Bitter Legacy: A Matt Royal Mystery (Matt Royal Mysteries) (35 page)

Hawthorne laughed. “Baggett did what I told him. I’m the Mexicans’ man in Florida.”

Jock had slipped closer and I saw the glint of a pistol in his hand. He put the muzzle to the back of Hawthorne’s head. The captain flinched and started to turn his head. “Don’t move an inch, podner,” Jock said quietly, speaking into the man’s ear. “Give your gun to Matt, or I’ll spray your brains all over him.”

Hawthorne relaxed a little, some of the steam going out of him. He loosened his grip on the pistol, let its muzzle point toward the dock. I reached over and took it from him. He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m fucked,” he said.

I smiled at him. “That you are my friend.”

I took a rope from the boat and bound Hawthorne’s hands behind his back. Jock and I escorted him to my house. Logan was waiting on the patio, a pistol in his hand. He was the backup guy.

“How did you guys get back here?” I asked.

“When we dropped you off we saw a strange car parked in front of the house two doors down,” Jock said. “It had a Hillsborough County sheriff’s sticker on the bumper. One of those that allows you to park in designated parking at the sheriff’s office. That rang an alarm bell, so we doubled back.”

“Glad you did,” I said.

Jock leaned over and whispered to me. “Play along with me on this one. I’ve got an idea.”

I nodded.

Hawthorne was quiet, trudging along toward the house. We took him inside and told him to sit in a chair across from the sofa. Jock, Logan, and I took the sofa. “Are the police on the way?” asked Hawthorne.

“No,” said Jock.

“I don’t understand,” said Hawthorne.

“Gus,” said Jock, “you need to understand something. You’re either going to help us out here, or I’m going to give you to the Marauders and tell them you’re the one who set up the deal to take out Baggett.”

Hawthorne blanched, his face drained of color. He sat back in the chair as if he’d been hit. “Who are you?”

“I’m Matt and Logan’s friend. And you’ve been trying to kill them. That pisses me off.”

“What do you want?”

“Donna.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re going to help us put Donna out of commission.”

“I thought she was in custody.”

“Why would you think that?”

Hawthorne gestured toward me. “He said you had her.”

“He lied.”

“How am I supposed to help you?”

“You’re going to call her. Set up a meeting.”

“I don’t know how to get in touch with her. She always calls me.”

“We can check your e-mail, can’t we?” Jock asked, a bit of steel in his voice.

Hawthorne looked as if he’d taken another blow. “You know about that?”

“I know a lot of things.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the man who took Baggett down. He was a tough guy, but by the time I got through with him, he was asking for his mommy and talking a blue streak. If you lie to me again, I’m going to start pulling your fingernails out, one at a time. Just like I did to Baggett.”

I could tell by the look on Hawthorne’s face that he believed him. He said in a shaky voice, “Okay, but she sets the new number at midnight. We can’t do anything until then. I’m telling you the truth.”

“I know you are,” said Jock.

I looked at my watch. It was 11:45. “Another fifteen minutes,” I said. “You’d better hope she sticks to her schedule.”

At twelve fifteen a.m., I cranked up my computer and put in Hawthorne’s e-mail address. He was sitting beside me, his arms still trussed behind him. He gave me his password and I typed it in. He had a number of e-mails waiting for him, but only one from somebody called Sweetcakes. “That’s it,” he said as I scrolled down to the line on the grid.

I opened it. There was one notation in the body of the e-mail, a URL address. I copied it and went to my Internet Explorer, pasted the URL address in the address box, and hit enter. A Web page opened and asked for my password. Gus gave it to me and I typed it in. Another page opened, blank except for a phone number with a 941 area code. I wrote it down on a piece of paper.

“You’re going to call her,” I said, “and tell her you have to meet. Tell her it’s important and that if she can’t meet you, the whole operation is going to fall apart. Tell her you have me and I have the document.”

“What document?”

“It doesn’t matter. If she asks, tell her it’s the phosphate documents.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tell her you finally figured out why she wanted me dead and if she wants the document she’s going to have to pay you more money.”

“What if she won’t agree?”

“Then you’re a dead man. You’d better be very persuasive.”

