“So you think Gonzales is or was in a U.S. airport?’’
“Probably Tampa International. Let the feds know. They can get flight information from the FAA. Maybe Gonzales flew in his own private jet. Probably some jet affiliated with a dummy corporation. Or maybe he flew in commercial airline. Very few people would recognize him. The only picture the feds have is twelve years old.”
“Are you coming back to the marina?”
“I’m driving to Tampa. Soto slipped when he said Mr. Gonzales doesn’t like to be kept waiting. He’s here, Dave. Someone over there may know where Gonzales hides when he comes stateside. If I can find that person, I can find him. Oh, I left Max’s leash on the nail on the outside of Jupiter’s door. ”
“I figured you did, that’s why I got it about an hour ago. Max and I are good to go for the night.”
“Dave…”
“Yeah?”
“You called Cal Thorp, didn’t you? That day we watched the warehouse disintegrate.”
“How’d you know? Never mind, yes I called him. He’s on stand-by.”
“Maybe, between the two of you, I can get an address.”
“What address?”
“Pull the phone records to the Marion County Sheriff’s Department for June ninth. I’m looking for an incoming call with a Tampa Bay area code. See if you can tie an address with the number. If you reach Thorpe, ask him to meet me in Tampa tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock at the Tampa Aquarium. Text the address if you can find the caller’s ID. Goodnight, Dave.”
I didn't know whether Gonzales had his men plant a bug on my Jeep. But now I didn’t want to be followed. I rented a car at Daytona Airport, drove west on I-4 through pouring rain. I felt Gonzales was here in the states. Maybe here to personally make sure Izzy’s body was taken home, or maybe he was here to make good on his threat to render me paraplegic.
It didn’t matter. I had a plan to find him. And if I could make it happen, Pablo Gonzales would never again harm another human being.
I bought a thoothbrush and a change of clothes at a 24-hour Walmart, paid cash at the truck stop motel on the outskirts of Tampa and checked in under an alias. I parked the rental car on the opposite side of the motel from my room and walked through a breezeway to the room on the second floor.
My room smelled of dried sweat and chemical bleach. I showered, placed my Glock under the pillow and stretched out on the bed. I was exhausted, sore but too wired to sleep. I lay there and listened to the rain fall, the odor of Clorox and old clothes crawling around the room like invisible spiders. My thoughts finally blurred when fatigue fell harder than the rain outside. Somewhere in my dreams, I saw the face of Agent Flores, smelled her perfume from that morning in the hospital room. Then I saw CSI investigators pick up her head, the eyes locked in the same remote expression I’d seen on Luke Palmer’s face as his body rotated slowly from the end of the rope.
I sat up in the bed, the single air-conditioning unit rattling and blowing tepid air, my chest damp from sweat, the lavender light from the motel sign bleeding in between the Venetian blinds. I heard the long, desolate echo from a train horn in the distance and remembered the passage in Marquez’s book about the dead banana workers shipped to the coast. I blinked away sleep, but couldn’t wash away images of their bodies. I saw the dead tossed, reminiscent of bags of garbage in open freight cars that bounced along a narrow-gauge track, under palm and banana trees. Under the blanket of a dark sea, sharks circled in expectation of things to come.
ONE HUNDRED-THREE
I arose at the crack of dawn to the rumble of a trucker turning over his diesel just outside my motel room window. I squinted to read the time on my phone: 6:17 a.m. There was no text message from Dave. I showered, secured the Glock under my belt, packed my new toothbrush and headed out the door to the truck stop restaurant. I sat at a corner table, full view of the parking lot and entrance, and ordered a pot of black coffee, three eggs, grits, tomatoes, and rye toast.
During my second cup of coffee, the phone vibrated on the table. Dave texted:
only phone # on Marion records the 9th w/727 area code came from 1892 Gandy Blvd — home registered to Maria Fernandez. C. T to meet u at agreed location
I sipped the coffee and watched a black Cadillac SUV cruise slowly through the parking lot. The windows tinted dark. The Cadillac pulled up in front of the motel office and two men in sunglasses got out, both had steroid constructed blocky bodies. They waddled into the motel office. I dropped enough money on the table to take care of the bill and tip, left through a rear exit, got in the rental Ford and pulled out into the morning traffic.
I called Dave and received directions to the house. “Don’t know if there’s a tail on me, but two guys who spent far too much time in gyms walked into the motel office.”
“Gonzales has a lot of eyes and ears out there. From your present location, I’d estimate you’re about fifteen minutes away from Maria Fernandez’s place. It’s a long shot, Sean.”
“But at this point, it’s really the only shot we have. I’ll call you after I find her.”
On the way to the address, I drove around apartments that were tantamount to slum dwellings. The buildings looked painful, resembling tired old men trying to support extended families on their shoulders. The cinderblocks were visible behind years of neglected chalky bone-white paint. Brown-skinned kids played in barren yards under the partial shade of two scrawny and diseased elm trees.
A mile later the scenery changed into single family homes with neat yards and manicured shrubbery. The address on the freshly painted mailbox near the home at the end of the cul-de-sac was 1892. I parked in the drive and stood by the door and listened before knocking. I heard sounds of a Spanish language newscast on television. I knocked. Nothing. The curtain scarcely parted, enough for me to see a single brown eye. It simply stared a long moment, reminding me of the single eye on the back of a dollar bill. I waved. “Miss Fernandez, I was a friend of Luke Palmer. Your description of Izzy Gonzales helped get Mr. Palmer out of the Marion County Jail where he was being held on groundless charges. Can we talk?”
The curtain returned to its previous position, the brown eye gone. I waited for thirty seconds. There was no response. I spoke a little louder. “Please, Miss Fernandez, I need to talk with you. I know Pablo Gonzales did something to you or a member of your family. He won’t stop until he’s stopped. That’s what I‘m trying to do.” After another thirty seconds, the door opened the extent of the brass chain, giving me a six-inch view of a light brown faced filled with suspicion. “My name is Sean O’Brien. I know you called the sheriff’s office and identified the drawing as that of Izzy Gonzales. That was a brave and responsible thing to do. May I come in?”
She nodded, closed the door, slid the chain off and stood aside. I walked into a home where nothing seemed out of place. Architectural and home and garden magazines neatly displayed on the coffee table in the living room. Fresh-cut flowers filled the home with the scent of spring. The home was impeccably furnished. Telemundo flickered on the TV screen with the sound turned down.
Maria Fernandez was, without doubt, a striking woman. She had high cheekbones, eyes like liquid black onyx, full lips and thick dark hair. I guessed her to be about in her mid-thirties. She wore a business suit with a name tag that read Maria. In Spanish, I asked her if she was more comfortable speaking Spanish.
“I speak fluent English,” she said, her lips pursing once. “I only have a few minutes. I don’t want to be late for work.”