Murder Key

by H. Terrell Griffin

  Harris nodded his assent. “I’ll set up a meet with Liz for this evening. Dress casually. We’re going to a titty bar.”

  Vanessa picked Jock and me up in front of the Federal Building and took us home for an early dinner cooked by her sister Mandy.

  37

  Murder Key

  SEVENTEEN

  Orlando is the epicenter of the world of theme parks. They’re clustered on the southern edge of the city, surrounded by the tourist ghettos of hotels, restaurants and gift shops. On any given day there are over a hundred thousand tourists crowding into Central Florida. Few are aware that Orlando is more than a family fun destination.

  A new city has arisen from the ashes of the citrus groves that fueled the area before Walt Disney discovered it. The office towers and condos that jut upward from downtown have replaced the one and two story retail shops that were once the business center of a small city.

  The tourists never see the high-end gated communities where the very rich live side by side with the upwardly mobile middle-class. Neither does the visitor see the shabby neighborhoods that house the workers who every day willingly enter the maw of the theme park beast to earn their minimum wage paycheck.

  Like every city, Orlando supports an underworld where drugs and sex are sold or bartered with an insouciance that would stun the law-abiding citizen. In Orlando, much of this business hugs a thoroughfare called Orange Blossom Trail, a name that evokes the sweet smell of citrus trees in the spring. Not anymore.

  The sickly sweet odor of cannabis permeates the clubs that sell nudity along with cheap booze. Those dives line the street, their facades filled with flashing neon displays advertising naked dancing girls.

  It was into this squalid milieu that Jock, Harris and I ventured shortly after dark on Friday. It occurred to me that it had been one week since Diaz had tried to kill me at Tiny’s.

  We were making progress, I thought, but not very quickly. I knew who had tried to shoot me and who had given the order, but I didn’t know why, and I didn’t know who had told Mendez to have me killed. My life would be at risk until I figured it out.

  The bar named Les Girls was housed in a square stucco building with a flat roof supporting a large neon sign advertising the place as a “Gentlemen’s Club.” I didn’t think a real gentleman would ever enter the double doors that opened from the parking lot. But we did.

  There was a large man standing just inside the door beside a table at which sat a young woman in a negligee right out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. She was smiling. He was scowling.

  “The cover charge is ten bucks a head,” said the large man. “Pay the lady.”

  Harris pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off three tens and passed them to the woman at the table. The big guy scowled some more, and the lady at the table smiled as if we had granted her most extravagant wish by simply walking through the door.

  The room was square with enough smoke hanging in the air to gag a goat. Not all the smoke was from regular tobacco. There was a bar along one wall with a thirty-foot runway jutting at right angles into the room. There were brass poles situated at either end of the runway, anchored in the ceiling. Small vinyl-covered chairs were placed along the bar and runway.

  The joint was noisy with raucous comments uttered by drunks sitting at the runway, gazing upward, mesmerized by the hairless bodies of the dancers. Rock music pounded from large speakers along the wall, the decibels outstripping a jumbo jet on take-off. Waitresses in skimpy outfits were serving drinks and kibitzing with the customers. There were about fifty men and two women sitting around the space, intently watching a pair of nude girls making love to the brass poles.

  We took a table near the back of the room. A dancer stopped by to ask if we were interested in a lap dance for fifty bucks. We declined A waitress made her way over to us. She was tall with blonde hair falling to her waist, her breasts pushed out of the top of a lace camisole, barely hiding the nipples. She wore high heel shoes and a pair of shorts riding low on her hips. A gold stud glittered in her navel. Her face was thin with dark eyebrows that perhaps gave the lie to her hair color. She flashed a smile, revealing even white teeth and generating so much energy that I sat back in the chair. We ordered beer, and she left us.

  Jock rubbed his hands together. “Now that is some hunk of woman.”

  “I’ll introduce you when she comes back,” said Harris.

  I grinned. “You come here often?”

  “Only on business,” Harris said, chuckling.

  “Some business for a hard working government employee,” said Jock. “I guess you make sure the taxpayer gets his money’s worth.”

  “Of course,” said Harris. “I’m a good steward of your tax dollars.”

  The waitress was back with three six-ounce glasses of beer. “That’ll be twenty-four dollars,” she said, “not counting the generous tip.” The smile flashed again, suddenly, and like lightning on a dark night, it lit up the room. I’m not kidding.

  “Sit for a minute,” said Harris. “I want you to meet a couple of friends.”

  She sat, putting her drink tray on the table. “Hi, I’m Tiffany.”

  Rufus laughed. “It’s all right, Liz,” he said. “These are our guys.”

  He was talking loudly to be heard over the ambient noise. Nobody was close to us, so he wasn’t divulging any secrets to anyone other than Jock and me.

  Rufus put his hand on the waitress’ shoulder. “Liz Birmingham,” he said, “meet Jock Algren and Matt Royal. Jock works for the government, I think, and Matt’s a lawyer, but he doesn’t take that too seriously.”

  She stuck out her hand to shake with Jock and me. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  I was dumbfounded. “You’re the undercover narc?” I asked.

