Found: A Matt Royal Mystery (3 page)

“Steve Carey was chasing the guy who went off the bridge,” I said. “They think he shot somebody at mid-key. J.D. went down there to interview a witness and get the investigation started.”

“Did the guy make it out of the car?” asked Logan.

“No.”

“That’s good,” said Logan. “Saves the taxpayers the cost of a trial.”

“You’re pretty cynical today,” I said.

“I think Marie is about to dump me.”

I was surprised at that. Marie was a wealthy woman who lived in a high-rise condo on the south end of the key. She and Logan had been together for more than a year, and it seemed to work for both of them. “Why?” I asked.

“Why is she about to dump me or why do I think she’s about to dump me?” The precision of the nearly drunk mind.

“Why do you think she’s about to dump you?”

“You know how women act when they start to pull away from you?”

I thought about that for a beat. “I guess so.”

“They get kind of twitchy,” Logan said.

“Twitchy?”

“You know. They don’t always return your calls. You go out to dinner and they say good night at the door. No inviting you in to spend the night. That sort of thing.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since yesterday.”

“You might be jumping the gun, buddy. What do you think, Susie?”

She grinned. “Logan’s full of crap, as usual.”

Logan swished the ice in his glass, looked at it, and held it out to Susie. “One more.”

Susie shook her head. “It’s not even two o’clock, Logan, and you’ve already got a load on. Maybe you ought to let Matt take you home for a nap.”

Logan chuckled. “I don’t need no stinkin’ nap.”

“Logan,” I said, changing the subject. “You hang out some over at Annie’s. Do you know a man named Ken Goodlow?” Annie’s was a bait-and-tackle shop on the bayfront at the mainland end of the Cortez Bridge. It had a tiny bar that sold beer and wine and provided a small menu that included some of the best hamburgers and fried clams in the area.

“Yeah. Neat old guy. Comes in for a beer most afternoons. Lived in Cortez all his life.”

“He’s the one who was shot.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn,” said Logan. “That’s too bad. He had a lot of stories. He was a soldier back in World War II. Military police, I think. Worked the fishing boats when he came back after the war. When he got too old for the boats, he drove the water taxi until that went belly-up. His wife died years ago and he never got remarried. Used to say he was too ornery for any one woman to put up with.”

“Sounds like an interesting guy,” I said.

“Yeah. I hope the son of a bitch who shot him died a slow death in that car.”

Ann Kuehnel was in her late seventies, tall and what one might call “stately.” Her skin was lightly tanned and her face smooth, so smooth that J.D. suspected the hand of a skilled surgeon had molded it. Her upswept hair was a reddish-blonde, her dress expensive, her necklace diamond, her voice cultured. She stood in the doorway of a condo unit that cost several million dollars.

“Mrs. Kuehnel? I’m Detective J.D. Duncan.”

“Please come in, Detective. This has been a terrible day.”

J.D. was led into a large and exquisitely decorated room overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. A middle-aged woman was standing in the center of the room. “Detective Duncan,” said Mrs. Kuehnel, “this is my neighbor, Cheryl Loeffler.”

“Don’t mind me, Detective,” the woman said. “I was just leaving.”

“Thanks for sticking around, Cheryl. I’ll call you later,” said Ann.

“Before you go, Ms. Loeffler,” J.D. said, “can you tell me if you saw the shooting?”

“No, thank goodness, but I think I heard it.”

“What did you hear?”

“Just a pop. I didn’t think anything about it. Figured it was a car out on the road. When I heard sirens and saw the police cars pull into our lot, I came out to see what was going on and saw Ann talking to the police. We came back up here to wait for you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Loeffler,” said J.D., handing her a business card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

“Certainly,” said Cheryl. “Ann, call me if you need anything. I’ll let myself out.”

“Please, have a seat, Detective,” said Mrs. Kuehnel. “Can I get you some iced tea or a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you. I’d like to ask you some questions about the shooting you saw.”

“Of course. Ken Goodlow was a friend. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

“I understand he was visiting you.”

“Yes.”

“Have you known Mr. Goodlow long?”

“A few years.”

