The Demon Pool (9 page)

The porch light came on as Jim stood on the veranda of
Pedro de la Garza’s house. The front door opened wide and Jim looked briefly at
Pedro, and then into the tiny, but neat, home.
Damn, I thought my house was
small.

Jim’s hand rested loosely on his forty-caliber,
Beretta service pistol as his eyes scanned the room behind de la Garza. Jim
knew of officers who were shot simply for knocking on the wrong door. He did
not plan to be one of them. No other person was visible.

His attention went back to Pedro, who wore a worn
T-shirt and boxer shorts. His arms and chest were muscular and he might easily
have passed for a retired welterweight. He had no visible tattoos. He wore no
earrings and had no facial piercings, something popular even with some older
individuals who appeared to be trying to recapture their lost sense of youth.
To Jim, they looked ridiculous.

Pedro was Hispanic, but probably not Mexican or
Puerto Rican. He also didn’t look much like most of the Cubans Jim had met. He
was aware that many Hispanics in Florida traced their roots directly back to
Spain. Jim decided that Pedro de la Garza fit that profile.

“Mr. de la Garza, I’m Trooper Demore, from this
morning’s accident?”

Pedro nodded.

“I know it’s late,” Jim continued, “but can I
have a few minutes of your time, sir?”

Pedro stepped aside and gestured for Jim to
enter.

“You will have to forgive my appearance, Trooper
Demore,” Pedro said. “I do not get many visitors out here, and it is late.”

Jim stepped into the living room and looked
around again. Compact and neat, it had an old, high-backed chair that sat near
a wood-burning stove. The stove, while decorative, would have had little
practical use in South Florida. A loveseat hugged the lower part of one wall
where its low back pressed up against the sill of a front window. Across from
the loveseat, a portable television sat on a cheap stand. Otherwise plain walls
supported a few shelves.

On the wall above the television hung a framed
picture of a soldier and a young woman sitting at a table outside a café. The
picture looked as if it had been taken overseas, possibly somewhere in Europe.
Although Jim had served in the Marines, he recognized the Army combat-unit
patch on the soldier’s right sleeve. Jim had seen similar uniforms in pictures
from his uncle’s service in Vietnam.
Before he became a crazy, Pentecostal
preacher-man.

Pedro looked to be about Uncle Jack’s age, old
enough to have served in the late ‘60s or early ‘70s. Jim was sure that the
soldier in the photo was Pedro. Glancing around the small living room, Jim saw
another picture, a wedding picture, framed and sitting on a table next to a
cigar box. The same soldier and girl stood next to each other and beamed their
happiness. There was no evidence that the woman in the picture lived in this
house.

“I was just having a bit of medicine and a cigar
before going to bed. Do you smoke?”

Pedro stood next to the writing table that held
the wedding photo and cigar box.

“Only when someone has a baby or gets married,”
Jim replied.

Jim saw the bottle of whiskey sitting on the
kitchen table. He understood Pedro’s reference to medicine. Out here, close to
the glades, whiskey could disinfect a wound as easily as it could soothe a
troubled or broken soul.

“I’ve got a few more questions about this
morning. They won’t take long.”

Pedro walked around to his seat at the table and
pointed toward a chair.

“Please, señior, sit down.”

Jim, realizing his hand still rested on his gun,
relaxed a bit, pulled out the offered chair, and sat. He removed his hat,
placed it on the chair beside him, then pulled his small notebook out of his
shirt pocket and opened it.

Pedro picked up his cigar. A tiny ember at the
end of the cigar indicated that it had not completely self-extinguished.

“Do you mind?” Pedro asked.

“Not at all, sir.” Jim smiled. “My father and
uncle both smoked cigars, usually when trying to outdo each other with fishing
stories. Of course, after Uncle Jack came back from Vietnam, he always lost. My
dad said he’d had some kind of religious experience during the war and couldn’t
bring himself to lie, even about fish.”

“Sí, Señior Demore. I understand. The war changed
many soldiers. So has time, as you can see from the pictures.”

Jim nodded in agreement. He reached for the pen
still stuck in his shirt pocket.

“Do you live here with your wife, Señior de la
Garza?”

“No, Señior Demore. She is with the angels now.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim said.

An awkward moment passed, as Pedro poured a shot.
He held up the glass.

“She has been gone from me for some time. We met
in Spain when I was on leave from Germany. I wanted to visit my ancestral home.
The army had sent me to Germany after I left Vietnam.”

Pedro drank the whiskey and picked up the cigar.

“We were married in Spain. I would ride the train
from Germany to visit her before the wedding. She worked at a café.”

The smoke from the cigar floated up toward the
ceiling. Pedro looked wistful.

“I impressed her with my Spanish. Of course, that
was not difficult. My parents always spoke Spanish at home. My wife and I moved
into this house after my father died. He left it to me but not much else.”

John nodded, and then looked at his notes.

“Mr. de la Garza, you said the car that passed
you on the left was ‘fast, like a Porsche.’ Do you believe it was a Porsche?”

Pedro put the cigar to his lips again and thought
for a moment. He released the smoke and shook his head, responding with an
emphatic “No.”

