Troy sighed. “I know. Wherever possible I’ll try to give you exclusives.”
“God help us all.”
“Yes, Cilla, God help us. And God help Barbara Gillispie if we don’t find her soon.”
“No, Troy,” Dowling said, “God help you if you don’t find her soon.”
Until someone found something, Troy could only wait. Eduardo Martinez showed up and Troy ran his I.D. through the system. Martinez was clean. He had even remembered to change his driver license address when he moved from Orlando to Mangrove Bayou. Troy hadn’t changed his own when he moved from Tampa and he made a note to do so. Six months late and I’m the damn police chief. Do I owe a dollar? Guess not, didn’t say it out loud.
The day shift was on and Troy told Juan Valdez to take the dispatch duties on the other department cell phone. He joined Lee Bell at the Osprey Yacht Club for the Sunday brunch. He took one each of everything that contained meat and cholesterol. Lee took some salad and a small slice of bloody roast beef.
He now had on his “longs” uniform, long-sleeve khaki shirt with shoulder straps and his name and “Chief” on the right pocket, and “Mangrove Bayou Police” on the left, and long trousers. He didn’t wear the full duty belt his officers used but he had his .45-caliber pistol in a belt holster, and a radio clipped to his belt with a lapel microphone/speaker with a small earpiece clipped to the left shoulder strap. Lee Bell wore tight white jeans with a light green man’s shirt with long collar points worn out over a white sweater vest. The shirt matched her eyes. She was as tall as Troy, thin and redheaded.
They were both yacht club members, Lee legitimately. She was wealthy enough but also owned an air cargo/passenger service. She flew a Cessna Grand Caravan around Florida and lived in a large home just up the road from the yacht club on Airfield Key.
Troy had been reluctantly admitted only because the director of public safety had always been an honorary member—even though the management wanted to toss him out once they saw what color he was. The Osprey Yacht Club was Caucasian, wealthy and conservative. Caligula would have been welcomed with open arms; Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., not so much. In South Florida, with his slightly almond eyes and short, straight black hair and what Mayor Groud called his “beige” complexion, Troy was often mistaken for a local Native American, either Seminole or Miccosukee.
“Told you before,” Lee Bell said as they ate, “I can take the plane up. Lend me some people to look out the side windows and I’m yours for as long as it takes.”
“Appreciate that. Might get back to you on it. Today at least we have a chopper from the sheriff’s office.”
Lee nodded. She cut off a tiny piece of roast beef and nibbled on it. Troy had already scarfed down almost everything on his plate. Several years as an Army officer had made him a fast eater. “It’s probably better for snooping around those mangroves anyway,” Lee said. “My stall speed is a little over 60 knots and I wouldn’t want to fly around at less than 100, just to feel comfortable. And you do know that you look silly with that thing in your ear.”
They had a nice view of the yacht club docks from their window table. Troy turned from the view to look at her. He never tired of looking at Lee Bell. They had met at this very club six months earlier.
“Why? I see people walking through the grocery store with earpieces and talking into phones and all they’re discussing is the price of tomatoes,” he said. “Me, I’m doing important police chief work.”
Wanda Frister was on duty and refilled Troy’s ice tea. Lee was drinking a mimosa. “How are you and Milo getting on,” Troy asked Wanda.
“Great. And I’m glad to be out of that trailer anyway. And away from that horrible Billy Poteet, too.” She moved on with her ice tea pitcher.
“She didn’t have much choice about the trailer,” Troy said to Lee. “Hurricane Donald blew it into the bushes last July.”
“Billy Poteet was the boy you killed during that hurricane, wasn’t he?” Lee asked.
“Yep. Had to.” He nodded toward Wanda who was now at the next table. “Shoot him or he would shoot her.”
“Now she’s living with one of your officers? Milo Binder? Is shacking up with someone you’re not married to still against the law in Florida?”