  “Yes, but that’s our little secret,” she said. “I’ve only got a minute before I have to get back to slinging drinks.”

  “I wanted you to meet these guys so that when they come talk to you tomorrow, you’ll know they’re with me,” said Harris.

  “And they’re coming back tomorrow night?” she asked.

  “No, they’ll meet you at the Wall Street Cantina at noon. Tell them anything you know that’ll help,” said Harris.

  Liz frowned. “If you’re looking into drugs in Central Florida, you need to remember Merc Maitland. He’s sitting over there.”

  She nodded toward a heavy-set man just getting out of a chair on the far side of the room. Maitland was about five-feet-eight and must have weighed 250 pounds. His hair was short, almost a buzz cut, blonde going rapidly to gray, probably in his early 60s. He was wearing cargo shorts, boat shoes and a golf shirt.

  “That’s the kingpin,” Liz said. “Gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

  Jock looked at Rufus. “Where is this Cantina you’re talking about?”

  “On Wall Street, around the corner from where Matt’s office used to be,” said Harris.

  I didn’t ask how he knew where my office had been, but it sounded as if he’d been checking me out. I’d eaten often at the Cantina when I practiced law. It had sidewalk dining that would be pleasant on a Saturday afternoon in late October.

  We had a couple more drinks for appearance sake, ogled the sweeties dancing on the bar and runway, and took our leave. Harris dropped us at the Embassy Suites Hotel in downtown Orlando, where we had taken a couple of rooms for the evening.

  I hadn’t talked to Anne since Houston, and I was beginning to miss her. I’d have to be careful with that. I was pretty sure our relationship was edging toward an end, and I didn’t want to be left with that terribly empty feeling that accompanies lost love affairs. I called her.

  “Hey, Sugar,” I said. “Miss me?”

  “I sure did. Who is this?”

  “Awwww.”

  “I really have missed you, Matt. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Orlando. Jock and I learned a lot in Mexico, and we’ll be coming home tomorrow evening. Can you have dinner?”

  “
You’ve been in Mexico?”

  “Long story. Don’t mention that to anybody. What about dinner tomorrow?”

  “I wish I could, Matt, but I’ve made other plans.”

  She didn’t explain the plans, and the jealously monster in my brain gnawed at me to ask. I stood my ground, though. A macho man has his pride, and I’d have to learn to live with this.

  “Well, I’ll give you a call later, and maybe we can get together,” I said.

  “Are you okay?” Her voice had softened.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You just don’t sound quite right.”

  “It’s been a long week, Anne. I’ll talk to you next week.”

  “Bye,” she said, and I hung up.

  I turned out the lights and drifted off to sleep thinking about the end of an affair. It was going to be rougher than I had imagined.

  37

  Murder Key

  EIGHTEEN

  The Cantina was not crowded on a Saturday afternoon. During the week the place was full of downtown workers enjoying lunch, and at night it turned into one of those clubs where young people spend too much time ruining their tympanic membranes with loud music. The doors were always open, and pigeons joined the people for a bit of lunch.

  Amber took Jock and me to a table bordering the sidewalk. Barb came by with menus and asked how I was enjoying retirement. I told her it was fine and that we were waiting for another person before ordering. We chatted for a moment and she left to take care of other diners.

  I’d called Chief Bill Lester in mid-morning. He told me that the serial number on the transom of the small boat washed up on the beach with the dead Mexicans showed that it was a tender on a big yacht out of Ft. Lauderdale. The yacht was owned by a New York advertising agency and the tender had been reported stolen a year before. A dead-end.

  Pepe Zaragoza had come out of the coma the day before. He had no memory of the events on the boat and no idea how he ended up on the beach.

  The last thing he remembered was leaving home on Friday morning to go to work on the truck farm in eastern Manatee County where he was a foreman, overseeing the Mexicans who harvested the crops. Since there were fewer vegetables to be harvested in October, most of his crew had moved further south and were working other fields. Pepe’s job was full-time, and when there were no crops ripening in the fields, he oversaw the maintenance on the vehicles and farm machinery needed on large institutional farms.

  “He’s not ready to leave the hospital,” said Lester, “but he’ll be arrested when he’s discharged.”

  I was relating this to Jock when I noticed a woman with short brown hair walking toward us. She was wearing navy blue slacks, a cream colored silk blouse and low heeled shoes. A small gold cross hung from a thin chain around her neck. She appeared to be in her late-twenties. Her makeup was subdued to the point that it was not apparent she was wearing any. I was idly watching her, wondering who she could be, when she smiled at me. Liz. That smile would knock me over at a hundred paces.

  Jock and I stood as she approached, and I moved around to help with her chair. This merited me another high wattage smile and a thank-you.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” I said. “You look a little different in the daylight.”

  She laughed. “You liked my working clothes last night?”

  “I have to tell you, I never saw a government employee dressed just like that.”

  She smiled again. “Push-up bras are a great invention, and a big wig just makes a girl, don’t you think?”

  Jock finally found his voice. “Good of you to meet with us.”

  “Tell me why I’m here,” she said.

  I told her the story of the past week, beginning with the dead Mexicans on the beach and ending with our trip to Les Girls.