I used Jock’s cell phone to call the number on the Web site. His phone was untraceable, and in the event that somebody tried to backtrack on the calls, I didn’t want them to find my phone in the mix. I listened until she said hello. Then I hit the speakerphone button and held the phone close to Hawthorne’s mouth.

“Ma’am,” he said, “this is Morton. We need to meet.”

“About what?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone, but it’s important.”

“I’m not interested in meeting with you, Mr. Morton.”

“Ma’am, if we don’t meet in the next hour, I think the whole operation is going to fall apart.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because, Matt Royal has the document.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Ma’am, I have Royal. He’s talking, so I figured out why you need him dead. He told me he has the document.”

“Then get it and bring it to me.”

“No, ma’am. Sorry. We need to renegotiate.”

“What the hell do you mean, renegotiate?”

“I have the document, you want the document, you have to pay for it.”

“I’ve already paid you.”

“Not enough.”

There was silence on the line for a moment. Then, “Where do you want to meet?”

He looked at me. I nodded. We’d discussed this. He said, “There’s an abandoned gas station on the corner of Broadway and Gulf of Mexico. Drive near the north end of the key. Drive around to the back of the station. There’s a small paved area fronting on Palm Avenue. I’ll be waiting for you there. Park on the side of the road across from me. My headlights will be shining across Palm, and I want you to park where they shine on you. You’ve got thirty minutes.”

“Or what.”

“Or I’ll go public with the document.”

“Are you forgetting that I know who you are, Captain Hawthorne?”

“Are you forgetting that I’ve been anticipating this moment for a long time? I’ve got my escape plan in place. The document will be public knowledge and I’ll be gone forever.”

“I’ll be there.” The phone went dead.

I smiled at Hawthorne. “You did good, Gus.”

“What now?”

“We go to meet the lady.”

Palm Avenue is a short street, only a block long. It runs south from Broadway and dead-ends into the Whitney Beach Plaza parking lot. The same lot serves Tiny’s. The service station is on the corner and takes up the whole area between Gulf Of Mexico Drive and Palm Avenue, with its northern boundary running along Broadway. It had closed some months before because the young couple who ran it could not make a living and stay current with all the rules formulated by governments from national to state to county to city. The bureaucrats suck the life out of small businessmen and one by one they bite the dust. The area across Palm Avenue is undeveloped, a forest of palm and palmetto and Australian pine trees.

If Donna followed directions, she would be parked near the trees, the passenger’s side of her car facing Hawthorne’s headlights. Jock and I would be in the trees, while Logan lay low in Gus’s car with a pistol on him. Hawthorne would be in the driver’s seat but still restrained by the rope holding his arms behind him. He wouldn’t look natural, but by the time Donna figured that out, Jock and I would be in her car holding her at gunpoint.

Jock and I were stooped down in the brush that grew below the trees. We were wearing our dark clothes again and camouflage paint. We didn’t want any reflection when Donna turned the corner onto Palm Avenue. We watched as a late model Lexus turned off Gulf of Mexico Drive onto Broadway and then made a right turn onto Palm. Hawthorne was backed into the paved area behind the gas station. As the Lexus turned the corner onto Palm, his headlights came on. The Lexus slowed and pulled to the side of the road, directly in the glare of the headlights. The car stopped about six feet from Jock and me. Donna was at the wheel.

We moved quickly. Jock skirted the trunk of the car as I opened the driver’s-side door. The overhead light in the passenger compartment came on. Donna had been looking at Hawthorne’s car and jerked around quickly to see me and the gun. Just at that moment, Jock opened the passenger-side door and pointed his gun at her.

“Unbuckle and get out,” he said. “Now.”

She was unnerved by the quick attack and sat frozen in place for a moment. Jock put the gun barrel to her head and she moved to unbuckle her seatbelt. I backed up, my pistol pointed at her. She eased out of the car, hands in front, a gesture of surrender or maybe supplication.

“Get in the back,” Jock said.

She opened the back door and crawled in. I sat on the other side of her, my pistol pointed at her side. She looked at me, smiled contemptuously, said nothing, and turned her head. Jock got behind the wheel and drove to my house. Logan followed in Hawthorne’s car.

