by Shirl Henke
They pulled into the parking lot of the storage place, where an impatient Sergeant Patowski paced with a cigarette clenched between his sagging lips, puffing away. “Last I checked the calendar it isn’t Halloween,” he said, looking at their costumes. Although they’d removed the headgear, there was no time to change clothes. “You just spend the day at Disney World?”
“Guess I forgot to mention when I called. Captain Montoya is president of the local Space Quest chapter and they’re holding their annual ‘roll call’ tonight. All the alphabet soup’s there,” she said.
“So are some of Miami-Dade’s finest, guarding Farley Winchester. You weren’t supposed to be anywhere near the place and you know it.”
“If we hadn’t been we wouldn’t have learned where Leila put all her extra furniture when she had to get a smaller, cheaper apartment. We think it was so she could afford paying Reicht’s exorbitant rates,” Sam said.
“She told Farley a tale about having her place painted and needing to move temporarily, so she put her things in storage,” Matt explained. “But even the kid thought it was rather odd that she asked him to keep the key for her.”
“And not to tell anyone he had it—ever,” Sam said.
Patowski reached out his hand, palm up. “Hand it over.”
“Only if we get to go with you. Remember, Pat, I didn’t have to bring you in on this. I could’ve given it to Scruggs or Kleb,” she said.
Patowski snorted an obscenity. “Fat chance. You wouldn’t give CPR to an IRS agent having a heart attack. The key?”
Reluctantly, she fished the key Farley had given her from one of the deep pockets concealed in her furry costume. She had her snub nose concealed in the other pocket.
Patowski walked up to the small air-conditioned booth where the security guard sat and flashed his badge, then showed the elderly man the key. “Official police business. The owner of this unit’s been murdered. We need to check what’s inside. Where is number seventy-four located?”
“No kiddin’!” The guard’s round florid face looked incredulous and his eyes almost protruded from their sockets as he motioned to his right with one pudgy hand. “The seventies are all down thata way.”
Across the road, Gus watched Sam and Matt with the cop. He could smell the cop even before he saw the guy’s badge flash in the light from the security booth. Although Gus had no idea what was going on, he had a gut feeling that Mr. Sal wasn’t going to like this at all. He punched speed dial to ask for instructions.
As they walked down the asphalt, Sam said in a low voice, “Don’t look now, but I think we may have company. There’s a hardcase in an old gray sedan parked across the road, talking on his cell. I’d almost swear I saw that same car this afternoon, parked outside the captain’s place. He hasn’t taken his eyes off us since you showed your badge to the security guard, Pat.”
They reached a metal sliding door numbered seventy-four and stopped in front of it. Patowski turned, cupping his hand to light another cigarette, glancing across the road. He read off the plate number. Blocked by Matt’s body, Sam jotted it down on a slip of paper she pulled from one of the utility pockets in the costume.
“You gonna call for backup?” she asked Pat. The storage place was only minutes from Metro-Dade Headquarters.
“As soon as we get inside where he can’t see us,” he said, turning to the door and inserting the key. The heavy lock groaned, then tumbled in place. Matt reached down and helped the older man slide the door up so they could enter. The room was filled with the sad remnants of Leila Satterwaite’s brief life.
Patowski pulled his cell out as soon as he stood inside the shadowy interior, stepping behind the wall so he couldn’t be seen from across the road when Sam flicked on the light switch. “Don’t touch anything. You’ll screw up the chain of evidence—if there’s any here.”
Sam grinned. “Remember, I’m not a rookie.” She pulled out two pairs of thin latex gloves and handed Matt one. “Got ’em from Josefina Montoya. She buys ’em by the box to color her hair. “You can watch to see we don’t compromise your investigation.”
Patowski shook his head in resignation, then resumed his call. While he gave the plates and described the sedan, Sam and Matt set to work, shoving around tables, rickety chairs and ceramic lamps with chips at their bases. A stack of boxes stood against the back wall.
