The detective division was housed on the third floor. Galls had enough seniority to warrant a small office with a view over the water to the Naval installation on Dredger's Key.
He stood as I entered his office. He was a couple of inches shorter than I and had a head full of brown hair parted on the left. I guessed his age as late forties or early fifties. He was wringing his hands, wiping them together as if he were washing them. A small metal logo of the U. S. Army Special Forces was pinned to the lapel of his suit coat.
"I see that you used to wear a green beanie." I said.
"Right. I heard you did too."
"I did."
"David Sims told me a lot about you. I figured we Special Forces guys have to stick together. I told him I'd give you whatever help I could."
"I appreciate it. Were you in Nam?"
"At the tail end. How about you?"
"About the same time," I said.
"I've got a fax for you that came in a little while ago."
He handed over the sheets of paper. We were finished talking about the war. Some things just don't need to be examined too closely. Who needs the pain?
The first sheet of paper had a note scribbled on it. "The same corporation that owns Blood Island also owns Varn's condo." I wasn't surprised.
"Tell me what I can do for you?" Galis said, dry washing his hands.
He noticed I was looking at his hands. He smiled a little sheepishly and said, "Nervous habit. I'm a worrier."
"What are you worried about?"
"Nothing. Everything. I think it comes from working for the government too long. How can I help you?"
"I'm looking for a girl who disappeared from Longboat Key about four weeks ago. Two days ago her father, Jeff Timmons, got a call from a bar here called the Sharkstooth."
"Bad place."
"I agree. The caller hung up before Jeff got to the phone, but his caller ID captured the number. He called it and got the pay phone in the bar. There were a couple of murders up my way that had connections that led to Key West. The murders and the phone call all pointed to here, so I thought I'd come down and see what I could find out."
"Sims brought me up to speed on the murders. Any luck?"
"Some guys at the Sharkstooth told me about Crill and, after you gave me his address, I paid him a visit."
"Wait a minute. The people that hang out in the Sharkstooth aren't the kind to tell tales."
"I'm pretty persuasive sometimes."
"You're the one who took out Big Rick." It wasn't a question.
"Maybe."
"He's been pushing people around for years. About time somebody laid a hurting on him."
"How is he?"
"In the hospital. He'll live, but his reputation as a hotshot took a beating."
I changed the subject. "What can you tell me about Blood Island?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Who lives there?"
"No idea. It's technically in our jurisdiction, and I guess if there were ever a crime committed out there, we'd look into it. But it's a quiet place."
"Never had any trouble at all?"
"None. There aren't many people on the island. I think the owners come in occasionally, but the only year-round residents are the caretakers."
"How many of them?"
"Don't know. Never had a reason to find out."
"What do you know about the Heaven Can't Wait Spa?"
"You mean the whorehouse?"
I chuckled. "You know about that, huh?"
"Sure. But it's a clean operation, and I've never heard of any trouble there. No complaints from the citizens. We'll leave it alone unless somebody starts raising hell about it."
"Do you know who owns it?"
"Some corporation based in the Bahamas is all I know. God knows who owns the corporation."
"Did you know that Blood Island is also owned by a Bahamian corporation?"
"No, but I'm not surprised. There've always been a lot of Bahamians in and out of Key West. They're bound to own some property."
I told him about Clyde Varn and that the same corporation that owned Blood Island also owned Varn's Tampa condo. I explained all the connections that seemed to converge on Key West; the shooter at Hutch's, Varn, the phone call from the Sharkstooth Bar to Jeff Timmons.
"That's a lot of coincidences," he said.
"I don't put much faith in coincidences."
"Nah. Neither do I."
"Have you ever heard of an evangelist named Robert William Simmermon?"
"No. Who is he?"
"I'm not sure. Clyde Varn told me he left Peggy and her friends at an arena in Sarasota. Simmermon was preaching there at the time. Later, he came to Key West."
"One more coincidence," Galls said.
"Let me show you something." I picked up a pencil from the detective's desk and drew a reasonably accurate picture of the cross in the circle of flowers I'd seen on Sister Amy's breast and at the front door of the spa. I passed it over to him. "Does this mean anything to you?"
He looked at it for a moment. "No, I don't think I've ever seen it. What is it?"
I told him where I'd seen it.
"You mean," he said, "that you just went into that whorehouse and asked the first girl you came to if she knew Peggy?"
"Yeah. It wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done. But, I wanted to see if I'd get a reaction."
"And did you?"
"Oh, yeah." I told him what had happened, but left out the part about my shooting one of my pursuers. I didn't think he'd like that I was shooting up his town and stealing kids' bicycles.
"I outran them," I said.
"This is a strange town in many ways, Matt. We've got a lot of odd people, and some of them are just bone-deep bad. But most of the people who live here are decent law-abiding folks. My job is keeping the bad guys from taking over from the good guys. I need to know which you are. Good guy or bad guy?"
"I'm on your side, Paul. But if I get pushed, I push back. Like they taught us at Bragg."
"They taught us about war, Matt. Key West isn't a war zone. Not yet, anyway."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Galls offered me lunch and a ride back to Old Town. I declined both. I didn't want anybody to see me eating with a cop or getting out of a police cruiser. He called a cab, and I had it drop me a couple of blocks from the yacht basin at Garrison Bight. I didn't think anybody was looking for me, but I wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible.
It was almost two in the afternoon, and I was hungry. I found a diner on Roosevelt Avenue that seemed to cater to the captains and crews of Charter Boat Row. I sat at the counter and ate a burger and fries. I finished, paid my tab, and walked out onto the street.
A black Lincoln Town Car sat idling at the curb. As I left the building, a large man in a dark suit got out of the front seat and approached me. I stopped. Wary, not expecting this.
"Mr. Royal," the man said. "Please come with me." He motioned to the car.
It took a moment for me to realize I'd been called by my real name. As far as I knew, no one in Key West, except Paul Galls, knew who I was. I started to deny that my name was Royal, when he opened his coat to show me a holstered pistol.
My gun was still in my pocket, but I couldn't imagine a shootout on a sunny street across from a busy marina. There were people all around, and someone would get hit. Galls was right. Key West shouldn't be a war zone.
The man smiled. "Cracker Dix sent me," he said.
Relief spread through me as my body relaxed. The adrenaline rush was subsiding, the bunched muscles loosening.
The man opened the back door and I slid into the car. An older man with receding gray hair was sitting on the other side of the back seat. His face showed the scars of a long-ago battle with acne. He was swarthy, and had a mouth full of large white teeth. He was dressed casually. He held out his hand. I took it.