Murder Key Read Free

feet-eight, with a head full of black hair and a small well-trimmed mustache. He was wearing a golf shirt over a pair of chinos, his small belly beginning to push at the shirt, a sign of too much desk and not enough exercise. He came over to me and put his arm across my shoulder.
                  “You all right, Counselor?” he asked.
                  “Yeah, thanks to Logan.”
                  “What happened?”
                  I told him the whole thing, leaving nothing out. I couldn’t imagine why anyone w ould want to shoot me, and I’d have thought it a case of mistaken identity if the guy hadn’t asked me if I were Matt Royal.
                  Turning to Logan, Bill asked, “Where’d you learn that kung fu crap?”
                  “Ah, that’s just bar fighting 101, Bill. A full bottle of hooch can do a lot of damage. You think I could get another scotch ? Matt’s buying.”
                  “Sure,” Bill said. Several Manatee County Sheriff’s deputies had come into Tiny’s while we talked. They helped the Longboat police as needed. Lester had probably called them in to help take statements while the crowd was reasonably sober. He would’ve known before he reached Tiny’s that there’d be a crowd on a Friday night. The chief was a regular himself and he knew most of  the people in the bar.
                  Bill asked the crowd to calm down, and then told them he would appreciate it if each of them would giv e a statement to the deputies. There was a murmur of agreement, and the deputies began to move about the bar, talking to the witnesses.
                  Bill turned to me. “You feel like talking now?”
                  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s get this down before I start to forget things.”
                  We moved to a table in the corner where it was reasonably quiet. “What can you tell me about this, Counselor?”
                  I gave him the facts, as best as I could remember them.
                  “What were your impressions?” Bill asked.
                  “Impressions? I was scared to death.”
                  “I can imagine. But there must have been some thoughts going through your head.”
                  “I was hoping I wouldn’t crap my pants when the bullet hit me.”
                  “Okay, but think. Try to let your mind just flow around the memory. Is there anything else you saw, or thought you saw, or sensed?”
                  “The shooter was wearing latex gloves. I don’t think that registered until now. But he was wearing surgical gloves.”
                  “Anything else?”
                  “I don’t think so,” I said.
                  “What about the motorcycle, the rider, the tag number, anything?”
                  “The driver had on dark clothes and a black helmet. One of those that covered his head completely. It had a tinted visor, and I couldn’t see his face through it. There was mud on the license plate. It was a Florida plate, but I couldn’t read the nu m bers.”
                  “Anything els e strike you about the driver?”
                  I thought for a minute, concentrating on the few second glimpse I’d had of the driver. “He was small,” I said. “Maybe he was a teenager. His jacket seemed too large. ”
                  “Could it have been a woman?”
                  I hadn’t thought about that. I nodded. “I suppose it could’ve been,” I said.
                  “What kind of bike?”
                  “I don’t know. It wasn’t a Harley. Wh at do they call those others? Crotch rockets?”
                  “Yeah. Harley drivers are a lot more sensible than those