Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (29 page)

"Anything else?"

"Nothing. He keeps mumbling something about Arlington. That
doesn't make any sense either, and the people he's named aren't buried
there."

"Let me know if anything comes up."

"Okay. You should have some FBI and ATF types getting to Parrish's office within a few minutes." He hung up.

I rejoined Logan and David, and in a couple of minutes two men in
suits were shown into the room. David stood and made the introductions.
FBI and ATF agents.

David sat back down and asked, "Do you guys know anything about
why you're here?"

The FBI agent spoke up. "We've been briefed about a possible
church bombing in die area. That's all we know."

"That's about all we know too," I said.

The FBI agent turned to me. "Tell me just exactly who you are."

Parrish fielded the question. "Mr. Royal is in charge. Mr. Hamilton
is assisting him. That comes from the very top, and that's all you need to
know for now"

I could tell the two federal agents didn't like that. "Gentlemen," I
said, "I don't like this any better than you do. I've got my assignment
though and, if it'll make you feel better, I'm taking my orders from somebody who works for the government and outranks almost everybody in
the world. If and when I give an order, I'll simply be conveying it from my
principal. Clear?"

"Not really," said the AFT agent, "but I know how to take orders."

"Good." I then told them everything I knew, including the garbled
information Jock was getting from Simmermon.

The FBI agent shook his head. "That's not much to go on. I know
we've got all our people and ATF's people ready to go to work. Our counterterrorism guy is in charge. We just don't know what to do."

My cell phone rang. It was Paul Galls.

"Michelle tells me they have a whorehouse in Orlando," he said.
"There's one in Atlanta too."

"Where's the one in Orlando?"

He gave me an address and hung up.

I looked at the men gathered at the table. "We may have a starting
place." I explained how the Heaven Can't Wait Spas operated, and their
ties to Simmermon.

The ATF agent looked up from the table. "That might be their staging area. I can get some dogs in there that'll find any explosives in a matter of minutes."

I shook my head. "If the bomber isn't in the house, a raid will spook
him. He'll go to ground, and we'll be sitting here wondering where lie is
when a church goes up."

Parrish leaned forward. "Any suggestions?"

I nodded. "Let's send somebody in undercover. See what we can
find out before we go breaking down doors."

"We can send in an agent," said the FBI.

"I'11 go," I said. "I may have a better sense of what we're looking for.
I've been in one of these places before, and I might see something that's out
of the ordinary. Something someone else might miss."

"That could be dangerous," said Parrish.

"I know," I said.

I just didn't realize how dangerous.

The day was winding down as Logan and I left the courthouse. It was almost four o'clock. Light traffic was passing by on 1-4, tires singing on the
asphalt. Two blocks to the east the bars and clubs along Orange Avenue
were already starting to fill up with the young people who every night
made downtown Orlando their own.

"Let's find a hotel," I said. "We can grab a few winks before I go
whoring."

We'd decided to wait until late that evening to approach the spa. The
federal agencies were doing everything they could, and it wouldn't matter
if we put off our visit. The bomber would either be there or he wouldn't.
The feds already had somebody watching the place, and if anyone
who didn't look like a customer entered or left, we'd know about it
immediately.

Our plan was for Logan and me to drive to the spa at about ten that
evening. Logan would stay with the car, fully armed, and be in constant
contact with me via a small radio attached to my body. If I gave a code
word, he'd notify the federal agents surrounding the place, and they'd
come running. It was a good plan-in theory.

We found a hotel near downtown, checked into separate rooms, and
went to bed. I woke up at eight, and immediately thought of Laura. I don't
think I was dreaming about her, but she was the first thought that entered
my mind as I regained conscious thought. She was dying, might already be
dead. Her death was going to be a permanent part of my life, and I wondered if I would spend the rest of it waking to regret and loss.

I shook off the grim thoughts, showered, shaved, and ordered hamburgers from room service. Logan joined me, and we talked over the plan again. I made a call to make sure the feds were in place around the spa. No
one had seen anybody enter or leave the place other than the typical
middle-aged client. There was nothing else for us to do.

Logan drove. The spa was only a few blocks away in an area of
Orlando known as Thornton Park. It was a trendy part of town, peopled
mostly by young urban professionals who owned the condos in the towers that lined East Central Boulevard and spread out south of Lake Eola.

Many of the old houses in the neighborhood remained. Some had
been turned into art galleries or restaurants. One, a beautiful three-story
brick Federal mansion, had become a spa. An upscale whorehouse.

When I'd lived in Orlando, the building had housed a firm of lawyers.
Some would say that the business of the place hadn't changed, just the occupants.

We circled the block several times, looking for a place to park that
would give Logan quick access if I needed him. I didn't see any sign of
cops or feds, which was good. If I didn't see them, nobody else would.

Finally, as we rounded a corner, a car pulled out of a space right in
front of the spa. Logan parked and turned off the engine. He put an earpiece in place and said, "Let's make sure this thing is working."

I got out of the car and walked a few feet. I turned to look back, and
tested the mic. "You know, as much as you keep grousing about not getting laid, you could be doing this."

