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

by Griffin, H. Terrell

  We were just taking the off ramp at Fruitville Road when my phone rang again. Blocked number on the caller ID screen. Probably Bill Lester. I answered.

  “Matt, what the hell is going on?”

  “Good evening, J.D.”

  “I just had a conversation with a Collier County Sheriff’s lieutenant who tells me some people were killed and a car blown up in Belleville, and you just happened to be there.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Matt. Where are you?”

  “I’m just leaving the Interstate at Fruitville Rd.”

  “Meet me on the key.”

  “We’re going to the Haye Loft for food. Meet us there.”

  “Us?”

  “Jock and Logan are with me.”

  “You could knock me over with a feather. I’m that surprised.” She hung up.

  We drove onto Longboat and stopped at the Haye Loft for pizza and beer. A little coconut cream pie for dessert finished our day. I chided the bartender Eric for overserving Sam, and he promised not to do it again. I thought his grin gave him away though, and Sam would not have to worry about a paucity of alcohol on Eric’s watch.

  J.D. came in as we were finishing. She had a determined look about her, her body coiled, stiff, her lips clamped tight, her eyes squinting. She pointed to the three of us at the bar and then to a table in the corner. There was no question about what she meant. We moved quickly like three boys being shown into the principal’s office to explain some egregious breach of school rules. Jock and I had been there before. Back in high school. Only this time, I wasn’t sure that J.D. wouldn’t just start shooting us.

  We sat at the table. She stared at each one of us in turn, sat back in her chair, shaking her head. “What were you guys doing in Belleville?”

  I started talking. Told her the whole story. About the dead gang-banger, about Turk in a safe agency lockup in Miami, Jock’s rental car being blown up. I explained the connection between Blakemoore and Abraham. Some of it she knew, some of it she didn’t.

  “We’re not holding out on you, J.D.,” I said when I’d finished. “We didn’t expect any trouble. I was just nosing around, trying to help the local law.”

  J.D.’s face relaxed. “That’s what the deputy said. I talked to an old friend of mine at Miami-Dade PD. They’ve been picking up rumors that one of the Latin gangs in Miami had been paid to kill a lawyer. The kid that pulled the trigger probably did it to get full membership in the gang.”

  “Why didn’t Miami-Dade get in touch with Collier County?” Logan asked.

  “They never made the connection until tonight. There were no reports of any dead lawyers in Miami, so they pretty much wrote off the rumor as just that. A rumor. They tied it together when Collier County ran the prints on the guy Jock shot tonight.”

  “Was he the one who killed Blakemoore?” Jock asked.

  “Looks like it,” said J.D. “The deputy found a shotgun in the trunk of the gangbanger’s car. Had the driver’s fingerprints on it. They can’t tell for certain that it was the one that killed Blakemoore, but they think it probably was. We’ll never know for sure.”

  “You want a drink?” I asked.

  “You guys have had a long day. Go home.”

  “If you’ll drive me home, I’ll have one with you,” I said.

  She nodded her head. Asked for a white wine. I called to Eric, asking for another beer and a glass of wine for J.D. Jock and Logan said their good nights to us and Eric and went out into the night.

  She took a sip of her wine. “I wish you’d called me before you headed to Belleville. I thought we were becoming a team.”

  “I should have called. I’m still not comfortable with getting a cop involved in some of the stuff we get ourselves into.”

  She nodded, was quiet for a minute. “I can appreciate that, but at least let me know what you’re up to. I don’t have to get involved.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “What are your plans for tomorrow night? With the biker guy?”

  “We don’t have much of a plan. We’re going to the Snake Dance Inn and pull Baggett out of there.”

  “Just the three of you?”

  “I think we’ll have some help from Jock’s agency.”

  “When are you going in?”

  “After dark. We want them to get a little liquored up before we start anything.”

  “Be careful, Matt,” she said. “I don’t have many friends here. I’d hate to lose one.”

