The phone rang. Debbie.
"Got some stuff for you, Matt, but it's a little confusing."
"Talk to me."
"Clyde Varn was born in Brooksville, up just north of Tampa, graduated from high school there, got drafted, fought in Vietnam, honorable discharge, and then a string of petty-crime charges. A lot of those are in Monroe County, down in the Keys. He was convicted once in Miami on pot possession, and that's it.
"Seven years ago, he testified against some drug runners in federal court in Miami. Then he dropped off the radar and hasn't been seen since."
"How long ago did he disappear?"
"Right after he testified."
"Isn't that a little odd? Could he have been in jail somewhere?"
"No. I would've found those records. Plus you said that Bill Lester's search of the FBI files didn't show any convictions other than the misdemeanor pot thing in Miami some years ago. And I found that one."
"Where has he been for the past seven years?"
"That's the interesting thing. About the time Varn dropped off the planet, Jake Yardley shows up. He gets a couple of credit cards, a Kansas driver's license, and he's living in an apartment in Topeka. He doesn't seem to have a job, so I don't know what he was living on. I can't find any history on him before he showed up in Topeka. It's like he dropped in when Varn dropped out."
"Maybe that's what happened," I said.
"Then about a year ago, Yardley shows up in Tampa and trades his Kansas driver's license for a Florida one with a Brooksville address. The same one where Varn grew up. From then on, there's nothing on him. No credit cards, no traffic tickets, nothing. He must've been paying cash for everything he bought."
"Thanks, Deb," I said, and hung up.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I was reaching for the phone when it rang. Again. I answered, expecting more bad news. I got it.
"Matt, Cracker Dix here. Fats Monahan just called me. Said he needs to see you as soon as possible."
"What about?"
"He said to tell you he knows who killed Wayne Lee. I didn't even know he was dead."
"Last night. Where is Fats now?"
"At Hutch's. He lives above it, so he's always there."
"Thanks, Cracker. I'll go right over."
I crossed the Longboat Pass Bridge and drove north a couple of miles, turning right onto Cortez Road. I had to wait on the Cortez Bridge while a tall-masted sailboat moved slowly under power through the open span. Pelicans were diving into the bay like Stuka bombers, hitting the water and then bouncing back up, floating as they raised their heads and swallowed the hapless fish they'd caught. A gull landed on the back of a pelican and tried to snatch breakfast before the bigger bird could swallow it. No luck.
The bridge siren sounded. The span was going back down, and when it was locked in place, the barricade rose from the roadway, signaling me to move on.
I drove less than a mile and pulled into the shell parking lot of Hutch's. The front door was open, and the place seemed deserted. I walked in, stopping for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkened interior. I could smell the place. An almost overpowering stench of unwashed bodies, cigarette smoke, and stale beer lingered from the night before. It was so quiet I could hear the air shuffling through my nostrils.
"Fats," I called out.
Nothing.
"Fats." Again, louder.
Nothing. I pulled my nine millimeter from the pocket of my windbreaker. I pumped a round into the chamber, and held the pistol down by my leg, pointing to die floor.
I noticed a partially open door across the barroom. It led to another room, perhaps a storeroom or a bathroom. I couldn't be sure. The interior was pitch dark.
I eased toward the door, my pistol in front of me, held in a twohanded grip. I pushed the door all the way open with the barrel of the weapon. I reached in with my left hand, fumbling along the wall next to the door, trying to find a light switch. My hand closed on a plastic cover with a round knob, like the controls of a rheostat. I pushed the knob in, and light flooded the small room.
I was standing in a dusty vestibule, with stairs leading upward. There were cases of whiskey stacked around the little room and under the stairs. The space was unpainted, and dust covered the boxes of booze.
I saw a door at the head of the stairs and started climbing, slowly. Light was seeping from around the door, casting a faint glow on die area. I stayed to die edge of the steps, hoping not to cause one to creak and give me away. I pointed my gun upward. I wasn't sure why I was being so careful, but it seemed like a good idea.
I reached the door and slowly turned the knob. It wasn't locked and I carefully opened it. Light poured through the crack between the door and the jamb. As the opening widened, more sunlight splashed out.
I swung the door all the way open and at the same time stepped back down a couple of steps, crouching. I wanted to make as small a target as possible.
Nothing. No movement. No sound.
I stood and moved into the room, gun pointing forward. No one was there. It wasn't much of a room. A single bed was positioned under the window across from the doorway in which I stood. This was the source of the sunlight that flowed into the room. The bed was unmade, die sheets tangled, a pillow on the floor. An overstuffed chair was positioned at the foot of the bed, a reading lamp next to it. The walls were an institutional gray, the paint peeling in spots. I could see a brown blotch on the ceiling where the roof had leaked. On the wall across from the bed, someone had built a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. It was filled with books. A quick glance told me that the reader's interest ran to history and biography. A closed door bisected the wall to my right.
"Fats," I called again.
The door opened, and a naked man stood there, shaving cream covering his face, a safety razor in his hand, a startled look on his face, dissolving quickly into fear.
"What the fuck?" said the naked man. It was Fats.
I angled the gun toward the floor. "Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"Startle? You scared the ever-living shit out of me, Counselor. What the hell are you doing?"
"The door downstairs is open and nobody was in the bar. I wasn't sure what I was going to find. Sorry."
"That door should be locked. You sure it's open?"
"Wide open."
"What are you doing here?"
"You said you wanted to see me."
"I never said that."
"Didn't you call Cracker Dix and tell him you wanted to see me about Wayne Lee?"
"No. Why would I?"
He reached into the bathroom and grabbed a towel, wiped his face and then put it around his considerable girth.
"About his murder," I said.
"Wayne's murder?"
"Yes. Last night."
"Damn."
Fats moved to the chair and sat down heavily. He put his hands to his face, almost prayerfully. "What happened?"
"He was shot in the chest. Over near where he lives. That's all I know."
"Shit. Poor guy. He never hurt nobody."
I had moved into the room, keeping an eye on the door leading to the stairs. Somebody had called Cracker and told him to get me here. Why? Why was the door downstairs open? Was somebody else in the building?
Then I heard it. A step creaking. I turned to Fats, putting a finger to my lips, the universal signal for quiet. I raised my pistol, sighting on the open door to the stairs. Another creak, and then the door was thrown all the way back, bouncing against the wall.
A big man pushed into the room. He was about six feet tall, but he must've weighed three hundred pounds. I didn't think any of it was fat. He wore a black ski mask, and he had a shotgun in his hands, leveled at me. I saw his eyes squint in anticipation of the shot. His finger was pulling back on the trigger, whitening under the pressure. His lips, visible through the mouth hole of the mask, were beginning to part in a grin, or a grimace.