Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island

by H. Terrell Griffin

  "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.

  I looked at the scene, picturing what the camera would catch, that instant in time when the family was together, happiness evident in their grins. The photograph would also hold the image of the boy cleaning the boat, and probably the pelicans lazing in the sun.

  I wondered about that picture, about what would happen to it after it was admired and put away. Maybe one day an old man would pull it from a drawer, gaze at it, and remember when he was a teenager holding a string of fish, happy to be with his parents, now long dead. Would he wonder about the life lived by the boy washing the boat? Would he put the picture back in the drawer, never to be seen again? Life is fleeting, and when we near the end, we grab our memories and hold onto them with a ferocity that eluded us at the time of their creation.

  I had a lot of time to kill. I couldn't do anything before dark, and I didn't want to go back to my room. If people were looking for me, they might have located the rooming house.

  I stopped in a souvenir shop on Palm Avenue and bought a khakicolored baseball cap with a sailfish and the words "Key West" embroidered on the front. I wore it out of the shop, keeping the bill low on my eyes. My dark sunglasses would help cover my face, and I didn't think a casual observer would recognize me.

  I decided to visit the cemetery where the monument to the battleship Maine was located. The fabled ship, whose demise gave an excuse for the Spanish-American War, had sailed from Key West on its fateful journey to Havana Harbor. Many of its sailors were buried in this last piece of America they experienced.

  I was walking idly down Angela Street when I saw a familiar figure cross the road in the next block. It was Michelle Browne, the lady who had introduced herself in Sarasota as the Reverend Robert William Simmermon's assistant. She was wearing a beige skirt, dark blue blouse, and sensible white pumps. Her auburn hair was in a ponytail, and her bracelets glinted in the sun.

  She was walking at a fast clip, as if she were on an errand. I decided to follow her. I held back a half block and ambled along, looking at the houses that lined the street, trying for inconspicuousness.

  She walked the four blocks to the Key West Bight and entered a waterfront restaurant. I followed, motioning to the hostess that I would take a seat at the bar. Michelle joined a man sitting at a table by the open deck overlooking the harbor. He stood as she approached. He was about six feet tall, slender, with white hair and a red face that looked as if he had spent too much time in the sun. The Reverend Simmermon, in the flesh. He was a lot younger than I'd guessed. Early thirties, probably. The white hair made him look older, but his features were that of a younger man.

  The wall behind the bar was mirrored. I could sit facing forward and have a reflected view of Michelle and her companion. I ordered a draft beer and sipped it while watching my quarry.

  They were sitting at the table sipping wine, talking quietly. Occasionally, one or the other would gesture or smile. The meeting and conversation had the look of two old friends enjoying the afternoon. After about ten minutes, Michelle sat back in her chair, a look of chagrin on her face. Then she moved in close, elbows on the table, her face a mask of anger, words coming fast. Simmermon tried to take her hand, but she jerked it back. He made a placating gesture, tried a smile, reached for her again.

  Michelle stood, her napkin falling off her lap onto the floor. She said something I couldn't hear and walked out the front door. Simmermon stood, dropped some bills on the table, and left the restaurant.

  I followed, hoping to get him alone. He walked quickly to the dock in front of the restaurant. There was a go-fast boat, similar to the ones I had seen moored at Blood Island, tied to a piling, its big engines idling. A large man wearing shorts, a white T-shirt, and a dark tan was untying the line as the evangelist clambered down into it and sat in the passenger seat. The other man took the helm seat, touched the throttles, and the boat pulled away from the dock, heading out of the basin.

  I turned and ran for the street, hoping to catch sight of Michelle. As I rounded the corner of the restaurant onto Margaret Street, I saw her turning onto Eaton Street. I followed at a fast walk, catching up to her as she turned onto Simonton, and then quickly made another turn off the main thoroughfare. I knew where she was going.

  I hung back now, letting her go. When I got to the next corner and looked down the side street, she was out of sight. In the middle of the block sat the Victorian mansion that housed the Heaven Can't Wait Spa.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I sat on the sidewalk, my hat pulled down over my eyes, my back leaning against a brick retaining wall in front of the house two doors down from the spa. Just one more of Key West's homeless, taking a siesta.

  At four o'clock, I saw Michelle come out of the front door, accompanied by a man who looked vaguely familiar. She was talking and he was nodding his head. They stopped at the end of the walk, and he looked around briefly, surveying his surroundings. His face turned toward me, but his gaze didn't stop. I knew him. It was the truck driver Michelle had spoken to in Venice.

