Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (30 page)

She giggled. I think it was a habit she'd developed. An annoying habit
in a whore.

"Well," I said, "recess is over."

Recess was the magic word. The cavalry would be on its way. I turned
back to the man on the bed.

"I think you need to know," I said, "that in about two minutes this
place is going to be swarming with cops and federal agents."

"Right," he said, and laughed. "And I'm supposed to let you go."

"That'd be the smart thing to do."

I heard a loud voice from downstairs. "Federal agents. Put your
hands on your head." Then, heavy boots bounding up the stairs.

"See?" I said.

Marta giggled.

"Shit," said the man, and put the gun on the floor.

The door burst open, and Logan dove into the room, his nine
millimeter in his hand. Another man wearing a bulletproof vest was right
behind him, a shotgun pointing into the room.

"Hell of an entrance, Logan," I said.

He rolled to his feet. "I thought you'd like that. Learned it in the
Army."

The man on the bed had his hands in the air. His face was impassive.
Marta was crying softly, tears running down her pretty cheeks. Their lives
had just taken a big detour.

Two Orlando police officers came into the room, handcuffed Marta
and the gunman, and took them out. I went to the door of the room and
saw other cops leading more women down the stairs.

Logan said, "They'll be searching the place with explosive sniffing
dogs. Let's go to the command post."

A pickup truck was parked in the street in front of the house, a large
box trailer attached to it. Truck and trailer sported the logos of the
Orlando Police Department. Cops and their handcuffed prisoners were
milling around, waiting for transportation to the county jail.

The FBI agent we'd met in Parrish's office was in the trailer talking
to the police commander. He invited us in and introduced us to the cops
on duty. A radio receiver sat on a table attached to one wall of the trailer.
It was crackling with information from the officers and agents inside the
house.

We sat, sipping cups of coffee poured from a large thermos, listening
to the radio reports. They were all negative.

After about ten minutes, the FBI agent said, "That's the last one. No
explosives."

"What about the people in the house?" I asked. Any other men?"

"I'll check." He went outside to talk to one of the officers.

Logan asked, "What do we do if we don't get anything out of this?"

"I don't know. We may have a bunch of dead people on our hands
tomorrow."

"Shouldn't the authorities warn people not to go to church in the
morning? Wouldn't that at least stop the carnage?"

"I would think so. Let's see what happens."

The FBI agent returned. "Other than the guy holding the gun on
you, we found two other bouncer types. Both are in their thirties. They
don't fit the profile of the young men Simmermon has brainwashed."

"No," I said, "they don't."

A uniformed police officer came into the trailer. "Mr. Royal?" he
asked.

"I'm Royal."

"I'm with die bomb squad, sir. We didn't find any explosives, but my
dog did get a little crazy at one point in a room on the third floor."

"What do you think that was all about?"

"We searched the room completely. I think the dog may have smelled
explosives that had been there and were moved. I can't prove that, but my
boss said I should let you know."

"Thank you, Officer," I said.

I turned to the FBI agent. "Will you find out how the gunman got
here from Key West?"

"Sure," he said, and left the trailer.

"What are you thinking?" asked Logan.

"I'm not sure, but the explosives may have come from Key West with
the idiot I shot."

The agent returned and brought the gunman with him. "He won't
talk," the agent said. "Wants a lawyer."

The prisoner's hands were cuffed behind his back. His face was an
impassive mask, but his darting eyes gave away a level of nervousness about
his surroundings.

I directed the agent to let the man sit in a chair, and asked him and the
officer manning the radios to leave. It was just Logan, the gunman, and
me.

Logan went to the door and locked it. I brought my chair over to the
handcuffed man and sat facing him. "You know we're not cops," I said.

He nodded his head.

"Then you know we don't have to play by the same rules the cops
do."

His mask cracked a little, his mouth twitched, he blinked twice,
rapidly.

"Okay," he said. "So what?"

"I'm going to ask you some questions, and, if I don't get honest
answers, I'm going to hurt you. Understand?"

"Oka
Y"

"What's your name?"

He grinned. "John Smith."

I punched him in the stomach. He screamed. Blood began to seep
from his bullet wound and a flower of red took shape on the bandage.

The door rattled, and then a knock. Logan opened it slightly, said
something to the person outside, and shut it again. He turned the lock and
nodded at me.

"See?" I said. "Nobody's going to save you. What's your name?"

"Peter Johnson."

"Okay, Peter. That's better. Where do you live?"

"In Key West. At the spa."

"What's your job?"

"I'm security."

"Ever been to Blood Island?"

"Yes, to pick up the girls sometimes."

"How did you get to Orlando with a bullet wound?"

He hesitated. I drew back my hand, a threatening gesture.

"Okay," he said, "okay. Michelle got a private plane to bring me here.
She said it wasn't wise for me to stay in Key West."

"Was anybody with you?"

"Just the pilot."

"Did you bring anything with you?"

"Just some clothes, and a suitcase for the Rev."

"Did Michelle give you the suitcase?"

"No. The pilot had it. Said one of the guys from the island brought
it to the plane and told him to send it here."