Troy was focused on scraping together odd bits of leftover food for one last forkful. “In fact, it is,” he said. “Florida, Michigan and Mississippi still outlaw men and women living together—cohabitation. The penalty is a five-hundred-dollar fine and sixty days in the hoosegow. Nobody’s enforced it since 1868, far as I know, and the legislature tries to repeal that law every year. And every year one or two legislators kill the bill because of their religious beliefs. And, today, the funniest part is that it doesn’t apply at all to homosexual couples. Only to heteros. What’s your point? Want me to arrest the two of us?”
“We’re not ‘shacking up,’ exactly,” Lee said. “We each have our own shack.”
“Good point. Was about to call someone to handcuff me.”
Lee Bell laughed. “Leftover laws.” She ate a snip of lettuce and sipped her champagne. She didn’t normally drink much because of the rules about drinking and flying. Troy didn’t drink liquor at all.
“Things sometimes work out,” Troy said. “Wanda took up with Milo Binder and he has come around a little. He needed a woman in his life to knock off some of the sharp edges. He was such a pain when I took over the department that I considered firing him, even if it offended the mayor, his uncle. I think Wanda is a good influence on him.”
“I think you’re a softie, Troy Adam.”
“Nonsense. Chiefs of police aren’t ‘softies.’ It’s the old ‘iron fist in the velvet glove’ thing.” He glanced over at the buffet line. Maybe he could get some more bacon and eggs.
“Aha. So, you’re usually all over any problem the moment it presents itself. You’re almost a one-man social service, always wanting to rearrange other people’s lives. Why aren’t you out there right now, evicting that family out of that poor man’s house? They’re just squatters.”
Troy looked back at Lee and sighed. “I know. I spoke to them and to the realtor, Frieda Firestone. She hadn’t a clue where those people came from or where her lockbox and sign went. I talked to the man last night, when I was not in the sack with you—which would have been preferable—and again this morning.”
“I should hope so. You left me kind of…hanging, you know. And didn’t come home for hours.”
“I was busy with important chief things. And I made it up when I did come home.”
Lee grinned. “You came home at seven a.m. It was ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ and you changed into uniform and left again.”
“Many are the duties of the Mangrove Bayou Director of Pubic Safety.”
“Right. At least I got a good night’s sleep before then.” Lee grinned and then forked another tiny bit of roast beef into her mouth. Troy especially liked her grin, which promised much, and her lithe body, which could cash the checks.
“Wish I had gotten a night’s sleep too,” Troy said. “The troops needed a little backup. I patrolled until the day shift came on. I met Eduardo Martinez. Married to Rosa. They have two kids, a boy, seven, and a daughter, eleven. Kids are in school, Eduardo works at Rudy Borden’s service station garage. He’s a mechanic. Rosa cleans people’s houses.”
Lee sipped some champagne and poked at a tiny bit of fruit. “Good blue-collar jobs, both. I have Denise cleaning my house every two weeks. She’s terrific. What about you?”
“Mrs. Mackenzie’s staff at the Sea Grape Inn hoses out my rental every week.” Troy took a sip of coffee. “Anyway, Eduardo and family just moved here from Orlando. Eduardo answered an ad online and they are paying rent to a Reverend Heth Summerall, who is a minister of some obscure faith with a church in a trailer on Snake Key. Cruised by the church last night. I haven’t met the good pastor yet.”
“Snake Key is a five-minute drive from here. It’s Sunday; I bet he’s working.”
“It’s farther away than Christmas. You think I want to evict people on Christmas? Actually, I don’t do it. The sheriff’s office does it. But I have to be there too. Or send one of my people in my place, and I won’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Troy thought about it. “Good question. I suppose I think an eviction is something too horrible for my people to have to watch on my orders. And no children should have to see their parents and themselves tossed out and made homeless. I won’t delegate it.”
“Squishy.”
“What?”
“You’re squishy.” The grin again. “Like a toasted marshmallow, you’re all crusty on the outside and soft and squishy inside.”
“Oh. Well, keep it to yourself,” Troy said. “I’m up for my job review, end of this month. Town council probably won’t hire a marshmallow.”
Chapter 5
Sunday, December 22
Troy was in the buffet line again, piling more scrambled eggs and bacon onto one plate and some melon cubes onto another when his radio called. “Chief,” his earpiece said. “Need some help.” It was Juan Valdez. He heard Milo Binder and then Dominique Reiss answer. Juan was the only officer on patrol; the others were off duty but out with several search parties.