“Shit, I think our boy’s figured out we made him,” Patowski said as the sedan started to drive away. He picked up his cell and called in the direction the car was heading. “They ought to be able to pick him up no sweat unless he’s Harry Houdini.”
“Well, well, well, what have we here?” Matt said, pulling out a sheaf of photo paper, glossy eight-by-ten pictures. He riffled through them, handing them to Sam who showed them to Patowski.
“Her brother was creative,” Pat said, his eyes narrowing on one incredibly explicit photo of Kenny Brio and Susan Winchester.
“And apparently double-jointed, if you pardon the pun.” Matt turned the picture upside down and raised his eyebrows in amazement.
“I don’t believe Susan knew he was taking pictures of them. She wasn’t the type for that kind of kink. Too afraid of what Upton might do if he ever found out.”
“I agree, but since our pal Kenny had a stash of these, I’d bet Upton did find out.”
Sam nodded. “Blackmail. Brio knew just how uptight the Winchester clan was and how much money Susan’s family had. The only thing he never counted on was her shrink having mob connections.”
“I’m calling in the lab techs. Don’t touch anything else,” Patowski said.
Sam knew it would do no good to argue. As she replaced the photos on top of the old utility bills and other worthless paper they’d gone through, she spied a small book in the open box, slipped sideways next to the photos. Quickly, before he could climb over the chair separating them to stop her, she pulled it out. “It’s Leila’s diary.”
“Put it down, Sam. That’s evidence.”
“C’mon, Patty. You wouldn’t have a case if not for me. Just let me take a peek while we wait. What’s the harm?” she wheedled, flipping though the pages.
Upton Winchester IV looked down at the ludicrous costume he’d been forced to wear. Some hideous sort of space alien creature complete with purple scales and a face mask with a snout! His voice was muffled through the ghastly contraption as he spoke. “You’re certain this is wise, Reese? I don’t like it.”
“Farley’s your son and my patient.” Reicht replied. “That bizarre police captain has no legal right to keep him. I checked his background. He’s the local president of a Space Quest chapter. Little wonder Farley ended up with him.”
“Then why don’t we simply go in and demand our rights—take my son to your psychiatric facility and not humiliate ourselves with these ridiculous costumes?” Upton asked, stiff with fury and humiliation.
“If Farley sees either of us, who knows what accusations he might start throwing around?” the doctor said reasonably. No way was Reicht telling Winchester about the IRS investigation and have the spineless idiot panic—not when the doctor and his friend Rico Salazar almost had everything set up for Winchester to take the fall in their place.
“Montoya may be daft about sci-fi,” he continued in the soothing voice he normally reserved for patients, “but he’s still a police captain. I bet that grifter Scruggs is still hovering around Farley. I warned you about using that damned woman to locate the boy.” Reicht was dressed in full Klingoff regalia. No one, especially Farley, would recognize them until they got their hands on him.
“She brought him back to Miami even if she didn’t deliver him to me—if your sources are correct about this whole debacle,” Winchester said petulantly. “I still think it would’ve been best to have had Scruggs arrested for stealing my Jag. Then he’d be out of Farley’s life and you could medicate my son without interference.”
Reicht gripped the steering wheel of his BMW, sweating profusely in the latex costume.
His patience with the patrician prick was wearing very thin. “You hate adverse publicity. How the hell do you think it would’ve worked out if Scruggs was arrested? You think the media would’ve ignored your son babbling about alien abductions and being a Spacefleet undercover agent?”
“That boy has been the bane of my existence since he was born. Little wonder, considering the tramp his mother was. I want him locked away and sedated before he ruins what’s left of my life.”
“Then we have to quietly extract him from Montoya’s home,” Reicht said as he drove past the crowded street and searched for a parking space on the next block. “I have my syringe prepared. All we have to do is use it on Farley and then take him away. I had an employee canvas the area and find a way for us to slip inside the fence from the neighbors to the back. No one will see us. Once we’re in the yard, no one will know a thing until your son’s safely in Homeside,” Reicht said, forcing a soothing tone into his voice.
