Brigands Key Read online

“Where then?”

  No point in lying. “Brigands Key.”

  Carl’s eyes widened. He eased a few inches away. “What’s going on up there? People are talking about a plague.”

  Now it was Sanborn’s turn to be surprised. When you’re smack dab in the middle of something, you don’t have perspective. Especially when you’re from Brigands Key and accustomed to being invisible. He hadn’t realized anyone outside the county had become aware of the sicknesses. “We have an unfortunate situation, that’s for damned sure. That’s why I’m here. In a roundabout way. Name’s Randy Sanborn. I’m no doctor, so take this for what it’s worth: something is rotten, but there’s no plague. I’m police chief in Brigands Key. I’m off duty and I have zero jurisdiction here. So any help will be much appreciated.”

  “I’ll try and be of assistance, Constable Sanborn of Brigands Key Hamlet.”

  Constable Sanborn. Never heard that before. Ever. “I’m looking for a guy, Carl.”

  “Aren’t we all.”

  “He was a patron here. Roscoe Nobles. Heard of him?”

  “Roscoe? Of course. He comes here all the time. Is he in trouble?”

  “Is he here now?”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  “My whole town’s in trouble. Roscoe is not suspected of any crime if that’s what you want to know. He may be the key to figuring out what’s going on and he’s gone missing.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Does he come here a lot?”

  “At least twice a month. Stays at the Starlight Motel down the block usually.”

  “If he were in Tampa, would you know it?”

  “Absolutely. Roscoe would have come in by now. This is the place where everybody knows your name.”

  “When was he last here?”

  “It’s been, oh, three weeks. Do you think...?”

  “Plague? I don’t know. Brigands Key is too small to hide in. When someone goes missing, it’s usually because he had too much to drink and fell overboard. But Roscoe’s boat is docked, pretty as can be.”

  “Maybe the vampire got him.”

  “Don’t start that shit.”

  “Sorry. Don’t mean to make light of it. Roscoe’s a gem. Does a wonderful rendition of Robert Goulet.”

  “Who the hell does Robert Goulet?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Did... does Roscoe talk much about us?”

  “A little. He’s lonely there, Constable. As you might imagine. Had a few troubles with the townsfolk?”

  “About this? No one really knows about his secret life there.”

  “A few do. He had trouble with a couple of people. Your mayor, he complained a lot about him.”

  Sanborn hoped his poker face was good. “The mayor?”

  “Mayor Toad was after Roscoe to sell out to Gulf Breeze. Can you imagine, that gorgeous old Victorian getting torn down for condos? It’s a crime.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “I stayed in it one weekend. Roscoe’s very sly.”

  “I guess he is. Know anything more about the mayor?”

  “Roscoe is, of course, one of your local politicos. He was getting pushed to sell by both the mayor and that developer, and pushed by some realtor to not sell. He was stuck in the middle.”

  “He was adamant about not selling.”

  “He wasn’t always. That developer offered him some big money. He was going to at one point, you know.”

  “Assume that I don’t.”

  “Fine, Constable. Roscoe was a dreamer, but his dreams weren’t panning out. His little treasure hunts were draining him financially and emotionally. He began to believe what his father had always called him. A failure.”

  “And that changed, right?”

  “Suddenly and dramatically. I’d like to think he couldn’t bear the thought of watching the Victorian fall, but Roscoe’s not the sentimental type. Something gave him a big change of heart.”

  “Know what it was?”

  Carl shook his head. “Roscoe was a different person than what you knew back on your island. He was open, flippant, gregarious. But he could keep a secret better than the CIA. Big code buff, you know.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Roscoe was getting extremely nervous over the last year or so about something. Wouldn’t say what, but he thought someone was after him, and not about selling his house. We figured, yeah right, good old Roscoe the Paranoid.”

  Sanborn downed the remains of his drink. He took a business card out of his shirt pocket and tapped it on the bar. “Carl, listen. It’s urgent that I find Roscoe. Ask around. If you see or hear from him, call me right away, any time day or night.”

