The Consequences of Finding Daniel Morgan

by Peter J Robinson

  “Obviously, that’s very worrying,” she had responded, deciding on a change of subject. “But I’m more interested in how you Brits don’t go much on the use of guns in law enforcement.” She had expected him to become defensive, but his mood seemed unchanged.

  “I’m not suggesting firearms play no part in enforcement. Just that in Britain we keep them in the background. Not out there in your face, as seems the American way.” But then he appeared to think for a moment before asking, “What is it you do, Charlie?”

  She had laughed as she explained she worked for the government. “I’m one of those ‘Rambo’ American enforcement officers you told the audience worry you so much.”

  She sat quietly now, watching the scenery flash past as Royle pushed the Chevy along at a good speed, leaning forward occasionally and working his way through the radio channels.

  “Anything interesting amongst Dan’s things Paula collected?”

  He reached forward again, turning down the radio. “Nothing suggestive of what he might be investigating. I also went through his filing cabinet and his phone messages.”

  She glanced across at him.

  “What puzzles me is the absence of his diary and laptop, plus there’s no notebook.”

  “You went through all that this morning?”

  “Last night and this morning. I slept on Doug’s office couch – can’t afford to waste time on this one.”

  She glanced across at her new partner again, uncertain which made the greater impression. That he had stayed in the office overnight to check on Dan’s recent movements? Or that he had omitted to mention it to either her or Whitland?

  * * *

  “Who’s this Deming Akroyd over in Los Angeles? He left messages asking Dan to ring him?” Royle asked.

  Charlie confirmed the name meant nothing to her.

  “Then maybe we already have a few things to follow up back in the office.”

  “Such as?”

  “Might be useful you calling Akroyd, seeing who he is and what he wants with Dan. We also need to speak with Sharon Morgan and get a look inside Dan’s new apartment. Oh, and I got Paula to start someone tracing Dan’s phone.”

  Ten minutes further on he made a call on his plug-in mobile, which was in speaker mode. “Mac, Phillip Royle. Been a long time, mate. Got something going on you may be able to help with.”

  “How are you, mate?” the speaker responded. “Paula mentioned you were back. What’s yer problem?”

  “I’ve got photos of a guy taking pictures of me off an early flight. Could be he’s in your records somewhere?”

  “I’ll give it a shot, Phillip. Drop ’em over.”

  “It’s pretty urgent; Dan Morgan seems to have gone missing. I’ll get Paula to email them.”

  “Leave it with me, I’ll get it sorted.”

  “One of your old contacts?” Charlie wondered as he disconnected the call.

  “That was Lieutenant Steve McGill, Miami Homicide. He’s Paula’s brother-in-law.”

  * * *

  Somewhere around mid-morning Charlie realised they had left the wetlands behind and were now driving through open grassland, with herds of cattle spaced out across obvious ranching country. At an intersection in the road stood a sign pointing to ‘Aguila Rancho’ and Royle headed the Chevy in that direction. Cattle quickly became even more evident, and from the amount of dust and the number of riders involved Charlie guessed some cattle-related activity was in progress.

  She heard Whitland ask Royle, “Good to be back?” to which he responded in the affirmative.

  At a bend where the dirt road passed through some tall scrub, Royle braked hard to avoid contact with a stationary horse and rider, the latter casually rolling a cigarette with one hand, gripping the reins with the other. Royle leaned out of the driver’s window and called to the man, who seemed advanced in years for something as energetic as chasing cattle. He was also Native American, which in Florida had to mean Seminole.

  “Still at it, then, Billy?”

  The rider looked down over his shoulder. “Phil Royle, heard you might be around. Good to see you, man.”

  Royle indicated the distant riders. “What’s going on?”

  “Just branding a few calves.”

  “She with you?”

  Billy inclined his head towards the distant dust cloud, obviously aware who ‘she’ was. “Middle of that lot, somewhere.”

