Collateral Damage (25 page)

“Can you do that this weekend?”

“Jimbo's out in the woods killing Yankees. I can probably get him to come here on Monday, and that'll give Doc time to get here as well. Plus, I want to look through these documents some more.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Jock.

I called Chaz Desmond early in the afternoon. “Doc, I need to see you. Can you come to Longboat on Monday?”

“What's up, Matt? Have you got some leads?”

“Yeah. We've learned quite a bit, but I don't want to talk about it on the phone. We need to meet.”

“I'll be there. What time?”

“Can you make it to my house by late morning, say eleven o'clock?”

“See you then.”

I called Molly Merryman, Jimbo's wife, and asked her to have Jimbo call me when he got in on Sunday afternoon. She'd explained to me the first time I'd called that Confederate soldiers didn't carry cell phones. They did have one for emergencies, but it was considered less than authentic to use it for anything short of a life-threatening event.

We spent the rest of the day pouring through the bank documents. Nothing really jumped out at us, but we did get a list of the regular recipients of checks out of the account and a time line for the disbursal of the money. All the checks were payable to names we'd never heard, except for
the ones that the accountant Tuan Nguyen wrote to himself each month for an amount equal to about a thousand dollars.

J.D., Jock, and I drove to the Sandbar Restaurant on the north end of Anna Maria Island, sat on the deck overlooking the beach, and ate a late dinner and watched the sunset. A bright and beautiful display as always. It was almost as eye-catching as the detective sitting across the table from me.

Sunday was a quiet day, a time to catch up with the energy expended over the past two weeks, to contemplate the next few days, and wonder if my buddy Doc was mixed up in some dark scheme that had somehow led to the murder of his son and two strangers on a dinner boat.

I was convinced that the deaths on
Dulcimer
were tied to Jim Desmond's murder, but I didn't understand why. What was the connection between Jim on the one hand and the dead people on
Dulcimer
on the other? There had to be one, but what was it? And was there a connection between the lawyer Garrison and the Hooters waitress Katherine Brewster? Was one of them just collateral damage?

I was beginning to suspect that Katherine was the target, and somehow Peter Garrison got in the way. Maybe he tried to protect Katherine. If Garrison had been the target, I doubted that Katherine would have intervened, and if she had, the murderer could probably have overpowered her without killing her.

We now knew that Katherine's boyfriend was not the killer and we were pretty sure that her stalker wasn't either. That left us with the Asians. The only connection to them was Doc's annual payments to a guy in Ho Chi Minh City. But that left us without an explanation for Katherine's death. It was a conundrum and it gave me a headache.

It was almost noon. Jock had curled up on the sofa with a book and fallen asleep. I didn't bother him. I was hungry and decided to drive down to St. Armands Circle for lunch at Lynches Pub and Grub. The sisters who owned the place had been friends of mine since I first came to the island. In those days they'd owned a popular bar and restaurant at mid-key on Longboat. The building was now gone to the wrecker's ball, and the Lynch girls were in business on St. Armands.

I called J.D. to see if she wanted to join me. She declined. Said she was catching up on some stuff, reviewing the paper work in our file, enjoying a down day. She'd see me on Monday.

The day was clear and hot and humid. The cerulean sky was devoid of even a wisp of cloud. The Gulf lay flat and still, its aqua color soothing. Far out, near the horizon, a boat cruised south, its sails full, catching the wind and moving at a good clip. A day like this chased away the dark concerns about murder and Asian assassins and other hobgoblins of the mind.

Our island was a lush tropical paradise. The condo complexes and mansions that lined the key's main road were hidden behind flowering plants and shrubs. The commercial areas were rare and well maintained. Yet the island was changing. A number of the bars and restaurants had died because they could not survive the summer doldrums when tourists didn't visit. There just weren't enough year-rounders to keep them in business.

