by Brett Baker
A few minutes later he returned with two beers and a bowl of almonds. He sat in the chair diagonal from me, handed my beer to me, and placed the almonds on the table. “What would you like to talk about? What’s the angle of this Florida Pursuit piece?”
“It’s about you,” I said. “They do a long-form piece on one person each month, and the editor is captivated by your story, so she suggested that we talk to you and see what comes of it. Do you talk about what happened to you?”
“What’s my story as you understand it?” Stockton asked.
“Everyone knows your story,” I said.
“If everyone knows my story, then what are you writing about?”
“That remains to be seen. Everyone knows your story, but maybe they’re mistaken. This is your chance to tell your own story.”
“You mean this is the chance to let you tell my story?”
“Well, yeah, but with information you give me.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“You got in some trouble with the IRS and ended up in prison. Before that you made a fortune developing land in South Florida that no one else wanted. The IRS took much of it, but since you got out you seem to have rebuilt your life. I mean, this place is gorgeous, so you’re obviously doing something right. Either that, or you hid some money from the IRS. But I’d imagine they do a good job of seizing assets, so it can’t be too easy to hide money from them.”
“That sums it up,” he said, raising his beer to me. “Seems like you don’t need me here to write this story. You know my life better than I do.”
“I doubt that,” I said. “That’s the rough outline. You can fill in the gaps, I’m sure.”
“What gaps are you looking to fill?”
“I just summed up ten years of your life in four or five sentences. There are plenty of gaps to fill. Start talking and I’ll decide what’s pertinent.”
“Well I was born in Grand Island, Nebraska,” he said. “Does that go back far enough?”
“I guess so. There’s not much before that.”
“You’re not drinking your beer,” he said.
I picked it up, took a healthy swig, and put it back down. “Better?”
“Much. You won’t want to write about my childhood. No one cares about that. Everyone has a childhood, and everyone’s childhood is the same. Or it’s different. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Unless you’re in a traveling circus, or your father’s a madman, there’s not much interesting about childhood.”
“That’s quite a perspective,” I said. “Safe to assume you don’t have kids?”
“Does this look like a place where kids live?”
“No, but not all kids live with their parents.”
Stockton nodded as if to concede the point, and said, “No, I don’t have kids.”
“How’d you make it from Nebraska to Miami?”
“I chased a girl. Undergrad at Boston University, and fell in love with a dark-skinned Irish girl from Brookline. She hated the cold, so she took her marketing degree to Miami. I had nothing going on, so I followed her down here. Got a job at a restaurant a few blocks from here, right on the shore. Bussed tables and washed dishes. I worked fifty hours a week for two years, trying to save some money to get myself started.”
“Started on what?” I asked.
“I didn’t know. I wanted to do something big, and I wanted that Irish girl. That’s all I knew. Started in real estate, got the girl. Everything was great. Then forgot to pay some taxes, and lost it all.”
“Forgot to pay some taxes. That’s an interesting way to put it. Seems like there has to be more to it than that.”
“Of course there’s more to it than that, but are you going to write your story about title 26, section 7201 of the U.S. Code?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Tax evasion. That’s what got me in trouble. Well, that and wire fraud. They went easy on the wire fraud, but they threw the book at me with the tax evasion. Sentencing max is five years, and that’s what I got. Gave me two years for wire fraud, but let me out a year early. Six years total. Doesn’t sound like a long time, but when you’re behind bars every day feels like a week. I thought I’d never get out.”
“Is that where you met Pietro Ospina?”
If not for a slight shift in his gaze, and an almost imperceptible slump of his shoulders, Stockton would have convinced me that Ospina’s name didn’t mean anything to him. But despite his best efforts, that ever-so-sleight reaction let me know that he recognized Ospina’s name.
“That name doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “Should it?”
“Yeah, it should. You know him. I know that you know him. And the sooner you tell me how you know him the better. Well, I don’t know if it’ll be better, but it’ll be easier. For me at least. Probably not for you.”
