Blood island mrm-3

by H. Terrell Griffin

  We pulled into my condo complex and parked next to a huge bougainvillea, its blood red blooms dancing in the breeze off the water. We took the elevator, sharing it with one of my neighbors, and got off on the second floor.

  I had enclosed my balcony the year before, making it into a sunporch. I also put an air-conditioning duct out to the area. Florida is hot in the summer. My computer was set up there, giving me a magnificent view over Sarasota Bay as I surfed the Internet.

  My new twenty-eight foot Grady-White walkaround sat sedately in its slip in front of the condo, bobbing slightly when a wake rolled in over the sandbar that separated our little harbor from the bay proper. The sun was high and the cerulean sky was dotted with puffy clouds. The Sister Keys, uninhabited mangrove islands, defined the eastern edge of the Intracoastal Waterway across from my home. Several elderly ladies were doing water aerobics in the pool that took up most of the space between my building and the docks.

  I Googled Robarts Arena and came up with a list of events for the entire year. I scrolled down to the period three weeks before.

  "Looks like a revival ended the same day that Peggy checked out of the Sea Club," I said, pointing to the highlighted event.

  "I can't see how that would be of interest to a guy like Varn."

  "We'll have to check it out. Let's see if the evangelist has a Web site."

  He did. I found it, and clicked on the tab that detailed his schedule.

  "They moved on to Venice," I said, "and they've been there for three weeks. Last night was the last evening for saving local souls. Maybe somebody's still there."

  "Probably a waste of time. Let's go."

  We drove to the mainland and took Highway 41 to Venice, about fifteen miles south of Sarasota. The address given on the Web site turned out to be a large undeveloped lot on the highway south of the city limits, about halfway to the town of North Port.

  The lot wasn't empty. A sea of canvas covered the ground, a tent being disassembled for transport. A crew of about ten men was rolling up the canvas. A small forklift stood nearby, ready to put the tent into the white semi parked nearby. The trailer's aluminum side was emblazoned with red letters spelling out REVEREND ROBERT WILLIAM SIMMERMON MINISTRIES, WORKING FOR JESUS. Next to the sign was a painted picture of a handsome gray-haired man, whom I assumed to be the evangelist. A sleeper cab was backed up to it, but had not yet hooked on. It looked as if they were about ready to leave. A forty-foot motor home was parked nearby.

  We stopped next to the trailer, got out of the Explorer, and walked around to the other side, near where the men were working with the canvas. As we cleared the rear of the truck, a woman stepped out of the door of the motor home. She came up short when she saw us.

  "Can I help you?" she said. Her voice was soft and held the inflec- dons of the southland. She was about five seven and her high-heeled sandals added another two inches. Her auburn hair was thick and hung below her shoulders. She had the body of a woman who would do a bikini proud. I'm not much on fashion, since I usually wear a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and boat shoes, but I could tell that her clothes were expensive. She had either a large diamond or a beautifully cut piece of glass on her right ring finger. Several gold chain bracelets concentrated around her left wrist and clinked quietly when she moved her arm.

  "I'm looking for Reverend Simmermon," I said.

  She smiled, showing me teeth that were so perfect they must have been the work of a very good cosmetic dentist. "I'm afraid he's not here. I'm Michelle Browne. I'm his administrative assistant. Can I help you?"

  "Do you know a man named Clyde Varn or maybe Jake Yardley?"

  She was quiet for a moment, screwing her face into a little moue, as if thinking was not something she was used to doing. "Can't say that I do. Who are they?"

  "Same guy," I said, "but he uses both names."

  "I wish I could help." She smiled again, and turned to a man who had just walked up, in effect dismissing me. The truck driver, I thought.

  I interrupted before she spoke to him. "When do you expect Reverend Simmermon?"

  "Oh, he's already gone," she said, turning back to me with a shrug and a smile. "On to the next stop. The work of the Lord never stops, you know."

  "Where's the next stop?"

  "Key West. Sorry I couldn't help."

  Logan and I thanked her and returned to the Explorer.