People died or ran out of money and moved back North or tired of the island's lack of excitement and moved to the mainland. It was a continuous loss to those of us who would live nowhere else, but new people moved in and new friends were made and the cycle began all over again. I think most communities are this way. We mourn the loss of what we had once been while looking forward to what we will become. The human condition. It always amazes me.

Lunch was quick, chicken wings and French fries washed down by Miller Lite. I stopped at the Chinese restaurant next door and got several kinds of take-out for Jock. The owners were always glad to see him and Logan come in. They never could make up their minds about what to eat, so they ordered one of everything. The proprietors loved it and always asked me about my friends when I came in alone.

Jimbo Merryman called me late in the afternoon. I told him what we'd found in the documents, and that I was going to confront Doc about the Evermore Foundation. I thought it would go a lot easier if Jimbo were part of the conversation. He said he'd be at my place before eleven the next morning.

Jimbo Merryman knocked on my front door a little before ten on Monday morning. Jock had left a few minutes earlier, bound for the Starbucks on St. Armands Circle. He said he'd sit and drink coffee and read a book until I called.

Jimbo and I sat and sipped our coffee. I was filling him in some more on what we'd turned up in our investigation and my suspicions about Doc. “I don't like to feel this way, Top. I owe the man my life.”

“Matt, I think there's got to be some explanation. A man like Doc doesn't just decide one day to get dirty.”

“Money is a powerful magnet, Jimbo, and sometimes good men cave at the thought of a lot of it.”

“Doc and I've kept up with each other for a long time. He was doing pretty well, making a lot of money, and living the good life for most of that time. I'm not saying it was huge money, but it was enough that he had pretty much everything he wanted. Then he decided to expand. Part of that was the timing. He was in the right place at the right time. He bought up a couple of small firms and then kept adding to the business. Sometimes he'd open a new office in another city and other times he'd buy an existing firm. It was an orderly progression and the big money started to flow.”

“What about the businesses he bought? Was there any animosity between him and the people he bought out?”

“I don't think so. He paid a fair price and then turned the offices very profitable by getting rid of the deadwood. Some of the employees had been there for years and weren't producing. Doc changed the culture of those businesses.”

“If he fired a bunch of people, there'd be some mad folks.”

“I don't think so. He gave them great severance packages and helped them find work in different fields where they would do better.”

“What about the change in management? Did that create problems with the staffs?”

“Not that I'm aware of. He brought in a lot of vets to take over management. Most of them were Corps of Engineer officers who'd commanded troops in the field. He said if a guy could manage under fire, he could sure as hell manage in a civilian environment. He gave them each a bonus structure based on results and worked that kind of system into all the employees pay packages. The results are a lot of happy workers and an awful lot of money for Doc.”

Eleven o'clock came and went. We sipped more coffee. At noon I called Doc's cell phone. No answer. Not even voice mail. I called his office in Atlanta, identified myself, and asked to speak to Charles Desmond.

“I'm sorry, sir,” said the receptionist, “but Mr. Desmond is on vacation.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know how I can reach him? It's vitally important.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but I don't have that information.”

“Who's in charge when Mr. Desmond is out of the office?”

“That would be Mr. Macomber, the vice president.”

“May I speak to him?”

“He's in conference, I'm afraid.”

“Tell you what,” I said, a bit of frustration creeping into my voice, “interrupt Mr. Macomber and tell him that Mr. Desmond's personal lawyer Matt Royal is on the phone and needs to speak to him about an urgent matter.”

“I'll see what I can do, sir.”

In a moment a deep voice came on the line. “Mr. Royal? This is Paul Macomber.”

“Mr. Macomber, I'm an old friend of Chaz's and I'm handling a legal matter for him. I really need to get in touch.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Royal, and I know what you're doing for Chaz, but I don't have any idea where he is.”

“Isn't that odd?”

“Oddest damn thing that ever happened around here.”

“Did you know he was supposed to meet me in Longboat Key, Florida, this morning?”

