Bitter Legacy: A Matt Royal Mystery (Matt Royal Mysteries) (8 page)

I’d slept on my mattress on the floor, a blanket thrown over me. Everything was in a shambles, but to be honest, I hadn’t really cared by the time I got home from Tiny’s.

The phone rang. I answered. Joy. “Two of my girls will be there in twenty minutes.”

“What?”

“To clean up the mess.”

“How’d you know?”

“Tiny’s telegraph.”

I groaned. I should have known. There are no secrets on the key, and if you want something done, you just need to mention it in Tiny’s. I must have said something to somebody while working on all those beers.

Joy laughed, a big laugh. “Patti said you were feeling a little chipper last night. Bet you’re not doing too well this morning.”

“Tell the girls to come on in. I’m going back to bed.” I hung up. Patti Colby was Joy’s friend and I knew I’d talked to her at some point the night before. Oh well, the house would get cleaned up and they didn’t need me. I looked at my watch. It was a little after eight. I headed for the bedroom.

The phone woke me at noon. Logan. “You still in bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Went to Tiny’s last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Feeling bad?”

“Yeah.”

“Get over it. I need you to come pick me up.”

“What’s going on?”

“I need to get my ass out of this hotel. Marie saw some strange looking guys in the lobby when she went down to get some stuff out of her car.”

“Strange? How?”

“Two of them. Both wearing jeans and T-shirts. Lots of tattoos.”

“Logan,” I said, “you’re not exactly staying at the Ritz-Carlton. Maybe they’re just guests.”

“Marie heard them ask about me. By name.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. The desk clerk doesn’t have me registered, so he couldn’t tell them anything.”

“Where’s Marie now?”

“I just sent her home. I figured if there was going to be trouble I didn’t want her anywhere near it.”

“Maybe they were just checking all the hotels.”

“Then why are they sitting out in the parking lot on a couple of Harleys?”

“I see what you mean. I’ll be there in half an hour. Did you call the sheriff?”

“A deputy’s been outside my door since last night. Apparently Bill Lester called and told them about the guy that came after you yesterday. I’m supposed to stay put.”

“But you don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Not a chance. I’m a sitting duck here, deputy or no deputy.”

“I’m on my way.”

I threw on some clothes and left in a hurry. I was only vaguely aware that my living room had been put back together, the mess cleaned up. I’d have to buy a new TV. Maybe they’d get the rest of it done by the end of the day.

My best bet was south on Gulf of Mexico Drive, around St. Armands Circle, out Fruitville Road to Interstate 75, then south a couple of exits to Logan’s hotel. That took almost forty-five minutes.

I pulled into the parking lot. Two tough looking men were sitting on motorcycles, drinking from green beer bottles. A radio was blaring rock music. I continued on around the building. I didn’t want anybody to see my Explorer in case someone recognized it. I parked in a loading zone next to a door near a large Dumpster that overflowed with garbage. Today was probably the pickup day. The door was locked. A sign said: N
O
E
NTRANCE
. D
ELIVERIES
O
NLY
.

I picked up the phone hanging on the wall next to the door. No dial. I put the receiver to my ear. A ringtone. Then an answer, “Front desk.”

“This is Hugo,” I said. “I’ve got sodas to deliver for the machines.”

“Where’s Buddy?”

“Out sick today. I’m covering his route.”

“Come on in.” There was a buzzing sound and I heard the lock click open.

I went through the door into a small vestibule. Steps led upward. A push bar was on the door below a sign that said E
MERGENCY
E
XIT
O
NLY
.
A
LARM
W
ILL
S
OUND
. I started up the stairs, found the third floor and opened the door into the hallway. I saw a Sarasota County Deputy Sheriff in a chair outside Logan’s room. He was leaning back, the chair cocked against the wall. He was reading a book. A David Hagberg thriller.

He looked up as I approached. The chair came down on all four legs. He stood, wary. “May I help you, sir?”

“I’m Matt Royal to see Mr. Hamilton.”

He took a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his shirt. A list of names. Looked at it. Looked at me. “May I see some identification, sir?”

I pulled out my wallet and gave him my driver’s license. He looked closely at it and handed it back to me. “Thank you, sir.” He reached around and rapped on the door. “Mr. Royal’s here, Mr. Hamilton.”

