I was sitting on my sunporch, drinking a cup of coffee, watching the morning unfold. Nature's display never failed to arouse a feeling of contentment in me. I was where I wanted to be, living on an island separated from much of the world's troubles by a wide bay.
The day's lead story told of a trial going on in the courthouse in Sarasota. It was about complex civil issues growing out of the building of a major hotel downtown. I smiled, relieved to be on the sunporch drinking coffee. The trial was in its third week and was expected to last two more. I knew what those lawyers were going through. They weren't getting enough sleep, they were eating on the run, they had abandoned their families for the duration, and their ulcers were burning in their guts.
I'd been a trial lawyer in Orlando for a long time. The pressure on those who go into the pit to do battle is enormous, and too many of them turn to alcohol. I did. That was a big part of Laura's decision to end our marriage, and it eventually ended my career. I wasn't run out of the profession; I just gave up and moved to Longboat Key.
A good man talked me into taking one last case, to right a wrong done him. I beat the alcohol problem, regained my self-respect, won the case, and not incidentally, made some money. I had enough to live modestly for the rest of my life, and I was content.
At seven thirty, I called Bill Lester. I explained what Logan and I had found out the day before, and asked him whether the North Port and Venice young people had gone missing recently.
"I don't think you're going to find any connection between Simmermon and the missing kids," he said. "Varn was probably lying when he said he dropped them at Robarts."
"I know, but I'd like to satisfy my curiosity. Will you check on it?"
"I'll check on it and let you know. By the way, I got a note on my desk overnight about that body you found at Pelican Man's."
"Did you get an ID?"
"No, but the body disappeared yesterday. From the county morgue."
"How in the world does something like that happen?"
"Somebody from a funeral home showed up with papers signed by the family, directing the morgue to turn over the body. Only problem was, after the hearse left, a supervisor looked at the papers and thought they were a little hokey."
"Hokey?"
"Yeah. You know Not right somehow. How would the family have known the body was there if it hadn't even been identified yet? Anyway, the supervisor called the funeral home, and nobody there had heard anything about the body or its being picked up."
"Weird. What's Sarasota PD doing about it?" I asked.
"Investigating. Whatever that means. They're also keeping the whole thing under wraps. The detectives think it might be some sort of death cult that uses bodies in their rituals. If the body was unidentified, no family would be looking for it, and they could get it with minimal fuss."
I laughed. "This place gets kinkier and kinkier."
"I hear you, Matt. Everybody's living the dream. I'll call you later about the missing people."
The chief called an hour later. "No go," he said. "Those kids in North Port and Venice disappeared months ago, long before Simmermon came to town. It's a dead end, Matt."
"I'm not really surprised," I said. "There's no reason to think a traveling evangelist is kidnapping people. What about another connection, though? Young people disappearing. Can you think of any reason?"
"The word I'm getting is that in each case there was some family trouble going on. Probably nothing more than kids growing up and getting out of a bad situation. Two of those reported missing turned up on their own.
"I checked with Sarasota PD about the vulture pit guy."
"Anything?" I asked.
"Nope. Not a trace. It's as if the body disappeared from the face of the earth. No leads, no clues, nothing."
"What about the death cult idea?"
"Didn't go anywhere. The gang unit has never had a whiff of that sort of thing going on around here."
"Bill, I know you don't have a lot of manpower. I wonder how you'd feel about me showing Varn's picture around the key. See if anybody else remembers seeing him."
"Not a problem. Stop by the station and I'll give you a print of his driver's license photo."
CHAPTER TWELVE
After getting the picture of Varn, I spent the rest of the morning cleaning my boat. I showered and went to Moore's Stone Crab Restaurant for lunch. I ate in the bar, talking idly with Debbie, the bartender. I hadn't been in for a while, and we were catching up about mutual friends. I also told her about Peggy.
Cracker Dix came in as I was finishing my burger and onion rings. "Hey, Matt," he said. "Heard you found that body down at Pelican Man's the other day."
"Yeah. Great way to start the day," I said.
Cracker was an expatriate Englishman who had lived on the key for many years. He was about fifty, medium height, and bald as a billiard ball. He sported a close-cropped beard, a Hawaiian shirt, beige shorts, and flipflops. A small gold stud was planted in his right earlobe, a thin gold chain around his neck. He ordered a beer and took the stool beside me.
"You catching any fish?" he asked.
"No. I haven't even been out this week. Too much wind."
Debbie was back with a glass of dark beer. She set it in front of Cracker and put her elbows on the bar, leaning into it, joining the conversation.
We were alone in the lounge, but I could hear low voices coming from the dining room, the clanging of utensils on plates punctuating the conversation. Stone crabs were in season, and the snowbirds were taking their fill of them before going home for the summer. Somewhere in the back of the restaurant, a plate fell and shattered on the tile floor.
The bay outside the large windows was rippled by the northerly wind blowing down the channel. Two sailboats were anchored in the cove, swinging gently on their anchor lines. The sun was high, still hanging in the southern sky, waiting for summer before it angled directly overhead and heated the island, bringing our annual bath of humidity.
A waitress came to the service bar and called a drink order to Debbie. She left to fill it.
"Cracker," I said, placing the picture of Varn on the bar, "you get around a lot. Did you ever see this guy?"
Cracker looked closely at it for a moment, chewing on his lower lip in concentration. "Yeah," he said, finally. "I've seen him a couple of times with Wayne Lee, over at Hutch's on Cortez Road."
I frowned. "Wayne Lee," I said. "Where do I know that name from?"
"You've met him at Tiny's. He comes in now and then. He works the boats out of Cortez when he's sober."
"Right. Comes in some with Nestor Cobol."
"That's him."
"Where can I find Lee?"
"I don't know, but Fats Monahan, the bartender at Hutch's, probably knows."
Hutch's had been there as long as I'd been coming to the key. It hunkered down next to Cortez Road, just over the bridge that spanned the Intracoastal between the mainland and Anna Maria Island. Because of its proximity to the fish houses and commercial docks, it had a rowdy reputation, fueled by the men who fished the sea for a living. I'd never visited the place.
The building was concrete block covered by a layer of stucco, some of it sloughing off. I could see bare blocks under the beige exterior. A glass door gave entrance to a dim recess of ugliness and body odors, tinged with the smell of fish, cigarette smoke, and stale beer. A bar took up one wall, with tables situated about a small linoleum-covered floor. Bare concrete showed in the spots where the covering had been ripped up. No sunlight penetrated this dark space. A fat man in a white T-shirt with no sleeves leaned on the bar, talking to the lone customer. It was two in the afternoon.