He grinned and held up his right hand, forefinger and thumb circled
in the OK signal. I turned and walked toward the front door.

The porch was not large, more of a stoop. Several steps led up from
the street. I crossed to the front door. There was a small sign attached to
the brick next to the entrance. It was identical to the one at the spa in Key
West.

I opened the door and walked into a large entry hall. A small desk
was set in the middle, and a woman of about thirty, wearing a business suit,
sat behind it.

"May I help you, sir?" she said, smiling.

"I'd like a massage," I said. "Do you have someone available?"

"Certainly, sir. Just have a seat in the living room."

She pointed to an arched doorway leading to a room off the entrance hall. I sat on a reproduction Chippendale sofa and waited. The whole drill
was reminiscent of my visit to the spa in Key West. If something worked,
why change it? McDonald's and Burger King used the same concept. Sort
of. I wondered if I would be greeted by a wiser and older version of Sister
Amy.

In a few minutes, a young lady entered the room. She was wearing a
sundress in a bright floral pattern, pulled low on her shoulders. I could
see the swell of her breasts under the fabric, but it was a dress that wouldn't
have been out of place at an afternoon tea party. Her blonde hair was done
up on the back of her head in some sort of a twist. Her feet were encased
in high-heeled sandals, her toenails freshly painted light pink to match her
perfectly manicured fingernails.

As I stood, she held out her hand, palm down, an old-fashioned lady
handshake. "I'm Marta Sweeney. I'll be your hostess this evening."

I shook her hand and introduced myself as Miles Leavitt.

"Have a seat," she said. "Have you been here before?"

"No. First time. I'm a little nervous."

"Where're you from?" She was trying to put me at ease.

I was going to say Nahant, Massachusetts, just because nobody had
ever heard of the place, but I was sure my accent would give me away.
"Atlanta," I said.

"Here on business?"

"Yes. I had to stay over the weekend."

"Well," she said, favoring me again with her smile, "let's see if we can
make it a positive experience. How did you find your way to me?"

I told her the name of the hotel where Logan and I had rooms. "The
bell captain mentioned this place."

"Oh, that would be Jaime?"

"I don't know his name. He's a Hispanic gentleman."

I'd noticed the man when we checked into the hotel. I was hoping he
had a tie-in to this place, or at least he wasn't someone the management
would be suspicious of. Apparently, I'd made a good guess.

"Would you like to come upstairs?" she asked.

"This is a beautiful house," I said, trying to buy some time. "Do you
live here?"

"Oh, yes. I live on the third floor with some of the other girls. The
second floor has our public rooms." She giggled. "Although, they're very
private, if you know what I mean."

If Marta had ever had a regional accent, she kept it well hidden. Her
diction was just about perfect. She was a well-trained young lady. In
another time, she would have been described as a courtesan.

"Ali," I said, stumbling a little over my words, "what about payment?"

"You can give Ms. Young at the desk a credit card, if you like, and
settle up when you leave. The card will show that you spent some money
at an upscale restaurant in downtown Orlando. You ordered a couple of
bottles of wine for your business associates." She giggled again.

"I don't have a credit card. How about cash?"

"You can leave a five hundred dollar deposit with Ms. Young. I think
that'll be sufficient, don't you?" She made a small moue, kind of cutesy,
and out of character for a whore.

This was certainly a different place than the one in Key West. This
must be what happens to the girls after they get used to their new lives and
get the drugs out of their systems. They transfer up the line into better and
better houses. Michelle and Simmermon had put together an assembly
line of whores, turning them into newer and better models of their old
selves. I wondered what happened to the girls when they got too old for
this line of work.

I pulled five one hundred dollar bills out of my pocket and gave them
to Ms. Young. Marta led me upstairs, and into a room dominated by a fourposter bed. A large man sat on the bed, shirtless, his abdomen swathed in
a bandage. He was pointing a .22-caliber pistol at me. The last time I'd
seen him was on a Key West street three nights before. When I'd shot him.

"Ali," the man on the bed said, "I can see that you're surprised to find me
here."

"A bit," I said. I knew Logan was listening, but he wouldn't panic
and send in the troops unless I said the magic word. I wanted to hear what
this muscle-bound ape had to say.

He grinned. "We have wonderful security. Our video cams are high
resolution. I recognized you as soon as you came through the door. I owe
you something, I think." He waved the gun around a little for emphasis.

I had to let Logan know what was going on. "So, you're the guy I
shot in Key West."

"You got that right, asshole." He wasn't smiling anymore. A slight
grimace of pain crossed his face.

"Still hurting? I'm surprised you could travel."

"A doc on our payroll in Key West fixed me up, and the boss sent me
here to recuperate. I sit and watch the fucking video screen all day. It ain't
a lot of fun."

Marta had stood silently during our conversation. I turned to her.
"Marta, you brought me into the first room at the head of the stairs. Is this
where you always stash your friends with .22 pistols?" Logan needed to
know exactly where I was and what kind of firepower he was facing.