Troy called the sheriff’s office and asked them to send over a copy of her complete file. He wished he knew who John Barrymore’s personal attorney had been so he could get a look at any will. John Barrymore had died a little more than one year after marrying someone half his age. Troy wondered if the one year held any significance. On a whim he called all six attorneys who had practices in Mangrove Bayou but none of them claimed to do business with John Barrymore. He could wait. Someone had to file the will at the courthouse in Naples soon.
At lunchtime Troy walked to Bert’s Crab Shack, facing Oyster Bay. Bert’s was on the water. Just beyond it a rickety pier had several crab boats tied to it. The interior was picnic tables and a kitchen. Where the yuppified restaurants nearer the beach had strung up all manner of nautical oddments, Bert’s had bare wood walls. Troy ordered a chicken sandwich and some unsweetened ice tea. His picnic table had an assortment of ketchups, tartar and other sauces in a small metal pail along with a roll of paper towels. Bert Frey came out of the kitchen and sat at Troy’s table. “How’s it going, Chief?” he asked. “Been meaning to stop by. Welcome you to town.”
“Thanks. Pleased to meet you. You have the trapper license, I understand.”
Bert nodded and grinned. “You got something you need trapped?”
“Not at the moment. Just wanted to meet you. And I had to eat lunch anyway.” Troy took a bite and chewed. He swallowed and took a drink of tea. “Is this really chicken?”
Bert laughed. “I see someone else has already welcomed you to town. I get a kick out of that reputation. I call this Bert’s Crab Shack because the tourists get antsy if I call it Bert’s Mystery Meat Shack.”
Troy took another bite. Swallow. Tea. “Is this really chicken?”
“Probably. Could be gator. Taste about alike, or so people say.”
Troy swallowed and blotted his lips with a paper towel. “Don’t you know?”
Bert shook his head. “I don’t eat here. It’s cooked. Do you care?”
“Guess not. Tastes OK. Hand me that bottle of hot sauce.”
Chapter 14
Tuesday, July 23
“Why we gotta go back to that motel to celebrate?” Tats Michaels asked. “That’s your house now. We can fuck right on your big bed.” It was almost midnight and he was driving them east on Barron Road out of Mangrove Bayou. For the first time Katie had let Tats come to her house to pick her up.
“Can’t do that yet, honey-bunny. You knows that. We gotta lie low a few months more. Least we can go any time now, not have to wait for John to go to Atlanta.”
“Well, I don’t like it. You and me been together forever. You’re my woman, always was. Always will be.”
“I knows that, Tats. We love each other. Always did.”
“Damn right. Been fucking since we was kids. You were always the best.” He peered ahead into the darkness. “What did that cop say?”
“He’s an idiot. Don’t worry about him. ’Sides, I got a town councilman on my side now. Met him at the yacht club. The cops get too nosy, I’ll have him tell them to back off.”
“You started screwing someone else?”
“Not yet. Might have to. For insurance, you know. But even if I have to, remember you’re my guy. Always have been. Always will be.”
“Surprised you don’t just screw the head cop, you like screwing so much.”
“Now, now. You know that’s my part of the job. And all that will be over soon, soon’s the lawyer files the will.” She paused and looked out at the darkness ahead of them, thinking. “Screwing the cop might not be a bad idea, though,” she said. “He’s kinda cute.”
Tats frowned. “Cops don’t just back off too easy. I don’t like that they sealed off the boat. That means they’re suspicious.”
“That was annoying,” Katie said. “Even changed the locks so I couldn’t get in. But don’t worry. We’ll soon be in the green. Sell that boat. How much you figure it’s worth?”
“I don’t know. I only fixes them, I don’t buy them.”
“Well, we’ll sell it. And the house. Buy another house someplace else.”
“Still don’t see why we gotta hide out now. Coulda fucked back there on your own bed.”
“We’ll get a room in our favorite motel, honey-bunny. Then go out for a nice steak dinner,” Katie said. “Would you like that?”
