Bitter Legacy

by H. Terrell Griffin

  She smiled. The old man was rough and cantankerous, but he had his moments of humor. She had been with him for thirty years, since she was in her late twenties. She was his maid, his traveling companion, and she took care of all his homes when he was in residence. As he aged, he sold off the houses, so that now he only had the one, a grand mansion on the bay side of Longboat Key.

  She had been born with a mutation in an enzyme called tyrosinase that resulted in the most severe type of albinism. She was used to living with it and had learned to cope. She no longer paid any attention to the stares she elicited from unfeeling boors. She stayed out of the sun by choice, but if she had to go outside during daylight hours, she slathered herself with sunblock and covered every inch of skin with clothing. It was simply easier to do her shopping and outside chores after dark.

  “If I have to kill you, can I do it slowly?” she asked.

  The old man grunted. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’d break up the boredom of living with a shuffling old codger.”

  The old man laughed, a wheezing sound. He knew the woman loved him in a filial sort of way. They’d never been friends. Their relationship always that of employer and employee. But she was important to the man, perhaps more important than any other living person. He’d never married, never had a family of his own. His father had died when he was a teenager and his mother had followed him to the grave when their son was in college. He had no other relatives.

  He used his walker to hobble to the bathroom, stood before the toilet, urinated, zipped himself back up. Some urine escaped into his pants. Damn nuisance, getting old, he thought as he moved back into the living room.

  Donna was in the kitchen preparing his supper. He sat again in the recliner, looked at the lights of Sarasota, and thought about what he had to do, perhaps the last act of a long life, and the most ruthless thing he’d ever done. And he didn’t even have a good reason for doing it. Except that he didn’t want to see the empire he’d built crumble into some great welfare sump.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was time to talk to the manager at my old condo complex. I still owned the apartment and used it to house visiting friends. I didn’t expect her to be there this late, but I needed her phone number. I’d left the list of numbers at the condo. Whoever was after us knew where I lived, so maybe I’d be safer at the condo than at my cottage.

  Night had crept across the island, shrouding us in a dark blanket. There was no moon, but the stars dappled the sky with bright pinpoints. I opened the sunroof on the Explorer and enjoyed the flow of salt-scented night air. Far out on the Gulf, lightning bursts were playing in the dark, providing subdued flashes of brilliance that defined the horizon. Heat lightning, the locals called it, but I knew there was a terrible storm way out, over toward Mexico, and it would be churning the sea into a ferocious beast. I hoped it wasn’t headed our way.

  I’d left Logan and Marie at Sam’s. I had to do a little legwork, and I needed to be careful. I didn’t know if the assault on my car was just an attempt to kill Logan or if there were people after me as well. Perhaps my death on Fruitville Road would have been nothing more than collateral damage. Or maybe somebody wanted me dead.

  How did the bad guys figure out where Logan was staying? Why were they trying to kill him? Or me? I called Bill Lester and told him that Logan and Marie were safe and at Sam’s.

  “How’d you like J.D.?” he asked.

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  “Why?”

  “She has what you might call a controlling personality.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She told me to stay out of this.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s not going to happen, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you in this?”

  “Matt, I’ve always told you to stay out of it. You’ve never listened to me, so I don’t imagine you’re going to listen to J.D.”

  “Right.”

  “Just try to stay out of her way. This is her first case with our department, and I don’t want her thinking I’m encouraging civilians to solve cases.”

  “Bill, if somebody wasn’t trying to kill me, I wouldn’t be interested in your case.”

  “Be careful, Matt. The press is already nosing around. That mess on Fruitville today got their dander up. By tomorrow, they’ll know you and Logan were the targets. We’re going to have to tell them something.”

  “I wish we knew something.”

  “Yeah. I’ll release a story tonight. The papers can run it tomorrow. I’ll talk to Sarasota PD and the sheriff and figure out how to play it.”

  “Okay. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m still in the game.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You say that a lot.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bye, Bill.” I hung up.

