Murder Key (5 page)

Murder Key

EIGHT

             
I decided not to jog the beach on Monday morning. If the shooters were counting on me keeping a schedule, the easiest way to throw them off was to vary my routines. I
would
jog later
in
t
he
day.

             
I was sitting in my living room drinking coffee and reading the morning paper when I heard a knock on the door. It was only a little after seven, early for social callers. I peered through the spy hole and saw John Algren.

             
He was about six feet tall, with a wiry build that belied the power that could surge out of his body when needed. He was very tan, and had a U shaped fringe of black hair setting off his bald pate. A small area of skin was peeling from
sunburn
on the crown of his head. He’d been playing golf without his hat again. He was the smartest man I’d ever known.

             
I opened the door to a bear hug from my best friend since junior high school. “Jock, my God it’s good to see you,” I said, coming up for air. “What brings you to paradise?”

             
“I thought you might need somebody to watch your back.”

             
“How did you know?”

             
“Anne called me last night. I caught an early plane into Tampa, and here I am.”

             
John, who had acquired the nickname of “Jock” in high school, was a frequent visitor to the key. He had gotten to know most of the islanders, and a couple of months before, on his last visit, Dotty Johansen threw an elaborate party on the beach behind the Hilton, where she formally decreed “that henceforth and forever-more, Jock Algren was an honorary Longboater.”

             
“I’m glad you’re here, old buddy. How about some coffee?”

             
“That’d work.”

             
Jock had left high school on the same day I did. While I headed for the Army, he went to engineering school on schola
r
ship. He played on the basketball team, and was a member of the school’s ROTC unit. Near the end of his senior year, he’d taken a bad fall on the basketball court, and the college newspaper rep
orted that Jock had ruptur
ed the lig
a
ments in his knee. The injury and the surgery to repair it would end his basketball career and any thoughts he had of being commissioned in the Army.

             
Jock was heavily recruited by the major oil companies, and when he graduated he went to work for one of them in its inter-national department. Jock was still with the company.

             
A couple of people at the very top of his company, a few people in the gover
n
ment, and I knew that Jock had never hurt his knee, never had surgery, and was certainly not medically unfit for military duty. He had been recruite
d by the most secretive intelli
gence agency our country has.

             
My friend spent a couple of years in training, and then became a deep-cover operative, doing things for the gover
n
ment that no one ever wanted known. Jock had maintained his cover with the oil company, and now was in fact an employee, living in Houston. However, the government would call on him when needed, to do things that needed to be done.

             
When the call came, and it always did, the chairman of Jock’s company would send out a memo that Mr. Algren would be off somewhere in the world on a special mission for the chairman, and Jock would be back in the field hunting and killing people who would do harm to the United States. 

             
Years before, his boss in th
e government had given Jock per
mission to tell me what he did for the country. Jock had no living family, and he had convinced the boss that somebody had to know the real story in case anything happened to him. He still complained about phantom knee pain, and he couldn’t play golf worth a damn.

             
I brought the coffee back to the living room and sat in my recliner. Jock was on the sofa, his stockin
g feet propped on a low table.

             
“Tell me what happened,
podna
,” he said.

             
I gave him the whole story. “I don’t know who they are or why they’re trying to kill me. It doesn’t make any kind of sense.”

             
“How’s Logan?”

             
“Logan’s Logan. He’s staying in town this week to give me whatever help he can. You know Logan; generous to a fault.”

             
Logan had a job in the financial services industry that kept him traveling most of every week. He was sticking around this week for me, but now that Jock was here, I’d tell him to go on and do his work, and I’d see him on the weekend. I picked up the phone to call him.

             
Logan agreed to meet at Lynches Pub on St.
Armands
Circle for lunch. He and Jock had become good friends during Jock’s visits to the key.

             
“You got a gun?” Jock asked me as we got back to our coffee.

             
“Yep.” I got it out of the drawer in the coffee table. “A thirty-eight caliber revolver.”

             
“That’s good for close work. Anything else?”

             
“No. If they come after me with that M-14 again, the only thing I could defend myself with would be a rifle. I can’t be carrying one of those around. If they get close, the thirty-eight will do the trick.”

             
“You’re right. I guess we’d better try to figure out who these bastards are.”

             
My cell phone rang. It was Marcie McFarland, Anne’s law partner in Sarasota.

             
“I heard you’ve taken up target shooting for a hobby, except you’re the target.”

             
“Not by choice, Marcie. Not by a long shot.”

             
“Is that a pun?”

             
“Maybe. I hadn’t thought about it.”

             
“Anne mentioned that you asked about Dwight Conley. I knew him, and I thought I could fill you in a little.”

             
“That’d be a big help. What can you tell me?”

