Blood Orchid

4

Howard Singleton, head of the Miami office of the federal government’s General Services Administration, went through the papers on his desk slowly, then he looked up at one of his people, Willard Smith, who was sitting across the desk from him. “Is this all we got?” he asked.

“Three bids,” Smith replied.

“I don’t get it, Smitty,” Singleton said. “This is prime real estate.”

“Well, it’s not exactly Palm Beach,” the man replied. “ Orchid Beach is just some backwater. I looked into it; it’s pretty, but there’s no big-league shopping, only a few decent restaurants, and none of the other stuff you’d expect to find where there’s high-end construction going on-very few interior decorators, upscale furniture stores, and all that. Not much in the way of entertainment, either.”

“But still, this property has three golf courses, fifty houses already built, a clubhouse.”

“There’s no beachfront property attached; it’s all west of A1A; that holds down the value. Fact is, Orchid Beach isn’t the sort of town to support the kind of big-time development that this property would require if someone is going to turn a profit. It’s over the top, and by a long way.”

“Well, two of these bids are not credible, as far as I’m concerned. Did you read the backup paperwork?”

“Yes, and I agree. There’s only one bid that we could properly accept, I think, and it’s this BOP, Blood Orchid Properties.”

“Weren’t we expecting bids from a couple of big Miami developers?”

“Sure, but don’t you read the papers?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Manny and Steven Steinberg are both dead. We’ve had serious interest from both of them, and I was anticipating bids.”

“What, they just dropped dead? Both these guys were in their forties, weren’t they?”

“They dropped dead from bullets,” the man replied. “And on the same day. Less than a week before the bidding closed.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“Well, it’s suspicious, I’ll grant you that, but we’re not going to get those bids now. We’ve advertised this thing, received sealed bids from three parties, and one of them is higher than the reserve, so what can we do but accept it? We’re on a deadline here.”

Singleton stacked the papers and returned them to his subordinate. “All right, issue the acceptance to this BOP outfit.” Singleton watched Willard Smith leave, closing the door behind him, then he called the FBI.

Harry Crisp, the agent in charge of the FBI’s Miami office, answered a buzz from his secretary.

“Yes?”

“A Howard Singleton from the GSA is on the phone.”

“Is this about my request for additional office space?”

“He didn’t say.”

Crisp punched the flashing button. “Mr. Singleton, this is Harry Crisp.”

“Good morning.”

“I hope this is about getting us more office space.”

“That request is being processed, Mr. Crisp, but this is about something else.”

“What’s up?”

“You remember a couple of years back you folks confiscated a piece of property up in Orchid Beach?”

“Yeah, sure; Palmetto Gardens. There was a huge drug-based money-laundering operation being run from there.”

“Right. Well, we got authority a few weeks ago to sell the development.”

“Yeah, that figures. Did you sell it yet?”

“Yes, but there’s something fishy about the bidding.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We got only three bids, all of them low, only one of them acceptable.”

“Listen, Howard, I’m not in the real estate business.”

“That’s not what I’m calling about. We anticipated bids from two large Miami property developers, and they were both murdered less than a week before bidding closed.”

“Murder happens.”

“Sure, but why these two guys?”

“Who were they?”

“Manuel Jimenez and Steven Steinberg. According to the papers, they had no connection, except that my office had talked with both of them several times about a bid on Palmetto Gardens. Then they get killed right before it’s time to submit sealed bids, way too late for anybody else to get involved who hadn’t already prepared a bid. What does that suggest to you?”

“You said you accepted a bid?”

“Yes, from a company called Blood Orchid Properties.”

Crisp made a note of that.

“They’re a Panamanian company, registered to do business in the U.S. ”

Crisp kept writing as Singleton gave him what he had on BOP.

Holly’s secretary buzzed her. “Harry Crisp on line one.”

She picked up the phone. “Harry, how are you?”

“I’m good, Holly, you?”

“Good.”

“How’s Ham? He all healed up?”

“Sure, a long time ago.” Ham had been shot while playing a key role in an FBI investigation.

“We’ve always been grateful for his help on that thing, you know.”

“Then you might tell him so.”

“I had the attorney general write him a letter,” Crisp said. “What does he want, a handwritten note from the president?”

“Forget it, Harry. What’s up?”

“Remember Palmetto Gardens?”

“How could I forget?” She had put the FBI onto what was happening there and had been very important in cracking the case.

“It sold the other day.”

“I saw something in the local paper about it. Whoever bought it got a real deal.”

“Yeah. Problem is, two Miami developers who were supposed to bid got themselves murdered before they could submit something.”

“Oh, yeah. I read about that in theNew York Times. I even talked to the investigating officer about it.”

“Why?”

“We had an attempt on a developer’s life up here a couple of weeks back-a retired developer from New York.”

“Tell me about it.”

“A single rifle shot, missed him by inches, went in one side of the man’s greenhouse, came out the other. Assassin’s weapon.”

“You investigated this?”

“I was standing next to the man when it happened.”

“Who is he?”

“Name is Ed Shine.” She spelled it for him.

“I’ll run it, see if we come up with something.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know if he bid on the property?”

“I have no idea.”

“Can you find out?”

“I can call and ask him. Why? You think that whoever bought the property wanted Shine out of the way, too?”

“Could be. Is he still healthy?”

“Far as I know.”

“Let me hear from you. Best to Ham.” He hung up.

Holly’s secretary buzzed again. “A Mr. Ed Shine, on one.”

There was a convenient coincidence. Holly punched the button. “Ed?”

“How are you, Holly?”

“Just fine; you?”

“Couldn’t be better. You and Ham up for some golf?”

“Sure, when?”

“How about tomorrow at tenA.M.?”

“Can you get a tee time at that hour this late?”

“Don’t worry about it; I just bought the golf course-three of them, in fact.”

“ Palmetto Gardens?”

“How’d you know that?”

“I’m the chief of police; I know everything.”

“Meet me at the front gate at ten sharp tomorrow.”

“I’ll call Ham; we’ll be there.” She hung up and called her father.

“Yep?”

“You free for golf at tenA.M. tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

“Meet me at Palmetto Gardens.”

“I thought the place was closed by the Feds.”

“Not anymore; somebody bought it.”

“Who?”

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” Holly hung up. She wouldn’t call Harry Crisp back until she knew more. Once Harry got ahold of something, he tended to keep it to himself, and Holly wanted to play out her own string before she turned it over to the FBI.

She got up and walked around to the office of her deputy chief, Hurd Wallace. “Morning. Who did you assign to the Ed Shine thing?”

“I’m doing it myself; it’s pretty much a dead end.”

“Did you get any prints from the shell casing?”

“Nope. I’m surprised a pro would leave one on the scene.”

“A pro in Miami did the same thing,” she replied. She handed him the Miami detective’s address. “If you’re through with it, send the shell casing to this guy, registered mail. Get a receipt.”

“Okay.”

“You say the Shine thing is a dead end?”

Hurd shrugged. “Somebody took a shot at him and missed, left no trace of himself except the shell casing. There’s been no other attempt. I don’t know how to make any more out of it.”

“Neither do I,” Holly said.