When he spoke again, Pedro spoke slowly, taking
his time.

“It was not a Porsche. Just fast like a Porsche.”

Jim looked at his notes.

“And you think it was red?”

Pedro nodded. The smoke from the cigar drifted up
and away from the table. The aroma reminded Jim of going into the cigar stores
in Ybor City with his dad and uncle. His uncle knew where to go to get the
“special” cigars. The ones you were not supposed to buy, but everyone who
could, did. It was the only law his uncle did not respect. Jim waited for Pedro
to speak again. Pedro reminded him of a sadder, Spanish version of Uncle Jack.

“More like a Ferrari or Lamborghini, only with an
American look, and it was red, but maybe not solid red. I don’t know. Red but
with dark sides and maybe a dark stripe.
El carruaje del Diablo
.” Pedro
puffed on the cigar. “The Devil’s carriage, and it was fast, wicked fast.”

Jim made a new note.

“Can you remember anything about the other
driver? Anything at all?”

The cigar smoke continued its dance above the
table. Jim found it strangely soothing, relaxing. His investigation had just
started and there was already pressure from command. Jim remembered the governor
calling Briggs “Jeff” at the awards ceremony.
Just how close was Briggs to
the governor?

“She went by so fast, Señior Demore.”

Jim was instantly alert again. “She? ‘She’ as in
the car, or ‘she’ as in the driver?”

Pedro stared through the cigar smoke. “The
driver.”

Once again, he spoke slowly and carefully. “The
hands. On the steering wheel. I only got a glimpse, but I remember. The inside
light was on. They were a lady’s hands.”

Jim nodded. Pedro seemed sure, despite only
getting a glance.
Good info. Good decision to drive out to this godforsaken
place tonight.

He made more notes and then looked at his watch.
It was eleven o’clock. Tomorrow would be another long day. Jim closed the
little notebook and put it back into his pocket.

Jim smiled at Pedro. The other driver may have
been a woman, but women rarely street raced. Maybe there was more here than a
little race down the interstate.

“Let me know if you think of anything else. It’s
late and I know construction jobs start early.”

Jim picked up his hat and they both stood. He
extended his hand across the table.

“Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your time and
cooperation.”

Pedro shook Jim’s hand. His reply sounded
genuine.

“It is my pleasure, Señior Demore.”

Pedro came around the table and walked Jim to the
door. Jim glanced again at the picture on the wall above the television and
then back at Pedro. Same eyes, except that the old man’s eyes were sad and the
young Pedro looked gloriously happy. Yet, in the old man’s eyes, Jim saw
something else. Something more.
Hidden strength? Wisdom? Some kind of faith?

Jim was not sure, but he liked what he saw. Jim
had only been an investigator for a few months now, but he knew that
investigations sometimes lived or died on the strength of the character of the
witnesses.

Pedro opened the door, allowing Jim to step out
first. The nearby glades were abuzz with nighttime noises. The singsong sounds
of cicadas and the buzzing of vicious, bloodsucking insects mingled with the
distant cries and snarls of night hunters and their unfortunate prey. Darwin’s
symphony. Survival of the fittest.

Jim walked down the steps and made his way to his
car. Fine bits of crushed shell crunched under his shoes. Pedro stood on the
porch and spoke above the noise.

“When I left the Army, I wanted to be a police
officer.”

Jim nodded. It always amazed him when strangers
shared their secrets.

Pedro continued, “My late wife said ‘no.’ It was
too dangerous. I tried to tell her that just living was dangerous.”

Jim opened the driver’s door and tossed his hat
onto the passenger seat. He paused, looking at Pedro over the roof of the
Charger.

“It can be, Mr. de la Garza. It certainly can be.”

Jim pulled his patrol car into the parking lot of the
Regional Transportation Management Center. An interagency center, it housed
both DOT and Motor Carrier Compliance offices. The RTMC actually sat closer to
the freeway than Jim’s office. At least when his office wasn’t the Charger.

The complex had a friendly, modern look, more like
a contemporized university campus than a government complex. Underneath the
white, up-to-date exterior stood a facility designed to withstand a Category 5
hurricane and remain operational.

Exiting the Charger, Jim made his way to the
front entrance. The September sun pressed down with an intensity usually
reserved for July. It had turned out to be a “ninety-ninety” day — ninety
degrees Fahrenheit and ninety percent humidity. No breeze floated in from the
Gulf of Mexico. No relief from the hateful heat and humidity-heavy air. Summer
lingered on, ignoring the prayers and pleas of the region’s residents. Days
like these were an acquired taste.

Jim entered the building and welcomed the cool,
dry air inside the RTMC. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the front of the
lobby and reception area. Contemporary, plush furniture provided adequate
seating for visitors. Transportation magazines littered several small tables. A
uniformed security officer stood behind a counter facing the main entrance. A
security door beside him led into the bowels of the center.

Approaching the guard, Jim removed his hat and
placed it on the counter beside him. “I’m Corporal Demore. I have an
appointment with Kevin Williams.”

The security guard nodded before speaking. “Give
me a second, Corporal.”

