Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (7 page)

By the time we cleared the bridge and drove onto St. Armand's Key,
it was dusk. Too late to find the chief at the station. We parked and walked
to Lynches Pub and Grub for a drink. St. Armand's Circle is one of the
more upscale shopping areas in Florida, a rival to Worth Avenue in Palm
Beach. As we walked to the restaurant, I could see the area coming alive
with the evening visitors. It was dinnertime, and the restaurants and bars
would be full of vacationers. Foot traffic was picking up, people window
shopping, enjoying the quiet evening in a gentle climate. There was a freshness in the air, and people were smiling, nodding hello to each other. Our
barrier islands provide a sense of permanent vacation, even to those who
live here year round.

We took a table on the sidewalk and ordered beer. I watched the
passersby for a minute, many of them red from the spring sun that surprised them with its strength.

"What do you think?" Logan broke into my reverie about a twentysomething female tourist from Ohio, who wore shorts and a halter top. Or
maybe she was from Arkansas. I couldn't tell, and it didn't matter. I enjoyed the view.

I shrugged. "Why would Varn use his real name, or at least the name
he was known by, and the Tampa address at the Sea Club if he was up to
no good? Maybe he told us a partial truth. He was just having a good time
getting to know young people. All that bullshit about his wife may have just been a cover. Maybe he's just a little hinky, and was embarrassed to be
found out."

"Could be, but why would a muscle man for the drug mob be entertaining young couples?"

"Maybe lie was taking a vacation."

"I'd like to know who owned the condo he was living in."

"I'd like to know why he was killed, and why on Longboat," I said.

"Lots of questions and no answers."

Logan had finished his beer.

"Want another one?" I asked.

He nodded. I signaled for the waitress.

"Two more, darling," I said, wagging two fingers at her.

We sat quietly, sipping beer and watching the people on the sidewalk.
Night had fallen. It was pleasant, the temperature in the low seventies and
none of the humidity that we'd get by mid-May.

"Best time of the year," I said.

"Without a doubt."

"Another one?"

"No, thanks. Time for me to get home. I've got a refrigerator full of
Chinese food to eat."

I laughed. Logan's late-night forays to the Chinese food restaurant
were the stuff of legend. They always left him with enough food to last a
week.

I paid the tab and we left. We drove in silence across the New Pass
Bridge and onto Longboat Key. A short way down the island, we turned
into the drive leading to Logan's condo. The gate guard stopped us and
then waved us through when he recognized Logan.

We stopped in front of Logan's building. I said, "I'll call Bill Lester
in the morning and see if he can tell us anything about those disappearances in North Port and Venice."

"Let me know what you find out."

"See you tomorrow," I said, and drove the Explorer home.

The day begins slowly in our latitude. As the sun starts its morning trek
from behind the mainland, the bay takes on a gray color, lightening slowly
until the sun's rim rises above the horizon. Color seeps into the world,
and the eastern sky turns deep blue with bright orange streaks. Soon, the
whole round ball of fire is hanging above the mainland horizon, and
another day has begun.

I was sitting on my sunporch, drinking a cup of coffee, watching the
morning unfold. Nature's display never failed to arouse a feeling of contentment in me. I was where I wanted to be, living on an island separated
from much of the world's troubles by a wide bay.

The day's lead story told of a trial going on in the courthouse in
Sarasota. It was about complex civil issues growing out of the building of
a major hotel downtown. I smiled, relieved to be on the sunporch drinking coffee. The trial was in its third week and was expected to last two
more. I knew what those lawyers were going through. They weren't getting enough sleep, they were eating on the run, they had abandoned their
families for the duration, and their ulcers were burning in their guts.

I'd been a trial lawyer in Orlando for a long time. The pressure on
those who go into the pit to do battle is enormous, and too many of them
turn to alcohol. I did. That was a big part of Laura's decision to end our
marriage, and it eventually ended my career. I wasn't run out of the profession; I just gave up and moved to Longboat Key.

A good man talked me into taking one last case, to right a wrong done
him. I beat the alcohol problem, regained my self-respect, won the case,
and not incidentally, made some money. I had enough to live modestly for
the rest of my life, and I was content.

At seven thirty, I called Bill Lester. I explained what Logan and I had
found out the day before, and asked him whether the North Port and
Venice young people had gone missing recently.

"I don't think you're going to find any connection between Simmermon and the missing kids," he said. "Varn was probably lying when he
said he dropped them at Robarts."

"I know, but I'd like to satisfy my curiosity. Will you check on it?"

"I'll check on it and let you know. By the way, I got a note on my desk
overnight about that body you found at Pelican Man's."

"Did you get an ID?"

"No, but the body disappeared yesterday. From the county morgue."

"How in the world does something like that happen?"

"Somebody from a funeral home showed up with papers signed by
the family, directing the morgue to turn over the body. Only problem was,
after the hearse left, a supervisor looked at the papers and thought they
were a little hokey."

"Hokey?"

"Yeah. You know Not right somehow. How would the family have
known the body was there if it hadn't even been identified yet? Anyway, the
supervisor called the funeral home, and nobody there had heard anything
about the body or its being picked up."

"Weird. What's Sarasota PD doing about it?" I asked.

