over to the bed
and stood by it, not touching the nine millimeter lying on the tangled
sheets, but making sure that neither Fats nor I could get to it.
The other deputy turned and yelled down the stairs. "We're cool up
here. Send the detectives in when they get here."
We stood silently for a few moments. I could hear traffic whizzing by
out on Cortez Road. Somewhere in the building, an air-conditioning unit
clicked on. Cool air rushed out of a vent in the ceiling that I hadn't
noticed. A car horn, the short squeal of brakes, a diesel engine accelerating, the ambient noise of early morning in a quiet neighborhood.
I heard another car coming to a stop on the shell parking lot. In a
minute a voice from below said, "Detective coming up." The deputies in
the room seemed to relax; glad someone was here to take control.
A man of about six feet, slender with a small belly, dark hair going to
gray, and a bald spot that would eventually claim his head, stepped into the
room. He wore a beige sports jacket with brown pants, white dress shirt,
and a red tie with small white polka dots. A gold badge was held in place
over his jacket pocket by its leather case. "I'm Detective David Sims," he
said. "What the hell happened here?"
The deputy who had entered the room first said, "We just got here,
Detective. We secured the area, but we haven't talked to the witnesses.
This is Mr. Royal and that's Fats Monahan. I haven't seen their IDs yet."
The detective looked at me. "Let's see," he said, holding out his right
hand.
I reached for my wallet and handed him my driver's license. He
looked at it and handed it back. He looked at Fats.
Fats pointed to a wallet lying on the table beside the bed. "Mine's in
the wallet."
The detective made a "come on" move with his fingers, and Fats
crossed to the table and picked up the wallet, extracted his license, and
handed it to the detective. Sims glanced at it and handed it back.
"What happened?" Sims asked quietly.
I shifted my weight, looked at the detective. "A friend called and said
Fats here wanted to see me," I said. "I came over. Fats hadn't asked to see
me. We were discussing it when this guy came through the door with that
shotgun leveled at us. I shot him."
Sims stared at me for a long beat. "That's a very short story. You can
do better, Mr. Royal."
I was about to open my mouth when Bill Lester walked into the
room. He was wearing his usual attire, but this time he had a sidearm
strapped to his belt.
Sims turned. "Chief," he said, "what brings you to our side of the
bridge?"
"I heard one of my citizens shot one of yours," Bill said.
"Royal's one of yours, but I got no idea who the dead guy is."
"Do you think it'd help if you looked at his face?" asked Lester.
"Might," said Sims.
He walked over to the body, pulling latex gloves out of his jacket
pocket and putting them on his hands. He bent over and pulled the ski
mask up off the corpse's face. He studied the dead man for a few moments,
rose and said, "Don't know him. We'll run his prints through and find out
who he is. Guy like this is bound to be in the system."
A voice from downstairs announced, "CSIs coming up."
Bill Lester started for the stairs. "I'll get out of your way, Detective. I'd
appreciate it if you'd keep me in the loop."
"Chief," said Sims, "what's your interest in this?"
"I think this might be connected to a homicide I'm working on Longboat, and maybe to one that Bradenton PD is working from last night."
"Shit," said Sims. "About two too many jurisdictions in that mix.
Why do you think they're connected?"
"Because my friend here seems to be connected to all of them." Lester
was pointing at me.
Sims grinned. "I'll make sure to get a long statement from him. Do
you know anything about a friend calling him this morning to tell him to
come over here?"
"Yeah," said Bill. "That would be Cracker Dix. He's out in my car
waiting for you to talk to him."
Sims waved his arm in my