Bitter Legacy: A Matt Royal Mystery (Matt Royal Mysteries) (12 page)

I wasn’t sure if my friends and I were being stalked by true evil, but I suspected it was so. Knowing my adversary had kept me alive time and again, and I would keep in mind the ageless maxim, “Know thine enemy.”

I picked them up at Sam’s, walking into an argument between Marie and Logan. She wanted him to go with her to Orlando. Logan was adamant that he was staying. Logan won, but Marie wasn’t happy about it. She argued that she had no clothes, but I told her to buy some in Orlando. We couldn’t take the chance of her being seen at her condo and followed. What about her job?

“Call in sick tomorrow,” I told her. “You should be back in a few days.”

She acquiesced, grudgingly. “It’s a good thing I love Logan so much.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“You’re okay. A little bossy maybe. Like now. I sure do put up with a lot of crap from you guys.”

I grinned. “Love is hard, sometimes.”

She gave me the finger.

“I called Jock,” Logan said. “He’ll be here in the morning.”

“Shit.”

“Hey. He’s a professional and if I let you get your ass shot off, he’d come after me. I’m just covering my bases.”

Jock Algren had been my best friend since junior high school, more a brother than a friend. He was an agent with the U.S. Government’s most secretive spy agency; so secretive that it didn’t even have a name. To the rest of the world he was an oil company executive, but that was only a cover. He kept trying to retire from the intelligence business, but his boss kept dragging him back in. National security required it, he was told.

Jock spent a lot of time on Longboat, staying in my guest room. He
always came running when I needed him. He’d helped Logan and me out of a few scrapes in the past.

“Okay. I guess it can’t hurt.”

Sam suggested that we take his car, since nobody would be looking for it. That was a good idea, and we accepted the offer. I told Sam we’d be in touch, and we drove back down the key, around St. Armands Circle, and crossed the John Ringling Bridge to the mainland. We were careful, taking more turns than we needed, making sure we weren’t followed. We went to the Sarasota-Bradenton Airport and rented a car

Marie drove off toward the interstate and Orlando. She’d be safe there, out of harm’s way, and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

As we were leaving the airport in Sam’s car, my cell phone rang. Bill Lester. “Matt, Detective Kintz wants to talk to you first thing in the morning. He’s working with the sheriff’s department since we think the attacks on Osceola and Logan are all connected to what happened on Fruitville today.”

“Do we know who those guys were?”

“We’ve got IDs. They were members of a real nasty bikers group up in Tampa, called the West Coast Marauders. Those guys are into drugs, prostitution, porn, you name it.”

“I’ll be at my house, Bill. Tell him to come by about eight. Logan will be there too.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? To go to your place?”

“I’m not going to let the bastards run me out of my own home.”

“I’ll put a cop on your street.”

“Thanks, Bill. Jock will be here in the morning, so I think the three of us can handle things then.”

“Shit. If the always-dangerous Jock Algren is coming to my island, I worry about the safety of the civilians.”

“He’s quite tame, Bill. When he’s in a good mood. Piss him off and the Rottweiler comes out. Just be nice.”

“Right. I’ll stop by and have coffee with you when he gets in. I’m glad he’s coming.”

We stopped by the Judicial Center and Logan drove Marie’s car back to her condo near the south end of the key and parked it in the lot. We
drove on to my house. I walked around the place, looking for signs of entry. I didn’t see any, but it was mostly dark, with only the glow of the streetlight giving any semblance of illumination.

I unlocked the door, pistol in hand, walked into the house, looked in all the rooms and relaxed. Joy’s crew had finished cleaning the place and everything was almost back to normal. Logan went to the kitchen to get some coffee started. I stuck my head back out the front door and emptied my mail box.

There was only one piece of mail. An envelope addressed to me. The return address had only a name. Abraham Osceola.

There was no light in the old grove, other than a sliver that escaped a curtained window in the ancient house that squatted in the middle of it. The night was quiet, very quiet. No highway noises penetrated this far into the trees, no jets flew over it. The only sound to break the silence was the occasional rustle of leaves made by a scurrying animal.

