"That's a spooky guy," said Logan.
We were driving back to Longboat Key. It was near midnight and the streets were quiet. A rain squall had moved through the area while we were in the bar with Wayne Lee. The streets were wet, the lights reflecting off the sheen on the asphalt of Cortez Road.
"I feel sorry for him," I said. "He's a drunk, and he's getting worse. Pretty soon, they won't let him work the boats anymore, and he's going to end up on the streets."
"He's almost there now"
"That's why Captain Cobol tries to take care of him. He won'tjeop- ardize his boat with a drunk, though. When Nestor won't take him out anymore, it'll be over for Wayne."
"What do you think about what he said about Varn?" Logan asked.
"Not much to go on. Who were the two girls living with him last summer, and where did they go?"
"Yeah. And if Varn was hired muscle for the drug runners in Miami, what's his connection to the Keys? Maybe Wayne will remember something else and call you."
I'd left my business card with him in case he sobered up enough to dredge more information from his booze-soaked brain.
"I'm not counting on it," I said. "I think I'll ask our friend Debbie to see what she can find out about Varn on the Internet."
"Debbie? From Moore's?
"Yeah. She's been taking computer classes. She swears she can find anybody or anything. I think she's figured out how to hack into a lot of databases."
I called Debbie at home early the next morning. She was a night owl, and I knew I'd wake her up, but I needed information. She'd forgive me. Sooner or later.
"Deb," I said. "Matt Royal."
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Yeah. Almost eight."
"Geez. This better be good, Royal."
"Can you get on your computer and see what you can find out about a guy named Clyde Varn?"
"Call me back this afternoon. It's way too early."
"This is important, Deb."
"Who is he?"
"I think lie may have something to do with the missing girl I was telling you about yesterday."
"Okay. I'll get back to you in an hour."
"Bill Lester tells me Varn was convicted on a marijuana charge some years ago. The FBI files don't show anything else. Maybe that'll help you find the right guy. Check out Jake Yardley while you're at it," I said, and hung up.
I was drinking coffee on my sunporch, reading the morning paper. The wind was up, and the bay was roiled and gray, punctuated by little white caps. The sun was shining, and in the quiet I could hear the moan of the wind as it cut through the palm trees and around the building.
My phone rang again.
"Matt, Bill Lester."
"Morning, Bill."
"Do you know Wayne Lee?"
"Yeah. Why? Is he in trouble?"
"He's dead."
"What?" I was shocked. "I saw him last night."
"Bradenton PD found your business card in his pocket. They called me. I'm calling you. Talk to me."
I explained why Logan and I were with Wayne the night before and how we came to find him. "We left him at the bar, drinking. I gave him a twenty for more beer, and Logan and I left."
"He just had some pocket change on him. He probably drank up die twenty."
"How did he die?"
"Shot through the heart. Small caliber, maybe a. 38. The same caliber that killed Varn."
"Same weapon?"
"We don't know yet. The crime lab will compare it and let us know"
"Where did they find him?"
"On the street, about a block from where he lived."
"Bill, why is it that two people I just talked to about Peggy turn up dead?"
"That's what I'd like to know," he said, and hung up.
I called Logan to tell him what had happened.
"The poor bastard," Logan said.
"We've got two dead guys that you and I are connected to. All within two days. They have to be involved somehow in Peggy's disappearance. That's the only common thread between us and them."
"Stay safe, Matt. I don't know what we've stumbled into."
"I'm beginning to think the shooting at Coquina Beach wasn't random. It must be connected somehow to Yardley and Lee, and to Peggy. You got your gun?"
"Nearby at all times."
"Mine too."
My day was not off to a good start. I couldn't concentrate on the morning rag. No good news anyway. Curiously, there was nothing on the missing body from the vulture pit. Sarasota PD was keeping a lid on it. I put the paper down and poured myself another cup of coffee.
If the placement of Varn's body was supposed to be a message to me, it would be clear to the killers that I didn't get it. I had spent time with Wayne Lee. Would they be coming for me next?
That was not a pleasant thought, but I was pretty confident I could take care of myself. I'd stayed in shape, and the Army had long ago taught me a lot about self-defense. Those lessons are drilled into the soldier with such intensity that they're not likely to be forgotten. The memory resides in the muscles, and reactions become automatic, instinctive, and violent. Plus, I knew how to use my nine millimeter.
The phone rang. Debbie.
"Got some stuff for you, Matt, but it's a little confusing."
"Talk to me."
"Clyde Varn was born in Brooksville, up just north of Tampa, graduated from high school there, got drafted, fought in Vietnam, honorable discharge, and then a string of petty-crime charges. A lot of those are in Monroe County, down in the Keys. He was convicted once in Miami on pot possession, and that's it.
"Seven years ago, he testified against some drug runners in federal court in Miami. Then he dropped off the radar and hasn't been seen since."
"How long ago did he disappear?"
"Right after he testified."
"Isn't that a little odd? Could he have been in jail somewhere?"
"No. I would've found those records. Plus you said that Bill Lester's search of the FBI files didn't show any convictions other than the misdemeanor pot thing in Miami some years ago. And I found that one."
"Where has he been for the past seven years?"
"That's the interesting thing. About the time Varn dropped off the planet, Jake Yardley shows up. He gets a couple of credit cards, a Kansas driver's license, and he's living in an apartment in Topeka. He doesn't seem to have a job, so I don't know what he was living on. I can't find any history on him before he showed up in Topeka. It's like he dropped in when Varn dropped out."
"Maybe that's what happened," I said.
"Then about a year ago, Yardley shows up in Tampa and trades his Kansas driver's license for a Florida one with a Brooksville address. The same one where Varn grew up. From then on, there's nothing on him. No credit cards, no traffic tickets, nothing. He must've been paying cash for everything he bought."
"Thanks, Deb," I said, and hung up.