Juan sounded out of breath. “Got a shooting. Guy running around shooting dogs, near as I can figure.”
“Where are you?” Troy said.
“Snake Key.” Juan gave a cross street. He was obviously running as he talked. “I think the guy lives around here.”
“Be there in three minutes,” Milo said.
Troy keyed his lapel mike, awkwardly clutching two plates in the other hand. “Milo, Juan, I heard,” he said. “On my way. Five. Stay safe, both of you.” He put the plates down on a counter and walked quickly back to his table. “You’ll have to sign the tab and get home on your own,” he told Lee. “Got an emergency.”
“No problem, big guy. I can walk home, not that far. Let me know what’s what, when you can.”
Troy had no patrol car with lights and siren. He had to drive across the bridge from Airfield Key onto Barron Key, then loop around to cross the bridge onto Snake Key. Even speeding where he could do so, it took him six minutes to reach Juan and Milo. He pulled in at an address on Marshall Road on Snake Key. Milo’s car was parked in the front yard.
The lot was a small one and the house was a square concrete-block single-story with a hip roof and small porch with a shed roof overhang. What existed of a front lawn was weeds and sand. Most Snake Key lots were just weed and sand, and the weeds were often sandspurs. Troy could see from the side of the house where he had parked that the back yard had a rusted car up on blocks and a barbeque grille on a tripod stand. There was no driveway, but an old Chevrolet was in the yard next to Milo’s Ford. Troy felt the hood of the Chevy as he passed and it was warm.
Milo and Juan were talking to a handcuffed man who was sitting cross-legged in the front yard. Milo was twenty, five-eight and sturdy but not fat, with blue eyes that seemed to still look out at the world with some surprised innocence. He was the mayor’s nephew and had been an annoyance to Troy early on. Now, in Troy’s opinion, he was turning into a real cop. Milo’s brown hair was parted down the center and the only reason he cut it shorter was to keep Troy happy. He was always trying to grow a moustache and always doing so poorly. He was also the one department “lefty” and wore his Glock on the off side.
Juan Valdez was even shorter, at five-seven. He was thin, with black eyes and hair and he was, Troy knew, a lot stronger and quicker than he looked. Juan moved with a precision, without wasted motions, and always reminded Troy of an intricate piece of machinery. He was almost as good a shot as Troy, who practiced weekly on targets the size of coins. When the balloon went up, Troy knew, Juan was also probably the most lethal man in the department.
The handcuffed man was pale, short, skinny and unhappy-looking. Troy looked down at him. Nobody’s ever happy-looking in handcuffs or mug shots. The man wore black hair in a bowl cut like a Beatle, though he was too young to ever remember the Beatles. He had on gray sweatpants tied with a rope, and matching top, cheap black sneakers and a baseball cap with a Rays logo. It was a chilly day and Juan and Milo, like Troy, had opted for the “longs,” their long-trousers, long-sleeved uniforms.
“Tell me a story,” Troy said, looking up at his officers.
“This is Gerry, with a ‘G,’ Whyte. Whyte with a ‘Y,’” Juan said, handing across a driver license. “He shot some dogs a few blocks from here and we have his gun and he’s been read his rights. He didn’t resist when I ran him down. Laid the gun on the ground and backed off from it.”
“Where’s the gun?” Troy said. He knew it would be secured but cops always wanted to know where all the guns were in any situation. Force of habit. He handed Juan back the license.
Milo pointed. “In my car. I unloaded it. Semiautomatic. Cartridges are in my pocket.”
“This his house?”
“Says it is.”
“Gerry, is there anyone else inside your house?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the chief of police.” Troy pointed with a finger to his left breast pocket.
“We got a nigger cop? How did that happen?”
“We have several, Gerry. It’s called progress. Is there anyone inside your house?”
“Shouldn’t you have, like, a real police car?”
“Probably, Gerry. One last time, is there anyone else inside your house?”
“Um. No. Just me. I mean I’m the only one lives here.”
