Blood Orchid (19 page)

Her phone rang. “Holly Barker.”

“It’s Harry. I’ve got two cars on the way up I-95. You still at Tricky’s?”

“Nope, Trini is on the move. We’re just coming up on I-95 now.” She gave him the exit number. “Tell your guys to get off and follow me east. I’m in a tan Jeep Grand Cherokee with a big antenna on the back. I’ll watch for them.”

“I’ll stay on the line until they’ve caught up,” Harry said. “I’m in radio contact.”

“I’ve got a radio, but I don’t know if we’re on the same frequencies.”

“You’re not,” Harry said.

“Uh-oh, Trini just hung a right.” She followed and gave Harry the street name.

“My guys are getting off the interstate now, headed east.”

“Then they’re probably a mile or so behind me. Tell them to step on it; they can slow down when they see me.”

“Okay.”

“Trini’s turning left.” She gave him the street name.

“One car thinks he has you in sight,” Harry said.

“Tell him to pass me,” Holly replied. “Hang on, Trini is stopping. Stand by.” Holly drove slowly past Trini’s Explorer and saw him go into a shooting range, a different one from where she had seen him before. She gave the name to Harry.

“Okay, we’ve got it. You get out of there,” Harry said.

“Will do.”

“Now, you and I have to meet; I want to see that notebook. You go back to I-95 and head south; I’ll head north. There’s a Burger King about twenty miles down the interstate.” He gave her the exit number. “I’ll meet you there in, oh hell, I don’t know, half an hour, an hour?”

“I’ll have a burger,” Holly said. She hung up, made a couple of turns, and headed back toward I-95.

38

H
olly was polishing off a double bacon cheeseburger when Harry walked in with another agent. He got something to eat and joined Holly, while the agent took another table.

“Why do you guys always have to look like FBI agents?” she asked him. “You’d think J. Edgar Hoover was still alive.”

“You’re not telling me he’s dead, are you?” Harry asked, looking alarmed.

Holly laughed. “No kidding, the least you could do is dress like somebody who lives in Miami.”

“I dress like a banker who lives in Miami,” Harry said. “Let me see the notebook.”

Holly put her bag on the table and fished it out.

Harry stuck his finger in the hole in her purse. “Did you forget to draw before you fired?”

“I didn’t have time. I figure the FBI owes me a really good handbag.”

“If I like the notebook, you can send me a bill,” he replied, opening it.

“Look at the dates,” she said. “He kept track of everything, along with who.”

“I’ll send it to our lab,” Harry said, turning the pages. “They’ve got code people.”

“Harry, a six-year-old could figure it out.”

“They ought to see it anyway.”

“Show it to a six-year-old!”

“Can we put Carlos with Pellegrino at any time?”

“Yes, his girlfriend was with Carlos when he stopped at the restaurant to see Pio. She stayed in the car, but they came out together after a few minutes and talked on the sidewalk.”

“That’s good. Will she testify?”

“I believe she will.”

“Who made the silencers on Carlos’s weapons?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, “but we don’t need the mechanic; we’ve got the weapons.”

“You’re sure the guy who owns Miami Bullseye isn’t in this?”

“He wouldn’t have helped me if he were in it, and don’t you go rousting him; he’s a good guy.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Harry, do you ever have the feeling that this business is bigger than an attempt to buy a piece of real estate on the cheap?”

“No.”

“Well, I do. I don’t think they would have killed Carlos, otherwise. He did what he was paid to do, except that he missed my friend Ed Shine.”

“If they’d wanted Shine dead, they’d have tried again, but it got too late; he’d won the auction and bought the property. If they’d killed him, it would have gone into his estate, and not back to the General Services Administration.”

“My point is, they must have killed Carlos because, alive, he could have led the law to them. I mean, down
the road, he gets busted for something, and he gives them up for immunity or leniency.”

“That makes sense, especially since Carlos was an outside contractor, not one of them.”

“Makes you wonder how long Trini Rodriguez has to live, doesn’t it?” Holly asked.

“Maybe Trini’s an insider; who knows? They’ve had time to pop him, since he popped Carlos, but they haven’t. Following him is going to have to produce something soon; I can’t spare the manpower if it doesn’t.”

