I sat on the sidewalk, my hat pulled down over my eyes, my back leaning against a brick retaining wall in front of the house two doors down from the spa. Just one more of Key West's homeless, taking a siesta.
At four o'clock, I saw Michelle come out of the front door, accompanied by a man who looked vaguely familiar. She was talking and he was nodding his head. They stopped at the end of the walk, and he looked around briefly, surveying his surroundings. His face turned toward me, but his gaze didn't stop. I knew him. It was the truck driver Michelle had spoken to in Venice.
They shook hands, and the man returned to the spa. Michelle started walking along the street, going away from me. I got to my feet and followed at a safe distance. She turned at the corner and walked two blocks. I hung back, allowing her to put some space between us, but not enough to lose her.
In the middle of the third block, she opened a gate to a sidewalk leading to another Victorian house. I stopped, giving her time to get inside. She used a key to open the door.
I walked past the house, taking a good look. It was like every house in the neighborhood, old and beautiful, and probably modernized inside. I made a mental note of the address.
I turned the corner and, out of sight of the house, pulled out my cell phone. I caught Debbie just as she was leaving for work.
"This is getting to be a bad habit, Royal," she said. "What now?"
"I just called to hear your voice, sweet cakes."
"Right." She laughed. "I've got about five minutes to get to work. What is it?"
"I need the ownership of a house in Key West." I gave her the address. "And what did you find out about Simmermon?"
"Nothing yet on Simmermon, other than his Web site. I'll check deeper when I get off tonight. Keep your phone on. I'll call you back in a couple of minutes with the information on the house." She hung up.
I sat back down on the sidewalk, leaning on another retaining wall, hat pulled low. A profusion of jasmine flowers cascaded down the brick wall, their sweet smell somehow comforting. In a couple of minutes, my phone rang.
"Guess what?" Debbie said.
"The house is owned by a Bahamian corporation controlled by a Cayman bank."
"If you're such a genius, why are you bothering me?"
"Lucky guess. I wanted to make sure. Same corporation?"
"Yes. Circle Ltd."
"Thanks, kid. I owe you."
"Right. Take care of your sorry butt, Matt. I'd miss the big tips. I'm saving all those quarters you leave." There was a click, and she was gone.
I sat for a while, wondering if I should confront Michelle. I'd made a mistake going to the spa, questioning Sister Amy, and generally acting like an idiot. I hadn't done my homework on the place, and my search almost ended right there. By asking about Peggy, I may have put her in more danger. Time was critical. I had to know what was going on.
I walked onto the veranda of Michelle's house and rang the bell. She opened the door, wearing a big smile. She had changed clothes and was dressed casually in a pair of blue shorts and a halter top. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she was barefoot. Her lovely fingers were wrapped around the grip of a nine-millimeter pistol, pointed at my chest.