Bitter Legacy: A Matt Royal Mystery (Matt Royal Mysteries) (24 page)

“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 where 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.

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?”

“No. I just stopped by to check up on something I heard from Jube Smith.”

“Poor Jube. He’s not taking his wife’s sickness very well. I think he’s coming apart. I don’t know what he’ll do when she’s gone.”

“It’s sad. He told me about the conversation you overheard yesterday.”

“Yeah. I tried to call you at home last night, but didn’t get an answer.”

“I was out until late. What did you hear?”

“There were two men, came in late in the morning, sat by the door, and ordered breakfast. They didn’t know that we have a strange acoustic in here. For some reason I can hear people at that table when I’m all the way across the room.

“One of them said that Morton wouldn’t be happy about their people missing you. I thought he was probably just talking about not finding you at home or something. Then the smaller one told the big bald guy that he had one more chance and he’d better not screw it up. ’Cept he used the F word, if you know what I mean.

“Anything else?”

“No, the big one told the little one that they’d talk more about it later.”

“Can you describe the guys?”

“One was about my height, had a mustache and gray hair. The other one was bigger than you and looked like he worked out. He was completely bald, but I could see a stubble where he shaved his head.”

“I don’t guess you got any names.”

“No, and they paid cash for the breakfast. Does this mean anything to you?”

“It might. One of the guys that Logan killed in the go-fast fits the description of the big guy, but it can’t be him. The one in the boat was already dead by the time those two came in here.”

“You sure you don’t want something to eat?”

“I’m sure. Gotta go. Thanks, kid.”

I turned and started for the door when she said, “Oh, Matt. I almost forgot. Captain Kim was in this morning and wants you to call her.”

“Did she say what it’s about?”

“No. I was busy and didn’t have time to talk. She just mentioned that she was trying to get in touch with you. She was going to leave word with Susie over at Tiny’s. She said nobody answered at your house and she didn’t know your cell number.” She handed me a napkin with a phone number scrawled across it.

“Thanks Colleen. Tell Pete hello for me.”

“You take care, Matt.”

I got to my rental and called the number on the napkin.

“Captain Kim.”

“Hey, Kim. Matt Royal here.”

“Matt, I need to talk to you. Can you meet me at my office?”

I laughed. “Sure. When?”

“I’m on the water with a charter. I’ll be dropping them off in about thirty minutes at the pier.”

“Have you eaten lunch?”

“Not yet. Busy morning.”

“I’ll be on the deck at the Bridgetender. Come on over and get some food in you.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

I sat on the deck at the Bridgetender Inn, looking across the narrow street to the bay. Kim’s “office” was a group of chairs under a Banyan tree that hugged the water. It was the hangout for the guys who ran the parasailing boat and a couple of others who chartered by the hour. The City of Bradenton Beach fishing pier was to my left, a semifamous clock tower marking its entrance from the land side. A long floating dock ran along the south side and was attached to the pier by a ramp. It was a place to moor small boats.