Murder Key (20 page)

Murder Key

THIRTY-ONE

             
Low clouds scudded across the dark sky, their passing evidenced only by the winking on and off of stars. The new moon hung between the earth and
sun
, its orb dark without the sun’s reflection. The tide was ebbing, and the water flowed languidly toward the Gulf. Black water lapped gently against the boat’s hull, the only sound in the enveloping quietness of the wee hours.

             
Jock and I were passengers on a Customs Service boat, a 32- foot Intrepid powered by twin 250 horsepower outboards. The boat was equipped with a gyro stabilized heat detecting night vision array that could detect something as small as a crab trap float a mile away. The radios had frequencies that connected us with all the other partners in the Blue Lightning Strike Force. Our radar would pick up any boats within a fifteen-mile radius.

             
We were anchored close in to shore on the Lido Key side of Big Sarasota Pass. Large sandba
rs had
crept into the inlet over the years, blocking much of it. The boat channel ran from the south along the beach on the northern edge of Siesta Key before turning east into the pass itself. It then hugged the shore of Siesta Key on the south side of the inlet before easing into mid-pass as it made its way into Sarasota Bay. We were nestled on the northern side of the waterway, far enough west so that a boat turning into the channel running to the Sarasota Yacht Club wouldn’t see us.
             
Our boat was painted black, and if the bad guys had radar, we’d be lost in the clutter of the Australian pines that lined the beach. Our job was just to observe and let the other agencies know if any of the boats came our way.

             
Two Customs agents wearing military fatigues and carrying M-16s rested on the pull-down seats in the stern. M
cClintoc was at the helm. Anoth
er agent manned the radios, earphones strapped to his head so that no noise escaped. The engines were shut down, and conversations were carried on in whispers.

             
Sixteen thousand feet above us, the Customs Service’s P-3 aircraft circled, its radar tuned to the trawler and its pups. The aircrew could search a 200,000 square mile area every eight seconds. Tonight, it was centered on the action off Longboat Key.

             
The Blue Light
ning
Operations Center in Miami, or BLOC as it was known to the law enforcement community, advised that the target trawler had gone stationary about twenty miles offshore of Longboat’s mid-key area. The P-3 added that five small boats had been waiting in the area for an hour or so.

             
The radioman coughed quietly. “He’s dropped anchor. They’ll
begin off-loading soon.”

             
We waited. I could feel the tension
radiating
from the agents. Jock seemed unconcerned. He and I were both armed with our nine millimeters. I didn’t think we’d need them, but they gave me a sense of security.

             
Time crawled, the minutes creeping by in slow motion, tension building in my chest. I was ready for action, any action, but we sat silently as my mind wandered over the landscape of the last few days. I thought about Anne, wis
hing she were home waiting for
me, and imagining her in the arms of somebody else. I thought I had prepared myself for the end of the relationship,
but
I was surprised at how much it hurt. I had the fleeting thought that her life was moving on, and would be peopled with a husband, children and friends I’d never know,
w
hile my life stood still, a lonely man swirling in the eddies of years dwindling down toward oblivion.

             
And the dead came to visit, as they often do in the night. Ghosts of lost soldiers danced around the edges of my co
n
sciousness, reminding me that I lived and they didn’t. My grandmother’s frying chicken crackled in my memory banks as she stood at the ancient stove in the small house where I grew up, her dark hair tied in a tight bun at the base of her neck. I thought of other friends, too; gone now into the unknowable world of death, my memory of their sojourn in life receding like the wake of a passing boat.

             
The radioman’s whisper broke the silence. “They’re moving in every direction. Three are coming this way. They’ll be fast with the flat sea tonight.”

             
Silence again, then from the radioman, “The P-3 advises the ones coming this way are hitting fifty knots. They’ll be here in about twenty minutes. The heat signatures say outboards, so we might not hear them until they’re on top of us. Those new four stroke engines are quiet.”

             
The silence gathered again. We sat, each man lost in his own thoughts. I looked over at Jock. He smiled, and whispered,
“We’re back in action,
podna
.”

             
More minutes passed. The radioman spoke, “P-3 says one of the boats is headed for New Pass. The other two are coming this way.”

