Murder Key (14 page)

Murder Key

TWENTY-FOUR

             
Monday morning dawned comfortably. High cumulus clouds
were
on fire with the reflected colors of the rising sun. The temperature was in the high-sixties and would climb into the mid-seventies by the afternoon. I was sitting on
my
balcony over-looking Sarasota Bay, reading the morning paper, a cup of black coffee in my hand. Jock was still asleep in the guest room. The phone rang.

             
It was Paul Reich, the Border Patrol agent from Orlando. “We picked up an interesting illegal yesterday down in your neck of the woods. He tells us that he escaped from what sounds like a slave labor camp
.”

             
“Slave labor? What’s that all about?”

             
“Don’t know. The illegal’s name is Juan Anasco. He said he came in by boat from Veracruz and was taken to this camp and put to work on a truck farm. Says the laborers are all kept locked in the camp when they’re not working.”

             
“Do you know where the place is?”

             
“Not exactly. From the way Juan described things, we think it’s in Merrit County. We’ve got a confidential informant down there, but he’s playing it close to the vest. We don’t even know his name. We know there’s a camp, but we don’t know its location. We’re putting together a task force to look for it.”

             
“What about the sheriff’s office?
” I asked
“
Those rural cops usually know what’s going on in their counties.”

             
“We’re not too sure about the sheriff’s department There are only three deputies, and one is a bad-ass named Casey Caldwell who likes to beat up on the Mexicans.”

             
“Di
d Anasco know where he worked?”

             
“No. All he could tell us was that it was on a farm.”

             
“Anything else?”

             
“He told us how he came into the country. It sounds like it was the same route you turned up in Mexico. Through Longboat Key. He said some young blonde woman drove them to the camp.”

             
“Thanks, Paul. Jock and I may do a little looking around. We’ll let you know if we turn up anything.”

             
“Be careful,” he said
,
and hung up.

             
Jock had come out onto the balcony with a cup of coffee as I talked to Reich. I related our conversation.

             
Jock sipped his coffee. “Where’s Merrit County?”

             
“Southeast of here. It’s a big ranching and farming area. More cows than people.”

* * * * *

             
We drove south on I-75 to Port Charlotte, and then followed a two-lane state road due east for twenty miles before crossing into Merrit County. In another ten miles we came to the county seat, a small town whose ancient one-story buildings advertised its precarious existence. The highway ran through the town and kept going until it ended at Lake Okeechobee. We weren’t going that far.

             
I’d called Logan to brief him on what we were doing. I wanted somebody I trusted to know where we were. Logan wanted to go with us, but I reminded him that he was still recovering from the heart surgery he’d undergone in the summer, and he didn’t need to be involved in any rough stuff. He reluctantly agreed.

             
We pulled into a McDonald’s for coffee. It looked to be the only building constructed in the town in the past fifty years. Jock and I were wearing jeans and polo shirts, his white and mine forest green. We were shod in running shoes.

             
The
teenage
girl behind the counter appeared Hispanic. Jock said something to her in Spanish. She gave him a sullen look and a short reply in English.

             
We got our coffee and sat in a booth next to the windows looking onto the parking lot. Next door was a building that seemed to be the courthouse, dilapidated and uninspiring. There were few people on the street, and most of them were Mexicans.

             
Jock locked his hands around his
Styrofoam
cup. “I asked her if she knew where the farm workers lived around
here. She
told me she didn’t know.”

             
“I’m sure she does,
”
I said.

             
“Yeah, but if they’re part of a slave labor deal, there’s bound to be some muscle around to keep them all in line.”

             
“I guess so.”

             
Just then, an old school bus, painted blue, rumbled down the street in front of the restaurant. Jock looked up. “I bet that’s a labor bus.”

             
We took our coffee and hurried to Jock’s rental car in the parking lot. He swung out behind the bus, which was about three blocks in front of us. We followed it east, driving out of town, then north on a county road. Citrus groves crowded the highway on either side. Rows of trees ran perpendicular to the road, standing straight and even, like silent soldiers in fo
r
mation.

             
When we had gone about ten miles, the bus turned left onto a dirt road heading west. Jock kept driving for about a mile and then turned around on the shoulder. We parked and sat, trying to decide what to do next.

             
Jock said, “When in doubt, just knock on the front door.”

             
“We could try that. At least we’ll get a look at the place.”

             
“Of course, this might not be the right place. There are probably lots of labor camps around here. Lots of farming.”

             
“True,” I said, “But since we’re here, we might as well take a look.”

