'I don't know, but we'd better find out soon.'
The FBI agent had been following our conversation. 'What's this all about? You guys know this man?'
'Yeah,' I said. 'I think he tried to kill me recently.'
'Fill me in,' the FBI guy said. 'This could be important.'
'Let me make a call first.'
I dialed Detective David Sims's cell phone in Bradenton.
'Hope I didn't wake you,' I said. 'This is Matt Royal.'
'No, I'm watching the tail end of a Devil Rays game. Pretty bad. What's up?'
'Have you talked to your buddy Paul Galis in the last couple of days?'
'No. Why?'
'Long story, but I'm working with the government on a potential bombing in Orlando. You can call Galls to verify. It looks like our old buddy Fats Monahan is involved.'
'Fats? From that bar out on Cortez Road?'
'The same one. We picked him up on surveillance with what we think is the bomb in question.'
'What do you need from me?'
'Anything you can get on Fats or his bar. We're in a very short time frame here. Call Galls and get up to speed.'
'I'll do that, Mr. Royal. You seem determined to screw up my life.'
I laughed. 'Not intentionally, I assure you.' I hung up.
I called Debbie.
'Almost finished,' she said. 'I need another few minutes:'
'Keep digging. I want you to also check into a guy named Fats Monahan and Hutch's Tavern.'
'The place over on Cortez Road?'
'Exactly.'
'Well, I don't have anything else to do at midnight. Except sleep.' She hung up.
'She needs to find a boyfriend,' I said.
'Deb?' said Logan. 'I don't know. She's pretty picky.'
I filled the FBI in on what we knew about Fats and told him about Sims's role in this.
He turned to leave. 'I'll get our computer people onto chasing Fats,' he said. 'Maybe they'll turn up something we can use.'
'Tell them to hurry,' I said, as he went out the door.
I called Jock to tell him about Fats. 'I'm not sure how he fits into this, but he's got the explosives.'
'I'm fresh out of suggestions. Keep me informed.' He hung up.
'Logan,' I said. 'Got any ideas about the connection between Fats and Simmermon?'
'Beats me. Both of them have a history in the Keys, but that's about all I can see that would tie them together.'
'That and Varn. Fats knew Varn from his days with the drug lords, and Michelle had Varn killed. I didn't think to ask her if Simmermon knew about his killing.'
I dialed Galls' number.
'Paul,' I said, 'any luck with the bomber down there?'
'No, but I just got off the phone with David Sims. Sounds like you might have stumbled onto something.'
'Yeah, but we'll play hell finding Fats in Orlando tonight.'
'I've been in contact with Atlanta PD. They tell me the bomber there was going to hit a large Baptist church near downtown. I don't know if that could be a pattern, but we're not pulling any of our people off all the other churches down here.'
'Do you have Michelle Browne stashed somewhere close?'
'Yeah. She's in isolation in the county jail, about a hundred yards from my office.'
'I need you to ask her about Fats. I also need to know if Simmermon knew about the hit she put on Varn or Yardley or whatever they called him.'
'I'll see what she can tell me.'
'Don't be gentle, Paul. A lot is riding on this.'
'I gotcha. I'll get back to you in a few minutes.'
I didn't know what else to do. I had to wait for calls from Debbie and Paul Galls, and hope they had some information that would lead us toward our bomber.
The night was passing by with the speed of an out-of-control freight train on a downhill grade. Every minute, every second, moved us closer to a catastrophe that could change the world. Even if the president's address to the nation stopped the reaction Simmermon hoped for, a lot of good people would die on a quiet Sunday morning in Orlando. We had to stop this madness, but damned if I knew how.
I was tired. I dozed in my chair, waiting for a phone call. My head fell to my chest and woke me up. I looked around the room, my brain slowly coming into focus. Logan had nodded off in his chair, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. A snore escaped from his open mouth with every breath. I got up to get another cup of coffee. My phone rang, its irritating jangle waking Logan.
'Matt,' said Paul Galls, 'I don't have much for you. Michelle says that Simmermon is the one who put the hit on those guys in Bradenton. She didn't know who he used.'
'She told me she knew about Bartel and even had to get somebody else to take a shot at Logan.'
'Now she's saying that she only knew what Simmermon told her. She never met Bartel. She did agree with the Rev that there was a dangerous situation in Longboat Key because of Peggy, and thought that taking you guys out was the best way to solve the problem. She also wanted to take Peggy out, but Simmermon was falling in love and put the kibosh on that idea.'
'That sounds a little out of character for the Rev, doesn't it?'
'Michelle said that he falls in love regularly. Usually the girls lie goes for end up in management. The affairs don't last long. Michelle was one of them. It turns out that the woman running the Orlando operation was too.'
'Okay, Paul. Thanks. I'm betting that Simmermon and Fats have been in this together for some time. Did Michelle say any more about the bombings?'
'No. She stands by her story that she only found out about it the day you grabbed her. She thought it was just more of Simmermon's craziness.'
'And she doesn't know Fats?'
'Says she never heard of him.' He hung up.
I looked at my watch. One o'clock. We weren't going to make it.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
A picture of Fats had been given to every law enforcement officer in the Orlando area. Off-duty police officers had been called in. It was the greatest manhunt in the city's history, and the cops weren't being told why they were looking for Fats. The powers in Washington didn't want a panic.
The various law enforcement agencies had finished with the whorehouse, and we'd moved the command post to the Orlando police department headquarters on Hughey Street, just south of the Federal Courthouse.
We were housed in a small room that had been set up for emergencies. There was a conference table flanked by executive desk chairs, a sideboard with coffee and water, and an array of radio gear at one end of the room.
We sat, and we waited. The police officer manning the radio was back with us. The droning of ordinary police calls filled the small space. At two thirty a.m. my phone rang. Sims.
'Matt,' he said, 'Fats Monahan is a ghost. He came to Manatee County about three years ago and started working at Hutch's. He doesn't own it, but I'll have to wait until the county courthouse opens to find out who does. He's got no record or warrants out for him. I can't find anything on him prior to his coming here. I'm betting Fats
