Blood Orchid

by Stuart Woods

  She watched ten minutes of traffic and weather and was about to switch channels when a picture of Carlos Alvarez appeared on-screen.

  “Fort Lauderdale businessman Carlos Alvarez was found murdered in Indian River County yesterday. An FBI source said he had been shot to death in a gang-land-style killing and his body dumped into the Indian River. His cousin and business partner, Pedro Alvarez, said his family and friends were shocked by the killing.”

  Pedro appeared, standing in front of his shop. “We don’t know who could have wanted Carlos dead,” he said. “He was a law-abiding citizen, a small businessman for many years in this city. Who could have done this?” He covered his face and looked away.

  “Funeral services will be held tomorrow at Santa Maria church.”

  Holly switched off the TV and was astonished to find that she had eaten half the pizza.

  26

  Holly was wakened from a deep sleep by a noise. She sat up and looked around, disoriented; she had been asleep on the sofa. The noise came again: Someone was knocking on the front door. She got up and opened it.

  Grant Early stood on the doorstep with a bundle of flowers, the kind that were sold at traffic lights during rush hour. “Hi there,” he said. “Any pizza left?”

  Holly walked back into the living room, leaving the door open. “Yours is on the coffee table,” she said. “Daisy, get the FBI guy a beer.”

  As Grant watched, Daisy got up from her bed, trotted to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door with a rope hanging from the handle, took out a bottle of beer, and brought it to Grant, whose mouth was open by this time.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got an opener on you,” he said to the dog.

  Daisy sat down and looked at him.

  “She says it’s a twist-top,” Holly said.

  “You’re kind of grumpy this evening, aren’t you?” Grant asked, lifting the top of the pizza box and making a face.

  “I was asleep,” she said.

  “Mind if I nuke this?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Grant carried the box to the kitchen, found a plate, arranged the slices, and shoved them into the microwave.

  “So, how was your day?” he asked, sitting down on the sofa and drinking his beer.

  “Pretty well screwed up by the FBI,” she replied.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Well, I drove down to Lauderdale to interview a guy, and—”

  “What case was this?”

  “Carlos Alvarez, my burglar.”

  “Okay.”

  “Carlos’s cousin, Pedro, was not forthcoming, so I called Harry, thinking a visit by a couple of agents might get the cousin off the dime.”

  “And?”

  “They talked to him, but Harry won’t tell me what Pedro said.”

  Grant chuckled. “And you’re surprised?”

  “No, just pissed off. And then I hear the FBI quoted on TV about the case, just like it’s their long-standing case, and they know what it’s all about.”

  “Maybe they do.”

  “I doubt it. All Harry had for leverage was the possibility of an immigration violation to squeeze Pedro with, and I ran my own check, and he’s a citizen. Did you talk to Harry today?”

  “I don’t contact him unless I’ve got something to report,” Grant said. “And I haven’t had anything of substance to report since I arrived in Orchid Beach.”

  “Not even what a great lay I was?”

  “You were certainly a great lay, but that appraisal will not find its way into my report.”

  “Gee, thanks for your discretion.”

  “Listen, do I have to take it up the nose for everything the FBI and Harry Crisp do?”

  Holly was about to fire back a smart answer when the phone rang. She picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Hurd.”

  “Hi, what’s up?”

  “We found the van.”

  “Where?”

  “Well, this is kind of embarrassing. You know that little park area in the approaches to the North Bridge?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was there all along. I guess I should have sent somebody up there first thing.”

  “Don’t worry about it; finding it a few hours later won’t hurt anything. Where is it now?”

  “We’ve towed it into the city garage. I’ve got a tech on it. We’ll have everything by first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll see you then. Thanks for calling.” She hung up.

  Grant came back from the kitchen with his pizza. “Developments?”

  Holly started to speak and stopped. “First, you and I have to have an understanding,” she said.

  “What sort of understanding?”

  “Whatever I tell you about my cases stops here, it doesn’t go to Harry.”

  “Okay, unless the information is relevant to my work here.”

  “Nope, relevant or not, you tell Harry nothing.”

  “Holly, the FBI pays my salary, and Harry Crisp is my boss. I can’t withhold information about my case from them, surely you understand that.”

  Holly made a disgusted noise.

  “I could lie and tell you everything is just between you and me, but I want to be straight with you.”

  Holly said nothing, just looked out the window.

  “Look, maybe I can help, offer some suggestions. If it doesn’t touch on my case, I’ll say nothing to Harry about it.”

  “But if it does, you’ll blab, right?”

  “If that’s how you want to put it, yes.”

  “Will you stop me telling you, if you think it’s going to relate to your case?”

  “If I did that, then you might figure out what my case is.”

  “You don’t give a girl much wiggle room, do you?”

  “I don’t have all that much myself. I’d love to help, if I can, but I can’t hold out on Harry.”

  Holly thought about it again. “We found Carlos’s van,” she said. “We’re going over it for prints now, hoping that the killer might have left some on it.”