The guard punched a button on his phone. A
disembodied voice responded, “Yes?”

“Corporal Demore is here.”

“Send him back.”

The voice on the speaker sounded toneless and
uninterested. The guard punched the button again, disconnecting the intercom.
He handed Jim a clipboard with a sign-in sheet attached. Jim wrote in the date,
his name, and the reason for his visit.
Vehicular homicide investigation
.

Taking the clipboard back from Jim, the guard
handed him a visitor’s badge and hit the buzzer for the door.

“Mr. Williams is in the control room. Follow the
hallway straight back.”

“Thanks,” Jim replied.

He clipped the badge to his pocket as he opened
the unlocked door. He made his way past several offices where engineers and
technicians worked at computers. At the center of the structure, surrounded by
a protective layer of offices and conference rooms, sat the main control room.
The people who worked there called it “the bunker.” Walking quickly, Jim found
himself at the end of the hallway, where a keypad and a phone gripped the wall
next to another security door.

Jim picked up the phone’s handset and put it up
to his ear. A small video surveillance camera stared down from its perch near
the ceiling. Jim heard the electronic door lock click. No one bothered to
answer the phone, so Jim put the receiver back in its cradle. He pushed the
door open and stepped into a large room that looked like the bridge of the
Starship Enterprise.

A huge, multiple-screen video display covered one
entire wall. A map stretched across it showing the I-75 corridor from Tampa
south to Naples. Icons representing cameras and other traffic control devices
dotted the map. In the lower left-hand corner, a video overlay displayed the
cable weather channel. A woman pointed to a map showing the Gulf Coast region
of the United States. Jim saw the symbol for tropical depression superimposed
over the Gulf of Mexico, southwest of Florida. He made a mental note of the
location. The last hurricane season had been mild. Florida was overdue for a
Category 3 or larger.

Jim stood near the door. The control room was
empty except for a single operator sitting at the center of the second console.
The operator did not look up, acknowledging Jim with only his voice.

“I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Take your time,” Jim replied.

A new video insert appeared in the upper-right
corner of the display. A segment of I-75 flashed onto the screen, both sides of
the freeway visible. The video zoomed in and out while maintaining focus.

“Are you Kevin Williams?” Jim asked as he made
his way toward the back console.

“Yeah.”

Williams’ one-word reply was curt, almost
dismissive.

Jim stopped a few paces away as Williams punched
some keys on his keyboard and then manipulated a joystick controller. The video
on the screen continued to zoom in and out while panning left, and then right.
After a moment, Williams sat back and tapped a final key. The video of I-75
disappeared from the display. Williams spun his chair toward Jim with the cool
arrogance of a Klingon starship captain.

Williams had tied back his long, black hair into
a ponytail. His thin face sported a Fu Manchu moustache and a wispy beard. He
had small, mean eyes and a high forehead that rolled into an early-receding
hairline. His nose was long and thin. The only thing missing was the fierce,
bony ridges that decorated the foreheads of Star Trek’s tough and vicious
Klingon warriors. But unlike television’s Klingons, Williams looked too skinny,
too puny, to be much of a threat to anyone who weighed more than a hundred
pounds.

“So, what can we do for the illustrious Highway
Patrol?”

Jim fought to maintain his professional demeanor.
It was almost as if someone had decided to play a joke on him. Only the
seriousness of the investigation itself kept Jim from laughing aloud. He knew
if he started laughing, they would have to haul him out in a white jacket with
sleeves that buckled in the back.
Probably not a professional look.

“I need to see some I-75 video. From last week.”

“I’d like to help you, officer, but you might be
out of luck.” Williams stood. He was a full head shorter than Jim.
The
littlest and ugliest Klingon in the Empire
.

“We had two people decapitated in an accident,
north of Naples, Wednesday night. We’re reasonably sure racing was involved, so
we need any video you have from Tampa all the way to Naples. One of the
deceased apparently had a close relationship with the governor.”

Williams looked at Jim with indifferent eyes.

“Well, officer, you are out of luck. We lost a
couple of our video servers. The failure wiped everything recorded during the
last week. It happened before we could back up any of those drives. Sorry, but
there’s not much I can do.” William’s voice reflected the indifference in his
eyes.

The little Klingon no longer amused Jim.
Nonetheless, maybe Jim could do something with the servers. The State of
Florida had other resources that went far beyond the computer systems available
to the Department of Transportation. If any data remained, he would have it
recovered. Either through the state’s forensic computer lab, or, if necessary,
through the FBI or some other federal agency. Whatever it took, Jim would find
and identify that second car.

“Are those servers still here?” Jim asked

Williams tilted his head toward the video wall.
“In the back, behind the wall.”

“Get whoever’s permission you need and meet me
out at my car with the servers.”

With just his voice, Jim busted the little
Klingon from starship captain to Department of Transportation gopher.

“Whatever you want, man.”

***

Williams walked stiffly past the command consoles
toward the door adjacent to the video wall. He decided he did not like Trooper
Jim Demore.
Not in the least. Nope, not at all
.

Kevin Williams knew how to make bad things happen to people
he did not like. Even if they wore a gun and a pretty uniform.