“I don’t mean to pry,” said J.D., “but I have to ask you about your relationship.”

“Oh, dear. There was no relationship. Not in the way you’re implying.”

J.D. smiled. “I didn’t mean to imply anything, Mrs. Kuehnel.”

“Well, then, I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions. Ken was very much involved in the Cortez Historical Society. I met him some years ago because of my interest in local history.”

“Do you know his family?”

“I don’t think he had any. His wife died years ago and they never had any children. I think all his other relatives died out a long time ago.”

“What about his friends?”

“I only know the ones involved with the historical society.”

“What was your interest in Cortez?”

“My husband, God rest his soul, died ten years ago and left me more money than I’ll ever be able to spend. I have a number of charitable causes and one of them is the Cortez Historical Society. Ken Goodlow was the president. He’d lived his whole life in the village, except for some time out for military service during World War II.”

“So you give them money?”

“Yes. Not a lot, because they don’t require much. I just do what I can to support their efforts to maintain the memories of a way of life that has just about disappeared from Florida.”

“You mean the fishing?” asked J.D.

“Yes. The commercial fishing has pretty much died out. The net ban that took effect some years ago just about killed a whole way of life. Cortez
may be the last village in the state that maintains itself with fishing. And the number of fishermen is declining every year. The old people are dying out and the young ones don’t want anything to do with fishing for a living. Soon, Cortez will be just a dim memory. We need to make sure that memory survives.”

“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Mr. Goodlow?”

Ann sighed and her eyes welled with tears. She wiped them away and said, “No. He was a sweet and harmless old man.”

“Tell me what you saw,” J.D. said, switching gears.

“Ken took the elevator downstairs, and I was standing on the balcony overlooking the parking lot watching him go. He was getting into his truck when the man in the Jaguar drove into the parking lot and said something to Ken. He walked over to the car, and the driver shot him in the forehead and took off.”

“Did you notice from which direction he came on Gulf of Mexico Drive?”

She was quiet for a few moments, thinking. “No. In fact, I’m not even sure he came into the parking lot from that direction, from GMD.”

“There’s no other way to get in, is there?”

“No. As I think about it, he may have been parked in the lot when I first saw his car.”

“Do you remember where he was parked?”

Ann was quiet again. “His car was moving when I first saw it. He was coming out of a parking space and driving toward Gulf of Mexico Drive when he stopped and called to Ken. I don’t think I noticed which parking space he was in, but I think he was backed in, facing GMD. All he had to do when he saw Ken come out was drive forward. He just stopped, shot Ken, and drove off.”

“What did you do after the shooting?”

“I had my cell phone in the pocket of my sweater and I immediately called 911 and asked for an ambulance. I told the operator about the man in the Jaguar and that he took off north on GMD. I heard a siren almost immediately. I guess it was the officer chasing the Jaguar. One of your young officers told me about the man going off the bridge.”

“Can you describe the man in the Jaguar?”

“No. I didn’t get much of a look at him. I don’t think I saw anything except an arm coming out of the window.”

“Why did Mr. Goodlow come to see you today?”

“He wanted to show me some snapshots he’d come across that were taken shortly after the war. They were of a group of young people, most of whom are dead now. I think Bud Jamison was the only one still alive.”

“Do you know Mr. Jamison?”

“Oh, sure. He’s involved in the history projects. He’s lived in Cortez since the war. He and Ken Goodlow were the best of friends. Bud’s going to take this hard.”

“Do you have an address for Mr. Jamison?”

“No. But I can give you his phone number.”

J.D. wrote the number in her notebook. “Can you think of any more friends of Mr. Goodlow who might be able to shed some light on his murder?”

“I’m sure he has a lot of friends in Cortez, but Bud Jamison will be able to tell you a lot more than I could.”

“Did anyone know Mr. Goodlow was coming to visit you today?”

“I doubt it. He called a few minutes before he stopped by. Said he was in the neighborhood and had some old pictures he wanted to show me.”

“Anything else you can think of that might help us?”

“No, but I’ll call you if anything comes to mind.”

