Bitter Legacy

by H. Terrell Griffin

“I know. Did you see anybody hanging around?”

  “There was a guy in a go-fast that tied up at your dock and went inside early this afternoon. I assumed he was one of your buddies.”

  A go-fast is what the islanders called a cigarette-style high-powered boat, a kind we see a lot of in our area.

  “Can you describe the boat?”

  “Sorry, Matt. I didn’t pay that much attention. Besides, I don’t know a lot about boats.”

  “What about the man driving it?”

  “He was a big white guy. Shaved head. He was wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt. Sunglasses, the kind the aviators wear. Probably six feet two or three. That’s about all I can tell you.”

  I laughed. “Nothing much gets by you, huh Cotty?”

  I heard a car drive up out front, saw blue lights flickering in the darkness. “Thanks, Cotty. The cops are here. I’d better go. They may want to talk to you later.”

  “Anything I can do to help, Matt.”

  I walked back outside and met the uniformed policeman as he was getting out of his car. “Hey Matt,” he said. “The chief said to get my ass over here pronto. He’s called out our CSI guy. What’s going on?”

  “Vandals, I think. But it may be more than that.”

  “You think it’s tied into Logan’s shooting?”

  “Could be. Cotty Johnson saw a guy in a boat come into my dock this afternoon. He went inside the house. The back door wasn’t locked, so that wouldn’t have been hard to do.”

  “I’ll wait for CSI before I go in. If there’s any evidence, we’ll find it. Chief’s lit a fire. You know how he can be when he gets riled.”

  I knew. As I stood chewing on the question of who the tall bald guy was, the chief pulled up in his unmarked Crown Vic. He motioned me over to a streetlight and took out his notepad. “Talk to me, Matt.”

  I told him what I’d found when I opened my door, what Cotty had told me about a large bald man and how that description fit the man who had hired Jube Smith to find me. I told him about Jube accosting me in Logan’s hotel room.

  “Did you call the sheriff’s office?” Bill asked.

  “No. I don’t think Jube is dangerous. He just needs to get back on his feet. The description of the bald man isn’t enough to help find him.”

  “Any idea who he is?” he asked.

  “None. I’d think this had something to do with Logan’s problem, except Jube didn’t seem to have any idea who Logan was.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not connected.”

  “No. Jube probably doesn’t read the newspaper. He might not have known about Logan.”

  “What about the black guy in the hospital?”

  I told Bill what I’d told the Sarasota detective. “By the way, Kintz could be your twin.”

  “Yeah, but I think I’m better looking.”

  “I don’t know, Bill. He’s pretty stunning.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m the chief and he’s not. Kintz pisses me off.”

  “Why?”

  “How’d you like to have people mixing you up with somebody all the time?”

  “That’s not Kintz’s fault.”

  “Right. He could move to California or something.”

  “You’re just jealous because he dresses better than you do.”

  A car turned into my street and parked behind the chief’s cruiser. The CSI guy. He came over to us, carrying a large case. “Hey, Matt, Chief,” he said. “Anything I should know before I get started?”

  “No,” said Lester. “Go on in and do your thing.”

  “How long before I can get in the house?” I asked.

  “Give me an hour,” said the CSI guy. “By then, I’ll have a pretty good idea of whether there is any recoverable evidence.” He turned and headed for the front door, leaning a little to his right as the heavy case pulled on his arm.

  “Let’s get some coffee,” said Lester. “The Market’s still open.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Market was quiet. Andrew, who owned the place and worked sixteen hour days every day, was behind the deli counter. Two older men sat on the stools arranged along the length of the counter, sipping coffee and talking quietly.

  “Chief, Matt,” said Andrew. “Coffee?”

  “Please,” I said.

  “Anything to eat?” asked Andrew.

  I looked at Lester. “No,” he said, “just coffee. Black.”