He could not help but enjoy Winchester’s humiliation in the costume. He’d deliberately chosen the most ugly thing he could find as soon as Gus had called him after tailing the meddlesome Ballanger woman to Montoya’s home and casing the neighborhood. All he had to do was take care of the boy. Then his pals in the mob would pin the whole scam on Winchester and he’d be home free.
Inside the Montoya house, everyone was having a great time, including Farley, who watched Elvis break away from a horde of female fans and walk over to him. Using the white towel hanging around his neck to wipe sweat from his face, he said, “The real King had a guy whose only job was to hand him fresh face towels during performances. Some gig, huh?” he asked conversationally, still trying to make up to the boy for the deception he’d been forced to perpetrate.
“You were pretty cool. At least all the women thought so,” Farley replied.
“What’d you think?”
Grudgingly, Farley admitted, “You’re a natural actor, El. But then you’ve been playing a role for a long time.”
“I never played being your friend, Far. Remember, I was the one who made you taper off the junk Reicht gave you,” Scruggs said quietly.
“But you got what you needed from me to put my father in jail by feeding me the Space Quest conspiracy stuff.”
Scruggs deflated. “Yeah, that’s true. I guess he’s still your dad and you have to be loyal—”
“He was never a ‘dad’ to me. He’s never cared about me. Was your story about your dad made up, too?” he asked, his big dark eyes haunted, studying the agent intently.
“I swear, Far, it’s the gospel truth. You can look up my record.” At Farley’s startled expression, he grinned self-consciously. “Yep, I served time in juvvie for stealing the sheriff’s cruiser. That wasn’t just a tall tale.”
“And the sheriff was your own father?” Farley returned the smile.
Just then Captain Montoya and his daughter, Sara, approached. Sara was fifteen and had her mother’s delicate features and light brown hair shot with russet streaks. She was absolutely the most perfect girl Farley Winchester had ever seen. He was tongue-tied whenever she said anything to him.
“You like her?” Elvis asked, knowing the answer by the way the kid’s tongue was practically lolling out of his mouth.
“Sorta,” Farley replied, uncomfortably.
“Let me see what I can do,” Scruggs said. After exchanging hellos and accepting compliments on his performance, the agent eased the captain away, talking about the investigation of Reicht, leaving Farley and Sara alone.
“Did you like El’s impersonation?” was all Farley could think to say.
“For an old guy, he was pretty good,” she said, smiling at him. “You know him, don’t you?”
“Yes. He…he’s my friend. He helped me get away from Dr. Reicht.”
“That’s like, really iced. My dad may be a police officer, but I’ve never even seen a crook. You’ve had such an exciting life.”
“Your life’s lots better, believe me. You have a great family and this cool house and yard. Your grandpa’s really put in some neat stuff.”
“I never thought of that,” Sara said, remembering what her dad had told them about Farley’s mom being dead and his father in trouble with the authorities. “Hey, want to go check out Grandpa’s koi pond?”
“Sure,” Farley responded with a big smile, following her across the yard toward the dimly lit back where Giraldo Velasquez had carefully cultivated tall ornamental grasses, lilies and other shrubs and flowers around the pond. Several willows cast the area in shadows.
From a distance, Reicht smiled behind his mask and murmured, “Young love. I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried.”
Winchester said disdainfully, “First crackers and now Cubanos. My son has such good taste. Just like his mother.”
Chapter 25
The lab techs arrived at the storage place just as Patowski received a call informing him that two cruisers had run the gray sedan and its mysterious tail to ground. “Guy’s name is Gus Kline, a leg-breaker for Rico Salazar,” Patowski said to Sam and Matt.
She was still skimming through the diary while Matt responded. “Salazar’s one of the biggest drug dealers in the region. If you can link him to Reicht and Winchester, this case will make national headlines, Lieutenant Patowski,” he said with a grin.
“Yeah and you’ll have a shot at a Pulitzer when you write the story—but not until everything’s wrapped up or I’ll put you so far back in solitary they’ll be feeding you with a slingshot.”
