Blood island mrm-3

by H. Terrell Griffin

  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.

  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."

  CHAPTER SIX

  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.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  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."

  "How did you know I knew him?"

  "The Bradenton Beach Police Chief sent me the statements you and Logan gave the other night. He knows you guys are friends of mine. It was a courtesy."

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "Don't know. Mrs. Johnson was walking her dog at first light and found him," he said, pointing to the distressed woman with the dog. "Called us on the emergency phone."

  "It looks like Jake was posed after he was killed. I don't get that."

  "Neither do I. Maybe we'll know more when the crime lab guys get finished."

  "Chief?" It was the cop at the tape. "CSI's here."

  "About time," Lester said. He turned and went up the boardwalk to meet them. "Take Mrs. Johnson back to the station and get a statement," he said to the officer. "Matt, can you and Logan meet me for lunch at Mar Vista?"

  The Mar Vista restaurant, known to locals as The Pub, is in the Village at the north end of Longboat Key. This was the original settlement on the island, and a place where working people and poorer retirees could still afford to live. It had been a thriving community for many years before the developers discovered our island and began to build bigger and bigger condominium projects for wealthy refugees from the Midwest and New England.

  The Mar Vista hugs the shoreline of a little lagoon that meanders off upper Sarasota Bay. Tables and chairs are arranged on a patio overlooking the water. Servers were trudging back and forth between the kitchen and the tables, delivering lunch to the patrons.

  Logan and I sat on the patio and ordered soft drinks. Logan told the server we were waiting for one more person. The noon sun was warm and a light breeze blew off the water, rustling the fronds of the palm trees that provided sparse shade to the diners. A large yacht, gleaming with white paint and polished bright work, cruised the Intracoastal, heading north toward Tampa Bay. A go-fast boat bounced over the yacht's wake, and with unmuffled engines roaring, passed to port.

  Chief Lester arrived, walking among the diners, stopping to say hello to some of them. Bill was mid-forties about five foot eight, and while not overweight, sported a little paunch that didn't quite hang over his belt. He was wearing the same clothes as that morning: a navy blue golf shirt with a Longboat Key Police badge embroidered over the left breast, khaki pants, and black athletic shoes. No weapon was visible.

  He took a seat at our table, grinned, and said, "You guys get into more trouble. I don't know how you do it."

  Logan laughed. "It ain't easy," he said. "Not at all."

  "What'd you find out about Yardley?" I asked.

  "First off, lie's not Yardley," said Bill. "His real name is Clyde Varn. He's got quite a rap sheet. Fingerprints confirmed it."

  "What else?"

  "He didn't live in that condo in Tampa, where you met him. His driver's license, the one with the name Yardley, had an address in Brooksville, but Varn hasn't lived there in years."

  Logan leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Who is he?" he asked.

  "He used to be hired muscle for some of the drug rings that work out of south Florida. Apparently, he was some kind of a freelancer; worked for whichever group needed him. He's been arrested a dozen times, but only convicted once. Possession of marijuana. Did thirty days in the county lockup in Miami-Dade."

  I said, "What about the condo in Tampa?"

  "Owned by a Bahamian corporation. We're trying to find out who the shareholders are. That could take a while."

  Logan took a sip of his cola. "Did the crime lab people find anything?"

  The chief shook his head. "Not much. He'd only been dead about an hour when Mrs. Johnson found him. He was shot on the boardwalk, about fifty feet from the gazebo where we found him. There was blood splatter in the area, and they found scuffmarks on the boards. Looks like the killer dragged him to the gazebo and propped him up."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Who knows? Why kill him on Longboat? Maybe they were trying to send a message to somebody. Maybe to the two of you."

  I shrugged. "If somebody was, I don't understand the message."

  We sat quietly, sipping our colas. The waiter came, brought Bill a glass of iced tea and took our food orders. Logan asked for scallops, the chief chose a burger and fries, and I ordered a salad.

  Bill said, "Tell me more about this guy and your meeting the other day."

  Logan and I filled
the chief in on what we knew about Yardley and why we went to see him. While we talked, the waiter brought our food and refilled our drinks.

  Bill said, "It's got to be connected to Peggy somehow."

  I chewed a bite of salad. "What in the world was he doing with Peggy?" I asked.

  The chief looked up from his burger. "I wondered about that myself. I did some checking on missing young people in this area. Manatee and Sarasota have had reports of about twenty people missing in the last year. All of them were late teens or early twenties, all over eighteen. Male and female."

  Logan speared a scallop with his fork. "Why wouldn't somebody get interested in that many disappearances?"

  "Nobody put them together. There were one or two or three in various jurisdictions, both counties, Bradenton, Sarasota, Venice, North Port. They were all adults in the eyes of the law, so nobody got excited about them."

  "I bet their families did," I said.

  "You know what I mean, Matt," said Bill. "Cops have a lot better things to do than look for kids old enough to make their own decisions."

  "I guess," I said. But I was thinking that Peggy's disappearance might be more than it seemed. I didn't like that thought.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Why do you think Varn told us he dropped Peggy and her friends at Robarts Arena?" I asked Logan.

  "Maybe he did."

  We were driving down the key, heading for my condo. The salad had not done much to fill me up, and I heard a faint rumbling from the area of my stomach.

  I said, "That doesn't make any sense, unless he had nothing to do with her disappearance. That's a pretty big coincidence to get my arms around. He admitted to spending the three days with them at Sea Club, and then he lied to us about who he was. The kids seemed to have dropped off the earth when he left them."

  "Why don't we see what was going on at Robarts the day he says he dropped them off?"

  "Good call. The arena probably has a Web site."