Blood island mrm-3

by H. Terrell Griffin

  I gave the attendant Ben Joyce's credit card and showed him the ID. He asked me a couple of questions to see if I knew how to handle a boat, and handed me the keys.

  I bought a fishing rod and some bait from the tackle shop next door, and climbed down into the boat. I put the rod in its holder, cranked the engine, and motored out of the entrance to the bight. I passed the waterfront homes of the Naval officers who manned the facilities at the military installations that remained at the end of the continental U.S., and turned left into the main channel.

  The seas were flat that early in the morning, and I made good time on a westerly course. I passed the western-most of the Mule Keys and eased up to Blood Island. I rode around it, seeing nothing but mangroves hugging the water. As I came to the eastern side I saw the deeper water of the cut leading around the island from Boca Grande Channel into the lagoon.

  I stopped the boat and let if drift, the engine idling quietly. I put a frozen shrimp on my hook and dropped it into the water. I could see the bottom at any depth along the island. Farther out, in the Boca Grande Channel, the water turned a dark blue, indicating deep water.

  My VHF radio came to life.

  "The small boat off Blood Island. Please be advised that this is a private island. No trespassing is allowed. Trespassers will be shot on sight. Do you copy?"

  I keyed my mic. "I copy Blood Island. Thanks for the warning."

  "Remember it," the radio squawked.

  Nice people, I thought. I pulled in my line and completed a circle of the island. The only place to land was in the lagoon. I was sure the approach was watched, so the radio message seemed a little superfluous. Maybe they just wanted to make a point.

  I came back around to the east side, near the channel to the lagoon, and drifted. I picked up the binoculars that were part of the boat's equipment. I scanned the area around the passage into the lagoon. The island, like all the keys, was flat. There were large trees covering the spits of land that surrounded the lagoon. There was a dock protruding into the water from the main part of the island. Two go-fast boats were tied to either side, bows facing out.

  I scanned carefully, but couldn't see any sign of life. Then, a glint of metal in one of the trees near the mouth of the lagoon. I focused on it, moving my vision on and off the target area, just as the Army had taught me long ago.

  Then, I saw it. A slight movement, and another glint of sunlight off metal. I could make out a man sitting on a platform high in die branches of a large tree. He had a rifle cradled in his arms and was scanning with his own binoculars. I couldn't make out his features, but he was occupying what seemed to be a guard post. It had rails around the edges and a ladder reaching down to the ground. It had a roof from which rose a radio antenna, almost hidden by the tree branches.

  I put my binoculars down and picked up my fishing rod. If he was looking for me, I didn't want him to see me looking for him. I fished for a few minutes, paying no attention to the island. I could feel the guard's eyes on me.

  Twenty minutes or so elapsed before I put the engine in gear and slowly motored over the shallows. As I reached deeper water, I brought the boat on plane and headed back to Key West.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I went back to Garrison Bight and moored the boat at the rental company's dock. I told the attendant that I wanted to try some night fishing, and paid him for another day. He told me to keep the keys and take the boat when I wanted it.

  I walked a couple of blocks to a dive shop I'd passed earlier in the day. I picked out a complete outfit, including a neoprene wet suit with hood, dual tanks, regulator, buoyancy compensator, weight belt, fins, mask, gauges, and computer. I took it to the counter and asked a young man with a surfer hairdo to fill the tanks for me.

  "I need to see your certification card," he said.

  "I don't have it with me."

  "I can't fill the tanks without the card."

  "Look," I said. "I'm buying, what, three grand worth of equipment here? It's of no use to me without air in the tanks."

  "Sorry, I just work here."

  "Suppose I called the purchases thirty-five hundred even, the last five hundred in cash. Would that get me some air?"

  "That it would, my man."

  He took the tanks and disappeared into the back of the store. I could hear an air compressor crank up and chug along for a few minutes. Soon, he was back.

  I hooked the gauges to the tanks to make sure they were full, and gave him five one hundred dollar bills plus Ben's credit card.

  "Can you hang on to the equipment for me until this evening?" I asked.

