Murder Key (17 page)

             
My war was over. After a coup
le of months at Letterman Army
Hospital in San Francisco, I was discharged from the service and came home to Florida to start college.

             
I kept up with Jimbo Merryman for a few years, and then, for no reason I can think of, our correspondence just drifted off. The last I heard from him was that he was
planning to retire to Florida.
It’s a shame to lose contact with old friends, but it happens too often.

             
Yeah. I knew Jimbo Merryman.

Murder Key

TWENTY-SIX

             
“I know him,” I said to the sheriff.

             
“Uncuff them,” said the she
riff. “This man won the Disti
n
g
uished Service Cross in Vietnam. Do you know what that is?”
             
“No,
s
ir,” the deputy replied.

             
“It’s the second highest award the U.S. Army gives for valor in combat,” said the sheriff. “Take those cuffs off.”

             
“But, Sheriff,” said the deputy, “these guys almost killed Caldwell.”

             
The sheriff scowled. “He won that medal saving my dad’s life. Unhook ‘em.”

             
“Okay,” mumbled the deputy as he went about unlocking the cuffs.

             
Jock held up his hands, grinning, his pistol pointed toward the sky. “Sorry about that, Sheriff,” he said. “We weren’t sure what kind of reception we’d get.”

             
The sheriff nodded.

             
I was too stunned by what the sheriff had said about my old sergeant to say anything. Jock looked at me and said, “You never told me about the medal.”

             
“It didn’t seem important,” I said. “I lost most of my team that day, and that’s not hero stuff.”

             
I turned to the sheriff. “Are you really Jimbo’s kid?” I asked.

             
“Yes,
s
ir.”

             
“How is Jimbo?”I asked.

             
“He’s fine. He lives here in Merrit County. He’ll be glad to see you. I grew up on stories about how you saved his life.”

             
“Did he tell you that he saved mine?”

             
“No, that never came up.”

             
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “But he did. Ask him about it.”

             
I introduced him to Jock, explaining that Jock was an old high school buddy visiting from Texas.

* * * * *

             
We were sitting in the sheriff’s office. He was behind a big desk, Jock and I in side chairs facing him. There were no windows, and fluorescent lighting gave the place the feel of a hospital waiting room. There were no pictures on the walls, no plaques or certificates. Just a bare room with a minimum of furniture. Jock and I had dictated statements to a secretary who was ty
ping them up in the next room.

             
Sheriff Kyle Merryman leaned back in his chair. “Caldwell is finished. I’ve heard rumors that he was quick with that billy he likes to carry, but I’ve never been able to prove it. Your statements will give me the leverage I need to fire him.”

             
I nodded. “Why have you kept him on until now?”

             
“His dad’s on the county commission, and I have to go to them every year to fund this office. Caldwell senior is a bully, and he won’t like that I’ve fired his boy. It always just seemed easier to go along to get along. I keep Caldwell junior, and the commission gives me the budget I ask for.”

             
“What about now?” I asked.

             
“I don’t think there’ll be a problem. The other commissio
n
ers will go along with me when they get proof that Caldwell is abusing citizens. They kind of looked the other way when it was just Mexicans.”

             
Jock grinned. “Sounds like a
nice little county you got here.
”

             
The sheriff thought about that for a minute. “It’s not all bad. This was a quiet little place until old Senator Foster started buying up property. Turned a lot of good ranch land into truck farms and started bringing in the Mexicans to work them.”

             
“Senator?” I said.

             
“Used to be,” said the sheriff. “He served in the state senate forty years ago, and he likes to use the title. Everybody just got in the habit of using it, too.”

             
“What can you tell us about him?” I asked.

             
“Not a whole lot. Why? You
interested in buying some vege
tables?”

             
I laughed. “Not exactly.”

             
I was about to tell him what I’d heard about the senator when the office door burst open.

             
A big man from my past came through the door. “Matt, you shavetail son-of-a-bitch.”

             
I stood to shake Jimbo Merryman’s hand, and he grabbed me in a bear hug. I hugged back. The years had been kind to my old sergeant. He was still fit, his hair now completely gray, and what little was left was still worn in
a buzz cut. His voice was undi
minished, loud and brash and southern.

             
“God, it’s good to see you,” he said. “When Kyle called, I couldn’t believe it. I thought by now some jealous husband would’ve shot your
sorry
ass dead.”

             
“It’s good to see you, too, Jimbo.” My voice cracked; tears were welling in my eyes. Shit. I couldn’t break down here. Not in front of the two toughest men I’d ever known. What the hell was wrong with me?

             
I disengaged from the big soldier, quickly wiped my face on my shirt sleeve, and mumbled. “Got something in my eye.”

             
The others pretended not to notice.

             
I introduced Jimbo to Jock. “This tub of guts saved my ass in the Nam.”

             
Jock stared at Jimbo. “Could’ve saved us all a lot of trouble if you’d just left him there.”

