Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery (8 page)

I didn’t like lying to Cracker. He was a good friend who’d helped me out in the past, but I didn’t want that kind of gossip going around the island. Ours is like many small towns. Secrets are hard to keep, and I wouldn’t want anybody to ever tie me to Rupert/Chardone or to his death. Particularly after the question about the pistol from Chief Lester.

After Cracker left, I showed Logan a copy of the list from Wyatt’s disc. “Does any of this mean anything to you?” I asked.

He took a moment to peruse it. “Not really. I know who Dick LaPlante is, or at least who the papers say he is. I used to look for his picture in the society pages just to see what was falling out of the dress of the woman he was with.”

“You’re a pervert yourself.”

“I know. I like it that way.”

“How’s Marie?”

“I talked to her this morning. She misses me. We’re going to dinner tonight. I think I’m smitten.”

“Smitten?”

“Yeah, smitten.”

“Is that like being in heat?”

“Exactly like it. Only those of us who are more highly evolved prefer ‘smitten’ to ‘horny.’”

“Whatever. Let’s have another beer.” And that’s what we did.

I threw my bike into the back of Logan’s convertible, and we drove south toward my condo. Traffic was picking up, and I saw two car carriers along the side of Gulf of Mexico Drive. They were bringing the snowbirds’ cars down while the owners came by plane. Pretty soon, traffic would be heavy. Our island swells from about 2,500 people in the summer to 25,000 in the winter. It’s a trial, but the cold weather in the North brings a lot of old friends back to paradise.

Logan said, “I don’t get the connection between Sauer and Wyatt. You got any ideas?”

“None. Donna didn’t know him, and I never heard of him, so he and Wyatt probably weren’t real friendly. Maybe just colleagues.”

“But why would the same person kill Sauer and Wyatt, and on the same day?”

“I’m guessing that the timing of both murders was so that one victim wouldn’t find out about the other and go to the police with whatever he knew. But who knows?”

“These guys were both history professors,” said Logan. “Maybe the names on that list have some historical significance. Why don’t you call Austin Dwyer? He might recognize something.”

Austin Dwyer was a retired history professor at a small college in Connecticut. Logan and I had met him in the Florida Keys earlier in the year and formed a friendship. If he didn’t know who the people on the list were, he might be able to tell us the name of somebody who would.

“Good idea, Logan. I often underestimate you.”

I e-mailed Austin, attaching the list, and asked him to see if any of it made
sense to him. I gave him my cell phone number and asked him to call. Minutes later, I got an automatic response telling me that Austin would be away until Friday and that he would respond then.

I searched the Internet for the names on the list, but what little information I found made no sense to me. I’d have to wait to hear from Austin.

I was at loose ends. I paced my living room trying to put the puzzle together. The pieces didn’t fit. None of the information I had so far fit together in any coherent pattern.

I gave up and turned to more mundane things. My Explorer had been hard to start the past couple of days. The starter would drag and almost die before catching. I probably needed a new battery. It was also time for an oil change and a brake job. I called the shop I used on Cortez Road and made an appointment for the work. The manager said he’d have one of his men pick the car up the next morning.

I needed to clear my head. A jog on the beach, a shower, and a nap finished off my afternoon, and I drove down to the Hilton. There is always a gathering of locals on Thursday evening at the outside bar. Logan was on the mainland having dinner with Marie, and I needed a little company.

Billy Brugger, the long-time bartender, poured me a Miller Lite, shook my hand, and said, “I understand you’ve been asking around about Dick LaPlante.”

“Are there no secrets on this island?”

“Nope.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Dora Walters over at the paper told me you had an interest in LaPlante. Said Gwen Mooney told her you were asking about him.”

“Not so much an interest as curiosity. His name showed up on a list I found in Wyatt’s stuff, and I wondered what the connection was.”

“I know the guy. He’s an asshole.”

“There seems to be a consensus on that.”

“He’s been in here a couple of times. Always with a different woman. He treats the staff like they were his personal servants, and he doesn’t tip worth a damn. When the manager asked him to be nice, he threatened to buy the hotel and fire us all. A real asshole.”

