CHASING JUSTICE
Also by H. Terrell Griffin
Matt Royal Mysteries
Found
Fatal Decree
Collateral Damage
Bitter Legacy
Wyatt’s Revenge
Blood Island
Murder Key
Longboat Blues
Ethan Fitzgerald Novels
The Assassin’s Game
Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads:
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
(contributing essayist)
CHASING JUSTICE
A Matt Royal Mystery
H. TERRELL GRIFFIN
Longboat Key, Florida
Copyright © 2015 by H. Terrell Griffin
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-60809-141-6
Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing
Longboat Key, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Dedicated to
Jessie Elizabeth Jones Royal
“Dandy”
1880-1965
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing, for me, is a team effort. I have the good fortune to live in both Maitland, an Orlando suburb, and Longboat Key, that paradise off the west coast of Florida. I do most of my writing on my sunporch overlooking Sarasota Bay or at the Maitland Starbucks, where I am surrounded by my coffee-swilling buddies and the gracious baristas who take such good care of us.
Longboat Key has a plethora of bars and restaurants where my island friends gather each evening for a little good cheer and, on occasion, boozy fellowship. We enjoy the beaches, the golf courses, tennis courts, fishing, and some of the best boating in the world. The ideas for my stories spring from these relationships, these friends who people my life and bring me such joy. I value their ideas, their support, and the fact that they often buy me drinks.
My readers are the ones who sustain my passion for writing. I hear from you by email and reviews on Amazon. I learn something from every communication, positive or negative, and they do make me, hopefully, a better writer. I appreciate that you take the time to read my books. I hope that what you read brightens your day a little and takes you into a world that you enjoy, the island world of Longboat Key, an oasis of calm in an ever more complex world, a sun-drenched bit of land surrounded by a turquoise sea where bad guys appear and murders occur only in my imagination.
I have been helped immeasurably in writing this book by my brain trust: Peggy Kendall, David Beals, Lloyd Deming, Chris Griffin, and Jean Griffin. They edit the copy as it comes out of the printer, listen to my endless prattle about the book, and give me ideas on how to better the story. I don’t always listen to them, even when I should, so any errors in fact or prose or plot are solely my fault.
I can’t say enough about the gang at Oceanview Publishing: Patricia Gussin, Bob Gussin, Frank Troncale, David Ivester, and Emily Baar. Their support and encouragement through the writing process is invaluable. They have become friends who always have a kind word, a pat on the back, or a kick in the butt as needed. Without them, there would be no Matt Royal.
Finally, there is my wife Jean, who gives me reason to get up every morning. I met her while I was in college, and badgered her, stalked her, and begged her until, I think in desperation, she agreed to marry me. My life has been better than I deserve, but without her, it would all have been meaningless. She gave me three sons whom I cherish, and one of the boys gave us a wonderful daughter-in-law and two grandchildren, Kyle and Sarah, who are probably the best little guys in the whole world.
Thank you all for your patience and for putting up with me. I couldn’t do it without you.
CHASING JUSTICE
“To be neutral between right and wrong is to serve wrong.”
—Theodore Roosevelt
PART I
THE INVESTIGATION
CHAPTER ONE
Detective Jennifer Diane Duncan looked around the large room in which she was standing. Opulent, she thought, and a bit ostentatious. She looked at the nude body lying at her feet and wondered if the woman had been some rich man’s trophy.
The dead woman appeared to be in her late thirties, about the detective’s age. She had a lot of blond hair, now matted with blood. Her face was classically beautiful, perhaps too perfect. Her breasts had obviously been surgically enhanced, so maybe her face had, too. She wore makeup that had been applied with care and expertise to accentuate her features. Her skin was the bronze of the Florida sun-worshiper, and she had apparently done her worshiping in the nude. Her dark pubic hair had been trimmed into a heart shape. The detective smiled, wondering whether that had been done for her lover or just on a lark, a bit of whimsy perhaps.
There was no sign of trauma, other than the small pool of blood under her head and in her hair. The deathblow must have been to the back of her skull. But then, she would have fallen forward and would be lying facedown. Somebody had moved the body, turned her over onto her back. Not Steve Carey, the first officer to arrive. He would have known not to disturb the crime scene.
The room’s ceilings were at least fifteen feet high. Expensive hardwood floors were covered at intervals by Oriental carpets, each of which probably cost more than her car. The furniture was large, on a scale to fit the room. Tall French doors opened onto a patio that contained an infinity pool, and off to the right, a summer kitchen. On the left, a wall rose along the periphery of the patio, providing an area screened from the beach. An oversized hot tub, more like a small pool, took up a corner, and three lounge chairs sat in the shade on a tiled floor. Later in the day, the area would be flooded with sunshine. An open door led to a dressing room.