Matt raised his hands. “Solemn word of honor. Besides, I already promised Ida Kleb I wouldn’t break the story until all arrests are made. She’s a hell of a lot scarier than you, believe me.”
Patowski grunted. “Put that diary back where you found it and get the hell out of here so the techs can work,” he said to Sam.
Reluctantly, she replaced the diary, then stripped off the hot gloves. The small brick cubicle had no air-conditioning and the humid Florida night made the room stifling. She and Matt followed Patowski outside. Just then her cell beeped. Sam opened it and heard Grandma Rose’s frantic voice on the other end.
“Sara’s been hurt and they took Farley!” she said rapidly.
“Who, Rose? Who took him?” Sam asked as calmly as she could.
“No one knows. They wore costumes.”
“Is Sara going to be okay?” Sam asked, praying the granddaughter was all right, but knowing Farley was the one in big trouble.
“One of our members is a doctor and he says she’s going to be okay. She told us two men in costumes slipped up on them while nobody else was around. One dressed as an Omicron slime creature grabbed her and the other, a Klingoff officer, shoved a needle into Farley’s arm. That’s all she remembers before the Klingoff hit her on the jaw and everything went black.”
By the time Sam had the story from Rose, Patowski was firing angry questions over his cell to Scruggs. Montoya came in on what quickly became a conference call. She and Matt could even hear Ida Kleb’s dulcet tones over Pat’s cell.
“Shit, they’re arguing jurisdictions while Farley’s been kidnapped!” Matt said, adding a few of his favorite army oaths.
After doing her best to reassure Farley’s new “grandma” that he would be all right, Sam hung up and trotted toward their car with Matt right behind her. Patowski didn’t even notice them leave.
“Where are we going?” Matt asked.
“Playing a long shot,” she said, climbing into the driver’s seat.
“That’s my car and you aren’t driving it, especially under these circumstances. Move over,” he ordered.
Muttering an oath, she did as he asked. “Male chauvinist.”
“Nope, driving chauvinist. You go through cars like Evil Knievel went through motorcycles,” he said, starting the engine. “Where to?”
“Head north, then pick up I-75 west,” she replied.
“Come again? That’s Alligator Alley, smack in the middle of the Everglades.�
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“I saw a map and notation in Leila’s diary. Among his other charming hobbies, our friend Reicht liked to shoot gators.”
“Strictly illegal. From what you and Patowski have told me about the creep, he’d get off on that,” Matt said.
“He has some kind of hunting cabin a ways off the Alley. Leila described the location of the unmarked road after following him there. I didn’t see them in her stash, but she took pictures of him and a few of his mobster cronies with their trophies.”
“We should call Patowski and tell him this,” he said.
“It’s a long shot, like I said. Do you want a bunch of DEA hotshots tagging along—oh, and don’t forget Seminole and Miccosukee rez authorities? Even Ida Kleb?”
That was the clincher. “Okay, for now,” he conceded. “They’ll argue jurisdiction while Reicht kills Farley and feeds his body to the gators.”
“Or come crashing in and make sure that happens before we can stop it,” she said.
“Once we find this place—if we can find it—then we give Patowski a call if we see any lights. Deal?”
“Deal,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we wait until the cavalry arrives if Farley’s life’s at stake.”
Matt didn’t argue that one, just gunned the powerful engine and shot up the I-95 north entrance ramp. Within an hour they were on the flat highway heading through an endless sea of waving saw grass and swamp. The road was pitch-dark except for the narrow beams of their headlights.
“How the hell are we going to find the cutoff?” Matt asked as Sam leaned her head out the side of the open convertible.
“Keep driving. We have another forty miles before we have to slow down and start looking for it. There’s a road sign for a boat ramp on the right.”
“If they’ve taken Farley by boat, how the hell are we going to follow to this camp?” he asked.
“It’s a public place. Leila hired a guy. Said he had a couple of john boats at his own private dock.”