             
Adrenalin, my old friend, began to leak into my tissue. My heart rate went up. The night seemed even quieter, more intense. My ears took on an acuity I had not known since the war. I could hear birds rustling in the bushes that lined the beach just behind us. An owl cried nearby, its mournful sound signaling doom for some unsuspecting rodent. Then, far out, I heard the faint sound of powerful outboard engines.

             
“They’re coming,” I said.

             
“Heads up,” said McClintoc. “Turn on your night vision equipment.”

             
The radar screen on the dash showed blips racing down the Gulf, heading south to pick up the Big Pass sea bouy and the channel. The heat detecting equipment was lit up by the outboards churning away at top speed.

             
The blips made a sharp turn into the channel, hugging the Siesta Key shore, running northeast into Big Pass. As they came onto a more easterly course toward the bay, we could see them in the night vision goggles.

             
I said, “I see a lot of people in the second boat.”

             
“Got ‘em,” said McClintoc. “There’s only the driver and a rifleman in the lead boat.”

             
The boats were on plane, running at top speed, the whine of their big outboards now buzzing in my ear, drowning out the sounds of the night birds. They were dark, no running lights visible. The vessels were identical, about thirty feet in length, center consoles, with big twins hanging off their transoms. No T-tops or
Biminis. T
hese were stripped down boats.

             
As they came
abreast of us, I could see about a dozen people
sitting on the deck of the trailing boat, their heads poking above the port gunwale. A rifleman stood in the stern behind the pilot, the stock of his M-16 resting on his hip, the barrel pointing toward the sky.

             
Their wakes rolled under us, tossing us a bit and straining
our
anchor
lin
e. The second boat peeled off, crossing the wake of the lead vessel, running on a diagonal toward the entrance to the Yacht Club channel. The first go-fast maintained a heading for Sarasota Bay.

             
McClintoc put his hand on the radioman’s shoulder. “Tell Chief Lester that we’re moving into the bay, and to watch out for two coming his way from the south.”

             
The big Mercs on our boat came to life, and we eased quietly out into the main channel. We could still see the lead boat heading east into the bay.
His
running lights
popped
on.

             
“What the hell?” I said.

             
McClintoc shrugged. “He’ll draw less attention to himself with his lights on.”

             
We eased slowly
into the bay itself just as the lead boat ran under the Ringling Causeway
Bridge
at full speed. The radioman spoke up. “Chief Lester has them both on radar and the P-3 is still tracking. The boat with the people slowed at the yacht club to clear that
low
bridge. Now, he’s around the
City Island point and turning
in tight on the channel that runs close in on the bay side of Longboat Key.”

             
“Good,” said McClintoc, as he pulled the throttles back to idle position. “Let’s sit for a spell.”

             
I turned to the boss. “What do you think?” I asked.
             

             
McClintoc ignored me. Speaking to the radioman, he said, “What about the other boats?”

             
“The Passage Key and Longboat Pass boats are in the main channel coming south. They just passed Sister Keys and are turning east across the top of the bay.”

             
McClintoc turned to me. “I think we have four decoys. The one with the people in it is probably the one we want. Looks like he’s headed for one of the canals on Longboat. We’ll know soon.”

             
McClintoc put the boat in gear, and we headed slowly under the Ringling Bridge, making our way to the intersection of New Pass and the Intracoastal channel.

             
The radioman said, “Boss, the boat with the people turned into a canal in Country Club Shores. The other four boats are sitting idle at marker 15 in mid-bay. The P-3 still has the boat in the canal.”

             
“Okay,” said McClintoc. “Let me know when it stops.”

             
A minute of silence, two, then, “Boss, the P-3 says the boat is docked at the third house in on the south side of the canal.”

             
“Are the police moving in?”

             
“A Longboat officer is on routine patrol in the area. He’ll drive down the street and report back.”

             
More silence. The two agents in fatigues hadn’t said a word since we
boarded
the boat.

             
The radioman pumped his arm once in a victory salute. “Yeah! The patrolman says it’s a pretty big house with almost no lights showing. No cars in the driveway, but there’s a twenty-foot boat on a trailer parked in front of the garage. As he was leaving, a white van turned off Gulf of Mexico Drive into the neighborhood. We got ‘em.”

             
“That we do,” said McClintoc, with the first smile I’d seen. “Let’s head in. Tell the chief to round up those boats at marker 15.”

