Blood Orchid

by Stuart Woods

  “Thanks, Harry, but—”

  “Just do it, Holly. I’ve got my own car outside, I’ll get back to the office okay. You’re going to need protection until Trini is in the Lauderdale lockup.”

  “All right, Harry, and thanks. I owe you one.”

  “Makes a nice change, doesn’t it?” Harry said.

  That night, alone in bed, an officer parked outside her house, Holly allowed herself to think about what she’d been avoiding. She’d killed a human being that day. She didn’t stop crying until she was asleep.

  39

  Howard Singleton, head of the Miami office of the federal General Services Administration, opened the file on his desk and started reading. Halfway through the document he stopped and scratched his head. This was like going to a movie he had already seen. He got up, took the file, and walked down the corridor to the office of Willard Smith, his deputy.

  “Smitty, have you read this?” he asked, tossing the file onto Smith’s desk.

  Smith looked at it. “I wrote it,” he said.

  “Doesn’t this sound familiar to you? Except this time, we’re talking about a South Beach property instead of that thing up the coast at . . . what’s the name?”

  “You mean the Orchid Beach property?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one—Palmetto something.”

  “Palmetto Gardens.”

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s the same pattern; we’re getting lowball bids out of Central America, but not much local. Next thing you know, some prospective bidder is going to get himself killed, just like before.”

  “Jesus, Howard, we just advertise these properties, remember? We’re not the FBI.”

  Singleton looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go to a meeting at my church at five, so I have to leave now. Will you call that guy at the FBI—Harry something . . .”

  “Crisp.”

  “Yeah, call him and tell him I think we’re developing a similar situation to the Palmetto Gardens property, and I thought he ought to know about it.”

  “Sure, Howard.” Willard Smith picked up the phone and started dialing.

  Singleton went to the meeting at his church, which lasted an hour and a half, then he made for home, digging out a shopping list his wife had given him at breakfast. He was the last to leave the parking lot, which was empty now, except for his car and a red Explorer parked near the exit. He had to make three stops to fill his wife’s list—the grocery store for tonic water and limes, the liquor store for wine, and someplace for cocktail napkins. They were giving a dinner party that evening. As he put the car into gear, he began planning his route home.

  Then, as he approached the parking lot exit, the red Explorer suddenly drove across his path and stopped. Singleton slammed on his brakes, just short of smashing into the car. “What the hell?” he said aloud. He started to reach for his door handle when he saw the darkened window on the front passenger side slide down. He stopped and looked at the figure behind the wheel, who seemed to be leaning over to the passenger window, as if to say something to him.

  But the man said nothing. Instead, he held out his hand, and the windshield of Howard Singleton’s car turned white, except for the two holes in front of the driver’s seat.

  Singleton didn’t have time to think about anything else.

  Trini Rodriguez exited the parking lot, driving at a normal pace. When he was a block away, he pressed a speed-dial button on his car phone.

  “Yeah?” a man’s voice said.

  “Bingo,” Trini said.

  “And not a moment too soon,” the man replied, then hung up.

  Harry Crisp arrived at his office at eight forty-five A.M., as he did habitually. Coffee was already made in the little kitchenette off his waiting room, and he poured himself a cup. He didn’t mind asking his secretary to come in early and make coffee for him, but he always poured it himself, for appearances’ sake. He went back to his desk and picked up his copy of the New York Times national edition, scanning it quickly for stories related to federal law enforcement in general, and the Miami office of the FBI in particular. There was a knock at his open door, and he looked up. One of his agents stood there.

  “Morning,” Harry said. “What’s up?”

  “A federal official was murdered in Miami last evening,” the agent said.

  “Who?”

  “Howard Singleton, head of the local office of the GSA.”

  “What were the circumstances?”

  “He left work half an hour early yesterday afternoon, in order to get to a five-o’clock meeting at his church. As he left the meeting in his car, about six-thirty, somebody fired two rounds through the windshield, into his head.”

  “What kind of rounds?”

  “Small caliber, according to the Miami PD.”

  “Jesus, there’s a real epidemic of small-round shootings in South Florida, isn’t there?”

  “No more than usual, really. What do you want me to do about this?”

  “Send a man over to Miami PD to get a copy of the file. We’ll keep track of the PD investigation and not get any more involved than we have to. Send a memo to D.C. saying that we’re on it.”

  “Okay. Say, did Lauderdale PD pick up Trini Rodriguez yesterday?”

  “Yeah. We gave them a heads-up and his location, then I pulled the tail off him.”

  “It didn’t exactly work out that way, Harry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he made the tail and lost our guys.”

  “Oh, shit. Call Lauderdale and find out if they got him.”

  “Will do.” The agent left. Harry’s secretary buzzed. “There’s a man named Willard Smith, from the GSA, on line one.”

  “Why do I want to talk to him?”

  “His boss is the man who was shot last night.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Harry picked up the phone. “Harry Crisp.”

  “Mr. Crisp, this is Willard Smith at the General Services Administration.”