  We took our cups and retreated to a table in the corner. Bill blew over the top of his cup, took a sip, smiled, and said, “Hits the spot. Why couldn’t you have discovered your problem while it was still daylight?”

  “Because you told me to go to the hospital to meet your buddy Kintz.”

  “Right. What were they looking for, Matt?”

  “You mean in the house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t have any idea. None. I don’t understand why anybody would want to kill Logan or Abraham or screw up my home.”

  “These things don’t just come out of the blue. There’s got to be a connection. You and Logan have been hanging out for years, so Abraham would seem to be the new factor in the equation. Any thoughts on what he was doing here?”

  “He must have been coming to see me for some reason having to do with the money thing he mentioned to your officer. Abraham’s not the type to lie to a cop. I’ll go see the manager at my old condo tomorrow; see if Abraham went there. It makes sense that if he couldn’t find me, someone would send him to Logan. He’d never met Logan, so that’s the only reason I can think of for him being at Logan’s condo on the night of the shooting.”

  We sat for an hour, talking about old friends, fishing, the weather, and occasionally veering back to the problems at hand. Who would want to kill Logan? Did they want to kill me, too? I thought so, since somebody had sent Jube Smith after me with a gun. This thing had to be tied in to Osceola and his money issue. That was the only connection, but even if somebody was trying to kill Abraham over money, why were Logan and I in the line of fire? It was a puzzle.

  The chief’s cell phone rang. He answered, hung up, and said, “The CSI guy says you can go home.”

  The house was an even bigger mess than when I’d last seen it. The CSI guy was waiting by the front door when the chief and I drove up. “Sorry about the mess, Matt. I used a lot of dust trying to get a good fingerprint. Nothing.”

  The chief said, “In all that mess, you didn’t find anything?”

  The CSI guy shook his head. “I’m afraid we don’t know any more now than we did an hour ago. Whoever the guy was, he wore gloves. He was a careful son of a bitch. He went through every drawer and nook and cranny in the house. Looked like he was in a hurry.”

  “So it wasn’t just vandalism,” I said. “Somebody was looking for something.”

  “Looks that way,” the CSI guy said.

  I stood at the threshold, hesitant to go in. The disaster was reflected off the dark floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay, a mirrored effect caused by the darkness on the other side of the glass. A double mess. Finally, I moved forward, beckoning to the chief to follow. We toured the house. The place looked as if a tornado had blown through.

  “You need some help cleaning this crap up?” Lester asked.

  “No. I’ll call Joy Fitzpatrick tomorrow. She’ll get some women from her cleaning service in to take care of things.”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Beer. We need beer and Tiny’s is just down the street.”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “Might help.”

  “Probably will.”

  “Then, let’s do it.”

  And so we did.

  MONDAY

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The coffeepot was where I’d left it. The coffee was in the refrigerator. I stumbled around trying to get coffee and water into the maker. It was touch and go. The beers at Tiny’s had turned into more than was good for me. I was feeling a little numb as I stumb
led across the debris-strewn living room into the kitchen. The early morning light streaming through the windows did nothing for my mood. My head hurt, my hands shook, my stomach growled and did flip-flops when I moved. A monumental hangover. Never again. I’d never drink again. Right. Well, at least not that day. Damn Bill Lester and his bright ideas.

  I threw some bacon and sausage into a frying pan, thinking that a little grease and coffee would help me regain some semblance of life. When the meat sizzled to a well-done hue, I took it out of the skillet, put it on a paper towel to drain, cracked four eggs into the pan and fried them over easy. Bread went into the toaster. When it was all done, I sat at the table and ate. I was feeling better. I went to the front door to get the morning paper, took it to the patio in back with a second cup of coffee, and breathed in the clean salt-laden air blowing gently off the bay. I was going to survive.

  I’d slept on my mattress on the floor, a blanket thrown over me. Everything was in a shambles, but to be honest, I hadn’t really cared by the time I got home from Tiny’s.