Stockton put his beer down, and stood up.
“I think you better go.”
I didn’t move. “This chair is comfortable, and I enjoy talking to you, so let’s just stay here and chat. We’ll give you a chance to respond to anything we write before we publish. You can present your side of the story.”
“You’re not from Florida Pursuit, are you?” he asked. I said nothing, but rather lifted and opened both of my hands as if to confirm his assumption. “Then you need to leave. You came in here under false pretenses. There’s no reason I should let you stay.”
“Of course there is. You need to tell me how you know Pietro Ospina, because if you don’t tell me, then I’ll have no choice but to find the closest FBI field office and let them know that you and Ospina are pals.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’ve got things to do. If you leave now I won’t call the police on you for trespassing. They’re very good about responding to complaints in The Grove. They’ll be here in no time.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.” I took another swig of my beer.
Stockton walked into the house, and I grabbed a handful of almonds. He and I both knew that he knew Ospina, and he’d be foolish to call the police. He knew that if I told the police that he knew a known drug dealer that they’d be interested enough to ask some questions. And if he knew that FDLE found Ospina’s body in the woods that morning after thinking he was already dead, then he knew that they’d be even more interested in talking to him. I didn’t know how this situation would play out, but I knew he wouldn’t call the police.
I waited a few minutes for him to return, and then I stood up and walked into the house. Had he driven away I would have had no choice but to wait for him, but unless he planned never to return home that didn’t seem like a sound choice. I found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, next to his refrigerator, a fresh beer in his hand. He looked at me, but remained still. I finished my beer, then opened the refrigerator and grabbed a new one of my own.
“So are you going to tell me what I want to know, or are we just going to stand here and drink your beer all night? The more we drink, the more likely you are to talk, so you might as well save us the trouble and start talking.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Mia Mathis. Didn’t I introduce myself?”
“Yeah, I know that. But who are you? Why do you care about Ospina? Are you a cop?”
“No. I don’t think I care about Ospina. But his name came up, and knowing something about him might lead me to the information I need.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what you want to know? I’d prefer not to talk about Ospina if I can avoid it.”
“Is he a drug dealer?”
“I’m not sure,” Stockton said. “He’s bigger than that, I think. But I don’t know much about him.”
“How do you know him?”
“We worked on a deal together.”
“A drug deal?”
“Good lord, no! I’m not getting involved in that. You think I want to go back to prison?”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Toby, but doing any deal t
hat involves a drug dealer is a good way to end up in prison.”
“I wasn’t involved with him directly. I’ve never even met him. He just helped pull together a deal.”
“Are you trying to be vague on purpose?” I asked.
“Of course. The less I say about a known drug kingpin, the better, don’t you think.”
“So he’s a kingpin? You know that?”
“Everyone knows that. If you’re asking questions about him I assume you already know that.”
“Tell me specifics. What deal?”
“Ospina got my name from one of his buddies down here in South Florida. He contacted me and said he was trying to do a land deal in the panhandle, but the guy wouldn’t sell to him. He asked me to intervene and buy the land and turn around and sell it to his guys.”
“What’s his South Florida buddy’s name?”
“Tenorio. I don’t know the first time. Always just knew him as Tenorio. He bought sixty acres of swamp from me.”
“Why would someone buy swamp?”
“I try not to ask questions.”
“I know you make your living selling land that few others want, but have you ever sold swamp before?”
“No.”
“Then why would he want to buy swamp?”
Stockton pushed away from the counter, put down his beer, and ran his fingers through his hair as he sighed. “Why do you think he’d want to buy a swamp?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. I can’t imagine you did a land deal and the intended purpose of the deal never came up.”
“Guys like Tenorio make a lot of enemies, and secrecy is paramount. So it makes sense that they would value owning a piece of land where it’s easy to lose things.”
