Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (5 page)

Blood was running down Logan's forehead, looking black in the
moonlight. "You're hit," I said.

"I took a piece of your rear window. No big deal."

After a few minutes, a loud voice erupted from behind the dunes.
"Bradenton Beach Police. Is anybody here?"

I shouted. "Matt Royal and Logan Hamilton. We called this in. We're
coming over the dunes, hands up. We're unarmed. Okay?"

"Come on, slowly."

We rose and crossed the dunes, hands in the air. One cop kept his
weapon trained on us as another frisked us. He took our wallets.

"They're clean," he said.

Another cop, wearing lieutenant's bars on his uniform shirt, walked
up. "The Explorer is registered to Matt Royal," he said. "Is that one of
you?"

"I'm Royal," I said.

He took my driver's license from the cop who had frisked us, looked
at it, nodded, and handed it back to the officer. "What the hell happened
out here?" he asked.

"Don't know, Lieutenant. We were on our way back to Longboat,
and somebody started shooting at us." I told him how it had happened.

A paramedic arrived and put a bandage on Logan's brow as I talked.
He asked us if there were any other injuries, and then went back to his
ambulance.

The lieutenant had a skeptical look on his face. "We'll have to process
your vehicle for evidence," he said. "I'll have one of my men take you to the
station for statements. Somebody will take you home from there."

The Bradenton Beach Police station was small. It nestled between a boatyard and the approach to the Cortez Bridge. The waiting room was tiny,
with a couple of green vinyl and metal armchairs sitting next to a table that
held year-old magazines. The walls were painted in light beige, a color intended to soothe the fears of those who visited. A civilian sat behind a partition near a glass-enclosed opening, working on something on his desk
that I couldn't see. The room was chilly, the air conditioning cranked up
too high for this time of year. A large round clock on the opposite wall told
me it was nearing nine o'clock.

The lieutenant had escorted Logan into the back of the station to
take his statement. He told me he would be with me as soon as he finished
with my friend. I assumed he wanted to make sure that I wasn't influenced
by what Logan had to say.

Time moved slowly. The room was quiet. The occasional crackle of
a police radio slipped from behind the glass of the receptionist's area. The
faint sound of a siren came from the bridge, a signal to motorists that the
span was about to open for boat traffic. Probably a large trawler coming
from the north, heading for the fish houses that lined the bay next to the
Coast Guard station.

When the clock read nine thirty, the lieutenant appeared with Logan,
and asked me to step back to his office. Logan grinned and winked as he
passed me. The lieutenant caught it and looked a little miffed. Maybe he
thought Logan wasn't taking this thing seriously enough. He didn't know
that Logan seldom took anything seriously.

The lieutenant's office was small, with barely enough room for a desk
and two chairs. The top of the desk was cluttered with loose documents, a couple of wanted posters, and a framed picture of a pretty young woman
holding a blonde girl of about three years old.

"Why would someone try to kill you on my island, Mr. Royal?" he
asked.

"I wish I knew."

"I know who you are."

"Is that good?"

"I know about some of your escapades on Longboat," he said.

"Then you know I'm one of the good guys."

"Yeah. I already called Chief Lester. He vouched for you."

"He always does," I said, smiling.

"This happen a lot?"

"No. But when it does, I can always count on Bill Lester."

"I know you've been involved with law enforcement in the past," he
said, "and that you killed some bad guys. Is this shooting tonight related?"

"I don't see how it could be. There wasn't anyone left from the last
fiasco to come after me."

"Did you ever think that practicing law might be safer than your
retirement?"

"Lately, I have. But I don't go looking for trouble. It just seems to
have a way of finding me."

"Where were you today?"

I told him about our visit with Jake Yardley, and what I had learned
from Chris at the Sea Club. I explained why I was looking for Peggy, and
told him I didn't think there was any reason for anybody to try to kill me
because I was looking for a teenager.

He agreed. "Maybe it was some sort of mistaken identity," he said.
"If you find out anything different, you let me know."

An officer drove us home, dropping me at my place and going on to
Logan's. I didn't sleep well that night, and I didn't think the shooting was
random. It must have had something to do with Peggy. I'd have to take a
good look at Jake Yardley. He had to be part of the riddle.

And I was going to start carrying a pistol. You never know when you
might need one.

The next day, I did my morning run along the sidewalk that borders Gulf
of Mexico Drive. The sun was just coming up, and the usual coterie of
runners and walkers were already out. Wild parakeets were chattering in
the trees that bordered the walkway, and a cooling breeze blew anemically
from the north. Traffic was light, but steady, the kind of day when nobody
in his right mind would take a shot at me on a busy road in broad daylight.

