment. I mean, they’re not just trying to get good TV reception with that really big dish.”
“You know, I’d really like to fly over there again,” Holly said.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Jackson said. “I know a guy who does aerial mapping. He’s got a big, slow airplane with a camera in the belly that takes overlapping landscape photographs. You must have seen that one at the municipal building of the whole island?”
“I thought that was taken by satellite,” Holly said.
“No, he took that series, and since he flies low, he can get as much detail as a spy satellite can. Two or three passes over the place, and we’d have some really nice snapshots.”
“Jackson, if you’ll spring for that, I’ll get you reimbursed from departmental funds, if we find something. How much will it cost?”
“I’m not sure, but certainly not more than a couple of grand. I’ll tell him I’ve got a client who’s interested in building a similar development. He’ll buy that.”
“Listen,” Ham said, “I’ll spring for the money. I’m flush.”
“You’re on, Ham,” Holly said.
“I know a guy at the FBI office in Miami,” Jackson said. “He’s in charge of the organized-crime division in the city. You want to get him involved?”
“Let’s wait until we know more. I don’t want him to think I’m crazy.”
“Okay, let me know when.”
“What we really need is somebody on the inside at Palmetto Gardens,” Holly said. “Somebody who’s in and out of there all the time, who could look around without calling attention to himself.”
Jackson thought about that. “I don’t know anybody,” he said.
“There must be at least
some
locals who deal with those people. They can’t
completely
cut themselves off from the outside.”
“You wouldn’t think so, would you?”
Ham spoke up. “I got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t I call Barney and tell him I’m looking for a job, that I’m bored with retirement.”
“Yeah, sure,” Holly said. “He’s going to hire the father of the chief of police? If there’s something illegal going on there, you’d be the last person he’d hire.”
“Well, maybe that would tell us something—if he wouldn’t hire me, I mean.”
“Ham, I appreciate the thought, but let’s just assume that he wouldn’t hire you, all right? If you called him, he’d just think I’d put you up to it. It’s important that Barney doesn’t think we’re too interested in the place.”
“I see your point,” Ham said. “I wish there was
something
I could do to help.”
“If I can think of anything, I’ll let you know,” Holly said. “Really, I will.” Like hell I will, she thought.
“Like hell you will,” Ham said.
H
olly stood in the entrance hall of the municipal building, just outside the doors of her department, and looked at the large aerial photograph of Orchid Beach. She reckoned it must be many years old, because Palmetto Gardens simply did not exist. Prominent properties and developments were labeled, but the only thing named on what was now the development was a road that ran from the northern end of the island to just where Palmetto Gardens now stood. The road was called Jungle Trail.
Holly went upstairs to the county planning commission and introduced herself to the director, a woman named Jean Silver. “What I’m looking for,” she said, “is a map that shows the current state of development on the north end of the barrier island.”
“That’s easy,” the woman said, going to a wide drawer and extracting a map.
“Can I borrow this?” Holly asked, looking at the large sheet of paper.
“You can have that copy,” Silver replied. “Interdepartmental courtesy.”
“Thank you very much.” Holly went back to her office, closed the door and spread out the map. Apparently, Palmetto Gardens didn’t exist for the planning commission, either: it was shown as nothing more than an empty parcel of land, whereas other developments had maps of roads and lot divisions. She picked up the phone and called Jean Silver.
“Yes?”
“Jean, it’s Holly Barker.”
“What can I do for you, Holly?”
“I was just looking at the map you gave me, and I noticed that, with all the north-end developments, streets and lots are outlined.”
“That’s right. We include everything in developments where the city or county has built roads or installed sewer and water lines.”
“I notice that one place, Palmetto Gardens, is shown as just an empty space.”
“That’s correct. It’s a completely private development, which has made no demands for city services. In fact, they petitioned, early on, to have the whole of their acreage removed from the city limits, but the city council didn’t buy it because of the tax situation. If they’d been outside the city limits, they wouldn’t be paying property taxes, which, I suppose, was their intent. They also petitioned to be removed from the oversight of this department for planning purposes, and the council gave them that. That’s why there are no roads or lots marked on the map; they built their
own. It’s officially none of our business what they do out there.”
“I see there’s a road called Jungle Trail along the river.”
“Right. It starts up at the north end of the island next to the Sebastian Inlet and runs nearly all the way to the south bridge. I think that when the council cut Palmetto Gardens out of the planning authority’s jurisdiction, they didn’t realize they were giving them the right to close that part of the road on their property to outsiders. There was a lot of anger about it, because that road was practically a city park, and, in fact, the rest of it has now been given that status, even though it crosses a lot of private property. Jungle Trail is a big favorite with bike riders and hikers.”
“I see. Thanks for the information. ’Bye.” Holly hung up.
