CHAPTER THIRTY
It was mid-afternoon, and hot. The breeze off the water was negligible. Spring was beginning to turn into summer, and soon the days would all be hot and humid.
A few of the charter boats had returned from the day's fishing. A small group of tourists, a family perhaps, with too much red skin, was standing on the dock behind a moored boat. One of them, a teenaged boy, held a string of fish in his hands. The captain was taking their picture as they stood with goofy grins next to a sign advertising his services. A young man wearing only cutoffs was washing down the boat. A half dozen pelicans floated in the basin, waiting for the fish scraps they knew would be coming from the cleaning tables. Cars and trucks rumbled by on Roosevelt Avenue, leaving the smell of exhaust hovering over the docks.
I looked at the scene, picturing what the camera would catch, that instant in time when the family was together, happiness evident in their grins. The photograph would also hold the image of the boy cleaning the boat, and probably the pelicans lazing in the sun.
I wondered about that picture, about what would happen to it after it was admired and put away. Maybe one day an old man would pull it from a drawer, gaze at it, and remember when he was a teenager holding a string of fish, happy to be with his parents, now long dead. Would he wonder about the life lived by the boy washing the boat? Would he put the picture back in the drawer, never to be seen again? Life is fleeting, and when we near the end, we grab our memories and hold onto them with a ferocity that eluded us at the time of their creation.
I had a lot of time to kill. I couldn't do anything before dark, and I didn't want to go back to my room. If people were looking for me, they might have located the rooming house.
I stopped in a souvenir shop on Palm Avenue and bought a khakicolored baseball cap with a sailfish and the words 'Key West' embroidered on the front. I wore it out of the shop, keeping the bill low on my eyes. My dark sunglasses would help cover my face, and I didn't think a casual observer would recognize me.
I decided to visit the cemetery where the monument to the battleship Maine was located. The fabled ship, whose demise gave an excuse for the Spanish-American War, had sailed from Key West on its fateful journey to Havana Harbor. Many of its sailors were buried in this last piece of America they experienced.
I was walking idly down Angela Street when I saw a familiar figure cross the road in the next block. It was Michelle Browne, the lady who had introduced herself in Sarasota as the Reverend Robert William Simmermon's assistant. She was wearing a beige skirt, dark blue blouse, and sensible white pumps. Her auburn hair was in a ponytail, and her bracelets glinted in the sun.
She was walking at a fast clip, as if she were on an errand. I decided to follow her. I held back a half block and ambled along, looking at the houses that lined the street, trying for inconspicuousness.
She walked the four blocks to the Key West Bight and entered a waterfront restaurant. I followed, motioning to the hostess that I would take a seat at the bar. Michelle joined a man sitting at a table by the open deck overlooking the harbor. He stood as she approached. He was about six feet tall, slender, with white hair and a red face that looked as if he had spent too much time in the sun. The Reverend Simmermon, in the flesh. He was a lot younger than I'd guessed. Early thirties, probably. The white hair made him look older, but his features were that of a younger man.
The wall behind the bar was mirrored. I could sit facing forward and have a reflected view of Michelle and her companion. I ordered a draft beer and sipped it while watching my quarry.
They were sitting at the table sipping wine, talking quietly. Occasionally, one or the other would gesture or smile. The meeting and conversation had the look of two old friends enjoying the afternoon. After about ten minutes, Michelle sat back in her chair, a look of chagrin on her face. Then she moved in close, elbows on the table, her face a mask of anger, words coming fast. Simmermon tried to take her hand, but she jerked it back. He made a placating gesture, tried a smile, reached for her again.
Michelle stood, her napkin falling off her lap onto the floor. She said something I couldn't hear and walked out the front door. Simmermon stood, dropped some bills on the table, and left the restaurant.
I followed, hoping to get him alone. He walked quickly to the dock in front of the restaurant. There was a go- fast boat, similar to the ones I had seen moored at Blood Island, tied to a piling, its big engines idling. A large man wearing shorts, a white T-shirt, and a dark tan was untying the line as the evangelist clambered down into it and sat in the passenger seat. The other man took the helm seat, touched the throttles, and the boat pulled away from the dock, heading out of the basin.
I turned and ran for the street, hoping to catch sight of Michelle. As I rounded the corner of the restaurant onto Margaret Street, I saw her turning onto Eaton Street. I followed at a fast walk, catching up to her as she turned onto Simonton, and then quickly made another turn off the main thoroughfare. I knew where she was going.
I hung back now, letting her go. When I got to the next corner and looked down the side street, she was out of sight. In the middle of the block sat the Victorian mansion that housed the Heaven Can't Wait Spa.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I sat on the sidewalk, my hat pulled down over my eyes, my back leaning against a brick retaining wall in front of the house two doors down from the spa. Just one more of Key West's homeless, taking a siesta.
At four o'clock, I saw Michelle come out of the front door, accompanied by a man who looked vaguely familiar. She was talking and he was nodding his head. They stopped at the end of the walk, and he looked around briefly, surveying his surroundings. His face turned toward me, but his gaze didn't stop. I knew him. It was the truck driver Michelle had spoken to in Venice.
They shook hands, and the man returned to the spa. Michelle started walking along the street, going away from me. I got to my feet and followed at a safe distance. She turned at the corner and walked two blocks. I hung back, allowing her to put some space between us, but not enough to lose her.
In the middle of the third block, she opened a gate to a sidewalk leading to another Victorian house. I stopped, giving her time to get inside. She used a key to open the door.
I walked past the house, taking a good look. It was like every house in the neighborhood, old and beautiful, and probably modernized inside. I made a mental note of the address.
I turned the corner and, out of sight of the house, pulled out my cell phone. I caught Debbie just as she was leaving for work.
'This is getting to be a bad habit, Royal,' she said. 'What now?'
'I just called to hear your voice, sweet cakes.'
'Right.' She laughed. 'I've got about five minutes to get to work. What is it?'
'I need the ownership of a house in Key West.' I gave her the address. 'And what did you find out about Simmermon?'
'Nothing yet on Simmermon, other than his Web site. I'll check deeper when I get off tonight. Keep your phone on. I'll call you back in a couple of minutes with the information on the house.' She hung up.
I sat back down on the sidewalk, leaning on another retaining wall, hat pulled low. A profusion of jasmine flowers cascaded down the brick wall, their sweet smell somehow comforting. In a couple of minutes, my phone rang.
'Guess what?' Debbie said.
'The house is owned by a Bahamian corporation controlled by a Cayman bank.'
'If you're such a genius, why are you bothering me?'
'Lucky guess. I wanted to make sure. Same corporation?'
'Yes. Circle Ltd.'
'Thanks, kid. I owe you.'
'Right. Take care of your sorry butt, Matt. I'd miss the big tips. I'm saving all those quarters you leave.' There was a click, and she was gone.
I sat for a while, wondering if I should confront Michelle. I'd made a mistake going to the spa, questioning