  As Logan snapped his seat belt closed, he said, "Mighty helpful little southern gal, don't you think? Did you notice that the last time she said `help' it came out `hep'?"

  "I did. That's a little more country than she'd like us to believe she is. She's been working on that accent."

  "I think so. And she's mighty pretty to be a minister's assistant."

  "A little overdressed too."

  We sat quietly in the vehicle for a few moments before I cranked up and headed back north.

  "Didn't Bill Lester say that some teenagers had disappeared from the North Port and Venice areas?" asked.

  "Yeah, but he didn't say when. Aren't you reaching a little on this?"

  "Probably so. But I'd like to check with the chief anyway."

  CHAPTER TEN

  The traffic between Venice and Sarasota was brutal. The snowbirds hadn't yet gone back north, and the spring breakers were descending upon us. It took us more than an hour to go the twenty miles between the site of the revival and the approach to the John Ringling Bridge.

  By the time we cleared the bridge and drove onto St. Armand's Key, it was dusk. Too late to find the chief at the station. We parked and walked to Lynches Pub and Grub for a drink. St. Armand's Circle is one of the more upscale shopping areas in Florida, a rival to Worth Avenue in Palm Beach. As we walked to the restaurant, I could see the area coming alive with the evening visitors. It was dinnertime, and the restaurants and bars would be full of vacationers. Foot traffic was picking up, people window shopping, enjoying the quiet evening in a gentle climate. There was a freshness in the air, and people were smiling, nodding hello to each other. Our barrier islands provide a sense of permanent vacation, even to those who live here year round.

  We took a table on the sidewalk and ordered beer. I watched the passersby for a minute, many of them red from the spring sun that surprised them with its strength.

  "What do you think?" Logan broke into my reverie about a twentysomething female tourist from Ohio, who wore shorts and a halter top. Or maybe she was from Arkansas. I couldn't tell, and it didn't matter. I enjoyed the view.

  I shrugged. "Why would Varn use his real name, or at least the name he was known by, and the Tampa address at the Sea Club if he was up to no good? Maybe he told us a partial truth. He was just having a good time getting to know young people. All that bullshit about his wife may have just been a cover. Maybe he's just a little hinky, and was embarrassed to be found out."

  "Could be, but why would a muscle man for the drug mob be entertaining young couples?"

  "Maybe lie was taking a vacation."

  "I'd like to know who owned the condo he was living in."

  "I'd like to know why he was killed, and why on Longboat," I said.

  "Lots of questions and no answers."

  Logan had finished his beer.

  "Want another one?" I asked.

  He nodded. I signaled for the waitress.

  "Two more, darling," I said, wagging two fingers at her.

  We sat quietly, sipping beer and watching the people on the sidewalk. Night had fallen. It was pleasant, the temperature in the low seventies and none of the humidity that we'd get by mid-May.

  "Best time of the year," I said.

  "Without a doubt."

  "Another one?"

  "No, thanks. Time for me to get home. I've got a refrigerator full of Chinese food to eat."

  I laughed. Logan's late-night forays to the Chinese food restaurant were the stuff of legend. They always left him with enough food to last a week.

  I paid the tab and we left. We drove in silence across the New Pass
Bridge and onto Longboat Key. A short way down the island, we turned into the drive leading to Logan's condo. The gate guard stopped us and then waved us through when he recognized Logan.

  We stopped in front of Logan's building. I said, "I'll call Bill Lester in the morning and see if he can tell us anything about those disappearances in North Port and Venice."

  "Let me know what you find out."

  "See you tomorrow," I said, and drove the Explorer home.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The day begins slowly in our latitude. As the sun starts its morning trek from behind the mainland, the bay takes on a gray color, lightening slowly until the sun's rim rises above the horizon. Color seeps into the world, and the eastern sky turns deep blue with bright orange streaks. Soon, the whole round ball of fire is hanging above the mainland horizon, and another day has begun.

  I was sitting on my sunporch, drinking a cup of coffee, watching the morning unfold. Nature's display never failed to arouse a feeling of contentment in me. I was where I wanted to be, living on an island separated from much of the world's troubles by a wide bay.