  “Count on it,” I said.

  We moved onto other topics, small talk, the kind that goes on in bars all over the planet every night of the year. We ordered another round and then another. It was getting late and Eric was doing what bartenders do when they’re hinting that it’s time to go. I paid the tab, over a protest from J.D. that this should be a Dutch treat. We said goodnight to Eric, walked down the outside staircase to J.D.’s unmarked patrol car, a white Ford Crown Vic.

  The parking lot was dark, her car the only one left. A streetlight at the corner gave us a bit of illumination. The old trees that shaded the lot hid the sky. A match flared under the overhang of the restaurant, one of the cooks having his last cigarette before locking up and going home. The shells that covered the ground crackled under our feet. The night air was cool and a hint of moisture floated about us.

  She pulled out her keys. I took them from her hand, unlocked the door, opened it for her. She smiled, standing there next to me, so close I could smell her breath, a sweet mixture of fermented grapes and warm girl. She looked at me, her face inches from mine. We were like a stone tableau, immovable, frozen in a moment that seemed to last forever.

  I stepped back, gave her room to get into the car. I walked around to the other side, got in, and she drove me to the village. We didn’t talk during the couple of miles to my cottage. It was dead quiet. No music, no radio traffic, just the swish of tires on the pavement, the wind beating at the windshield.

  She stopped in front of my house. I looked at her, stared probably, said goodnight, and got out of the car. I watched as she drove off, her tail-lights winking in the darkness.

  THURSDAY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  My phone rang a little after eight on Thursday morning. I was on the patio with a cup of coffee and the morning’s paper. Jock and Logan were still in bed. I looked at the caller ID. Nestor Cobol.

  “Good morning, Matt. Hope I didn’t call too early.”

  “Not a problem. I’m halfway through the paper.”

  “I’ve been meaning to call to let you know I hired Jube Smith. I appreciate your sending him to me.”

  “I’m glad that worked out.”

  “He’s got a lot of experience. I’ve seen him around over the years, but I didn’t really know him. I knew his wife from over at the diner.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Not good. I put Jube to work on one of my day boats. He’s home every night. Her sister stays with her during the day. I don’t think she has long.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Matt, Jube told me something that I need to talk to you about as soon as possible. Can you meet me at the Star Fish for lunch at noon?”

  “What’s it about?”

  “The people who are trying to kill you.”

  “I’ll be there. Do you mind if I bring a guest?”

  “A guest?”

  “A cop.”

  “Your call.”

  I called J.D. Duncan. “You got time for lunch?”

  “I’m pretty busy, Matt.”

  “Hard for a detective to keep busy on this island.”

  “We had two more boats stolen last night. The deputy chief thinks it’s related to a ring operating all along the southwest coast.”

  Martin Sharkey, the deputy chief, was a good cop. He’d spent his whole career with the Longboat Key PD and had moved steadily up the ranks. He was a boater himself, and I knew he’d take a personal interest in a rash of boat
thefts. Boats had been disappearing for weeks, usually the big center-console fishing boats. The theory was that they were being taken to a refueling ship out in the Gulf and then on to Mexico. A couple of ships like that, stationed at points in open water would provide enough fuel for the boats to make it to Mexico. Sharkey thought the boats were being stolen to order and that corrupt officials in Mexico had paperwork ready showing that the boats had been imported into Mexico, and bought legitimately by the new owners.

  “I want you to meet some people who may have some information about who’s trying to kill me,” I said. “I’m having lunch with them at the Star Fish over in Cortez at noon.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Jock and Logan were going to meet Bill Lester for lunch and bring him up to date on what had happened in Belleville. Logan had talked to the chief about the ransacking of his condo the day before and found out a little more about the people who’d invaded my home. They were part of the West Coast Marauders, and both had very busy rap sheets.

  Jock had checked in with his agency and they were looking into any connections emanating from Turk. He’d uploaded the information from Turk’s cell phone’s SIM card to the DEA and they were tracking the phone calls.