  They shook hands, and the man returned to the spa. Michelle started walking along the street, going away from me. I got to my feet and followed at a safe distance. She turned at the corner and walked two blocks. I hung back, allowing her to put some space between us, but not enough to lose her.

  In the middle of the third block, she opened a gate to a sidewalk leading to another Victorian house. I stopped, giving her time to get inside. She used a key to open the door.

  I walked past the house, taking a good look. It was like ev
ery house in the neighborhood, old and beautiful, and probably modernized inside. I made a mental note of the address.

  I turned the corner and, out of sight of the house, pulled out my cell phone. I caught Debbie just as she was leaving for work.

  "This is getting to be a bad habit, Royal," she said. "What now?"

  "I just called to hear your voice, sweet cakes."

  "Right." She laughed. "I've got about five minutes to get to work. What is it?"

  "I need the ownership of a house in Key West." I gave her the address. "And what did you find out about Simmermon?"

  "Nothing yet on Simmermon, other than his Web site. I'll check deeper when I get off tonight. Keep your phone on. I'll call you back in a couple of minutes with the information on the house." She hung up.

  I sat back down on the sidewalk, leaning on another retaining wall, hat pulled low. A profusion of jasmine flowers cascaded down the brick wall, their sweet smell somehow comforting. In a couple of minutes, my phone rang.

  "Guess what?" Debbie said.

  "The house is owned by a Bahamian corporation controlled by a Cayman bank."

  "If you're such a genius, why are you bothering me?"

  "Lucky guess. I wanted to make sure. Same corporation?"

  "Yes. Circle Ltd."

  "Thanks, kid. I owe you."

  "Right. Take care of your sorry butt, Matt. I'd miss the big tips. I'm saving all those quarters you leave." There was a click, and she was gone.

  I sat for a while, wondering if I should confront Michelle. I'd made a mistake going to the spa, questioning Sister Amy, and generally acting like an idiot. I hadn't done my homework on the place, and my search almost ended right there. By asking about Peggy, I may have put her in more danger. Time was critical. I had to know what was going on.

  I walked onto the veranda of Michelle's house and rang the bell. She opened the door, wearing a big smile. She had changed clothes and was dressed casually in a pair of blue shorts and a halter top. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she was barefoot. Her lovely fingers were wrapped around the grip of a nine-millimeter pistol, pointed at my chest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  "Come in, Mr. Royal," Michelle said. "We've been expecting you."

  Uh-oh. This couldn't be good. But, I'd never refused the offer of a pretty young woman, especially if she was holding a gun on me. I entered the house as Michelle backed into the foyer, gun pointed directly at my gut. I didn't doubt that she would gladly put one into my heart if I didn't do what she said.

  She waved me into the living room off the foyer. "That was a pretty good picture our security camera got at the spa," she said. "I recognized you immediately."

  The truck driver was sitting at ease in a recliner, no weapon in sight. He stood and frisked me. He took the .38 out of my pocket and put it on a table next to his chair. He sat back down, crossed one leg over his knee, and grinned.

  He was a big man, with oversized muscles bulging out his T-shirt sleeves. His dark hair was cropped close, and his face wore the quizzical look affected by so many body builders who make up for their lack of brains with a lot of brawn. Three angry scratch marks ran the length of his left cheek. Peggy had taken a hunk out of his hide.

  I wondered how he had gotten to Michelle's house without my seeing him, but then realized he could have come through the backyard.

  Michelle nodded in the man's direction, and said, "Charlie recognized you on the street a few minutes ago. He thought you were following me."

  "Mr. Calhoun, I presume," I said.

  A momentary look of surprise crossed his face. "How do you know my name?" he asked.

  "You're a famous street punk. Everybody tells me you're as stupid as you look. I wonder if that's possible."

  He was coming out of his chair. "You smart-ass son of a bitch. You shot my buddies."

  "Sit, Charlie," Michelle said, and like an obedient dog, he fell back into the chair.

  "Minds well," I said.

  "You might want to be careful, Mr. Royal. I might just let him loose on you."

  "Please, call me Matt. We're all friends here."

  "Sit on the sofa," she said, and took a chair directly across from me. I sat. There was a low coffee table between us, a large flat book of photographs of the Florida Keys lying on top.

  "Why are you here, Matt?" Michelle asked.

  "I'm looking for a girl. An eighteen-year-old college student named Peggy Timmons. The same girl old Charlie here was chasing a couple of days ago. I heard she just about took him. Looks like she marked him up pretty good."

  Charlie started to rise again, a look of irritation on his face. "I'll kick your ass," he growled.

  "Sit, Charlie," said Michelle, again.

  "But, Michelle," Charlie said.

  "Sit." Louder this time.

  Charlie sat, but he didn't like it.

