"Did Bill ever get any info on the owner of the condo where Varn was living?"
"Sort of. I talked to him this morning about that. It seems that a Cayman Islands corporation, whose shares are held by a Cayman bank, owns the Bahamian corporation that owns the condo. Cayman banks are more secretive than those in Switzerland. Bill thinks we may have hit a dead end."
"Lovely," said Logan. "And somebody's trying to kill us."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I'd been staying in touch with Laura by e-mail, and I wanted to run some names by her. I doubted she would have ever heard of Wayne Lee, Fats Monahan, or Clyde Varn, but it was worth a try. Truth to tell, I just wanted to hear her voice.
I called her after lunch. Her husband, Jeff, answered the phone. I identified myself and asked if Laura was available.
"Matt, I've been meaning to call you all morning. Laura's missing." He was agitated, talking too loud, a little out of breath.
"What do you mean, missing?"
"I came home for lunch yesterday and she wasn't here. She hasn't been back."
"Police?"
"When she didn't come home by suppertime, I called them. Her purse was here, her cell phone, her car was in the garage. There was no note, nothing. That's not like her. If she was going out unexpectedly, she'd always leave a note."
"What are the police telling you?"
"Nothing, so far. They didn't even start looking until she didn't come home all night."
"They're doing something now, I hope."
"Something, I guess. But I don't know how serious they're taking this. They keep asking me if we're having marital problems. I think they think she just took off."
"Any chance that's the case?" I asked.
"None. Certainly not now, not while Peggy's missing. Have you found out anything?"
"Nothing more than what I've told Laura so far."
There was no reason to alarm him further with the deaths that may or may not be connected to his daughter. He had enough on his plate right now.
I said, "Did you tell the police that Peggy's missing?"
"Yeah, but they don't see any connection. Laura was here and Peggy was in Florida. I was trying to call you to find out if Laura had contacted you. I guess not."
"No, but if she does, I'll call you right away. Keep me posted."
"I will, Matt. And thanks. Oh, before you go, there is one other thing that's kind of curious. I got a call this morning, but the caller hung up before I could get to the phone. My caller ID had a three-oh-five area code number, so I called it back. It was a pay phone in a bar in Key West called the Sharkstooth. Nobody knew who had called. And, my home phone is unlisted."
"Maybe it was just a wrong number," I said. I didn't believe that, but why worry a guy more than he already was?
As soon as I hung up, I called Bill Lester. "Bill," I said, "can you call the Atlanta PD and find out about a missing person?" I filled him in on Laura's disappearance.
"I'll see what I can do," he said.
I paced my living room. This thing was getting out of hand. Peggy had been missing for four weeks, and now Laura drops off the planet. There had to be a connection, but I couldn't see it. None of it made any sense. Why were dead people cropping up all over the place? And why was somebody trying to take Logan and me out of the picture?
I was trying to make sense of my day. I'd killed a man, and even though he'd left me no choice, I was in some sort of a state of mourning. I didn't know the guy, and the world was better off without him, but the taking of a human life alters you forever. I'd killed before, in war and in selfdefense, and each time the same awful feeling of regret ate at my soul. John Donne famously wrote that "any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind." Maybe he was right. Especially when I'd caused the death.
On top of this, Laura was missing. Where had she gone and why? Did she go on her own volition, or were there sinister forces at work? Laura would never leave without letting some one know where she was going. Her disappearance was troubling. Was it connected to Peggy? There was no other reason for Laura to go missing. The fact that Peggy had been in Florida and Laura was in Atlanta didn't mean the two things weren't connected.
I called Detective Sims's cell phone. He'd given me the number in case I came up with any good reason for why people were trying to kill me.
"Did you get any ID on the guy I shot this morning?"
"Yeah. He's an ex-con named Brad Bartel. Did five years in Raiford for assault down in the Keys. Before that, he did a deuce for possession of cocaine with intent to sell. That was another Monroe County bust in the Lower Keys, Stock Island. He was released from Raiford two months ago."
"Any idea what he was doing up here?"
"None. A detective I know in Key West said this guy was suspected in a couple of murders, but they couldn't get the evidence to pin them on him. He was a pretty bad dude and Key West is glad to be rid of him."
"Anybody know where he's been since he left prison?"
"Went back to Key West. Seemed to have a little money and spent most of the time drinking on Duval Street."
"His drinking days are over," I said.
"You don't seem too broken up over the whole thing."
"I'm not, Detective. He's not the first man I've killed."
"So I heard." He hung up.
Why would anyone in our area hire a hit man from Key West, if that's what Bartel was? I was sure there were any number of out-of-work bad guys in Tampa. On the other hand, both Fats and Varn had worked for drug runners in South Florida. Maybe that was the connection. Maybe Bartel wasn't after me at all. Just Fats.
But if that were the case, why would someone lure me to Hutch's? Maybe Fats was the target, and somebody thought they might as well take me out while they were getting Fats. Just in case I knew something I wasn't supposed to know.
But what was I supposed to know?
My phone rang. It was Logan.