“Celebrate? Sure. I want champagne. After all, I did all the work.”
“I knows that too, Tats. And you done good. We’ll get us some nice Cold Duck.” She reached down to the floorboard and pulled up her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes.
“Then we can talk about the money,” Tats said. “I did all the work. I should get half.”
“I’ll take care of you, honey-bunny. Like always. You’re my guy. Always have been. Always will be.”
“Damn right.”
Katie lit her cigarette off the dashboard lighter. She took in a deep pull and looked back through the rear window of the pickup truck. They were totally alone on the road for as far as she could see in either direction. “Pull over,” she suddenly said. “I gotta pee.”
“Oh Geez.” Tats slowed and pulled the truck off onto the narrow grass between the road and the guardrail. Katie reached into her purse.
“Is that a man standing across the road there?” Katie asked.
Tats looked. It was so dark he could barely see the bushes on the other side of the road. He started to turn his head back toward her. “Where? I don’t…”
Chapter 15
Wednesday, July 24
By Wednesday, Donald was a category one hurricane and was crossing the western tip of Cuba. Troy came in after his morning run and did his exercises in what they now called the gym but which was really a storeroom. He showered and changed into jeans and a fishing shirt and sat at his wobbly desk. The jiggling brought his computer screen back to life. Nobody ever shut any of them off.
One thing they lacked was laptops in the vehicles. Troy was accustomed to that from his work in Tampa, having access to a lot of records as well as text messaging from the dispatchers and station. But then, he reflected, in Tampa he hadn’t had a large corner office with its own fire exit.
Troy was usually in his office by seven each morning. This morning he heard some commotion back in the cells and went to look. The station had four lockups along one wall together. On the other side of that hallway was an interrogation room with video camera, a door to the locker room, and a door to the shower and a public toilet. The hall ended at a door to the station lobby at one end and a metal door to the back parking lot at the other. Prisoners could be unloaded and brought in the back way, not past June and the front lobby. Plus all the staff parked out back.
Calvin Smith had unloaded two men from one of the trucks and was locking them up in one cell together. The men looked like migrant workers and Troy suspected Mexican heritage. They also looked drunk and one was bleeding from a gash on his forehead and a broken nose.
“What’s all this, then?” Troy asked.
“Drunk and disorderly,” Calvin said. “They were peeing in the bushes by the microwave tower.”
“Good God almighty. Lawlessness run amok. Lucky you were able to quell them.”
Calvin grinned. “Probably want to charge them with indecent exposure, too. And this one resisted arrest and I quelled him.” He laughed. “Quelled the bejesus out of him.” He shoved the injured man into the cell so hard the man bounced off a wall and fell flat on his back. Troy put out an arm to stop Calvin from closing the cell door. He went in and bent over the man. Then he picked him up and stood him on his feet. When Troy let go, the man fell down again and Troy caught him before he hit his head on the concrete floor.
“Nose needs packing and some stitches for that gash. But otherwise he’ll be back picking tomatoes soon as he’s released. But he’s too sozzled to even stand,” Troy said.
Bubba Johns came through the door to the locker room and wrinkled his nose. “Somebody going to
have to clean that up,” he said, pointing to the bloodstains on the cell floor.
“You just coming on?” Troy said.
“Yep. Got to put in my hour working out in the back room. I see Calvin got himself his very own punching bag.” Bubba turned to walk down the corridor.
Troy stared after Bubba a moment. “Calvin, when you’re done here, step into my office,” he said.
Troy sat behind his desk, pulled out a lower drawer, and turned to face the back window with one foot up, resting on the drawer. Out on the boat ramp a man and woman were launching a daysailor, sails still down. Early birds, Troy thought. At this hour there wasn’t much wind, but what there was would be offshore and take them out the channel to the Gulf. In the afternoon the sea breeze would help bring them back to town. Powerboaters didn’t usually pay attention to wind or current or even much to tides. Sailors had to. The woman held the dock lines while the man drove a car and trailer up and out of the ramp and over to the parking area.
