Found: A Matt Royal Mystery

FOUND

ALSO BY H. TERRELL GRIFFIN

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A Matt Royal Mystery

H. Terrell Griffin

Copyright © 2013 by H. Terrell Griffin

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-60809-099-0

Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing,
Longboat Key, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

This book is dedicated to the memory of my personal heroes

Sion P. Griffin

Seaman Second Class, United States Navy

USS
John Paul Jones
(DD-230)

World War II

Battle of the Atlantic

and

Henry Alden Higgins

Private First Class, United States Army

Fifth Infantry Division

World War II

Campaigns: Normandy, Northern France, Rhineland,
Ardennes-Alsace (Battle of the Bulge), and Central Europe

The gang at Oceanview Publishing spends their days making life easier for the writers. Patricia Gussin, Robert Gussin, Frank Troncale, and David Ivester are always available to lend a hand in editing, story ideas, launch parties, publicity, and so many other things that we writers need from time to time.

Pat Gussin, the company’s president, who is herself the author of several novels and also edits my work, must never sleep. She is the busiest person I know, and she always makes my books better. The indispensable Susan Hayes also edits my work and makes sure that I’m actually writing in the English language and not in some indecipherable gibberish. She smooths out the prose and makes it more readable.

Bob Gussin, a true gentleman and the other busiest person I know, is always upbeat and supportive. He makes me want to write, just to hear his compliments when the manuscript is done.

It is my good fortune to have three friends, voracious readers all, who find time to read and edit my manuscripts as I’m writing them. Jean Griffin, Peggy Kendall, and David Beals are quick to point out errors and inconsistencies and, most preciously, provide encouragement and good cheer. They never let me go so far with the story that it becomes implausible. Peggy is particularly good about nagging me when my muse deserts, and I don’t turn out at least some copy on a regular basis. Their insights and, yes, their nagging, are invaluable and much appreciated.

I get a great deal of pleasure out of writing; spinning tales that I hope will give readers a few hours of enjoyment. My readers are the ones who really make the whole process of writing worthwhile. Without you, I would have no reason to write. I hear from some of you on a regular basis, and I
encourage you all to e-mail me with your thoughts and comments on the books. I answer all my e-mails, and I have found that the positive criticism I receive makes me a better writer.

Nothing in my life would be complete without my wife, Jean Griffin, the woman who encourages me, helps me, edits me, and loves me. She is my polestar, the light that has guided me since I was a college student. She has also put up with me, and I suspect that has not always been an easy job. She has done it all with patience and grace and a smile that brightens my world and assures me that life is immeasurably good.

The photograph of the dead woman bounced about the ether, from cell phone to switch to satellite, and back to earth. It rested briefly, perhaps a nanosecond, at the cell tower behind the fire station on Cortez Road before finding its way to its programmed destination. One photograph sent as a text message, one of hundreds of millions transmitted every day, but this one would change lives and bring pain and death and grief to some good people.

Jennifer Diane Duncan’s cell phone pinged, alerting her to the arrival of the text message. She was driving her Camry west on Cortez Road, the sunroof open, windows down, enjoying the sun and salt-laden air of a Tuesday morning in February. She ignored the phone. She’d be home in a few minutes, and the message could wait until then. Traffic slowed and finally stopped as she approached the Cortez Bridge that spanned the Intracoastal Waterway. The draw was rising to let a large sailboat pass through. J.D., as she had been known since infancy, was stopped on the bridge, the third car in line behind the crossing gate, giving her an expansive view of the bay and the boats anchored in the lee of Anna Maria Island. She never tired of the vista that always welcomed her back to her islands, even when, as on this morning, she had only been gone for a couple of hours.

She’d had a meeting with a young Manatee County prosecutor at the courthouse in Bradenton. He was anticipating the trial of a burglar whom J.D. had arrested on Longboat Key, where she was the entire detective division of the local police department. They were “getting ready for trial,” the lawyer had said with some pride. J.D. wondered if this was his first time at bat by himself in a felony courtroom.

J.D. watched as the graceful sailboat came onto a course that would take it directly under the raised span. Its sails were furled and its small diesel engine’s exhaust burbled at the stern. The boat was barely making way, the captain cautious, probably unsure of the currents.

J.D. settled in for the wait. She reached over to the passenger seat and took the phone from her purse, opened it, and looked at the text message. It was a photo of a woman, holding what appeared to be a newspaper. The picture was too small to give much detail. J.D. pressed a couple of buttons and forwarded the picture. She pressed another button, waited for the answer, and said, “Matt, I just forwarded a photo to your e-mail. It came in on my phone and it’s too small to make out any detail. Can you pull it up on your computer and see if you recognize the person in the picture?”

“Sure. Are you on your way?”