THIRTY-TWO

             
We pulled into Marina Jack on the Sarasota waterfront, moored the Customs boat in its slip, and climbed into a black Chevy Tahoe. The radioman and the two fatigue-clad Customs agents stayed with the boat.

             
I was in the front passenger seat, an
d Jock sat in the back. McClint
oc drove.

             
I asked, “What now?”

             
“We wait,” said McClintoc.

             
He drove over the Ringling Bridge, cut down
North
Washington
Drive
and crossed the New Pass Bridge. “We’ll park in the Chart House’s lot and see what happens,” he said.

             
The Tahoe was equipped with several radios, and I could hear the chatter from all the units involved in the operation. The P-3 reported that its infrared scanners were picking up bodies moving about the yard of the house where the go-fast was moored. The van was in the driveway, parked next to the boat resting on its trailer.

             
I heard Bill Lester check in with his dispatcher. They had taken custody of the decoy boats and were taking them into the Holiday Inn Marina in Sarasota.

             
A Customs Service Blackhawk helicopter had been pos
i
tioned at the Sarasota-Bradenton Airport just across Highway 41 from the bay. It would be only minutes from Marker 15 and the assembled boats. Bill later told me that he’d alerted the chopper as he and two Sarasota police boats started moving toward the idling go-fasts.

             
The Blackhawk was on the decoy boats before they knew what was happening. A strong spotlight beam illuminated all four craft
. An
air crewman used a loudspeaker to tell them not to move, or he’d blow them out of the water.

             
One, perhaps a little brave
r or stupider than the others,
shot the juice to his engines and was starting to come on plane when the door gunner on the chopper cut loose with his M-60 machine gun. Tracers pinged into the water just off the bow of the bad guy, and he immediately cut his engines and raised his hands.

             
When the chief and the Sarasota boats got to the runners a couple of minutes later, the crews were all standing in their vessels with their hands raised. Bill put a cop in each boat, and had the bad guys, eight in all, handcuffed, placed in life jackets and stashed on the sole of his boat. They started the short trip to the Holiday Inn Marina.

             
We sat in the Tahoe, waiting. Jock coughed, and the silence settled on us again, the only sound the low murmur of far-off voices slipping from the radio receivers.

             
The radio came alive with a transmission from the P-3. “The van is loaded with people and moving. The beacon’s been activated, and we have a fix on it.”

             
We watched for a minute, and then saw the van coming south on Gulf of Mexico Drive. As it passed under a street light, I could see the drivers head, framed by long blonde hair. We let it go.

             
“Emilio must be all right,
” Jock said. “He activated the track
ing beacon.”

             
I was surprised. “How did you get a tracking beacon to Emilio? Wouldn’t the immigrants have been searched?” I
asked
.

             
“It’s about the size of a penny,” said Jock. “Very powerful, but the battery is only good for six hours or so. It was taped to the back of Emilio’s scrotum. Doubtful anybody would look
t
here. All he had to do to activate it was to pinch the sides of the transmitter.”

             
“He’s probably damn glad to get o
ff that trawler,” said McClinto
c.

             
“He’s been on the boat for a week,” said Jock. “That beacon is probably unco
m
fortable as hell by now. He’s supposed to stick the bug to the underside of a seat in the van.”

             
We sat silently again, waiting for something to happen. Then, the disembodied voice of the P-3's radioman filled the Tahoe. “A vehicle from inside the garage is moving. We think he’s hooked up to the boat trailer in the driveway. Turning south on Gulf of Mexico Drive.”

             
McClintoc stirred. “He’s coming our way,” he said. “What the hell is that all about?”

             
He picked up the radio microphone and called the Sarasota PD liaison. “Can you get an unmarked to follow a vehicle pulling a boat and trailer that’ll be crossing the New Pass Bridge in about two minutes?” he
asked
.

             
The reply came immediately. “No problem. I’ve got a car stationed on St.
Armands
Circle.”

             
McClintoc keyed the mic again. “He’s just passing us now, headed for the New Pass Bridge. It’s an older model Ford pickup towing a twenty-foot aluminum
Jon
boat with a small outboard. He’s got fishing rods in the holders on the gunwales. I don’t know what this is all about, maybe nothing. Don’t stop him, but don’t let him get loose.”

             
The radio crackled. “Ten-four,” the Sarasota cop said. “We’ll follow, but won’t intercept without your word.”

