The day was winding down as Logan and I left the courthouse. It was almost four o'clock. Light traffic was passing by on 1–4, tires singing on the asphalt. Two blocks to the east the bars and clubs along Orange Avenue were already starting to fill up with the young people who every night made downtown Orlando their own.
"Let's find a hotel," I said. "We can grab a few winks before I go whoring."
We'd decided to wait until late that evening to approach the spa. The federal agencies were doing everything they could, and it wouldn't matter if we put off our visit. The bomber would either be there or he wouldn't. The feds already had somebody watching the place, and if anyone who didn't look like a customer entered or left, we'd know about it immediately.
Our plan was for Logan and me to drive to the spa at about ten that evening. Logan would stay with the car, fully armed, and be in constant contact with me via a small radio attached to my body. If I gave a code word, he'd notify the federal agents surrounding the place, and they'd come running. It was a good plan-in theory.
We found a hotel near downtown, checked into separate rooms, and went to bed. I woke up at eight, and immediately thought of Laura. I don't think I was dreaming about her, but she was the first thought that entered my mind as I regained conscious thought. She was dying, might already be dead. Her death was going to be a permanent part of my life, and I wondered if I would spend the rest of it waking to regret and loss.
I shook off the grim thoughts, showered, shaved, and ordered hamburgers from room service. Logan joined me, and we talked over the plan again. I made a call to make sure the feds were in place around the spa. No one had seen anybody enter or leave the place other than the typical middle-aged client. There was nothing else for us to do.
Logan drove. The spa was only a few blocks away in an area of Orlando known as Thornton Park. It was a trendy part of town, peopled mostly by young urban professionals who owned the condos in the towers that lined East Central Boulevard and spread out south of Lake Eola.
Many of the old houses in the neighborhood remained. Some had been turned into art galleries or restaurants. One, a beautiful three-story brick Federal mansion, had become a spa. An upscale whorehouse.
When I'd lived in Orlando, the building had housed a firm of lawyers. Some would say that the business of the place hadn't changed, just the occupants.
We circled the block several times, looking for a place to park that would give Logan quick access if I needed him. I didn't see any sign of cops or feds, which was good. If I didn't see them, nobody else would.
Finally, as we rounded a corner, a car pulled out of a space right in front of the spa. Logan parked and turned off the engine. He put an earpiece in place and said, "Let's make sure this thing is working."
I got out of the car and walked a few feet. I turned to look back, and tested the mic. "You know, as much as you keep grousing about not getting laid, you could be doing this."
He grinned and held up his right hand, forefinger and thumb circled in the OK signal. I turned and walked toward the front door.
The porch was not large, more of a stoop. Several steps led up from the street. I crossed to the front door. There was a small sign attached to the brick next to the entrance. It was identical to the one at the spa in Key West.
I opened the door and walked into a large entry hall. A small desk was set in the middle, and a woman of about thirty, wearing a business suit, sat behind it.
"May I help you, sir?" she said, smiling.
"I'd like a massage," I said. "Do you have someone available?"
"Certainly, sir. Just have a seat in the living room."
She pointed to an arched doorway leading to a room off the entrance hall. I sat on a reproduction Chippendale sofa and waited. The whole drill was reminiscent of my visit to the spa in Key West. If something worked, why change it? McDonald's and Burger King used the same concept. Sort of. I wondered if I would be greeted by a wiser and older version of Sister Amy.
In a few minutes, a young lady entered the room. She was wearing a sundress in a bright floral pattern, pulled low on her shoulders. I could see the swell of her breasts under the fabric, but it was a dress that wouldn't have been out of place at an afternoon tea party. Her blonde hair was done up on the back of her head in some sort of a twist. Her feet were encased in high-heeled sandals, her toenails freshly painted light pink to match her perfectly manicured fingernails.
As I stood, she held out her hand, palm down, an old-fashioned lady handshake. "I'm Marta Sweeney. I'll be your hostess this evening."
I shook her hand and introduced myself as Miles Leavitt.
"Have a seat," she said. "Have you been here before?"
"No. First time. I'm a little nervous."
"Where're you from?" She was trying to put me at ease.
I was going to say Nahant, Massachusetts, just because nobody had ever heard of the place, but I was sure my accent would give me away. "Atlanta," I said.
"Here on business?"
"Yes. I had to stay over the weekend."
"Well," she said, favoring me again with her smile, "let's see if we can make it a positive experience. How did you find your way to me?"
I told her the name of the hotel where Logan and I had rooms. "The bell captain mentioned this place."
"Oh, that would be Jaime?"
"I don't know his name. He's a Hispanic gentleman."
I'd noticed the man when we checked into the hotel. I was hoping he had a tie-in to this place, or at least he wasn't someone the management would be suspicious of. Apparently, I'd made a good guess.
"Would you like to come upstairs?" she asked.
"This is a beautiful house," I said, trying to buy some time. "Do you live here?"
"Oh, yes. I live on the third floor with some of the other girls. The second floor has our public rooms." She giggled. "Although, they're very private, if you know what I mean."
If Marta had ever had a regional accent, she kept it well hidden. Her diction was just about perfect. She was a well-trained young lady. In another time, she would have been described as a courtesan.
"Ali," I said, stumbling a little over my words, "what about payment?"
"You can give Ms. Young at the desk a credit card, if you like, and settle up when you leave. The card will show that you spent some money at an upscale restaurant in downtown Orlando. You ordered a couple of bottles of wine for your business associates." She giggled again.
"I don't have a credit card. How about cash?"
"You can leave a five hundred dollar deposit with Ms. Young. I think that'll be sufficient, don't you?" She made a small moue, kind of cutesy, and out of character for a whore.
This was certainly a different place than the one in Key West. This must be what happens to the girls after they get used to their new lives and get the drugs out of their systems. They transfer up the line into better and better houses. Michelle and Simmermon had put together an assembly line of whores, turning them into newer and better models of their old selves. I wondered what happened to the girls when they got too old for this line of work.
I pulled five one hundred dollar bills out of my pocket and gave them to Ms. Young. Marta led me upstairs, and into a room dominated by a fourposter bed. A large man sat on the bed, shirtless, his abdomen swathed in a bandage. He was pointing a. 22-caliber pistol at me. The last time I'd seen him was on a Key West street three nights before. When I'd shot him.