Beyond the patio and the white sand beach, the tranquil Gulf of Mexico gleamed under the morning sun, its turquoise placidity at odds with the violence that had been done on its shore. Officer Carey stood near the front door.
“Do you know anything, Steve?” she asked.
“Nothing. The maid found the body when she came to work this morning. Says it’s the lady of the house, Jim Favereaux’s wife, Linda.”
“Where’s the maid?”
“I asked her to stay out on the patio. Didn’t want her to have to sit looking at the body.”
“Did you know the people who live here?”
“Not really. I worked a burglary here about two years ago, before you came to the island. I met them then. He’s a lot older than she is. Was.”
“Is he here?”
“No.”
“They must have a lot of money. Do you know anything about that?”
“Nada.”
“What was taken in the burglary you worked?”
“Nothing much. It looked like some kids came up from the beach and broke into the back of the house. The only things the maid could find missing were a couple of bottles of hooch. Bourbon, I think.”
The detective left Officer Carey and walked around the living room, into the kitchen and dining room, upstairs to the bedrooms, looking for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Nothing. She went
out to the pool dressing room. A towel hung from a hook. No sign of a struggle.
The crime scene people arrived and began their search for evidence, moving about the rooms with determined patience. The house seemed sterile, as if it were a showplace where nobody lived, where people came to admire the décor and the furnishings and the view of the Gulf. She got no feeling of people living there, eating, sleeping, loving, arguing, the ordinary things that take place in any family home.
The detective shivered in the air conditioning. Somebody had cranked it down to the point that it felt frigid inside the house. It was the first day of April, April Fools’ Day, she thought grimly. Not your typical Monday morning on Longboat Key. The weather outside was unseasonably warm, but the temperature inside made her wish she’d worn a jacket. It had certainly skewed the time-of-death calculation for the medical examiner’s assistant. He had taken the body’s temperature when he arrived shortly after eight o’clock and told her that his best estimate was that she had been dead for six or more hours. “Could’ve been ten or twelve,” he’d said. “Maybe Doc Hawkins can be a little more precise when he does the autopsy. Sorry.”
The medical examiner’s people were ready to transport the body. “Can you turn her on her side so I can see the back of her head?” the detective asked.
“Sure.” The ME’s assistant placed one hand on the dead woman’s shoulder and another on her flank. He rolled her onto her left side. The back of her head was bloody and blond hair was matted into a depression. Somebody had bashed in her head.
The detective moved back and watched the two young men lift the body onto a gurney. They placed a sheet over it and wheeled the gurney toward the front door. Duncan went to one of the crime scene techs whom she knew. “Kevin,” she said, “have you found anything that might be the weapon that killed her?”
“Not yet. I looked at that gash on the back of her head though and got some pictures. We’ll keep looking, but there’s nothing obvious in this room.”
“Thanks,” said Duncan. “Let me know if you come up with anything.”
* * *
A small woman with brown skin and black hair cropped short sat on a divan on the patio, tears running down her face. She appeared to be in her twenties, early thirties, maybe. She wore a black dress with a white collar and belt, sheer hose, and sensible white shoes. A maid’s uniform.
Duncan walked out to the patio and sat next to the maid. “Do you speak English?” she asked.
The maid nodded. “I grew up here. In Bradenton.”
“I’m Detective Duncan, Longboat Key Police. People call me J.D. What’s your name?”
“Selena Rodriguez.”
“Officer Carey tells me that you found the body and called the police.”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“About seven-thirty. I’m supposed to be at work by eight, but the bus drops me off up the block at seven-fifteen. The next one wouldn’t get me here until eight-fifteen. I don’t want to be late.”
“Did you move the body, touch it in any way?”
“No.”
“Was she face-up when you found her?”
“Yes. I didn’t touch anything. I used my cell phone to call 911.”
“Have you worked here long?”
“Two years in February.”
“What can you tell me about the people you work for?”
“They’re real nice,” Selena said.
“What’s their name?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Favereaux.”
“Do you know their first names?”
“James and Linda.”
“Do you work every day?”
“Monday through Friday. I’m off Saturday and Sunday.”
“This is a pretty big place to keep clean,” Duncan said.
“This house has almost twelve thousand square feet, but the Favereauxes only live in a couple of bedrooms and not much of the downstairs.”
“They didn’t share a bedroom?”
“No.”
“Do you know any reason for that?”
“No.”
“How old is Mr. Favereaux?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Probably about sixty. Maybe a little older.”
“And Mrs. Favereaux?”
“Thirty-nine. She had a birthday last week.”
“Do you know how long they’ve lived here?”
“I think they hired me as soon as they moved in. So, just a little over two years.”
“Selena, I’m embarrassed to ask you this question, but I need to know for my investigation. I’m not with customs or the Border Patrol, and I assure you, your answer will go no further. Are you in the United States legally?”
