Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (17 page)

She laughed. "Don't be too sure," she said, and hung up.

I called JeffTimmons. Nothing new on Laura. He was beginning to
lose his equanimity, to panic. I could hear it in his voice, the quaver that hadn't been there before. She'd been gone for the better part of three days,
and there had been no sign of her. The police still weren't excited about
it. I told him I didn't have any more information for him on Peggy, but that
I was still looking.

Peggy was important to me, but that was mostly because she was
important to Laura. On the other hand, I had loved Laura for a long time,
and the thought of not having her somewhere in the world, alive, breathing, and thinking occasionally of me, was stoking my fears for her safety.
Where the hell was she? If I could find Peggy, maybe she would hold the
key to Laura. That thought added a layer of urgency to my already revvedup intensity. I had to find the women.

It was time to get a better look at Blood Island. I walked over to Garrison Bight and rented an eighteen-foot Grady-White boat with a 150horsepower outboard hanging off the transom. I only had to go twelve
miles to Blood Island, but sometimes the seas in these latitudes kick up
without much warning. If that happened, the Grady could take it without
breaking a sweat.

I gave the attendant Ben Joyce's credit card and showed him the ID.
He asked me a couple of questions to see if I knew how to handle a boat,
and handed me the keys.

I bought a fishing rod and some bait from the tackle shop next door,
and climbed down into the boat. I put the rod in its holder, cranked the engine, and motored out of the entrance to the bight. I passed the waterfront
homes of the Naval officers who manned the facilities at the military installations that remained at the end of the continental U.S., and turned left
into the main channel.

The seas were flat that early in the morning, and I made good time on
a westerly course. I passed the western-most of the Mule Keys and eased
up to Blood Island. I rode around it, seeing nothing but mangroves hugging the water. As I came to the eastern side I saw the deeper water of the
cut leading around the island from Boca Grande Channel into the lagoon.

I stopped the boat and let if drift, the engine idling quietly. I put a
frozen shrimp on my hook and dropped it into the water. I could see the
bottom at any depth along the island. Farther out, in the Boca Grande
Channel, the water turned a dark blue, indicating deep water.

My VHF radio came to life.

"The small boat off Blood Island. Please be advised that this is a
private island. No trespassing is allowed. Trespassers will be shot on sight.
Do you copy?"

I keyed my mic. "I copy Blood Island. Thanks for the warning."

"Remember it," the radio squawked.

Nice people, I thought. I pulled in my line and completed a circle of
the island. The only place to land was in the lagoon. I was sure the approach was watched, so the radio message seemed a little superfluous.
Maybe they just wanted to make a point.

I came back around to the east side, near the channel to the lagoon,
and drifted. I picked up the binoculars that were part of the boat's equipment. I scanned the area around the passage into the lagoon. The island,
like all the keys, was flat. There were large trees covering the spits of land
that surrounded the lagoon. There was a dock protruding into the water
from the main part of the island. Two go-fast boats were tied to either side,
bows facing out.

I scanned carefully, but couldn't see any sign of life. Then, a glint of
metal in one of the trees near the mouth of the lagoon. I focused on it, moving my vision on and off the target area, just as the Army had taught me
long ago.

Then, I saw it. A slight movement, and another glint of sunlight off
metal. I could make out a man sitting on a platform high in die branches
of a large tree. He had a rifle cradled in his arms and was scanning with his
own binoculars. I couldn't make out his features, but he was occupying
what seemed to be a guard post. It had rails around the edges and a
ladder reaching down to the ground. It had a roof from which rose a radio
antenna, almost hidden by the tree branches.

I put my binoculars down and picked up my fishing rod. If he was
looking for me, I didn't want him to see me looking for him. I fished for a
few minutes, paying no attention to the island. I could feel the guard's eyes
on me.

Twenty minutes or so elapsed before I put the engine in gear and
slowly motored over the shallows. As I reached deeper water, I brought the
boat on plane and headed back to Key West.

I went back to Garrison Bight and moored the boat at the rental company's
dock. I told the attendant that I wanted to try some night fishing, and paid
him for another day. He told me to keep the keys and take the boat when
I wanted it.

I walked a couple of blocks to a dive shop I'd passed earlier in the day.
I picked out a complete outfit, including a neoprene wet suit with hood,
dual tanks, regulator, buoyancy compensator, weight belt, fins, mask,
gauges, and computer. I took it to the counter and asked a young man with
a surfer hairdo to fill the tanks for me.

"I need to see your certification card," he said.

"I don't have it with me."

"I can't fill the tanks without the card."

"Look," I said. "I'm buying, what, three grand worth of equipment
here? It's of no use to me without air in the tanks."

"Sorry, I just work here."

"Suppose I called the purchases thirty-five hundred even, the last
five hundred in cash. Would that get me some air?"

"That it would, my man."

He took the tanks and disappeared into the back of the store. I could
hear an air compressor crank up and chug along for a few minutes. Soon,
he was back.

I hooked the gauges to the tanks to make sure they were full, and gave
him five one hundred dollar bills plus Ben's credit card.

"Can you hang on to the equipment for me until this evening?" I
asked.

"Sure, but we close at seven."

"I'll be back by then. Thanks."

It was nearing noon when I called Debbie. "Got anything?" I asked.

"Some. The island is owned by a Bahamian corporation which in
turn is owned by a Cayman Islands corporation whose shares are held by
a Cayman bank."

"That sounds familiar," I said, remembering what Bill Lester had
found out about the owner of Varn's condo. "What's the name?"