The door opened. Logan was dressed. Golf shirt with the logo of the Red Sox on the pocket, chinos, sneakers, and a ball cap with a Dewars label embroidered into the fabric. “Come in,” he said.

I did and closed the door behind me. “You ready to go?” I asked.

“Yes. But what about the cop in the hall?”

“Nothing. You’re not under arrest. We’ll just tell him we’re leaving.”

“We can do that?”

“Let’s go.”

Logan picked up a small suitcase and we opened the door. The deputy stood again, his face posing the question before his mouth formed the words. “What are you doing?”

“We’re leaving,” I said. “I’ll call the sheriff and tell him we checked out against your wishes.”

“Mr. Royal, I can’t let Mr. Hamilton leave.”

“Deputy,” I said, my face stern, “I’m a lawyer, and unless and until Mr. Hamilton is under arrest, he’s free to come and go as he pleases. We’re leaving.”

“Sir, I can’t let that happen.”

“Deputy, if you try to stop us, I’m going to sue you for false arrest, false imprisonment, assault and battery, and several other things I’ll think about later. Your career is going to be over. Now, I’d suggest you call whoever you report to and tell him that some smart-ass lawyer just took his client out of your protective care and the only way you could stop them
leaving was to shoot one or both and you didn’t think that’d be a good idea.” I turned and walked off, Logan following.

We went through the door to the stairwell. Logan chuckled. “I love it when you get on your legal high horse. You always sound like an ass.”

“I know. I’ll make sure Bill Lester smoothes any ruffled feathers and gets that young deputy off the hot seat.”

We got to the bottom of the stairs and I hit the push bar on the door, moving fast. As advertised, an alarm sounded, echoing up the stairwell. We got into my Explorer and headed for the exit nearest the Dumpster. I didn’t think the bikers would be able to see us leave. I was mistaken.

I drove I-75 north, exiting onto Fruitville Road. Traffic was light and I was doing a steady forty-five miles per hour, I was vaguely aware that there was a motorcycle behind me, but I didn’t think much of it. I caught a green light at Cattlemen Road and as I approached Honore Avenue, three more bikers fell in behind me. I was in the middle lane, getting a little nervous.

“Logan, there are four bikers behind us. It might be some of the same bunch who were at the hotel.”

“I doubt it. I think we gave them the slip.”

The two lead bikes accelerated. One moved over into the right lane and the other into the left lane. They had me bracketed. I could see both in my side mirrors. The one coming up on my left was holding something down beside his leg. As he moved up even with my left rear tire, he got into my blind spot. I looked over my left shoulder. The rider was holding a shotgun, moving it up into a firing position. I reacted instantly, jerking the wheel to the left, sideswiping the bike. I heard the sound of gunfire as I swung the wheel abruptly back to the right. I heard more metal grinding into the Explorer as it collided with the other biker. Another shot. I could see the bikers down in the road, skidding along on the pavement with their motorcycles. I didn’t think they’d be alive when they stopped.

I slammed hard on the brakes, thinking I’d get rear-ended by the two remaining bikes. That didn’t happen. They peeled off, roaring around me at high speed, concentrating on escape. If they had weapons, they didn’t show them.

A very small moment had passed since I swung the wheel to the left. Logan was beginning to react. “What the hell?” he said.

“Are you hit?” I asked.

“No. Was that a gunshot?”

“Twelve gauge, I think.”

Logan had spotted the wreckage in the road, cars slamming on breaks, trying to dodge the carnage. The bikes had stopped their skids. The riders were still, blood seeping out of torn jeans and jackets. I brought the Explorer to a stop in the middle of the road. Traffic was still moving in the eastbound lanes, but our lanes were at a standstill.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, dialed 911. “This is Matt Royal,” I said to the emergency operator. “Some bikers just tried to kill me on Fruitville Road at Honore. In front of the Comcast studios. You’d better send ambulances and cops.”

“Sir, where are you calling from?”

“I think two of the bikers are dead.”

“Sir, I need your name and a phone number where I can reach you.”

“I’ll wait here for the cops.”

“Sir, calm down and talk to me. Do you see any blood? Who are the victims? What is your phone number?”

