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Blood Island

A Matt Royal Mystery

Oceanview Publishing

The body lay on its back, nude. Its eyes and parts of its face were gone. Chunks of flesh had been torn from its torso, its genitals mutilated.

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 deadman. 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 radiomic 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. Wemust 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 Jeff suspected 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."

"Did you check out the house in Athens?"

"That's the first place we went. There were some kids living there, but they told us Peggy had moved out. They didn't know where she'd gone."

"Do you know where she was staying in Sarasota?"

"No. She told us she would be at the beach, but that's all."

"So, you don't even know if it was a hotel or a rented condo."

"No. Sorry."

"How long are you going to be here?"

"I'm leaving today. I came in yesterday and talked to the Sarasota police, but they're no help. I came out here last night, and finally worked up the nerve to call you."

"I'm glad you did. You can't stay for a few days?"

"Afraid not. My other stepdaughter Gwen is so upset about her sister that I don't want to leave her alone for too long. Jeff tries, but she needs her mother. Me."

Laura had moved on into another life that didn't include me. I understood that, but I felt left out. She was still part of me, and yet she wasn't. I was used to that, and my life had moved on as well. What might have been will never be. Somebody ought to write that on a tombstone somewhere. Maybe someone had.

"It's moving too fast," she said.

"What is?" I asked, puzzled.

"Time."

"What're you talking about?"

"We're on a collision course with death you know."

"From the moment we're born."

"Yes, but it's coming closer now. Closer than I want to think about."

"We've got a lot of years left, Laura."

"Do you remember when we were young, the day we got married?"

I remembered every moment of it. Sometimes, at night, when I couldn't sleep, I'd retrieve those memories from back where they live, hidden away like precious gems in the vault of my mind. I'd wade into them, take myself back to that warm spring day in Orlando, smell the flowers in the church and the slight vanilla aroma of her skin as I leaned in to kiss her at the altar. I'd hear the swell of the organ as we strode up the aisle into the rest of our lives. And because I'd be overwhelmed by regret for what might have been, I'd quietly store them away again, to be brought out and caressed when my soul demanded a visit with Laura.

"Yes," I said. "I remember."

The waiter appeared and poured us more coffee. The sun was higher now, its rays more concentrated, heating up the patio. A gull cried in the distance, a chair scraped away from a nearby table. Then there was quiet.

I said, "I'll see what I can find out about Peggy."

Laura gave me a picture of her stepdaughter taken in a garden on the day she graduated from high school. "This was taken in June, in our yard at home."

There was no point of reference that would give me her height, but she was a lovely girl. Five feet seven, Laura said. Peggy was wearing her graduation gown and holding her diploma. She was smiling. She had blonde hair reaching to her shoulders, a nose that might have been a little too perky for my taste, and good legs below the hem of the robe.

I took the picture and told Laura I'd do what I could. "You realize this is a long shot," I said. "I'll show the picture around here on Longboat and the other islands, but the chances of anybody remembering her are slim."

"I know, Matt. But I don't know what else to do. I'll keep trying to get the police involved, but I don't think they're going to help. Maybe you'll get lucky."

We talked a while and drank another cup of coffee.

She looked at me, staring at my face for a long time, long enough that I was getting uncomfortable. Then she shrugged, as if snapping out of a trance.

"I've got to go," she said. "I've got a plane in a couple of hours."

"I'll be in touch."

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Excerpted from Blood Island by H. Terrell Griffin. Copyright © 2008 H. Terrell Griffin. Excerpted by permission of Oceanview Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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