  “That’s a good development, maybe a shortcut to solving the murder.”

  “You know something?” Holly said. “I know I’m not supposed to say this, but I don’t really care all that much about the murder. Carlos played in the wrong pigpen, and he got bit. What I care about is finding out why he was in my house, and if solving the murder will help with that, then okay, I’m interested in the murder.”

  “You’re taking this personally, aren’t you?”

  “It is personal when somebody breaks into your house and taps your phones.”

  “No it’s not, it’s work. That’s why they tapped your phones, don’t you see that? I doubt if there’s anything in your personal life that’s all that interesting.”

  “Oh, thanks a lot!”

  “I mean for criminal purposes. Obviously, they want to know about something you’re working on. What else could it be?”

  “I know, but it still pisses me off.”

  “What could it be? What are you working on?”

  “Now? The murder of Carlos Alvarez and who he was working for. But I wasn’t working on that when he pulled the job in my house.”

  “What were you working on then?”

  “Nothing! I mean, what, a stolen car? A stickup at a convenience store? Somebody selling dime bags on the west side of town? That’s what we do around here, you know; it’s a small town, and we investigate small crimes.”

  “Then it doesn’t add up.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Keep digging until you get a break.”

  “I intend to.”

  He reached out and put a palm on her cheek. “Truce?”

  She looked at him doubtfully.

  “Please, I don’t want to take the heat for the Bureau.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  “Okay,” she said, and kissed him back.

  27

  Holly sat in her car half a block fr
om the church and waited. Daisy was asleep, her head in Holly’s lap, her legs moving, giving out muffled barks. “Well, your day is more exciting than mine, so far,” she said to the dog.

  She still carried a rosy feeling from that morning, when she had wakened with Grant’s head on her breast. They had managed to spend the whole night in bed together, naked, without making love. She had made him breakfast and sent him back to whatever an undercover agent did with his time.

  It had been wrong of her to blame him for her problems with the FBI. “Speaking of the FBI,” she said aloud to herself.

  Daisy raised her head, looked at Holly, then went back to sleep with a long sigh.

  Holly was looking across the little square at a green SUV that had been sitting there for as long as she had. She raised the pocket binoculars to her eyes, zoomed in, and tried to make out who was inside. Its windows were darkened, as were hers, but there was a sunlit building behind them that allowed her to see the silhouettes of a man and a woman. She smiled. One of them—the woman in the passenger seat—was using binoculars, too.

  “Oh, Harry, Harry,” she said, “how can you be wasting manpower on an unimportant murder when there are terrorists to be caught?” She wished he were there to answer.

  The front doors of the church opened and organ music wafted down the street as a priest in full regalia, followed by eight men carrying a mahogany coffin, came down the front steps and headed for the churchyard, followed by the congregation. A deep hole and a pile of dirt covered by artificial turf awaited them. The group gathered around the open grave, and half a dozen of them took their places in folding chairs that had been set out to receive them.

  Holly saw Pedro Alvarez among them, but the crowd kept her from seeing who occupied the other chairs. The ceremony proceeded, then one by one the people in the chairs got up, tossed a handful of dirt into the grave, then stood by. Last was a tall, quite beautiful young woman who added a single rose to the small tributes. “That’s my girl,” Holly said, consulting the photograph from the locket. “Now, we wait some more.”

  The ceremony concluded, the crowd took a few minutes to disperse, after offering their condolences. At last, only the family were left. They talked among themselves for a moment, then broke into two distinct groups and departed. The group with Pedro went to one car, while the group with the young woman walked to another. Holly gave the car, a white Lexus, a head start before following. She noted that the FBI, faced with the choice, chose Pedro’s group. Okay with her.

  The Lexus drove at a leisurely pace to a pretty neighborhood a few blocks away, nicely painted houses surrounded by neatly kept lawns. Holly stopped as the car turned in to a driveway, where there was already a blue Ford Focus parked. Six people got out and went into the house. More waiting to be done.

  Holly sat, fighting the urge to doze like Daisy, and then she got a little break. A mailman was working his way down the street toward her. When he was even with the car, Holly rolled down the window. “Excuse me, sir,” she said.

  The mailman looked at her. “Yeah?”

  “See the house down the street there, with the Lexus parked in the driveway?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you tell me who lives there?”

  “Who are you, and why do you want to know?”

  Holly showed him her badge. “A car answering that description has been reported stolen; I’m just checking it out.”

  The mailman rummaged in his bag and found a small bundle of envelopes, secured with a rubber band. He walked over to the car and held them up so that Holly could read the name and address on a phone bill. “That do it for you?”

  Marina Santos, the name read. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Lives there with her mother, name of Maria. And they’re not the sort of folks to steal cars.”

  “I believe a visitor is driving the car. Thanks very much.”

  The mailman nodded and continued on his rounds, eventually crossing the street and working that side.