  I know that, dummy, Harry thought. “What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”

  “Well, as I expect you know, my boss, Howard Singleton, was murdered after work yesterday.”

  “Yes, I know; we’ve got a full investigative team on that right now.”

  “I’ve been made acting director, pending the appointment of a new one,” Willard Smith said, “and I just wanted you to know that we certainly want to cooperate in any possible way with your investigation.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Smith. Can you think of anything that Mr. Singleton was working on that might have involved criminal activity? Maybe something like the Palmetto Gardens thing that got those two Miami developers killed?”

  “No, not a thing,” Smith said. “Everything has been quite routine, lately. We’re still working on getting you more office space, of course.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that. Well, we’ll let you know if you can be of help,” Harry said. “Goodbye, Mr. Smith.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Crisp.”

  Harry hung up. “Denise,” he called to his secretary, “did my copy of Golf Digest arrive yet?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Crisp.”

  “Be sure you put it on my desk the minute it comes in.”

  “Sure, I will, just like always.”

  Good girl, Harry thought. He turned back to his New York Times. The Singleton killing hadn’t made the deadline, he noted, reading the National Report. Maybe tomorrow. By that time, Miami PD would have some jealous husband in custody, and he could forget about it.

  When the agent came to report back to Harry, he had left the office. The agent left a note on his desk.

  40

  Holly put in a full day at the station, meeting with each of the four officers Hurd Wallace had chosen to take over his duties. At the end of the day, she drove home and was looking in the fridge for something to eat when Daisy was suddenly on her feet, growling, looking at the door to the beach.

  Holly grabbed her 9mm and walked to the door, the weapon held at her side. She turned the
knob slowly, then kicked open the door and stepped outside.

  Grant Early was lying in the sand, a bottle of wine beside him. “Hey, is this how you always greet a neighbor? I was about to knock when the door hit me.”

  Holly offered a hand and helped him to his feet. “I’m sorry, Grant, it’s been a little tense around here.”

  He picked up the bottle and dusted off the sand. “I just thought you might like some dinner.”

  “I feel like pizza; that okay with you?”

  “Sure, I’ll order. Anything you don’t like on your pizza?”

  “I like everything but green peppers; I hate green peppers.”

  Grant picked up the phone and called in the order. “So why are things so tense?”

  “Long story,” Holly said.

  Grant began opening the wine. “I’ve got all the time in the world.” He poured them both a glass, and they went to the sofa and sat down.

  “Okay, yesterday I shot and killed a man; he has a relative who might have taken it badly. Fortunately, Harry already had a tail on him, and he told me Lauderdale PD picked him up yesterday, but I guess I’m still a little spooked.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I mean, are you okay with the shooting?”

  “It was a good shooting; I’m getting over it.”

  “I know how that feels,” Grant said. “The first man I killed haunted me for a long time.”

  “There was more than one?”

  “Two. They were both good shootings, but it was still hard to live with. You might want to talk to somebody.”

  “I’m talking to you,” she said.

  “I was thinking of somebody more professional,” Grant said.

  “Who’s more professional than you? You understand it a lot better than any shrink would.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I got a call yesterday from a woman who had some evidence in my case. I drove down to Lauderdale to get it, and when I walked into her house, somebody else was already there, wanting it too. He tried to draw down on me, and I shot him once, middle of the target. Blew a hole through my handbag.”

  “Did you play it by the book with the local cop shop?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you’re in the clear.”

  “Yeah, Harry called some captain there for me, asked them not to put my name in the paper, just in case Trini read about it.”

  “Who?”

  “Trini Rodriguez.”

  Grant sat up. “Holy shit.”

  “Huh?”

  “You killed his brother?”

  “Or his cousin; don’t know for sure.”

  “He had a brother, Ernesto.”

  “That’s the one. How do you know about Trini?”

  “The Rodriguez brothers are famous, in certain circles,” Grant said.

  “What circles?”

  “Enforcement circles.”

  “What kind of enforcement?”

  “Loan collections, used to be. Last I heard they’d branched out into contractual work.”

  “Hit men?”

  “Yes, but nothing too refined.”

  “Not like anything that required accuracy with a rifle?”

  “Nothing like that, requiring any sort of finesse; more the kind, like, walking up to somebody and shooting him in the head. They’re remorseless killers. Does Trini know you shot Ernesto?”

  “Maybe, I’m not sure. You remember I told you about Pedro Alvarez? My floater’s cousin?”

  “Sure.”

  “I was sitting outside Pedro’s shop when Trini walked inside, stayed two or three minutes, came out, and drove away. Later, I was sitting with Harry at a Burger King when we heard that Pedro had been popped, and the time was about when I was sitting outside Pedro’s shop.”

  “You think Pedro told him about you?”

  “I think if Trini asked, Pedro told him. I actually met Trini, sort of, at the firing range, so he’d remember my face, though he wouldn’t know my name.”

  “But Pedro knew your name and where you were from.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Trini and Pedro were talking about something for those two or three minutes.”