Calvin came in and sat in a chair in front of Troy’s desk. He looked out the window too. “That some kind of sailboat?” he asked. “Never saw the point of something so slow it takes forever to get anywhere.”
“It’s a Com Pac,” Troy said. “Probably a sixteen. And a sailor has arrived at his destination the moment he leaves the dock.”
“What does that mean?”
Troy was looking out the window. “Motor boats are usually used for some purpose. Fishing, diving, getting to someplace. Nobody just fires up a gas-guzzling motorboat and runs it around in circles for fun. Not unless you’re rich. But sailors just want to sail. And they’re sailing the moment they leave the dock.”
“Seems an awfully slow way to get around,” Calvin said.
“Well, I guess you need to be a sailor to get it. Never mind.” Troy was watching the boat and the woman. “I understand the other officers call you ‘Ticket Master’ because you write so many traffic and parking tickets.”
“So? I’m good at my job.”
“Protecting and serving is not very much about tickets,” Troy said. “I checked. You, in fact, write as many as the rest of the department combined.”
“So? I’m making a lot of money for the town council. Give me a raise then.”
“Yesterday you gave a parking ticket to a man who had parked his car and boat trailer slightly over the lines in the parking lot out there.” Troy pointed out the window to the boat ramp.
Calvin nodded. “We only got so many spaces for those trailers. Man uses two of them, takes one away from someone else who needs it.”
“I know all about boat trailer parking at boat ramps, believe me,” Troy said. “And in the winter when the ramp is busy, I’d say you had a point. But it’s July and we both know there won’t be six trailers out there today and we have thirty spaces for them. Man could park crossways and not bother anyone else.”
“So, what would you have done?”
“I’d have written a stern note,” Troy said. “And put that on his windshield. Sometimes a little social pressure gets the job done better than a fine.”
Out on the ramp, the man had returned and he and the woman raised the mainsail on the sailboat. There seemed to be enough wind to gently push it off the dock and the man deftly flipped it end-for-end, letting the boom far out as they drifted downwind and toward the channel out to the islands. The woman went to the mast and hoisted the jib, then scampered back to trim the jib sheet. Hank-on jib, Troy thought, approvingly. None of this modern roller-reefing for those two.
“A week ago you ticketed a tourist for going thirty-two down Barron Road here in town,” he said to the window.
“Speed limit’s thirty,” Calvin said. “Everywhere in town.”
“I know that.”
“Damn Canadian needed to be taught that we’re serious about traffic laws here.”
“We are. And you taught him. You taught him that this town has assholes for cops and to stay the hell away from here when he comes to Florida on vacation next year.” Troy shifted in his chair to reach his wallet. “The town council doesn’t need that man’s hundred and fifty dollars as much as it needs his hotel, restaurant, shopping and whatever-else business he brings here. And he is busy right now, up in Toronto or wherever, telling everyone who will listen to him about the redneck Florida town that’s a speed trap.”
“So am I supposed to just wave at him as he speeds past me?”
“You’re supposed to use good judgment. Mangrove Bayou is a town without a single traffic light or parking meter and mostly wide tree-lined park-like streets with brick pavers on a lot of the streets, and some people would drive at about twenty-five, most thirty, a few thirty-five, if there were no posted speed limits at all. We need to respect human nature.”
Troy sighed. He sat up and turned to face Calvin across the desk. “New rule. Just for you, Officer Smith. You will not write a speeding ticket for anything less than forty miles per hour. You will not write parking tickets at all. If you see someone who really needs a parking ticket, call the other officer on duty and have him or her take a look and then write the ticket. Now, enough with tickets. You also have a long, long record of ‘subduing’ people you arrest, and you arrest a lot of people.”
“I can’t help it, they resist. What am I supposed to do, play patty-cake with them? They resist, I deal with it.” Calvin giggled. “Mess with the bull, you get the horns.”
“That Mex farmhand back there resisted you? I couldn’t get him to stand up.”