  The phone rang. I answered. Joy. “Two of my girls will be there in twenty minutes.”

  “What?”

  “To clean up the mess.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Tiny’s telegraph.”

  I groaned. I should have known. There are no secrets on the key, and if you want something done, you just need to mention it in Tiny’s. I must have said something to somebody while working on all those beers.

  Joy laughed, a big laugh. “Patti said you were feeling a little chipper last night. Bet you’re not doing too well this morning.”

  “Tell the girls to come on in. I’m going back to bed.” I hung up. Patti Colby was Joy’s friend and I knew I’d talked to her at some point the night before. Oh well, the house would get cleaned up and they didn’t need me. I looked at my watch. It was a little after eight. I headed for the bedroom.

  The phone woke me at noon. Logan. “You still in bed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Went to Tiny’s last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Feeling bad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get over it. I need you to come pick me up.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I need to get my ass out of this hotel. Marie saw some strange looking guys in the lobby when she went down to get some stuff out of her car.”

  “Strange? How?”

  “Two of them. Both wearing jeans and T-shirts. Lots of tattoos.”

  “Logan,” I said, “you’re not exactly staying at the Ritz-Carlton. Maybe they’re just guests.”

  “Marie heard them ask about me. By name.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah. The desk clerk doesn’t have me registered, so he couldn’t tell them anything.”

  “Where’s Marie now?”

  “I just sent her home. I figured if there was going to be trouble I didn’t want her anywhere near it.”

  “Maybe they were just checking all the hotels.”

  “Then why are they sitting out in the parking lot on a couple of Harleys?”

  “I see what you mean. I’ll be there in half an hour. Did you call the sheriff?”

  “A deputy’s been outside my door since last night. Apparently Bill Lester called and told them about the guy that came after you yesterday. I’m supposed to stay put.”

  “But you don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Not a chance. I’m a sitting duck here, deputy or no deputy.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I threw on some clothes and left in a hurry. I was only vaguely aware that my living room had been put back together, the mess cleaned up. I’d have to buy a new TV. Maybe they’d get the rest of it done by the end of the day.

  My best bet was south on Gulf of Mexico Drive, around St. Armands Circle, out Fruitville Road to Interstate 75, then south a couple of exits to Logan’s hotel. That took almost forty-five minutes.

  I pulled into the parking lot. Two tough looking men were sitting on motorcycles, drinking from green beer bottles. A radio was blaring rock music. I continued on around the building. I didn’t want anybody to see my Explorer in case someone recognized it. I parked in a loading zone next to a door near a large Dumpster that overflowed with garbage. Today was probably the pickup day. The door was locked. A sign said: NO ENTRANCE. DELIVERIES ONLY.

  I picked up the phone hanging on the wall next to the door. No dial. I put the receiver to my ear. A ringtone. Then an answer, “Front desk.”

  “This is Hugo,” I said. “I’ve got sodas to deliver for the machines.”

  “Where’s Buddy?”

  “Out sick today. I’m covering his route.”

  “Come on in.” There was a buzzing sound and I heard the lock click open.

  I went through the door into a small vestibule. Steps led upward. A push bar was on the door below a sign that said EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND. I started up the stairs, found the third floor and opened the door into the hallway. I saw a Sarasota County Deputy Sheriff in a chair outside Logan’s room. He was leaning back, the chair cocked against the wall. He was reading a book. A David Hagberg thriller.

  He looked up as I approached. The chair came down on all four legs. He stood, wary. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I’m Matt Royal to see Mr. Hamilton.”

  He took a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his shirt. A list of names. Looked at it. Looked at me. “May I see some identification, sir?”

  I pulled out my wallet and gave him my driver’s license. He looked closely at it and handed it back to me. “Thank you, sir.” He reached around and rapped on the door. “Mr. Royal’s here, Mr. Hamilton.”