  “I figure Trini heard about Ernesto’s getting dead, and he went to Marina’s house, then, when she wasn’t there, he went to Pedro’s shop to find out where she was.”

  “Did Pedro know where Marina was?”

  “No.”

  “He probably wanted to know who shot Ernesto, too.”

  “Yeah, but Pedro didn’t know I was involved. He wouldn’t even have known Ernesto was dead; it was too soon.”

  “Where is Marina?”

  “With her mother and her mother’s sister, in Sarasota.”

  “Did Pedro know about the mother’s sister?”

  “Marina says not.”

  “Would Marina ever have told Carlos about her mother’s sister?”

  “I don’t know, but Carlos is dead.”

  “What was this evidence you went to get from Marina?”

  “A notebook with a lot of incriminating information in it.”

  “Incriminating for Trini?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s the notebook now?”

  “Harry has it. He may have sent it to Washington.”

  “Let’s recap: Trini may know who you are and where you’re from, right?”

  “Right, but it’s okay; Lauderdale picked him up yesterday.”

  “Trini has colleagues. Are you in the phone book?”

  “No. But . . .” Holly had just thought of something.

  “What?”

  “Carlos broke into my house and bugged my phones; he was probably reporting to Trini.”

  The doorbell rang, and they both jumped.

  “It’s gotta be the pizza,” Grant said.

  The doorbell rang again. “Pizza delivery!” somebody shouted from outside.

  “I’ll get it,” Holly said.

  “No, I’ll get it,” Grant replied, getting up.

  Holly handed him her pistol. “If it has green peppers on it, shoot him.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Grant set the pistol on the coffee table, went to the door, cracked it, and peered out. “It’s pizza,” he said. Then Grant flew backward as somebody kicked open the door.

  41

  The deliveryman stepped into the room, a pizza in one hand and a small submachine gun in the other. Daisy hit him from the side, knocking him off his feet, just as he began to fire.

  Grant grabbed for the weapon and diverted it from where Holly sat. She grabbed her pistol from the coffee table and fired twice at the deliveryman, aiming as much away from Daisy and Grant as she could. The pizza man stopped firing, and Grant held up a hand. “Hold your fire!”

  Holly ran around the sofa, her gun still pointed at the man. As she kicked his weapon away from him, more fire erupted from outside the house. “Stay, Daisy!” she yelled. She didn’t want the dog to run outside and directly into fire. She flattened herself against the door jamb and took a quick look outside, snatching her head back. As she did, she heard the spinning of tires on gravel and saw the shadow of a car heading up her driveway toward A1A.

  “Pizza man’s dead,” Grant said. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Holly panted, “how about you?”

  “My pride is wounded, nothing else. How could I let that happen?”

  “We were expecting pizza,” Holly said. She looked out the door again. “Seems to be all clear.”

  “Where’s the real pizza guy?” Grant asked.

  “Oh, no,” Holly said, stepping outside. She ran to the driveway and saw a car parked near the top. As she approached it, gun in hand, a figure got out of the car. “Freeze, police!” she yelled. And the figure stopped moving.

  She came closer and found a young man holding his head, which was bleeding. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Pizza delivery,” he said
. “What happened?”

  “You come with me,” she said, taking his arm and pulling him down the driveway.

  Finally, the police, the ambulance, the crime-scene tech, the medical examiner, the pizza man, and the corpse had left the house.

  “Jesus, what an evening,” Grant said, picking up the pizza and examining it. “You know, I think the pizza is okay; shall I stick it in the oven?”

  “Considering we nearly died for it, it would be a shame to waste it,” Holly replied.

  Grant turned on the oven and put the pizza in to warm up.

  Holly was examining the row of bullet holes in the bar counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. “I think I’ll leave these,” she said. “They’re kind of cute. I mean, who else has bullet holes as part of their decor?”

  “I’m glad they’re in the counter, instead of us,” Grant said, retrieving his wineglass. “Or the wine bottle. I think I need this right now.” He took a deep draft of the wine.

  “Me too,” Holly said. “That’s two people I’ve killed. So Trini has friends, huh?”

  “It would appear so.”

  Holly picked up the phone. “What was Harry’s home number again?” Grant gave it to her, and she dialed.

  “Hello?” Harry sounded terrible.

  “You sick?”

  “Terrible cold,” Harry said. “I didn’t go in today. What’s up?”

  “Tell me Trini Rodriguez is in the Lauderdale jail.”

  “I assume so. Like I said, I didn’t go in today. Why?”

  “Because two guys with Uzis visited me tonight.”

  “Are you okay, Holly?”

  “Barely. One of the shooters is dead, and one is being sought.”

  “Anybody else hurt?”

  “A pizza deliveryman got a lump on the head, that’s all.”

  “Let me call you right back,” Harry said.

  Holly hung up the phone. “Harry has a cold; home in bed. He’s going to call back.”

  Three minutes later, the phone rang. “It’s Harry. Lauderdale PD didn’t get Trini; he’s at large.”