'Didn't Clyde recognize you when he came in?'
'No,' Fats said. 'I've gained about a hundred pounds, and when we worked together Iliad a full beard. I don't think anybody from those days would recognize me.'
'What was your name?'
'Can't tell you, Matt. Sorry.'
'Did you spend much time with Varn?'
'For a while. He lived up the street in the trailer park and would come in most days. We'd sit here at the bar and talk.'
'About what?'
'Sports, mostly. He did tell me that he came here from Kansas, but he never told me anything else of a personal nature.'
'How did he make his living?' I asked.
'I don't know. He never said anything about a job.'
'Could he have been doing work for the drug guys in South Florida?'
'I doubt it. They put a contract out on him after he testified against them. I figured that's why he changed his name.'
I heard sirens in the distance, drawing closer. Tires crunched onto the shell parking lot. Car doors slammed. Feet ran on the cement floor below, the leather boot soles making slapping sounds. Leather equipment holders creaked, and I heard a rifle chambering a round.
'Up here,' I called out. 'We're unarmed.'
There was quiet for a beat, two, and then a voice, strained with tension, came from below. 'Come to the door where I can see you. Hands over your head. Come out slow'
I lay my gun on the bed and eased over to the door, hands raised. I stood by the jamb and said, 'I'm coming out. Here are my hands.' I stuck them into the doorway. If some trigger-happy cop was going to shoot, I'd rather he hit my hands than my chest.
'Show yourself,' came the voice from below.
'I'm coming out,' I said, and slipped into full view in the doorway, hands high.
'Anybody else up there?'
'One live and one dead guy,' I said. 'The live one's coming over now.'
I looked back at Fats. He was standing with his hands up. I nodded. He started walking slowly toward me. Heavy footsteps were bounding up the stairs. Just as Fats got to me, a sheriff's deputy came through the doorway and shoved a rifle into my gut.
'Move back,' said the cop.
I did, being careful not to step on the body.
Another deputy came through the doorway, pistol drawn. He looked at the dead guy, stopped, reached down, and felt for a pulse in his neck. He stood back up, shaking his head, and looked at me. 'Who're you?'
'I'm Matt Royal. I live on Longboat Key. I have identification. The gun on the bed is mine. I shot this guy with it.'
The cop nodded, then looked at Fats.
'I'm Fats Monahan. I live here.'
The deputy took a deep breath. 'The detectives will be here in a minute,' he said. 'Let's just sit tight until they get here. Don't touch anything.'
He signaled us to put our hands down. He walked over to the bed and stood by it, not touching the nine millimeter lying on the tangled sheets, but making sure that neither Fats nor I could get to it.
The other deputy turned and yelled down the stairs. 'We're cool up here. Send the detectives in when they get here.'
We stood silently for a few moments. I could hear traffic whizzing by out on Cortez Road. Somewhere in the building, an air-conditioning unit clicked on. Cool air rushed out of a vent in the ceiling that I hadn't noticed. A car horn, the short squeal of brakes, a diesel engine accelerating, the ambient noise of early morning in a quiet neighborhood.
I heard another car coming to a stop on the shell parking lot. In a minute a voice from below said, 'Detective coming up.' The deputies in the room seemed to relax; glad someone was here to take control.
A man of about six feet, slender with a small belly, dark hair going to gray, and a bald spot that would eventually claim his head, stepped into the room. He wore a beige sports jacket with brown pants, white dress shirt, and a red tie with small white polka dots. A gold badge was held in place over his jacket pocket by its leather case. 'I'm Detective David Sims,' he said. 'What the hell happened here?'
The deputy who had entered the room first said, 'We just got here, Detective. We secured the area, but we haven't talked to the witnesses. This is Mr. Royal and that's Fats Monahan. I haven't seen their IDs yet.'
The detective looked at me. 'Let's see,' he said, holding out his right hand.
I reached for my wallet and handed him my driver's license. He looked at it and handed it back. He looked at Fats.
Fats pointed to a wallet lying on the table beside the bed. 'Mine's in the wallet.'
The detective made a 'come on' move with his fingers, and Fats crossed to the table and picked up the wallet, extracted his license, and handed it to the detective. Sims glanced at it and handed it back.
'What happened?' Sims asked quietly.
I shifted my weight, looked at the detective. 'A friend called and said Fats here wanted to see me,' I said. 'I came over. Fats hadn't asked to see me. We were discussing it when this guy came through the door with that shotgun leveled at us. I shot him.'
Sims stared at me for a long beat. 'That's a very short story. You can do better, Mr. Royal.'
I was about to open my mouth when Bill Lester walked into the room. He was wearing his usual attire, but this time he had a sidearm strapped to his belt.
Sims turned. 'Chief,' he said, 'what brings you to our side of the bridge?'
'I heard one of my citizens shot one of yours,' Bill said.
'Royal's one of yours, but I got no idea who the dead guy is.'
'Do you think it'd help if you looked at his face?' asked Lester.
'Might,' said Sims.
He walked over to the body, pulling latex gloves out of his jacket pocket and putting them on his hands. He bent over and pulled the ski mask up off the corpse's face. He studied the dead man for a few moments, rose and said, 'Don't know him. We'll run his prints through and find out who he is. Guy like this is bound to be in the system.'
A voice from downstairs announced, 'CSIs coming up.'
Bill Lester started for the stairs. 'I'll get out of your way, Detective. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me in the loop.'
'Chief,' said Sims, 'what's your interest in this?'
'I think this might be connected to a homicide I'm working on Longboat, and maybe to one that Bradenton PD is working from last night.'
'Shit,' said Sims. 'About two too many jurisdictions in that mix. Why do you think they're connected?'
'Because my friend here seems to be connected to all of them.' Lester was pointing at me.
Sims grinned. 'I'll make sure to get a long statement from him. Do you know anything about a friend calling him this morning to tell him to come over here?'
'Yeah,' said Bill. 'That would be Cracker Dix. He's out in my car waiting for you to talk to him.'
Sims waved his arm in my general direction, motioning me to follow him down the stairs. Fats brought up the rear.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The parking lot was crowded with police cruisers and crime-scene vans, all bearing the colors and logo of the
