The Keys

By Mark Rea

The Keys is a suspense-filled thriller in which police detective Mac Forrester must solve a string of homicides as well as come to grips with the brutal murder of his wife nearly two years before.

Set in Southwest Florida, the story opens with Forrester piecing together clues from separate murders and attempting to link the crimes together. His investigation is hampered by what appears to be interference on the part of the FBI on behalf of mysterious entrepreneur A.J. Hidell.

Forrester gets his first break in the case while interviewing the girlfriend of one of the victims. She gives him the key to a post office box which triggers a search that takes the detective to the Florida Keys.

Forrester begins to discover whom he can and cannot trust on his way to discovering what The Keys really are, how much they are worth and to what extent people will go to obtain them.

The climax of the story features a final confrontation between Forrester, the head of a Cuban drug cartel and Hidell, whose mysterious past may include ties to Lee Harvey Oswald, one of the most notorious assassins of the Twentieth Century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Rea
• Release date: Aug 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465973849

Mark Rea

Mark Rea is managing editor emeritus of Columbus Sports Publications, a Columbus, Ohio-based firm that manages the fan website BuckeyeSports.com and publishes sports-related fan newspapers including Buckeye Sports Bulletin. For more than 30 years, Rea has been a writer, journalist, editor and columnist at newspapers and magazines for such companies as Scripps-Howard and McGraw-Hill. Throughout the course of his career, which began at the age of 15 as a part-time sports writer for The Record-Herald, Rea has won several writing awards, including several national first-place honors from McGraw-Hill and an honorable mention from the Football Writers Association of America. He is a member of the voting panel for the Heisman Memorial Trophy and has appeared regularly as analyst on the NFL Network’s College Football Now program. In 2009, Rea wrote the well-received "The Die-Hard Fan's Guide to Buckeye Football," a fan-friendly history of Ohio State football, and followed in 2014 with "Legends: Ohio State Buckeyes." Rea has residences in Ohio and Florida.

Book preview

THE KEYS

By MARK REA

Copyright 2011 by Mark Rea

Smashwords Edition

For Lisa,

My Biggest Fan

CHAPTER 1

Jesus H. Christ, what a mess.

McAllen Forrester muttered those words and a few other expletives under his breath as he surveyed what was left of the beachfront condominium. Water dripped from ceiling panels, at least those that hadn’t fallen to the floor in a soggy mess. The pungent odor of smoke, the soot-lined walls, wet bootprints from scurrying firemen in what once was light beige carpeting. All familiar sights and smells to Mac, who had been on the scene of many structure fires in seventeen years as a homicide detective in his native Chicago.

This was his first, however, after just nineteen months on the job in Naples, Florida.

Making his way through a small hallway and past two bedrooms, Mac peered straight into a third bedroom. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, he thought, discounting the fact the far corner of the wall was missing and broken glass from the jalousie windows was strewn across the floor.

Hey, Mac.

Mac averted his attention into the other bedroom where three men were standing. Two wore standard blue nylon jackets with the word FIRE emblazoned in big yellow letters across the shoulders. Mac guessed they were young firemen since the jackets had deep creases in the same places, an obvious sign they were just unpacked from storage boxes.

The third man, approximately twenty years older than the other two, wore a light blue dress shirt with navy blue pants, a green striped tie and brown shoes. Mac shook his head and smiled.

Dress in the dark again, Spence? he said with a laugh.

This ain’t no goddamned fashion show, replied Jon Spencer. Anyway, you’re late. While you’ve been resting your head on the feathers, we’ve been doing your job for you as usual.

Spencer was the chief fire investigator for Collier County, Florida’s largest county in terms of area. It stretches from just below Fort Myers on the Gulf of Mexico south to Everglades City and more than fifty miles east into the Everglades and Big Cypress Swamp Preserve toward Miami. Collier County is home to the richest of the rich in Naples and Marco Island as well as the poorest of the poor who live in swarms outside farm towns such as Immokalee.

A ruddy-faced man of about fifty-five, Spencer was maybe five-foot-ten and easily two hundred and twenty pounds. A love for deep-dish pizza had manifested itself in his stomach while a nightly penchant for Tanqueray had broken out the gin blossoms on his round, pudgy nose.

Spencer was one of the few men in law enforcement Mac had gotten to know and like over the past year and a half. Both were native Chicagoans, they shared a passion for their beloved Cubbies and that background alone allowed them to trust one another. Many times over the past nineteen months, Mac had secretly wished Spencer had been a cop. He was one of the few people he had met in Southwest Florida that took their job as seriously as he did his.

Talk to me, Spence, Mac said. What am I doing at a smoke-eater’s convention?

Spencer nodded his head toward the middle of the room. Mac focused on a pile of black rubble in a square pattern approximately four by six feet. He stepped closer and only then detected the faint whiff of a familiar smell. Something akin to burned bacon but with a more acrid aroma bereft of any spice or seasoning. It was human flesh cooked to a crisp.

Allow me to introduce Mr. Theodore Wickens or at least what’s left of him, Spencer said as he reached for a small white notebook in his shirt pocket. Flipping over a few pages, he added, It seems Mr. Wickens here had himself a night on the town, came home, mixed himself a few drinks, went to bed and somewhere along the line – poof – cancel Christmas.

Mac shrugged his shoulders. And this all means what to me?

C’mon, Mac. Tell me what you see.

Mac walked around the remains of what was once a king-sized bed. His expertise was homicide, but he’d witnessed enough fire investigations to know what to look for.

Okay, I’ll play along, he said. The fire appears to have started near the head of the bed, flashed and then enveloped the victim. The guy probably had a bottle, maybe knocked it over or maybe spilled some on him, then dropped a match or fell asleep with a lit cigarette. How’m I doin’ so far?

You’re colder than Capone’s ass, Spencer said with a laugh. C’mon over here and take a closer look. I guarantee ya there’s no bite left in this one.

The fire investigator took out a pen and pointed toward a spot near the wall just above the charred remains on the floor. It was a spot only a few millimeters in diameter and had a slightly shinier black color than the rest of the wall.

See this? he said. Flash point.

Mac nodded. OK. The guy’s got his cigarette in his hand and stretches or yawns or something and accidentally lights the wallpaper.

Spencer moved his pen a few inches down the wall. Here’s another, he said. And after moving the pen a few more inches, he pointed out a third spot.

Now, what do you say?

I’d say you have a guy who came home shit-faced, sloshed his last drink all over the wall, lit a cigarette and then toasted. C’mon, Spence. You must have seen a thousand of these things up north.

Yeah, I saw a few, Spencer replied. but none like this. This body is almost unrecognizable. No alcohol fire consumes a body like that. And look at the rest of this place. Just the bedroom ought to look like this. Hell, this was a three-alarm job.

Shit, Mac said, these boys down here couldn’t find their asses with both hands if you spotted them one cheek. They probably called in the second alarm to find the damn hydrant and the third to help hook up the hose.

One of the men in the FIRE jackets shot a quick glance at him.

Present company excluded, of course, Mac offered.

Look, Mac, Spencer said as he put his arm around the detective and walked him out of the room. I’m gonna go out on a limb here. I think you’ve got more than meets the eye. All I’m asking right now is for you to send me a team of your guys …

Jesus, Spence. Why don’t you just ask for my left nut? You know how those guys operate. Hell, if it isn’t on the schedule, it doesn’t get done. And you’re asking me to get them to drive to Marco on a Friday afternoon in the middle of February when every grandmother from New York to Boston is on the road in the left lane with their right turn signal on? There’s no way in hell.

I’m telling you, I think you’ve got a homicide. But if you don’t want to make the call, I’ll make it. Of course, then somebody’s gonna want to know why nobody from homicide was on the ball. Somebody’s gonna want somebody else’s ass in a sling. And whose cheeks do you suppose right now are getting measured for that sling?

Mac bit down on his lower lip and grumbled a sigh.

Bastard, he mumbled as he pulled a cell phone from his inside suit jacket pocket.

Mac quickly punched in some numbers but nothing happened. He looked at the phone and said under his breath, Shit. Not again.

What’s the matter? Spencer asked.

Oh, the damn thing’s dead again. I keep forgetting to plug it in at night. Annie always took care of things like that.

The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think. They hung there awkwardly, pungently like the smell of smoke in the air.

Maybe one of these days I’ll figure out I gotta do things like that for myself, Mac said.

Spencer nodded. Yeah. Just takes a little time.

Mac tightened his lips. Well, you’d think after two years … Oh, hell. Forget it. I’ll use the radio in the car.

He walked out of the condo and into the bright winter warmth of a Southwest Florida afternoon. The sun had already begun to bake the asphalt parking lot as Mac made his way to his car.

Jesus, he muttered to himself. When are you going to get over this and on with your life? She’s been gone for two years for Christ’s sake.

As he opened the door on his plain white car, the radio was already crackling.

Two-Alpha-Twenty. Two-Alpha-Twenty. What is your location?

Mac picked up the microphone and answered, Two-Alpha-Twenty. Location is six hundred block of Seaview Court on Marco.

Two-Alpha-Twenty, roger. Contact One-Delta-One via landline. He’s been waiting about twenty minutes.

Roger that. Have One-Alpha-Ten contact me.

One-Alpha-Ten is with One-Delta-One. And he wants you right away.

That was strange, Mac thought. One-Alpha-Ten was Detective Cole Thornton, the man he would have to try to convince to drive out to Marco Island with a team of investigators. But he was with One-Delta-One.

What’s Cole doing with Glass? Mac wondered aloud.

What was that, Alpha-Twenty?

Nothing, he replied. Two-Alpha-Twenty, out.

One-Delta-One was the call sign for Detective Captain Carter Glass, the senior detective in the Naples Police Department. He had the longest tenure among police detectives, but Mac wasn’t fond of him and the feeling was mutual.

A non-descript man in his early sixties, Glass was an efficiency expert. A neatly trimmed, neatly combed crop of gray hair sat atop a head that featured a clean-shaven face, deep-furrowed brow and small mouth. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses with visible bifocals was perched at the bridge of a long, narrow nose. Glass owned three suits and three pairs of slacks and wore some variation of those clothes every day to work. From the cut and style, Mac guessed the clothing was at least ten years old, maybe more. And Glass wore the same pair of black wing-tipped shoes every day no matter what the jacket and slacks combination.

It was Glass who actually hired Mac, but the two got off on the wrong foot almost immediately. Mac had been in the department scarcely two weeks when a hunch panned out and led to an arrest. But when the case went to trial, the case was dismissed when the defense attorney successfully argued to keep crucial evidence from being heard. Glass blamed Mac for losing the conviction and the two men had a rather protracted argument the next day in Glass’ office. Although both later cooled off and worked often with one another on subsequent cases, neither had forgotten the matter entirely. But Glass definitely liked to work alone as did all three of the detectives in the department. So it seemed odd that Thornton and Glass would be working together now.

Mac walked across the parking lot to the condominium manager’s office and asked to use the phone. When he dialed Glass’ number, a frantic voice answered.

Forrester, where in the hell have you been?

Working a potential case, Captain.

Well, we’ve got a sure-as-hell-is-homicide case if you think you could pry yourself away and join us.

Mac didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, but the waver in his superior’s voice intrigued him.

What’ve you got, Captain?

Why don’t come and see for yourself? How long will it take you to get to Marco?

Marco? I’m on Marco now.

What the hell are you doing here? Never mind. I’m at the Sandpebble. It’s on the south end of Collier, the big brownish condo set back off the road. We’re on the eighth floor.

I’m leaving now, Mac said. Be there in five minutes.

His heart started racing as he headed back into the afternoon heat. Glass never got excited about a case and he’d seen dozens of dead bodies. What was so special about this one?

As Mac headed toward his car, Spencer appeared from the burned-out condo.

Well? he said.

You’re on hold, Spence. Got something brewing down at one of the beachfronts. Get your own team down here and start your investigation if you’re so sure. When we’re through down there, I’ll swing back past here.

Spencer nodded reluctantly and Mac sped out of the parking lot.

CHAPTER 2

The Sandpebble Condominium was one of several high-rise condominiums on Marco Island’s three-mile crescent beach. At least, that’s what the Chamber of Commerce liked to call the expanse of white sand that jutted out into the Gulf of Mexico. On the north end is Tigertail Beach, so named because the sand used to rise from a low tide in the shape of a tiger’s tail. Since a beach restoration project several years ago, however, the tail had disappeared and left only tourists – many of them of Hispanic descent – to set up their towels and umbrellas at Tigertail.

Less than a mile south, the condominiums began to rise. Last night’s fire had been in one of the garden apartments in the Seven Seas Club, a cloister of two-story, mid-rise and high-rise apartment buildings for the very rich, the very old or some combination of the two. Only the antiseptic white high rises were actually beachfront property and each jutted skyward behind expanses of shrubbery and other greenery that had padded some fortunate landscape designer’s bank account.

Mixed in with the rest of the condominiums were a few hotels, but Marco Island’s beachfront was almost exclusively for the affluent. Captains of industry and their trophy wives came from all over the Midwest and New England to escape the brutal winters. Many could be seen walking back and forth on the sand, heading in no particular direction, their footprints left to be covered over by the rising Gulf tides.

It was usually easy to spot the condo owners. Nearly always Caucasian, the men were deeply tanned with a large gold medallion hanging around their necks only slightly smaller than their stomachs. Or they were tall and thin with pasty faces usually wearing a sailor’s cap and some matching shirt and swimsuit ensemble their wives had purchased. The women were equally as predictable. Only the tans changed. The wide females were the ones with the shiny white faces while the skinny ones wore their deep tans like alligator skin.

Marco Island was a city, but not in the classic sense. It had its own city council as well as its own police and fire departments. But no one took any of it very seriously. The council was made up mainly of former CEOs or busybodies who didn’t have anything else better to do after retirement. And it didn’t really matter since the newspaper on the island reported mostly who had holes-in-one at the Island Country Club or which little shaver had celebrated a ninth birthday while visiting Grandma and Grandpa.

It was out of the ordinary for any Naples homicide detective to make his way out to Marco for any reason. It certainly wasn’t going to be on business. The island had had exactly two murders in the last eight years and both of those had been domestic violence cases. Once the husband shot the wife, the other time just the opposite occurred.

In his nineteen months in the area, Mac had been to the island exactly once. He had rented a boat in Naples on a rare day off and began exploring the inland waterways. In a few hours, he found himself near the island and stopped to have a bite to eat at one of the waterside restaurants, something called the Snook Inn. He’d had a decent meal of broiled grouper and left. That was the extent of his knowledge of Marco Island.

But it didn’t take him long to make the short drive to the Sandpebble. Set back off the street, it had an oblong circular driveway. He immediately saw two white cars he recognized as those driven by Glass and Thornton, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. He parked his car alongside the others, made his way through the unlocked front door of the condo and found the elevator. When he arrived on the eighth floor, a uniformed Collier County sheriff’s deputy met him.

No one allowed on this floor, Sir, the deputy said.

Mac flashed his detective shield at the young deputy.

Are you Forrester? he asked.

Yeah. What’s going on?

Hang on a second, Detective.

The deputy pushed the microphone button on the portable radio attached to his shoulder epaulet.

Captain Glass.

Yeah, came the reply.

Your other detective is here.

OK. Give him the gloves and send him in here.

The deputy reached into his back pocket and handed Mac a small paper sleeve. It contained a pair of clear rubber surgical gloves.

You’re to put those on and then go down the hall to Eight-Seventeen. They’re waiting for you in there.

Mac tore open the sleeve and began putting on the gloves. So, why all the secrecy? Did the mayor’s girlfriend lose an earring or something?

I have no idea, Sir, the deputy replied. I had orders that no one got off that elevator but you. I haven’t been down there so I don’t know what they’ve got.

Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out, Mac said as he headed down the hall.

The corridor was dimly lit with overhead bulbs encased under square fixtures. The brown décor of the hall only served to lengthen the shadows and give the place a sort of dark feel. All of the doors were closed with the exception of the fifth one down on the left. As he neared the open door, Mac could hear hushed voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. And the closer he got to the room, his nostrils flared with an unusual aroma. It was one he had smelled before but he couldn’t remember where.

He entered the room and saw Glass and Thornton talking with a young woman. Thornton was standing while Glass was seated on the sofa next to the woman, who looked to be only in her late twenties. Dark brown hair framed a full, dark-complexioned face. She wore a simple white sleeveless blouse, jeans and white tennis shoes. The three spoke almost in a whisper and didn’t seem to notice Mac until he cleared his throat to announce his presence.

Thornton approached him first.

Where have you been, Mac? The old man’s really pissed.

Why? What’s going on?

Nobody told you?

Hell, no. I’m been down the street picking through ashes with Spence. What’ve you guys got?

Thornton looked toward the floor and shook his head.

This one’s bad, Mac. I’ve never seen anything like this. Maybe you did where you came from, but this is all new to me. This is like out of the movies. I never thought I’d ever see anything like this.

As he talked, the color of Thornton’s face turned paler. His words trailed off into a barely audible whisper. And small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

Get a grip, Cole. Let’s see what all the hubbub’s about.

Okay. Okay.

With a wave of his hand