Free Bitter Legacy: A Matt Royal Mystery (Matt Royal Mysteries) by H. Terrell Griffin

there in half an hour. Did you call the sheriff?”
    “A deputy’s been outside my door since last night. Apparently Bill Lester called and told them about the guy that came after you yesterday. I’m supposed to stay put.”
    “But you don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    “Not a chance. I’m a sitting duck here, deputy or no deputy.”
    “I’m on my way.”
    I threw on some clothes and left in a hurry. I was only vaguely aware that my living room had been put back together, the mess cleaned up. I’d have to buy a new TV. Maybe they’d get the rest of it done by the end of the day.
    My best bet was south on Gulf of Mexico Drive, around St. Armands Circle, out Fruitville Road to Interstate 75, then south a couple of exits to Logan’s hotel. That took almost forty-five minutes.
    I pulled into the parking lot. Two tough looking men were sitting on motorcycles, drinking from green beer bottles. A radio was blaring rock music. I continued on around the building. I didn’t want anybody to see my Explorer in case someone recognized it. I parked in a loading zone next to a door near a large Dumpster that overflowed with garbage. Today was probably the pickup day. The door was locked. A sign said: N O E NTRANCE . D ELIVERIES O NLY .
    I picked up the phone hanging on the wall next to the door. No dial. I put the receiver to my ear. A ringtone. Then an answer, “Front desk.”
    “This is Hugo,” I said. “I’ve got sodas to deliver for the machines.”
    “Where’s Buddy?”
    “Out sick today. I’m covering his route.”
    “Come on in.” There was a buzzing sound and I heard the lock click open.
    I went through the door into a small vestibule. Steps led upward. A push bar was on the door below a sign that said E MERGENCY E XIT O NLY .A LARM W ILL S OUND . I started up the stairs, found the third floor and opened the door into the hallway. I saw a Sarasota County Deputy Sheriff in a chair outside Logan’s room. He was leaning back, the chair cocked against the wall. He was reading a book. A David Hagberg thriller.
    He looked up as I approached. The chair came down on all four legs. He stood, wary. “May I help you, sir?”
    “I’m Matt Royal to see Mr. Hamilton.”
    He took a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his shirt. A list of names. Looked at it. Looked at me. “May I see some identification, sir?”
    I pulled out my wallet and gave him my driver’s license. He looked closely at it and handed it back to me. “Thank you, sir.” He reached around and rapped on the door. “Mr. Royal’s here, Mr. Hamilton.”
    The door opened. Logan was dressed. Golf shirt with the logo of the Red Sox on the pocket, chinos, sneakers, and a ball cap with a Dewars label embroidered into the fabric. “Come in,” he said.
    I did and closed the door behind me. “You ready to go?” I asked.
    “Yes. But what about the cop in the hall?”
    “Nothing. You’re not under arrest. We’ll just tell him we’re leaving.”
    “We can do that?”
    “Let’s go.”
    Logan picked up a small suitcase and we opened the door. The deputy stood again, his face posing the question before his mouth formed the words. “What are you doing?”
    “We’re leaving,” I said. “I’ll call the sheriff and tell him we checked out against your wishes.”
    “Mr. Royal, I can’t let Mr. Hamilton leave.”
    “Deputy,” I said, my face stern, “I’m a lawyer, and unless and until Mr. Hamilton is under arrest, he’s free to come and go as he pleases. We’re leaving.”
    “Sir, I can’t let that happen.”
    “Deputy, if you try to stop us, I’m going to sue you for false arrest, false imprisonment, assault and battery, and several other things I’ll think about later. Your career is going to be over. Now, I’d suggest you call whoever you report to and tell him that some smart-ass lawyer just took his client out of your protective care and the only way you could stop themleaving was to shoot one or both and you didn’t think