Chapter FIFTY
I called Parrish early the next morning, Monday. He made a habit of being in the office before six each day, setting an example for his employees, he said. He didn’t know much about a Guatemalan gang, just that one existed. He said they were involved in the drug business and he would have an agent of the Drug Enforcement Agency get in touch with me.
Thirty minutes after I talked to Parrish, my phone rang.
“Matt,” a deep southern voice said. “This is Rufus Harris.”
Rufus was a DEA agent based in Orlando who tracked gangs throughout the middle district of Florida. Jock and I had worked with him before. “Good to hear from you, Rufus,” I said. “It’s been a couple of years.”
“Too long, Matt. I hear you and Jock are stirring things up again.”
“We’re being discreet.”
He laughed, way down in his belly, the sound rumbling along the airways that connected us. “You guys are about as subtle as your average freight train.”
I laughed. “We’re trying to do better.”
“The big man himself called me this morning. Told me you needed some information and I was supposed to tell you what I know. What’s up?”
“We’ve had three murders out here on the islands in the last week. We don’t know if they’re connected, but one of them appears to have been committed by a Guatemalan gang member. The Sarasota cops killed two of them in a shootout at the police station last week.”
“I heard about that.”
“On Friday,” I said, “a man named Gene Alexander, who worked for Jock’s agency, was killed here on Longboat. The director thinks his murder might be connected to something Alexander was working on for the agency.”
“I take it this isn’t something you want me talking about in the break room.”
“No, and I wouldn’t be telling you any of this if I thought you would. We’re pretty sure a Guatemalan gangbanger killed Alexander.”
“What led you to that conclusion?”
“Sorry, Rufus. I can’t tell you.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Okay. I understand. Don’t like it, but if Jock’s involved, I guess it has something to do with national security.”
“Right. Can you tell me anything about a Guatemalan gang operating in this area?”
“They’ve had a presence in Tampa for the past couple of years. We think they’re working with a Mexican cartel, probably as enforcers. If any of the locals working for the Mexicans get out of line, the Guatemalans take care of them.”
“What about Bradenton?”
“Yeah.” Rufus said, “They’ve sent some of their guys down there to help with the distribution.”
“Do you know where they live or hang out?”
“They’ve got a compound out east of I-75. We’ve got it under loose surveillance, but that’s about all we can do. We’ve never been able to infiltrate them. I’ll e-mail you directions and a map.”
“Do you know anything about one of them who doesn’t have an ear?”
“No ear? Like cut off in a fight?”
“Yeah, or bit off. May be a birth defect. We don’t know. That’s the only description we have.”
“I’ll take a look at the pictures we have. I think we’ve caught the ones in Tampa and Bradenton on film, but new ones show up all the time. They don’t seem to have any problem getting across the border.”
“Thanks, Rufus. I owe you one.”
“Hell, Matt. You already owe me three or four.”
I laughed. “What can I say?” The phone went dead.
My week was starting out with some sizzle. I’d know in a few minutes where the gangbangers lived and might even get a picture of our buddy with one ear. Not that I thought a picture would matter a lot, since the severed ear was a pretty distinctive identifier. Still, it might help.
Jock was running on the beach. I’d begged off, planning to go later. Sometimes running helps me concentrate on things, solve puzzles, get a new direction on a case or an issue. It had always worked for me when I was practicing law. But it only worked if I was running alone. I looked at my watch. It was only a few minutes after eight. I’d do my four miles on the beach later.
Unfortunately, I didn’t make it to the beach that day.