  If Turk had told his brother about Abraham’s document, and the brother worked for ConFla, it would be reasonable to think that someone at the company was behind the efforts to kill us. It was a big company and it might take a while to figure it all out.

  My friends dropped me off at a car rental agency at the Colony Beach Resort. My Explorer wouldn’t be ready for several days, and my insurance company had agreed to pay for the rental. They never pay much, so I was driving a little tin box with the power of a small lawn mower.

  The village of Cortez takes up the western end of a small peninsula squeezed between the edge of Sarasota Bay to the south and Palma Sola Bay on the north. The Cortez Bridge connects the mainland to Anna Maria Island, which lies just north of Longboat Key. A shallow lagoon marked the little hamlet’s southern edge and provided access to the Coast Guard Station and the old fish houses that had serviced the locals for many years. It was one of the few working fishing villages remaining in Florida, most of them long since turned into developments to house the snowbirds who came from the north every winter to enjoy the sunshine and provide a new economic engine to replace the fisheries.

  Mullet was the fish of choice, the one in most abundance, the gold wrenched from the sea and bays by hard men whose forebears had fished these waters for generations. There were a few boats that went to sea, roaming the Gulf and Atlantic in search of the rapidly dwindling stocks of deep-water fish, but these days most of the men were home at night.

  The Star Fish was a commercial fish house on the bay in Cortez. Boats would bring in their catch to sell and the Star Fish Company would wholesale it out to restaurants and markets. There was also a retail side where the locals came for the fresh seafood. A few years back the new owners had added a restaurant of sorts. Several picnic tables had been added to a deck on the bayside and a small kitchen served seafood, most of it caught the day before. It was an informal setting. You ordered the food at the counter and left your name. When it was ready, a server would bring it to the deck, call out your name, and deliver your food in a cardboard box. It was always good.

  I arrived early at the Star Fish, ordered a diet soda, and took a seat at one of the tables. The place was quiet on a spring morning when most of the snowbirds had already gone north. I watched the bay, enjoying the view of Longboat and the other nearby keys, the mangrove islands, and the commercial boats moored to the piers. A pontoon boat idled along the narrow channel that ran in close to the shore. Several people chatting happily were seated on the seats along the rail, two of them children wearing bright orange life jackets. An older man was at the helm, his gray hair cropped close to his head. A woman about his age, four younger adults, and the kids were the passengers. A couple out with their children and grandchildren, I decided.

  I watched as the gray-haired man deftly maneuvered the boat against a pier and secured it to the pilings. A slight breeze rippled the water far out in the bay, but close in to the shore the surface was glassy, mirror-like. The net camp, a small building built on stilts over the water, sat about a hundred yards out in the bay, its reflection on the still surface a reminder of the beauty found in simple structures. It had once been a storehouse for a fisherman, a place to dock his boat, dry and mend his nets, and store his equipment. The lagoon had once been full of them, but they had disappeared along with the men and women who made their living from the sea.

  “Hey, Matt.” Nestor Cobol was coming across the dock toward me. Jube Smith was with him. I stood to shake their hands.

  “Hey, Nestor, Jube. Good to see you.”

  “Want to order?” asked Nestor.

  “Let’s give it a couple of minutes. Detective Duncan from Longboat is going to join us. How’s your wife doing, Jube?”

  “Not well. She’s going downhill fast.”

  Jube’s posture told of his hopelessness. It is always a blow to a man who takes care of his family to run smack into a situation that he can’t control, that he can only watch unfold and know that the death of a loved one is the end result. It humbles him, makes him feel inadequate, as if he failed in his most important obligation, that of protecting his family.

  I saw J.D. come onto the deck. She was wearing beige slacks, a navy short-sleeve blouse that buttoned down the front, navy low-heeled pumps, her gun at her hip and badge on her belt. When she arrived at our table I introduced her to Nestor and Jube.