“I was going to ask you to put a team on Pedro Alvarez, too, but I guess there’s not much chance of that, is there?”

“Not much. Why Pedro?”

“Because, according to the notebook, he’s been in on this since the beginning. He had me thinking that Carlos was in it alone, but the notebook says different.”

“Yeah, but he’s an outsider, like Carlos; they’re not going to let him know anything.”

“I guess you’re right,” Holly admitted.

“I kind of like Trini, though. I think he might be worth the trouble,” Harry said.

“He’s going to be pissed off about his relative getting dead,” Holly said.

“You think he knows you blew the guy away?”

“I don’t see how he could,” Holly said. “Not yet, anyway, not unless it makes the local papers.”

Harry raised a finger, then produced his cellphone and a PalmPilot and dialed a number. “This is Agent in Charge Harry Crisp,” he said. “Let me speak to Captain Ames.” A short wait. “Charlie? Harry Crisp. How goes it? Same here. Listen, I need your help on something. Earlier today, an out-of-town cop had a good
shooting of a perp on your turf, a guy named Rodriguez. Yep, that’s the one. Have you released anything to the papers yet? That’s good. I’d appreciate it if, when you release it, you’d just say that a cop shot the guy and not identify her or where she’s from. Because if you did that, it could put her in harm’s way. She’s working on something with us, and I don’t want to get her killed. Can you handle that? Good, I owe you one, Charlie.”

“Tell him I want my weapon back,” Holly whispered.

“She says she needs her pistol back. Yeah, I’ll tell her. Golf sometime? Call me.” Harry hung up. “That’s taken care of,” he said. “You’ll get your piece back if you promise not to shoot anybody else on his turf, and Trini won’t know who shot his kinsman.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re no use to me dead,” he said.

“Oh, Harry, you’re such a sentimentalist.”

The agent at the other table answered his cellphone, then got up, walked across the room, and handed it to Harry.

“Harry Crisp.”

“Yeah, when? Any other details? Thanks.” He hung up and handed the phone to the agent, who returned to his table.

Harry was looking thoughtful.

“What?” Holly asked.

“Pedro Alvarez just got dead.”

“How long ago?”

“An hour or so.”

“Trini did it.”

“That’s a reasonable assumption,” Harry said.

“It isn’t an assumption,” Holly replied. “After I left
Marina’s house, I wanted to talk to Pedro; I parked outside and started reading the notebook first, and while I was waiting, Trini drove up, got out, went into Pedro’s shop, stayed three minutes, then left. That’s when I started following him. Let me guess: one or two shots from a small-caliber pistol equipped with a silencer.”

“You’re right up to a point,” Harry said. “We won’t know all until somebody digs the slugs out of him. Sounds like Trini’s cleaning house, doesn’t it? You think Marina’s in danger?”

“I’ve already sent her out of town. My guess is, one reason Trini went to the shop was to find out where she was, and Pedro didn’t know.”

“Where is she?”

“At her mother’s sister’s in Sarasota. Or at least, she’s on the way. I stayed with her until she left the house. I’ll bet Trini was there moments later, because he got to Pedro’s shop almost as fast as I did.”

Harry was looking at her funny.

“What, Harry?”

“You think maybe Pedro told Trini about you? They had to be talking about something for the three minutes they were together.”

“Harry, I’m afraid you have a point.”

“Holly, go home. Get out of here right now, and I think you ought to have an officer with you every hour of the day.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Holly, you met Trini at Miami Bullseye.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t know who I was.”

“He probably does now; and he knows what you look like.”

“Well, you’re going to have to pick up Trini now; that should be easy, since you’ve already got a team on him.”

“We’ll notify Lauderdale PD that we have a witness in the murder, and we’ll give them his location. They’ll pick him up, then we’ll get our turn at questioning him about our matter. In the meantime, this is what I want you to do,” Harry said. “My agent over there is going to follow you up I-95, toward home. You call your office and get somebody to meet you halfway and relieve him.”