Troy looked to Juan. “Where are the dogs?”
“Around the corner. Next block. One of them. The other ran off. But I think it was hit too.”
“I was only protecting myself, protecting the whole community…” Whyte started to say.
“Oh shut up,” Troy told him. Whyte looked up at him, startled, mouth half open. Probably not accustomed to being ordered around by niggers, Troy thought. It’s a new world and the Gerry Whytes in it need to come up to speed. “Juan, where’s your ride?”
Juan pointed. “Up the street, left and another block. Left it there while I ran this guy down.”
“Go get it. Milo and I will wait here.”
In a few moments Juan was back with one of the department Suburbans. “Milo, put Mr. Whyte into the truck,” Troy said. The Suburbans had prisoner cages across behind the front seat and between the rear seat and the back storage. The door locks and window controls for the back seat worked only from the driver’s side. “Then get an evidence bag from the truck’s equipment box and put the cartridges, gun and magazine into that. Then stay here and keep anyone from entering or leaving this house. We’ll need a search warrant for the house and car both before we can go inside and look around. Juan, come with me.” Troy started walking up the street.
Around the corner they found a half-dozen women standing over a big yellow Labrador. The dog was dead in a pool of blood, its entire upper snout almost blown away. A second bullet had gone through its neck and probably severed the spine. There was more blood spattered in a trail that led off up the street.
“Big caliber,” Troy said, looking down at the dog. “At least it was quick.”
“Gun was a forty,” Juan said.
“Then the bullets probably were, too.”
“You think?”
They talked to the people there. One, a young woman in a red-and-white jogging suit, said she had been running up the street when two dogs, Labradors, one yellow and one black, came along to join her.
“But they were doing nothing. Just running with me. It was pretty cool, actually. They were just having fun. Then this guy—skinny, short guy—drives by in a car. He stops up the street, right here, and gets out. It was like he was waiting for us. When I ran past him he just opened fire on the dogs with a gun. I took off as fast as I could. I heard a lot of shots and some yelping. Then I heard his car start and I thought, ‘Lord, he’s coming f
or me now.’ But when I looked back he had U-turned and driven off the other way. I ran back to this dog. Poor thing.”
“Guy was just blazing away wildly,” a large woman in denim shirt and pants said. “I was in my kitchen and a bullet came through the window.” She pointed at the adjacent house. “Hit my fridge and made a hole right in the side. Could have hit me, or my kid. She was in the kitchen too.”
“Where’s the child?” Troy asked.
“Inside. Think I need her seeing this?” she pointed down at the dog.”
“Smart,” Troy said. “I’ll need someone to look at the window and fridge. And I want that bullet. Juan, call Tom VanDyke and tell him to bring the camera and kit and come down and do his evidence thing.” Tom VanDyke was the department’s evidence specialist.
“Tom’s out with one of the search parties you organized.”
“Oh yeah. I knew that. I was just checking to see if you were alert today.” Troy used his cell phone to call Tom and get him headed for the station to pick up the equipment.
“Where did these dogs come from? Anyone know?” he asked.
“Think they belong to a girl next street over,” Denim Woman said. “On Marshall Road. She just moved in. She’s…um…black.” The woman looked cautiously at Troy to see if it was all right to use the “b” word.
Troy nodded. “Anyone else know about these dogs or that woman?” The other four women looked at one another and at Troy and shook their heads.
“Juan, get names and all that. Wait here for Tom to show up and do his thing. When he gets here, take this dog to the vet’s office. I’ll go look for the other dog. Thank you, folks. I appreciate it. Sorry you had this scare. We have the guy who shot off the gun.”
Back on Marshall Road he turned the other way from Gerry’s house. He walked a block and heard yelping. There was another small block house—most houses on Snake Key were small block boxes or trailers—with a fenced back yard. A gate was open in the chain-link fence. It had been locked with a padlock but the padlock and the remains of the hasp were lying on the grass. In the back yard Troy found a black Lab lying on its side covered in blood. The dog was still alive. Troy beat on the back door but nobody answered.
Death Among the Mangroves Page 3
