Collateral Damage A Matt Royal Mystery - By H. Terrell Griffin Page 0,1

see how the vodka stock is doing.”

I laughed. “Sit until she gets here.”

Cotty took the chair next to Logan, across from me. “I guess you heard about the guy getting shot on the beach this morning.”

I hadn’t. Cotty knew everything that happened on the island, and often knew it before anybody else. No one ever figured out how she knew so much so quickly.

“Shot?” asked Logan.

“Yes. Apparently a high-powered rifle. The police think the gunman was in one of the condos just south of the Hilton. Got the guy right in the chest. He was dead before he hit the sand.”

“Who was he?” I asked. “A local?”

“No. Some guy from Atlanta. Got married yesterday. He and his bride were staying at the Hilton. He went out for a jog early this morning.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Not really. There were a couple of people on the beach who heard the shot and saw the guy hit the ground, but nobody saw where the shot came from.”

“Any leads at all?” Logan asked.

“Not that I’ve heard. Bill Lester and that new detective J. D. Duncan are still at the Hilton doing whatever it is they do.”

Bill Lester was the Longboat Key chief of police and J. D. Duncan was a detective who had recently joined the force after fifteen years with the Miami-Dade Police Department.

I felt another heat blast as the door opened again. Shirley came over to say hello and she and Cotty went to the bar and took seats. By the time they left, all the island gossip would be told and retold. As good a way as any to spend a hot afternoon.

Logan sipped his Scotch. “What do you make of the shooting?”

“No idea. I wonder who the victim was.”

“The Chamber of Commerce isn’t going to like this. They’ll be afraid the publicity will scare the tourists away.”

“I don’t know. It’s not like people regularly get mowed down on our beach.”

“You’re probably right.”

Our conversation turned back to fishing. We put together a plan that mostly involved the question of where to get the beer and bait. We decided on Annie’s in the settlement of Cortez across the bay.

CHAPTER THREE

My home is Longboat Key, Florida. More specifically, Longbeach Village, long called simply the “Village,” that takes up the north end of the island. My cottage backs up to the bay, giving me a view that brings real estate sales people to their knees. Tropical flowers are abundant in the yard, and I pay a guy more than I should to keep them blooming or whatever they’re supposed to do during any given season.

Longboat Key itself is small, about ten miles long and less than a half-mile wide in most places. It lies off the coast of Southwest Florida, south of Tampa Bay and about half way down the peninsula. Once you leave the south end of the key you cross some bridges, another island and end up in downtown Sarasota. On the north end you’ll cross the Longboat Pass Bridge, part of Anna Maria Island, then Cortez Bridge, and find yourself in the city of Bradenton.

The island is my slice of paradise. I’m not old enough for retirement, but I’d been to war as a young man, then college and law school. I’d practiced as a trial lawyer in Orlando for a number of years and despaired of the business that the profession was turning into. I began to drink too much and take myself way too seriously, plowing into the law practice with a single-minded devotion that left little time for the only woman I’d ever loved, my wife, Laura. She finally gave notice that our marriage was over. She moved to Atlanta, remarried and died a few years later.

I gave up, sold everything, and moved to Longboat Key. If I was careful, I had enough to live on for the rest of my life. I’d pretty much achieved my goal of becoming a beach bum, living in a small community with lots of friends and time for fishing, walking the beach, drinking in the salubrious bars that dotted our island. I’m not sure how healthy all that drinking was, but the lifestyle gave me a peace that I’d not been able to achieve in all the years before Longboat.

I stayed in shape, worked out with a martial arts instructor a couple of times a week, ran daily on the beach, and always found time for a round of exercises that kept me young. Or at least younger than if I’d become one