“Thanks, Harry, but—”

“Just do it, Holly. I’ve got my own car outside, I’ll get back to the office okay. You’re going to need protection until Trini is in the Lauderdale lockup.”

“All right, Harry, and thanks. I owe you one.”

“Makes a nice change, doesn’t it?” Harry said.

That night, alone in bed, an officer parked outside her house, Holly allowed herself to think about what she’d been avoiding. She’d killed a human being that day. She didn’t stop crying until she was asleep.

39

H
oward Singleton, head of the Miami office of the federal General Services Administration, opened the file on his desk and started reading. Halfway through the document he stopped and scratched his head. This was like going to a movie he had already seen. He got up, took the file, and walked down the corridor to the office of Willard Smith, his deputy.

“Smitty, have you read this?” he asked, tossing the file onto Smith’s desk.

Smith looked at it. “I wrote it,” he said.

“Doesn’t this sound familiar to you? Except this time, we’re talking about a South Beach property instead of that thing up the coast at… what’s the name?”

“You mean the Orchid Beach property?”

“Yeah, that’s the one—Palmetto something.”

“Palmetto Gardens.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s the same pattern; we’re getting lowball bids out of Central America, but not much local. Next thing you know, some prospective bidder is going to get himself killed, just like before.”

“Jesus, Howard, we just advertise these properties, remember? We’re not the FBI.”

Singleton looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go to a meeting at my church at five, so I have to leave now. Will you call that guy at the FBI—Harry something…”

“Crisp.”

“Yeah, call him and tell him I think we’re developing a similar situation to the Palmetto Gardens property, and I thought he ought to know about it.”

“Sure, Howard.” Willard Smith picked up the phone and started dialing.

Singleton went to the meeting at his church, which lasted an hour and a half, then he made for home, digging out a shopping list his wife had given him at breakfast. He was the last to leave the parking lot, which was empty now, except for his car and a red Explorer parked near the exit. He had to make three stops to fill his wife’s list—the grocery store for tonic water and limes, the liquor store for wine, and someplace for cocktail napkins. They were giving a dinner party that evening. As he put the car into gear, he began planning his route home.

Then, as he approached the parking lot exit, the red Explorer suddenly drove across his path and stopped. Singleton slammed on his brakes, just short of smashing into the car. “What the hell?” he said aloud. He started to reach for his door handle when he saw the darkened window on the front passenger side slide down. He stopped and looked at the figure behind the wheel, who seemed to be leaning over to the passenger window, as if to say something to him.

But the man said nothing. Instead, he held out his
hand, and the windshield of Howard Singleton’s car turned white, except for the two holes in front of the driver’s seat.

Singleton didn’t have time to think about anything else.

Trini Rodriguez exited the parking lot, driving at a normal pace. When he was a block away, he pressed a speed-dial button on his car phone.

“Yeah?” a man’s voice said.

“Bingo,” Trini said.

“And not a moment too soon,” the man replied, then hung up.

Harry Crisp arrived at his office at eight forty-five
A.M.
, as he did habitually. Coffee was already made in the little kitchenette off his waiting room, and he poured himself a cup. He didn’t mind asking his secretary to come in early and make coffee for him, but he always poured it himself, for appearances’ sake. He went back to his desk and picked up his copy of the
New York Times
national edition, scanning it quickly for stories related to federal law enforcement in general, and the Miami office of the FBI in particular. There was a knock at his open door, and he looked up. One of his agents stood there.

“Morning,” Harry said. “What’s up?”

“A federal official was murdered in Miami last evening,” the agent said.

“Who?”

“Howard Singleton, head of the local office of the GSA.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“He left work half an hour early yesterday
afternoon, in order to get to a five-o’clock meeting at his church. As he left the meeting in his car, about six-thirty, somebody fired two rounds through the windshield, into his head.”

“What kind of rounds?”

“Small caliber, according to the Miami PD.”

“Jesus, there’s a real epidemic of small-round shootings in South Florida, isn’t there?”

“No more than usual, really. What do you want me to do about this?”

“Send a man over to Miami PD to get a copy of the file. We’ll keep track of the PD investigation and not get any more involved than we have to. Send a memo to D.C. saying that we’re on it.”