The traffic between Venice and Sarasota was brutal. The snowbirds hadn't yet gone back north, and the spring breakers were descending upon us. It took us more than an hour to go the twenty miles between the site of the revival and the approach to the John Ringling Bridge.
By the time we cleared the bridge and drove onto St. Armand's Key, it was dusk. Too late to find the chief at the station. We parked and walked to Lynches Pub and Grub for a drink. St. Armand's Circle is one of the more upscale shopping areas in Florida, a rival to Worth Avenue in Palm Beach. As we walked to the restaurant, I could see the area coming alive with the evening visitors. It was dinnertime, and the restaurants and bars would be full of vacationers. Foot traffic was picking up, people window shopping, enjoying the quiet evening in a gentle climate. There was a freshness in the air, and people were smiling, nodding hello to each other. Our barrier islands provide a sense of permanent vacation, even to those who live here year round.
We took a table on the sidewalk and ordered beer. I watched the passersby for a minute, many of them red from the spring sun that surprised them with its strength.
"What do you think?" Logan broke into my reverie about a twentysomething female tourist from Ohio, who wore shorts and a halter top. Or maybe she was from Arkansas. I couldn't tell, and it didn't matter. I enjoyed the view.
I shrugged. "Why would Varn use his real name, or at least the name he was known by, and the Tampa address at the Sea Club if he was up to no good? Maybe he told us a partial truth. He was just having a good time getting to know young people. All that bullshit about his wife may have just been a cover. Maybe he's just a little hinky, and was embarrassed to be found out."
"Could be, but why would a muscle man for the drug mob be entertaining young couples?"
"Maybe lie was taking a vacation."
"I'd like to know who owned the condo he was living in."
"I'd like to know why he was killed, and why on Longboat," I said.
"Lots of questions and no answers."
Logan had finished his beer.
"Want another one?" I asked.
He nodded. I signaled for the waitress.
"Two more, darling," I said, wagging two fingers at her.
We sat quietly, sipping beer and watching the people on the sidewalk. Night had fallen. It was pleasant, the temperature in the low seventies and none of the humidity that we'd get by mid-May.
"Best time of the year," I said.
"Without a doubt."
"Another one?"
"No, thanks. Time for me to get home. I've got a refrigerator full of Chinese food to eat."
I laughed. Logan's late-night forays to the Chinese food restaurant were the stuff of legend. They always left him with enough food to last a week.
I paid the tab and we left. We drove in silence across the New Pass Bridge and onto Longboat Key. A short way down the island, we turned into the drive leading to Logan's condo. The gate guard stopped us and then waved us through when he recognized Logan.
We stopped in front of Logan's building. I said, "I'll call Bill Lester in the morning and see if he can tell us anything about those disappearances in North Port and Venice."
"Let me know what you find out."
"See you tomorrow," I said, and drove the Explorer home.