"Investigating. Whatever that means. They're also keeping the whole
thing under wraps. The detectives think it might be some sort of death
cult that uses bodies in their rituals. If the body was unidentified, no family would be looking for it, and they could get it with minimal fuss."

I laughed. "This place gets kinkier and kinkier."

"I hear you, Matt. Everybody's living the dream. I'll call you later
about the missing people."

The chief called an hour later. "No go," he said. "Those kids in North Port
and Venice disappeared months ago, long before Simmermon came to
town. It's a dead end, Matt."

"I'm not really surprised," I said. "There's no reason to think a traveling evangelist is kidnapping people. What about another connection, though? Young people disappearing. Can you think of any reason?"

"The word I'm getting is that in each case there was some family
trouble going on. Probably nothing more than kids growing up and getting
out of a bad situation. Two of those reported missing turned up on their
own.

"I checked with Sarasota PD about the vulture pit guy."

"Anything?" I asked.

"Nope. Not a trace. It's as if the body disappeared from the face of the
earth. No leads, no clues, nothing."

"What about the death cult idea?"

"Didn't go anywhere. The gang unit has never had a whiff of that
sort of thing going on around here."

"Bill, I know you don't have a lot of manpower. I wonder how you'd
feel about me showing Varn's picture around the key. See if anybody else
remembers seeing him."

"Not a problem. Stop by the station and I'll give you a print of his
driver's license photo."

After getting the picture of Varn, I spent the rest of the morning cleaning
my boat. I showered and went to Moore's Stone Crab Restaurant for
lunch. I ate in the bar, talking idly with Debbie, the bartender. I hadn't
been in for a while, and we were catching up about mutual friends. I also
told her about Peggy.

Cracker Dix came in as I was finishing my burger and onion rings.
"Hey, Matt," he said. "Heard you found that body down at Pelican Man's
the other day."

"Yeah. Great way to start the day," I said.

Cracker was an expatriate Englishman who had lived on the key for
many years. He was about fifty, medium height, and bald as a billiard ball.
He sported a close-cropped beard, a Hawaiian shirt, beige shorts, and flipflops. A small gold stud was planted in his right earlobe, a thin gold chain
around his neck. He ordered a beer and took the stool beside me.

"You catching any fish?" he asked.

"No. I haven't even been out this week. Too much wind."

Debbie was back with a glass of dark beer. She set it in front of
Cracker and put her elbows on the bar, leaning into it, joining the conversation.

We were alone in the lounge, but I could hear low voices coming from
the dining room, the clanging of utensils on plates punctuating the conversation. Stone crabs were in season, and the snowbirds were taking their
fill of them before going home for the summer. Somewhere in the back of
the restaurant, a plate fell and shattered on the tile floor.

The bay outside the large windows was rippled by the northerly wind blowing down the channel. Two sailboats were anchored in the cove,
swinging gently on their anchor lines. The sun was high, still hanging in
the southern sky, waiting for summer before it angled directly overhead
and heated the island, bringing our annual bath of humidity.

A waitress came to the service bar and called a drink order to
Debbie. She left to fill it.

"Cracker," I said, placing the picture of Varn on the bar, "you get
around a lot. Did you ever see this guy?"

Cracker looked closely at it for a moment, chewing on his lower lip
in concentration. "Yeah," he said, finally. "I've seen him a couple of times
with Wayne Lee, over at Hutch's on Cortez Road."

I frowned. "Wayne Lee," I said. "Where do I know that name from?"

"You've met him at Tiny's. He comes in now and then. He works the
boats out of Cortez when he's sober."

"Right. Comes in some with Nestor Cobol."

"That's him."

"Where can I find Lee?"

"I don't know, but Fats Monahan, the bartender at Hutch's, probably knows."

Hutch's had been there as long as I'd been coming to the key. It hunkered
down next to Cortez Road, just over the bridge that spanned the Intracoastal between the mainland and Anna Maria Island. Because of its proximity to the fish houses and commercial docks, it had a rowdy reputation,
fueled by the men who fished the sea for a living. I'd never visited the
place.

The building was concrete block covered by a layer of stucco, some
of it sloughing off. I could see bare blocks under the beige exterior. A glass
door gave entrance to a dim recess of ugliness and body odors, tinged with
the smell of fish, cigarette smoke, and stale beer. A bar took up one wall,
with tables situated about a small linoleum-covered floor. Bare concrete
showed in the spots where the covering had been ripped up. No sunlight
penetrated this dark space. A fat man in a white T-shirt with no sleeves
leaned on the bar, talking to the lone customer. It was two in the afternoon.

I'd brought Cracker with me. He knew this world and I didn't. The
regulars whispered secrets to each other that they would never divulge to
an outsider.

We walked in. The bartender gave me a bored look through hooded
eyes. He saw Cracker, and his mouth turned up in what could be taken
for a smile. I wasn't sure.

"Hey, Cracker," the bartender said. "Beer?"

"Sure," said Cracker. I'd never known Cracker to turn down a beer,
no matter the time of day.

"Fats," said Cracker, "this is a friend of mine, Matt Royal."

"Beer?" asked Fats, looking at me. I assumed that was his idea of a
pleasantry.