Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (9 page)

I called Debbie at home early the next morning. She was a night owl, and
I knew I'd wake her up, but I needed information. She'd forgive me.
Sooner or later.

"Deb," I said. "Matt Royal."

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah. Almost eight."

"Geez. This better be good, Royal."

"Can you get on your computer and see what you can find out about
a guy named Clyde Varn?"

"Call me back this afternoon. It's way too early."

"This is important, Deb."

"Who is he?"

"I think lie may have something to do with the missing girl I was
telling you about yesterday."

"Okay. I'll get back to you in an hour."

"Bill Lester tells me Varn was convicted on a marijuana charge some
years ago. The FBI files don't show anything else. Maybe that'll help you
find the right guy. Check out Jake Yardley while you're at it," I said, and
hung up.

I was drinking coffee on my sunporch, reading the morning paper.
The wind was up, and the bay was roiled and gray, punctuated by little
white caps. The sun was shining, and in the quiet I could hear the moan
of the wind as it cut through the palm trees and around the building.

My phone rang again.

"Matt, Bill Lester."

"Morning, Bill."

"Do you know Wayne Lee?"

"Yeah. Why? Is he in trouble?"

"He's dead."

"What?" I was shocked. "I saw him last night."

"Bradenton PD found your business card in his pocket. They called
me. I'm calling you. Talk to me."

I explained why Logan and I were with Wayne the night before and how we came to find him. "We left him at the bar, drinking. I gave him a
twenty for more beer, and Logan and I left."

"He just had some pocket change on him. He probably drank up die
twenty."

"How did he die?"

"Shot through the heart. Small caliber, maybe a.38. The same caliber
that killed Varn."

"Same weapon?"

"We don't know yet. The crime lab will compare it and let us know"

"Where did they find him?"

"On the street, about a block from where he lived."

"Bill, why is it that two people I just talked to about Peggy turn up
dead?"

"That's what I'd like to know," he said, and hung up.

I called Logan to tell him what had happened.

"The poor bastard," Logan said.

"We've got two dead guys that you and I are connected to. All within
two days. They have to be involved somehow in Peggy's disappearance.
That's the only common thread between us and them."

"Stay safe, Matt. I don't know what we've stumbled into."

"I'm beginning to think the shooting at Coquina Beach wasn't random. It must be connected somehow to Yardley and Lee, and to Peggy.
You got your gun?"

"Nearby at all times."

"Mine too."

My day was not off to a good start. I couldn't concentrate on the morning
rag. No good news anyway. Curiously, there was nothing on the missing
body from the vulture pit. Sarasota PD was keeping a lid on it. I put the
paper down and poured myself another cup of coffee.

If the placement of Varn's body was supposed to be a message to me,
it would be clear to the killers that I didn't get it. I had spent time with
Wayne Lee. Would they be coming for me next?

That was not a pleasant thought, but I was pretty confident I could take care of myself. I'd stayed in shape, and the Army had long ago taught
me a lot about self-defense. Those lessons are drilled into the soldier with
such intensity that they're not likely to be forgotten. The memory resides
in the muscles, and reactions become automatic, instinctive, and violent.
Plus, I knew how to use my nine millimeter.

The phone rang. Debbie.

"Got some stuff for you, Matt, but it's a little confusing."

"Talk to me."

"Clyde Varn was born in Brooksville, up just north of Tampa, graduated from high school there, got drafted, fought in Vietnam, honorable
discharge, and then a string of petty-crime charges. A lot of those are in
Monroe County, down in the Keys. He was convicted once in Miami on
pot possession, and that's it.

"Seven years ago, he testified against some drug runners in federal
court in Miami. Then he dropped off the radar and hasn't been seen since."

"How long ago did he disappear?"

"Right after he testified."

"Isn't that a little odd? Could he have been in jail somewhere?"

"No. I would've found those records. Plus you said that Bill Lester's
search of the FBI files didn't show any convictions other than the misdemeanor pot thing in Miami some years ago. And I found that one."

"Where has he been for the past seven years?"

"That's the interesting thing. About the time Varn dropped off the
planet, Jake Yardley shows up. He gets a couple of credit cards, a Kansas
driver's license, and he's living in an apartment in Topeka. He doesn't
seem to have a job, so I don't know what he was living on. I can't find any
history on him before he showed up in Topeka. It's like he dropped in
when Varn dropped out."

"Maybe that's what happened," I said.

"Then about a year ago, Yardley shows up in Tampa and trades his
Kansas driver's license for a Florida one with a Brooksville address. The
same one where Varn grew up. From then on, there's nothing on him. No
credit cards, no traffic tickets, nothing. He must've been paying cash for
everything he bought."

"Thanks, Deb," I said, and hung up.

I was reaching for the phone when it rang. Again. I answered, expecting
more bad news. I got it.

"Matt, Cracker Dix here. Fats Monahan just called me. Said he needs
to see you as soon as possible."

"What about?"

"He said to tell you he knows who killed Wayne Lee. I didn't even
know he was dead."

"Last night. Where is Fats now?"

"At Hutch's. He lives above it, so he's always there."

"Thanks, Cracker. I'll go right over."

I crossed the Longboat Pass Bridge and drove north a couple of
miles, turning right onto Cortez Road. I had to wait on the Cortez Bridge
while a tall-masted sailboat moved slowly under power through the open
span. Pelicans were diving into the bay like Stuka bombers, hitting the
water and then bouncing back up, floating as they raised their heads and
swallowed the hapless fish they'd caught. A gull landed on the back of a
pelican and tried to snatch breakfast before the bigger bird could swallow
it. No luck.

