Murder Key (25 page)

             
“Call 911, Larry. Get the police here. Now!”

             
“Okay, Matt.”

             
I could hear him talking on his cell phone, summoning help. I leaned down close to Byron, talking quietly, directly into his ear. “Listen, you scumbag. You’ve got one chance to get out of here alive. Tell me who runs this thing.” I put more upward pressure on his arm.

             
“The senator,” Byron said, between gasps of pain.

             
“How does he distribute the drugs?”

             
“I don’t know.”

             
I pushed his wrist higher on his back, my right hand grabbing a handful of greasy hair, pulling his head backward.

             
He
screamed
. “Honest. I don’t have anything to do with the drugs
.
I don’t think the senator does either. We just handle the Mexicans.”

             
I pulled harder on his head. “Who’s in charge of the drugs?”

             
“Don’t know. The blonde woman handles all that.”

             
“What’s her name?”

             
“I’ve never heard it. Honest.”

             
I put more upward pressure on his arm, eliciting another scream of pain. “You can do better than that, Byron,” I said.

             
“No. We’ve been doing the Mexicans for about five years now, and last year the senator told me we were going to be bringing in drugs with the illegals.”

             
I could hear sirens in the distance. “Tell me the rest of it, Byron. You’ve got about one minute.”

             
“That’s all I know. The senator didn’t want to get involved with the drugs, but he said somebody was putting pressure on him.”

             
“Who?”

             
“I don’t know. He did say something about his daughter once, and I thought she might be involved, but I never met her.”

             
There was a pounding on the door. “The police are here, Matt,” Larry shouted.

             
“I’m coming,” I said.

             
Then to Byron, “I’ve got your gun. If you move, I’ll kill you.”

             
I got up, backed to the door and opened it for Larry. He stood aside as two policemen came in, guns drawn.

             
“You okay, Matt?” said one of them.

             
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s Byron Hewett. He keeps trying to kill me.”

             
Byron lay on the floor, groaning, his right arm resting at an unhealthy angle.

* * * * *

             
As soon as the cops left with Byron, I called Bill Lester and told him what had happened. “I think we’ve got enough now to arrest the good senator,” I said.

             
“I’ll have Sarasota PD pick him up. You okay?”

             
“Yeah. I guess I’m getting used to this crap.”

             
Bill laughed. “Come on down to the station and give us a statement while it’s fresh
.”

             
“Can I take a shower first?”

             
“Probably a good idea. Don’t want you stinking up the place.” He hung up.

* * * * *

             
Thirty minutes later, I walked into the Longboat Key Police station. The rece
p
tionist looked up and smiled. “Glad you’re okay, Matt. Go on back. The chief’s waiting for you.”

             
Bill Lester was at his desk in the small room that served as his office. Stacks of documents and loo
se leaf binders full to overflo
wing covered every surface. He always complained about the futility of trying to keep up with the paper work. He’d rather be on the street chasing criminals, even though there weren’t that many bad guys on Longboat Key.

             
He looked up as I knocked on his open door. “Bad news, buddy,” he said. “The senator’s disappeared.”

             
“Any idea where he’s gone?”

             
“No, but his private jet left Sarasota-Bradenton about an hour ago. His pilot filed a flight plan for Key West, but they’re not there. We don’t know where he’s headed.”

             
I sat in the chair across from Bill. “He must have been feeling the heat,” I said.

             
“Guess so.”

             
“At least we’ve got Byron.”

             
Bill grinned. “There’s that,” he said. “Let me get a steno
g
rapher in here and get your statement.”

             
“Bill, we’re back to square one, you know.”

             
“What do you mean?”

             
“I was thinking this afternoon that the senator might have backed off, but he obviously hasn’t. The fact that we’ve got Byron isn’t going to stop others from coming after me. And I don’t think Pepe Zaragoza killed those Mexicans.”

             
“I agree with you about Pepe, but the forensic evidence is probably enough to convict him. I told the State Attorney I didn’t think Zaragoza was guilty, but he’s looking for a conviction.”

             
“Maybe we’ll find the senator, or maybe Byron knows something. Maybe pigs will fly.”

             
Bill sighed. “Don’t give up
on the system, Matt
.
Byron’s in the hospital pretty well sedated right now, but I’ll make a run at him tomorrow. You put a hurtin’ on the bastard.”

             
“Somebody else will come, Bill. Maybe I ought to take out an ad on the front page of the
Observer
and
let the idiots know that I don’t know anything.”

             
“I don’t think it’s about what you know, now. I think it’s about revenge. You were responsible for busting up a pretty good little racket. They’re not likely to forget that.
But, maybe since Byron’s out of the picture and the senator is off to parts unknown, they’ll leave you alone.
”

             
I thought he was whistling in the dark, but I didn’t say it.