* * * * *

             
The dirt road ran for about three miles. The groves petered out, and we were driving between plowed fields that had not been planted. In the distance we could see buildings.

             
As we got closer, the camp came into sharper focus. The place looked like an aging army bivouac, set in the middle of a dusty field. Five long barracks construc
t
ed of wood, sat on short brick pilings. The buildings were whitewashed,
but patches
grime
and mildew
show
ed
through. A lone electric line ran from the poles along the road to the end of each building. No grass
grew
in this desolate place.

             
A chain link fence
standing
ten feet high
and
topped with barbed wire, angled inward, enclos
ed
the sorry dwellings. This was a fe
nce to keep people in, not out.

             
A few shoeless children played on the bare ground, laughing in their ignorance of how harsh their lives were.

             
We drove up the road to the gate, manned by a large white man in a khaki uniform. A small guardhouse shielded him from the elements, and a sturdy gate blocked our way.

             
“Can I help you?” asked the man as we came to a stop next to the little building.

             
Jock rolled down the driver’s side window. “We’re just here for a visit.”

             
“No
visitors,” said the guard, his c
racker accent forming around the wad of tobacco lodged in his cheek.

             
“Juan Anasco invited us,” said Jock.

             
The guard shrugged. “It don’t matter who invited you. Ain’t no visitors allowed. You just need to back up and turn around and be on your way.”

             
We did as we were told.

             
Jock rolled up his window as we left the gate. “Seems more like a prison than a labor camp.”

             
“Maybe it is,” I said.

             
We turned off the dirt road onto the paved county road, heading south. Jock was driving at the posted speed limit, looking in the rear view mirror every few minutes. There was no other traffic.

             
Then, “Uh oh,” he said. “I think we’ve got company.”

             
I turned in my seat. A police cruiser had turned off one of the dirt roads stretc
h
ing into the groves, and was now behind us, his blue lights rotating. The driver tapped the siren, and Jock pulled over onto the shoulder.

             
The cruiser
pulled in behind us. Jo
ck rolled down his window and s
at rigid, both hands on the steering wheel. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” he said. “The cop has his gun out.”

             
A deputy sheriff came to the driver’s side. He leaned down and said, “You, driver, come out of the car real slow-like. Keep your hands up.”

             
He looked at me. “Stay where you are until I tell you to get out.”

             
Jock eased his way out of the car, the deputy standing back, pointing his gun at him. “Lean against th
e trunk and spread your legs.”

             
I could see the deputy in the rear view mirror. He patted Jock down and pulled the pistol out of its holster, dropping it to the ground. Then, taking Jock’s arms one at a time, the deputy cuffed them behind his back.

             
“
I’m going to walk around to the other side of the car,” he said, looking at Jock. “You try anything, I’ll shoot you.”

             
The deputy came around to my side of the car, still pointing his pistol at Jock. “You,” he said, glaring at me. “Out.”

             
I
got out. “I’ve got a gun,” I
said. “Left side of my wai
st. I’ve got a permit, too.”

             
“Put your hands on the car and lean
over. Spread your legs,” he ordered.

             
I complied. He patted me down, took my weapon, and cuffed me. “Get over there by your buddy.

             
Jock and I were standing next t
o each other on the grass shoul
der of the road. No cars had come by since we were stopped. It was a lonely place.

             
The deputy stood in front of us, a scowl on his face. He was not a big man, maybe five-feet-eight, but he appeared fit. His green uniform shirt was tight across a barrel ches
t. He wore a badge, but no name-
tag. I could see the little holes where it had been pinned to his breast pocket. I didn’t think that his remov
ing his identi
fic
a
tion was a good sign.

             
He smiled, showing yellow teeth, with the
right eyetooth missing. “Now, w
ho are you and what are you doing in my county with guns?”

             
I spoke up. “I’m Matt Royal and this is John Algren. We’ve both got permits for the guns. Why are you arresting us?”

             
“I ain’t arrested you.”

             
“Then why are we in cuffs?” I asked.

             
“Let’s just say I’ve detained you boys. You gotta learn not to be messing around in other people’s business.”

             
I smiled. “So, you’re Deputy Caldwell.”

             
He unconsciously reached for the pla
ce where his name-
tag had been removed, stopping his hand in mid-air. “How did you know my name?” he asked, menace in his hard voice.

             
Jock spit, the glob of saliva landing near the deputy’s boot. “We heard that the dumbest fuck in the county was named Caldwell,” he said, “and we just put it together.”