Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (4 page)

I left the office, stopping for a moment on the shell parking lot. The
Gulf was turquoise and still, stretching to infinity. A lone pelican soared
overhead, rising effortlessly on an air current, heading to the Gulf for
breakfast. High cumulus clouds drifted lazily, and the smell of frying bacon
rode the onshore breeze. I could almost hear it crackle in the quiet of the
early morning.

This was truly a paradise. How could anything bad happen here?
But bad things did happen in beautiful places, and we usually didn't see
them coming.

There's a darkness lurking deep in the souls of us all. Our parents instill in us a modicum of civilized behavior and that usually keeps our baser
instincts at bay. But sometimes that blackness seeps to the surface and a
monster walks quietly among us. Because we are not attuned to evil, we
don't see it rise up until it strikes us down without warning. I was afraid
that Peggy Timmons had stumbled into the darkness and met the beast.

I went home and called Laura in Atlanta. She confirmed that the address
in Athens was the house in which Peggy had lived with her friends. The
phone number was Peggy's cell. Laura had never heard any of the names
I got from the Sea Club, and she couldn't imagine why Peggy would be
with a man of Yardley's age. I told her I would keep looking and keep her
posted.

I called the number in Tampa, not expecting much. A man answered.

"Is this Jake Yardley?" I asked.

"Yes."

I was surprised. I didn't expect to get a working number, much less
Jake Yardley.

"Mr. Yardley, my name is Matt Royal. I live on Longboat Key. Were
you here about three weeks ago?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Did you stay at the Sea Club?"

"Yes. Who are you?" He had a southwestern accent, probably Texas.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm trying to find a young lady who has disappeared.
I've heard that you were with two young couples at the Sea Club."

"I was. What's the missing girl's name?"

"Peggy Timmons."

"Don't know her."

"She was using a different name. May I come see you in Tampa?"

"Sure. Coffee's always on."

He gave me directions to his house.

I called Logan to tell him what I had discovered, and that I was going to
Tampa.

"Give me a few minutes and I'll go with you," he said.

We headed out to 1-75 and north to the Lee Roy Selmon Crosstown
Expressway. We exited in downtown Tampa and drove onto Harbour
Island, a dredged up spoil island that bordered the ship channel. Over the
years, condominium apartment buildings that blocked the sun had
sprouted from this recycled bay bottom. Jake Yardley lived in one of the
penthouses.

He was a big man, maybe six foot four, and had the parched skin
of one who made his living outdoors. He wore faded jeans, a plain white
T-shirt, and boat shoes. His graying hair fell to the top of his ears. He was
a handsome man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties.

I introduced Logan and myself, and Yardley invited us in. The condo
was large, with an expansive view over Davis Islands and the Tampa General Hospital, to the bay beyond. The St. Petersburg skyline shimmered in
the distance, the haze rising from Tampa Bay making it slightly opaque.

Yardley pointed to a sofa, and said, "Have a seat."

Logan and I sat.

"Can I get y'all a drink?"Jake Yardley asked.

"Not for me," I said.

Logan shook his head.

Yardley sat in a stuffed chair facing the sofa and waited.

"Mr. Yardley," I said, "I'm a lawyer on Longboat Key, and one of my
client's daughters has disappeared. We have information that she may have
been staying with you at the Sea Club about three weeks ago."

I handed him the picture of Peggy.

"Sure, that's Linda Olsen. She was there with her husband Larry."

"Did you know them from somewhere?"

"No, I'd just met them."

"Would you tell me how you ended up in a resort with them?"

Yardley readjusted himself in his chair. "Yeah, but I guess this'll
sound a little weird."

He was quiet again, sitting there, rocking a little against the back of
his chair. I was about to ask him again when he spoke.

"I'm a petroleum engineer by training. I worked the oil fields in Texas
and Oklahoma for thirty years. And I got rich and retired to Florida. The
American dream."

He smiled, but something crossed his face. Sadness, maybe, or
regret. He continued. "Two months after my wife and I moved in here,
she had a stroke and died. She'd just had her fiftieth birthday."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"We never had any children, not in thirty years of marriage. I've got
no family to speak of, and no friends within a thousand miles. So, sometimes I go hunting for company. I find young couples that want to keep
me company for a few days. I pay for everything. I know they're just humoring me and spending my money, but it gives me a reason to get up in
the morning."

Logan stirred on the sofa. "Ever go hunting for young women
alone?" he asked.

"No, sir. I always find couples. I'm not there for sex, and I don't want
the women to feel like they're being hustled. The men either, for that
matter."

I leaned forward, "Where did you find Peggy and her friends?"

Yardley was quiet for a moment. His silent stretches were a little disconcerting, but I was getting into the rhythm of it, and waited him out.

"In a bar in Sarasota. I overheard them talking. They were looking for
a place to stay, so I bought them a drink and made the offer. They took me
up on it."

"Just like that?" I asked. "Isn't that a little dangerous?"

Yardley smiled ruefully. "You have to understand. These kids are the
lost ones. Most of them are on drugs of some kind, or they're drinking a
lot, and their judgment isn't very good. Offer them a freebie and they jump
at it."

"Then what?" Logan said.

"Then nothing. We went to Longboat Key and got the condo. I
bought their meals and booze, and we spent the days on the beach. Then
I dropped them off and came home."

