Bitter Legacy: A Matt Royal Mystery (Matt Royal Mysteries) (33 page)

“I didn’t know that,” said Logan.

“New information,” I said.

Logan grinned. “So, the only conclusion we can come to is that the
bad guys are connected to the owner of ConFla who lives on our little island.”

“Yes, but that still leaves us with nothing connecting Morton/Hawthorne to the person we assume to be Driggers,” I said.

“It’s all guesswork,” said Jock. “We don’t know anything except that Baggett and Turk called the same phone on the same day and that phone may or may not be on Longboat Key.”

“Round and round she goes,” said Logan.

Jock gave Logan a cold stare. “Not funny. How do we turn guesses into facts?”

“I’ve got an idea,” I said.

“Hello.” Morton’s voice was groggy from sleep.

“Mr. Morton,” Donna said. “We need to talk.”

Morton came wide awake. The only woman who knew him as Morton was the albino. She’d contacted him the week before through one of his Mexican connections. His phone had rung and she was on the other end of the line. She asked to meet him to discuss a mutually rewarding business arrangement. She insisted that the meeting take place in the late evening in a public place.

They’d met in a Starbucks in South Tampa at ten on a Friday night. He was wearing one of his disguises. Not much, just a little hairpiece to cover his bald spot, a fake mustache, clear glass spectacles, a small pillow under his shirt to give him the appearance of a man of more substantial girth. He wore a faded pair of jeans and a long-sleeved checkered shirt.

He was surprised to find that the woman was an albino. She was wearing a hooded coat, so he could see nothing of her but her face. A few strands of white hair hung over her forehead. He noted that she was in late middle age, but there was nothing else to be gleaned from her appearance.

He had ordered a large coffee and was sitting at a little round table in a corner when she arrived. He was the only customer. She came straight to him, asked if he was Morton. He nodded his head, and she took the seat across from him. She did not order anything.

“I need somebody killed,” she’d said, without preamble. “I understand you can make that happen.”

Morton was taken aback by her directness. He thought for a moment, staring at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Come, Mr. Morton. Let’s not play games.”

“Ma’am, I don’t know who the hell you think I am, but you’ve got the wrong person.”

The woman smiled, showing teeth, evoking in Morton the image of a predator about to pounce on the hapless prey. “I know who you are, Captain Hawthorne. What I don’t know is if you are prepared to provide me with your services.”

It was like a blow to the sternum, sharp, debilitating, heart-stopping. Morton sat back in his chair, the air escaping his lungs in one huge draft. In all the years of his moonlighting from the sheriff’s office, none of his associates had ever discovered who he really was.

The woman smiled again, this time a little reluctantly, as if she was disturbed to have upset the man. “I know about your drug connections and I know about your relationship with the West Coast Marauders. I know that you have on occasion contracted out killings for the Mexican cartels. If I was a cop, you’d be in jail now. I’m not.”

Morton looked defeated, his veneer of certainty breached, his quiet confidence in himself and his anonymity lying in shambles on the coffee shop table. “How did you find out?”

“You’d be surprised at what information one can buy if one has enough money.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Morton, I am an immensely wealthy woman. I bought the services of the best information retrievers in the world. I’m also very smart, and when I put all the pieces together, I figured out who the shadowy Mr. Morton is. Then I had you followed, just to validate my suspicions. Your disguises are very good, natural appearing, not overdone.”

“What do you want?”

“I told you. I want some people killed.”

“Who?”

“A lawyer on Longboat Key named Matt Royal, his buddy Logan Hamilton, and a black man who claims to be an Indian.”

“Why?”

“That’s none of your business. Do you want the job?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Probably not.”

“Okay. How much money is in it for me?”

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

“When do you want it done?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll be in touch.”

With that, she stood and left the coffee shop. She didn’t turn around or look to either side. She walked out the door and disappeared into the night. She did not tell Morton her name.

All other communications had been by phone. Early on Saturday she gave him instructions to go ahead with the kill, wire transferred ten thousand dollars into his offshore account, and promised that the remaining ninety thousand would be sent to the bank when Royal, Hamilton, and Osceola were dead. All three of them, she’d said, not just one or two. She was adamant. All three.