  I parked in the visitor’s area at the condo complex. If somebody was watching, I didn’t need to give them too much notice that I was there. The parking lot was dimly lit with security lights. The island was a quiet place, and nobody needed much security. Until tonight.

  I walked in the shadows, staying close to the building. I avoided the elevator, went to the end of the building, and took the stairs to the second floor. A walkway ran the length of the building, doors to the units opening off it. A large hedge of schefflera reached above the second floor and partially shielded me from the parking lot. I ducked into my apartment as quickly as I could.

  I turned on the lights. I was alone. I went to the safe in the closet of the master bedroom and pulled out my .38-caliber pistol. I probably wouldn’t need it, but I felt better having it on me. I clipped the holster to my belt and changed into a Hawaiian shirt that I wore outside my pants. It covered the pistol nicely.

  I found the number and called Marcia at home.

  “Hey, Matt. Are you back?”

  “I’m back.”

  “I’m so sorry about Logan. I know how close you guys are.”

  “Logan’s fine, Marcia. Somebody took a couple of shots at him but didn’t hit anything vital.”

  “That’s real good news. I’m happy for you. For Logan too.”

  “Marcia, did anybody come looking for me while I was gone?”

  She was quiet for a moment, thinking. “You know, somebody did. Actually two people were looking for you at different times. A man came by on Friday about noon, a white guy, and then a black man with an island accent came the same day, late in the afternoon. I was working overtime trying to get the books ready for the board meeting on Monday.”

  “Did either one give you a name?”

  “No. I told both of them that you didn’t live there anymore and gave them your address. I said you were out of town, but that Logan could probably get hold of you. I told them where Logan lived and they left. Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. The black guy’s an old friend. Can you describe the white guy?”

  “He was tall and muscular. Had a shaved head. That’s about all I remember. What’s up?”

  “Nothing, really. The black man’s in the hospital, and I wondered if he’d come to see me. I’m not sure who the white guy is. You did exactly right.”

  “Oh, that’s a relief. Tell Logan I’m glad he’s not dead.”

  “Thanks, Marcia.” She hung up.

  I snuck out of the condo the way I’d come in. I opened the door at the bottom of the stairwell and stopped, scanning the parking lot. I saw a figure leaning against my Explorer. I wondered if it was one of my neighbors, but that didn’t make sense. I eased out the door and slipped quietly around by the large room that held the Dumpster. I went past the bicycle rack and around the end of the line of covered parking spaces. I slipped quietly down the row of cars, my gun in my hand. I crouched down beside a parked car, raised my head slowly above the hood. The Explorer was parked three cars down the line. The figure was leaning against the driver’s d
oor on the far side facing away from me. I could see shoulders and a head above the roof of my vehicle. The outline was clearer now, illuminated faintly by the parking lot security lights. Hair almost to the shoulders, smaller shoulders, not those of a man.

  The figure’s hands went up into the air, a gesture of surrender. A slow turn to the right, one hundred eighty degrees. Facing me now, the figure said, “I hope you’re not going to shoot me, Mr. Royal. First day on the job and all. That’d be kind of tricky to explain.”

  “Detective Duncan,” I said, standing and walking toward her. I put the pistol back in my pocket. “You following me?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Why?”

  “I get the feeling that you don’t mind well.”

  “Yeah. My third grade teacher used to tell me that.”

  “You got a permit for that pistol?”

  “Sure do. How did you know I was here?”

  “I saw you coming out the door of the stairwell.”

  “Why are you following me?”

  “Actually, I wasn’t. I drove in and saw the banged-up Explorer, the same one I saw at the house a little while ago.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I live here.”

  I stared at her, completely out of words.

  She smiled. “I moved in last week.”

  I continued to stare. I must have looked as dumb as a stump. “I don’t understand,” I finally mumbled.

  “My mom’s been in bad health for the past year. She’s been with me in Miami. She died recently and I inherited her condo.”