“Anything else?”

“He speaks French. Last time he was here, he was talking to his date in French. A couple of our regular snowbirds from Quebec were here and said he was fluent.”

“His dad’s French-Canadian.”

“But the snowbirds said he was speaking with a Parisian accent.”

I was up early on Friday morning, sitting on the sunporch with my coffee and newspaper. Low dark clouds hung over the bay. The wind was blowing from the north, hard enough to kick up whitecaps on the gray water. A sailboat was motoring south, its sails furled, a lone helmsman wearing bright yellow wet gear hunkered over the wheel. Not a pleasant day for boating.

I went to answer the knock on the front door. It was a young man, mid-twenties maybe, wearing jeans and a work shirt with the name of the auto shop sewn over the right breast pocket. His name, Jimmy, was above the left pocket. I gave him my car keys and went back to my paper.

The morning quiet was ruptured by an explosion. My first thought was incoming artillery, but then I realized where I was. Home, not a war zone. My second thought was that a boat in the marina had exploded. But the noise had come from the parking lot. I ran to my front door, which overlooked the lot. The first thing I saw was the smoldering remains of my Explorer.

The car parked next to mine, a Buick with Alabama plates, was burning, flames eating the interior, the paint cracking and peeling, glass blown out. I knew it belonged to an Episcopal priest named Ben Alford. He and his wife, Lynn, were visiting from Wetpumpka and were supposed to leave that morning for home. I saw an airline ticket in their future. Father Ben would not be pleased.

My neighbors were coming out of their apartments, some still in pajamas. They milled about on the walkway, talking, worrying, wondering whose car it was that blew up. I’d backed into a guest parking space away
from the building the night before, because I wanted the mechanic to have easy access to the car in case he had to jump-start it. Had I been in my regular place, we’d have lost part of the building. Pieces of the car were strewn across the lot. I saw no sign of Jimmy and knew he was dead, blown to bits by an explosion powerful enough to destroy an SUV.

I hadn’t really known Jimmy, but I’d seen him around the shop when I took my car in for service. He was always polite, and I was vaguely aware that he had a wife and a child. He should not have died on a drab morning in an empty parking lot. And his death was my fault; not directly, but a result of my obsession with Wyatt’s killers. I would have to live with that, but how would I explain to his son or daughter that Daddy had been killed because I was seeking vengeance?

The death of a man I hardly knew brought the same exquisite pain that I had associated with Wyatt’s death. Now I had another reason to get the bastards who killed Wyatt. That reason’s name was Jimmy.

I heard sirens in the distance, getting louder as they got closer. Moments later, two fire trucks and an ambulance wheeled into the parking lot, a police cruiser behind them. I took the elevator to the ground floor and walked over to the cop who was standing alone, watching the firefighters, a confused look on his face. I knew him.

“Steve,” I said as I approached, “that was my car. There was a young guy from the auto shop over on Cortez driving it. You’ve probably got a murder scene here.”

“Shit. I’d better call the chief.”

I left him while he made calls on his cell phone. The firefighters had doused the car with water and were now packing up their equipment. One was stringing crime-scene tape about the remains of the Explorer. “Is this your car?”

“Was,” I said. “There’s probably a body in there. Young guy from the auto shop.”

“I know. I saw parts of him. I’ve called the fire marshal and my chief. They’ll want to talk to you.”

I gave him my name and apartment number and went back upstairs to my coffee. I was shaken. The bomb was obviously meant for me. Why?
And who? Had somebody figured out my role in Chardone’s death and taken revenge? I didn’t see how that could be. I’d covered my tracks very well.

I knew Chief Bill Lester would arrive soon. I put another pot of coffee on and went back to the walkway that ran in front of my condo. I stood at the rail and watched the police and fire personnel. They mostly just stood around, talking quietly. Many of my neighbors had moved into the parking lot and were standing in clumps, talking and watching the activity. In a few minutes, I saw Bill Lester pull up in his unmarked car. He talked briefly to his officer and then started toward the building. He saw me and waved.

He got off the elevator and shook my hand. “You okay, Matt?”