Now she was on the phone on a bright Friday morning when he was trying to sleep off the night shift he’d worked.

“Yes,” he said.

“You have failed me. I’m not happy.”

“I sent my best men.”

“Okay, let’s see how much you screwed up. The sniper missed Hamilton.”

“Ma’am,” Morton said, a hint of pleading in his voice, “my man hit him. It was just luck that Hamilton didn’t die.”

“And you didn’t get the Indian. Why would your man hit him in the head instead of shooting him?”

“I don’t know, and the man’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah. I sent him to the hospital to finish off Osceola, but he got finished instead.”

“And the others?” she asked.

“The two men I sent to Royal’s house didn’t come back. Somehow, Royal killed them. I don’t know what happened, but I’m bringing in some other guys to finish the job.”

“Did you know that your buddy Baggett has been kidnapped?”

“My buddy? I don’t know anybody named Baggett.”

“Mr. Morton. Don’t start lying to me or you’ll be the next one to die. I know about your meetings with Baggett at the Snake Dance Inn.”

Morton sighed. “Okay. Yes, I knew he’d disappeared. I was at the Snake Dance last night.”

“Do you have any idea who took him?”

“None.”

“You don’t seem too concerned about it.”

“He can’t identify me. He can sing like a choir and he’ll never be able to connect Morton to me.”

“I’m not worried about you.”

“Even if they got to me, I don’t have any idea who you are, so I couldn’t give you up.”

“I hope not, Captain Hawthorne, or you will most sincerely regret it.” The phone went dead.

The house stood like a small castle on the shores of Sarasota Bay. It was a Mediterranean Revival expanse of luxury, its stuccoed walls painted a medium beige, its roof a crown of red barrel tile. A driveway leading from Gulf of Mexico Drive wound through a hedge of sea grapes that shielded the house from the more plebian drivers who daily passed by on the island’s main street. The house was built up over a multicar garage, a concession to federal rules that affected waterfront homes. Two stairways flanked the double front door, flowing downward in an arc from a small landing at the top. I took the stairs to the right and Bill Lester climbed those to the left. We met at the top and the chief rang the doorbell.

I’d called him with the information we’d learned from Jock’s friends at the DEA and suggested that we talk to Walter Driggers. The chief agreed, but stressed that he had no legal authority to make the man talk if he didn’t want to. He couldn’t even make Driggers see us. We decided to just show up and see if we could meet with him. We were hoping that a little conversation would pry something loose.

I asked if he thought J.D. should come with us.

“She’s a little shaky this morning for some reason. I’ve got her doing paperwork. I told her I want her to work with Sharkey on those boat thefts for the next few days.”

“That’s probably for the best, Bill.”

A woman came to the door, opened it, and stared at us questioningly. The first thing I noticed was that she was an albino. This had to be the nurse that Robin had mentioned to me. Such people are very rare, and I’d only seen a few in my entire life. Her white hair was done up in a bun at the
nape of her neck. She wore a smock that appeared to be a uniform of some kind and white nurse’s shoes, the kind with rubber soles that are supposed to make your feet less tired at the end of the day. Her face was lined with the indicia of late middle age. It was a pleasant face, one made more appealing by the smile that she displayed. “May I help you, gentlemen?”

Bill pulled out his badge, showed it to her. “I’m Chief Lester of the Longboat Key police. This is Matt Royal. We’d like to talk to Mr. Driggers.”

I saw a momentary tightening of her eyes, a sharpening of her concentration as she glanced at me, a slight wavering of the smile. It lasted only a fleeting moment and her face returned to the smiling visage that had greeted our arrival.

“I’m afraid that is impossible, Chief,” she said, her voice draped in apology.

“Why is that impossible?” asked Lester.

“Mr. Driggers died during the night.”

“Died?”

“Yes. I found him this morning. The funeral home came an hour ago for his body.”

“Which funeral home?” the chief asked.

She gave him the name and address of the undertakers and we left.