  “I lived here for years.”

  “I know.”

  “Who was your mom?”

  “Helen Monahan.”

  “I heard she’d died. Nice lady. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Royal. May I call you Matt?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Call me J.D.”

  “Not Jennifer?”

  “Not unless you want me to shoot you.”

  “You still haven’t told me why you were waiting for me.”

  “We need to talk. I’m afraid I came on a little strong earlier.”

  “You want a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d like that.”

  I looked at my watch. “The Market is still open. You want to ride with me?”

  She looked at the Explorer skeptically. “If you think this heap will make it there and back.”

  “Guarantee it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Nine o’clock in the evening. The Market was quiet. Andrew was behind the coffee bar counter cleaning up. Two of our town commissioners were seated at a table in the corner talking quietly. A couple I’d never seen before sat at another table, sipping coffee and nibbling at pastries. The large ceiling fans turned slowly, barely stirring the air. It was a cool spring evening outside, but with the doors closed it got a bit warm inside.

  J.D. and I both got coffee from Andrew and went to a table. The mile ride from the condo had been silent, the sunroof open, a slow jazz number playing on the radio. A police cruiser passed us going south. Routine patrol. Nothing much going on in paradise.

  Easter had come early that year and most of the tourists and snowbirds had left the key. It was part of the annual migration. Easter marked the tail end of the northerners’ stay and if Easter came early, they left early. They were as imprinted with that need to head north as were the white pelicans who wintered with us before heading back to northern Canada. We were entering the season that the locals cherished, the quiet of late spring. Summer would bring the younger crowd of tourists, those with kids enjoying their respite from school. The island would be busy again, not like in the winter, but more so than in spring and fall.

  “I’m sorry about coming on so strong earlier,” said J.D. “First day jitters, I think.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I wouldn’t want strangers interfering in my job either.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you from the chief. He says you’re a stand-up guy who knows when to back down.”

  “Sometimes,” I said, smiling. “I’m afraid not always.”

  “I’m new,” she said, stating the obvious. “I know there’re a lot of stories on this island, a lot of people with backgrounds in police work and the law. It was the same in Miami. The retired guys find it hard to stay retired, and sometimes they get in the way.”

  “I promise I won’t get in your way. But there are things I have to do to protect myself and my friends.”

  “I’m supposed to protect you. That’s what cops do.”

  “But you can’t be with me every minute of the day and the bad guys can come anytime.”

  “The chief told me that you’re a pretty good investigator and that you don’t always stay inside the lines.”

  “What lines?”

  “The lines that society draws around the bad guys. The parameters that the constitution guarantees every citizen. Even the bad ones.”

  “J.D., I was a lawyer for a long time. I believe in the constitution. There’re bad cops who need to be reined in. Those constraints hobble the good cops sometimes, but it makes us a better country. But I’m not a cop, and those restraints don’t apply to me.”

  “So you think you can just bull yourself through life? Do what you want to do?”

  “No. I don’t. But sometimes, when danger threatens, it’s necessary to blur the lines, to color outside of them, if you will, to do what is necessary to protect yourself or those you love.”

  “Take the law into your own hands.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t exactly see it that way. The law is your domain. Survival is my goal. Sometimes you have to break a few rules in order to continue breathing.”

  “I don’t agree with you.”

  “I didn’t think you would. Can we still be friends?”

  She laughed. It was the first time I’d heard that. It was a sound that would have pleased the gods on Olympus. A bright, tinkling, infectious giggle that made my heart skip a beat. “We’ll see, Counselor, we’ll see.”

  I stuck out my hand to shake. She took it and held on, looked me in the eyes and said, “You’ll share any information you get? You’ll keep me in that loop the chief talked about?”

  “Yes. I’m assuming that’s a two-way street.”