  "Sure, but we close at seven."

  "I'll be back by then. Thanks."

  It was nearing noon when I called Debbie. "Got anything?" I asked.

  "Some. The island is owned by a Bahamian corporation which in turn is owned by a Cayman Islands corporation whose shares are held by a Cayman bank."

  "That sounds familiar," I said, remembering what Bill Lester had found out about the owner of Varn's condo. "What's the name?"

  "Circle Ltd."

  "Do me a favor and call Bill Lester when we hang up. Find out the name of the corporation that owned Clyde Varn's condo. I'll bet it's the same one."

  "Will do. There wasn't a whole lot on the island. The Monroe County property records show that the Yates family from New York owned it for about a hundred years. They sold it to Circle three years ago."

  "What was the price tag?"

  "Two million bucks."

  "Anything else?"

  "A house was built on the island about fifty years ago to replace one that burned down. I downloaded the plans from the building department. It's a big house with a cistern on the roof to catch rainwater.

  "About twenty years ago, the Yates family got a permit to install a diesel generator on the property and to build six guest cabins for family members. Not much other than that."

  "What about the spa?"

  "The property's owned by a Bahamian corporation. It's the same one that owns the island."

  "Thanks Deb. Let me know what the chief says about Circle. Can you fax me a copy of the house plans?"

  "Yeah. I'll also send you the plat on the permit to build the cabins. Give me a number."

  "Send it to the Key West Police Department with a cover sheet to Detective Paul Galls, and ask him to hold it for me."

  "Will do. I'll get back to you on the corporation."

  "I'll call you back later this afternoon. While you're at it, find out what you can on a Reverend Robert William Simmermon."

  "Sure thing, old pal. Anything else? Like the Yankee box scores for 1947?"

  "Nobody loves a smart-ass, Deb," I said, and hung up.

  I called Paul Galls and told him I was on my way over and to watch for the fax from Debbie.

  I was tired of walking, and I had about decided that I was being a little silly in my precautions. If anybody was watching me, they knew by now that I wasn't destitute.

  I took a cab from Garrison Bight to the Monroe County Sheriff's Office. It was a modern three-story building next to the jail on Stock Island. I showed my identification, my real one, at the front desk and was given a visitor's pass to clip to my shirt collar. I was still wearing running shoes and my cargo shorts from the day before, but with a clean golf shirt. A woman in civilian clothes escorted me to Galis's office.

  The detective division was housed on the third floor. Galls had enough seniority to warrant a small office with a view over the water to the Naval installation on Dredger's Key.

  He stood as I entered his office. He was a couple of inches shorter than I and had a head full of brown hair parted on the left. I guessed his age as late forties or early fifties. He was wringing his hands, wiping them together as if he were washing them. A small metal logo of the U. S. Army Special Forces was pinned to the lapel of his suit coat.

  "I see that you used to wear a green beanie." I said.

  "Right. I heard you did too."

  "I did
."

  "David Sims told me a lot about you. I figured we Special Forces guys have to stick together. I told him I'd give you whatever help I could."

  "I appreciate it. Were you in Nam?"

  "At the tail end. How about you?"

  "About the same time," I said.

  "I've got a fax for you that came in a little while ago."

  He handed over the sheets of paper. We were finished talking about the war. Some things just don't need to be examined too closely. Who needs the pain?

  The first sheet of paper had a note scribbled on it. "The same corporation that owns Blood Island also owns Varn's condo." I wasn't surprised.

  "Tell me what I can do for you?" Galis said, dry washing his hands.

  He noticed I was looking at his hands. He smiled a little sheepishly and said, "Nervous habit. I'm a worrier."

  "What are you worried about?"

  "Nothing. Everything. I think it comes from working for the government too long. How can I help you?"

  "I'm looking for a girl who disappeared from Longboat Key about four weeks ago. Two days ago her father, Jeff Timmons, got a call from a bar here called the Sharkstooth."

  "Bad place."

