Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay Read Online Free Page A

park in the United States, established by Royal Spanish Ordinances in 1573.
    From where I sat, across from the Government House, I watched young people playing among the Civil War cannons and running the stairs of the covered pavilion that was once used as a public marketplace. Also known as the Old Slave Market, during the civil rights struggles it had been the gathering place for local demonstrators. During the summer months, the park hosted weekly concerts and an occasional art show. These days, though, homeless men inhabited many of the benches.
    If I walked two blocks up King Street, I’d be facing the Casa Monica Hotel. Thinking of the hotel made me remember how Sergeant Marrano had erupted when he heard my name. What did he say? That I was involved with that Howard woman . His statement was correct. I just didn’t like the way he said it.
    Serena Howard is the marketing director for the Casa Monica, and we’ve been seeing each other for the past three months. Unfortunately, what had begun with a flash of sparks and grew into one of my most meaningful relationships had flickered down to its last embers. Time to pour water over our campfire and declare it officially dead.
    I didn’t want to think about our crumbling romance now, so I walked the six blocks to the St. Augustine Police Department. I wondered how Poe’s interrogation had gone. What could he tell them other than he was completely in the dark about Marrano’s murder? But how could he explain away the bayonet?
    Poe had a stubborn streak. Sometimes his temper might push common sense aside and he’d say things he later regretted, but in my heart I knew my friend was not a killer. I glanced at the monument sign in the middle of the sidewalk identifying the neat concrete building as the St. Augustine Police Department before climbing the white steps and entering.
    A half-dozen plastic chairs hugged the walls inside the small waiting room. In one of the chairs sat a bony woman in a shapeless black dress covered with tiny yellow flowers. Emitting invisible signals of distress, she stared at the massive set of double doors separating the lobby from the rest of the building.
    I walked past the woman to the information window on the right side of the lobby. The window was identical to those you see at security-conscious gas stations for after hours’ transactions and included a stainless steel tray at the bottom as well as a round aluminum grid in the center for two-way conversation. Behind it, a solidly built woman in a white and green uniform talked animatedly on the telephone, scribbling something in a large three-ring binder.
    I waited patiently until she finished her conversation, turned the page in the notebook and finally acknowledged me. She studied me for a moment above a pair of half-frame reading glasses before approaching the window.
    “Can I help you?”
    “Do you know if Jeffrey Poe is still here?”
    Muscles tensed along her fleshy jaw line as she looked down at the notebook still in her hands and back to me. “He’s being questioned,” she said. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
    I walked to one of the chairs facing the interior doors. By the time I sat down the receptionist had returned to her desk, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the worried woman who broke the silence with a phlegmy cough.
    I gazed at the row of photographic portraits lining the wall directly in front of me. Each member of the St. Augustine City Commission including Mayor Hal Cameron and Vice Mayor William Marrano wore a nearly identical smile. Marrano’s face jolted me back to the discovery of his mutilated corpse. I had a little experience with murder cases, but this one didn’t seem to fit into the typical patterns of violent crime—escalating domestic abuse, drug-related shootings, or random acts of violence that are more likely to be crimes of opportunity.
    Whoever killed Marrano had taken the time to saw off the commissioner’s legs, and bury the body at