  The day's lead story told of a trial going on in the courthouse in Sarasota. It was about complex civil issues growing out of the building of a major hotel downtown. I smiled, relieved to be on the sunporch drinking coffee. The trial was in its third week and was expected to last two more. I knew what those lawyers were going through. They weren't getting enough sleep, they were eating on the run, they had abandoned their families for the duration, and their ulcers were burning in their guts.

  I'd been a trial lawyer in Orlando for a long time. The pressure on those who go into the pit to do battle is enormous, and too many of them turn to alcohol. I did. That was a big part of Laura's decision to end our marriage, and it eventually ended my career. I wasn't run out of the profession; I just gave up and moved to Longboat Key.

  A good man talked me into taking one last case, to right a wrong done him. I beat the alcohol problem, regained my self-respect, won the case, and not incidentally, made some money. I had enough to live modestly for the rest of my life, and I was content.

  At seven thirty, I called Bill Lester. I explained what Logan and I had found out the day before, and asked him whether the North Port and Venice young people had gone missing recently.

  "I don't think you're going to find any connection between Simmermon and the missing kids," he said. "Varn was probably lying when he said he dropped them at Robarts."

  "I know, but I'd like to satisfy my curiosity. Will you check on it?"

  "I'll check on it and let you know. By the way, I got a note on my desk overnight about that body you found at Pelican Man's."

  "Did you get an ID?"

  "No, but the body disappeared yesterday. From the county morgue."

  "How in the world does something like that happen?"

  "Somebody from a funeral home showed up with papers signed by the family, directing the morgue to turn over the body. Only problem was, after the hearse left, a supervisor looked at the papers and thought they were a little hokey."

  "Hokey?"

  "Yeah. You know Not right somehow. How would the family have known the body was there if it hadn't even been identified yet? Anyway, the supervisor called the funeral home, and nobody there had heard anything about the body or its being picked up."

  "Weird. What's Sarasota PD doing about it?" I asked.

  "Investigating. Whatever that means. They're also keeping the whole thing under wraps. The detectives think it might be some sort of death cult that uses bodies in their rituals. If the body was unidentified, no family would be looking for it, and they could get it with minimal fuss."

  I laughed. "This place gets kinkier and kinkier."

  "I hear you, Matt. Everybody's living the dream. I'll call you later about the missing people."

  The chief called an hour later. "No go," he said. "Those kids in North Port and Venice disappeared months ago, long before Simmermon came to town. It's a dead end, Matt."

  "I'm not really surprised," I said. "There's no reason to think a traveling evangelist is kidnapping people. What about another connection, though? Young people disappearing. Can you think of any reason?"

  "The word I'm getting is that in each case there was some family trouble going on. Probably nothing more than kids growing up and getting out of a bad situation. Two of those reported missing turned up on their own.

  "I checked with Sarasota PD about the vulture pit guy."

  "Anything?" I asked.

  "Nope. Not a trace. It's as if the body disappeared from the face of the earth. No leads, no clues, nothing."

  "What about the death cult idea?"

  "Didn't go anywhere. The gang unit has never had a whiff of that sort of thing going on around here."

  "Bill, I know you don't have a lot of manpower. I wonder how you'd feel about me showing Varn's picture around the key. See if anybody else remembers seeing him."

  "Not a problem. Stop by the station and I'll give you a print of his driver's license photo."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After getting the picture of Varn, I spent the rest of the morning cleaning my boat. I showered and went to Moore's Stone Crab Restaurant for lunch. I ate in the bar, talking idly with Debbie, the bartender. I hadn't been in for a while, and we were catching up about mutual friends. I also told her about Peggy.

  Cracker Dix came in as I was finishing my burger and onion rings. "Hey, Matt," he said. "Heard you found that body down at Pelican Man's the other day."

  "Yeah. Great way to start the day," I said.

  Cracker was an expatriate Englishman who had lived on the key for many years. He was about fifty, medium height, and bald as a billiard ball. He sported a close-cropped beard, a Hawaiian shirt, beige shorts, and flipflops. A small gold stud was planted in his right earlobe, a thin gold chain around his neck. He ordered a beer and took the stool beside me.