  "I agree. The caller hung up before Jeff got to the phone, but his caller ID captured the number. He called it and got the pay phone in the bar. There were a couple of murders up my way that had connections that led to Key West. The murders and the phone call all pointed to here, so I thought I'd come down and see what I could find out."

  "Sims brought me up to speed on the murders. Any luck?"

  "Some guys at the Sharkstooth told me about Crill and, after you gave me his address, I paid him a visit."

  "Wait a minute. The people that hang out in the Sharkstooth aren't the kind to tell tales."

  "I'm pretty persuasive sometimes."

  "You're the one who took out Big Rick." It wasn't a question.

  "Maybe."

  "He's been pushing people around for years. About time somebody laid a hurting on him."

  "How is he?"

  "In the hospital. He'll live, but his reputation as a hotshot took a beating."

  I changed the subject. "What can you tell me about Blood Island?"

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Who lives there?"

  "No idea. It's technically in our jurisdiction, and I guess if there were ever a crime committed out there, we'd look into it. But it's a quiet place."

  "Never had any trouble at all?"

  "None. There aren't many people on the island. I think the owners come in occasionally, but the only year-round residents are the caretakers."

  "How many of them?"

  "Don't know. Never had a reason to find out."

  "What do you know about the Heaven Can't Wait Spa?"

  "You mean the whorehouse?"

  I chuckled. "You know about that, huh?"

  "Sure. But it's a clean operation, and I've never heard of any trouble there. No complaints from the citizens. We'll leave it alone unless somebody starts raising hell about it."

  "Do you know who owns it?"

  "Some corporation based in the Bahamas is all I know. God knows who owns the corporation."

  "Did you know that Blood Island is also owned by a Bahamian corporation?"

  "No, but I'm not surprised. There've always been a lot of Bahamians in and out of Key West. They're bound to own some property."

  I told him about Clyde Varn and that the same corporation that owned Blood Island also owned Varn's Tampa condo. I explained all the connections that seemed to converge on Key West; the shooter at Hutch's, Varn, the phone call from the Sharkstooth Bar to Jeff Timmons.

  "That's a lot of coincidences," he said.

  "I don't put much faith in coincidences."

  "Nah. Neither do I."

  "Have you ever heard of an evangelist named Robert William Simmermon?"

  "No. Who is he?"

  "I'm not sure. Clyde Varn told me he left Peggy and her friends at an arena in Sarasota. Simmermon was preaching there at the time. Later, he came to Key West."

  "One more coincidence," Galls said.

  "Let me show you something." I picked up a pencil from the detective's desk and drew a reasonably accurate picture of the cross in the circle of flowers I'd seen on Sister Amy's breast and at the front door of the spa. I passed it over to him. "Does this mean anything to you?"

  He looked at it for a moment. "No, I don't think I've ever seen it. What is it?"

  I told him where I'd seen it.

  "You mean," he said, "that you just went into that whorehouse and asked the first girl you came to if she knew Peggy?"

  "Yeah. It wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done. But, I wanted to see if I'd get a reaction."

  "And did you?"

  "Oh, yeah." I told him what had happened, but left out the part about my shooting one of my pursuers. I didn't think he'd like that I was shooting up his town and stealing kids' bicycles.

  "I outran them," I said.

  "This is a strange town in many ways, Matt. We've got a lot of odd people, and some of them are just bone-deep bad. But most of the people who live here are decent law-abiding folks. My job is keeping the bad guys from taking over from the good guys. I need to know which you are. Good guy or bad guy?"

  "I'm on your side, Paul. But if I get pushed, I push back. Like they taught us at Bragg."

  "They taught us about war, Matt. Key West isn't a war zone. Not yet, anyway."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Galls offered me lunch and a ride back to Old Town. I declined both. I didn't want anybody to see me eating with a cop or getting out of a police cruiser. He called a cab, and I had it drop me a couple of blocks from the yacht basin at Garrison Bight. I didn't think anybody was looking for me, but I wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

  It was almost two in the afternoon, and I was hungry. I found a diner on Roosevelt Avenue that seemed to cater to the captains and crews of Charter Boat Row. I sat at the counter and ate a burger and fries. I finished, paid my tab, and walked out onto the street.