"Matt, you'd better get over to my place. We're in a heap of shit."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The gate guard recognized me and waved me in. I drove into the parking lot of Logan's condo and found three police cruisers, blue lights rotating in their light bars, a fire department ambulance, and a group of residents standing around chatting with each other.
Logan was standing off to the side, talking to one of the Longboat Key officers. I parked at the edge of the lot and walked over.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"There's a dead man on my balcony," said Logan. "Shot through the head."
"Who?"
"I don't know. There was a mop on the floor beside him, so lie may be part of the cleaning crew that was supposed to come in today. I hired a new company to do the maid work. I don't know any of them."
"What's going on in your condo?"
"Bill Lester's up there with a couple of cops. They're waiting for the Sarasota County CSI people."
Our island is divided at its middle, with the northern half lying in Manatee County and the southern half in Sarasota County. Logan lived on the southern end of the key, and thus, in the jurisdiction of the Sarasota County Sheriff.
We watched a van with the Sarasota County Sheriff's logo on the door drive into the lot. Two men and a woman got out, went around to the back, and unloaded three large evidence kits. They walked to the door of the building and were let in by the Longboat Key officer stationed there.
I turned to Logan. "Did you notice anything missing from your condo?"
"I didn't take time to look. I saw the dead guy and left in a hurry and called 911 and then you. The cops got here about five minutes before you did."
Bill Lester was coming out of the building, striding toward us, a hard look on his face. He motioned for the officer, who was still standing with us, to leave.
"I think somebody was after you, Logan," he said. "Did you take a good look at the body?"
"No. I saw the bullet hole in his head and got the hell out of there."
> The chief looked at me. "From a distance, the dead guy would look a lot like Logan. He's balding and about five foot eight. The slug that got him was large, maybe from a sniper rifle. Went right through his head and lodged in the wall."
There were two buildings near Logan's that could have given a shooter a sight line. I looked at both of them, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. I didn't expect to.
"The shot could have come from either of those buildings," I said, pointing.
"I agree," said the chief. "The dead guy had an immigration green card on him. He was from Poland and worked for the Tidy Lady's Maid Service. Are they yours, Logan?"
"Yeah. 1 just hired them to come in once a week. Today was their first day."
"And that guy's last day," said the chief. "We'll know more when CSI gets through with the crime scene."
"We've got to stop meeting like this," a voice behind me said.
I turned to look into the cold eyes of Detective David Sims.
The chief introduced him to Logan and said, "Thanks for coming, Dave. This has got to tie in to the Lee and Varn killings. I thought you'd be interested."
"I am," said Sims, pointing at Logan and me. "I just don't see any connection, except these two. They keep showing up at murder scenes."
"My thought exactly," said the chief. He turned to me. "Why don't you take Logan to your place, Matt? Stay out of sight. I'll send a patrolman if you like, but I want you guys safe until we get a better handle on this. I'll come over as soon as CSI finishes up here."
"We'll be at my condo," I said. "The patrolman isn't necessary. We'll be okay." I wasn't too sure about that, but I didn't want my neighbors to get antsy about a cop at my door.
Logan and I were back in my condo by mid-afternoon, sitting on the sunporch idly watching a pontoon boat with a maroon Bimini top make its way south. An easterly breeze lightly rippled the bay, and clouds were moving in, obscuring the sun. The sliding glass doors were open, and the sound of an idling outboard engine drifted up from the marina. The air smelled of rain and seaweed drying in the sun.
"That could've been me," Logan said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Don't know"
"We've got to figure this out or we're going to be dead," he said.
"I know"
I told him about my earlier conversations with Sims and Jeff Timmons. "Everything seems to be pointing to Key West. I'm going down there," I said.
"To do what?"
"I'm not sure. I think the starting place is the bar where the pay phone is."
"Why?"
"The call to Jeff's house is just too coincidental. Maybe it was Peggy. Or maybe she called earlier and talked to Laura. Maybe Laura's in Key West."
"She wouldn't have left without her purse or credit cards or clothes," Logan said.
"There's that."
"And you said her car was in the garage at home."
"I know. But we've got too many signs pointing to Key West. At least the bar gives me a starting point."
"I can go with you."
"I think I'd be better off alone. Besides, I need to have you here to help me stay in touch with the police. I don't think you ought to be too conspicuous on the island, though."
"Dave Kendall has an extra room at his place. I can stay there and keep my head down. I'll even use his motor scooter to get around."
"Stay out of your usual haunts."
"Yeah. I don't want any more holes in my hide."
We worked out a plan for me to get to Key West and to stay in touch with Logan on a regular basis. I called Cracker Dix and asked him to stop by the condo. I needed a favor.
Cracker showed up about four and sat sipping a beer while I told him where I was going and why.
"Didn't you tell me a while back that you still had contacts down there from your old days?" I asked.
"Sure do," said Cracker. "I was a stand-up guy, and they appreciate that sort of thing."
"What do you mean?" Logan asked.
"I took a run from Key West to Los Angeles for them. They were going to pay me fifty large to take a load of coke in the side panels of a rental car. I got busted the first time out by some highway cop in New Mexico."
"What happened?" I asked, not sure I wanted the whole truth.