  Charlie watched Royle open the door and walk over to the man sitting on his sweaty cow pony, seeing the rider lean down to grasp Royle’s hand. Not some brief formal handshake, but one that spoke of a long and close relationship. She also realised that, like Paula Howath, Billy called him Phil.

  “Fancy a comfortable lift back to the yard in a car?” Royle queried, sticking his head back in the window to check if Whitland objected to taking on board a dusty cowhand.

  Charlie watched Royle slide his left foot into the stirrup and swing himself aboard, the lively animal spinning itself in a full circle before taking off at a gallop.

  “Good to see he’s not lost it,” Whitland said, addressing the replacement driver. “Charlie here’s one of our agents, Billy.”

  The aging cowboy extended a dusty hand. “Good to meet you, Charlie.”

  Billy eased the now dusty Chevy in between several even dustier pickups parked out front of a sprawling house at the far end of the stable yard. The screen door opened as they emerged from the vehicle, a second elderly Native American descending the steps to greet them. Unlike Billy, though, this man was dressed in shorts and a clean white shirt.

  Whitland and the man exchanged a brief hug. “Good to see you, Wesley. I don’t believe you’ve met Charlie.”

  She held out her hand. “You must be the boss man.”

  He laughed. “Supposed to be, though I sometimes wonder. Wesley Cyprus; good to meet you.”

  They were about to climb the steps up to the porch when they heard laughter and the clatter of horses’ hooves. Turning, Charlie watched Royle enter the yard on Billy’s mount, a riderless pony trotting behind on a short line. Up behind Royle she could just make out another person: a young woman, her arms around his waist.

  The girl slipped to the ground as the horses came to rest, her covering of dust making clear she had been involved in activities out on the plain. Mid- to late-teens, medium height, skin a soft warm brown, with raven-black hair tied loosely in bunches. It was obvious she too had Seminole blood coursing through her veins. Charlie watched the girl throw her arms around Royle’s neck as he too dismounted, before running to Whitland and greeting him excitedly. Catching up with her, Royle took the girl’s hand.

  “Charlie, this is my daughter, Sam. And this,” he said, indicating Wesley, “is my father-in-law.”

  At this point Mama Cypress also appeared, inviting them all into her enormous kitchen, its surfaces laden with plates and bowls. Royle gave his mother-in-law a long squeeze, and in no time everyone, including Billy and several other cowhands, were seated around the table and the sound of conversation filled the air.

  Charlie watched Royle deliberately seat himself between Whitland and Wesley, whom he said he had not seen for months.

  “How’s my little girl, then?” she heard him ask Wesley.

  “You already know your daughter’s a joy to have around, but what’s the story with Dan?”

  “We know next to nothing,” Whitland admitted, picking up on the question. “We think he could be investigating illegal wildlife imports, perhaps getting information from out this way. Ring any bells?”

  “Can’t say it does. Billy there’s the one knows all the local gossip.”

  Meanwhile, back across the table, Charlie had seated herself next to Sam.

  “What are you hoping to do when you leave college?”

  “I’d like to work with the environment,
hopefully after getting through university.” But then she surprised Charlie. “How long have you worked with my dad?”

  “We only met properly yesterday, though we should get along fine with practice.” But then it was Charlie’s turn to raise a question. “Isn’t your mother joining us?”

  The girl hesitated. “Dad didn’t tell you? She died when I was born; my grandparents brought me up. He doesn’t talk about it, but I know he still misses her.”

  It crossed Charlie’s mind that the girl’s father did not seem particularly good at communicating important details. “He seems to know a lot of people,” she suggested, “and I don’t just mean in America, so does he travel much?”

  “He spends lots of time in Asia and in Africa, plus he has a house near London and an apartment in Australia. He has a sister out there.”

  * * *

  Back across the table Royle turned to Whitland. “I suspect it’ll take us time establishing what Dan was doing out here. What do you think to us stopping over and getting back in the office tomorrow?”