The bridge siren sounded. The span was going back down, and
when it was locked in place, the barricade rose from the roadway, signaling me to move on.

I drove less than a mile and pulled into the shell parking lot of
Hutch's. The front door was open, and the place seemed deserted. I
walked in, stopping for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkened
interior. I could smell the place. An almost overpowering stench of unwashed bodies, cigarette smoke, and stale beer lingered from the night
before. It was so quiet I could hear the air shuffling through my nostrils.

"Fats," I called out.

Nothing.

"Fats." Again, louder.

Nothing. I pulled my nine millimeter from the pocket of my windbreaker. I pumped a round into the chamber, and held the pistol down by
my leg, pointing to die floor.

I noticed a partially open door across the barroom. It led to another
room, perhaps a storeroom or a bathroom. I couldn't be sure. The interior
was pitch dark.

I eased toward the door, my pistol in front of me, held in a twohanded grip. I pushed the door all the way open with the barrel of the
weapon. I reached in with my left hand, fumbling along the wall next to the
door, trying to find a light switch. My hand closed on a plastic cover with
a round knob, like the controls of a rheostat. I pushed the knob in, and
light flooded the small room.

I was standing in a dusty vestibule, with stairs leading upward. There
were cases of whiskey stacked around the little room and under the stairs.
The space was unpainted, and dust covered the boxes of booze.

I saw a door at the head of the stairs and started climbing, slowly.
Light was seeping from around the door, casting a faint glow on die area.
I stayed to die edge of the steps, hoping not to cause one to creak and give
me away. I pointed my gun upward. I wasn't sure why I was being so careful, but it seemed like a good idea.

I reached the door and slowly turned the knob. It wasn't locked and
I carefully opened it. Light poured through the crack between the door
and the jamb. As the opening widened, more sunlight splashed out.

I swung the door all the way open and at the same time stepped back
down a couple of steps, crouching. I wanted to make as small a target as
possible.

Nothing. No movement. No sound.

I stood and moved into the room, gun pointing forward. No one was
there. It wasn't much of a room. A single bed was positioned under the
window across from the doorway in which I stood. This was the source of the sunlight that flowed into the room. The bed was unmade, die sheets
tangled, a pillow on the floor. An overstuffed chair was positioned at the
foot of the bed, a reading lamp next to it. The walls were an institutional
gray, the paint peeling in spots. I could see a brown blotch on the ceiling
where the roof had leaked. On the wall across from the bed, someone had
built a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. It was filled with books. A quick glance
told me that the reader's interest ran to history and biography. A closed
door bisected the wall to my right.

"Fats," I called again.

The door opened, and a naked man stood there, shaving cream covering his face, a safety razor in his hand, a startled look on his face, dissolving quickly into fear.

"What the fuck?" said the naked man. It was Fats.

I angled the gun toward the floor. "Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to
startle you."

"Startle? You scared the ever-living shit out of me, Counselor. What
the hell are you doing?"

"The door downstairs is open and nobody was in the bar. I wasn't
sure what I was going to find. Sorry."

"That door should be locked. You sure it's open?"

"Wide open."

"What are you doing here?"

"You said you wanted to see me."

"I never said that."

"Didn't you call Cracker Dix and tell him you wanted to see me about
Wayne Lee?"

"No. Why would I?"

He reached into the bathroom and grabbed a towel, wiped his face
and then put it around his considerable girth.

"About his murder," I said.

"Wayne's murder?"

"Yes. Last night."

"Damn."

Fats moved to the chair and sat down heavily. He put his hands to
his face, almost prayerfully. "What happened?"

"He was shot in the chest. Over near where he lives. That's all I
know."

"Shit. Poor guy. He never hurt nobody."

I had moved into the room, keeping an eye on the door leading to
the stairs. Somebody had called Cracker and told him to get me here.
Why? Why was the door downstairs open? Was somebody else in the
building?

Then I heard it. A step creaking. I turned to Fats, putting a finger to
my lips, the universal signal for quiet. I raised my pistol, sighting on the
open door to the stairs. Another creak, and then the door was thrown all
the way back, bouncing against the wall.

A big man pushed into the room. He was about six feet tall, but he
must've weighed three hundred pounds. I didn't think any of it was fat. He
wore a black ski mask, and he had a shotgun in his hands, leveled at me. I
saw his eyes squint in anticipation of the shot. His finger was pulling back
on the trigger, whitening under the pressure. His lips, visible through the
mouth hole of the mask, were beginning to part in a grin, or a grimace.

I shot him in the face. He went over backward, the shotgun discharging into the ceiling. I rushed the body, ready to pump another round
into him. It wasn't necessary. His eyes were open just above the entry
wound to the right of his nose. Some air escaped through his open mouth,
a gurgling sound emanating from his throat. The death rattle.

I positioned myself beside the doorway, waiting to see who else was
coming up the stairs. Fats was sitting in the chair, a yellow stain spreading
across the white towel draped over his lap. I didn't blame him. That shotgun scared the piss out of me too. His breathing was irregular, his eyes
wide in fright.

Feet pounded the floor of the room below. It sounded like one man
running. The front door slammed, and a moment later tires careened over
the shell parking lot. A car coming off the street, fast. A door slammed,
and the vehicle screeched out of the parking lot, its tires loudly grabbing
the pavement.

I ran to the window over the bed and looked out. A green sedan was
on Cortez Road heading east. It was too far away for me to see its license
plate or to even determine the make of car. It was gone.