Blood island mrm-3

by H. Terrell Griffin

  "By definition, she can't be a runaway. She's legally an adult. The fact that she doesn't call home while she's on spring break just isn't enough to indicate foul play."

  "Bill, this girl is in some sort of trouble or she wouldn't be out of touch with her parents."

  "I don't doubt you, but we have to follow protocol. I need more than the fact that she stopped calling her daddy. Is there any evidence of foul play?"

  "No."

  "Then I can't do anything."

  I knew he'd help if he could. I thanked him and changed the subject.

  I said, "Do you know anything more about the body I found at Pelican Man's yesterday?"

  "No, but let me check with Sarasota PD."

  The morning paper didn't have much information. Just a big story on the front page about the body being found. No identification or cause of death.

  Bill reached for his phone, and after a short conversation hung up and turned his attention back to me. "They don't know much," he said. "The autopsy is scheduled for today, but they think he was shot once behind his right ear. It looks like an execution. His prints don't match anybody on file."

  "I thought you could just about find anybody today if you had fingerprints."

  "You can. If they're in the system. But if the person never served in the military or got licensed in some occupation that required prints or was never arrested, he wouldn't be on file. There're a lot of reasons why some people might never have their fingerprints taken."

  "Let me know if you hear anything," I said, and left.

  At my condo, I scanned Peggy's picture into my computer, cropped it so that I had a good head shot, and ran off several 4 x 6 prints. I'd start at the northern end of Anna Maria Island and work my way south to the southern end of Siesta Key.

  Bartenders have good memories for attractive young women, so I'd start there. If that didn't turn up anything, I'd try hotels and then the condos that rented by the week. Maybe I'd get lucky.

  I called my friend Logan Hamilton. "Want to do a little barliopping tonight?" I asked.

  "Absolutely," said Logan.

  He'd recently retired from his executive position with a financial services company, telling anyone who asked why he'd quit early, that he had all the money he needed, and Matt Royal needed a playmate. I explained why we were going.

  We started at the north end of Anna Maria, an island connected to Longboat Key by a drawbridge spanning Longboat Pass. Our first stop was The Sandbar, a restaurant and bar hugging the beach near Bean Point. One drink and no luck later, we headed south, stopping at each bar, having one drink, and striking out.

  We left the last bar on the south end of Anna Maria, planning to head home and to bed. Logan suggested that we stop at Pattigeorge's on Longboat for a nightcap. We drove across the bridge heading south to mid-key, where the restaurant overlooked Sarasota Bay.

  The dinner crowd had cleared out, and we were alone at the bar with Sammy, the bartender.

  "What're you guys doing out so late?" Sammy said, as we sat down.

  Logan grinned. "Looking for a needle in a haystack."

  Sammy put Logan's Scotch in front of him and reached into the cooler for my Miller Lite. "You trying to get laid again?"

  Logan laughed. "Go to hell, Sam. We're trying to find a missing girl. Matt's ex-wife's stepdaughter."

  Sam set my beer on a coaster. "What's that all about?"

  I told him about my conversation with Laura. "Peggy was probably on one of the islands in this area, but we didn't have any luck on Anna Maria."

  "Got a picture?" Sam asked.

  I showed it to him. "Good looking girl," he said, handing it back. "I'd like to meet her."

  "Sam," I said, "she's young enough to be your daughter:'

  Sam grinned. "Everybody I date is young enough to be my daughter. Let me see that picture again."

  He took the photo to the back of the bar and held it under the light that hung above the mirror. "You know," he said, "I think I did see her in here one night. She was with a group of people who sat at the high-top right behind you."

  "When?" I asked.

  "A couple of weeks ago, maybe. There were five people, I think. One was an older guy, and there were two girls and two young men together. I assumed they were couples out with somebody's dad."

  "What else do you remember?" Logan asked.

  "Not much," Sam said. "They seemed to be having a good time. The girls didn't have IDs and were drinking cranberry juice. The guys were old enough and were drinking mixed drinks. I don't remember what."

  "Stretch your brain," I said. "I need anything you can remember."

  "I'm not sure why, but for some reason I got the impression they were staying across the street at the Sea Club. You ought to talk to Chris, the manager. She'll know if they were there."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Sea Club is a small condominium complex that rents by the day and week. It sprawls along a stretch of beach across from Pattigeorge's and hosts the same guests year after year. During the off-season, Longboat Key is a small place, and most of the year-round residents know each other. Chris and Bill, the husband and wife team who managed the resort, are friends of mine.

  "Matt, how've you been?" said Chris, as I walked into the small airconditioned office the next morning.

  "I'm fine, Chris. Kind of glad the season's about over."

  "I know what you mean. What can I do for you today?"

  "A young woman named Peggy Timmons stayed here a couple of weeks ago. She's the daughter of a friend, and she's missing."

  Chris turned to her computer, stroked a few keys, and said, "I don't have her in the system. Are you sure she stayed here?"

  "Sam Lastinger over at Pattigeorge's said she did."

  I handed her a copy of the Peggy's picture.

  "Sure," said Chris. "I remember her. But she was using a different name. Came here with a group of people. They took one of the two bedroom units."

  "How many people?"

  "Five, total. I figured them for two couples and one older guy, maybe somebody's dad."

  "How long did they stay?"

  She stroked the computer keyboard again.

  "Three days," she said.

  "Names?"

  "Matt, if it wasn't you, I wouldn't give these names out."

  "This is important, Chris. The girl is eighteen and her parents are worried sick."

  A few more strokes.

  "Linda and Larry Olsen, Yvonne and Patrick Walsh, and Jake Yardley. That was the older guy. He paid for everything in cash."

  "Do you remember which name this girl used?" I asked, tapping the picture.

  "No. Sorry."

  "Addresses?"

  "Yeah, but they're probably as bogus as the names."

  "Got to check them out."

  "I guess so."

  She stroked the keyboard a few more times and the printer next to it came alive, spitting out a single sheet of paper.

  "Here you go," said Chris. "The young people all have the same address in Athens, Georgia, and the older guy gave a Tampa address. The phone numbers are there too."

  "Thanks, Chris. You've been a big help."

  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 do
wn without warning. I was afraid that Peggy Timmons had stumbled into the darkness and met the beast.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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 s
at 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.