             
“He was a nice guy. My sister, Dawn, used to date him, but not seriously. Dwight came to Sarasota about ten years ago, about the same time I did, and opened an immigration practice. He’d built it up into a pretty thriving operation. Dwight was well respected in the Bar Association, and by the U.S. Imm
i
gration Judge up in Bradento
n. He did a lot of work for the Mexican migrant workers that seem to congregate in Manatee County. Dwight lived on Bird Key, and nobody I’ve talked to can figure out why anyone would want to kill him.”

             
“I think the same guys who tried to kill me Saturday night killed Conley that
morning. I didn’t know the guy
and I can’t see any connection between us. If you hear anything else, let me know. Oh, and tell Anne that Jock got here.” 

             
We said goodbye and hung up. I related the conversation to Jock. “Still not ringing any bells,” I said.

             
Just before nine, my cell phone rang again. It was Bill Lester telling me that ballistics had matched the slug in my car to the one that killed Conley. A canvass of the local hospitals had failed to turn up any evidence of a Hispanic man with a broken arm.

             
“He could’ve had it looked at by any number of doctors, and we’ll probably never figure it out,” Bill said.

             
He also told me that I could pick up the Explorer at the crime lab. I called a company that repairs car windows and arranged for them to pick up the car and fix the window an
d plug the bullet hole in the up
holstery. I’d
retrieve it
late that afternoon from the repair shop.

* * * * *

             
At noon, we drove south in Jock’s rental car and crossed the New Pass Bridge onto Lido Key. I marveled at the beauty of the inlet, its surface painted in pastel shades of blue and green. Several boats were an
chored on the sand
bar just seaward of the bridge, filled with people fishing and taking the sun.

             
We found a parking place near Lynches and walked back a block to the small restaurant. Logan was waiting at a table just inside the door.
             

             
“Good to see you, again,” he said to Jock as they shook hands.

             
“Same here, Logan.”

             
We ordered lunch while Jock and Logan caught up with each other. Just as our meal was brought to the table, a large man, probably six-feet-three and weighing 220 pounds entered the restaurant. He had a lot of blonde hair set off by a deep tan. His sun-wrinkled face put him in his mid-forties.

             
“Matt,” he said, as he spotted us. “I’ve left a couple of messages on your answering machine.”

             
“Sorry, Buddy. I haven’t checked it since Friday. Say hello to Jock Algren. Jock, this is Buddy Gilchrest.”

             
“Nice to meet you, Jock. You doing okay, Logan?”

             
“Can’t complain.”

             
“Matt, I heard you found those Mexicans on the beach on Friday,” said Buddy. “The one who’s still alive is the brother of one of my crew chiefs.”

             
Buddy ran a lawn maintenance business that had sewn up much of the condo business on Longboat and Lido Keys. Most of his workers were Mexican imm
i
grants, some even legal.

             
“How’s he doing?” I asked.

             
“Still in a coma, but the cops are going to charge him with murder as soon as he wakes up. I don’t think he did it. I was wondering if you knew anything.”

             
“I don’t. What makes you think he didn’t do it? The evidence seems pretty solid.”

             
“Well, first of all, I doubt Pepe knows how to use a gun. Secondly, he’s here legally, and I don’t think he’d want to do anything to jeopardize his status. He’s supporting a pretty big family in Mexico.”

             
“I wish I could help, Buddy, but you probably know more about this than I do.”

             
“I also heard that you almost got killed a couple of times this weekend. Do you think there might be some connection with the guys you found on the beach?”

             
“I don’t see how. All I did was find them and call it in.”

             
“The cops think this has to do with drugs. I know Pepe wouldn’t be using. He had too much to lose.”

             
“Could he be in the importing business?” Jock asked.

             
“I doubt it. Call me if you hear anything, Matt. Take it easy Logan.” He went to the bar to order lunch. 

             
We finished our meal, and Logan left for the airport. Jock and I had another beer, paid our bill, and walked out of the resta
u
rant. Just as we got to the sidewalk my cell phone rang. It was Bill Lester.

             
“Where are you, Matt?” His voice was agitated, louder than normal.

             
“Just leaving Lynches. What’s up?”

             
“Get back inside and stay away from the windows. I’m on my way.” He hung up.

             
“Back inside,” I said to Jock. He didn’t question me, just headed for the door. “That was the police chief. He’ll be here in a few minutes. I don’t know what the problem is, but he said to get inside and stay away from the windows.”

             
I patted my thirty-eight in its holster and asked Jock if he were armed.

             
“Yes,” he said. “I brought it in checked luggage.”

             
We sat. In about ten minutes Bill Lester strode through the door. I introduced him to Jock. “What’s wrong?” I asked.