I hung back now, letting her go. When I got to the next corner and looked down the side street, she was out of sight. In the middle of the block sat the Victorian mansion that housed the Heaven Can't Wait Spa.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"Come in, Mr. Royal," Michelle said. "We've been expecting you."
Uh-oh. This couldn't be good. But, I'd never refused the offer of a pretty young woman, especially if she was holding a gun on me. I entered the house as Michelle backed into the foyer, gun pointed directly at my gut. I didn't doubt that she would gladly put one into my heart if I didn't do what she said.
She waved me into the living room off the foyer. "That was a pretty good picture our security camera got at the spa," she said. "I recognized you immediately."
The truck driver was sitting at ease in a recliner, no weapon in sight. He stood and frisked me. He took the. 38 out of my pocket and put it on a table next to his chair. He sat back down, crossed one leg over his knee, and grinned.
He was a big man, with oversized muscles bulging out his T-shirt sleeves. His dark hair was cropped close, and his face wore the quizzical look affected by so many body builders who make up for their lack of brains with a lot of brawn. Three angry scratch marks ran the length of his left cheek. Peggy had taken a hunk out of his hide.
I wondered how he had gotten to Michelle's house without my seeing him, but then realized he could have come through the backyard.
Michelle nodded in the man's direction, and said, "Charlie recognized you on the street a few minutes ago. He thought you were following me."
"Mr. Calhoun, I presume," I said.
A momentary look of surprise crossed his face. "How do you know my name?" he asked.
"You're a famous street punk. Everybody tells me you're as stupid as you look. I wonder if that's possible."
He was coming out of his chair. "You smart-ass son of a bitch. You shot my buddies."
"Sit, Charlie," Michelle said, and like an obedient dog, he fell back into the chair.
"Minds well," I said.
"You might want to be careful, Mr. Royal. I might just let him loose on you."
"Please, call me Matt. We're all friends here."
"Sit on the sofa," she said, and took a chair directly across from me. I sat. There was a low coffee table between us, a large flat book of photographs of the Florida Keys lying on top.
"Why are you here, Matt?" Michelle asked.
"I'm looking for a girl. An eighteen-year-old college student named Peggy Timmons. The same girl old Charlie here was chasing a couple of days ago. I heard she just about took him. Looks like she marked him up pretty good."
Charlie started to rise again, a look of irritation on his face. "I'll kick your ass," he growled.
"Sit, Charlie," said Michelle, again.
"But, Michelle," Charlie said.
"Sit." Louder this time.
Charlie sat, but he didn't like it.
I looked at him and smiled. "You're a lot safer doing what the lady tells you, Charlie."
He started out of the chair again, but went back down at one look from Michelle. He wanted to tear my head off and, if I kept goading him, sooner or later he was going to take his shot. I was counting on it.
I heard a clock chime somewhere in the back of the house. Five o'clock. The light was slanting through the west-fronting windows now, little dust motes hovering in the beams. I heard a motor scooter pass on the street, and somewhere in the distance a ship's horn sounded. One of the cruise ships was leaving its dock, full of sunburned tourists heading for the next island.
I smiled at Michelle. "Are you going to tell me where to find Peggy?"
She smiled back. "No."
"What about her mother, Laura Timmons?"
"Who?" Michelle looked puzzled, as if she'd never heard the name before.
"Maybe I'll have to ask Reverend Simmermon," I said.
She and Charlie both laughed, quickly, snorts really, rather than laughter. "You think that idiot runs things?" Michelle asked.
"His picture is on Charlie's truck," I said.
She chuckled this time. "Yeah, I kind of let him think he's running things sometimes. It helps keep his ego in check."
"Is he on Blood Island?"
She looked mildly surprised. "My, my, you've been a very busy boy."
"Look, Michelle, I don't care what you've got going with the spa or anything else. I just want the girl."
"I can't let that happen, Matt. It's too late."