Found: A Matt Royal Mystery (10 page)

“That was quick. I appreciate it, Bert. Can you e-mail the results to me? I’ll run them through the system and see if anything comes up.”

“It’ll be on its way in a few minutes.”

“I’ve got another question for you,” said J.D.

“Shoot.”

“Do you remember the murders of Jim and Katie Fredrickson?”

“Sure. I knew them. It was a terrible shame, losing two young people like that.”

“Can you tell me about Katie?”

“What’s your interest in this? I thought this was Sarasota P.D. territory.”

“Katie and I were close friends in college, and Doug McAllister has been good enough to keep me in the loop. I’m just taking another look at everything.”

“You don’t think he would mind my talking to you?”

“Not at all. I just had lunch with him. He gave me a complete copy of his file. You can call him if you like.”

“No need. I’ll take your word for it.”

“What makes you think Katie was raped?”

“The techs found vaginal fluids on the sofa. The DNA matched the blood on the floor. The same woman who secreted the fluids on the sofa left a lot of blood on the carpet.”

“And that matched Katie’s DNA.”

“Yes. At least it matched the DNA we found on what was apparently Katie’s toothbrush and strands of hair we found in her hairbrush.”

“Do I detect a bit of uncertainty in your voice?”

“Maybe. We didn’t have a body to match it to, so we had to assume that the toothbrush and hairbrush belonged to Katie. They were found in her bathroom, so I think it’s a pretty good assumption, but still an assumption. That bothers the scientific part of my brain.”

“What about her parents? Wouldn’t you have been able to match their DNA to Katie’s?”

“The Basses were not Katie’s biological parents. They adopted her as an infant. She’d been left at a fire station in Orlando when she was about three days old. There was no way to track her biological parents.”

“I didn’t know that,” said J.D. “I can’t believe as close as we were that she wouldn’t have mentioned that.”

“She didn’t know,” said Hawkins. “I talked to her parents myself. They never told her.”

“That’s cruel,” said J.D., anger flashing in her voice.

“Yes, it is. But I think the Basses’ hearts were in the right place. They didn’t want Katie to grow up thinking her biological mother had abandoned her like a sack of garbage.”

J.D. was quiet for a beat. “Are you satisfied that she was raped?”

There was hesitation on the other end of the call. A sigh. Then, “No, I’m not satisfied.”

“Why?”

“The vaginal secretions could have been the result of consensual sex. The only thing that pointed to rape was the blood on the floor indicating that the woman had been killed.”

“So you wouldn’t conclude that she had been raped.”

“Not definitively. Again, my scientific brain gets nervous when it doesn’t have enough evidence to prove the hypothesis.”

“Bert, I read your reports in the Sarasota P.D. files some time ago, but I don’t remember there being anything in them about Katie’s adoption.”

“There wasn’t. The police were content with the rape scenario and weren’t excited about my doubts. They thought I was being too pedantic in trying to tie up all the loose ends. I followed up with the Basses after the reports were filed and didn’t see any reason to amend them. It wasn’t going to make any difference in the investigation.”

“So McAllister doesn’t know about that.”

“I’ve never told anyone other than you. I don’t know whether he might have found that out from the Basses himself.”

“Should I tell McAllister about this?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Did Katie bleed enough that you’re confident she couldn’t have survived?” J.D. asked.

“The average human body contains about ten pints of blood, maybe less in a woman of the size and weight of Katie. If she were to lose forty percent of that blood volume, she’d not likely survive without immediate medical attention.”

“What actually causes death?”

“If the loss is very quick, and it probably was in this case, there’s just
not enough blood left to circulate. The blood pressure drops and organs start shutting down. It goes very quickly, and she was probably almost immediately unconscious.”

“Thanks, Bert. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Are you going to tell McAllister about my reservations?”

“If what you’re telling me is that the victim may not have been Katie, that could change the course of the investigation.”

“I’m not saying that. I have some scientific quibbles with the conclusions the police are drawing, but all the evidence would suggest that the victim was Katie. It’s just that in the absence of DNA proof, I can’t be sure.”

“And you don’t think the DNA you found in the blood and secretions was Katie’s.”