There was a knock on her door.
“Come in.”
Jane Grey stuck her head in. “The telephone man is here to put in your private line,” she said.
“Oh, good, tell him to come ahead.” Holly had ordered the line at her own expense, because she felt uncomfortable talking to Jackson over departmental lines.
A man wearing a tool belt and carrying a telephone came in. “Hi, I’m Al,” he said, and went to work.
Holly was still looking at the map. “Al,” she said, “did you ever do any work on the phones out at Palmetto Gardens?”
“I worked on putting in their basic service a long time ago,” he said.
“What do you mean by basic service?”
“Well, it’s like when you do an office building: you run in the lines they’ve ordered to a central box, then they complete the installation. They’ll buy a phone system from
somebody like Lucent or Panasonic, and the supplier’s people will run all the lines and extensions.”
“And that’s what you did at Palmetto Gardens?”
“Well, yeah, but it was pretty elaborate. They ordered something like two thousand lines.”
“That many?”
“Well, you figure they have a few hundred houses, and what with fax machines and computers they might have, say, four lines each. Then you’ve got all the common lines—the clubhouse, shops, maintenance, security, all that. It adds up. In the case of Palmetto Gardens, the company had to open a new prefix, just for them. Nobody had ever asked for two thousand lines before. It’s like they built a small town, from scratch.” He screwed something together and placed the new phone on her desk. “There you are. All hooked up.”
“Thanks, A1.”
He went on his way.
Holly called Jackson. “Okay, I’ve got a private line.” She gave him the number.
“Does this mean I can talk dirty on the phone now?”
“Certainly not, you pervert.”
“Then what’s the point of having a private line?”
“Oh, all right, you can talk dirty.”
“Wish I could, but I’m due in court,” he said.
“Promises, promises. See you tonight.”
“Oh, I talked to my buddy at the airport. He’s shooting our pictures today, and for only twelve hundred bucks.”
“A bargain. See you tonight.” She hung up, called Ham and gave him the number. “How’s Daisy?”
“She’s okay. I think she misses you, though.”
“I’ll come out there and get her later this afternoon,” Holly said.
“Maybe I’ll get a dog of my own.”
“Good idea.”
“This one is kind of spooky.”
“How so?”
“Well, she brought me a beer yesterday.”
“She does that. You just say, ‘Daisy, bring me a beer.’”
“I didn’t say anything, she just did it.”
“Maybe you looked thirsty.”
“Probably.”
“See you later.” Holly hung up and looked at the map again. Maybe it was time she saw Jungle Trail.
H
olly drove out A1A to Sebastian Inlet, and took a left on an unpaved road marked
JUNGLE TRAIL
. The road ran along the northern end of the island for a mile or so, then curved south along the shores of the Indian River. Soon the river was obscured by heavy foliage; the road wasn’t called Jungle Trail for nothing.
She drove slowly down the dirt lane, occasionally passing a jogger or someone on a bike. There were sometimes views of the river, or, looking east, pasture land or citrus groves. She crossed small bridges over creeks leading to the river. She passed a number of developments to her left and an occasional golf course or stable. The air was warm and muggy, with any breeze captured by the trees. Then, after several miles, she drove around a sharp bend and came hard up against a high chain-link gate. A large sign read:
PALMETTO GARDENS
PRIVATE PROPERTY
STRICTLY NO TRESPASSING
ARMED RESPONSE!!!
She got out and looked. The gate was set into a ten-foot chain-link fence, and along its top was a double roll of not ordinary barbed wire, but razor wire. She peered through the fence and saw, perhaps a dozen feet away, another, equally high fence, trimmed in the razor wire, and this fence had signs saying
DANGER—HIGH VOLTAGE
. The ground between the fences had been denuded of vegetation and run over with what appeared to be a shallow harrow, leaving long, unbroken grooves in the dirt. Whoever breached the first fence faced electrocution at the second, and if he chickened out between the two, he would leave sharply defined footprints behind for some passing security officer to see.
Holly walked along the fence toward the river, but gradually, the vegetation made progress difficult, then impossible. The double fence went as far as she could see. She went back to the car and looked at the planning commission map. Jungle Trail ran through Palmetto Gardens and out the other side; she assumed that an identical fence closed off the south side, as well. There was nowhere to go but back, so she turned around and drove north on the trail. Back on A1A, she took the north bridge to Egret Island and Ham’s new house.
She picked up the microphone of the police radio she had had installed and called dispatch.
“Yes, Chief?”
“I’m done for the day. You can reach me on my cell phone.”
“Roger, Chief. There was a message for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Call Jackson.”
“Thanks, over and out.”
She dialed Jackson’s office number on her car phone.
“Oxenhandler.”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hi. I’m going to have the photographs in an hour or so. He’s dropping them off at the office.”