I got home safely, showered, shaved, put on clean shorts and a
T-shirt, and went to Isabelle's Eatery for breakfast. The morning paper
was full of bad news of people all over the world killing and maiming each
other. It all seemed a long way from our quiet island at the edge of the Gulf
of Mexico.

There was a tingle of alarm rolling around in the back of my mind.
It was a gut reaction to something I'd seen or heard or sensed about
Yardley. Something was off about him and his story of meeting Peggy and
her friends. Logan's observation about Yardley's living quarters only
added to my sense of unease. And, my gut was usually right.

I spent the rest of the morning trying to find out something about
Yardley. His name didn't pop up on Google or any of the other databases
I could access. I hadn't come up with anything and decided to go see Chief
Lester the next day. Maybe he could help.

At noon, the Manatee County Sheriff's crime lab called to tell me
that they were finished with my car, and I could pick it up anytime. Logan
came and got me, and I went from the lab to an auto-glass shop where they
replaced the rear hatch window while I waited.

I drove back to Longboat Key and met Logan at Tiny's, a little bar on the north end of the island. It was a neighborhood watering hole, and at
five thirty on a weekday afternoon, it was packed with locals enjoying
themselves, savoring the winding down of the day.

Word had spread of the shooting the night before, and everybody
wanted to know what had happened. The more Logan told the story, the
bigger it got. Four Scotches into the evening and he was a hero.

The people of Tiny's knew Logan was kidding. He was a war
hero who never talked about it, and he'd pulled my butt out of the fire just
a few months before over in the center of the state. He was a selfdeprecating guy, and was much loved on the key.

We finished our evening at Tiny's. I ordered a pizza to go from A
Moveable Feast, a small restaurant that shared the parking lot with the bar.
Logan was going to drive to St. Armand's, at the other end of Longboat,
for Chinese food.

The ringing phone jangled me out of sleep early the next morning. I eased
my eyes open, ruing the beers I'd had the night before. Over served. Again.
Light was just beginning to make its way through the opening in my
drapes. The clock read six a.m. This had better be good, I thought.

I reached for the receiver. "Hello." I think I groaned.

"Matt, there's a body in Durante Park. I need you down here." It was
Bill Lester.

"Sure, Bill, but why?"

"I think you know the dead guy."

"Who?'

"Jake Yardley."

"I'll be right there."

"Park at the end of Gulf Bay Road. Take the trail to your right, and
you'll find us."

Durante Park takes up thirty-two acres on Longboat Key, about three miles
south of the north end of the island. It is a haven of wetlands, mangrove forest, and salt marsh. Various species of waterfowl and shore birds make
their homes there. Trails and boardwalks snake through the area, and
unobtrusive little signs are placed at intervals, describing the plants and
birds.

I parked the Explorer next to two police cars, and began walking
down a shell-topped trail. The sun was still rising out of the bay and light
filtered through the mangrove branches. The air was cool, the sky clear. It
was quiet, and I could hear a dove coo in the distance. The breeze off the
Gulf brought the soft hum of tires on Gulf of Mexico Drive.

I came to a boardwalk and bore to my left. The bay stretched to my
right, the early morning sun reflecting off its still surface. A mullet jumped
and splashed loudly as it fell back into the water. Was the fish trying to
escape a predator or was it just imbued with the joy of living? Who knows?

I heard voices ahead. I rounded a turn and saw two Longboat cops
standing in front of a line of crime scene tape anchored to the rails of the
walkway. They were talking quietly, almost whispering.

"Morning, Matt," the one nearest me said. "The chief is waiting
for you. Don't touch anything. We're waiting for the sheriff's crime lab
people."

I ducked under the tape, walked around another curve, and stopped
at a gazebo that faced the water. There was a bench across the back of it.
There was an emergency phone attached to the wall next to a plastic rack
holding brochures. A sign on the phone said that it connected directly to
the Longboat Key Police station.

Bill Lester was standing in the middle of the gazebo, his back to me,
talking into his cell phone. Jake Yardley was sitting on the bench, his arms
spread across the rails behind him, his chin on his chest. He looked like a
man catching a catnap, perhaps resting from a walk around the park. He
was wearing shorts, a golf shirt, and running shoes, all white. A large
splotch of red across his chest added a touch of color. Blood.

Just past the gazebo, an older woman stood on the boardwalk, holding a leash tied to a golden Lab. The dog was lying on the walk, apparently bored with the drama surrounding him. The woman looked pale,
scared, and distracted, as if she would rather be anywhere but here, sharing her slice of paradise with a dead man and a police officer.

Lester turned to me, snapping his phone shut.

"Thanks for coming, Matt," he said. "Is this your buddy?"

"He's not my buddy, but that is Jake Yardley."

"That's what his driver's license says."