I hung up. “Friggin’ bureaucrats,” I muttered.

“Matt, what the hell just happened?”

“I don’t know, but those guys were going to shoot us.”

We sat quietly. People were out of their cars, milling around, telling each other what they had seen. A sheriff’s department cruiser came around the corner of Honore, siren blaring, light bars flashing frantically. He stopped on the shoulder, went to the bikers lying on the street, felt for a pulse, spoke into his radio. He saw the shotguns lying on the road a few feet from the wrecked bikes. He went over, peered at them, but didn’t pick them up. He was a good cop. Leave it for the crime-scene folks.

I got out of the car, started walking toward the deputy. “Get back in your car, sir,” he said.

I kept walking toward him. He stiffened a bit, on guard. “Deputy,” I said, “I’m Matt Royal. I called this in. These guys were trying to kill me and my passenger. Call your boss. He’ll fill you in.”

“Who’s your passenger?”

“Call your boss, Deputy. Give him my name. He’ll tell you what he can. I’ll be in my car.” I turned and walked back to the Explorer. I could
see body damage near the right rear wheel well. I walked to the other side. There was a gash in the metal just forward of the rear wheel, running along the side almost to the front door. My insurance company wasn’t going to like this.

I got into the car. “What’s going on?” Logan asked.

“I don’t know.” I pulled out my cell phone and called Bill Lester.

“Matt,” he said. “Where the hell are you and Logan and why did you take him out of the hotel? The sheriff is all over my ass.”

“Bill, we’ve got bigger problems than that. Some people just tried to kill Logan and me. I think they were the same people who were at the hotel.” I told him what I knew about the morning’s events.

“Marie is at the courthouse,” he said.

“Why?”

“She was on her way back to the key when a couple of bikers came up behind her. She thought they might be the same ones she saw at the hotel. She turned off Fruitville and stopped in the middle of traffic in front of the courthouse. She went inside and told the security folks she needed help.”

“Where is she now?”

“In a witness room on the first floor. A deputy is guarding the door. She’s fine.”

“Bill, I don’t like being out in the open. We’re sitting ducks. Can you get the sheriff’s office to let us go on and we’ll talk to them later? And I want to get Marie.”

“I’ll handle it.” He hung up.

I related all this to Logan.

“Those sons of bitches,” he said. “They’re after Marie.”

“I think they somehow found out where you were hiding. I don’t understand who these bikers are, though.”

“Hired guns, I’d guess.”

“Probably so. But who’s doing the hiring? And why?”

“I don’t know.”

The deputy walked over to my side of the car. “Is it drivable?”

“I think so,” I said.

“The sheriff said for you to go on home. Somebody will be in touch about this mess.”

“Thanks, Deputy. I hit them on purpose. They were trying to shoot us with those shotguns.”

“Well, you took ’em out, Mr. Royal. These two won’t be giving you any more trouble.”

I cranked the Explorer, pulled slowly around the dead bikers, and headed west.

I called Bill Lester and told him we had left the scene and were on our way back to the key. He was alarmed about the attempt on our lives and wanted us to come directly to the station to give a statement to him and his new detective. “It’s about time you met her anyway. And the Sarasota sheriff’s office will want a statement from you.”

“I’m on my way to pick up Marie. I’ll call you when I start back to the island.”

“Don’t forget, Matt. This is important.”

“I know. I promise.”

I drove to the Judicial Center on Ringling Boulevard and found a parking place. “Pull your hat low,” I said, “and stay here.”

“If somebody’s after Marie, I think it’d be better if there were two of us.”

“I doubt that the bad guys stuck around after Marie dodged into the courthouse. Besides, somebody wants you dead. Let’s wait until we get a reading from Bill Lester.”

He reluctantly agreed, pulled the hat low on his face, and slunk down in the seat. I walked to the front door, identified myself to the deputy at the security point, showed him my driver’s license, emptied my pockets into a basket, walked through the metal detectors, got my stuff, and followed the guard’s directions to the witness room where Marie waited.

Another deputy was at the door. I identified myself again, showed my license again. He was expecting me. I went into the room. Marie was sitting in a chair reading a magazine. She did not seem frazzled at all. She looked up, smiled, and said, “Is Logan okay?”