J.D. thanked her and left. The medical examiner’s van that had been in the parking lot when she arrived was gone. The crime-scene people were packing up, getting ready to leave. She walked over to one of them. “Hey, Loren,” she said. “Find anything?”

“Hey, J.D. Just a casing from a nine millimeter. Probably from the slug that killed the old guy.”

“Not much to go on.”

“There’s a security camera up there.” He pointed to the corner of the building. “The manager gave us a disc with the footage from all day. We’ll go through it. Never know what might turn up.”

“I’ll want to look at that as soon as possible.”

“I’ll make a duplicate and drop it by the station this afternoon.”

“Did you find any photographs? Old ones?”

“Yeah. There was an envelope in the car that had some pictures in it. We left it there. The people back at the lab will have them.”

“I’d like copies of those as soon as you can get them.”

“Not a problem. I’ll get some copies made and bring them with the surveillance CD.”

“Thanks, Loren. See you later.”

I declined another beer. I had missed my morning run, so I needed to get home, change, and jog my daily four miles on the beach. “You want to go run with me?” I asked Logan.

He looked at me as if I’d slipped a gear. Logan had recently retired from the financial services company he’d worked for since he graduated from college. He had made a lot of money, and, as he said, he’d never wasted it on a wife or kids. He was young for retirement, but so was I, and maybe that’s what made us such good friends. Logan stood about five feet ten and had lost most of his hair. What was left had turned white, so he looked older than he was. He had gained some weight since he gave up working for a living and, if he wasn’t careful, he would become one of those retirees who did nothing but drink and watch television. I was worried that he was drinking too much, but he seemed to have a large capacity for alcohol and he was never a sloppy drunk.

“You go ahead,” he said with a grin. “I’ll catch up.”

“Right.”

The door to the parking lot opened, letting in light and a little fresh air and Cracker Dix. He greeted us in his English accent, took a stool, and ordered a glass of white wine. “Matt,” he said, “you’re here a bit early. What’s up? J.D. dump you?”

“Not yet, Cracker. I just stopped in to rescue Logan.”

“It’ll happen,” Logan said.

“What’ll happen?” asked Cracker.

“J.D. will dump Matt’s sorry ass. Soon, probably.”

“Ah,” said Cracker, “a match made in paradise. Can’t go wrong.”

“You hear about the mess on the bridge?” Susie asked.

“Yes,” said Cracker. “I also heard that the asshole who went off the bridge killed old Ken Goodlow.” News travels fast on our small island.

“Did you know Goodlow?” I asked.

“Yeah. I met him when I first came to the island. Used to drink with him over in Cortez. He got me a job on one of the boats that used to work out of the fish houses over there.”

“I didn’t know you worked the boats,” I said.

“Sure did. Lasted one whole day. Wouldn’t have been that long if the captain hadn’t refused to bring me in early.”

Cracker Dix was an expatriate Englishman who had lived on Longboat Key for thirty years without losing his English accent. He was in his late fifties, bald as a cue ball, and dressed, as usual, in a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a single-strand gold necklace. He had a gold stud in his right earlobe and an IQ that rested somewhere in the stratosphere.

“Any idea who’d want to kill him?” I asked.

“None. Everybody liked the old codger.”

“Did he have a family?”

“No. His wife died some years ago and they never had kids. The closest thing he had to family was Bud Jamison. Those guys were tighter than a virgin’s—”

“Don’t say it,” interrupted Susie.

Cracker grinned. “Well, you get my meaning.”

“We all got it,” said Susie.

“Anyway,” said Cracker, “they’ve been buds since World War II.”

“Is Jamison married?” I asked.

“No. I think he was once, years ago, but his wife died before I met him.”

“I’ll pass this on to J.D.,” I said. “She’ll probably want to interview him.”

“She probably already knows,” said Cracker. “Everybody in Cortez knew those guys were close. But, there was something that happened two or three years back.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Then what makes you think something happened?”

“Back then, there were still several of the old guys left, and they had coffee every morning at the Cortez Café. I was seeing a woman who lived nearby and when I’d spend the night with her, when her husband was traveling, I’d join the old guys for coffee.”