“A dumping ground.” Stockton nodded. “Is that what Ospina wanted? A dumping a ground?”
“I don’t know. Some of the land was swamp. Some of it wasn’t. It was heavily wooded, near the ocean, but rather desolate.”
“Did you buy it for him?”
“Yes. We had to wait six months between his offer and my offer so it didn’t seem like the two were connected, but I made a healthy offer and the owner accepted.”
“Who was the owner?” I asked.
“A guy named Stitchman. He’s an ancient land developer. Bought hundreds of square miles of land around the same time as Disney, and has been selling it off ever since. He’s legit. Anyone who deals in Florida real estate knows him.”
“What’s so great about this land?”
“I don’t know. Nothing obvious. But Ospina made it clear that he had to have that land. Nothing else would do. I suggested other sites and he refused. You know what they say about real estate: location, location, location.”
“Why’d he want it?”
“You’d have to ask him. I bought it from Stitchman and then turned around and sold it to Ospina’s guys for a twenty percent premium.”
“And you don’t know what they did with the land?”
“Not really. They built a road through there, so they must be planning something, but there’s nothing there yet.”
“Who built a road?”
“The county, I guess. It’s a county road. 342, I think.”
“Where is this road?”
“Dixie County. In the panhandle.”
“Of course it is,” I said.
“You know it?”
“I’ve spent some time in Dixie County, yes. If I’m looking for records on this, what name should I look under?”
“I sold it to a land development company up there. One of Stitchman’s rivals. That’s why he didn’t want to sell it. He didn’t want it to go to his rival. Petty shit if you ask me, especially if there’s money to be made, but some people choose pettiness over profit. Those people are dumb.”
“Do you remember the name of the company?”
“No, I’d have to check my records. Once the deal is done my attorneys handle the details. Oswalt is the name of the guy that runs it though. I guess he’s a big logger up there. Stitchman hates that he chews up so much of the land, which is why he didn’t want to sell to him.”
“Dirk Oswalt?” I asked.
“Yes. You know him?”
“I’m familiar with him,” I said, trying to hide my excitement. I knew from eavesdropping at the campsite that Oswalt and Ospina worked with each other in some way, but to have Stockton mention Oswalt without me asking meant I was on the right track. In every mission there’s a moment where I begin to believe that everything will come together, and standing in Stockton’s kitchen felt like that moment.
“I’ve never met him,” Stockton said, his voice filled with worried tension.
“I didn’t think so. But what can you tell me about him?”
“Just what I’ve already said. I sold him that land.”
“That’s all you know?” I asked. He nodded. I poured my beer into the kitchen sink, and walked toward the door through which we came from the garage. “How’d you like prison?”
“That’s the sort of question that answers itself, isn’t it?”
“Minimum security facility, I assume? They don’t put you white collar guys in the rough places.”
“That’s right, but it’s still horrible.”
“I heard those places were basically like summer camps for adults.”
“Do you want to go?” he asked.
“Good point.”
“When you’re stuck in a place you don’t want to be it doesn’t matter how nice it is. They kept me within those fences. I did the same thing every day. Ate the same food. Saw the same people. That’s the real agony of prison. Sameness. I thought about trying to escape just to experience something different.”
“Keep in mind they don’t send the hardened criminals to easy places like that. You get caught up with drug dealers and they’re going to send you somewhere much livelier. Or deadlier, perhaps.”
“I think about it every single day. I’m not going back. Whatever happens, I’m not going back.”
“I guess we’ll see,” I said. “Thanks for the beer.”
I left through the mudroom and closed the door behind me. Stockton’s defense crumbled as soon as I made the slightest threat against him. He seemed obsessed with avoiding prison. Not a concern that innocent people carry, but for someone who’s already served time that concern is always there. I didn’t get the feeling that he knew Oswalt well, but dealing with drug kingpins is a good way to end up behind bars once again. But I didn’t care about Stockton’s poor judgment except to the extent to which it helped me unravel what Oswalt was up to.