  The door opened. Logan was dressed. Golf shirt with the logo of the Red Sox on the pocket, chinos, sneakers, and a ball cap with a Dewars label embroidered into the fabric. “Come in,” he said.

  I did and closed the door behind me. “You ready to go?” I asked.

  “Yes. But what about the cop in the hall?”

  “Nothing. You’re not under arrest. We’ll just tell him we’re leaving.”

  “We can do that?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Logan picked up a small suitcase and we opened the door. The deputy stood again, his face posing the question before his mouth formed the words. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re leaving,” I said. “I’ll call the sheriff and tell him we checked out against your wishes.”

  “Mr. Royal, I can’t let Mr. Hamilton leave.”

  “Deputy,” I said, my face stern, “I’m a lawyer, and unless and until Mr. Hamilton is under arrest, he’s free to come and go as he pleases. We’re leaving.”

  “Sir, I can’t let that happen.”

  “Deputy, if you try to stop us, I’m going to sue you for false arrest, false imprisonment, assault and battery, and several other things I’ll think about later. Your career is going to be over. Now, I’d suggest you call whoever you report to and tell him that some smart-ass lawyer just took his client out of your protective care and the only way you could stop them leaving was to shoot one or both and you didn’t think that’d be a good idea.” I turned and walked off, Logan following.

  We went through the door to the stairwell. Logan chuckled. “I love it when you get on your legal high horse. You always sound like an ass.”

  “I know. I’ll make sure Bill Lester smoothes any ruffled feathers and gets that young deputy off the hot seat.”

  We got to the bottom of the stairs and I hit the push bar on the door, moving fast. As advertised, an alarm sounded, echoing up the stairwell. We got into my Explorer and headed for the exit nearest the Dumpster. I didn’t think the bikers would be able to see us leave. I was mistaken.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I drove I-75 north, exiting onto Fruitville Road. Traffic was light and I was doing a steady forty-five miles per hour, I was vaguely aware that there was a motorcycle behind me, but I didn’t thin
k much of it. I caught a green light at Cattlemen Road and as I approached Honore Avenue, three more bikers fell in behind me. I was in the middle lane, getting a little nervous.

  “Logan, there are four bikers behind us. It might be some of the same bunch who were at the hotel.”

  “I doubt it. I think we gave them the slip.”

  The two lead bikes accelerated. One moved over into the right lane and the other into the left lane. They had me bracketed. I could see both in my side mirrors. The one coming up on my left was holding something down beside his leg. As he moved up even with my left rear tire, he got into my blind spot. I looked over my left shoulder. The rider was holding a shotgun, moving it up into a firing position. I reacted instantly, jerking the wheel to the left, sideswiping the bike. I heard the sound of gunfire as I swung the wheel abruptly back to the right. I heard more metal grinding into the Explorer as it collided with the other biker. Another shot. I could see the bikers down in the road, skidding along on the pavement with their motorcycles. I didn’t think they’d be alive when they stopped.

  I slammed hard on the brakes, thinking I’d get rear-ended by the two remaining bikes. That didn’t happen. They peeled off, roaring around me at high speed, concentrating on escape. If they had weapons, they didn’t show them.

  A very small moment had passed since I swung the wheel to the left. Logan was beginning to react. “What the hell?” he said.

  “Are you hit?” I asked.

  “No. Was that a gunshot?”

  “Twelve gauge, I think.”

  Logan had spotted the wreckage in the road, cars slamming on breaks, trying to dodge the carnage. The bikes had stopped their skids. The riders were still, blood seeping out of torn jeans and jackets. I brought the Explorer to a stop in the middle of the road. Traffic was still moving in the eastbound lanes, but our lanes were at a standstill.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, dialed 911. “This is Matt Royal,” I said to the emergency operator. “Some bikers just tried to kill me on Fruitville Road at Honore. In front of the Comcast studios. You’d better send ambulances and cops.”

  “Sir, where are you calling from?”