Death Among the Mangroves (14 page)

“You laugh,” Lawton said. “But to adverse possession: The law actually requires the adverse-possessor to live in the property himself, or have someone live in it on his behalf—and a renter counts there—and for seven years. And he pays the taxes when the original owner didn't. It's the taxes that determine whether or not the property is truly abandoned. Only then can he claim it's legally his. And only then would he have the right to sell it.”

“Mark Johnson says he paid his taxes,” Troy said, “that he's up-to-date. And he is. I checked.”

Lawton nodded. “Problem is, the property appraisers and tax collectors offices are sloppy and often don't check things. If the rules were actually enforced, adverse possession would be an extremely rare event instead of the common scam it has turned into.”

“Wonder why Mark Johnson didn't answer the adverse-possession notice the tax collector's office sent to him?”

“Well, he should have,” Lawton said. “Probably didn't understand what it was and tossed it. Or he hadn't filed a change of address with the tax assessor and so he never got the notice. Most of these guys, the adverse-grabbers, let's call them, just file on every vacant property they see, hoping that someone won't answer the notice. Most times they know they'll get their claim rejected outright, but in the meantime, they've got first and last month's rents out of poor people.”

“So,” Troy said, “it seems the good reverend is, in fact, breaking the law.”

“Of course he is. He's broken, entered and rented. He gets fifteen hundred, two thousand dollars out of it whereas if he B-and-E'd you and stole your old TV set he'd get twenty bucks from a pawn shop.”

Troy smiled. “Never looked, come to think, because I never watch the thing, but my TV came with the rental condo and is probably bolted to the cabinet it's sitting on. Be hard to swipe it.”

“Stay classy, Chief. But these guys do this, and they do it all over Florida, because they so rarely get punished for it. See an empty house? Break in, change the locks, rent it out. By the time the true owner shows up you've collected a few months rent on something that wasn't even yours. Tough break for the homeowner who usually finds his property trashed by angry tenants he didn't want in the first place. Tough break for the tenants who are usually living hand-to-mouth and who can't get their last rent payment back and now don't have the wherewithal to rent something else. So they end up on the street.”

“Appreciate your explaining all this. I believe I'll pay the Reverend Summerall a visit soon. Discuss it with him.”

“Discuss it? Just discuss it?”

Troy gave Lawton his very best CopStare. “I can discuss pretty hard,” he said.

“You'll need to.” Lawton stood. “Well, got things to do today. It's been fun. Call me any time there's a holiday and you need company.”

Troy let Lawton out the front door, locked that and returned to his office. He looked at the one doughnut left in the box and then picked it up and ate it. “Waste not, want not,” he said as he took the box to the break room trash can and brushed the powdered sugar off his shirt.

Chapter 21

Wednesday, December 25

Later that day, Mayor Lester Groud came through the connecting door to the town hall offices and headed straight down the hall to Troy's office. Troy was still alone in the station. Groud glanced at the glass top of Troy's office door as he passed. Troy almost never closed the door. Groud sat in a visitor chair. “Aren't you going to fix that door,” he asked. “It still says you're the Director of ‘Pubic' Safety.”

“Nobody's confessed yet.”

“Nice station front door, though. Etched glass, Everglades scene with ‘Mangrove Bayou Police' across the top. Looks good on all the TV news shows.”

“Got the guy who did the doors for the Osprey Yacht Club to do it,” Troy said. “Last August. He did good work.”

“Which you paid for yourself.”

“Damn town council is so tight they squeak.” Troy got out his wallet and put a dollar on the desk. He would add it to June's Bad Word Jar later.

“Yeah. Well the damn town council is worried about all this overtime you're racking up.” Groud took out his own wallet and put a dollar on top of Troy's.

“We going to sit here and swear at each other to see who's richer?” Troy asked. “I give up. You don't pay me enough to argue with you.”

“Good. Christmas already costs me enough. Big family. I know you don't have family. Where's that tall redhead airplane pilot you hang with?”

“Lee Bell. She's flying some people to Key West this afternoon for some sort of family reunion there. She'll be back this evening.”

“You holding down the fort today?”

“Sure. I don't have family, as you said. Let the troops have some time off if we can manage it. Sort of unofficial. Still got one patrol out and I cruise around when I'm not in here.”

“No problem there. You're the chief.”

“What's on your mind, Les?”

“Ah. You're never one for small talk. You had your people out combing the islands for that girl. All on overtime. You got out the volunteer fire department—I don't know how you did that—and I sent out all the fishing guides I knew. Looked on all the town islands, Barron, Snake, Airfield even Government Key. Looked through the marsh. Looked around all the nearby mangrove islands. We found nothing. There are about ten people still looking too, mostly rich guys with boats out of the yacht club. And nothing to show for that so far either.”

Troy nodded. “This is true. I promised the fire guys some more of those fire drills at the school. They loved that. Since I'm an honorary member, I told Paul Ronson over at the yacht club…”

“The commodore and head bigot.”

“…the commodore. I said that I would eat in his dining room every night, waving around my black nigger face and back-slapping his members, unless he recruited some people to help with the search.”

Groud chuckled. “Whatever works.”

“Probably didn't need the threat. Those people love to get out and do some boating for an actual purpose.”

“We guides looked in some places the yacht-club crowd doesn't know about,” Groud said. “Got some jon boats and looked into the marsh too.”

“I know. Appreciate that.”

“Troy, I hate to break this news to you. You don't have a black-nigger face. You're more of a…beige…color.”

“Beige. That's right. You told me at my job interview that it's a good color. ‘Goes with almost any furniture,' you said. I loved that.”

“Well, whatever. I'm not up on color names. Most folks think you're a Seminole or Miccosukee, what with the straight black hair and eyes. Do I owe a dollar for the nigger thing?”