“Yeah. I guess. Somebody meant that bomb for me.”

“Without a doubt. Let’s go inside and talk.”

“Fresh coffee’s brewing.”

“Good. I need it.”

We sat in my living room, drinking coffee and talking. “Who wants you dead?” asked Bill.

“I don’t know of anybody.” I was telling the truth.

“I’ve called in Manatee County. They’ll handle the murder investigation and the state will look into the arson angle.”

Longboat Key is about ten miles long and divided in the middle by the county line. The northern half is part of Manatee County, and the southern end lies in Sarasota County. The Longboat Key Police Department was very professional, and that was one of the reasons crime was an anomaly on our island. When the rare major crime did occur, the county sheriff was called in to investigate. The deputies worked for the sheriff, but reported to Bill Lester.

“Is this connected to Wyatt’s death?” he asked.

“Bill, I’ve got no idea. Maybe it was mistaken identity.”

“I don’t think so. You own the only Explorer in this complex. Anybody smart enough to put that bomb together isn’t stupid enough to make that kind of mistake.”

“You’re probably right. But I can’t think of any reason anyone would want to kill me.”

“Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms is coming in to look at the mess. Maybe they’ll find some sort of signature. Bombers tend to use the same technique, and the ATF boys can usually find a connection between bombings. We’ll see what turns up. In the meantime, you need to be careful.”

I was responsible for young Jimmy’s death. Not directly, but I must have gotten too close to somebody, and now they were trying to kill me. They’d gotten Jimmy instead. The army called it collateral damage, but that wouldn’t be much comfort to the young man’s family. He was still dead.

I called Logan’s cell phone.

“Somebody just tried to blow me up.”

“What?”

“Somebody put a bomb in my car last night.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, but the kid from the auto repair shop was killed.”

“Shit. I’m on my way.”

“Where are you?”

“At Marie’s.”

“Stay there. I’m fine.”

“She’s about to leave for work. I’ll be at your place in ten minutes.”

I could always count on Logan. He’d have been on his way to me even if Marie were still naked in bed begging him to stay.

My phone rang just as I hung up. It was Austin Dwyer.

“Matt, that’s strange company you’re hanging around with.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most of the people on the list you sent me are Nazis. Or at least, they were. They’re all dead now. The Klarsfelds are still alive. They’re French Nazi hunters. They’ve spent most of their lives bringing old Nazis to justice.”

“Nazis?”

“Yes. As in Germany, Third Reich, all that.”

“Shit.” I told him about the list, Wyatt’s and Sauer’s murders, and that the only thing the killer had taken out of Wyatt’s apartment was his laptop. I also told him that Sauer’s hard drive was missing from his computer. “I thought the list might be a lead to who killed them and why.”

“There is an interesting coincidence to the names on the list. Most of the people were involved in the ratlines.”

“Ratlines? Isn’t that something on a sailboat?”

“I think so, but in this case it’s a reference to escape routes the Nazis used to get out of Europe after the war. Are you familiar with ODESSA?”

“The city?”

“No, the Organisation de ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen, which translates as the Association of Former SS Officers.”

“Yeah. They were part of the effort to get their people out of Europe.”

“Right. But, they weren’t as big a deal as some people believe. Actually, there were a number of ratlines. Some were run out of Italy by priests. One of the names on that list was an Argentinean bishop who was involved in getting Nazis out of Europe and into Argentina. Several of the names on the list were Croatian priests who had moved to Italy and were involved in getting the members of the Ustashi, the Croatian Nazis, to South America.”

“What in the world does that have to do with a couple of history professors getting wacked?”

“Maybe nothing. On the other hand, there’re still people around who believe in that master race crap spewed by the Nazis. And some of the Nazis are still alive. Every now and then, one turns up in Argentina, or even in the U.S. France recently prosecuted one of their Nazis, and Italy tried one of theirs for war crimes a year or so ago.”

“Do you think Wyatt was onto something dealing with old Nazis?”

“Could be,” said Austin. “The ones who’re still alive are pretty well hidden. Maybe Wyatt came across some information that would bring some of them out of the shadows.”