  “Not a problem for me, though I’ll need to ring Paula first. Plus, you’ll need to check with Charlie, assuming she’s speaking to you.”

  Royle frowned. “Been thinking about that. It’s time she and I straightened out a few things, once we get back to the office.”

  Later, then, lunch over and having checked with Charlie and Mama Cyprus about an overnight stay, Royle grabbed two cold beers and steered Billy toward the quiet of the stables, leaving the rest of the hands to mount up and head back on out to catch up with the cattle.

  He handed Billy a beer. “I need to know what Dan was doing out here.”

  Twenty minutes later Royle tracked his partner down to the rear decking, in deep discussion with his daughter. Lightly grasping her arm, he waited for Charlie to acknowledge him.

  “Just to prove how little we know about each other, do you ride?”

  She seemed surprised he felt the need to ask. “Come on, Phillip, this is America and we are in Florida, of course I can ride.”

  “Then I suggest you get changed. The three of us are going with Billy; he’s saddling up some horses as we speak.”

  “Do I get to know where we’re going?”

  “To see an old Seminole who Billy thinks Dan visited.”

  The four of them rode for about an hour, eventually swapping the grasslands for flooded woodland, the horses now splashing through shallow water much of the time. Royle explained they were going to see an old American Indian still living the traditional life out there in the swamplands, surviving mostly by catching fish and trapping and shooting birds and other animals. Assuming of course he was at home and not off hunting somewhere.

  Billy mostly led the way, with Royle taking over occasionally. Mostly they headed east, presumably back in the direction of Lake Okeechobee, the water often up around the horses’ bellies now.

  * * *

  Whilst they were mounting up back in the yard Charlie had noted that Royle was now wearing a hat; the kind of hat that around those parts made him disappear into the crowd. His daughter too had changed, swapping her dust-covered denim jacket for a colourful Seminole top. Ten minutes into their ride she also noticed Royle had a rifle tucked down in front of his saddle.

  “I thought you Brits didn’t carry firearms?”

  He turned in his saddle. “Different situation out here; you never know when it might come in useful.”

  As a federal firearms officer Charlie had the weapon down as a lever-action Winchester. Not at all the kind of weapon she expected to see in the hands of some Englishman. She recalled, too, the ease with which he had earlier taken over Billy’s spritely cow pony and could not help noticing how at home he seemed on a horse out here. Right at that moment no one could possibly take him for anything other than a working cowhand. He even had on a pair of light leather gloves to shield his hands from the constant friction of the reins; gloves that had obviously already spent many hours in the saddle.

  Nor could she help noticing how easily he appeared to switch between American English and his own native version – to the extent that he often seemed unsure which was appropriate: was it parking lot or car park, rental or hire car, restroom or toilet?

  Lost in such thoughts, she was only half aware of a deer getting up off to their left, and by the time she did see it the animal was up to speed and almost into cover. She jumped at the explosion of a weapon close behind her, watching the animal somersault into a motionless heap. Turning in her saddle she saw Royle lever a fresh shell into the Winchester, before applying the safety catch and returning it to its holster. Without a word Billy manoeuvred his horse to where the deer lay, dismounting and securing it up behind his saddle. Charlie realised Royle had killed the deer at full speed with a single shot from the Winchester and, equally interesting, neither Billy nor Sam appeared to treat it as unusual.

  * * *

  They eventually began seeing signs of human activity. Not ‘civilised’ activity, just the odd stump or two where trees had been cut down. Royle drew their attention to faint trails through the wet sawgrass, made either by man or alligator, and once they came across an American Indian burial site on a slight mound.

  Emerging eventually from some tall reeds, they found themselves confronted by a rough log cabin resting on low support poles on a small island. Immediately, the source of the wood smoke they had been detecting became clear; a single metal pipe emerged from the cabin’s roof, the smoke suggesting someone was at home.