  "You catching any fish?" he asked.

  "No. I haven't even been out this week. Too much wind."

  Debbie was back with a glass of dark beer. She set it in front of Cracker and put her elbows on the bar, leaning into it, joining the conversation.

  We were alone in the lounge, but I could hear low voices coming from the dining room, the clanging of utensils on plates punctuating the conversation. Stone crabs were in season, and the snowbirds were taking their fill of them before going home for the summer. Somewhere in the back of the restaurant, a plate fell and shattered on the tile floor.

  The bay outside the large windows was rippled by the northerly wind blowing down the channel. Two sailboats were anchored in the cove, swinging gently on their anchor lines. The sun was high, still hanging in the southern sky, waiting for summer before it angled directly overhead and heated the island, bringing our annual bath of humidity.

  A waitress came to the service bar and called a drink order to Debbie. She left to fill it.

  "Cracker," I said, placing the picture of Varn on the bar, "you get around a lot. Did you ever see this guy?"

  Cracker looked closely at it for a moment, chewing on his lower lip in concentration. "Yeah," he said, finally. "I've seen him a couple of times with Wayne Lee, over at Hutch's on Cortez Road."

  I frowned. "Wayne Lee," I said. "Where do I know that name from?"

  "You've met him at Tiny's. He comes in now and then. He works the boats out of Cortez when he's sober."

  "Right. Comes in some with Nestor Cobol."

  "That's him."

  "Where can I find Lee?"

  "I don't know, but Fats Monahan, the bartender at Hutch's, probably knows."

  Hutch's had been there as long as I'd been coming to the key. It hunkered down next to Cortez Road, just over the bridge that spanned the Intracoastal between the mainland and Anna Maria Island. Because of its proximity to the fish houses and commercial docks, it had a rowdy reputation, fueled by the men who fished the sea for a living. I'd never visited the place.

  The building was conc
rete block covered by a layer of stucco, some of it sloughing off. I could see bare blocks under the beige exterior. A glass door gave entrance to a dim recess of ugliness and body odors, tinged with the smell of fish, cigarette smoke, and stale beer. A bar took up one wall, with tables situated about a small linoleum-covered floor. Bare concrete showed in the spots where the covering had been ripped up. No sunlight penetrated this dark space. A fat man in a white T-shirt with no sleeves leaned on the bar, talking to the lone customer. It was two in the afternoon.

  I'd brought Cracker with me. He knew this world and I didn't. The regulars whispered secrets to each other that they would never divulge to an outsider.

  We walked in. The bartender gave me a bored look through hooded eyes. He saw Cracker, and his mouth turned up in what could be taken for a smile. I wasn't sure.

  "Hey, Cracker," the bartender said. "Beer?"

  "Sure," said Cracker. I'd never known Cracker to turn down a beer, no matter the time of day.

  "Fats," said Cracker, "this is a friend of mine, Matt Royal."

  "Beer?" asked Fats, looking at me. I assumed that was his idea of a pleasantry.

  "Miller Lite, if you have it."

  He bent to the cooler behind the bar and came up with a can of Budweiser for Cracker and a bottle of Miller Lite for me. He set them on the bar. No coasters.

  "Fats," said Cracker, "I'm looking for Wayne Lee. Do you know where he lives?"

  "Not exactly. He got kicked out of his trailer over at the park when he stayed drunk a few days and didn't work. The manager said he was tired of putting up with that."

  "Do you know where he went?" asked Cracker.

  "Pretty much. Why?"

  Cracker looked at me, and I nodded my head. "I think he's in some trouble, and Matt here is a lawyer. We want to help him out."

  "I know he ain't got no money for a lawyer," Fats said.

  "It's a freebie," I said. "For Nestor Cobol."

  "Nestor's still trying to take care of him, huh?" asked Fats, a sneer on his face.

  I had no idea what that was about, and I didn't want to find out. Maybe Nestor and Wayne had had a falling out, and sooner or later, Fats would mention my visit to Nestor. Well, no harm. I'd know what I needed to know by then.