The man sat in front of his computer, his hands playing over the keyboard like a piano virtuoso. He’d stop now and then, read the content on his monitor, move on. He made his living by delving into secrets held by servers the world over, servers thought to be inviolate. But he could crack them all, make them his, do as he wanted with them, and never leave a trace.

His cell phone rang. He picked it up, answered, “What?”

“I lost two men today.” The voice was low, guttural, the raw sound of a heavy smoker, the words carefully rounded, squishy from too much whiskey.

“What do you mean you lost them?”

“Dead. That bastard Royal killed them. They were good men.”

“They must not have been that good if they let that pansy lawyer get the drop on them.”

“He ran over them. Out on Fruitville Road. With his fucking SUV.”

“I don’t need to know any more. Put them on the bill,” said the computer man.

“On the bill? Two of my men are dead and you just want me to put them on the bill?”

“Yeah. They’ll be paid for.”

“Both Royal and Hamilton got away without a scratch.”

“I told you to kill them.”

“I tried. Put some of my best men on it. I think Royal got lucky.”

“Where are they now?”

“The county morgue, I guess,” said the man on the phone, mumbling.

“No, you dumbass. Royal and Hamilton.”

“I don’t know. I guess they went back to Longboat Key.”

“You find them. If they’ve gone to ground, get the girl, Marie whatever her name is. Hamilton won’t let anything happen to her.”

“Okay.”

“You’re probably not going to get that bonus for fucking this one up today.”

“But I lost two men.”

“You’ve got others.” He hung up. Sat back in his chair.

God, he was surrounded by stupid people. The Sarasota Police Department’s computer had been easy to crack. He knew from the start that Hamilton was in the hotel hideout, but the cops didn’t know who they were dealing with. He was just smarter than most anybody else in the world. He ought to get a Nobel Prize or something.

Except that nobody knew who he was. He was known throughout the southeast simply as “The Hacker.” Hard men bought his services, paid him in cash or wire transfers to his Cayman Islands bank account. He had never come to the attention of law enforcement. He knew this because he trolled the computers of all the agencies on a regular basis. No one ever knew he had been there.

He’d been contacted by his client in this case in the usual way. An e-mail to an account that went through several foreign servers before landing in the one he used in Germany. It would be almost impossible to trace him. When he finished one job, he waited for the next. He lived simply, didn’t really need money, but enjoyed watching his stash grow. Maybe someday he’d move to an island, maybe buy one for himself and live there alone. He didn’t need people, didn’t really like them much, was uncomfortable in their presence. Yes, an island would do just fine.

Most of his work was simply finding somebody. It was usually someone that some very bad people needed to get rid of. All he had to do was
point his client in the direction of the people he found and his job was over. He never knew what happened to those he put the finger on. And he didn’t care.

Sometimes, like in this case, muscle was needed. The Hacker had established a working relationship with a biker gang in Tampa that had affiliates in many places in the world. When he needed to do more than find someone, when his client had the money to pay to get it done, but for some reason didn’t have the resources to take care of it himself, the Hacker would call on the bikers. His anonymity was complete. He bought cell phones at Wal-Mart, paid cash for each phone and a certain number of minutes of talk time. The phone number he used was a one-time thing. When the job was completed, the phone was tossed off a bridge into the Manatee River.

Compartmentalization was the key. The Hacker never let one hand know what the other was doing. The bikers weren’t his only resource for muscle, and sometimes he needed more than one outfit to handle different aspects of the same job. If one of the operatives got caught by the law, the only people he could give up were those in his own group. It was a neat and tidy way of doing business. The Hacker was very pleased with himself.

Headlights turned into my street. A Longboat Key police cruiser glided to a stop in front of my house, shut down its engine, turned off its lights. I walked out to the curb, leaned down into the passenger window. Officer Steve Carey sat behind the wheel. “Hey Matt. Glad Logan’s okay.”

“Yeah. Me too. Want some coffee? I just put a fresh pot on.”

“Wouldn’t mind if I do. It’s going to be a long night.”

“Come on in. Logan’s brewing the joe.”