Selena smiled, ruefully. “I get that question a lot,” she said. “I was born here. My parents were illegal but they were given amnesty back in the eighties and now have green cards. I’m as much American as you are, Detective.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t. I know you had to ask.”
“Do you know where Mr. Favereaux is?”
“No.”
“Was he here on Friday?”
“He was here when I left work on Friday afternoon.”
“Okay, Selena. That’s all I have for now. I’m going to need your contact information, address, phone number, that sort of thing. Where do you live?”
“East Bradenton.”
“I’ll get an officer to drive you home.”
“Thanks, but I’ll take the bus. I don’t want my neighbors seeing me getting out of a police car.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Good morning, Matt.”
“Ah, Longboat Key’s best detective.”
“And the only one.”
“And the most beautiful.”
“I’d normally love to hear your sweet nothings, but I caught a murder case this morning.”
“I told you it would have been better had you stayed at my place last night.”
“Yeah, but I needed some sleep. You tend to keep me awake.”
“I thought you liked it.”
“Your snoring?”
“Oh, that.”
The voice coming through my phone was that of Jennifer Diane Duncan, known as J.D., the police detective whom I loved. “Where are you?” I asked.
“I’m standing in front of that huge new house on the beach, the one they built a couple of years back when they tore down that little hotel just south of Pattigeorge’s Restaurant. Somebody murdered the lady of the house last night.”
“Who’s the victim?”
“Linda Favereaux. You know her?”
“I met her once at Pattigeorge’s. Sammy introduced me to her and her husband. I never saw them again. Any idea who killed her?”
“Not yet. The husband seems to be away. We’ll see.”
“I guess that means we’re not going to Egmont today.”
“Afraid not. I’ll see you tonight.”
“My place?”
“Yes. I’ll bring my earplugs.” She hung up.
This was supposed to be a day off for J.D. We’d planned to make a picnic lunch and take my boat to Egmont Key and sit on the beach all day. Egmont is a state park accessible only by boat. It’s about a ten-mile run from my house, and with the gorgeous weather we were having, it would have been a salubrious day.
My name is Matt Royal. I’m a lawyer and mostly retired. Other than handling the occasional legal matter for a friend who couldn’t afford a lawyer, I stay away from the courts and the practice of law. I was once a soldier, went to war and then to law school. I’d been a trial lawyer in Orlando, and when I grew tired of the rat race, I sold all my possessions and moved to Longboat Key. I’m young for retirement, but if I’m careful, the money I have will last the rest of my life.
My home is a cottage on the bayside of a wonderful little island about ten miles long and half a mile wide at its broadest point. Lon
gboat Key lies off the southwest coast of Florida, south of Tampa Bay, about halfway down the peninsula, bordered on the east by Sarasota Bay and on the west by the Gulf of Mexico. I live in Longbeach Village, the oldest inhabited part of the island, if you don’t count the Indians who lived there hundreds of years ago. The village sits on the north end of Longboat Key and is populated by the best people on earth. Most of us spend our time in a sort of modified stupor, enjoying our days on the beach or fishing or boating. Our evenings are spent in restaurants and bars with our friends and neighbors. Some of the village people still work for a living, and we have an eclectic group ranging from industry moguls to carpenters and commercial fishermen. Everybody fits in.
J.D. Duncan had come into my life about a year and a half before, when she was hired as Longboat Key’s only detective. She’d worked for the Miami-Dade Police Department for fifteen years and risen to assistant homicide commander. Her mother had lived on Longboat Key, and when she died and left her condo to J.D., the detective decided to give up life in the fast lane that was Miami and move permanently to Longboat Key. My buddy Bill Lester, the chief of police on the island, had jumped at the chance to hire her.
J.D. and I had become friends and, more recently, lovers. She had changed my world and made living on an island paradise even better than I had thought possible. But she was a cop, and sometimes that meant that she had to take on ugly jobs.
I spend most of my days working at being a beach bum. It isn’t hard. Our island is full of people who have adapted to life on the key and spend their days lying on the beach, fishing, boating, and drinking in the bars. When I first moved to the key, I thought I might eventually be able to ease out of the fast lane and work my way into that island lifestyle. It took me all of two days to do so, and I became a confirmed beach bum. This life is a lot simpler than that of a trial lawyer. I was happy and satisfied and surrounded by friends. J.D. was the icing on the cake.
I called my buddy Logan Hamilton, and we loaded a cooler with ice and beer, stowed rods and reels aboard my boat, Recess, a twenty-eight foot Grady-White, and headed for the fishing grounds. I’d once read a t-shirt that said, “Longboat Key is an island of drinkers who have a fishing problem.” I always thought that pretty much captured the essence of our key. As the Bard said, “Truth will out.”
Chasing Justice: A Matt Royal Mystery Page 1