  A black Lincoln Town Car sat idling at the curb. As I left the building, a large man in a dark suit got out of the front seat and approached me. I stopped. Wary, not expecting this.

  "Mr. Royal," the man said. "Please come with me." He motioned to the car.

  It took a moment for me to realize I'd been called by my real name. As far as I knew, no one in Key West, except Paul Galls, knew who I was. I started to deny that my name was Royal, when he opened his coat to show me a holstered pistol.

  My gun was still in my pocket, but I couldn't imagine a shootout on a sunny street across from a busy marina. There were people all around, and someone would get hit. Galls was right. Key West shouldn't be a war zone.

  The man smiled. "Cracker Dix sent me," he said.

  Relief spread through me as my body relaxed. The adrenaline rush was subsiding, the bunched muscles loosening.

  The man opened the back door and I slid into the car. An older man with receding gray hair was sitting on the other side of the back seat. His face showed the scars of a long-ago battle with acne. He was swarthy, and had a mouth full of large white teeth. He was dressed casually. He held out his hand. I took it.

  "I'm Oscar Mendosa," he said. "I've been looking for you."

  "How did you find me?"

  "Cracker told me you might be using the name Ben Joyce. He also e-mailed us a picture of you." He held out a picture of me taken by Cracker on a recent fishing trip to Boca Ciega Bay.

  Mendosa continued. "When you bought the diving gear this morning, Ben Joyce's name popped up in our computers. We talked to the young man at the dive shop, and he told us you were coming back this evening. I've had men here all day, and when one saw you go into the diner, he called me."

  "Why were you looking for me?"

  "I owe Cracker a great deal. If I can repay part of that debt by helping his friend, I'd like to do so."

  "I appre
ciate it, Mr. Mendosa, but I don't really need any help."

  "I think you do. Somebody is trying to kill you."

  "Who?"

  "I'm not sure. Somebody has put a bounty on you."

  "A bounty? What are you talking about?"

  "Pictures of you are circulating around town, and the word is that whoever calls a certain phone number with your whereabouts will get a thousand dollar reward. There are men in this town who would sell their mothers for a grand."

  He held out another photo, a grainy black-and-white print. This one was taken of me at the whorehouse the evening before. I was standing in the entry hall talking to the receptionist. A security camera.

  "Do you know who's behind this?" I asked.

  "No. The phone number goes to an answering machine that tells the caller to leave his name and number and someone will get in touch. I left a number, and got a callback inside of ten minutes. I played dumb and hung up."

  "Are you familiar with the Heaven Can't Wait Spa?"

  "Oh, yes." He chuckled. "The religious whorehouse."

  "Who owns it?"

  "No idea. Our business does not deal in whores, so I never cared to find out. I've just heard stories about the place."

  "I appreciate your bringing this to my attention, Mr. Mendosa. I'll be careful."

  "I can give you some men to back you up."

  "That's very kind, but I've got a lot to do in the next couple of days, and I have to do it alone."

  He reached into his pocket and extracted a business card. He handed it to me. It had nothing on it but a phone number.

  "This number," he said, "is answered twenty-four hours a day. Call it if you need anything."

  "Thank you."

  We shook hands, and I got out of the car. It glided silently into traffic and was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  It was mid-afternoon, and hot. The breeze off the water was negligible. Spring was beginning to turn into summer, and soon the days would all be hot and humid.

  A few of the charter boats had returned from the day's fishing. A small group of tourists, a family perhaps, with too much red skin, was standing on the dock behind a moored boat. One of them, a teenaged boy, held a string of fish in his hands. The captain was taking their picture as they stood with goofy grins next to a sign advertising his services. A young man wearing only cutoffs was washing down the boat. A half dozen pelicans floated in the basin, waiting for the fish scraps they knew would be coming from the cleaning tables. Cars and trucks rumbled by on Roosevelt Avenue, leaving the smell of exhaust hovering over the docks.