Murder Key by H. Terrell Griffin Read Free Book Online

ten years ago, about the same time I did, and opened an immigration practice. He’d built it up into a pretty thriving operation. Dwight was well respected in the Bar Association, and by the U.S. Imm i gration Judge up in Bradento n. He did a lot of work for the Mexican migrant workers that seem to congregate in Manatee County. Dwight lived on Bird Key, and nobody I’ve talked to can figure out why anyone would want to kill him.”
                  “I think the same guys who tried to kill me Saturday night killed Conley that morning. I didn’t know the guy and I can’t see any connection between us. If you hear anything else, let me know. Oh, and tell Anne that Jock got here.” 
                  We said goodbye and hung up. I related the conversation to Jock. “Still not ringing any bells,” I said.
                  Just before nine, my cell phone rang again. It was Bill Lester telling me that ballistics had matched the slug in my car to the one that killed Conley. A canvass of the local hospitals had failed to turn up any evidence of a Hispanic man with a broken arm.
                  “He could’ve had it looked at by any number of doctors, and we’ll probably never figure it out,” Bill said.
                  He also told me that I could pick up the Explorer at the crime lab. I called a company that repairs car windows and arranged for them to pick up the car and fix the window an d plug the bullet hole in the up holstery. I’d retrieve it late that afternoon from the repair shop.
     
    * * * * *
     
                  At noon, we drove south in Jock’s rental car and crossed the New Pass Bridge onto Lido Key. I marveled at the beauty of the inlet, its surface painted in pastel shades of blue and green. Several boats were an chored on the sand bar just seaward of the bridge, filled with people fishing and taking the sun.
                  We found a parking place near Lynches and walked back a block to the small restaurant. Logan was waiting at a table just inside the door.              
                  “Good to see you, again,” he said to Jock as they shook hands.
                  “Same here, Logan.”
                  We ordered lunch while Jock and Logan caught up with each other. Just as our meal was brought to the table, a large man, probably six-feet-three and weighing 220 pounds entered the restaurant. He had a lot of blonde hair set off by a deep tan. His sun-wrinkled face put him in his mid-forties.
                  “Matt,” he said, as he spotted us. “I’ve left a couple of messages on your answering machine.”
                  “Sorry, Buddy. I haven’t checked it since Friday. Say hello to Jock Algren. Jock, this is Buddy Gilchrest.”
                  “Nice to meet you, Jock. You doing okay, Logan?”
                  “Can’t complain.”
                  “Matt, I heard you found those Mexicans on the beach on Friday,” said Buddy. “The one who’s still alive is the brother of one of my crew chiefs.”
                  Buddy ran a lawn maintenance business that had sewn up much of the condo business on Longboat and Lido Keys. Most of his workers were Mexican imm i grants, some even legal.
                  “How’s he doing?” I asked.
                  “Still in a coma, but the cops are going to charge him with murder as soon as he wakes up. I don’t think he did it. I was wondering if you knew anything.”
                  “I don’t. What makes you think he didn’t do it? The evidence seems pretty solid.”
                  “Well, first of all, I doubt Pepe knows how to use a gun. Secondly, he’s here legally, and I don’t think he’d want to do anything to jeopardize his status. He’s supporting a pretty big family in