  “I’d normally tell a nosy cop to piss off, but something tells me to trust you.”

  “Time is short, Carl. I’ve got at least two murders, a lethal illness, a missing person to solve. And that’s just on the surface.”

  “It goes deeper?”

  “Deeper than anything we can imagine.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Grant flipped through his notebooks, pausing over a paragraph here and there. It really was damned good work. Well researched and well documented. Unimpeachable. He’d learned the hard way to go beyond the accepted norm of thoroughness. Damned if he’d slip up on that again.

  It was now Tuesday morning. Exactly one week after he’d discovered the spring and it finally had a name, even if it hadn’t yet been memorialized in any official way. He had named it. Others might try to come along and trump the name, maybe even give it some sawdust name like SS-42. Astronomers did that a lot, damning fantastic celestial objects with numerical designations. They claimed it was necessary because there were too many stars to give worthy names to. All the good names, like Aldebaran and Sirius, were taken. What rubbish. Seven billion humans on the planet, and every one had a name, not a number. How hard could it be? Astronomers had just gotten lazy.

  So the spring was now and forever “Grant’s Eye.”

  He toyed with the idea of a return dive to the spring, but that idea stank. Sanborn had barred him from his own archaeological site, not that he could give a shit about Sanborn. But the seas were picking up out on the Gulf. The mere thought of going out on a tossing boat made his stomach churn. He reached for the bottle of Pepto Bismol on his nightstand and took a swig. He returned his attention to the notebook.

  A page of notes and sketches caught his attention. It was a description of the piece of wood he’d found. The truncheon. He’d heard nothing more about it from Sanborn or Hammond. Maybe that was by design.

  A knock came at the door. What now? Sanborn was probably here to drag him in for more questioning.

  He cracked the door and peeked out. A young woman with jet-black hair looked in. Quite a looker.

  “Dr. Grant?”

  “Dr. Nakamura.”

  “You know me?”

  “This isn’t Atlanta, Doctor. You’re the only person of Asian descent on Brigands Key. What can I do for you?”

  “You could let me in.”

  Grant hesitated, stepped aside. Nakamura glanced at the motel bed, the packed bags. “Going somewhere?”

  “If the Gestapo sees fit.”

  “I’m not in law enforcement, Dr. Grant. But I’d recommend you sit tight.”

  “Your recommendation is duly noted. And I choose to ignore it. I’m checking out in five minutes.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Again I ask: what can I do for you?”

  “You found John Doe. I’d like to interview you about it.”

  “Him. You have five minutes.”

  “You won’t be leaving, Dr. Grant, until I say so. If you like, I can get Sanborn over here to explain it to you.”

  “I’ll be off the island before you fetch him.”

  “I can also have the FBI pick you up and bring you back. A phone call is all it would take. Would you prefer that?”

  “You’re not FBI. You’re CDC. Surgeons with bad
ges.”

  “CDC has some sweeping powers these days. Maybe you haven’t been following the news.”

  Grant shook his head, resigned. He sat on the foot of the bed and motioned her to one of the worn chairs. “Interview away, Doc. Let me warn you, though. You’re in Brigands Key because of a contagion. And I’m sick.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “And you’re not afraid?”

  “Neither Hammond nor I think it’s a contagion.”

  “No? What then?”

  “We’re working on it. Nevertheless, if you feel like coughing, let me know.” Nakamura reached into her shoulder bag, produced a recorder, and switched it on. “Now then: tell me all about your discovery of John Doe. Start with why you’re out in the middle of the ocean in the first place. Leave out nothing.”

  “As you wish.” Grant began with his background and his research and how it led to discovery of Grant’s Eye, right up through his delivery of the body to Sanborn. He finished, leaned back, and watched her guardedly.

  “Sounds like you broke a half-dozen Florida statutes and more than a few federal laws in your handling of the crime scene,” she said.

  “Recite them for me.”

  Nakamura hesitated.