             
Darkness had descended while we talked, and a light rain had begun to fall. Through the window of the chief’s office, I could see that the asphalt parking lot that served both the police station and the firehouse next door, had acquired a wet sheen, causing the lights on the buildings to reflect into the night sky.

             
“You hungry?” I
asked
.

             
“Yeah. Give the girl your stat
ement and let’s go to the Haye
Loft. I get an erection every time I think about their coconut cream pie.”

             
“You’re getting old, Chief,” I said.

Murder Key

THIRTY-EIGHT

             
On the day before Thanksgiving, the sun rose over the bay in bur
nt orange and yellow splendor. A
s dawn crept over the island, I sat on my balcony drinking coffee and reading the morning paper. Cold air was sweeping out of the north, and I was wearing a sweatshirt and long pants for the first time that year. The breeze kicked up small whitecaps on the gray surface of the bay. The tide was out, and the sour smell of the mud flats tickled my nose. Sea birds were wading in the shallows, picking at their breakfast. Gulls, the eternal scavengers, hovered nearby, squawking their displeasure at each other, waiting for a morsel of food to fall their way. Occasiona
l
ly, a small boat with rods poking out of
their
holders would move up the Intracoastal channel, bound for the fishing grounds.

             
My phone rang. Bill Lester asked if I wanted to join him while he interviewed Byron Hewett. He would be by to pick me up at nine o’clock.

             
We drove across Anna Maria Island, turning east on Cortez Rd. At 59
th
Street we turned north and pulled into the parking lot of Blake Hospital. Bill parked in a spot marked for police vehicles only. I suggested that his unmarked might get towed. He shrugged, and we went inside.

             
We took the elevator up two floors, and the chief stopped at the nurse’s station, his identification in his hand. He had a whispered conversation with a middle-aged nurse dressed in scrubs. He motioned to me and I followed him down to hall to where a Manatee County Deputy Sheriff sat in the hall outside a room. He reco
g
nized the chief and opened the door for us.

             
Byron was shackled to the bed by his left wrist. His right arm was in a sling, resting on a pillow placed across his chest.

             
“Byron
,” said the chief in a conversational tone, “you’re in a heap of shit.”

             
Hewett gave Bill a sullen look. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

             
“I’m Bill Lester, Longboat Key Chief of Police. I want to ask you a few que
s
tions.”

             
Byron moved in the bed, and grimaced in pain. “I got nothing to say to you,” he said.

             
Bill pulled up a
chair and sat. “I think you do.
T
he sooner we get finished the sooner you’ll get some meds for that pain.”

             
“You can’t do that,” said Hewitt.

             
“Do what?” said Bill.

             
“Withhold my medication.”

             
The chief gave Byron his most innocent look. “I’m not withholding anything,” he said. “The nurse just told me she can’t give you any meds until we’re through here. Afraid they might make you incoherent. We might have to stay a while, just to keep you company.”

             
Byron shifted in the bed, trying to find a comfortable spot. “I’m expecting to hear from my lawyer any time now,” he said. “He’ll straighten you out.”

             
Bill chuckled. “Ah, Byron,” he said, “didn’t you know that the senator took off in his jet yesterday about the same time you were getting the hell beat out of you by my buddy Matt?
I’m betting he di
dn’t call a lawyer for you, and besides,
you’re not under arrest, yet.”

             
“If I’m not under arrest, why am I handcuffed to the bed?”

             
“Just looking out for your welfare, Byron,” the chief said. “If we arrest you before you finish your stay in the hospital, the town will be liable for your bill. We can’t have that, now, can we?”

             
“You’re lying about the senator,” Hewett said.

             
Lester picked up the bedside phone. “Here
.
” he said, h
olding it out
to Byron. “C
all him. I know you’ve got an emergency number. Let’s see if he answers.”

             
Byron looked at the phone. “How the hell do you expect me to hold that thing with no hands?”

             
The chief looked perplexed. “Tell you what, Byron,” he said, “give me the number, and I’ll dial it and hold it up to your ear.”

             
The dumb c
racker recited a number from memory. I knew that within minutes of leaving this room, the chief would know where that
phone
was located.

             
Bill dialed the number and held the receiver to Hewett’s ear. I could hear the sound of the rings coming out of the ear piece. The longer it rang, the more Byron’s face drooped, the look of hope draining slowly away. He was beginning to realize that he alone would take the full weight of retribution demanded by society and the
U.S.
Attorney.

             
The room was still, the quiet broken only by the forlorn sound of a telephone not answered. I heard something metal drop on the floor outside the room, making a small noise, probably a spoon or a fork. The food service people were picking up the breakfast trays. A siren wailed in the distance, becoming louder and more urgent as it approached the hospital. I wondered what tragedy was propelling the ambulance toward the emergency room.

             
“Son of a bitch,” said Byron. “Hang up the phone, Chief.
What do you want to know?”