"Where did you drop them off?" I asked.

"Robarts Arena. In Sarasota."

"Why there?"

"I don't know. That's where they said they wanted to go."

"What were their plans?"

"I don't know. They didn't mention anything."

"Did they say where they were going from Robarts?"

"No. I assumed they were going to hitch back to Georgia, but they
didn't say."

"Did they have any money?"

"Don't know. I didn't ask."

Logan leaned forward on the sofa, his arms resting on his thighs. "Let
me get this straight," he said. "You pick up four young people in a bar,
wine and dine them for three days, don't have sex with any of them, and
then drop them off without knowing where they're going or whether they
have any money to get there."

"That's about it," said Yardley, his voice rising. "You can believe me
or not. I don't really give a shit."

Logan stood. "Let's get the hell out of here," he said, and started for
the door.

I rose from the sofa and shook Yardley's hand. "Thanks for your
time," I said, and followed Logan to the elevator.

Logan suggested that we treat ourselves to one of those delicious slabs of
meat at Bern's Steak House. We drove south on the Crosstown Expressway and followed Howard Avenue to the restaurant. We each ordered a
steak.

The waiter took our order and left. Logan said, "What now?"

"I don't know. We're sort of at a dead end."

"I don't like this Yardley guy. I think his story is bogus."

"Maybe. Or, maybe, he's just weird."

"Did you notice how sterile his condo was?"

"What do you mean?"

"He talked about his wife like she was the center of his life, but there
weren't any pictures of her anywhere. There were no knickknacks, artwork, or anything. Even I have some of that crap lying around."

"I didn't really notice," I said. "Maybe he just doesn't want reminders
of his other life."

"Or maybe," Logan said, "he's bullshitting us."

"There's that," I said.

We drove back through St. Petersburg, and across the Sunshine Skyway
Bridge. The sun was setting into the Gulf, giving a glow to the waters of
Tampa Bay. Egmont Key sat in the middle of all the splendor of colors,
like a drop of ink splotched onto a brilliant canvas.

Thirty minutes later, we crossed onto Anna Maria Island, and drove
south toward Longboat Key, enjoying the slight chill of the spring evening.
I saw headlights in my mirror, coming faster than the speed limit allowed.
I slowed to let him pass, and as the car came abreast of me, I saw an arm
holding a large revolver reach out of the passenger side window. I hit my
brakes just as the pistol fired, the bullet passing over the hood of my car.

Logan sat up abruptly. "What the hell?"

I swerved to my right, still braking. The brake lights on my assailant's
car flash on. He wasn't finished. We were at the south end of Anna Maria
Island, driving along Coquina Beach. No other cars were in sight. I kept
to the right, trying to turn around and head back toward Bradenton Beach,
where there would be people on the sidewalk.

The car in front of me came to a stop. I pulled the steering wheel to
the right and drove into the parking lot that edged the beach. I was turning back north when I saw the car coming at us again. A second car had
come into the parking lot, blocking my exit.

I brought my Explorer to a stop at the edge of the beach.

"Get out!" I shouted. "Now."

Logan was already unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door.
The window on the hatch of the Explorer exploded, pieces of glass flying
into the front seat. I heard Logan grunt in pain as he dove out the open
door.

I followed, diving for the ground. More shots were fired. I crawled to
the front of the Explorer, putting it between the shooters and me. Logan
was already there, breathing hard.

I touched him on the shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Who are these assholes?"

"I don't know. Who've you pissed off this week?"

"Nobody that I can remember." He pulled his cell phone from the
pocket of his shorts. "We need to get out of here," he said.

I heard the sound of men moving up, cautiously. The voices were
low, restrained. They didn't know if we were armed, so they were being
careful.

"Let's go," I said.

We inched back toward the beach, keeping the Explorer between the
bad guys and us. Human shadows flickered in the glow of the sparse security lights from the nearby snack stand. Four men had spread out, trying to get an angle on us.

Logan was murmuring into his phone, trying to get help, as we
inched backward on hands and knees. As we neared the dunes, he closed
his phone and said, "Help's coming."

We reached the dunes and rolled behind the nearest one. We got to
our feet and began to run, crouching so that we were not visible above the
sand hills. We headed north, keeping low. Gunfire erupted behind us.
We'd gained a lot of space, but now they were coming on the run. We were
too far away for an accurate pistol shot, but we certainly weren't out of
danger.

The shrill sound of a siren cut through the night, getting louder, coming our way. One of our pursuers shouted something, and the shooting
stopped. I glanced over my shoulder as the men scrambled over the dunes,
back toward the parking lot.

The police wouldn't know exactly where we were. The beach parking area is a half-mile long, and all Logan had been able to tell the 911 dispatcher was that we were at Coquina Beach. The sirens had spooked the
shooters, so we were safe for the moment. On the other hand, I didn't want
an overzealous cop to start shooting at us.

I motioned to Logan. "Let's stay here until the cops have the area
under control," I said.

We sat on the sand and waited. A quarter-moon hung over the Gulf,
a shaft of light illuminating the dark water. The sea air carried a hint of dead fish, the result of the red tide that had left us the week before. The
sand was still warm from the sun, and the only sound was the voices of
the officers in the parking lot, punctuated occasionally by the static of a
police radio.