  I looked at him and smiled. "You're a lot safer doing what the lady tells you, Charlie."

  He started out of the chair again, but went back down at one look from Michelle. He wanted to tear my head off and, if I kept goading him, sooner or later he was going to take his shot. I was counting on it.

  I heard a clock chime somewhere in the back of the house. Five o'clock. The light was slanting through the west-fronting windows now, little dust motes hovering in the beams. I heard a motor scooter pass on the street, and somewhere in the distance a ship's horn sounded. One of the cruise ships was leaving its dock, full of sunburned tourists heading for the next island.

  I smiled at Michelle. "Are you going to tell me where to find Peggy?"

  She smiled back. "No."

  "What about her mother, Laura Timmons?"

  "Who?" Michelle looked puzzled, as if she'd never heard the name before.

  "Maybe I'll have to ask Reverend Simmermon," I said.

  She and Charlie both laughed, quickly, snorts really, rather than laughter. "You think that idiot runs things?" Michelle asked.

  "His picture is on Charlie's truck," I said.

  She chuckled this time. "Yeah, I kind of let him think he's running things sometimes. It helps keep his ego in check."

  "Is he on Blood Island?"

  She looked mildly surprised. "My, my, you've been a very busy boy."

  "Look, Michelle, I don't care what you've got going with the spa or anything else. I just want the girl."

  "I can't let that happen, Matt. It's too late."

  "Why is that?"

  "She's seen more of our operation than is healthy."

  "And Laura?"

  "I don't know anybody named Laura. And if she's Peggy's mother, she'd be a little long in the tooth for our needs."

  "I'm not sure I understand your operation. Do you kidnap these kids into prostitution?"

  "Lord, no." She laughed. "These kids come from all over to find the light. They're all looking for something, and when the Rev gets through with them, they know they've found God. Or at least the Rev's idea of God."

  "I don't get it."

  "The Rev has a twisted view of Christianity. I'm not sure he believes it himself, but lie sure can sell it to stupid people."

  "What happens to the kids?"

  "Most of them are girls. We sort of reprogram them and put them in the spas. They think they're hooking for Jesus. They're idiots:'

  I sat quietly for a moment, remembering the vacant look in Sister Amy's eyes. "You're drugging them," I said, my voice flat.

  "Of course we are." Michelle let out a short laugh, like I'd just said something stupid. "How else are we going to keep them down on the farm? Or the spa?" She was enjoying herself.

  I crossed my right leg over my left knee, swinging my foot rhytlimi- cally, feigning indifference to my situation. "How do you recruit diem?" I said.

  "Easy. The lost ones are always at the revivals. We do a preliminary look-see, chat them up, and, if they don't seem too smart, we put somebody on them to find out more."

  "Like Jake Yardley," I said.

  "Exactly."
/>   "Then what?"

  "We invite them down to Blood Island for a retreat. A few doses of certain drugs in their food, and they're ours. The Rev preaches to them, takes an interest in them, and tells them we love them. He usually screws the girls for good measure. Then we send them to the Heaven Can't Wait Spa. They've Joined the Circle of Lilies. They think it's some kind of religious order."

  "It's not?"

  She laughed again. "I guess it's what the little bitches make out of it. When they've been there a while, and they're docile enough, we send them to our spas in other cities."

  "And die boys?"

  "They stay on the island to work and pray. They're fed and housed, and they're pretty happy. There're only a few guys."

  "What happened to Yardley?"

  "He got careless. For some reason, he put his name and address on the motel registration, and you found him. He had to be eliminated."

  "Just like that? You kill a man over a mistake?"

  "Happens sometimes," she said. "Just the cost of doing business. The fool called the Rev to tell him you were looking for one of the girls we recruited."

  "Why leave his body on Longboat Key? And who killed Wayne Lee?"

  "Bartel did that. He thought posing Yardley's body in that park was a work of genius. And he killed Lee to make sure he couldn't pass on anything Yardley had told him."

  "And then Bartel tried to set me up at Hutch's," I said, a statement, not a question.

  "That's right. And he blew it. I had to get somebody else to take out your buddy Hamilton."

  "That didn't work either."

  "NO."

  "Maybe you ought to start hiring better people."

  "You have a point," she said, grinning.

  "What happened with Peggy Timmons? She's not stupid:'

  "We found that out. That was another mistake Yardley made. He sent her three buddies on their way, but he gave Peggy to the Rev. That big idiot took her to his island and wants to keep her for himself. Thinks he's in love. He didn't count on her family hiring you to come looking for her."

  "Is she on the island now?"

  Michelle shrugged her shoulders. "It doesn't matter."