"Circle Ltd."

"Do me a favor and call Bill Lester when we hang up. Find out the
name of the corporation that owned Clyde Varn's condo. I'll bet it's the
same one."

"Will do. There wasn't a whole lot on the island. The Monroe
County property records show that the Yates family from New York owned
it for about a hundred years. They sold it to Circle three years ago."

"What was the price tag?"

"Two million bucks."

"Anything else?"

"A house was built on the island about fifty years ago to replace one
that burned down. I downloaded the plans from the building department.
It's a big house with a cistern on the roof to catch rainwater.

"About twenty years ago, the Yates family got a permit to install a
diesel generator on the property and to build six guest cabins for family
members. Not much other than that."

"What about the spa?"

"The property's owned by a Bahamian corporation. It's the same
one that owns the island."

"Thanks Deb. Let me know what the chief says about Circle. Can
you fax me a copy of the house plans?"

"Yeah. I'll also send you the plat on the permit to build the cabins.
Give me a number."

"Send it to the Key West Police Department with a cover sheet to
Detective Paul Galls, and ask him to hold it for me."

"Will do. I'll get back to you on the corporation."

"I'll call you back later this afternoon. While you're at it, find out
what you can on a Reverend Robert William Simmermon."

"Sure thing, old pal. Anything else? Like the Yankee box scores for
1947?"

"Nobody loves a smart-ass, Deb," I said, and hung up.

I called Paul Galls and told him I was on my way over and to watch
for the fax from Debbie.

I was tired of walking, and I had about decided that I was being a little
silly in my precautions. If anybody was watching me, they knew by now
that I wasn't destitute.

I took a cab from Garrison Bight to the Monroe County Sheriff's
Office. It was a modern three-story building next to the jail on Stock
Island. I showed my identification, my real one, at the front desk and was
given a visitor's pass to clip to my shirt collar. I was still wearing running
shoes and my cargo shorts from the day before, but with a clean golf shirt.
A woman in civilian clothes escorted me to Galis's office.

The detective division was housed on the third floor. Galls had
enough seniority to warrant a small office with a view over the water to the
Naval installation on Dredger's Key.

He stood as I entered his office. He was a couple of inches shorter
than I and had a head full of brown hair parted on the left. I guessed his
age as late forties or early fifties. He was wringing his hands, wiping them
together as if he were washing them. A small metal logo of the U. S. Army
Special Forces was pinned to the lapel of his suit coat.

"I see that you used to wear a green beanie." I said.

"Right. I heard you did too."

"I did."

"David Sims told me a lot about you. I figured we Special Forces
guys have to stick together. I told him I'd give you whatever help I could."

"I appreciate it. Were you in Nam?"

"At the tail end. How about you?"

"About the same time," I said.

"I've got a fax for you that came in a little while ago."

He handed over the sheets of paper. We were finished talking about
the war. Some things just don't need to be examined too closely. Who
needs the pain?

The first sheet of paper had a note scribbled on it. "The same
corporation that owns Blood Island also owns Varn's condo." I wasn't
surprised.

"Tell me what I can do for you?" Galis said, dry washing his hands.

He noticed I was looking at his hands. He smiled a little sheepishly
and said, "Nervous habit. I'm a worrier."

"What are you worried about?"

"Nothing. Everything. I think it comes from working for the government too long. How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a girl who disappeared from Longboat Key about
four weeks ago. Two days ago her father, Jeff Timmons, got a call from a
bar here called the Sharkstooth."

"Bad place."

"I agree. The caller hung up before Jeff got to the phone, but his
caller ID captured the number. He called it and got the pay phone in the
bar. There were a couple of murders up my way that had connections that
led to Key West. The murders and the phone call all pointed to here, so I
thought I'd come down and see what I could find out."

"Sims brought me up to speed on the murders. Any luck?"

"Some guys at the Sharkstooth told me about Crill and, after you
gave me his address, I paid him a visit."

"Wait a minute. The people that hang out in the Sharkstooth aren't
the kind to tell tales."

"I'm pretty persuasive sometimes."

"You're the one who took out Big Rick." It wasn't a question.

"Maybe."

"He's been pushing people around for years. About time somebody
laid a hurting on him."

"How is he?"

"In the hospital. He'll live, but his reputation as a hotshot took a
beating."

I changed the subject. "What can you tell me about Blood Island?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Who lives there?"

"No idea. It's technically in our jurisdiction, and I guess if there were
ever a crime committed out there, we'd look into it. But it's a quiet place."

"Never had any trouble at all?"

"None. There aren't many people on the island. I think the owners
come in occasionally, but the only year-round residents are the caretakers."

"How many of them?"

"Don't know. Never had a reason to find out."

"What do you know about the Heaven Can't Wait Spa?"

"You mean the whorehouse?"

I chuckled. "You know about that, huh?"

"Sure. But it's a clean operation, and I've never heard of any trouble
there. No complaints from the citizens. We'll leave it alone unless somebody starts raising hell about it."

"Do you know who owns it?"

"Some corporation based in the Bahamas is all I know. God knows
who owns the corporation."

"Did you know that Blood Island is also owned by a Bahamian
corporation?"

"No, but I'm not surprised. There've always been a lot of Bahamians
in and out of Key West. They're bound to own some property."

I told him about Clyde Varn and that the same corporation that
owned Blood Island also owned Varn's Tampa condo. I explained all the
connections that seemed to converge on Key West; the shooter at Hutch's,
Varn, the phone call from the Sharkstooth Bar to Jeff Timmons.