Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (2 page)

Vultures sat impassively on the limbs of the tree that grew from the
center of the tall cage. They were used to humans standing around, talking, watching, eating peanuts, their kids laughing at the funny looking
birds.

I dialed Vince on my cell phone. "There's a dead guy in your vulture
pit," I said.

"I'm on my way."

Vince Delgado was the director of the Pelican Man's Bird Sanctuary,
which clung to the edge of City Island in Sarasota, Florida. Sick and injured birds were brought in for treatment and rehabilitation. Those who
were too badly compromised to return to the wild after treatment were
kept in cages spread around the sanctuary.

Vince was a drinking buddy from Tiny's, a bar on Longboat Key, the
island just across New Pass from City Island. The night before, I had mentioned that I'd never visited his sanctuary, and he'd invited me to come
down early in the morning, before the tourists showed up.

I'd been walking idly through the area, drinking from the cup of Starbucks I'd bought on St. Armand's Circle, enjoying the early morning of
a bright April day. I didn't expect to see one of our citizens turned into
vulture food.

Vince was chugging up the path from the office, his short arms
pumping, his pumpkin-size belly jiggling as he ran. He was a short fat guy
with curly black hair and a face that was overshadowed by a huge nose.
His dark eyes had a look of panic as he slid to a stop at the vulture cage.

"Oh shit," he said. "This isn't going to look good in the papers."

"Call the police, Vince."

"Yeah." He took out his cell phone and dialed 911.

"Do you know him?"

"I don't think so, but it's hard to tell with his face all chewed up. I'd
better get to the front to let the cops in."

I stood there, alone with the vultures and the dead man. Nearby, gulls
were screeching for their breakfast, calling to whomever fed them,
demanding service. A siren wailed in the distance, growing louder as the
police cruiser turned onto Ken Thompson Parkway and headed for
Pelican Man's. The car skidded to a stop on the parking lot, its siren
abruptly dying, leaving only the sound of agitated birds.

A Sarasota patrolman trotted up, followed closely by a winded Vince.
The young cop was my height, six feet, but he probably weighed twenty
pounds more than my one eighty. His uniform hugged a body that had
spent many hours in a gym. He was hatless, and his close-cropped hair
resembled that of a military recruit. He introduced himself. Vince was bent
over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

"I'm Matt Royal," I said, shaking the officer's hand.

"Did you find the body, Mr. Royal?"

"Yes."

"What can you tell me about this?"

"Nothing. I was just strolling by and saw the dead man."

"Why are you here when the place isn't even open yet?"

"Mr. Delgado invited me."

Vince found his voice. "I asked Mr. Royal to come by before we
opened so that he could get a good look at the place. I'm hoping he'll give
us a chunk of money."

It was an open secret that the sanctuary was in financial trouble. It
depended on donations and admission charges for the daily tours, and the
just-ended winter season had not been kind to the birds. Donations had
dried up.

The policeman turned back to me. Vince winked, signaling that he
knew I wasn't a donor.

The cop looked closely at me, a small scowl on his face. "Did you
touch anything?"

'No."

"Don't run off. The detectives will want to talk to you." He pulled his
radio mic from the Velcro tab on his shoulder and called for the detectives
and a crime scene unit.

Vince had regained his composure; his breathing was back to normal.
"We'll be in the office," he said, and we left the policeman to wait alone for
his colleagues.

The next day, early, I was enjoying my morning ritual, sipping coffee and
reading the newspaper on my sunporch overlooking Sarasota Bay. The
sun was tentatively peeking over the mainland, as if trying to decide
whether to show itself. A flats fishing boat sped by out on the Intracoastal,
the high whine of its outboard competing with the cries of diving gulls.
The phone rang.

"Hello, Matt."

The soft voice pierced my brain, resonating of joy and regret and
loss. Images flashed. A tall brunette clad in the white garb of a nurse, her
hazel eyes bright with humor. A smile that could make a man weep. Lips
that once caressed mine, lightly, like the fine hair of a butterfly's wing. And
sometimes, hungrily, drawing me into her in bursts of passion that singed
my soul. My hand tightened around the phone.

"This is Laura."

"I know"

"Are you well, Matt?"

"Yes. You?"

"No. I need to see you."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Where?"

"Breakfast. I'm at the Hilton."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," I said.

She hung up.

Longboat Key is a small island, about ten miles long and a quarter-mile wide. It lies off the southwest coast of Florida, south of Tampa Bay. I live
on the north end in a condo facing Sarasota Bay. The Hilton Hotel sits on
the Gulf of Mexico about three miles south of my home.

We'd met soon after Laura finished her degree in nursing. She was
standing in my cubicle in the emergency room, grinning. I had just
finished law school and begun practicing in Orlando. A pick-up game of
football in a city park had landed me in the hospital with a twisted ankle.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"Nothing. You just look kind of bedraggled. Not as spiffy as you were
when I saw you at Harper's last night."

"Harper's?"

"Yes, the bar. I was there watching the beautiful people hang out."

"I'm not one of them."

"Oh? Could've fooled me."

"I was there with a client who is one of the beautiful people."

"Well, here you are now. I have to get some blood from you."

"Why blood for a twisted ankle?"

"Don't know. The doctor ordered it."

"You'll be gentle?"

She grinned again. And stuck the hell out of me.

Within a year, we were married.

