Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island

by H. Terrell Griffin

  "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.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  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.

  I turned to Fats. "You okay?"

  "Not really. What the hell's going on?"

  "I don't know, but somebody got me over here to kill me. Looks like they wanted to kill you too."

  I took out my cell phone and called Logan. I told him where I was and what had happened. "Stay inside," I said. "If they came for me, they may come for you too. Call Bill Lester a
nd tell him what's going on. I'm calling 911."

  After I told the emergency operator where I was and why I needed the police, I turned to Fats. He was still breathing hard, but he'd gotten himself cleaned up and put on a pair of shorts.

  "Why would somebody want to kill you?" I asked.

  "Don't know"

  "Look, Fats. Somebody's out to get me and probably you as well. Once the cops get here they're going to separate us and you're not going to be able to tell me what's going on. Do it now, and maybe I can figure out how to save our asses. Does this have something to do with Jake Yardley?"

  "Probably. There's a lot I can't tell you, Mr. Royal, but I'll tell you what I can."

  "Call me Matt."

  "Okay, Matt. I knew Clyde Varn from way back. I recognized him right away, the first time he came in here. He said his name was Jake Yardley, but I knew better."

  "Where did you know him from?"

  "Down in the Keys, and later, Miami."

  "How did you know him?"

  "We worked for the same outfit."

  "Come on, Fats. We don't have all day. Spell it out."

  "We worked for Javier Savanorola. He was in the drug business. Clyde was hired muscle. I handled the books and kept the IRS offJavier's back.

  "The feds came down on us hard six or seven years ago. Clyde and I both testified for the government. He disappeared, and I figured Javier had him killed. I left town, changed my name, and bought this place."

  "Didn't Clyde recognize you when he came in?"

  "No," Fats said. "I've gained about a hundred pounds, and when we worked together Iliad a full beard. I don't think anybody from those days would recognize me."

  "What was your name?"

  "Can't tell you, Matt. Sorry."

  "Did you spend much time with Varn?"

  "For a while. He lived up the street in the trailer park and would come in most days. We'd sit here at the bar and talk."

  "About what?"

  "Sports, mostly. He did tell me that he came here from Kansas, but he never told me anything else of a personal nature."

  "How did he make his living?" I asked.

  "I don't know. He never said anything about a job."

  "Could he have been doing work for the drug guys in South Florida?"

  "I doubt it. They put a contract out on him after he testified against them. I figured that's why he changed his name."

  I heard sirens in the distance, drawing closer. Tires crunched onto the shell parking lot. Car doors slammed. Feet ran on the cement floor below, the leather boot soles making slapping sounds. Leather equipment holders creaked, and I heard a rifle chambering a round.

  "Up here," I called out. "We're unarmed."

  There was quiet for a beat, two, and then a voice, strained with tension, came from below. "Come to the door where I can see you. Hands over your head. Come out slow"

  I lay my gun on the bed and eased over to the door, hands raised. I stood by the jamb and said, "I'm coming out. Here are my hands." I stuck them into the doorway. If some trigger-happy cop was going to shoot, I'd rather he hit my hands than my chest.

  "Show yourself," came the voice from below.

  "I'm coming out," I said, and slipped into full view in the doorway, hands high.

  "Anybody else up there?"

  "One live and one dead guy," I said. "The live one's coming over now."

  I looked back at Fats. He was standing with his hands up. I nodded. He started walking slowly toward me. Heavy footsteps were bounding up the stairs. Just as Fats got to me, a sheriff's deputy came through the doorway and shoved a rifle into my gut.

  "Move back," said the cop.

  I did, being careful not to step on the body.

  Another deputy came through the doorway, pistol drawn. He looked at the dead guy, stopped, reached down, and felt for a pulse in his neck. He stood back up, shaking his head, and looked at me. "Who're you?"

  "I'm Matt Royal. I live on Longboat Key. I have identification. The gun on the bed is mine. I shot this guy with it."

  The cop nodded, then looked at Fats.

  "I'm Fats Monahan. I live here."

  The deputy took a deep breath. "The detectives will be here in a minute," he said. "Let's just sit tight until they get here. Don't touch anything."

  He signaled us to put our hands down. He walked over to the bed and stood by it, not touching the nine millimeter lying on the tangled sheets, but making sure that neither Fats nor I could get to it.

  The other deputy turned and yelled down the stairs. "We're cool up here. Send the detectives in when they get here."

  We stood silently for a few moments. I could hear traffic whizzing by out on Cortez Road. Somewhere in the building, an air-conditioning unit clicked on. Cool air rushed out of a vent in the ceiling that I hadn't noticed. A car horn, the short squeal of brakes, a diesel engine accelerating, the ambient noise of early morning in a quiet neighborhood.