"What was in the suitcase?"

"I don't know It was locked."

"What did you do with it when you got here?"

"I gave it to Ms. Young."

"The receptionist?"

"Yeah. She runs the place."

"Did you ever see it again?"

"No. Man, I'm bleeding bad."

The bandage was getting redder. I was finished. Logan opened the
door and the FBI agent came back inside.

"He needs a doctor," I said.

"On it," said the agent, and grabbed Peter by the arm, lifting him out
of the chair.

"His name's Peter Johnson," I said.

"Come on, Peter," said the agent. "We'll get you fixed up.

"Can you find Ms. Young and bring her to me?" I asked.

"Sure thing," the agent said and led Peter Johnson out the door.

The agent came back with Ms. Young. She was still in her business suit,
dark hair in a bun, subtle makeup on her face. Except for the handcuffs,
she could have been on her way to a business meeting.

The agent pointed toward the chair Peter had vacated and told her
to sit. I took the other chair as the agent left the trailer. Logan made a big
show of locking the door.

"I have some questions for you, Ms. Young," I said. "I'm not a cop,
but I need honest answers quickly."

"I have nothing to hide," she said.

"Tell me about the suitcase Peter brought you."

"Peter came in late yesterday. I'd gotten an e-mail from Michelle the
day before, so I was expecting him."

"The suitcase?"

"He had it with him. He said I'd be told what to do with it. About an
hour later, I got an e-mail from the Rev telling me that somebody would
pick it up today."

"Did somebody pick it up?"

"Yes. Late this afternoon."

"Tell me about it."

"Nothing to tell, really. Some fat guy showed up, told me the Rev had
sent him for the suitcase. I gave it to him, and he left."

"What time was this?"

"Around six, I think."

"Did you know what was in the suitcase?"

"No. I didn't ask.

The FBI agent took Ms. Young out and returned. I told him what I'd
learned, and that I thought we were at a dead end.

"What about the surveillance photos?" he asked.

"What surveillance photos?" I said.

"We took pictures of everyone entering and leaving the house since
we got set up here."

"What time was that?"

"Everything was in place by five o'clock."

"Then we probably have a picture of the fat man."

"Probably, for whatever good it'll do us."

He left to retrieve copies of the photographs.

I looked at my watch. After eleven. Time to call Jock. He sounded tired. I
told him what had happened.

"I've got some good news," he said. "We rolled up the Atlanta
bomber."

"That is good news. How?"

"We got lucky. The Atlanta police have been tracking a group of nuts
that want to take over the government. A surveillance team caught the
leader coming out of the Heaven Can't Wait Spa carrying a suitcase. They
followed him to a sleaze-bag hotel on the south side where he met with a
young man. They arrested both.

"The suitcase had a suicide bomber vest already rigged to explode.
The young man confessed to having come up from Blood Island yesterday.
They haven't yet figured out how the suitcase got to the whorehouse, but
they're interviewing the girls now."

"What about Key West?" I asked.

"Nothing yet, but the island is full of cops looking for the bomber."

"Did you find out anything from any of the other people on the island?"

"Not much. We're pretty sure we got all the bombers except the one
here and the two headed for Orlando and Atlanta. The guards didn't know
anything, and the girls were pretty much drugged up the whole time."

"Were there other bombers?"

"Yes. They're really sick kids. Simmermon did a number on them.
They actually believe he's God's chosen prophet and that they're doing
the Lord's work, blowing up good Christian people."

"Jock, don't you think it's time to warn people about this and keep
them out of church tomorrow?"

"Can't do it, podner. I already suggested that. The people who make
these decisions are afraid an announcement would cause a huge panic,
and a lot of folks won't get the message anyway."

"So, we just let a lot of good church-going folks die?"

"Not my call. I agree with you. We've just got to find these bastards
before they set off the bombs. Keep plugging." The phone clicked off.

I dialed Debbie's number.

"It's late, Royal, and I just got home from work," she said.

"What ever happened to `hello'?"

"Caller ID. I don't feel like being nice to you."

"Sorry, babe. I need some more help."

"You still in Key West?"

"No. Orlando."

"I don't even want to know why."

"No you don't. I need you to see what you can find on two people
who're dead. Albert Thomas and Colin Edinfield."

"And you need this when?"

"Now would be good."

"Geez, the things I do for quarter tips." She hung up.

I told Logan what Jock had said about Atlanta.

"Glad to hear that," he said. "But if the government can't find anything on Thomas and Edinfield, how do you expect Debbie to?"

"Maybe she won't find anything more, but it's worth a try. She's
good, and it's about time we had a little luck."

The FBI agent came back, his hand full of black-and-white photographs.

He laid two on the desk. "This is the fat guy coming in at 5:48 and
leaving five minutes later. He's carrying a suitcase coming out."

I studied the pictures. The one of the man leaving the house caught
his face straight on. It was high resolution and clear as a cloudless sky. I felt
my heart skip a beat, my pulse quicken. This was the last thing I expected.
I knew the man with the suitcase.