  As the four of them sat taking in the scene, the horses impatiently tossing their heads, a male figure in Seminole dress emerged from the low doorway. He descended to the ground and exchanged words with Billy across the dividing water.

  “Billy’s saying we’ve come to see if there’s anything we can help with,” Royle explained to Charlie.

  The man had been followed out by what they assumed was his wife. More conversation followed and it was obvious from the beckoning signs that they were welcome. The horses emerged from the water, up past a dugout canoe carved from a single cypress tree, before coming to a halt again.

  “What’s going on now?” Charlie asked.

  “Billy’s going through the customary greeting; this guy speaks a little English, but not her.”

  The cabin’s owner shook hands all round and Billy handed over the deer. Sam made to disappear inside and help, but Royle grabbed her, giving her a tin of coffee and two tins of peaches from his saddlebag.

  “Some things I pinched from the kitchen,” he explained.

  The formalities over, Charlie and Royle spread themselves over a couple of rustic benches, leaving Billy to get on with the business side of things. He and the other American Indian talked at some length, though even from a distance it was obvious the old hunter was having trouble remembering answers to the questions he was being asked. But they seemed to be making progress, and at one stage Billy showed the old Seminole a piece of paper – Dan’s photograph. The man disappeared into the cabin, before reappearing, shaking his head.

  Royle, meanwhile, had been noting various traps hanging from the cabin’s outer walls, most designed for catching four-legged animals, though a few seemed more suited to taking birds. Indeed, piles of feathers at the water’s edge testified to the frequent plucking of ducks, whereas a heap of dried white bones clearly had an alligator origin.

  Billy eventually broke away from the conversation and turned to the two government agents.

  “Right, Dan was here, couple of weeks ago or more – this feller has no idea of dates. Dan was asking if anyone had been offering money for live birds. Apparently, a man did come, three or four ‘moons’ ago, wanting eggs for hatching. Our man remembers eagle, and the ‘hawk that eats snails’.”

  Royle was nodding his head. “The hawk will be snail kite, and the eagle must be bald eagle. Is that it?”

&nbs
p; “Not entirely. He says the man gave him a paper; turns out he means a business card. Thinks he gave it to Dan.”

  “Was the man coming back?”

  “Seems not. He was offering money, so not much use to this fella. Plus, he didn’t want people wandering around in his hunting area.”

  Royle considered this for a few moments before indicating the sky. “We can do little more here and it’s already getting dark. I suggest we head back and talk things through over supper.”

  Somewhere on their return journey the four of them stopped to water the horses, Charlie easing her mount in beside Royle’s in the moonlight, both leaning back in their saddles as the horses stretched their necks to drink. He momentarily struggled with his animal, easing the reins as it shook its head, already keen to be moving again. A horned owl advertised his threatening presence from the nearby trees, whilst somewhere way out on the prairie a lone coyote howled at the moon.

  Feeling a slight breeze, Royle pulled his collar up around his neck. “You ride like someone used to being in the saddle,” he observed quietly.

  “Strangely enough I was thinking pretty much the same about you,” Charlie responded, her slight smile escaping his attention in the darkness.

  Four

  A couple of hours after they all sat down to supper Royle watched Whitland push back his chair and yawn before announcing he was off to bed. Whereupon Sam suggested it was her bedtime too. Only then did he realise that Wesley and Mama Cypress had already disappeared and that for the first time since last week’s conference he was alone with Charlie. Seizing the opportunity, he too left the table, crossing to a cabinet and removing two glasses before extracting a bottle of wine from the refrigerator.

  Addressing his partner, he pointed out through the doorway towards the darkness and the rear decking. “This seems like an opportunity for a glass of wine. Maybe clear the air a little?”

  He headed for the door, relieved to hear Charlie’s chair being pushed back as she followed. Reaching the decking he offered her a seat, positioning himself opposite. He held up the bottle in the moonlight.