I stuck Abraham’s letter in my pocket as we walked to the front door. We sat at the kitchen table and sipped our coffee, talking quietly about the day’s events. Logan and I had known Steve for a long time. The year before, when one of our friends had been ill, Steve had taken vacation days to drive him to the hospital and doctor’s offices for treatment. He was a good cop, a quiet guy, compassionate and helpful to all who knew him. This past fall, the local Kiwanis club had named him officer of the year.

Have you met the new detective?” I asked Steve.

“No, but I hear she’s hot.”

“Pretty much,” said Logan, “but she’s a hard-ass.”

“Well,” said Steve, “I don’t think that’ll be a problem for me. She’s too old.”

I laughed. “It’s all in perspective, Steve. What are you? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-four. I’d better get back outside. I’m supposed to be keeping you guys safe.”

“You can stay here,” I said.

He laughed. “Not a chance. The chief would bust my balls if he thought I wasn’t out there in the car standing guard. Gotta go.”

After Steve left, I pulled the letter from my pocket. “Logan, I need
to bring you up to date on something. Do you remember Abraham Osceola?”

“I never met him, but I know he’s the guy who helped you out down in the Keys last spring. Is that the same one the police talked to at my place on Saturday?”

“That’s him. I talked to Marcia, over at my condo. Abraham came there looking for me on Friday, just before he showed up at your place. Marcia told him that I was out of town, but that you might know how to get in touch with me. She gave him your address. He probably went to your house trying to find me. Later that night, somebody bashed in his head at one of those cheap motels over on the Trail.”

“So you think that’s connected to somebody taking a shot at me?”

“Probably. I’m guessing that the bad guys had your apartment staked out in case you came home. If they figured out you weren’t dead, they’d probably think you might be treated and released. They could have followed Abraham to his hotel.”

“So he never contacted you?”

“No. But tonight I found a letter in my mailbox from him.”

Logan looked at the envelope in my hand. “Open it and let’s see what it says.”

I took the letter out of the envelope. There was one page that looked as if it had come from a copy machine. The writing was in black ink, a tight cursive, very legible. It read:

My dear Matthew,

I hesitate to bring my troubles to you, but I have nowhere else to turn. I tried to retain a lawyer in South Florida to help me, but he seemed baffled by the whole legal process. I hope you can help.

I have discovered a secret that will make my people rich beyond their dreams. As you know, the Seminole tribe is getting wealthy from its gambling enterprises, but we Black Seminoles have no part in those affairs. We are still poor and living mostly on Andros Island in the Bahamas.

I will need legal counsel to perfect our claim. I am in hopes
that you will be able to assist me upon your return from holiday. You may reach me at the Jensen Motel on North Tamiami Trail in Sarasota.

Your faithful friend,
Abraham Osceola

“What the hell is that all about?” Logan asked.

I shook my head. “No clue.”

“You don’t think it’s buried treasure?”

“I doubt it. Abraham is a smart, shrewd man. I don’t think he’d go off after some kooky idea of buried treasure.”

“I wonder if this has something to do with the people who’re after us?” Logan asked.

“If it is, then Abraham must have stumbled onto something big.”

“And real.”

“Why are the West Coast Marauders involved?”

“Damned if I know,” Logan said.

“What time does Jock get in?” I asked.

“Early. He’s renting a car and will drive out to the key. He said he’d be here for breakfast.”

“No surprises there. He always eats the same thing.”

“A bowl of grits with fried eggs on top.”

“Well, he worries about his weight,” I said.

Logan stood, stretched, and yawned. “Been a long day. I’m going to bed. You got your gun handy?”

“Oh yeah. And the M-1 is in the closet in your bedroom. Locked and loaded. See you in the morning.”

I got up and followed him down the hall, turning into my bedroom. I brushed my teeth, undressed, and fell across the bed into a dreamless sleep.

I crawled out of bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and padded toward the kitchen. Light was just beginning to seep over the bay, a gray false dawn. There were no clouds, so the sun wouldn’t be far behind. I stood for a moment in the living room, staring outward, ever awed by the splendor of the sunrises in our latitudes. In a moment, the first arc of the sun began to peek above the mainland, painting the sky in pastels of gold and yellow and burnt orange. Tuesday, another day born, the sun a happy precursor of what might prove to be a dangerous time for my friends and me.