James Swain - Bad News Travels

Matoff buried his face in his hands. He’d painted himself into a corner, and there was nowhere left to hide. Lancaster got a bottled water from the minifridge and told him to drink it. It seemed to calm him down, and Soares took over.

“We’ve got you dead to rights, Doc,” the sheriff said. “Jon here thinks you’re an innocent victim; I’m not so sure. Why don’t you tell us your side of things, and let us help you? It will work out better in the long run.”

Matoff lowered his hands. He was weeping.

“All right,” he whispered.

Once Matoff started talking, it was impossible to get him to stop, the words flowing out in a river of guilt, his fear of being caught no match for his conscience.

When he was finished, he gazed sheepishly at Soares and Lancaster.

“I’m sorry for what I’ve done.” Matoff extended his wrists, as if expecting to be handcuffed. Soares shook his head, then motioned for him to rise.

“You’re not going to arrest me?” Matoff asked.

“I agree with my colleague. You were a victim,” Soares said. “You’re going to have to face your family and friends, not to mention the state medical board. That should be punishment enough. I want you to come over to my office, so we can get a confession on video. We can pick up dinner on the way. That work for you?”

Matoff said of course. Soares put his hat on, and left the office. As Matoff started to follow, Lancaster stopped him. Listening to the doctor confess, he’d decided that Matoff had probably never done a bad thing in his life before this, and had simply gotten caught up in a situation that was out of his control. That was the thing about evil that few people understood. Its allure was hypnotic, and its power was all-consuming.

“I know this was hard,” Lancaster said. “Thank you.”

“If I’d only spoken up sooner,” Matoff said regrettably.

“You know what they say. Better late than never.”

“I suppose.”

“One more question. Where in the Keys?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

They went outside. The sun had gone down and the parking lot was pitch dark, the only light coming from the cruisers’ headlights. Matoff got in Soares’s vehicle and they departed, followed by the deputies in their cruisers. Lancaster was pulling out when he got a call from Beth. He wasn’t ready to talk with her, and let it go to voice mail.

She called right back. If he didn’t answer, she’d keep calling and calling. She could be relentless that way.

“Hey,” he answered.

“Where have you been? I’ve texted you a dozen times,” she said angrily.

“Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“Were you planning on telling me you were in Saint Augustine, or that you’d met with the sheriff this afternoon? What the hell is going on, Jon?”

“Who told you I was in Saint Augustine?”

“A little bird. Now tell me what’s going on. And don’t you dare bullshit me.”

Relationships, if they were meant to last, were based upon trust. Without that bond, they disintegrated. He wanted to tell Beth the truth for no other reason than he wanted their relationship to last. He loved her, and believed that she loved him. But he still hadn’t put all the pieces of the puzzle together. There was one more person he needed to speak with. Until he had that conversation, he was just guessing.

“I’m chasing down a lead,” he said.

“What lead? God damn it, what did you find?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“It’s about my father, isn’t it?”

He gripped the wheel and struggled with a reply.

“Let me call you tomorrow,” he said.

“Answer me! You learned something about my father.”

“Please, Beth.”

“If you don’t tell me what it is, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Yes you will, he thought.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

Beth started cursing like a sailor, and he wondered how much harm he’d done to the relationship. Maybe it was over, or maybe she’d love him that much more when it was all said and done. He disconnected and hit the gas.

Three days later

Every five or six years, the Florida Keys went through a transformation. This change had nothing to do with the economy, or an influx of new arrivals eager to put their stamp on the Conch Republic. Rather, it was a result of a major hurricane ravaging the Keys like a runaway train, and tearing down every weary structure in its path.

The latest home-wrecker was Irma, a Category 4 monster that ripped apart four thousand homes, many beyond repair. Manufactured homes and RVs took the worst hit, with residents forced to rent tiny spaces in order to survive. Several thousand people had lost their homes and were now living this way. If you wanted to track one of them down, you needed to know who to ask, and where to look.

Bobby’s Monkey Bar in Key West was the epitome of a dive. The exterior looked like an adult video store, with walls painted a horrendous shade of pink. Inside, smiling stuffed monkeys hung from the ceiling while a drunk lady in a bathing suit sang karaoke on the makeshift stage.

Lancaster had driven down that morning, and needed a drink. Kirk the bartender was just the man he needed to speak to. Kirk’s ratty T-shirt said, ASK MY ADVICE AND YOU’LL END UP DRUNK.

“Hey, Jon, good to see you. What’s your pleasure?” Kirk asked.

“A cold, refreshing beer,” he said.

“If my memory serves me correctly, you have a fondness for IPAs.”

“I’m impressed. You pick the brew.”

Kirk filled a chilled glass and slid it toward him. The bar was busy, as were all the bars in Key West, the town a drunk tank sitting atop a giant sponge. Lancaster took a long swallow and exhaled pleasurably.

“The older I get, the better that tastes,” he said. “Did you get my message?”

Kirk had been living in Key West for decades, and was wired into the town gossip. He was the source for information, provided he knew you, and trusted you.

“Now that you mention it, I did,” he said. “When did you get into skip tracing?”

“I’m not skip tracing. This is a one-time thing.”

“You’re not working for a bail bondsman?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I hate those assholes.”

Kirk went to serve a pair of leather-clad bikers who’d come in. The drunk lady was mutilating Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” which was not an appropriate song for the area. Key West was on the country’s southernmost tip, and if you left it, there was no place left to run to. Kirk came back and refilled his glass.

“Thanks. So, what have you got for me?”

“Calm down. You just got here,” Kirk said. “Why don’t you take a load off your feet, and soak up the atmosphere? It’ll do you good.”

Normally, he would have agreed. No one in the Keys was in a hurry, and any job was expected to be put off until tomorrow. But this was different; he was about to fit the last piece into the puzzle, and the urgency was killing him.

“I’m not here on vacation,” he said. “I want to get this done before dark.”

“Have it your way. Should I cash you out?”

“Please. How much do I owe you?”

“Eight bucks.”

He fished two hundreds out of his wallet and placed them on the bar.

“Keep the change,” he said.

Kirk found a pen and scribbled an address on the back of a coaster, which he gave to him. “This won’t be easy to find. A lot of buildings got blown away by the storm, and the new ones aren’t on Google Maps. You’re going to need to poke around.”

“That’s my specialty. Poking around.”

“Good luck. Don’t be a stranger.”

Key West was second to none when it came to community, and sparkling blue water. He found the address by asking a man walking his dog, and parked a block away. He spent a few minutes getting a feel for the area before knocking on the front door. A woman wearing a fluffy pink bathrobe answered, a tall boy in hand.