“Now you’re reaching conclusions not supported by the evidence. Look at it this way. In all likelihood, the victim was Katie. Think about how hard it would have been to fake her death. One, somebody would have had to go to some lengths to plant somebody else’s toothbrush and a hairbrush with the same person’s hair in it. Two, the murder happened in Katie’s house. Three, no other woman who could have been the victim has been reported missing. Four, if Katie wasn’t in the house the night of the killings, where was she? Five, where has Katie been for the past year? If she were alive, don’t you think she would have let us know, reached out in some manner? Certainly, she would have been in touch with her parents. It goes on and on. I think the detectives got it right. There’s just that little issue about not having a direct DNA match from either a body or a close family member that nags at me like some minor hangnail.”

“Let’s keep this between us for a bit,” said J.D. “Thanks, Bert. Talk to you later.”

As she pulled into the station parking lot, J.D. was thinking that Bert had made a good case, except that now Katie had reached out. With a texted photograph.

I’d just exited the causeway on the south side of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number and thought about ignoring it. I answered.

“Mr. Royal?” a deep voice came over the hands-free speaker.

“Yes.”

“I understand you want to talk to me.”

I was stumped. “Who is this?”

“My name’s not important. Ben Appleby gave me your number.”

Okay. Contact. “Thanks for calling.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Royal?”

“We need to talk.”

“We’re talking now.”

“Face-to-face.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

The voice laughed. “You’re a piece of work, Mr. Royal.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“Your choice,” I said. “I’m almost to Bradenton now. Just coming off the Skyway. Let’s make it a public place.”

“I’m a little jammed up today. How about in the morning? Starbucks at Cortez Road and Seventy-Fifth Street. Ten o’clock.”

“That’ll work. What’s your name?”

“You can call me Tony.” He hung up.

I called J.D. “Where are you?” I asked.

“At the station. I had a productive lunch with Doug McAllister.”

“Anything new?”

“Some stuff I didn’t know. Most of the new stuff came from a telephone call with Bert Hawkins.”

“Sounds interesting. I had a meeting with your P.I. buddy. Not very productive, but it did get me in touch with the people who hired him.”

“Who?”

“Some guy named Tony is all I know. He just called. We’re going to meet at Starbucks on Cortez Road in the morning.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“I’m not sure either, but maybe I can turn over some rocks. See what crawls out.”

“What’s on your agenda for this afternoon?” J.D. asked.

“I haven’t eaten lunch yet. I think I’ll stop by Moore’s and then curl up with a book. What do you want to do about dinner tonight?”

“I haven’t thought about it. I’ll call you later. We’ll think of something.”

Moore’s Stone Crab Restaurant sits at the end of Broadway in the village. It has been there for more than forty years and occupies one of the most scenic points on the key, with views twelve miles down the bay to the City of Sarasota. It was after two and the lunch crowd had mostly cleared out. I spoke to Allen Moore on the way in the door, walked through the nearly empty dining room and into the bar. Barb, the bartender, was talking to a couple I didn’t recognize who were seated on the far side of the U-shaped bar. I took a seat near the door.

“Hey, Matt,” Barb said. “Miller Lite?”

“Not today, thanks. I need some lunch and a Diet Coke.”

“Menu?”

“No. Just whip me up a hamburger and an order of onion rings.” For a seafood restaurant, the place serves a surprisingly good burger and the rings are the best on the island.

Barb sent the order to the kitchen and came back to chat. “I guess J.D.’s been real busy with the murder,” she said. “Is she making any headway?”

“Some, but it’s slow going.”

“I knew old Mr. Goodlow. He was a good guy.”

“I never met him. Did he come in a lot?”

“Not here. I met him over at Annie’s. My husband and I go over there for the burgers some afternoons. He was there a lot, I think. Liked to tell stories of the old days in Cortez, back when fishing was the community’s lifeblood.”

“Did you ever meet his buddy, Bud Jamison?” I asked.

“Tall guy, walks with a limp, has a small scar on his face?”

“I’ve never met him, but that sounds like J.D.’s description of him.”

