Murder Key (4 page)

             
Logan c
leared his throat. “That
’s an M-14 or something like it, right?” he said.

             
“Yep. That’s the bad news,” said Lester.

* * * * *

             
An hour later, Logan and I were sitting quietly at the bar at Pattigeorge’s. I wasn’t too sure we needed any more merriment that night, but Logan said we deser
ved a drink after another near-
death experience.

             
Sammy, who knew everybody on the island, was behind the bar. We’d been there for about thirty minutes when a tall blonde woman came in and took a seat. She was about five-feet-eight, with shoulder-length hair. Her face was a bit angular for my taste, but her pale blue eyes made up for that. She was a beautiful lady, probably in her early thirties, and I was not surprised that Sam knew exactly what she drank. He started the martini as she walked through the front door, shook it, put it on the bar and
introduced us to Marie Phillips. She took the seat
next to Logan.

             
We were the only three at the bar, and we talked for an hour or so in the desult
o
ry manner of people at ease in a familiar pla
ce. Marie was new to the island
and lived in one of the big condos at the south end of the key that was reserved for the very wealthy.

             
She told us she was in the “corporate world,” but made no effort to explain further. It was against the code of the key to delve too deeply into someone else’s life, so we left it at that.

             
She said she was a Florida native, and she spoke with the accent of the central part of the state; not quite southern in her inflection, but enough so that it fooled the Northerners. Marie didn’t tell us where she had grown up, but I assumed it was in the Orlando area.

             
She had another martini, said her good-byes and walked out into the night. Sam told us Marie had been in several times over the past few months, but she never talked much about herself. She was pleasant enough, but a little secretive. That was okay. Many of the islanders had fled to Southwest Florida to get away from a past they didn’t like to remember
. The
people of the key respected their silence.

             
Sam told us that Marie had come in for dinner a couple of times with an older man, and he suspected that she might have a sugar daddy. Or, maybe she’d inherited a bundle, and the old gent was her father or a kindly uncle. It wasn’t likely that a corporate job for one so young would generate the income necessary to sustain a life on the south end.

             
Sam had also seen her with a younger man, late thirties or early forties maybe, at the Haye Loft bar late one evening. They were sitting at a table in the corner, and if Marie noticed Sam, she didn’t acknowledge it. Sam didn’t know the man she was with.

             
“A mystery woman,” said Logan. “The best kind.”

             
Sam laughed. “Don’t get your hopes up, Logan. I think she’s a five star gal and you’re about a two star kind of guy.”

             
Logan laughed. “Go to hell, Sam,” he said.

             
The conversation moved on to other things, and Marie was forgotten.

37

Murder Key

SIX

             
Logan drove me home and dropped me at the elevator entrance to my condo complex. Earlier, I’d been advised by a Sarasota County detective that the Explorer was a crime scene and it would have to be processed at the fore
nsics lab. The Sheriff’s depart
ment would have it towed there, and I should be able to pick it up in a couple of days.

             
The cell phone rang as I entered my condo. “Matt, are you all right? I just got back from Lauderdale and read this morning’s paper.”

             
It was Anne Dubose. The sound of her voice always made me feel like a better person than I am. She was my girlfriend, sort of.

             
We’d met in the summer and had a hot affair that lasted for a couple of months. She had been a lawyer in Ft. Lauderdale, but recently moved to Sarasota and gone to work with a small firm. Our relationship had cooled substantially, but we saw each other every week or so, and we were good friends. We even shared a bed once in awhile, but I figured that wouldn’t last long.

             
That bothered me, because I had developed some deep feeling
s
for
Anne. I knew that she was bound to meet someone who would become a permanent fixture in her lif
e, and I would be left
like detritus, on the roadside of What Might Have Been Boulevard. Ouch. That phrase sounded bad to my own ears. Maybe Willlie Nelson could us
e
it.

             
“I’m fine, Anne. Logan got the bad guy before he got me.”

             
“That’s a relief. I don’t have anything to wear to a funeral.”

             
“Right. How was Lauderdale?”

             
“Same old. I took a couple of depositions yesterday and spent the night with friends. Nothing has changed
. I’m glad to be living
here.”

             
“Do you know a lawyer in Sarasota named Dwight Conley?”

             
“I don’t think so. Why?”

             
“He was shot and killed on Longboat this morning, down near New Pass. Apparently, the same guys took a potshot at me about an hour ago.”

             
“Somebody shot at you?” Her voice held a hint of fear.

             
“Yeah. Missed, though.”

             
“I’m coming out there.”

             
“You don’t have to,” I said, without any conviction what-soever.

             
“I know, silly. I want to. I’ll bring a pizza.”

