Death Among the Mangroves Read Online Free Page A

can get, will be appreciated.”
    “You going to put up a reward for information?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t even know where I’d get the money. If we do, I’ll call you for sure.”
    “Who would make a decision on a reward?” Cilla asked. “Lester Groud, maybe?”
    “He’s the mayor. I guess so. I’ll find out. We’ll both find out. But with any luck, she will turn up soon.”
    “Do you really think so?”
    “I’m hoping so.”
    Dowling crossed her legs to give her something to write on in her reporter’s notebook. She had a barb-wire tattoo around one ankle. “We rely on tourists for our living here,” she said. “Letting one go missing can kill this town. If you don’t find this girl pronto the whole news business is going to drop down on you like the D-Day invasion. Don’t you forget little old me when that happens.”
    Troy sighed. “I know. Wherever possible I’ll try to give you exclusives.”
    “God help us all.”
    “Yes, Cilla, God help us. And God help Barbara Gillispie if we don’t find her soon.”
    “No, Troy,” Dowling said, “God help you if you don’t find her soon.”
    Until someone found something, Troy could only wait. Eduardo Martinez showed up and Troy ran his I.D. through the system. Martinez was clean. He had even remembered to change his driver license address when he moved from Orlando to Mangrove Bayou. Troy hadn’t changed his own when he moved from Tampa and he made a note to do so. Six months late and I’m the damn police chief. Do I owe a dollar? Guess not, didn’t say it out loud.
    The day shift was on and Troy told Juan Valdez to take the dispatch duties on the other department cell phone. He joined Lee Bell at the Osprey Yacht Club for the Sunday brunch. He took one each of everything that contained meat and cholesterol. Lee took some salad and a small slice of bloody roast beef.
    He now had on his “longs” uniform, long-sleeve khaki shirt with shoulder straps and his name and “Chief” on the right pocket, and “Mangrove Bayou Police” on the left, and long trousers. He didn’t wear the full duty belt his officers used but he had his .45-caliber pistol in a belt holster, and a radio clipped to his belt with a lapel microphone/speaker with a small earpiece clipped to the left shoulder strap. Lee Bell wore tight white jeans with a light green man’s shirt with long collar points worn out over a white sweater vest. The shirt matched her eyes. She was as tall as Troy, thin and redheaded.
    They were both yacht club members, Lee legitimately. She was wealthy enough but also owned an air cargo/passenger service. She flew a Cessna Grand Caravan around Florida and lived in a large home just up the road from the yacht club on Airfield Key.
    Troy had been reluctantly admitted only because the director of public safety had always been an honorary member—even though the management wanted to toss him out once they saw what color he was. The Osprey Yacht Club was Caucasian, wealthy and conservative. Caligula would have been welcomed with open arms; Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., not so much. In South Florida, with his slightly almond eyes and short, straight black hair and what Mayor Groud called his “beige” complexion, Troy was often mistaken for a local Native American, either Seminole or Miccosukee.
    “Told you before,” Lee Bell said as they ate, “I can take the plane up. Lend me some people to look out the side windows and I’m yours for as long as it takes.”
    “Appreciate that. Might get back to you on it. Today at least we have a chopper from the sheriff’s office.”
    Lee nodded. She cut off a tiny piece of roast beef and nibbled on it. Troy had already scarfed down almost everything on his plate. Several years as an Army officer had made him a fast eater. “It’s probably better for snooping around those mangroves anyway,” Lee said. “My stall speed is a little over 60 knots and I wouldn’t want to fly around at less than 100, just to