Collateral Damage

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

ALSO BY H. TERRELL GRIFFIN

Matt Royal Mysteries

Bitter Legacy
Wyatt's Revenge
Blood Island
Murder Key
Longboat Blues

Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads

(contributing essayist)

A Matt Royal Mystery

H. Terrell Griffin

Copyright © 2011 by H. Terrell Griffin

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-60809-026-6

Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing,
Longboat Key, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For Kyle and Sarah

Dishonor will not trouble me once I am dead.
—Euripides

A book doesn't just happen. At least, my books don't. I need a lot of help, and I always get it. First and foremost are the readers. I've only been writing for the past six years, but I've been an avid readermy entire life. Books have given me pleasure beyond reckoning, and I think it is my duty as a writer to provide the same good feelings to my readers. I learn a lot from the feedback I receive at book signings and other events and from e-mail sent by readers across the country. I appreciate it all and I take it to heart. My readers' comments make me a better writer.

I have the good fortune to have three friends, Peggy Kendall, Debbie Schroeder, and Jean Griffin, who read my books as I write them and give me plenty of advice. Most of it is good. For example, Jean Griffin is the one who came up with the idea for the character J. D. Duncan. I hope I have made J.D. believable and likeable.

Oceanview Publishing is a wonderful organization made up of outstanding people who support their writers with understanding, advice, and the occasional pat on the back. Bob Gussin, Pat Gussin, Maryglenn McCombs, Kylie Fritz, Frank Troncale, and Susan Hayes work hard to make our books better and to get them into the readers' hands. We miss Susan Greger and Mary Adele Bogdon, but I know they are truly enjoying their retirement.

Finally, there is my college roommate, Jean Griffin, who married me when I was a student and has put up with me all the years since. She encourages me, edits me, supports me, and forever makes me smile.

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

On the last morning of his life, Jim Desmond woke to the sound of the gentle surf lapping on the beach, pushed by the onshore breeze that barely rippled the surface of the Gulf of Mexico. Early light reflected off the water, the angle of the sun hanging over the mainland to the east giving the seascape a flat appearance, as if much of the color had been leeched out of the vivid hues that usually paint the southwest coast of Florida.

Desmond snuggled a little more deeply into the bed, a sheet and light blanket covering his naked body, protecting him from the cold air blowing from the air-conditioning vent in the ceiling. He knew it was already hot out on the beach, the June humidity lying like a damp shroud over the entire island.

A hand slowly reached over him, caressed his chest. He felt breasts snuggle against his back, a long leg cross his. Heard a slight snicker, felt a wet kiss on his shoulder, the warm breath of his wife against his skin. He turned toward her, kissed her smiling face, and began to make love to the woman he'd married the day before on the beach in front of the Hilton.

Later, they lay in the bed, her head on his shoulder, her blonde hair tickling his nose. They were sated for a time, their physical need for each other slaked. Two people on the cusp of the future, a long life of success and children and growing old together stretched before them. Happiness was their due, for they were the children of the baby boomers, the generation that had known tranquility in their world, enjoyed the fruits of their parents' success, gone off to college and joined fraternities and sororities, partied and studied, and moved into the wider world where they expected no less than life as they had always known it.

Jim kissed his bride on the forehead and padded to the shower. He
dressed in running shoes, shorts, and a white T-shirt bearing the logo of his alma mater, the University of Georgia. His wife had made coffee in the small coffeemaker provided each room. She poured him some in a Styrofoam cup, and standing nude, smiling, held it out like an offering to the god of love. He sipped the coffee, kissed her chastely on the mouth, and went out the door for his morning jog. She never saw him again.

My buddy Logan Hamilton and I were having lunch at Mar Vista, the bay-side pub in the Village on the north end of Longboat Key. The year-rounders, those of us who don't go north in the spring and return in the late fall, know better than to sit outside in June. The heat and humidity, while not as bad as August, is brutal. Even the sea breezes that blow across our island don't bring relief. It is just hot air. Logan said it reminded him of trial lawyers, my former profession. I never argue with him when he's right.

We sat at a table next to a wall covered in currency of every kind, much of it American greenbacks. Many of the bills had messages scrawled on them from people who had left them along with their names and the dates of their visit. I wondered what made otherwise sane people tack good money to walls or throw coins into fountains. Like much of the human condition, it was a mystery to me.

Logan and I were planning a fishing trip for that evening. We thought we might have some luck after dark anchored off the north end of the Sister Keys just outside the channel. And if the fish weren't biting, we had beer and a lot of lies to tell. We'd get to Moore's Stone Crab Restaurant before closing and have a drink or two with Debbie the bartender. Maybe a nightcap at Tiny's. Not a bad way to spend a hot evening in Southwest Florida.