“No, I didn't. He called me last night and told me to cancel all his appointments for this week. Said he and Julie were going on a vacation. He didn't want to be bothered. For anything. He was adamant about that part.”

“What time did he call you?”

“It must have been around ten. I was getting ready for bed.”

“I tried his cell phone and got no answer. Not even voice mail picked up,” I said.

“I had that phone cut off first thing this morning. Chaz's orders.”

“Did you try to call him at home this morning or on his cell before you cut it off ?”

“Yes to both. No answer at all.”

“Did he take the plane?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm supposed to fly down to Jacksonville this afternoon and the captain just called to say the plane was ready anytime I wanted to leave. So I'm assuming Chaz didn't take it.”

“Mr. Macomber, this is very important. If you hear anything from him, ask him to call me immediately.”

“I'll do it, Mr. Royal.”

I turned to Jimbo, puzzled, and not a little bit worried. I told him what happened and who I'd talked to.

“I know Paul Macomber,” said Jimbo. “He used to run a bank in Jacksonville, and Chaz hired him away. Paul handles all the negotiations with customers and handled all the buyouts of other firms. He's a finance guy and a big part of the success of the firm. Been with Chaz a long time.”

I called Jock on his cell phone, told him what happened. “I'm worried, Jock. This doesn't sound like Chaz. He takes off without letting anybody know where he's going and apparently decided to do so after he talked to me.”

“Let me see if I can get my agency to put some traces on his credit cards. If he uses one, we'll know where he is. I'll be on back out to the house in a few minutes.”

I hung up and looked at Jimbo. “I don't like this, Top. Taking off like that tells me he's guilty of something.”

Jimbo nodded. “Or maybe he's dead.”

Jimbo waited around to see Jock. They'd met before and after a few minutes of catching up with each other, Jimbo left for home.

“Did you get Doc's credit cards on a watch list?” I asked Jock.

“Yeah. If he uses one, we'll know it within seconds.”

“I've got a bad feeling about this.”

“I do too. It doesn't make sense that he'd run. Even if he thought you were closing in. I doubt that he killed his son, and he sure as hell wouldn't have any reason to kill the other two. If he's being blackmailed, whatever is the basis of it would have to be terrible to make him run.”

“Do you think he's dead?” I asked.

“Don't know. Maybe somebody took him.”

“We need to get J.D. over here, and see if the Atlanta police can give us a hand.”

J.D. did not answer her cell so I called the police department. I identified myself to Iva the dispatcher and asked to speak to J.D.

“Matt, we don't know where she is.”

“What do you mean?”

“She didn't check in this morning. She's not answering either her cell or her home phone. I sent an officer by her condo, but she wasn't there. The manager let him in, but there was no sign of her. Her gun belt and badge were still on the sofa and the bed wasn't made. A full pot of coffee was on the burner. Her car is in its parking space. We're worried.”

“What's going on?”

“We don't know. I'm calling all her friends. I left you a message on your home phone. Did you get it?”

“No. I haven't checked messages this morning. You must have called while I was in the shower. Keep me posted, Iva.”

I hung up. “J.D.'s missing,” I said to Jock. “What the hell is going on?”

I was stunned. J.D. was missing, and it didn't sound as if she had left her condo willingly. She wouldn't have left a coffeepot on, nor would she have left her gun out in plain sight. It always went into the safe when she got home and only came out when she was headed for work.

I didn't know what to do. J.D. was more than a friend. She had become an important part of my life in the few short months since she'd come to the key. I sat, my mind wandering, afraid that I was somehow responsible for whatever had happened to her.

“Matt,” said Jock, “Gear up, buddy. Lock and load. We're going to find her.”

“I don't know if I have the energy, Jock.”

“The Army didn't give you the Distinguished Service Cross back in Vietnam for sitting on a sofa and staring at the bay. Off and on. Isn't that the old Army saying? ‘Off your ass and on your feet.'”