“I’ll be fast. Where do you work?”
“I’m in the concierge’s office at the Don Cesar Hotel.”
I smiled. “Something happened to you or someone in your family, something that involved the Gonzales family, didn’t it?”
“Yes, how do you know this?”
“Lucky guess. Tell me about it, please. What happened?”
She sat in a rocking chair opposite me, her eyes locked on a framed photograph of a pretty girl, a teenager with long black hair. Maria looked up at me. “The girl in the picture is my little sister. Izzy Gonzales took a liking to her, they dated then married. When Alondro tried to break it off, next I knew she was kidnapped by Pablo Gonzales’ men, the coyotes. They brought her to this country and kept her prisoner in Houston, Texas. Izzy was such a control freak. After a while, when she would no longer be the obedient wife, he forced her to do things with the men just to punish her… things that made her vomit. He said it was to teach her a lesson — to know her place. Then he accused her of being a whore. Bastard! She told me about it in a letter… a letter she managed to get out a few months before she died. I came to this country to take her back. But I was too late. Police found her body in a garbage dump outside the city. They say she died of aids and a beating, too. Alondro was a good girl, so if she had aids, those pigs gave it to her.” Her voice cracked, her dark eyes welled with tears. She blinked and looked away, reaching for a Kleenex.
“I’m very sorry. Izzy was cruel. And, Pablo Gonzales is a very sick man — like a dog filled with rabies. He rules a pretty demented empire and will continue to hurt people until he’s stopped. He’s killed people I knew, and he’ll kill again. I know he comes to Tampa. Where does he stay when he’s here?”
She was silent for a few seconds, glancing at the television and then back to me. “Izzy’s the reason I came to this area. Before her death, Alondro told me Izzy, using his uncle’s money, liked to throw parties in the Sarasota and Tampa area, and his favorite hotel was the Don Cesar. That’s why I got a job in concierge there. I was hoping to see him.”
I said nothing for a moment. “What were you going to do if you found him?”
“I was raised Catholic, and I’m a devout believer in Christ. But, God forgive me, I was going to do whatever I had to do if I found him asleep in his room.”
“Did you?”
“No. He checks in under aliases. The hotel has such a high occupancy it is difficult. But the law of averages will one day be on my side.”
“Not if you are trying to find Izzy. He’s dead. His uncle, though, is very much alive. And he’s the one I’m trying to find.”
“I might be able to help you.”
“How?”
“Because I speak Spanish well, I keep close communications with some maids working with the hotel’s housekeeping staff. One girl told me she knew Izzy had stayed in a penthouse suite for a weekend. He parties with expensive prostitutes. The maid found many condoms and evidence of cocaine use in the room after he left. I located an address the last time he was there, right before I saw his picture on the TV news. For whatever reason, he’d written it down on a piece of paper and put it in the phone book. The phone book was lying open near the bed. It was marking a page that advertises escort services.”
“What did you do with the address?”
“I copied it. And I’ve kept it in my purse for a while. I don’t know why.”
“May I see it?”
She nodded, opened her purse, digging and handing me a folded paper. Under the Don Caesar logo was written: 20001 Port Royal Lane, Siesta Key
I memorized the address and returned the paper. “Thank you, Miss Fernandez.” .
“You think this is the place where Pablo Gonzales stays when he comes here?”
“Might be. It’s a pretty exclusive area.”
“If you find him, what will you do?”
“I’ll do whatever I have to do.”
“And may God walk with you, Mr. O’Brien.” She lowered her eyes and made the sign of the cross.
ONE HUNDRED-FOUR
On the way to the Tampa Aquarium, I followed the back roads, drove fast, and took a lot of twist and turns. If I was being followed, I couldn’t see it. I called Dave and gave him the address on Port Royal Lane. “See if you can find out who owns the house. Can you send an aerial picture to me?”
“Maybe better than that. If I can access the right satellite, I might be able to stream live images of the house and its surroundings.”
“Excellent. Do what you can, and copy the signal to whatever mobile device Thorpe carries, too.”
“Already done.”
“How’s Max?”
“When she walked me this morning, all was fine. We had a slight preoccupation with a pet iguana that one of the boat captains was showing the tourists.”
“Talk later.”
Cal Thorpe arrived right on time — to the second. As he approached, I saw his reflection on the glass at the massive Tampa Aquarium. I turned and said, “It’s been awhile. Glad you could make it.”
“Sounds like the kind of international party I wouldn’t want to miss.” He smiled. Thorpe was my height, a little taller than 6’3”, muscular forearms and chest, tanned, and handsome, angular face with a cleft chin. He wore his hair short and combed straight back. Dark glasses. He was dressed in a blue Hawaiian print shirt hung loosely outside his pants.
“Coffee?” I asked
“I could use a cup.”
We took a back table in a softly lit coffee shop, and I told Thorpe everything I knew. I opened my iPhone and saw the real-time image of a mansion on the bay. “This is the signal Dave Collin’s feeding us.”
Thorpe looked closely at it. “I see three parked cars, one man at the gate… looks like one man at each corner of the property but could have a few others outside not visible. We don’t know how many are in the house.”
“I hope it’s less than what we see outside.”
Thorpe nodded.
I said, “It has to be Gonzales. Who else travels with that kind of security?”
“You want to call for any additional forces?”
“You’re all the back-up I need.”
“How do you want to approach the house?”
“From their least guarded spot… the bay. Let’s get Dave on the line.” I made the call and asked Dave who owned the home.
“County records indicate it was sold to a corporation eighteen months ago, the Fairmount Group. The same group owns a private jet that landed at Tampa International two days ago.”
I said, “And I’d bet you a tank of jet fuel that both are dummy corps and owned by Gonzales.”
“No doubt.”
Thorpe said, “Dave, I saw a dock and a large yacht in the feed you sent. I assume the yacht is owned by Gonzales. We’ll be approaching from the bay. That’s the Achilles heel.”
“Yacht — yes, Fairmont Group. Approaching when?” asked Dave.
“Tonight,” I said. “The bay is very wide at that point. We’ll need a small boat or an inflatable with an outboard on it. Two tanks, masks and fins.”
“I can make those arrangements,” Thorpe said.
“Make the most with your time,” Dave said. “The flight plan has the private jet flying to Trinidad in the morning.”
ONE HUNDRED-FIVE
There was a tiny sliver of a moon behind the moving clouds, the bay ink black. A breeze from the east brought the scent of mangroves and fish. We anchored the rubber inflatable raft in twenty feet of water, about one hundred yards off shore from the estate. I could see floodlights around the grounds. Lights running along the dock railing. The yacht was dark. “Maybe Pablo’s in the house,” I said.