  “It is.” She shook my hand once and withdrew hers. A deal had been made, a bargain sealed, and I regretted that she had taken her hand back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I drove J.D. back to the condo where I’d spent so much of my last few years, watched her go up in the elevator. I drove south to Sam’s house. I left the sunroof open and the slightly chilled breeze blowing off the Gulf filled the Explorer with the trace of brine that defined our sea air.

  I mentally slapped my head, laughing at myself. I’d met a ball-busting woman whose steely exterior seemed to dissipate with one burst of laughter. I’d gone all squishy on the margins, thinking about her as a woman instead of a tough cop. One laugh was all it took. And Jessica had been gone less than two days. I was turning into a satyr.

  I truly liked women. Each was as different from the other as the men I’d known. I respected them, trusted them, fought in courtrooms against them, made love to them, and had loved one of them more than my very life. I’d pushed her away, perhaps out of fear of the intense feelings she had engendered in me, and finally she left, slipped out of my life, and found happiness with another man. Then she died. Maudlin thoughts. I pushed them to the back of my mind, to the corner where I hid those memories that were too painful to relive.

  I wondered who was trying to kill us and why. What had we stumbled into? Maybe nothing. Perhaps there was evil abroad on the island, a meanness that we couldn’t fathom. My experience had been that most illegal actions were governed by real emotions. Murder was more often than not retaliation for a perceived grievance, or for money, or sex, or love. It was seldom random, and even then there was usually a purpose to it. The g
angbanger making his bones, the terrorist blowing up innocent people because he was deluded or envious of other cultures, the religious fanatic who thought he was doing his Lord’s work. But sometimes, it was just pure evil, a meanness of heart and mind that sane people couldn’t comprehend. And the evildoers were the hardest to stop and the least likely to be caught and brought to justice.

  I’d tuned the radio to an oldies station and my mind drifted into the memories brought back by the sounds of my youth. When I was a boy, I listened each week to the preacher at the church my mother took us to. Most days I was bored, fidgety, anxious to leave the sanctuary and stop by the ice-cream shop in the next block. That was the deal Mom made with my little brother and me. Go to church, sit still, pretend to listen, and you can have a double scoop of chocolate in a sugar cone.

  My mother was a strange woman in many ways. She didn’t like my father very much, but lived with him in sort of an armed truce. There were never the sweet kind words that seem to pass between most lovers. Acrimony was the norm; loud, complaining, bitter acrimony. My dad just sat and listened, never raising his voice. More often than not, he had fortified himself with cheap bourbon before he came home. He’d sit alone in the kitchen, sipping from a glass of whiskey that he kept in the refrigerator. No ice. That only weakened the drink. But he was in reach of the refrigerator and from my and my brother’s room I could hear the rhythmic swoosh of the opening of the door as he retrieved the glass, took a sip, returned it, and closed the door.

  On some Sundays, the preacher talked about evil. That always got my attention. I wasn’t sure what evil was or how I would know it if I saw it. I was told that the devil, old Satan, was evil. I figured that if I ever saw a red man with cloven hooves, a forked tail, and a pitchfork I would recognize him and know the face of evil. In reality, it wasn’t that easy.

  I’m not a religious man. I think war cured me of that. I had finally seen evil in the war, the one that had almost consumed me. How could a good and merciful and omnipotent God allow evil to exist? Another paradox, a question that is unanswerable. I respect all religious beliefs and the men and women of faith who follow their teachings. It occurs to me that there are certain universal truths that are accepted by most religions. They all seem to support the dignity of man, his need to live in peace, safe from harm, insulated from evil. We have fashioned laws based on these almost universal tenets, the laws that grace our criminal justice system and those of most cultures. Some are harsh, much harsher than our Western minds will accept, and some of them seem so mired in the Dark Ages that I despair of their ever finding the light of modernity. But their basic laws, those that prohibit behavior, are very similar to our own. The Code of Hammurabi, first promulgated in the eighteenth century BC, almost four thousand years ago, is not that different from the proscriptions of certain behavior that are found in the modern Florida Statutes. Evil, it seems, is universal.