  “That’s what I thought. You’re not good at playing Dragon Lady, are you? You would have preferred I left the body in a hole in the ocean for Barney Fife to collect?”

  Her smile looked genuine for once. “Maybe not.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know, Doctor.”

  “I don’t think so. Let’s start over, and start by calling me Kyoko. You’ve told me everything you think is relevant. You’ve been here a couple of weeks, right? Tell me what you know about Brigands Key. What’s normal, what’s not for this place.”

  “There’s a Brigands Key normal that may not fit the outside world. It’s an island town. Very close-knit, very insular. Very secretive.”

  “Why secretive?”

  “Islanders everywhere have a way about them. Stuff comes in, stuff goes out, but mind your own business. Through lean times, like the Great Depression, island towns keep on clicking. They’ve always been dropping-off points for everything the rest of us want. When we come barging in, buying up property, they get a little defensive. Guys that hate each others’ guts will circle the wagons together.”

  “That’s happening here?”

  “You bet. The carpetbaggers are moving in, buying it up. The townsfolk are resentful, but there’s a rift that’s gotten acid. Some are ready to cash in. Others are clinging to the past. There’s not much middle ground.”

  “Back to John Doe. There’s something Hammond and Sanborn are keeping off the record.”

  “Like John Doe’s age?”

  “What about his age?”

  “What’s your guess?”

  “Twenty?”

  “Maybe when he died.”

  “And—?”

  “The guy’s seventy if he’s a day. But what do I know about the recently deceased? I’m an archaeologist. Talk to Hammond.”

  Kyoko nodded ever so slightly. If she was surprised, she wasn’t letting on. She seemed to be assimilating this new knowledge, fitting it with ideas of her own. Grant wondered if he’d underestimated her.

  “What do you know about Roscoe Nobles?” she suddenly asked.

  “Not much.” Grant reached for his shoes and pulled them on. “But I’ll introduce you to someone who does.”

  * * *

  Charley sat on the end of the public fishing pier, his feet dangling over the edge, jigging gently on his fishing rod, tickling the water with a lure. Nothing biting, as usual. Fishing was for crap around the pier and only out-of-towners and local kids with nothing better to do ever fished from it. But he had nothing better to do. No school. No job. No home life. No friends. Nothing.

  A shadow appeared over him. “Charley, I thought I’d find you here.”

  He looked up. The Professor stood over him. And that lady from CDC. “Hey, Doc. Feel like fishing?”

  “I don’t feel like anything but puking.”

  “Maybe that’ll chum up some fish for me.”

  “This is Dr. Kyoko Nakamura.”

  “From Atlanta. Got it.”

  “You know of me?”

  “Everybody does.”

  “So it seems. Tell me about Roscoe.”

  “He’s dead, I reckon.”

  “You were the last to see him?”

  “Maybe. Everybody in town’s looking at me funny, anyhow.”

  “Were you close?”

  Charley snorted. “He wasn’t close with anybody. Not around here, anyway. I liked him, though.”

  “Roscoe got into something, didn’t he?”

  Charley cocked his head. “Roscoe was your basic island entrepreneur. He got into lots of things.”

  “Don’t play games, Charley Eff. I’ve read your blogs. I know what’s on your mind. Roscoe’s mixed up with John Doe, isn’t he?”

  Charley looked at her, surprised. CDC Woman was pretty sharp. “You figured that out?”

  “Yes.”

  Charley nodded slowly. “He thought the Professor had found something big in the ocean.”

  “What?”

  “Pirate treasure. It’s what all us hicks are after, isn’t it?”

  “And he went after it?”

  “That’s my guess. Next thing you know, he’s disappeared. I looked everywhere. He dropped off the face of the earth and that’s not like him.”

  “Charley, I need your help.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m an outsider. So is Dr. Grant. Our reach is limited in Brigands Key. I need you to do some digging, some asking around. Something peculiar is going on. And it’s related to real estate.”

  “Good guess,” Grant said. “History is all about real estate.”