“He’s got no business in town anyway. We don’t cater to illegal fruit pickers. Better run them off when we do see ’em. Teach the rest to stay away.”
Troy frowned. “Couple things wrong with your philosophy, Officer Smith. First, those guys aren’t here illegally. You saw their work papers.”
“Permits don’t mean shit. They take jobs away from good Americans.”
“You ever pick oranges?” Troy asked. “Some of those trees have thorns. Ever pick strawberries? I mean all day, on your knees? I have, and it was miserable. Tomatoes? Lots of people are allergic to the juice and even the leaves, and your arms turn raw in a day’s work. I’m not here to discuss farm-labor hiring practices with you but I don’t see a lot of Americans lining up to do those jobs. I don’t see you volunteering to do what those two men in back do all day, every day, and probably send most of their pitiful wages back to families in Mexico.”
“Well, I think…”
“I don’t care what you think, Calvin. I can’t tell you not to subdue anyone else. That varies with the need. But I will look, hard, at every arrest you make and decide for myself if you used excessive force. And I don’t want to see that. And if I see any more of it, you may need to get an orange-picking job instead of a police job. Am I clear on this, Officer Smith?”
“Isn’t there some kind of police review? Who says you get to decide on your own?”
“The town council said. You can take it up with them and then they have to decide to back me up or fire me. If I were you I wouldn’t bet on you. I’m not playing games here, Officer Smith. You shape up and start acting like an adult and an intelligent and understanding law enforcement officer or turn in your badge and gun and find some other line of work where it’s actually OK to bully people and beat on people. Am I clear on this, Officer Smith?”
Calvin looked like he wanted to say more. He thought better of it as Troy leaned forward and stared him down. He looked down at his shoes. “Yeah. Whatever. Is that all? I’m off-duty now.”
“That’s all. Have a nice day, Officer Smith.”
Smith left. Troy turned to check on the sailboat but it was already out of sight in the channel beyond the Sea Grape Inn. He wished he was out there on it. He sighed and got up, took four dollars out to the lobby and put those into June’s Bad Words Jar under her counter. It was a few minutes before eight and June hadn’t come in yet. He went to see Bubba in the exercise room.
“Bubba, first thing for you today, take that one
guy with the bent nose to see Doc Vollmer,” he said. “Get him fixed up. Charge it to the town account.”
“Will do, Chief. Want me to kick ’em loose after that? Calvin gets carried away sometimes. I think the bushes around the microwave tower can survive a little pee.”
“Not yet. Calvin is right about one thing. We don’t see a lot of pickers here in town. Find out how they got here. Maybe they have a truck someplace. We’ll hold them until tonight, just in case anyone wants to phone in a burglary from last night. They need to sleep it off anyway.”
“You chew Calvin’s ass?”
“That’s a dollar,” Troy said. “And what happens between Calvin and me stays between Calvin and me.”
“Huh. Whatever, Chief. Me, I’d have chewed his ass. Make it two bucks.”
Chapter 16
Wednesday, July 24
Troy’s staff tried to keep information on computer files and share that from a common server, but the nature of the police business meant printing out reams of reports and other things to be stored in file folders in actual filing cabinets. Troy preferred it. Angel Watson thought it was stupid. He suspected she was right.
He was looking at his file on the John Barrymore death and wondering if there was any point to it when his intercom buzzed. “Chief, got a visitor,” June said.
“Good. I’m bored back here. Send him in.”
“It’s a her. She’s our local journalist.”
“The hits just keep on coming,” Troy said. “Send her back.”
The woman was mid-fifties but still had a good figure with large breasts. She wore her long brown hair in a French braid. She was weathered, not just deeply tanned, but skin-aged from too much time spent sunbathing. She wore a tee-shirt with the text of the First Amendment printed on the front and American Society of Journalists and Authors on the back. She sat down and pulled a reporter’s notebook and a pen out of her purse. “I’m Cilla Dowling,” she said. “I run the Bayou Breeze web site. Our town online newspaper.”
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