* * * * *

             
Anne arrived an hour later, bringing a large pizza with everything but anchovies. We sat on the balcony, eating pizza and drinking beer. She was wearing shorts and a midriff blouse
that
exposed her delightful belly button as she leaned back in her chair. Barely past thirty, she was tall with short dark hair, hazel eyes and a body that men would have killed for in other ages. Her bare feet were propped on the balcony railing, her toenails painted a bright red. I told her the details of both shootings and repeated what the police had told me.

             
“You don’t have any idea who might be trying to kill you?” she
asked
.

             
“None. I can’t come up with a reason, either. I’d tend to think it was somebody
from my past with a grudge, but
what’s the connection to Conley? I never heard of the guy before this evening.”

             
“Maybe the gunmen were hired by different people with different
reasons to kill you and Conley.
Then there’d be no connection, other than the hired gun.”

             
“I think that’s way too much of a coincidence. It may not even be the same shooters, but the parallels are too great. I guess we’ll know for sure when the police get the ballistics done.”

             
“Is my toothbrush still here?” Anne asked.

             
“Of course.”

             
“Good. Then I can stay?”

             
“Of course.”

             
And she did.

Murder Key

SEVEN

             
I awoke Sunday morning to the smell of coffee. Anne had
beaten
me out of bed, and I could hear her rattling around in my kitchen. I took a quick shower, shaved and dressed, and joined her.

             
Anne was wearing one of my T-shirts, and I noticed when she reached for a plate on a high shelf that she wore nothing else. Bacon was draining on the side board, and eggs were frying on the stove. I couldn’t think of a better treat on a Sunday morning than coffee, eggs, bacon and Anne’s bare butt. I kissed her cheek and wished her a good morning. The cheek on her face, that is.

             
She smiled, and said, “Sleep well?”

             
“Like a worn out old man. Your fault.”

             
“Maybe we ought to stop that if it tires you too much.”

             
“Don’t even think it, woman.”

             
I retrieved the Saraso
ta paper from my door step, and read while Anne finished cooking breakfast. The large headline was about the Conley murder, with a side story about the shooting at the Hilton. Again, the reporter wrote that I had not been available for comment. I’m sure his voice was on my answe
r
ing machine.

             
Anne and I hadn’t seen each other in a week, and we caught up over breakfast. She was working on a civil case involving a fraudulent bank transfer, and she was enjoying it.

             
“Still glad you moved here?” I asked.

             
“Even more so after spending a couple of days in South Florida. This is home.”

             
“Want to take the boat out?” I said, as we finished our coffee.

             
“It’s going to be a gorgeous day. Why not?”

             
Anne drove to The Market at Whitney Beach Shopping Center to stock up on deli sandwiches and beer, while I cleaned up the breakfast dishes.

             
My twenty-seven foot Grady-White, with its twin 150 horse-power Yamahas, rocked gently in its slip in front of my condo. She was a center console fishing boat, white with
navy
trim.
With all that had been happeni
ng I hadn’t been aboard in a couple of months, and that was unforgivable.

             
As always, the e
ngines cranked on the first try.
W
e mane
u
vered out of the harbor and into the Intracoastal Waterway, headed for Longboat Pass and the Gulf of Mexico.

             
We cruised north, moving at thirty knots and staying about two miles offshore. The sea was calm and the boat handled like the thoroughbred she was. We came into the beach at Egmont Key, near the north end where the re
mains of an ancient gun emplace
ment provided a concrete bac
kdrop to white sand and tur
quoise water.

             
At the end of the Nineteenth Century, the U.S. Army had turned Egmont into a fortress protecting Tampa Bay. Gun emplacements were situated at strategic points on the small island, and barracks, bunkers and, curiously, a red brick road had been built in the interior.

             
When the Army gave up its garrison there, Egmont became a state park and wildlife sanctuary. People were not allowed onto the southern third of the island, and it was populated by every kind of seabird that lives along the west coast of Florida.

             
The beaches of Egmont
were
still pristine, although the norm
al ebb and flow of the tides had
eaten large portions of the shore. On a Sunday afternoon, there were families from all over the Tampa Bay area using the island and enjoying themselves, their boats anchored in the shallows.
             

             
We lay on the sand on towels, swam when the spirit moved us, ate our lunch, drank our beer and napped. Anne’s lithe body was barely clothed in a bright yellow bikini, and I found myself hoping she would stay another night. The revolver was in the picnic basket, and if Anne noticed it, she didn’t comment.

             
When
the sun began to sink toward the horizon, we headed south for home. As we neared Longboat Pass, a pair of dolphins appeared in the bow wave, surfing along, enjoying life. The sun hovered just above the horizon, its orange and red glow burnis
h
ing the water. After a few minutes the dolphins peeled off and left us with a feeling of wonder at nature’s small displays of elegance.

             
I secured the boat and washed it down as Anne took our belongings upstairs to the condo. When we were finished, she
thanked me for a wonderful day
and left for Sarasota and an early morning hearing on Monday.