  “You know this town, Charley. You know the battle lines over Bay View. Get me something that’s not obvious.”

  Charley’s foot tapped nervously on the sea wall. Dr. Nakamura was sharp as a tack. Between her and Dr. Grant, the cumulative IQ of Brigands Key had tripled. This was a treat, being around super-smart people for a change. And they wanted his help. He felt a thickness in his throat, the odd feeling he got when being flattered, which was almost never.

  “Will you keep me in the loop?” he asked.

  “You bet.”

  “I’m the best researcher this rotten place has yet produced. I can come up with something.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, Kyoko sat across from Hammond, watching him closely. Hammond leafed through a bound report, his face drawn and pale, shadows underscoring his eyes. The report trembled slightly in his hands. He got through the last page, riffled them, squared them up, and placed them on his desk. “We’re getting nowhere,” he said glumly.

  The tests were all coming back. She’d expressed samples to CDC for viral analysis and the electron microscope scans found nothing. “Process of elimination,” she said. “The only way to crack this nut.”

  “But the nut’s not cracking.”

  “Are we in agreement? It’s not a virus?”

  Hammond shook his head. “Can’t say for sure. It just doesn’t look like one.”

  “Well, what virus do you think it could be?”

  “Malaria. West Nile. I don’t know, something we don’t see much in Florida.”

  Kyoko slapped the desktop. “Jerry, it’s not malaria. It’s not West Nile. You have the results right in front of you.”

  “What then? Venom?”

  She pursed her lips, thinking. “There are a million venoms in the world. Each attacks a victim differently. I’ve got CDC running a venom database. So far, no matches. Besides, none of the victims have reported any stings or bites that may have envenomated them.”

  “Venom can be artificially introduced.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “It’s all I’ve got.”

  “We can all but rule out foo
d poisoning and natural toxins. The lab test found nothing in the scallops and oysters. Nothing in the shrimp. They tested every type of fish caught. Nothing. They tested milk, eggs, ice cream, butter. They tested all the meat at the grocery store. Nothing. Clean as a whistle.”

  “Check the whistle. They’re vessels for spit, you know.”

  Kyoko tried smiling, with little success. “They didn’t find anything in the drinking water. From the vomiting and diarrhea and deaths, I had convinced myself Vibrio cholerae was going to show up in the water. Nothing. Spotless, in fact. The drinking water here is cleaner than Miami’s and Tampa’s.”

  “Then we’re looking at two things. Either there’s a virus we’re missing or there’s a poison at work.”

  Kyoko nodded. “Look at page six. Symptoms are viral, but we can’t find a virus. Vomiting, bloody diarrhea, burning abdominal pain, swift death. If we’re talking poison, what it says is arsenic.”

  “Hmm. No. You saw the tissue tests. If this were arsenic, it'd show up in body fat.”

  “Another poison, then.” She tapped her pencil lightly on the table. “Jerry, this sickness is shifting out of our realm. Outside of bacterial contaminants, accidental poison spills and environmental contaminations usually do their dirty work over time. Weeks, months, years. Powerful poisons rarely leak into the world and kill by accident. We’re on the right track, and the track is pointing to a large-scale, acute poisoning. Not by accident. Someone is poisoning Brigands Key deliberately.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Tommy Greenwood glanced at his watch. Three-thirty in the p.m. Randy usually wrapped up his housekeeping tasks, the mail, the paperwork, the political phone calls by noon and would be out making the rounds by now. Yet the boss hid still in his office, behind closed doors.

  Sanborn’s door rattled at last and he stuck his head out. “Tell you what. Here’s ten bucks. Go grab you and me some coffee and biscuits from Carla’s.”

  “You okay, Boss?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be here a while. Take a break and get us something.”

  In ten minutes Greenwood returned, balancing two foam cups of coffee on one hand, pinned in place under his chin, with a bag of hot buttered biscuits in the other. He twisted the doorknob and backed in. “Get ’em while they’re hot.”