Blood Orchid

by Stuart Woods

  “Not a soul; I always wanted both sides to like any deal. I’m considered something of a soft touch in the business.”

  “Any problems with the unions?”

  “Always,” Shine said, “but I worked hard at being fair with them; they think I’m soft, too. Anyway, it’s been a long time since we had that sort of problem with the unions. The feds have pretty much cleaned them up.”

  “How about your neighbors? Any problems with them?”

  “No, they’re all very nice. I made a point of having them over for a drink after I moved in, and they’ve since had me over for dinner, the people on both sides of me.”

  “Once more: can you think of anybody who might wish you ill?”

  Shine shook his head vehemently. “I’ve tried to live my life in such a way as not to make enemies. You know what I think? I think this is some kid, some vandal, who just wanted to break some glass, that’s all.”

  The two cops came into the house, careful to wipe their feet. “Chief,” one of them said, “we found where the shooter parked his car and stood, right over there about thirty yards away. But the ground is too dry from the drought for there to be any footprints or tire tracks.”

  “Then how do you know you’ve found the spot?” Holly asked.

  A cop held up a shell casing, hanging on a pencil. “Twenty-two long rifle, magnum load.”

  Ham spoke for the first time. “With a silencer, that’s an assassin’s weapon,” he said. “Teenaged vandals don’t employ silencers. You can’t even buy the things, legally; you have to make them.”

  Holly nodded. “Ed, I think you have to accept that this was an intentional act and behave accordingly. I’m going to leave a squad car here tonight, with one officer, but tomorrow morning I think you ought to consider moving to a hotel, at least for a while. And you really need to think about who might have been behind this. It seems likely that the shooter was hired, and you’re the best one to tell us who among the people you know might be capable of that.”

  “I’ll certainly think about it very hard,” Shine said, “but I’m not leaving my home. I’m going to buy a gun.”

  “You can do that in Florida,” Holly said, “but I wouldn’t advise it. You’re more likely to hurt yourself than an intruder, and guns are a favorite target of burglars.”

  “Thanks for your advice,” Shine said, but he seemed determined.

  Holly stood up. “Well, I think we can wrap up this stage of our investigation,” she said. “Tomorrow morning I’ll assign a detective to the case, and he’ll want to interview you again.”

  Shine took a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “I’ll be at his disposal.”

  Holly shook his hand. “Thanks for a wonderful bottle of wine at dinner. Ham and I enjoyed your company.”

  “I hope to see you both again soon,” Shine said. “Do you two play golf?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Want to play sometime?”

  “Sure, give us a call,” Holly said. “You can always reach me at police headquarters.”

  Holly and Ham walked out into the cool night and stood by their cars. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Mistaken identity?”

  “I don’t think a pro would make that kind of mistake. Maybe Ed will come up with something when he’s had time to think about it.” She kissed her father on the cheek. “Good night, Ham; drive safely.”

  “You too.”

  Over breakfast the following morning, Holly leafed through the local paper and the New York Times, which were delivered to her door. Her Doberman pinscher, Daisy, lay at her feet, having already breakfasted and been for her run in the dunes. Holly and Daisy lived in the beach house that had been left to Holly by her fiancé, Jackson Oxenhandler, who had been killed the year before while a bystander in a bank robbery, an hour before they were supposed to have been married.

  There was nothing in the local papers about the previous night’s attempt on Ed Shine’s life, but the Times had something that interested her: The day before, in Miami, two property developers had been shot dead, in different locations, by apparent assassins—one in the garage of an office building, one on a golf course. The investigating detective was quoted in the news article.

  It didn’t take long to get him on the phone.

  “Jim Connor,” a man’s voice said.

  “Detective Connor, my name is Holly Barker. I’m chief of police in Orchid Beach, a hundred and fifty miles north of you.”

  “What can I do for you, Chief?”

  “I read a news report of the two property developers who were homicides yesterday. Are you handling both cases?”

  “I am. You got something to tell me about them?”

  “No, but last night we had something similar up here. Somebody took a shot at a local man who is a retired developer from New York. The weapon was a twenty-two rifle, magnum cartridge.”

  “Hollow point?”

  “We couldn’t tell from the casing, but a silencer was used, so we assume a hired killer. He’d probably use a hollow-point slug.”

  “That’s what killed my golfer yesterday; made a real mess of him. You have any reason to think there’s a connection between my killings and your attempt?”

  “Only that they’re all three property developers,” she said. “The intended victim swears he has no enemies, but you never know about a thing like that.”

  “Both my victims’ wives said the same thing. They can’t think of anybody who’d want to hurt their husbands. Closest I could come to an enemy was the golfer’s playing partner, who thought he was being hustled by the victim. But he’s not a suspect.”

  “I’d be very interested to know what your two developers had in common.”

  “Same business, is all,” the detective replied. “They didn’t even know each other, best we can tell.”

  “Were they direct competitors?”

  “We’re still working on that. Why don’t you send me your shell casing, and I’ll compare it to the one we found.”