“I used it too. Let's call it even and not tell June. Anyway the word originated in the late 1700s and simply referred to someone from the African region of Niger. It was not originally thought of as a pejorative, any more than calling you English.”

“I'm German. And nobody rounded up Germans, forced them into ships, brought them here to be slaves, and whipped them if they didn't pick enough cotton between sunup and sunset.”

“This is true,” Troy said.

“And today we can't even read
Nigger of the Narcissus
in school,” Groud said. “Too much political correctness. So much for Joseph Conrad.”

Troy raised one eyebrow just because he could. Once in a while, Lester Groud surprised him. “Well, let's agree that the N-word is incredibly offensive to a good percentage of the American population. But back to your question about Barbara Gillispie,” Troy nodded to the framed photo on his desk. “We've searched for three days now, four days counting today, and just about everywhere a body could be that we could expect to find easily. I called the parents in New York state again and she's not there and they've never heard from her. I had sort of hoped that she had left town and we missed it, and that she was on her way home without telling her friends. It was a long shot.”

“We talked about her maybe being kidnapped,” Groud said.

“Yes. And that's a dead end, at least so far, too. No phone calls to her parents. Albany, New York police are still on it at that end but they told me they are coming up empty. The Gillispies are in Naples now. Peter Gillispie called me. He's probably here in town now, wandering around.”

“So, you got any other leads?”

Troy told Groud what he had on Mark Stider and his conversation with Judge Stider in Troy's office. He left out the part about assaulting the judge, in order to give Groud plausible deniability.

“You actually plan to back off on all this? Like you told the judge?”

“Of course not. But if lying to him makes him hold off a few days, especially over a holiday, while I get my act together, I'll lie to him.”

“You're a devious son…”

“Careful. That's a four-dollar penalty.” Troy nodded toward the money on his desk.”

“…devious person. But here's the thing. The next town council meeting is Friday. Last Friday of the month, as usual. Your six months' probation is up. We either vote to keep you on permanently or we fire you. You have me and Max Reed on your side. Max is kind of indifferent but he doesn't work with you as close as I do. Duell hates your guts.”

“I have come to realize that I'm going to have to go through life without Doctor Principal Councilman Howard Parkland Duell's approval,” Troy said.

“Yes. You are. And he happens to be the one up for reelection next January. We elect one new guy each year. Or reelect the old guy. Duell is not very popular. When you're a councilman it's hard to keep folks from finding out what an asshole you are. That was worth a buck.” He added a dollar to the collection. “I expect he'll want to make some trouble for you, or me, or anyone else he can think of. Any topic he thinks will appeal to his demographic, which is mostly rich white people easily impressed by overeducated gasbags. Which is all of the Osprey Yacht Club membership, most of Airfield Key and some of Barron Key.”

“Odd, though,” Troy said. “Not to disparage the town council, but it's not the White House. There's no salary, just a lot of work most people never appreciate.”

“Yeah. 'Course with Duell, he doesn't do much of the work. He always has some excuse to weasel out. He just likes the title. He's into titles, 'case you never noticed.”

Troy grinned. “He corrects me every time I say I'm the police chief. Maybe we need a sort of Debrett's of correct titles for Mangrove Bayou.”

“What's a Debrett's?”

“Book, several books, about how to properly address British royalty.”

Groud stared at Troy and a slow smile appeared on his weather-beaten face. “One reason I'll vote to keep you on: you know crap nobody else in the world even cares about.”

Troy tapped the money on his desk.

“Oh, come on. ‘Crap' isn't really a swear word.”

“I already tried that argument on June. Put your money where your mouth was.”

Groud slapped down a dollar. “Thing is,” he said, “we got this missing girl.” He looked at the photo on the corner of Troy's desk. “You haven't called in any help like the sheriff's or the FDLE.”

“Sheriff's sent us that chopper last Sunday.”

“Sure they did. You know what I mean. I got half the business community on my back about this. If you can't find that girl by Friday night, and alive, I don't know which way Max Reed would go with your hiring. We need results. Fast.”

“And you still have the gap-toothed applicant with the left eye pointing south when his head is facing west,” Troy said. “Good to have bench strength.”

“Well, he
was
the only other person to apply,” Groud said.

“Actually, Milo Binder, your nephew, once told me he wanted the job and you said no.”

“He was a kid. Not remotely up to it. Bubba Johns could have done it but he refused.”

“Yes. He told me that, my first day.”

Groud nodded. “But I'm serious. You're doing good here, so far, and so far as I'm concerned. But if Max Reed votes with Doctor…all that stuff…Duell, I'll be advertising for your replacement the next morning. Nothing I can do about that. Finding the girl, alive or dead, would be a big help.”

“The girl is dead. I assume that,” Troy said. “Town's too small for her to be missing this long and still be alive. And I've checked with the sheriff's and they and the Naples police have checked bus terminals and airports and rental cars. The cops up in Albany, New York are watching for phone calls from kidnappers. They even sent in a man and woman to sit in the Gillispie's house and pretend to be the family in case anyone calls. But, as for Barbara,” Troy glanced at the photo, “there is no evidence she ever left Mangrove Bayou.”

“I didn't know you had done all that.”

“We actually do police work here, Les. We don't talk about it too much, but in-between doughnuts and coffee we try to earn our salaries.”

“All right. So earn your salary. Where is the girl?”

“You're a guide. You know the Ten Thousand Islands, the Big Cypress Swamp, and the Everglades National Park better than I do. You tell me.”

“Humm. Fact is, I could bury a hundred bodies out there and nobody would ever find them,” Groud said. “There likely
are
a hundred bodies out there now, skeletons under the mangroves someplace. Ever read
Killing Mr. Watson
?”