H. Griffin - Blood island

When the clock read nine thirty, the lieutenant appeared with Logan, and asked me to step back to his office. Logan grinned and winked as he passed me. The lieutenant caught it and looked a little miffed. Maybe he thought Logan wasn't taking this thing seriously enough. He didn't know that Logan seldom took anything seriously.

The lieutenant's office was small, with barely enough room for a desk and two chairs. The top of the desk was cluttered with loose documents, a couple of wanted posters, and a framed picture of a pretty young woman holding a blonde girl of about three years old.

"Why would someone try to kill you on my island, Mr. Royal?" he asked.

"I wish I knew."

"I know who you are."

"Is that good?"

"I know about some of your escapades on Longboat," he said.

"Then you know I'm one of the good guys."

"Yeah. I already called Chief Lester. He vouched for you."

"He always does," I said, smiling.

"This happen a lot?"

"No. But when it does, I can always count on Bill Lester."

"I know you've been involved with law enforcement in the past," he said, "and that you killed some bad guys. Is this shooting tonight related?"

"I don't see how it could be. There wasn't anyone left from the last fiasco to come after me."

"Did you ever think that practicing law might be safer than your retirement?"

"Lately, I have. But I don't go looking for trouble. It just seems to have a way of finding me."

"Where were you today?"

I told him about our visit with Jake Yardley, and what I had learned from Chris at the Sea Club. I explained why I was looking for Peggy, and told him I didn't think there was any reason for anybody to try to kill me because I was looking for a teenager.

He agreed. "Maybe it was some sort of mistaken identity," he said. "If you find out anything different, you let me know."

An officer drove us home, dropping me at my place and going on to Logan's. I didn't sleep well that night, and I didn't think the shooting was random. It must have had something to do with Peggy. I'd have to take a good look at Jake Yardley. He had to be part of the riddle.

And I was going to start carrying a pistol. You never know when you might need one.

The next day, I did my morning run along the sidewalk that borders Gulf of Mexico Drive. The sun was just coming up, and the usual coterie of runners and walkers were already out. Wild parakeets were chattering in the trees that bordered the walkway, and a cooling breeze blew anemically from the north. Traffic was light, but steady, the kind of day when nobody in his right mind would take a shot at me on a busy road in broad daylight.

I got home safely, showered, shaved, put on clean shorts and a T-shirt, and went to Isabelle's Eatery for breakfast. The morning paper was full of bad news of people all over the world killing and maiming each other. It all seemed a long way from our quiet island at the edge of the Gulf of Mexico.

There was a tingle of alarm rolling around in the back of my mind. It was a gut reaction to something I'd seen or heard or sensed about Yardley. Something was off about him and his story of meeting Peggy and her friends. Logan's observation about Yardley's living quarters only added to my sense of unease. And, my gut was usually right.

I spent the rest of the morning trying to find out something about Yardley. His name didn't pop up on Google or any of the other databases I could access. I hadn't come up with anything and decided to go see Chief Lester the next day. Maybe he could help.

At noon, the Manatee County Sheriff's crime lab called to tell me that they were finished with my car, and I could pick it up anytime. Logan came and got me, and I went from the lab to an auto-glass shop where they replaced the rear hatch window while I waited.

I drove back to Longboat Key and met Logan at Tiny's, a little bar on the north end of the island. It was a neighborhood watering hole, and at five thirty on a weekday afternoon, it was packed with locals enjoying themselves, savoring the winding down of the day.

Word had spread of the shooting the night before, and everybody wanted to know what had happened. The more Logan told the story, the bigger it got. Four Scotches into the evening and he was a hero.

The people of Tiny's knew Logan was kidding. He was a war hero who never talked about it, and he'd pulled my butt out of the fire just a few months before over in the center of the state. He was a selfdeprecating guy, and was much loved on the key.

We finished our evening at Tiny's. I ordered a pizza to go from A Moveable Feast, a small restaurant that shared the parking lot with the bar. Logan was going to drive to St. Armand's, at the other end of Longboat, for Chinese food.

The ringing phone jangled me out of sleep early the next morning. I eased my eyes open, ruing the beers I'd had the night before. Over served. Again. Light was just beginning to make its way through the opening in my drapes. The clock read six a.m. This had better be good, I thought.

I reached for the receiver. "Hello." I think I groaned.

"Matt, there's a body in Durante Park. I need you down here." It was Bill Lester.

"Sure, Bill, but why?"

"I think you know the dead guy."

"Who?'

"Jake Yardley."

"I'll be right there."

"Park at the end of Gulf Bay Road. Take the trail to your right, and you'll find us."

Durante Park takes up thirty-two acres on Longboat Key, about three miles south of the north end of the island. It is a haven of wetlands, mangrove forest, and salt marsh. Various species of waterfowl and shore birds make their homes there. Trails and boardwalks snake through the area, and unobtrusive little signs are placed at intervals, describing the plants and birds.

I parked the Explorer next to two police cars, and began walking down a shell-topped trail. The sun was still rising out of the bay and light filtered through the mangrove branches. The air was cool, the sky clear. It was quiet, and I could hear a dove coo in the distance. The breeze off the Gulf brought the soft hum of tires on Gulf of Mexico Drive.

I came to a boardwalk and bore to my left. The bay stretched to my right, the early morning sun reflecting off its still surface. A mullet jumped and splashed loudly as it fell back into the water. Was the fish trying to escape a predator or was it just imbued with the joy of living? Who knows?

I heard voices ahead. I rounded a turn and saw two Longboat cops standing in front of a line of crime scene tape anchored to the rails of the walkway. They were talking quietly, almost whispering.

"Morning, Matt," the one nearest me said. "The chief is waiting for you. Don't touch anything. We're waiting for the sheriff's crime lab people."

I ducked under the tape, walked around another curve, and stopped at a gazebo that faced the water. There was a bench across the back of it. There was an emergency phone attached to the wall next to a plastic rack holding brochures. A sign on the phone said that it connected directly to the Longboat Key Police station.

Bill Lester was standing in the middle of the gazebo, his back to me, talking into his cell phone. Jake Yardley was sitting on the bench, his arms spread across the rails behind him, his chin on his chest. He looked like a man catching a catnap, perhaps resting from a walk around the park. He was wearing shorts, a golf shirt, and running shoes, all white. A large splotch of red across his chest added a touch of color. Blood.

Just past the gazebo, an older woman stood on the boardwalk, holding a leash tied to a golden Lab. The dog was lying on the walk, apparently bored with the drama surrounding him. The woman looked pale, scared, and distracted, as if she would rather be anywhere but here, sharing her slice of paradise with a dead man and a police officer.