  We went to the counter, ordered our meals, and took our seats at the picnic table nearest the water. Jube started the conversation.

  “Mr. Royal, I told Captain Cobol how we met, so there ain’t no secrets. I really appreciate what you done for me and Captain Cobol advanced me some pay, so my wife’s got her pain pills.”

  “Glad I could help, Jube, but Nestor here is the one that took the chance. I hope you don’t let him down.”

  “I ain’t going to do that.”

  Jube sat quietly for a couple of beats, head bowed, his face contorted in concentration like he was trying to get his thoughts in order, wanting to give me some bit of information but not sure how to proceed. Finally, he raised his head. “Mr. Royal, I heard some things from Colleen who owns the diner where my wife used to waitress. She was in there by herself about mid-morning yesterday when two men came in and ordered breakfast. She cooked it and took it to them and heard part of what they was talking about. One of them said, ‘Morton ain’t happy about our guys missing Royal yesterday.’”

  “Did she know who they were?” I asked.

  “No. Never seen them before. She described them and the big one sounded just like the guy what hired me to come get you.”

  “I think that guy was on the boat Tuesday when they tried to kill me. He’s dead.”

  “I heard about that. I can’t say it’s the same guy, but I thought you ought to know about it.”

  “Thanks, Jube. I’ll check it out.”

  We talked about fishing and local gossip while we finished our meals. Nestor and Jube got up to leave, spoke to local fisherman on their way out. I sat for a few moments, thinking about how such a beautiful day could be affected by people plotting to kill you.

  J.D. broke into my reverie. “What do you think?”

  “Morton may be the guy at the top of this mess. Maybe he works for ConFla.”

  “I’ve got to get back to the island, Matt. I’ll run Morton through the system, see what comes up.”

  “I’ll go talk to Colleen. She if she knows anything more. I’ll let you know what she says.”

  We walked to the parking lot, and she left. I stood there for a moment trying to visualize what Cortez had been like fifty years before, when it was a fishing village, back before the tourists and snowbirds showed up, before air-conditioning and mosquito eradication programs and drug runners, when it was a place wh
ere men took their living from the sea, fed their families, raised their kids, lived and loved and died. Which was better? Then or now? Who the hell knew.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  My next stop was Colleen’s Café, a small diner housed in a four-bay strip center on the northern side of Cortez Road, across from the post office. Colleen owned the place, managed it, cooked the meals, and when she couldn’t get help, waited tables. She and her husband, Pete, a Longboat Key Fire Department lieutenant, had lived on the islands for many years. They often joined Logan and me at Tiny’s for happy hour.

  The diner served breakfast and lunch and closed at three every afternoon. The breakfast customers were mostly the fishermen who lived in the village that surrounded the little restaurant. They’d come in early, eat and then head to sea or the bay, seeking fish and the meager money they earned when they sold their catch at the fish houses. Lunch brought a more eclectic crowd, more professional, men in short-sleeved dress shirts and ties, women in high heels. These were the real estate sales people, the business owners, and the regular coterie of tourists who had been told by the people who worked at the hotels and shops that Colleen’s Café was the best place in Cortez for lunch. The daily specials were posted on a chalkboard that leaned against the building next to the front door.

  It was almost closing time when I arrived. Colleen was cleaning off tables, using a large damp towel to wipe them down. She looked up as I came in, smiled, and came over for a hug. “Sorry I missed you and Logan at Tiny’s the other night. I’d been so worried when I heard he’d been shot. I thought he might die and I kept thinking that I’d give just about anything to see him one more time. Then I saw in the paper that he was alive. It was one of my best days. I sort of hummed to myself all day long.”

  “Sometimes, when life throws you a curve ball you get to hit it out of the park. That was one of those days.”

  She laughed. “Matt, you’d better either give up on baseball metaphors or philosophy. Or both. You want some lunch?”