I walked through the Hilton lobby and out to the deck overlooking the
Gulf of Mexico. Laura was sitting at a table, a cup of coffee and a glass of
water in front of her. A large banyan tree provided shade, and lines of twine
were strung across the area to discourage the gulls from joining the guests
for meals. The sun was behind us, rising over the bay, and a soft morning
glow suffused the air. The scent of the sea surrounded us. She sat quietly,
staring out at the turquoise water. She was not aware of me.

I stood for a moment, drinking her in, remembering. She'd left me ten
years before, but I couldn't see any changes in her. She was still beautiful,
her dark hair swept back over her ears. Just the way I liked it. Did she do
that for me this morning? She was wearing a pink tank top and white
shorts. Her feet were in sandals, toenails painted pink, her ankles crossed
under the table.

Her face was still unlined, except for a few laugh wrinkles at the edges
of her eyes. She was staring out to sea, her face locked in a grimace. A glint
of sun slipped through the banyan branches and reflected off her water
glass. She raised the coffee cup to her lips.

She put it down without taking a swallow. She turned toward me, as
if some silent signal had hinted at my presence. She smiled and melted my
heart. She stood, arms out, as I strode toward her. She wrapped me in an
embrace that was more than friendly. Her hair was redolent of lilacs, and
the scent of vanilla tickled my nose. She still used the same shampoo and
body lotion.

"I've missed you," she whispered. "More than I should."

"Me too," I said, choking back a wave of emotion, wary of saying
more.

She stood back, her arms still on my shoulders. She had a quizzical
look on her face, and a smile played on her lips.

"You don't have any gray," she said. "Your hair's still dark."

"Good genes."

We parted, and she said, "I ordered you coffee."

We sat, and the waiter arrived with my drink.

"I need help, Matt," she said, without preamble. "My stepdaughter
Peggy is missing."

Laura had left me with good reason. I had been too caught up in
being a lawyer and an occasional drunk to give her the family she wanted.
She'd met a good man, a widower with two children, and she had married
him and moved to Atlanta.

I'd spent the first part of my life doing what I thought I was supposed
to do. The military, college, law school, the practice, politics, the climb up
the ladder of success. It didn't work out. I was unhappy and drinking too
much. I couldn't quite figure out where I was supposed to be in the world.
Laura was unhappier than I knew, and after she left, my life spiraled downhill faster than a falling meteor.

I'd been a good lawyer, a trial lawyer, a believer in the system and the
nobility of my profession. I worked hard and cared about my clients. I told
them the truth, and never took on a case just for the fee. If a client's cause was unwinnable, I told him so at the beginning; told him he didn't need
to throw away money on a lawyer who couldn't help him. And I refused
the case.

The profession changed. Money became the Holy Grail. The law
became a business, and I hated it. I stayed in it because I didn't know anything else. Then Laura left and a fog of despair settled over me like a dark
night. There were days when I couldn't find my way through the void.

Laura took nothing from our marriage but my heart. I kept working
for a couple of years, trying to salvage a career I no longer cared about,
and then said the hell with it. I sold everything I had and moved to Longboat Key. I had enough money to live a modest life without working.

I was enjoying myself. I'd made a lot of friends, and occasionally
I used my legal skills to help out someone who needed a good lawyer. I
never charged any fees. I didn't need the money as much as the people I
helped did.

"Tell me about it," I said.

"She came to Sarasota on spring break, and we haven't heard a word
from her since."

"How long?"

"Three weeks."

"Maybe she's just not communicating."

"No. She's had a bad time lately, but she always checks in with her
father. She wouldn't just fail to call."

"Her cell phone?"

"It goes straight to voice mail, and now we're getting a recording
telling us that her box is full. She's not returning anyone's calls."

"Have you talked to the police?"

"They won't do anything. She's eighteen and is considered an adult.
Unless I have some proof that she's been kidnapped or something, the law
isn't interested."

"What can I do?"

"I don't know. You're a lawyer. You know this area, know people.
Maybe you can help find her."

"I don't practice anymore."

"I know. I keep up with you. Jock and I talk."

I was surprised. Jock Algren was my oldest friend, and I didn't know
he'd maintained contact with Laura after the divorce. I felt a little betrayed.

"I didn't know that," I said.

"Don't be angry. I call him sometimes when I'm missing you a lot.
That's all."

"You miss me?"

"I've always loved you. I've always wondered if we could have made
it work if I'd been a little tougher."

"No, you did the right thing. I'd still be in Orlando drinking myself
to death if you hadn't left. It took losing you to get my life back on track.
Are you happy?"

"Yes. I love Jeff. He's been a great husband. We have a good life, but
that doesn't mean I have to stop loving you."

"I take it you're talking platonic love here."

She laughed. "Not really, but that's the way it'll be. I'm a one-man
woman."

"I know. Damn."

She laughed again, and reached out and touched my hand. "We'll
always have Paris," she said.

I laughed now. We must have seen Casablanca a hundred times, and
she still couldn't get the accent right.

We ate breakfast, chatting and enjoying the soft breeze off the Gulf.
She told me about Peggy, a troubled teen who had dropped out of the
University of Georgia after her first semester. She moved into a house near
the campus in Athens with several other disaffected former students. Her
father had pleaded with Peggy to come home to Atlanta until she was ready
for college, but the girl was staying put. Laura and Jeffsuspected that Peggy
had gotten mired in the drug culture that often grows up around college
campuses, but they were powerless to do anything about it.

Peggy was not completely lost to that underworld culture, and she
called home every Sunday to chat with her family. She had never missed
a week, until she'd come to Sarasota for spring break.

Laura sighed. "We didn't think too much about it the first Sunday she missed calling," she said, "but after the second week we tried to track
her down."