Chapter 24
Since only Stockton knew that I’d driven to Miami, I decided to find a place to stay for the night. I’m always on alert in case some misguided criminal tries to kill me while I’m sleeping, but as my experience at the El Hombre showed, those attacks are more likely some days than others. I’d ruffled feathers in Cross City, so a restful night alone in a city where I remained anonymous was just what I needed.
I found a non-descript motel near Plantation and checked in. The young man at the desk greeted me with a disconcerting amount of enthusiasm, but after talking with him for a few minutes he won me over. He gave me a brief history of the motel, none of which I found interesting, and wished me a restful night. What more can one hope for from a motel?
After doing my typical room check, I fell asleep and woke the next morning relieved that no one had tried to kill me. The young man at the desk was just getting off work when I checked out, and he greeted me with a smile, and a “Good morning.” I got in my car and drove away, checking my mirrors every few seconds to make sure the hotel clerk wasn’t behind me. To my relief no one followed as I veered off the surface streets and eased onto the Florida Turnpike.
Five hours later I approached Cross City, and pulled off to the side of the road to study a road map of the county. Stockton hadn’t provided the exact location of the land he’d sold to Oswalt, but there on the map, about
eight miles east of Cross City, I found 342 on a blue pentagon with a gold border, which indicated a county road. It jutted out from highway 19, darting straight to the southwest for 15 miles where it ended before reaching the Gulf. The road didn’t connect to any other county roads. It crossed two local roads, which both seemed to meander in every direction before terminating nowhere. It looked like 342 intersected the local roads by chance rather than by design.
I decided to see 342 for myself.
I ended up in Cross City, despite looking for a 342 sign while I drove. I turned around and drove the other way and ended up right where I’d pulled off the side of the road to look at the map. Since no cross street had a 342 sign, I assumed it must have been the only street that had no sign at all.
I went back to the unmarked road and turned. A hundred yards down the road it made a sharp curve to the southeast, and then turned back to the southwest, a bottleneck not depicted on the map I studied. The turns created a wall of trees between the long, straight stretch of the road, and highway 19. I continued down the road, and within a couple of minutes it felt like I’d entered a different world. Thick forest edged each side of the road. Smooth, straight pavement extended into the distance. The wall of trees on each side of the road gave the feeling of driving inside a box. With no cars in the rearview mirror and no one ahead, a creepy isolation settled in. I didn’t believe in Bigfoot, but if he existed, 342 might provide the perfect portal into his world.
Just over fifteen miles ahead, the road ended. A sort of cul-de-sac of trees provided space to turn around. I parked the car in the middle of the road, and got out to search by foot. I looked for a trailhead, or a sign that something else existed at the end of the road except for the end, but saw nothing.
I got back into the car toward the direction from where I came. Three miles down the road, I noticed a clearing on the east side of the road that I hadn’t noticed before. It didn’t extend perpendicular from the road, but rather at an angle so that it wasn’t as noticeable coming from the north as the south. I figured it was one of the local roads I saw on the map, and decided to explore a little more. After leaving 342, the road jogged right and then left, just as 342 did at its beginning. It then began to narrow, until it made a sharp turn to the left, where not only did the road narrow, but so did the clearing between the walls of trees. Little more than 40 feet separated trees on one side from the other. I slowed to a crawl as it felt like walls were closing in on me, and began to look for a place to turn around. The only thing that kept pushing me forward was the smoothness of the road. I hadn’t encountered so much as a bump on 342 from the time I turned onto it. I chalked that up to the lack of winter potholes in Florida, and the newness of the road. However, I’d assumed a local road would be much older, and in worse shape. But it maintained the uninterrupted smoothness of 342. Another hundred yards down the road it made a sharp turn to the right. The proximity of the trees prevented me from seeing the road ahead until I made it all the way through the turn. But as soon as I did, I realized I hadn’t found just a local road.