  He hadn’t mentioned a shell casing before. “After we’ve had a look at it,” she replied. She took note of his mailing address. “Would you let me know if you come up with a connection between the two victims? I’d like to see if it relates to my case.”

  “Sure, I’ll give you a call.” He hung up before she could give him her number.

  4

  Howard Singleton, head of the Miami office of the federal government’s General Services Administration, went through the papers on his desk slowly, then he looked up at one of his people, Willard Smith, who was sitting across the desk from him. “Is this all we got?” he asked.

  “Three bids,” Smith replied.

  “I don’t get it, Smitty,” Singleton said. “This is prime real estate.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly Palm Beach,” the man replied. “Orchid Beach is just some backwater. I looked into it; it’s pretty, but there’s no big-league shopping, only a few decent restaurants, and none of the other stuff you’d expect to find where there’s high-end construction going on—very few interior decorators, upscale furniture stores, and all that. Not much in the way of entertainment, either.”

  “But still, this property has three golf courses, fifty houses already built, a clubhouse.”

  “There’s no beachfront property attached; it’s all west of A1A; that holds down the value. Fact is, Orchid Beach isn’t the sort of town to support the kind of big-time development that this property would require if someone is going to turn a profit. It’s over the top, and by a long way.”

  “Well, two of these bids are not credible, as far as I’m concerned. Did you read the backup paperwork?”

  “Yes, and I agree. There’s only one bid that we could properly accept, I think, and it’s this BOP, Blood Orchid Properties.”

  “Weren’t we expecting bids from a couple of big Miami developers?”

  “Sure, but don’t you read the papers?”

  “What do you mean?”
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  “I mean that Manny and Steven Steinberg are both dead. We’ve had serious interest from both of them, and I was anticipating bids.”

  “What, they just dropped dead? Both these guys were in their forties, weren’t they?”

  “They dropped dead from bullets,” the man replied. “And on the same day. Less than a week before the bidding closed.”

  “And what does that tell you?”

  “Well, it’s suspicious, I’ll grant you that, but we’re not going to get those bids now. We’ve advertised this thing, received sealed bids from three parties, and one of them is higher than the reserve, so what can we do but accept it? We’re on a deadline here.”

  Singleton stacked the papers and returned them to his subordinate. “All right, issue the acceptance to this BOP outfit.” Singleton watched Willard Smith leave, closing the door behind him, then he called the FBI.

  Harry Crisp, the agent in charge of the FBI’s Miami office, answered a buzz from his secretary.

  “Yes?”

  “A Howard Singleton from the GSA is on the phone.”

  “Is this about my request for additional office space?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Crisp punched the flashing button. “Mr. Singleton, this is Harry Crisp.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I hope this is about getting us more office space.”

  “That request is being processed, Mr. Crisp, but this is about something else.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You remember a couple of years back you folks confiscated a piece of property up in Orchid Beach?”

  “Yeah, sure; Palmetto Gardens. There was a huge drug-based money-laundering operation being run from there.”

  “Right. Well, we got authority a few weeks ago to sell the development.”

  “Yeah, that figures. Did you sell it yet?”

  “Yes, but there’s something fishy about the bidding.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “We got only three bids, all of them low, only one of them acceptable.”

  “Listen, Howard, I’m not in the real estate business.”

  “That’s not what I’m calling about. We anticipated bids from two large Miami property developers, and they were both murdered less than a week before bidding closed.”

  “Murder happens.”

  “Sure, but why these two guys?”

  “Who were they?”

  “Manuel Jimenez and Steven Steinberg. According to the papers, they had no connection, except that my office had talked with both of them several times about a bid on Palmetto Gardens. Then they get killed right before it’s time to submit sealed bids, way too late for anybody else to get involved who hadn’t already prepared a bid. What does that suggest to you?”

  “You said you accepted a bid?”

  “Yes, from a company called Blood Orchid Properties.”

  Crisp made a note of that.

  “They’re a Panamanian company, registered to do business in the U.S.”

  Crisp kept writing as Singleton gave him what he had on BOP.

  Holly’s secretary buzzed her. “Harry Crisp on line one.”

  She picked up the phone. “Harry, how are you?”

  “I’m good, Holly, you?”

  “Good.”

  “How’s Ham? He all healed up?”

  “Sure, a long time ago.” Ham had been shot while playing a key role in an FBI investigation.

  “We’ve always been grateful for his help on that thing, you know.”

  “Then you might tell him so.”

  “I had the attorney general write him a letter,” Crisp said. “What does he want, a handwritten note from the president?”

  “Forget it, Harry. What’s up?”

  “Remember Palmetto Gardens?”

  “How could I forget?” She had put the FBI onto what was happening there and had been very important in cracking the case.

  “It sold the other day.”

  “I saw something in the local paper about it. Whoever bought it got a real deal.”

  “Yeah. Problem is, two Miami developers who were supposed to bid got themselves murdered before they could submit something.”

  “Oh, yeah. I read about that in the New York Times. I even talked to the investigating officer about it.”