             
“I would’ve, except the brass kind of frowned on us losing lieutenants. I was just trying to make rank.”

             
Jock chuckled. “I hear you, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I hear you.”

             
Jimbo said, “I guess you know he saved my life that day in the bush.”

             
“He never mentioned it,” said Jock. “Not once, and I’ve known him his whole life.”

             
Jimbo grinned. “Not surprised,” he said. “When you all get through here, Kyle’s going to bring you by the house for supper. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

             
“I’d love to see Molly,” I said, “but we don’t want to just show up on short notice.”

             
“Too late. Molly
’s already cooking. I’ll see y’all at the house.”

             
When Jimbo was gone, the sheriff turned to me. “Now, tell me why you’re interested in the senator.”

             
I sat quietly for a moment. “Kyle,” I said, “I don’t know if I can trust you. You’ve kept a corrupt cop on your payroll for your own benefit. You’ve got what appears to be a slave labor camp in your county, and this rogue deputy is obviously protecting the people who run it. He had no other reason to stop us or to try to rough us up. Tell me why I should trust you.”

             
The sheriff leaned back in his chair and used both hands to massage his temples, all the while looking straight at me. “I don’t know if I can trust you either, Matt. A lot of water has gone under the bridge since you and my dad were in Nam together. Show me a card, and let’s see how the hand plays out.”

             
I looked at Jock. He nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Somebody’s trying to kill me. We think it’s tied up with illegal immigrants and drugs. A Border Patrol agent who’s been working with Jock and me told us about a camp here in Merrit County.”

             
“What’s the Border Patrol guy’s name?”

             
“Paul Reich.”

             
The sheriff reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a cell phone. “Did you know you can buy these little phones at convenience stores over in Ft. Myers?” he said. “They have a limited number of minutes to use, and then you throw them away. They’re completely anonymous. Untraceable.”

             
He dialed a number, and then said into the phone, “This is Viper. Let me talk to Reich.”

             
Then, after a moment, “Age
nt Reich, this is Viper, authen
t
i
cation co
de Friar Tuck. I’m about to blow my cover, but I need you to vouch for me.”

             
Kyle handed me the phone. “Tell him what you need to.”

             
“Paul?” I asked.

             
“Yeah. Who’s this?”

             
“Matt Royal.”

             
“Good Christ, Matt. How did you find Viper?”

             
“Actually, he found us. Your Viper is Sheriff Merryman.”

             
“Holy shit! You’re sure?”

             
“Jock and I are sitting in his office in the courthouse. Turns out his dad’s an old friend of mine.”

             
“Viper’s been giving us good information, but we haven’t been able to figure out who he is. I’ll be down there this evening. We need to talk.”

             
“Here’s the sheriff,” I said. “See you soon.”

             
I handed the phone to Kyle. He told Reich to come to his dad’s house and gave directions.

             
I told Kyle about the attempts on my life and our trip to Mexico, and what we’d turned up.

             
The sheriff frowned, and was quiet for a moment. Then, “I know about the camp. I didn’t know how the Mexicans got here. I knew Caldwell was hooked into the bad guys, and I think his dad is, too, but I can’t prove anything. Casey is the enforcer. He makes sure the Mexicans don’t get out of line, and he scares off anybody who looks too closely.”

             
Jock said, “Who else has been looking?”

             
“We get some immigration advocates coming around sometimes, and Caldwell just stops them and suggests they leave the county and don’t come back. I’ve gotten a couple of complaints, but they’re anonymous
. I guess folks don’t trust any
body in our department.”

             
I asked, “How long has this been going on?”

             
“About a year now, maybe a little less. I got the first complaint from a farm worker advocate in January. It was an unsigned letter telling me that there was a labor camp in my county, and that the people were virtually slaves. Apparently this person had been told to leave the county by a deputy.”

             
“What did you do?” asked Jock.

             
“I made an anonymous call to the Border Patrol office in Tampa. I have a small force, and I didn’t know which deputy was bent. I did know that the Mexicans were working for the senator, so
I figured he must be involved.

             
“I didn’t know whether anybody at the Border Patrol might be on the payroll. Never heard back from them, so I became Viper. Turns out they were concerned about the Sheriff of Merrit County. I’ve be
e
n running my ow
n investigation and, as Viper,
keeping the Border Patrol posted.”

             
I asked, “What have you found out?”

             
“Not much. I think a guy named Jimmy Wilkerson is running the camp, but that name is probably an alias. He has no record of any kind in any of the data bases. Not even a record of his birth.”

             
“We know about Wilkerson,” I said, and related the events in Orlando and in eastern Manatee County. “Tell me about the senator. His title keeps coming up, but we’ve never heard a name until now.”

             
Kyle smiled. “The senator. He’s an odd duck.”

             
The sheriff told us that the senator, whose name was Conrad Foster, was in his late seventies, and, as a young man, had been elected to the state senate. He left after one term because of some improprieties that were never made public. He liked being called “Senator,” so people still accorded him the courtesy title.