Read Online Mangrove Bayou by Stephen Morrill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen Morrill
Tags: Mystery
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Troy loved it so. It sat now in the middle of a national wildlife preserve, adjacent to a national park, facing the Gulf of Mexico, and surrounded on the other three sides by inviolate wetlands—shallow salt water and oyster-and-mangrove-spattered bays. Today, it was virtually impossible for even the most politically connected developer to bribe enough local, state and national legislators to let him fire up a bulldozer in a state preserve. There were easier pickings and greedier county commissioners and legislators elsewhere.
On top of that, the town had some strict zoning and had been laid out, on a standard grid, as a company town back when the lumber mills still operated on Barron Key. The streets were uniformly wide and with wide, tree-shaded sidewalks. The influx of wealthy retirees and those of working age who could do their jobs from a remote location had brought along shops to serve their needs. The crush of tourists in winter was big business for the motels and shops along the Gulf waterfront. The last major land change here had been in the mid-1960s when the town converted one large island in Oyster Bay into Government Key and dedicated that to service functions. Today, Troy thought, they probably couldn’t get the required permits.
He reached the chain-link fence around the town storage area on Government Key and swung around and started back. Feeling good , he thought. Save the final sprint for when I reach the microwave tower and from there back to the station. Impress the taxpayers.
Chapter 12
Tuesday, July 23
Troy showered and changed and drove over to Snake Key to a storage shed he had rented for his sailboat, canoe and camping gear that he rarely had time to use now. He loaded equipment into the Subaru and drove back to Barron Key and to the Krispy Kreme shop. Bad planning , he thought. Put the doughnut shop at the other side of the island from the police station. Probably cut their sales by half.
Back at the station Troy spent a few minutes unloading boxes and equipment from the back of the car. In the break room he put out two dozen doughnuts and made a big pot of coffee.
His office television told him the storm was strengthening in the Caribbean. The Cayman Islands and Cuba were bracing for what had become tropical storm Donald. Which, Troy thought, was a stupid name for a storm. He missed the days when storms were all named for women. Maybe, he thought, he was a little too old-fashioned.
Calvin Smith, just off night shift, came in and got an early start on the doughnuts and coffee in the break room. Troy joined him. Tom VanDyke came in and helped himself to a doughnut. Others trickled in.
“You do the fingerprints on the boat?” Troy asked Tom VanDyke.
Tom nodded and swallowed a bite of doughnut. He took a sip of coffee. “Got some. Don’t know how much use they’ll be. Anyway, it was just an accident, right?”
“Maybe,” Troy said. “Especially interested in whatever was on the drill and the plug.”
“Got some off the drill after all. Got some partials off the cord and plug. Problem is, the dockmaster had put his fat fingers all over the same areas, pulling the plug loose. Hey. Maybe the dockmaster did it.”
Troy looked up from his coffee. “Con Lohen? Why? Angry at Barrymore for not tipping enough for helping him tie up?” Helping tie up a boat was usually good for ten dollars to the dock staff.
“Hell, I don’t know. They pay you to think, they just pay me to write parking tickets.”
“Well, I’ll keep it in mind. At the moment that’s as good a theory as any.”
“Want me to send those prints on over to F.D.L.E.?” Tom asked. The Florida Department of Law Enforcement had a good file of Florida-related fingerprints. The FBI had many more, but requests could take some time.
“Go ahead. Probably worthless but no harm in asking. Take some of Con Lohen too, if his aren’t already on file.”
“Already did that.”
“You’re a good man, Tom, no matter what
On top of that, the town had some strict zoning and had been laid out, on a standard grid, as a company town back when the lumber mills still operated on Barron Key. The streets were uniformly wide and with wide, tree-shaded sidewalks. The influx of wealthy retirees and those of working age who could do their jobs from a remote location had brought along shops to serve their needs. The crush of tourists in winter was big business for the motels and shops along the Gulf waterfront. The last major land change here had been in the mid-1960s when the town converted one large island in Oyster Bay into Government Key and dedicated that to service functions. Today, Troy thought, they probably couldn’t get the required permits.
He reached the chain-link fence around the town storage area on Government Key and swung around and started back. Feeling good , he thought. Save the final sprint for when I reach the microwave tower and from there back to the station. Impress the taxpayers.
Chapter 12
Tuesday, July 23
Troy showered and changed and drove over to Snake Key to a storage shed he had rented for his sailboat, canoe and camping gear that he rarely had time to use now. He loaded equipment into the Subaru and drove back to Barron Key and to the Krispy Kreme shop. Bad planning , he thought. Put the doughnut shop at the other side of the island from the police station. Probably cut their sales by half.
Back at the station Troy spent a few minutes unloading boxes and equipment from the back of the car. In the break room he put out two dozen doughnuts and made a big pot of coffee.
His office television told him the storm was strengthening in the Caribbean. The Cayman Islands and Cuba were bracing for what had become tropical storm Donald. Which, Troy thought, was a stupid name for a storm. He missed the days when storms were all named for women. Maybe, he thought, he was a little too old-fashioned.
Calvin Smith, just off night shift, came in and got an early start on the doughnuts and coffee in the break room. Troy joined him. Tom VanDyke came in and helped himself to a doughnut. Others trickled in.
“You do the fingerprints on the boat?” Troy asked Tom VanDyke.
Tom nodded and swallowed a bite of doughnut. He took a sip of coffee. “Got some. Don’t know how much use they’ll be. Anyway, it was just an accident, right?”
“Maybe,” Troy said. “Especially interested in whatever was on the drill and the plug.”
“Got some off the drill after all. Got some partials off the cord and plug. Problem is, the dockmaster had put his fat fingers all over the same areas, pulling the plug loose. Hey. Maybe the dockmaster did it.”
Troy looked up from his coffee. “Con Lohen? Why? Angry at Barrymore for not tipping enough for helping him tie up?” Helping tie up a boat was usually good for ten dollars to the dock staff.
“Hell, I don’t know. They pay you to think, they just pay me to write parking tickets.”
“Well, I’ll keep it in mind. At the moment that’s as good a theory as any.”
“Want me to send those prints on over to F.D.L.E.?” Tom asked. The Florida Department of Law Enforcement had a good file of Florida-related fingerprints. The FBI had many more, but requests could take some time.
“Go ahead. Probably worthless but no harm in asking. Take some of Con Lohen too, if his aren’t already on file.”
“Already did that.”
“You’re a good man, Tom, no matter what
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