“I’m stopped at the Cortez Bridge waiting for a boat to go through. I should be at your house in about fifteen minutes.”

“See you then.”

My name is Matt Royal. I’m a lawyer who retired early, fed up with the rat race that the once honorable profession of law had become. I moved to Longboat Key, a small island about ten miles long and perhaps a half-mile wide at its broadest point. It lies off the southwest coast of Florida, south of Tampa, about halfway down the peninsula. Sarasota Bay separates the key from the mainland. Anna Maria Island is to the north, the islands connected by the two-lane Longboat Pass Bridge. The southern end of the key is attached by a bridge to Lido and St. Armands Keys, which in turn are connected to the city of Sarasota by the soaring John Ringling Bridge. The Gulf of Mexico’s turquoise waters lap gently on our beaches and the sun almost always shines. A cold day is a rarity, even in February. I live in paradise.

I’d been a trial lawyer in Orlando, made a few bucks, saved my money, lost my wife to divorce, said the hell with it, and retreated to the simpler life of Longboat Key. I live in a bayside cottage in Longbeach Village, the community that hugs the north end of my island. It’s known simply as “the village” and is a neighborhood of small houses, bungalows, and cottages, many of which date to the 1920s. I don’t have a lot of money, but it’s enough to last my lifetime if I’m careful.

I stand six feet tall, weigh one hundred eighty pounds, and have a head full of dark hair and a face that I’m mostly satisfied with. I run four miles a day on the beach, take weekly martial arts lessons, and generally stay in good shape. Before I went to law school, I was an infantry officer in the United States Army Special Forces, saw some combat, came home, and tried to put it out of mind.

Oh, and I have a sweetie. I don’t call her my sweetie to her face, because I value my hide. She tends to be a bit independent. I’m not sure
what to call her, but I know she wouldn’t find “sweetie” acceptable. “Significant other” rings a little too pretentious and “girlfriend” sounds like we’re still in high school. It’s not really an important issue since titles or descriptions don’t matter much on the key. Everybody knows we’re a couple. But in my heart, Detective J. D. Duncan is my sweetie.

J.D. and I had only been a couple since Christmas, although we’d been friends since she arrived on the island about a year ago. She’d been a cop in Miami for a dozen years, rising to detective and finally to assistant homicide commander. Her mom had lived on Longboat Key and when she died, J.D. inherited her condo on the bay. J.D.’s patience with Miami crime had worn thin, and she was ready for a quieter life. Bill Lester, the Longboat Key chief of police, had jumped at the chance to hire her. She was tall, slender, and beautiful with dark hair worn shoulder length and emerald eyes that flashed with humor or anger, depending on the situation.

I opened the text message J.D. had forwarded to my computer. The photo showed a thin, attractive woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties, sitting in a straight-back wooden chair in a bare room. Her dark hair was cut short and framed a pretty face. She was wearing jeans and a white tank top. She was not smiling, but did not seem distressed, just pensive. She was holding a copy of the
Sarasota Herald-Tribune
so that I could see the date. The headline was the one I’d read while drinking coffee on my patio that very morning. There was something written across the front page in large black ink, perhaps by a magic marker. It read, “Good morning Jed.”

The woman in the picture was a complete stranger to me. I was pretty sure I’d never seen her. Maybe she was somebody J.D. had known in Miami during the years she had lived there. I had no idea who Jed was.

I saved the picture and checked my e-mail. It was mostly spam, but there was a short note from my lifelong best friend, Jock Algren, telling me that he was still in Europe. He’d finished his assignment and was taking a few days in Rome. He planned to fly straight to Sarasota this weekend without stopping at his home in Houston. He and Logan Hamilton, my friend who lived on the key, were entered in a golf tournament that started the next Monday at the Longboat Key Club. I didn’t play, but they let me drive the beer cart.

I heard a car pull to a stop in front of my cottage, and a few minutes later J.D. came through the front door. She’d spent the night with me and left early for an appointment in Bradenton. I’d slept in and was dimly aware of a morning kiss on my forehead as she’d left. My first sight of her every morning was like a burst of light that warmed the cockles of my heart and today was no exception. Whatever cockles are.

“Good morning,” she said, grinning. “You look kind of rough.”

“Had a bad night. Didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

“Maybe I ought to spend more nights at my condo.”

“Nah,” I said. “I used to be a soldier. I’m tough. I can take it.”

She laughed. “Did you get the picture?”

“Yes. I don’t know the woman. Take a look.”

J.D. peered at the picture on my monitor, studying it closely. Suddenly, the color drained out of her face, and I heard a sharp intake of breath. “My God, Matt. That’s Katie Fredrickson.”

“Should I know her?”

“She’s dead.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She died more than a year ago. At least we all thought she did.”

“That’s today’s paper she’s holding.”

“I know.”