Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (19 page)

I sat on the sidewalk, my hat pulled down over my eyes, my back leaning
against a brick retaining wall in front of the house two doors down from the
spa. Just one more of Key West's homeless, taking a siesta.

At four o'clock, I saw Michelle come out of the front door, accompanied by a man who looked vaguely familiar. She was talking and he was
nodding his head. They stopped at the end of the walk, and he looked
around briefly, surveying his surroundings. His face turned toward me,
but his gaze didn't stop. I knew him. It was the truck driver Michelle had
spoken to in Venice.

They shook hands, and the man returned to the spa. Michelle started
walking along the street, going away from me. I got to my feet and followed
at a safe distance. She turned at the corner and walked two blocks. I hung
back, allowing her to put some space between us, but not enough to lose
her.

In the middle of the third block, she opened a gate to a sidewalk leading to another Victorian house. I stopped, giving her time to get inside.
She used a key to open the door.

I walked past the house, taking a good look. It was like every house
in the neighborhood, old and beautiful, and probably modernized inside.
I made a mental note of the address.

I turned the corner and, out of sight of the house, pulled out my cell
phone. I caught Debbie just as she was leaving for work.

"This is getting to be a bad habit, Royal," she said. "What now?"

"I just called to hear your voice, sweet cakes."

"Right." She laughed. "I've got about five minutes to get to work.
What is it?"

"I need the ownership of a house in Key West." I gave her the
address. "And what did you find out about Simmermon?"

"Nothing yet on Simmermon, other than his Web site. I'll check
deeper when I get off tonight. Keep your phone on. I'll call you back in a
couple of minutes with the information on the house." She hung up.

I sat back down on the sidewalk, leaning on another retaining wall,
hat pulled low. A profusion of jasmine flowers cascaded down the brick
wall, their sweet smell somehow comforting. In a couple of minutes, my
phone rang.

"Guess what?" Debbie said.

"The house is owned by a Bahamian corporation controlled by a
Cayman bank."

"If you're such a genius, why are you bothering me?"

"Lucky guess. I wanted to make sure. Same corporation?"

"Yes. Circle Ltd."

"Thanks, kid. I owe you."

"Right. Take care of your sorry butt, Matt. I'd miss the big tips. I'm
saving all those quarters you leave." There was a click, and she was gone.

I sat for a while, wondering if I should confront Michelle. I'd made
a mistake going to the spa, questioning Sister Amy, and generally acting like
an idiot. I hadn't done my homework on the place, and my search almost
ended right there. By asking about Peggy, I may have put her in more danger. Time was critical. I had to know what was going on.

I walked onto the veranda of Michelle's house and rang the bell. She
opened the door, wearing a big smile. She had changed clothes and was
dressed casually in a pair of blue shorts and a halter top. Her hair was in
a ponytail, and she was barefoot. Her lovely fingers were wrapped around
the grip of a nine-millimeter pistol, pointed at my chest.

"Come in, Mr. Royal," Michelle said. "We've been expecting you."

Uh-oh. This couldn't be good. But, I'd never refused the offer of a
pretty young woman, especially if she was holding a gun on me. I entered
the house as Michelle backed into the foyer, gun pointed directly at my
gut. I didn't doubt that she would gladly put one into my heart if I didn't
do what she said.

She waved me into the living room off the foyer. "That was a pretty
good picture our security camera got at the spa," she said. "I recognized
you immediately."

The truck driver was sitting at ease in a recliner, no weapon in sight.
He stood and frisked me. He took the .38 out of my pocket and put it on
a table next to his chair. He sat back down, crossed one leg over his knee,
and grinned.

He was a big man, with oversized muscles bulging out his T-shirt
sleeves. His dark hair was cropped close, and his face wore the quizzical
look affected by so many body builders who make up for their lack of
brains with a lot of brawn. Three angry scratch marks ran the length of his
left cheek. Peggy had taken a hunk out of his hide.

I wondered how he had gotten to Michelle's house without my seeing him, but then realized he could have come through the backyard.

Michelle nodded in the man's direction, and said, "Charlie recognized you on the street a few minutes ago. He thought you were following
me."

"Mr. Calhoun, I presume," I said.

A momentary look of surprise crossed his face. "How do you know
my name?" he asked.

"You're a famous street punk. Everybody tells me you're as stupid as
you look. I wonder if that's possible."

He was coming out of his chair. "You smart-ass son of a bitch. You
shot my buddies."

"Sit, Charlie," Michelle said, and like an obedient dog, he fell back
into the chair.

"Minds well," I said.

"You might want to be careful, Mr. Royal. I might just let him loose
on you."

"Please, call me Matt. We're all friends here."

"Sit on the sofa," she said, and took a chair directly across from me.
I sat. There was a low coffee table between us, a large flat book of photographs of the Florida Keys lying on top.

"Why are you here, Matt?" Michelle asked.

"I'm looking for a girl. An eighteen-year-old college student named
Peggy Timmons. The same girl old Charlie here was chasing a couple of
days ago. I heard she just about took him. Looks like she marked him up
pretty good."

Charlie started to rise again, a look of irritation on his face. "I'll kick
your ass," he growled.

"Sit, Charlie," said Michelle, again.

"But, Michelle," Charlie said.

"Sit." Louder this time.

Charlie sat, but he didn't like it.

I looked at him and smiled. "You're a lot safer doing what the lady
tells you, Charlie."

He started out of the chair again, but went back down at one look
from Michelle. He wanted to tear my head off and, if I kept goading him,
sooner or later he was going to take his shot. I was counting on it.