  “Why?”

  “We had an attempt on a developer’s life up here a couple of weeks back—a retired developer from New York.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “A single rifle shot, missed him by inches, went in one side of the man’s greenhouse, came out the other. Assassin’s weapon.”

  “You investigated this?”

  “I was standing next to the man when it happened.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Name is Ed Shine.” She spelled it for him.

  “I’ll run it, see if we come up with something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know if he bid on the property?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “I can call and ask him. Why? You think that whoever bought the property wanted Shine out of the way, too?”

  “Could be. Is he still healthy?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “Let me hear from you. Best to Ham.” He hung up.

  Holly’s secretary buzzed again. “A Mr. Ed Shine, on one.”

  There was a convenient coincidence. Holly punched the button. “Ed?”

  “How are you, Holly?”

  “Just fine; you?”

  “Couldn’t be better. You and Ham up for some golf?”

  “Sure, when?”

  “How about tomorrow at ten A.M.?”

  “Can you get a tee time at that hour this late?”

  “Don’t worry about it; I just bought the golf course—three of them, in fact.”

  “Palmetto Gardens?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I’m the chief of police; I know everything.”

  “Meet me at the front gate at ten sharp tomorrow.”

  “I’ll call Ham; we’ll be there.” She hung up and called her father.

  “Yep?”

  “You free for golf at ten A.M. tomorrow?”

  “Yep.”

  “Meet me at Palmetto Gardens.”

  “I thought the place was closed by the Feds.”

  “Not anymore; somebody bought it.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” Holly hung up. She wouldn’t call Harry Crisp back until she knew more. Once Harry got ahold of something, he tended to keep it to himself, and Holly wanted to play out her own string before she turned it over to the FBI.

  She got up and walked around to the office of her deputy chief, Hurd Wallace. “Morning. Who did you assign to the Ed Shine thing?”

  “I’m doing it myself; it’s pretty much a dead end.”

  “Did you get any prints from the shell casing?”

  “Nope. I’m surprised a pro would leave one on the scene.”

  “A pro in Miami did the same thing,” she replied. She handed him the Miami detective’s address. “If you’re through with it, send the shell casing to this guy, registered mail. Get a receipt.”

  “Okay.”

  “You say the Shine thing is a dead end?”

  Hurd shrugged. “Somebody took a shot at him and missed, left no trace of himself except the shell casing. There’s been no other attempt. I don’t know how to make any more out of it.”

  “Neither do I,” Holly said.

  5

  Holly arrived at Palmetto Gardens to find Ham and Ed Shine waiting for her at the main gate. Two workmen were there, too, hoisting into place a large sign reading BLOOD ORCHID ESTATES, A new golf community, home sites from $1,000,000, completed homes from $2,500,000. There was a phone number at the bottom. Holly rolled down her window.

  “Follow me,” Ed Shine said, getting into his car.

  Holly follow
ed Ed and Ham to the clubhouse, where they got out of their cars. Holly and Ham had played there once before, when the place was a criminal enterprise. “So you bought yourself some property, Ed?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Ed replied. “I didn’t tell you about it the other evening because I hadn’t bid yet and I didn’t want to jinx it.”

  “The papers said the price was sixty million dollars, but they didn’t mention your name.”

  “The price was correct, and I consider it a steal,” Ed replied. “I like to keep a fairly low profile; I formed a company for the purchase, Blood Orchid Properties.”

  “Those are pretty hefty prices you’re advertising,” Ham said.

  “Right,” Holly added. “I’ve never heard of prices like that in Orchid Beach.”

  “A sign like that keeps out the riffraff,” Shine replied. “Anyway, when I’m done with this place, people will be lining up to pay those prices,” Ed said. “You wait and see. Come on, let’s get our clubs.”

  They retrieved their clubs from their cars and walked out onto the first tee.

  “Wow,” Holly said, “the course is in beautiful shape.”

  “The Feds kept on the grounds crew when they confiscated the property,” Ed replied. “They knew they’d get more money if the courses were kept in shape, and they maintained the rest of the property, too. Ham, you tee off first, then me, then we’ll take Holly down to the ladies’ tees.”

  “Holly drives from the men’s tees,” Ham said.

  “Then Holly, you go first, by all means.”

  Holly teed up, did some stretching, then drove the ball two hundred and thirty yards down the right side of the fairway.

  Ham drove next, outdriving her by ten yards.

  Ed drove next. Holly thought he was amazingly flexible for his age; she’d expected a short backswing and a bent left arm, but Ed drove like a pro, even with Holly’s drive, but in the center of the fairway.

  “I don’t drive it as far as I used to,” Ed said as he climbed into a cart with Holly. Ham followed them in a second cart. “I used to be a scratch golfer in my youth. Now I play to an eleven handicap. What’s yours?”

  “Probably around a fourteen; I used to have a twelve, but I’ve been too busy to play.” She turned and looked at him. “I’ve got some news for you,” she said. “Maybe a reason why somebody took a shot at you.”