Collateral Damage A Matt Royal Mystery - By H. Terrell Griffin Page 0,79
I were at the airport a little after three. We’d picked up some sandwiches at Harry’s Continental Kitchens Deli and drove directly to the airport. We were standing on the tarmac just outside the small terminal when Desmond’s jet taxied up. A window opened on the pilot’s side of the aircraft and Fred Cassidy, the same pilot who’d flown me to Jacksonville and Charlotte a few days earlier, stuck his head out.
“I’ll let the stair down, Matt. Come on aboard.”
Jock and I climbed the steps to the cabin and belted ourselves in. Fred stuck his head into the cabin and said, “We’re ready to go. Should be in Macon in about an hour. There’re some soft drinks in the refrigerator.”
We took off to the northwest, out over the bay and the barrier islands that defined its outer boundaries. We flew up the coast for a short time and then turned back to the northeast on a track for Macon, Georgia. I reached for my cell phone to call ahead and reserve a rental car. No phone. I’d left it sitting on the coffee table in my living room. I mentally kicked myself and borrowed Jock’s phone. When we landed in Macon an hour later, a car was waiting for us.
By five, we were sitting in the parking lot of the strip center on Riverside Drive that housed the offices of the Otto Foundation. Two women came out and one turned to lock the door. We sat and waited.
“Maybe he’s already gone,” said Jock.
“One way to find out.” I used Jock’s cell phone to dial the number of the foundation. Bud Stanley answered on the third ring. I hung up.
“He’s in there,” I said.
“Unless he forwarded the phone to someplace else.”
“No. I saw some movement behind the big window. Probably Stanley moving across the room to answer the phone.”
“Okay.”
We sat some more. At five thirty, Stanley came out of the front door, locked it, and walked to a gray Toyota Camry parked in front of the building. He pulled out of the lot and drove southeast on Riverside Drive. We followed, Jock driving. He let two cars get behind Stanley before he entered the southbound traffic. We didn’t have far to go. Stanley took a right onto College Street and drove a couple of miles before turning onto a residential street lined by renovated Victorian homes. He pulled into the driveway of one in the middle of the block and parked in the detached garage. Jock drove by slowly. I saw Stanley leave the garage and walk into the house.
Jock parked the rental on the street three houses down from Stan-ley’s. We stayed on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. We were walking through a neighborhood that had been there for a hundred years or more. The houses all had been lovingly restored, and it was obvious that these weren’t just modern knockoffs.
“Looks like a pretty expensive neighborhood,” Jock said.
“Yeah. Pretty high on the hog for a charitable foundation administrator.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Don’t have one. Put on your ugly face and let’s see what happens.”
He scowled at me, grimacing, his lips tight, his nose a bit flared. I said, “You look like you’re constipated. Try something else.”
We mounted the steps onto a large porch that wrapped around the house. I knocked on the door and we waited. In a minute, Bud Stanley opened it and looked at me. Recognition dawned.
“Mr. Royal, this is a pleasant surprise.” He made no move to invite us inside.
“May we come in?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m off to a function. I don’t mean to be rude, but your timing is bad.”
“We need to talk,” I said.
Stanley looked from me to Jock. “Who’s your friend?”
“He’s not a friend. Let’s just say he’s an associate.”
“Well,” Stanley said, “I wish I had time to be hospitable, but as I said, I have to go.”
He started to close the door. I reached out and stopped it. He glared at me.
“We just want to talk,” I said.
“Do I have to call the police?”
“I don’t think you want to do that, Mr. Bracewell.”
Stanley looked at me for a moment. I could see his resolve drying up, but he wasn’t going to give it up easily. “Who the hell is Bracewell?”
“Robert Charles Bracewell, late of Lompoc Prison.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Okay. