Alligator Pool

By Joan Hartwig

Who Will Be Next?

In the world of South Florida sugar baron Jorge Fuegos, secrets are dangerous possessions. When photojournalist Luke Palmer nearly drives over a body in the middle of a deserted highway, he photographs the dead man and then drives on to find help. When he returns, the body has disappeared, and he has no idea that the two men responsible for the murder now know his identity.

Ray Walters is missing, Arturo Ramirezs body is gone, and Palmers photographs show Ramirez wearing Walterss ring. As Palmer assists with the police investigation, he discovers that the sugar barons scheme to multiply profits is polluting the Everglades. A deadly chess game ensues, pitting the photojournalist against Fuegos and his murderous henchmen. Palmer builds his own group of allies, including two beautiful women eager to gain his affection.

In this exciting and suspenseful thriller, an investigation into corruption, murder, and the pollution of the Everglades leads to violent confrontation. It soon becomes clear who the real predators areand they are not the ferocious alligators.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450249706

Joan Hartwig

Joan Hartwig earned her PhD at Washington University in St. Louis. She is the author of two books onShakespeare and taught at the University of Kentucky as well as at Florida State University. She lives in New Smyrna Beach, Florida, where she is also an artist, poet, and photographer.

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Copyright © 2010 by Joan Hartwig

www.joanhartwig.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-4969-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-4971-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-4970-6 (ebook)

iUniverse rev. date: 09/14/2010 

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

In memory of my nephew, Stephen,

who joined me on my first journey into the Everglades

Acknowledgments

Many people helped me along the way to completing this novel. When I first decided to shift from writing literary criticism to writing fiction, Gurney Norman (currently Poet Laureate of Kentucky) encouraged me, and I am grateful for his enthusiasm. Other writers read versions of this novel at different stages and kept me coming back with revisions: Jay Booth, Patti Charron, and Gini La Charité in the early stages, and later, Donald Maass, James W. Hall, and Gary Broughman. I would like to thank all of them for their continued support. I’m grateful that Harry S. Truman declared the Everglades a national park on December 6, 1947. It truly is a wonder we need to preserve.

Chapter One

Arturo Ramirez crawled on his belly through the swamp, struggling for every inch of ground. The alligator’s hiss sounded in his head.

Dios mío, let me get to the road.

The wound in his back sent burning tentacles toward his heart. Despite the night’s heat, he shivered. Each handful of muck and tangled roots drained his energy. His left arm grew numb. Pulling with his other arm and shoving off with his feet, he writhed forward. He must reach the road and tell someone. If he could just get to Ernie, Ernie would know what to do. He took a deep breath, felt it rattle in his chest—then breathed more shallowly.

Stay calm. Stay calm and breathe.

The crunch of tires on the road split the night air and, for an instant, silenced the cicadas’ buzz. He was almost there. He clawed at the marsh grass and kicked at the wet earth behind him.

Pain rocketed through him, paralyzing his thoughts. Blood bubbled thick and metallic in his throat. He gagged, unable to draw in the dense swamp air.

His heavy brain told him to move. He reached out and touched the gravel at the road’s edge. With a desperate burst of energy, he thrust his body forward and felt the warm asphalt under his chest.

* * *

Ernie Tindall slid his warm, broad hands under the young alligator’s cold belly. In response, the two-year-old reptile turned its head and lowered its eyelids, relaxed. Sometimes Ernie let tourists hold the little fellow, especially when the tour bus from Fort Myers came through. Even though Ernie knew the docile gator was no threat, he taped its mouth.

The expensive, eighteen-foot panther statue in the side yard drew in the tourists, but Ernie suspected the baby alligator was his souvenir shop’s main attraction. People kept coming back to hold it.

Ernie untaped its mouth with his stubby fingers and gave it a piece of nutria meat from the refrigerator. The slim jaws clamped on it and swallowed it whole. Ernie smiled and stroked the gator’s throat as he carried it outside and set it in the pen with the five others he’d bought from Godwin’s farm last month. At least these gators would lead a happy life, free from skin-sellers and tourists looking for novel food.

The clear night was humid. Ernie wiped the sweat from his face and thick neck as he went back into the shop. He locked the front door and checked the clock. Almost ten. Arturo Ramirez had asked to meet him here at nine. The urgency in his friend’s voice surprised him, and Ernie wondered whether Arturo had met more trouble at the sugar farm.

Hey, Pete, Ernie called to his father, upstairs in bed. I’m leaving to go by Jolene’s Grill. If Arturo shows up, tell him where I am.

I’ll tell him if I hear him, Pete called down.

Ernie grinned and shook his head. The old man would never hear a knock. He returned to the counter, wrote a note, and taped it to the front door.

* * *

Luke Palmer looked at the Mexican beauty seated across from him in the restaurant and wondered what he wanted from her. Maria Sanchez was not only an ace reporter on television station WFMY, Fort Myers; she was also a very sharp lady. Her interview of a panel of journalists about environmental issues confronting South Florida had ended with this private dinner. He assumed she chose him because he was the only single man in the group. At this moment, however, he would rather not be under her investigative eye.

So, Luke, Maria said with a flirtatious side glance, what happened to your marriage?

You’d probably have to ask my ex-wife. I guess the small-town life got to her. How about you? Why have you never married?

Almost did, twice. But the job got in the way. Some men just want their wives to stay home and take care of them.

And that’s definitely not you. He smiled his appreciation.

She laughed. No way. There’s someone in New York … but long-distance romances are difficult.

Luke recognized the invitation, but he left her comment hanging. He still smarted from his divorce two years ago. He motioned for the check and pulled out some bills. I’d probably better head for the East Coast soon. Need to see a man about a horse in Hialeah.

A real horse? Maria asked.

Four legs and a tail, yeah. Friend of mine owns a stable of thoroughbreds.

Are you buying?

Luke laughed. No way. He wants me to watch his latest purchase work out.

How long does the drive take? Surely not more than four hours? She looked at her watch.

Luke felt irritation prickle at the back of his neck. I like to stop along the road and listen to the night sounds.

Maria raised her eyebrows. Ah … sí.

He walked her to the parking lot and extended his hand as she opened her car door. He said, Thanks for the interview. Thought it went well.

"So did I. Maybe you will come back and I can buy you dinner. I think we have much to talk about." She lifted her face and let her lips move toward his.

Sounds good, he said and backed away.

He waved at the rear of her car, turned, and let out his breath. Maria Sanchez made him uneasy, though he didn’t understand why. Her long, dark hair reflected the light when she tossed her head. He liked that. Clearly, she tried to evoke his interest, yet he hesitated. Was he afraid of how different she was from his ex-wife, Linda, the beautiful, blonde, homecoming queen he couldn’t resist … he jerked his mind away as he pulled his ’84 Dodge pickup south onto I-75 and drove to the connection with Alligator Alley.

He remembered the old cross-Florida road before it became an extension of I-75. Now any self-respecting alligator kept its distance from the double-length truck carriers that sped along the superhighway. Like the alligators, he took the Tamiami Trail instead. The drive would be slower, but he had plenty of time. His old college buddy, Roger Perry, probably planned to lure him into political talk, but Luke did not want to run on the Democratic slate in November. Politics just complicated life.

He enjoyed the presence of uncontrolled nature as he drove along the highway. The chorus of pig frogs and crickets, the odor of decaying vegetation and mysterious swamp scents freed his spirit. He felt happy to be on this old road where wild marsh grass struggled against the impositions of human hands.

He pulled his gaze from the moonlit swamp water just in time to see a large object in the road. He geared down as he braked, skidded to the left, and lurched against the seat belt. He released the belt, jumped from the pickup, and ran to the dark shape. The truck’s headlights angled to the left of the object, and, with only the moonlight, he couldn’t make out what it was. Luke touched the body and felt cloth. He shuddered. This was no alligator.

He raced back to the truck, shuffled through the paper cups, magazines, and camera equipment on the passenger side until he found a flashlight. He turned it on and saw a man’s body with a large, dark stain on the denim shirt below the left shoulder. The neck was warm, but Luke found no pulse. When he passed the light over the man, he saw that the left hand lacked two fingers. He focused the light on the dead man’s face and noticed his own hand was shaking. Luke used both hands to steady the quivering beam. The tanned face was framed by straight dark hair, and the eyes were open.

Luke took a deep breath to calm down and squatted on his heels, surveying the landscape. No headlights appeared, but other vehicles were sure to come along soon. Where the hell was his cell phone? Probably back in his darkroom.

He went to the pickup and pulled a hand mirror from the glove compartment. Then he backed up the truck so the headlights lit the body. He held the mirror up to the man’s mouth. No mist. He felt again for a pulse, this time at the wrist. Nothing. The skin no longer felt warm to the touch. Clearly, the man was dead. Experience as a photojournalist at crime scenes told Luke he shouldn’t change anything. If he had almost run over this man, another car surely would. He wanted to move the body off the road to keep it intact, but he needed to preserve the scene. He knew that the police would suspect him if he changed anything. He returned to the truck, found the camera with a flash attachment, and photographed the body from three angles. Then the film ran out.

Damn, he muttered.

He slipped the rewound canister into his right pocket, found another roll inside his jacket, reloaded the camera, and clicked two shots from every angle. Then he lifted the man’s shoulders and carefully moved him to the side of the road. He retrieved a tarpaulin from the truck bed and covered the body. Tiny creatures scurried from under the rocks he used to anchor the canvas.

Not sure which way to turn, Luke headed east on the Tamiami Trail. Five minutes down the road, he saw a clearing with a huge fiberglass panther in the side yard. He pulled in, ran to the door, and knocked. No one answered. He saw a note taped to the door: Arturo, I’m at Jolene’s. Waited for you until ten. Ernie.

Luke glanced at his watch. Already eleven thirty. He backed away from the overhang and looked up at the dark second story. He climbed back in his truck and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He thought of the phone booth just beyond Monument Lake and gunned the motor.

Ten minutes later, he dialed 911. An operator connected him to a dispatcher. I’m calling from the Oasis Visitor Center. I found a man’s body on the Tamiami Trail about twenty miles back. I need someone to meet me there and take care of the evidence.

What kind of evidence?

Could be a murder.

The woman’s voice sharpened. What makes you think so?

A wound in the back, probably from a bullet—and the body was still warm when I found it.

Can you tell … well … is he white or black?

Not sure. Maybe Hispanic.

The dispatcher asked him for his name, his occupation, his place of residence, and the specific location of the body. Then she asked Luke to describe himself.

Six feet two, one-ninety, blue eyes, sandy brown hair.

Age?

Forty-six.

I’ll alert the officer on duty at the Everglades City substation. He or the emergency medical unit should be able to meet you in about twenty minutes. Anything else you want them to know?

I’m driving an ’84 Dodge pickup, tan, with a dent in the left front fender. He stopped. She didn’t need to know the truck’s entire history. The body is on the south side of the road under a green tarp.

The dispatcher switched off without further comment.

On his way back, he kept his eyes on the left shoulder, but no mound appeared. The odometer indicated more than twenty miles. He turned around and, within a mile, saw his skid marks toward the middle of the right lane. He stopped, backed up, and pulled off the road, leaving his headlights on. This time he took the flashlight with him. He saw the bloodstained pavement just beyond the skid marks. Rocks from the tarpaulin were scattered at the edge of the road—but no tarp and no body. Luke’s adrenalin started pumping. What would the cops make of his report now?

The headlights of an approaching car washed over him. The car stopped just behind his truck, and a man in uniform strode up.

You Luke Palmer? asked the burly figure.

Right, Luke said.

So where’s this body?

That’s what I’d like to know. I left it right here, covered with a tarp, weighted down with these rocks. He motioned to the blood stain on the pavement. That’s where the body was.

The officer bent down and brushed the pavement with a finger, sniffed it, and stood up. Looks like something’s been killed here, all right. He started to walk away, and then turned abruptly. How’d you happen to be out here this time of night?

Startled, Luke said, I’m on my way to Miami.

Why not take Alligator Alley? It’s a lot quicker.

I know that. Anger crept up his neck. I don’t like that drive.

The officer spit into the grass and continued to chew on a wad of something. Just seems odd to me. Close onto midnight, and here you are, reporting a dead man, and there’s no body.

Keeping his voice calm, Luke said, I took pictures before I moved the body.

The officer looked again at the stain on the road. Why’d you take pictures? Got a family album for this sort of thing?

For God’s sake, Luke exploded, the man was dead. I had to move him off the road to keep his body intact. I’ve been to enough crime scenes to know that the body shouldn’t be moved. So I took pictures.

The officer walked to the other side of the highway before he spit again. Let’s just say you’re right, and there was this body lying here. And you got pictures. I’d like to see them pictures.

Great. Let me develop this roll of film, and you can see for yourself.

You know how to develop film? the officer asked.

I’m a photojournalist. Yes, I can develop the film.

Mebbe I need to call in this scene and have it taped off.

I was wondering about that, Luke said.

Hang on a minute. The officer went to his squad car and picked up the radio handset. Luke could see him nodding and talking but couldn’t hear what he said.

When the officer returned, he said, Okay, here’s what we do. A little irregular, but there’s a photo lab in Immokalee owned by a friend of mine, and he’ll let you use it to develop this film.

By the way, officer, I didn’t get your name.

The man snorted. Guess I forgot to introduce myself. Lieutenant Don Haines, Everglades City sheriff’s substation. He flashed a penlight on his badge. That all right with you?

No problem, Luke said.

They moved their vehicles from the south shoulder, parked on the opposite side of the two-lane road, and waited. When the second sheriff’s car arrived, Haines gave instructions to an older man he called Toliver, who unwound the tape, staking it down at intervals. Haines turned to Luke. That cover it?

Luke nodded.

Then follow me. Haines walked to his car, got in, and headed back down the Tamiami Trail. Luke followed and turned right on SR 29, keeping his distance until they reached Immokalee.

Luke never thought Immokalee was much of a town. After midnight, it offered even less. The patrol car pulled into an unlit fruit stand. Haines walked to the squat building behind the empty stand, knocked, and disappeared inside. A light came on over the doorway. When Luke got out of his truck, Haines introduced a man he called Old Tom, whose high cheekbones, dark skin, and long gray braids marked him as Seminole Indian. Old Tom motioned Luke into the back room, where Luke discovered a well-equipped darkroom, as good as the one in his own house.

With a nod from Old Tom, Luke set to work. In half an hour, he handed the developed film to Lieutenant Haines. Old Tom looked at the negatives and spoke to Haines so quietly Luke could not hear. He watched the two men take a closer look at the negatives against the light.

Haines said, Probably need to take these negatives to the police lab in Naples. Too important to bypass protocol.

"But they’re my negatives," Luke protested.

Right now, them’s the only evidence a body was on that road. Tell you what. I’ll write you out a receipt. He pulled a piece of exposed photographic paper out of a stack of rejects, turned it over, and scribbled a note. Here you go. He handed the paper to Luke.

"You will send them to me later?"

Right.

Luke saw Haines and the old Seminole exchange another glance. Whatever the two saw in the negatives, they didn’t plan to share it with him.

Hey, what’s going on here? Luke asked.

Nothing you need to worry about, Haines said. Unless you want me to make damn sure I know where you are for the rest of the night.

Luke pocketed the receipt. Here’s my phone number. He handed Haines his card. If I don’t hear from you by noon, you’ll hear from me.

When he left the fruit stand, Luke slammed his truck into gear and headed back to Alligator Alley. He would need the faster highway to make Hialeah in time to watch Roger Perry’s horse run.

* * *

The driver switched off the headlights as he pulled the black Lexus onto a gravel road. The two men sat in silence for several minutes.

Wallace said, What’re we doing here, Merc?

Give me a minute. I’m trying to think.

About what?

About the fuckup back there.

Things worked out. The guy’s dead.

Not on account of you, Merc said.

Whaddya mean by that?

"Plan was to take him to the alligator