"They got me in a roadblock looking for illegals. I had my green card and my passport, so that was fine. They were looking for Mexicans anyway."
"How did they find the drugs?" I asked.
"My friend Paco was asleep in the backseat. He's Cuban, but was born in this country, so he didn't have a green card or any other form of ID except a driver's license. They thought he was a Mexican. While they tried to sort that all out, I went over to the side of the road to pee. When I came back the coppers were taking the car apart."
"Why?" I asked, my lawyer brain thinking about all the defenses to a search, such as lack of probable cause.
"While I was taking a piss," said Cracker, "one of the cops asked Paco if they could search the car. Paco didn't know about the drugs. He was just along to keep me company, and he told them to go ahead. Next thing I know, I'm in the Las Cruces jail with a high bond."
"How long did you get?" I asked.
"I was there for about three months, and when we went to an evidentiary hearing one of the cops testified that he'd asked Paco for permission to search the car, not me. My lawyer argued that since I was the one who rented the car from Avis, I was the only one who could legally give permission for the search. The judge agreed and cut me loose."
"You got lucky," I said. "Did you make any more runs?"
"No, but the big guy in Key West gave me the fifty K anyway and told me he appreciated my not ratting them out. Said if I ever needed anything to give him a call."
"If I need a guide for the Key West underworld, will he help me? As a friend of yours?"
"I'll call him and find out."
Cracker finished his beer and left just as Bill Lester was coming in my front door.
"We found where the shot came from," he said. He dropped onto the sofa and rested his feet on my coffee table. "An empty condo in the building just across the courtyard from Logan's was broken into this morning. The balcony would have given the shooter a straight line to Logan's place."
"Any evidence as to who the shooter was?" I asked.
"No. The place was clean. No cartridge shells, no prints. There were some footprints in the carpet, but they were too faint even to get an impression. We assumed they were from the shooter, since the carpet was vacuumed yesterday by the maid service."
"You're sure that's where the shot came from?" Logan asked.
"About as sure as we can be. The CSI team confirmed the angle of the shot, and that was the only condo in the building that wasn't either occupied or locked up tight."
"You think he was after me?" asked Logan.
"I don't think there's any doubt about that," said the chief. "The Polish guy was your size and had a hairline similar to yours. From that distance, anybody would have assumed it was you."
I couldn't sit around Longboat Key and wait for somebody to finally get lucky and kill me. Plus, I had to find Peggy. Laura's disappearance had spooked me more than I'd let on to her husband. She was dedicated to Jeff and their children, and as concerned as she was about Peggy, Laura would never have left Jeff and Gwen at such a critical time.
Apprehension was settling over me, slipping ominously into the crevices of my brain, whispering softly of impending loss. Fear, my old nemesis from the war, was lurking on the edge of my consciousness, its stench percolating into my soul. Laura was my heart, and the thought of losing her was almost paralyzing. That's the way fear works. It sneaks in and builds in intensity until it takes over, and at that moment it wins. It had never beaten me, although it had tried mightily, and on occasion it had been a close thing. If it beat me now, Laura was lost, and I couldn't live with that.
I shook myself out of my macabre reverie. "I'm going to Key West,"
I said.
Bill shrugged. "Can't hurt, I suppose. By the way, the Atlanta cops aren't taking Laura's disappearance too seriously. They think she just took off. They're going through the motions, though. Maybe something will turn up."
"Tell me about Sims," I said.
"Good guy. I've known him for years and worked with him from time to time. He's a good detective. I'm glad to have him working with me on this one."
After Bill left, I called Sims. I told him about Laura's disappearance and the phone call from Key West. I told him I was going down there. I asked for the name of the detective friend of his in Key West.
"His name's Paul Galls. I'll call him and tell him you're coming," Sims said, and gave me a phone number.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Early the next morning Logan drove me to the Tampa Airport, where I caught a commuter jet to Miami. A taxi took me to the Miami Arena. I walked the three blocks to the Greyhound station on Northwest 1st Avenue, bought a ticket, and sat down to wait for the bus to Key West.
I was flying under the radar. I didn't know what kind of surveillance anyone had on Logan and me, but I didn't want them to know I was on my way to Key West.
Logan was staying with his friend Dave on the mainland. He'd stay out of sight and be in touch with me by cell phone. He'd be okay, I thought, if he didn't get careless.
When you travel by airplane, you have to show identification. Not when you go by bus. I also thought that if anyone saw me arrive at Key West Airport, I would have company sooner than I wanted.
The bus was another matter. I didn't need an ID to board one, and if anybody was looking for me, they wouldn't expect a preppy lawyer to travel by Greyhound.
I had a. 38-caliber snub-nosed pistol in my backpack. I'd checked it through in Tampa so as not to upset the security people and get myself arrested. Bus drivers didn't make you go through a metal detector before you boarded. I'd have the gun with me.
I had a Florida State ID card identifying me as Ben Joyce, a friend who lived on Anna Maria Island. He'd lost his driver's license as the result of a DUI conviction, and had gotten the card for identification. He'd gotten his license back after a year, and he didn't need the ID card anymore.
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