I heard a clock chime somewhere in the back of the house. Five
o'clock. The light was slanting through the west-fronting windows now,
little dust motes hovering in the beams. I heard a motor scooter pass on the
street, and somewhere in the distance a ship's horn sounded. One of the
cruise ships was leaving its dock, full of sunburned tourists heading for
the next island.

I smiled at Michelle. "Are you going to tell me where to find Peggy?"

She smiled back. "No."

"What about her mother, Laura Timmons?"

"Who?" Michelle looked puzzled, as if she'd never heard the name
before.

"Maybe I'll have to ask Reverend Simmermon," I said.

She and Charlie both laughed, quickly, snorts really, rather than
laughter. "You think that idiot runs things?" Michelle asked.

"His picture is on Charlie's truck," I said.

She chuckled this time. "Yeah, I kind of let him think he's running
things sometimes. It helps keep his ego in check."

"Is he on Blood Island?"

She looked mildly surprised. "My, my, you've been a very busy boy."

"Look, Michelle, I don't care what you've got going with the spa or
anything else. I just want the girl."

"I can't let that happen, Matt. It's too late."

"Why is that?"

"She's seen more of our operation than is healthy."

"And Laura?"

"I don't know anybody named Laura. And if she's Peggy's mother,
she'd be a little long in the tooth for our needs."

"I'm not sure I understand your operation. Do you kidnap these kids
into prostitution?"

"Lord, no." She laughed. "These kids come from all over to find the
light. They're all looking for something, and when the Rev gets through
with them, they know they've found God. Or at least the Rev's idea of God."

"I don't get it."

"The Rev has a twisted view of Christianity. I'm not sure he believes
it himself, but lie sure can sell it to stupid people."

"What happens to the kids?"

"Most of them are girls. We sort of reprogram them and put them in
the spas. They think they're hooking for Jesus. They're idiots:'

I sat quietly for a moment, remembering the vacant look in Sister
Amy's eyes. "You're drugging them," I said, my voice flat.

"Of course we are." Michelle let out a short laugh, like I'd just said
something stupid. "How else are we going to keep them down on the
farm? Or the spa?" She was enjoying herself.

I crossed my right leg over my left knee, swinging my foot rhytlimi-
cally, feigning indifference to my situation. "How do you recruit diem?" I
said.

"Easy. The lost ones are always at the revivals. We do a preliminary
look-see, chat them up, and, if they don't seem too smart, we put somebody on them to find out more."

"Like Jake Yardley," I said.

"Exactly."

"Then what?"

"We invite them down to Blood Island for a retreat. A few doses of
certain drugs in their food, and they're ours. The Rev preaches to them,
takes an interest in them, and tells them we love them. He usually screws
the girls for good measure. Then we send them to the Heaven Can't Wait
Spa. They've Joined the Circle of Lilies. They think it's some kind of
religious order."

"It's not?"

She laughed again. "I guess it's what the little bitches make out of it.
When they've been there a while, and they're docile enough, we send them
to our spas in other cities."

"And die boys?"

"They stay on the island to work and pray. They're fed and housed,
and they're pretty happy. There're only a few guys."

"What happened to Yardley?"

"He got careless. For some reason, he put his name and address on
the motel registration, and you found him. He had to be eliminated."

"Just like that? You kill a man over a mistake?"

"Happens sometimes," she said. "Just the cost of doing business.
The fool called the Rev to tell him you were looking for one of the girls we
recruited."

"Why leave his body on Longboat Key? And who killed Wayne
Lee?"

"Bartel did that. He thought posing Yardley's body in that park was
a work of genius. And he killed Lee to make sure he couldn't pass on anything Yardley had told him."

"And then Bartel tried to set me up at Hutch's," I said, a statement,
not a question.

"That's right. And he blew it. I had to get somebody else to take out
your buddy Hamilton."

"That didn't work either."

"NO."

"Maybe you ought to start hiring better people."

"You have a point," she said, grinning.

"What happened with Peggy Timmons? She's not stupid:'

"We found that out. That was another mistake Yardley made. He sent
her three buddies on their way, but he gave Peggy to the Rev. That big
idiot took her to his island and wants to keep her for himself. Thinks he's
in love. He didn't count on her family hiring you to come looking for her."

"Is she on the island now?"

Michelle shrugged her shoulders. "It doesn't matter."

"You don't know where she is, do you?" I asked. "Maybe you don't
have as much control as you think."

Charlie stirred in his chair. "I took her little ass back to the island,"
he said.

"Be quiet, Charlie," Michelle said.

"It's what the Rev told me to do," he said, a defensive tone creeping
into his voice.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" she asked.

"It just didn't come up," said Charlie.

Michelle glanced over at him with a look of incredulity, as if she were
just now figuring out how stupid he really was. I used that moment to hook
my right foot under the edge of the coffee table, and brought it up forcefully. The table went over, hitting Michelle in the knees. I was right behind
it, grabbing her gun hand with my left and delivering a hard punch to her
jaw with my right.

She crumpled like a spent balloon, the pistol falling to the floor beside her. I kicked it out of reach, and turned to Charlie just as he was
reaching for me with his big ham hands.

I ducked, and Charlie grabbed a handful of air. I struck him under the
chin with the heel of my hand. That rocked him back some, and I slipped
under his flailing arms and got him from behind in a chokehold. I kicked
him in the back of the knee, taking him to the floor. He was gasping for
breath as I tightened my arm around his neck, his struggles decreasing.
Then he was out. I checked. He wasn't dead.

I ripped the electrical cords from two of the lamps scattered about the
living room and trussed my captives like a pair of hogs. I picked up my
pistol and pocketed it. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number
Oscar Mendosa had given me. An answering machine picked up and I left
my name and number.