  The sun fell low in the sky, and the shadows lengthened, and still the visitors remained inside. Finally, as Holly saw a light go on in a window, the front door opened and the guests said their goodbyes, getting into the Lexus and driving away. Holly started her car and drove down the block, parking in front of the Santos house. “Stay,” she said to Daisy. She got out, went to the front door, and rang the bell.

  A woman in her fifties came to the door. “Sí?” she asked.

  “May I speak with Marina, please?”

  The woman turned and spoke some words of Spanish, then Marina came to the door. “You wish to speak with me?” she asked, sounding baffled. Her English was unaccented.

  “Yes. My name is Holly Barker. I’m a police officer, and I’m investigating the death of Carlos Alvarez. I’m sorry to intrude on such a day, but it’s very important.”

  Marina stared at her warily; probably Pedro had warned her to expect the visit.

  “Marina, I’m trying very hard to learn who murdered Carlos. Unless you are willing to help me, we may never know who did it.”

  Marina finally made her decision. “Come in,” she said.

  Holly stepped into a small entrance hall, then followed Marina into a nicely furnished living room.

  “Please be seated,” Marina said, then she turned to her mother and spoke some words of Spanish. “Would you like some tea?” she said to Holly.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Lemon or milk?”

  “Lemon, please.”

  Marina spoke to her mother, who left the room. She turned back to Holly. “You spoke to Pedro?”

  “Yes,” Holly said. “He wasn’t much help.”

  Marina nodded. “Carlos and Pedro grew up in Cuba; they are, naturally, very suspicious of the police. I was born here. How can I help you?”

  Holly took a deep breath; she had rehearsed this. “In the days, perhaps weeks or months, before his death, Carlos began working at a job other than the locksmith’s shop. Were you aware of this?” Then she saw the diamond ring on Marina’s left hand, around three carats, she estimated.

  “Yes,” Marina said. “He would not talk about it, but he began to have more money than usual. I see you noticed my engagement ring; that’s how he bought it, I think. He said we could get married soon.”

  “And he never told you who he was working for?”

  “No.”

  “Or what he was doing to earn the money?”

  “No. He was very secretive about it.”

  “Did you ever see him talking to a stranger, someone not usually in his life?”

  A little light came on in Marina’s eyes. “Yes. Once we went to Miami to have dinner at a restaurant on South Beach. On the way, we stopped at another restaurant, and Carlos went inside for a few minutes. When he came out, a man was with him. They stood in the doorway and talked for a couple of minutes.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “No, but from the way they talked—their body language, and the fact that they were both nodding a lot—I had the impression that they had agreed on something. I asked Carlos about it, and he said it was about installing a burglar alarm in the restaurant.”

  “Can you describe the man?”

  “He was a little taller than Carlos, older and slimmer; he was nicely dressed in a suit and tie. He was Italian, I think.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He was Mediterranean-looking, with an olive complexion that’s different from Cubans’, and he had a long, curved nose. His suit was Italian, too—you know how the lapels are cut? Also, the restaurant was called Pellegrino’s, like the Italian mineral water. Perhaps he was the headwaiter or the owner.”

  Good, Holly thought. Good, observant girl. “Do you remember the address?”

  “No, but it wasn’t on the beach. We had another fifteen minutes to drive before we were there.”

  “Was it after this that Carlos had more money?”

  “Yes.”

  �
��How long ago did this meeting take place?”

  “About six weeks. I remember because we were celebrating my birthday. It was a couple of weeks after that when Carlos seemed to have more cash. He bought the ring not long after that and asked me to marry him.”

  “Did you ever see him with this man again?”

  “No, but I think I was with him when he talked to the man on the telephone.”

  “What did he say that made you think so?”

  “At one point in the conversation he called the person on the other end of the phone something like ‘pisan,’ which, I believe, is Italian for ‘friend.’ ”

  “Do you know about any other contact he may have had with this man?”

  “He would get calls on his cellphone when we were together. I noticed that he would answer the cellphone every time it rang, when, before, he would sometimes shut it off. He never failed to answer his cellphone after that.”

  “Did Carlos ever tell you how much money he was getting?”

  “No, but I think it must have been a great deal, because when I had the ring appraised for my insurance, it was valued at thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Can you think of anything else that might help me in my investigation?” Holly asked.

  Marina thought for a moment, then shook her head.

  Holly had a thought. “Was Carlos interested in guns?”

  “Yes, he owned a couple of pistols; he kept them at the shop, in case of thieves, he said. He went once a week to a shooting range in North Miami, called Miami Bullseye.” She looked down. “Tomorrow night would have been his night for that.”

  Holly stood up. “Thank you, I won’t keep you further.” She handed Marina her card. “Will you call me if you think of anything else?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “And I think it might be best if you didn’t mention our talk to Pedro.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  Marina’s mother came back into the living room with the tea.

  “Won’t you please stay for tea?” Marina asked.

  “Thank you, but I have to go.”