  I heard another car coming to a stop on the shell parking lot. In a minute a voice from below said, "Detective coming up." The deputies in the room seemed to relax; glad someone was here to take control.

  A man of about six feet, slender with a small belly, dark hair going to gray, and a bald spot that would eventually claim his head, stepped into the room. He wore a beige sports jacket with brown pants, white dress shirt, and a red tie with small white polka dots. A gold badge was held in place over his jacket pocket by its leather case. "I'm Detective David Sims," he said. "What the hell happened here?"

  The deputy who had entered the room first said, "We just got here, Detective. We secured the area, but we haven't talked to the witnesses. This is Mr. Royal and that's Fats Monahan. I haven't seen their IDs yet."

  The detective looked at me. "Let's see," he said, holding out his right hand.

  I reached for my wallet and handed him my driver's license. He looked at it and handed it back. He looked at Fats.

  Fats pointed to a wallet lying on the table beside the bed. "Mine's in the wallet."

  The detective made a "come on" move with his fingers, and Fats crossed to the table and picked up the wallet, extracted his license, and handed it to the detective. Sims glanced at it and handed it back.

  "What happened?" Sims asked quietly.

  I shifted my weight, looked at the detective. "A friend called and said Fats here wanted to see me," I said. "I came over. Fats hadn't asked to see me. We were discussing it when this guy came through the door with that shotgun leveled at us. I shot him."

  Sims stared at me for a long beat. "That's a very short story. You can do better, Mr. Royal."

  I was about to open my mouth when Bill Lester walked into the room. He was wearing his usual attire, but this time he had a sidearm strapped to his belt.

  Sims turned. "Chief," he said, "what brings you to our side of the bridge?"

  "I heard one of my citizens shot one of yours," Bill said.

  "Royal's one of yours, but I got no idea who the dead guy is."

  "Do you think it'd help if you looked at his face?" asked Lester.

  "Might," said Sims.

  He walked over to the body, pulling latex gloves out of his jacket pocket and putting them on his hands. He bent over and pulled the ski mask up off the corpse's face. He studied the dead man for a few moments, rose and said, "Don't know him. We'll run his prints through and find out who he is. Guy like this is bound to be in the system."

  A voice from downstairs announced, "CSIs coming up."

  Bill Lester started for the stairs. "I'll get out of your way, Detective. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me in the loop."

  "Chief," said Sims, "what's your interest in this?"

  "I think this might be connected to a homicide I'm working on Longboat, and maybe to one that Bradenton PD is working from last night."

  "Shit," said Sims. "About two too many jurisdictions in that mix. Why do you think they're connected?"

  "Because my friend here seems to be connected to all of them." Lester wa
s pointing at me.

  Sims grinned. "I'll make sure to get a long statement from him. Do you know anything about a friend calling him this morning to tell him to come over here?"

  "Yeah," said Bill. "That would be Cracker Dix. He's out in my car waiting for you to talk to him."

  Sims waved his arm in my general direction, motioning me to follow him down the stairs. Fats brought up the rear.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The parking lot was crowded with police cruisers and crime-scene vans, all bearing the colors and logo of the Manatee County Sheriff. An unmarked police car was parked near the entrance. Cracker Dix was leaning against it, his arms folded, a bored look on his face.

  Detective Sims and Chief Lester had stopped walking after leaving the building and were huddled in the shade of the roof overhang. Lester was talking, gesturing, Sims listening.

  Fats and I went to join Cracker.

  "Morning Cracker," said Fats. "That wasn't me talking to you earlier."

  "That wasn't you who called me this morning?"

  "Wasn't me," said Fats. "Matt like to have scared the shit out of me when he came busting into my place this morning. If I'd called, I'd have met him in the bar."

  "Sure sounded like you."

  "Cracker," I said. "Where's Logan?"

  "Home, I guess. The chief came by my place this morning and said I needed to go with him. He didn't say anything about Logan. I thought I was being arrested again. Then he told me about you having to shoot that guy. I told him what I knew and he told me to come with him. Here we are."

  I called Logan on my cell phone.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  "Yep, sitting here with a bowl of oatmeal, the paper, and a nine mil."

  "Logan, keep an eye out. If that dead guy was after me, somebody's probably after you."

  "What in the hell is going on?"

  "I don't know. We must have kicked over a hornet's nest somehow. Maybe we'll know more after the cops get through comparing notes."

  "Hope so," said Logan.

  I hung up.

  Sims and Lester came over. Sims didn't look happy. "Mr. Royal," lie said, "you have fouled my nest."

  "Sorry, Detective," I said. "I sure didn't mean to."