             
Lester smile
d. “Tell me about the operation.
”

             
“Ain’t much to tell. The senator had a connection with some guy in Mexico who
’d
ship the illegals to us. We been working that deal for about five years. I told Mr. Royal all this.”

             
“I need to hear it from you,” said the chief. “I’m more interested in the drugs than the Mexicans.”

             
“Don’t really know nothing about the drugs. I just handled the Mexicans.”

             
Bill leaned over in his chair, putting his face right next to Hewett’s. “You told Mr. Royal that the senator’s daughter was involved in the drugs,” he said. “He doesn’t have a daughter. I checked.”

             
“I can’t swear to it. I just heard something about his daughter, but I never saw her. The only person I ever saw was the blonde woman, and I don’t think she even knew the senator.”

             
“Why do you say that?” asked
Bill.

             
“I called him by name one time. Said something to her about ‘Mr. Foster.’ She didn’t know who I was talking about. When I told her that was the senator’s name, she just shrugged and walked off.”

             
“How long has she been involved?”
asked
Lester.

             
“About a year. The senator called me one day and said the next shipment of Mexicans would include drugs and the blonde woman would take care of it. He didn’t like it, but he said she had him over a barrel. That’s when he said something about it being his daughter, but I must have misunderstood.”

             
“Did you or he ever bring up the daughter again?”

             
“No. It never came up.”

             
I stood and walked across to the door and back. My legs were going to sleep sitting on the hard chair. “Tell me about Jimmy Wilkerson,” I said.

             
Hewett laughed. “Boy, I sure got you and your buddy on that one, didn’t I?
”

             
“You did. Tell me about the name.”

             
“I just picked it out. I needed a name, and I didn’t want to use my own.”

             
“How did Jimmy Wilkerson get involved in the drug trade?” I asked.

             
“He wasn’t,” said Hewett. “I never got close to that end of the business.”

             
I was quiet for a moment. “Do you know Merc Maitland in Orlando?” I
asked
.

             
“Never heard of him.”

             
“How about a guy named Jeep?”

             
“Nope.”

             
“He knows you,” I said.

             
“Mr. Royal, I swear to you, I ain’t never heard of the man.”

             
“He’s a black guy running drugs in Orlando. Don’t lie to me, Byron.”

             
“Wait a minute. One time the senator had me call a guy in Orlando to tell him to go to a bar in Tampa to meet somebody named Tank. He sounded like a black guy on the phone. That might be the one you’re talking about.”

             
I leaned over close, lowered my voice. “Why are your people trying to kill me?”

             
“I don’t know,” said Byron. “The senator just told me some Mexican had tried to kill you because you was messing in the drug business. Then when you showed up out in the mines, I figured you was after me.”

             
“How did you know that was me in the Vagabond that day?”

             
“I’d told people out there that Jimmy Wilkerson was a friend of mine, and that some bad people
were looking for him, and they
might be posing as cops. They were supposed to let me know if somebody showed up. When you and your buddy started asking about me, I got a call.

             
“I called the senator and he described you, and he said I should take you out. Said that you were a danger to us all.”

             
“What about yesterday?” I asked.

             
“The senator called and told me to go take care of you. He told me to tell you that thing about squashing bugs,” Byron said. “That’s all I know. You oughta find a better hiding place for your spare key.” He laughed, or grunted. I couldn’t tell which.

             
Byron was squirming on the bed now, the pain showing in his face. “Can I have some pain killer, now?” he said.

             
Bill looked at me. “I think we’re done here,” he said.

             
I nodded in agreement. “I’ll send the nurse in,” I said as we left.

             
We were in the hall when Bill used his cell phone to call his office and ask them to check out the phone number Byron had
g
iven us to call the senator. By the time we got to the car, the dispatcher called back with the answer.

             
Bill looked exasperated. “No joy in Mudville,” he said. “We struck out. The number belongs to one of those pre-paid cell phones. No idea who bought it.”

             
We drove back to the key, and Bill dropped me off at my condo. I called Jock in Houston to tell him what had happened.

             
“Maybe,” he said, “you’re off the hook. With Byron locked up and the senator gone, I’d think you’re safe.”

             
“Except that we still don’t know who was running the drug operation. I think Byron was telling the truth about that. And Bill Lester tells me that the senator never had any kids. His wife died about ten years ago, and he lives alone on his spread out in eastern Sarasota County.”

             
I also told him about the puzzling development with Marie Phillips. “I don’t know how she fits in,” I said, “and Lester hasn’t come up with anything on her, yet. The deputy is some kind of hotshot with the sheriff’s office, and they don’t think he’d be involved in anything dirty.”

             
“Hang in there,
podna
,” Jock said. “If you need me, I’ll fly back over.”

             
“No. You enjoy your Thanksgiving. I’ll keep you posted.”

             
The next day I had my holiday dinner at Logan’s, along with fifteen other people who were made a little less lonely by our friend’s generosity.