  “Your theory about the drugs is right,” said Liz. “Most of the coke we’re seeing is coming from the Tampa-Sarasota area. Our people thought it might be coming in by sea, but we haven’t found anything that would help us.”

  “Did you ever talk to Dwight Conley?” I asked

  “No. That was all done through Rufus Harris and Paul Reich.”

  Jock said, “Tell us about Maitland.”

  “He seems to be the guy taking care of the drugs around here. I don’t think he’s smart enough to run the show, but he’s probably the area franchisee for the Sarasota bunch. We’ve got enough on him to take him down, but we’re hoping he can lead us up the food chain.”

  I said, “Do you know how the drugs get here?”

  “The Sarasota people hire low-level thugs to drive the coke to Orlando. Maitland stashes the drugs in a mini-storage facility on the Trail and doles them out to his people. A lot of this stuff gets sold on street corners and a lot more in the bars all over town.”

  “How long have you known about all this?” asked Jock.

  “Since I started working at Les Girls,” said Liz. “It’s amazing what you can pick up hanging around a place like that. We’ve confirmed what I’ve told you, but as I said, we’re hoping ole Merc will lead us to his bosses.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t have time to wait for a slip-up by Merc,” I said. “Not if I want to keep breathing.”

  “Do you know where he lives?” asked Jock.

  “Yes, but I don’t want you guys busting up a project we’ve been working on for months.”

  Jock was quiet for a moment, thinking. “What if he thinks we’re another group trying to muscle in on his territory?” he asked. “Couldn’t we get what we need out of him without tipping DEA’s hand?”

  “Possible,” said Liz. “But you’d have to be very careful. And you’d have to let me in on what you learn.”

  “We will,” said Jock.

  I said, “What else can you tell us about Maitland.”

  “Not much. He served state time up at Raiford, but he’s pretty much a quiet guy. I don’t think he made any waves up there.”

  I nodded to Jock. “We need to make a run at him. We’ll report in, Liz, as soon as we know something.”

  “Deal,” she said, and gave us Maitland’s address. And smiled.

  37

  Murder Key

  NINETEEN

  Merc Maitland lived in a gated community that sprawled around a lake on the western edge of Orlando. The gate guard would want proof that we belonged there or we wouldn’t be let in.

  It’s one of the conceits of the rich and nearly rich that a minimum-wage gate guard would keep criminals out of their neighborhoods. A common burglar would be slowed down, or maybe even defeated in his designs, but the real criminals probably lived among the ever-so-pompous denizens of these newly minted fortresses.

  We stopped at a military surplus store and bought identical sets of clothing; work boots, gray long sleeved shirts, matching gray pants. We changed into the clothes in the dressing room. Our old clothes went into a plastic bag. We got two plain gray baseball caps, paid cash and left.

  “We need a truck to go with these uniforms,” said Jock. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  We drove by the yards of several industrial companies, but found their trucks either too big for our needs or locked up behind chain-link fences.

  We stumbled onto a local cable TV company’s maintenance yard, filled with panel vans left haphazardly in the unfenced parking lot.

  “Looks like the Saturday crew left in a hurry,” said Jock. “Let me out.

  I stopped the rental car and Jock got out carrying a small leather packet and a slim jim, a flat piece of metal that will fit between the window and door frame of a vehicle. He was into the van in a second and bent over under the steering wheel. The van started, and Jock sat up and wheeled out of the parking lot. The whole thing had taken less than a minute.

  We drove to a shopping mall called West Oaks Center and parked the rental. We’d pick it up later. I climbed into the passenger seat and we headed for Maitland’s house.

  * * * * *

  The gate guard came out of his air conditione
d hut, smiling. “Somebody having cable trouble?” he asked.

  “Nah,” said Jock, “it’s the whole neighborhood. We gotta check all the nodes until we find the problem. Great way to spend a Saturday afternoon, isn’t it?”

  The guard laughed. “Know what you mean. Go on in.”

  He hit the button to raise the red and white pole that guarded the entrance road.

  We drove to the address given us by Liz. “Got your piece?” asked Jock.

  “Yep. You?”

  “Always.”

  “Ready?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let’s go.”

  We went, Jock carrying a tool box from the van in his left hand.

  The house was large, built in a style often called McMansion, because of its ostentatious appearance. It was a two-story with a triple garage opening onto the driveway in front of the house. The lot was small, and the houses on either side crowded in. The double doors at the entrance were inlaid with beveled glass, stained so that we couldn’t see inside. I knocked on the door and then, as an afterthought, pushed the bell button set into the facing. In a moment a large black man appeared.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. He was wearing shorts, athletic shoes and a white T-shirt.

  “We’ve got to check out the TV cable,” I said, gesturing back to the van emblazoned with the logo of the cable company.

  “We don’t have a problem with the TV,” he said.

  I looked at a notebook from the truck, holding it so that the man at the door couldn’t see anything written there. “A Mr. Maitland called about a problem,” I said.

  “Hold on,” he said. Then turning to the interior he called, “Merc. Cable guy’s here.”

  “What cable guy?” A scratchy voice came from what I presumed to be the family room.