I was having the Caesar salad with blackened shrimp and Logan had ordered his usual, deep fried scallops and a Dewar's and water to wash it down. I felt the heat as the door to the parking lot opened behind me. Then, a voice. “Matt Royal, there you are.” Cotty Johnson. I turned and
saw my eighty-something-year-old neighbor coming toward us. “Hey Logan,” she said.

Logan and I stood. Cotty pecked us both on the cheeks. “Join us,” I said.

“No, thanks. Shirley Beachum is on her way. We thought we'd see how the vodka stock is doing.”

I laughed. “Sit until she gets here.”

Cotty took the chair next to Logan, across from me. “I guess you heard about the guy getting shot on the beach this morning.”

I hadn't. Cotty knew everything that happened on the island, and often knew it before anybody else. No one ever figured out how she knew so much so quickly.

“Shot?” asked Logan.

“Yes. Apparently a high-powered rifle. The police think the gunman was in one of the condos just south of the Hilton. Got the guy right in the chest. He was dead before he hit the sand.”

“Who was he?” I asked. “A local?”

“No. Some guy from Atlanta. Got married yesterday. He and his bride were staying at the Hilton. He went out for a jog early this morning.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Not really. There were a couple of people on the beach who heard the shot and saw the guy hit the ground, but nobody saw where the shot came from.”

“Any leads at all?” Logan asked.

“Not that I've heard. Bill Lester and that new detective J. D. Duncan are still at the Hilton doing whatever it is they do.”

Bill Lester was the Longboat Key chief of police and J. D. Duncan was a detective who had recently joined the force after fifteen years with the Miami-Dade Police Department.

I felt another heat blast as the door opened again. Shirley came over to say hello and she and Cotty went to the bar and took seats. By the time they left, all the island gossip would be told and retold. As good a way as any to spend a hot afternoon.

Logan sipped his Scotch. “What do you make of the shooting?”

“No idea. I wonder who the victim was.”

“The Chamber of Commerce isn't going to like this. They'll be afraid the publicity will scare the tourists away.”

“I don't know. It's not like people regularly get mowed down on our beach.”

“You're probably right.”

Our conversation turned back to fishing. We put together a plan that mostly involved the question of where to get the beer and bait. We decided on Annie's in the settlement of Cortez across the bay.

My home is Longboat Key, Florida. More specifically, Longbeach Village, long called simply the “Village,” that takes up the north end of the island. My cottage backs up to the bay, giving me a view that brings real estate sales people to their knees. Tropical flowers are abundant in the yard, and I pay a guy more than I should to keep them blooming or whatever they're supposed to do during any given season.

Longboat Key itself is small, about ten miles long and less than a half-mile wide in most places. It lies off the coast of Southwest Florida, south of Tampa Bay and about half way down the peninsula. Once you leave the south end of the key you cross some bridges, another island and end up in downtown Sarasota. On the north end you'll cross the Longboat Pass Bridge, part of Anna Maria Island, then Cortez Bridge, and find yourself in the city of Bradenton.

The island is my slice of paradise. I'm not old enough for retirement, but I'd been to war as a young man, then college and law school. I'd practiced as a trial lawyer in Orlando for a number of years and despaired of the business that the profession was turning into. I began to drink too much and take myself way too seriously, plowing into the law practice with a single-minded devotion that left little time for the only woman I'd ever loved, my wife, Laura. She finally gave notice that our marriage was over. She moved to Atlanta, remarried and died a few years later.

I gave up, sold everything, and moved to Longboat Key. If I was careful, I had enough to live on for the rest of my life. I'd pretty much achieved my goal of becoming a beach bum, living in a small community with lots of friends and time for fishing, walking the beach, drinking in the salubrious bars that dotted our island. I'm not sure how healthy all that drinking
was, but the lifestyle gave me a peace that I'd not been able to achieve in all the years before Longboat.

I stayed in shape, worked out with a martial arts instructor a couple of times a week, ran daily on the beach, and always found time for a round of exercises that kept me young. Or at least younger than if I'd become one of those people whose only daily exercise consists of moving from the TV to the beach, then to a bar and back to the TV.

I'm six feet tall and maintain the same one-hundred-eighty pounds I weighed when I was a soldier. Gray has not yet crept into my hair, and I have what I describe as a ruggedly handsome face. Most folks just laugh at me when I say that. They say that I'm, well, pleasant looking. Soldiers do not think of themselves as pleasant. Tough, rugged, even mean as hell, but never pleasant. Oh well, I am what I am, and I'm reasonably satisfied with that.

Logan and I sat in the cockpit of my boat, fishing lines out over the transom. We were off the main channel a few yards north of the tip end of the Sister Keys that separates part of Sarasota Bay from the north end of Long-boat Key. The twin two-hundred-fifty-horsepower Yamaha outboards purred quietly, idling in neutral. My anchor light was on and some illumination slipped from the small cabin. We were easily visible to any boat coming up the channel.