“Once or twice. He never said a whole lot. Kind of quiet.”

“Did you ever meet any of the other old guys from Cortez? Cracker Dix told me there were four of them that hung out together until recently when the others died.”

“If I met them, I didn’t know who they were.”

She left to get my food from the pass-through from the kitchen. She set it on the bar in front of me and refilled my glass of Diet Coke. “There was one thing that was a little strange,” she said. “I didn’t think about it until just now, but a few days ago we were in Annie’s late in the afternoon and Mr. Goodlow and the man with the scar on his cheek were talking when we walked in. The man who runs the place was outside fueling a boat, and I don’t think Goodlow was aware of us at first. He’d probably been there a while and had a pretty good load on. I heard him say something like ‘They’ll kill us all if you don’t give them what they want.’”

“That’s odd. Did either of them say anything else?”

“No. The conversation stopped when they realized we were there.”

“And you’re sure it was Jamison that Goodlow was talking to.”

“Pretty sure. If Jamison is the guy with the scar on his cheek. He was the same one I’d seen in there before with Mr. Goodlow.”

“I’ll pass this on to J.D. She may want to talk to you some more.”

“Glad to help. I heard Jock was coming for a visit.”

I chuckled. No secrets on the island. “He should be here this weekend.”

“Bring him in. He’s a sweet guy.” Two men came in from the docks that fronted the restaurant. I’d watched them maneuver a sailboat into a pier while Barb and I talked. She greeted them and went to take their orders.

I always found myself a bit amused about the islanders’ view of Jock. A sweet man. He was that, but he was also a stone-cold killer when he had to be. I often wondered what his friends on the key would have thought if they’d known what he did for his country. The few people who did know held the secret close, and to the rest he was a gentle man with a big smile and an easy laugh.

I finished my lunch, paid Barb, and drove the couple of blocks to my house. I entered the front door and saw a large man sitting on the sofa in my living room. He stood as I walked in and said, “Hello, Mr. Royal. I’m Tony.”

He was a big man, six feet four or so, with muscles that bulged from every part of his body. He was a bit intimidating, and I guessed that was the reason for all the bulk. He’d scare the hell out of people and he was probably as strong as the proverbial ox. We were about six feet from each other, eyes locked. If he decided to make a move, I’d see it in his eyes first.

“You’re a little early,” I said, “and this isn’t Starbucks.”

“I didn’t think Starbucks would be conducive to the business we have to transact.”

“And what would that be, Tony?”

“I’m going to have to hurt you a little. Just a warning, you know. Nothing too serious, maybe a couple of broken bones, but nothing that won’t heal.”

“Who sent you?”

“Sal Bonino.”

“Ah,” I said. “The Suncoast’s own Mafia boss.”

“There’s no such thing as the Mafia.”

“I’ve heard that. What do you call yourselves?”

“Organized crime.”

“Surely your name’s not Tony. I mean, that’s like some kind of cliché. I’ll bet it’s Bob or Jim. Bart Simpson, maybe.”

He tried for a scowl, but it came out looking more like a constipated ape might look when straining on the toilet. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“I’ve been told that before. Just what is your role in all this?”

“I help Mr. Bonino keep people like you from bothering him.”

“I see. And why does your boss have some dipshit investigator following Detective Duncan?”

“Mr. Bonino doesn’t always confide in me.”

“Tell me something, Tony,” I said. “Do all those steroids you take really make your balls shrink to the size of a pea?”

He laughed. “You’re a funny guy.”

“But not as funny as I think, right?”

“Fuck you, Royal. Time to pay the piper.”

“I also heard that stuff makes your dick wither up so that it’s only good for pissing. Is that true?”

The laugh had died away. “Nobody likes a smartass,” he said.

“A lot of people find me quite humorous.”

“Not me. I might have to break a couple of extra bones just to take all the fun out of this.”

“Tony, let me tell you something. You take a step toward me, and I’ll have you charged with assault. As soon as you get out of the hospital, the cops are going to put you in jail, hold you without bond, and try you down at the Manatee County Courthouse. You’ll get about forty years in a state prison. Nobody wants people fucking with their cops.”