We took them inside and I used some flex cuffs to bind Donna’s hands behind her. We sat her in a chair in the living room. I took Gus to the back bedroom and tied him to a bed. Logan kept watch on Donna while Jock and I cleaned the paint off our faces and returned to the living room.

Donna was getting her nerves back on track. She looked up and recognized me. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Royal?” she asked, with just the right amount of haughty disdain in her voice.

“Donna,” I said, “you’re going to talk to us about why you’re trying to kill Logan and me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. You tried to kill a man named Abraham Osceola. You had men trying to kill Logan Hamilton and me. You wanted the document that Osceola found. How am I doing?”

“You’re not making any sense. I’m a housekeeper. How am I supposed to do all the things you’re accusing me of?”

“Why did you come to meet Morton or Hawthorne or whatever you call him?”

“Mr. Morton worked for my employer. When Mr. Driggers died, I wanted to clean up any loose ends on his business dealings. Mr. Morton was one of those loose ends.”

“But you knew that Morton was Captain Hawthorne.”

“No, sir.”

I sighed. “Donna, stop lying. I heard the telephone conversation you had with Hawthorne a few minutes ago.”

“Okay, maybe I knew who he was, but I also knew that Mr. Driggers wanted the document that the captain has.”

“What document are we talking about?”

“I don’t know, sir. I just knew there was a document.”

“Donna,” I said, “I’m tired. It’s been a long day and I’m not going to put up with your bullshit much longer.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Royal. I’m being as cooperative as I can. Maybe you should bring the police in. We’ll work this all out.”

“The police will not be part of this.” I turned to Jock. “Have you got the stuff?”

“Be right back.” He disappeared into one of the bedrooms.

“What are you going to do?”

“Something the police wouldn’t be involved in.”

Donna squirmed in her seat. “If you let me go, I won’t go to the police.”

“Donna, dear,” I said, “as soon as we finish with you, I’m going to give you to the police.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re tied to Hawthorne. He’s tied to Baggett and the West Coast Marauders. I’m just not sure who the guy out in East County is.”

Jock returned with a syringe full of clear liquid. “Where do you want this, Donna? Arm or thigh?”

“What is that?” A tremor had come into her voice. “What are you doing?”

“This is truth serum,” Jock said.

Donna scoffed. “There’s no such thing.”

“I think you’re right,” Jock said, “but this will help.”

“What is it?”

“Scopolamine. It’ll make you drowsy, but it also induces loquaciousness. You’ll talk a lot and probably say some things we need to hear. The only problem is that we’re using a much larger dose than is recommended. It could have some lasting effects.”

“Effects?”

“Brain damage is a real possibility. Paralysis, blindness. We just don’t know exactly.”

Fear was replacing arrogance in Donna’s face. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Please. Don’t do this. What do you want to know?”

I pulled a chair to a spot directly in front of her and sat. Our knees were almost touching. I glared at her for a moment. “Who are you?”

“I’m Donna Driggers, Walter’s daughter.”

“He didn’t have a daughter.” I wanted to see if we’d missed anything, if there was more to the story than we’d found in the documents at her house.

“Yes, he did. I have the documents to prove it.”

“Where are the documents?”

“I have copies at home, and my father’s lawyer has the originals.”

“Any other copies?”

“Father’s doctor has DNA samples from both of us.”

“Anything else?”

“My birth certificate. I was born in New Smyrna Beach. It’s in the records in Tallahassee.”

“Why was Walter trying to kill Logan and me?”

“He wasn’t.”

I looked at her for a moment, staring directly into her eyes. “Get the syringe, Jock,” I said.

“No. It wasn’t my father. It was I who wanted you dead.”

“Why?”

“My father learned that Abraham Osceola was in possession of a document that could gut his empire, give all the phosphate to a bunch of nobodies living in the Bahamas. He said it didn’t matter. He was near death and I’d have all the money I needed to live on for the rest of my life.”

“Then why the deaths?”

“I wanted the company. It was my birthright. I wanted to rub some people’s noses in my wealth. The company represented vast amounts of money, a thousand times the amount I would have inherited from my father if the company wasn’t part of the estate.”