             
Such a boat would not draw much attention after it left Longboat Key. There were thousands just like it all over the west coast of Florida. They were cheap, and workingmen who liked to fish could afford them.

             
Jock said, “I wonder if they’re using the boat to haul the drugs. Diaz said they used the illegals as cover on the trawler. Maybe they’re keeping the drugs and the illegals separate now.”

             
McClintoc said, “You may be right, Jock. We’ll see how this plays out at the other end.”

             
We sat quietly again, waiting for some word from the various parties tracking the van and the pickup. Time dragged slowly, and the Tahoe’s seat was getting uncomfortable.

             
It was two in the morning, and nothing seemed to be happening. I was getting restless. “What now?” I
asked
.

             
McClintoc turned toward me. “The P-3 can stay up for several more hours. We’ll track the van, but my guess is it’s headed for Merrit County. I don’t know about the pickup and the boat. We’ll just hope for the best on that.”

             
Jock said, “If we don’t have to stay here, why don’t we see if we can round up some coffee.”

             
McClintoc cranked the SUV. “Good idea,” he said. “There’s a McDonald’s on Tamiami Trail that has twenty-four hour drive-up service.”

             
We crossed the New Pass Bridge again, rounded the circle and headed east on John Ringling Boulevard. McClintoc was back on the radio with the P-3, who advised us that the van was headed east on Fruitville Road toward I-75.

             
We got our coffee at the drive-thru and parked, waiting to find out whether the van turned south or north on the Interstate. We sipped our brew, blowing on it to cool i
t enough that it wouldn’t blist
er our mouths. Jock went inside the McDonald’s to use the restroom. He came back. We sat some more.

             
The radio came back up, loud in the silent space of the SUV. The van had turned south on I-75. We headed south on the Trail to Bee Ridge Road, turning east and driving toward the Interstate.

             
I called Logan. “They’re hea
ded south on Seventy-five, prob
ably toward you. I’ll let you know as soon as they turn off and head toward Merrit County.”

             
“I’ll tell the sheriff. Jimbo’s here in the office. Said to tell you he didn’t trust this operation to a shavetail.”

             
I laughed. “Tell him to keep his head down,” I said. “His big ass, too.”

             
Logan hung up. The vehicle was quiet, the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional murmur of the radio the only sound. We drove south, staying just below the speed limit. McClintoc didn’t want to have to explain anything to a Highway Patrol Trooper.

             
Time passed slowly, the rhythm of the ride making me sleepy. I sipped my coffee, cold now. T
he P-3 advised us that the van had exited the Interstate at Port Charlotte and was running east on the state road toward Merrit County. I called Logan again. He answered on the first ring, and I told him that the van was on its way.

             
He acknowledged the information and said, “You never told me about the damn medals. You’re a hero.”

             
“I lost my team that day, Logan. The only heroes out there were Jimbo and that chopper jock. Gotta go.” I hung up.

             
As we were nearing the Merrit County line, BLOC came up on the radio to tell us that the pickup pulling the boat had gone out Fruitville Road and picked up Highway 70 east-bound. It had just turned south onto Highway 27. The Sarasota cops had several cars following the pickup at various times and intervals. They didn’t think they’d been detected.

             
McClintoc grinned. “Sounds like they’re headed to Merrit County, too,” he said. “Let Logan know what’s going on, Matt.”

             
I called Logan again and filled him in. While I was talking to him, the P-3 came back on the radio to tell us that the van had passed through town and turned north on the county road that Jock and I had taken the week before. It was headed for the labor camp.

             
McClintoc picked up the microphone again. “BLOC, we’re going to stop at the sheriff’s office
.
Call me on my cell when the van gets to the labor camp. And keep me posted on that pickup. Tell the Sarasota cops that if it turns off on
to a dirt road, not to follow
. They can come on into town to the Sheriff’s office.”

             
We pulled into the c
ourthouse parking lot, parked,
and walked towar
d
the sheriff’s office.
The night was quiet, reasonable people in their beds. A slightly chilled wind blew softly out of the north Somewhere a cock crowed. A dog barked back, probably trying to tell the confused chicken that it was still too early.

             
The town was dark, but lights glowed from the windows of the sheriff’s office. Shadows moved against the sheer drapes, lawmen going about the dirty business of people smuggling and drug running. Our day was just beginning, and I was exhausted.

37