As we were driving out of the residence, Lester said, “So much for your theory. If Driggers was the one after you, I’d think you’re safe now.”

“We have to make sure he’s dead.”

“I know,” said the chief. “I’ll make a call when I get back to the station.”

“I think the woman recognized my name.”

“Why do you think that?”

“More a feeling than anything. But her face changed briefly when you mentioned my name.”

“You might be imagining things, Matt.”

“I might be, but I don’t think so.”

We drove back to the station and the chief called the funeral home. Yes, they had the body of Walter Driggers.

“For reasons that I can’t discuss, I need to verify that,” said the chief
into the phone. “I’d like to send one of my men over to get fingerprints from the body.”

When he hung up, Bill turned to me. “I’ll have something for you this afternoon.”

I left the station and drove south on Gulf of Mexico Drive. I was going to meet Jock and Logan for lunch. The chief had begged off, saying he had a ton of paperwork to attend to. I looked at my watch. A little after eleven. I still had an hour before we were to meet.

I decided it was late enough to risk a call to Debbie. I woke her up.

“Anything on that Web site?” I asked.

“What time is it?”

“After eleven.”

She groaned. “I was up until daybreak trying to crack that Web site you gave me.”

“Any luck?”

“It’s encrypted, Matt. The best one I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t crack it.”

“Okay. I appreciate the effort. We may not need it. Things are starting to shape up.”

“Good. Can I go back to sleep?”

“Sweet dreams, baby doll,” I said.

“Whatever.” The phone clicked off.

I pulled into one of the beach access parking areas, took a blanket from the back of the Explorer, and walked down to the beach. I was wearing my usual island attire, T-shirt, cargo shorts, and boat shoes. I lay the blanket on the sand and stretched out on it, kicked off my shoes, and dozed in the gentle sun.

When I arrived at the restaurant, Jock and Logan were already seated. I joined them just as my cell phone rang. Caller ID told me the number was blocked. I assumed it was the chief calling, since most government numbers seemed to be blocked. I was wrong.

“Mr. Royal?”

“Speaking.”

“You’re a dead man.”

“Ah,” I said. “Nice to hear from you. Am I speaking with Mr. Morton?”

There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the line. Then a burst of laughter. “You are a resourceful man, Mr. Royal. But you’re a dead man.” He hung up.

If I’d told him I was pretty sure his real name was Gus Hawthorne, he’d have known just how resourceful I was. But that would have screwed an investigation, and for now, I thought the law enforcement types were right in keeping surveillance on him. If he knew he was the target, we’d lose whatever connections he had to the others of his cabal.

We were having lunch on the deck at the Dry Dock Restaurant near the south end of the key. The bay sparkled in the spring sun in hues of greens and blues and white where the sandbars poked above the surface, a panoply of iridescence. Far out, in the deep channel that bisected the bay on a north-south axis, a center-console fishing boat was cruising on plane, its wake rolling behind, providing a counterpoint to the flatness of the water on a windless day. A great white egret stood on the seawall waiting for whatever handouts the diners would offer. The servers bustled about, taking care of their customers. A quiet time of beauty and friends sharing a meal, and of an ugly threat flying on unseen radio waves from Valrico to Longboat Key.

I told them about the phone call.

“It didn’t sound like an imminent threat,” Jock said, “so let’s eat. I’ve got some interesting news.”

My phone rang again. Another blocked number on the caller ID. I answered. It was Lester.

“Matt, the body at the funeral home is Walter Driggers. One of my lab boys went down there, got prints from the corpse, and ran them. No question. It’s Driggers.”

I thanked him and hung up. I told Jock and Logan what he’d said and then filled them in on my visit to Driggers’s house. “What do you have, Jock?”

A waitress appeared at the table before Jock could speak. She told us about the specials, took our orders, and left. Jock said, “The DEA
techies are monitoring Hawthorne’s number. About ten this morning he got a call from a throwaway that bounced off the tower that covers the south end of the key.”

“That connects the dots,” said Logan. “We’ve got Morton or Hawthorne, if that’s his name, calling Baggett. Baggett calls the East County tower, that tower calls our tower, and our tower calls Morton.”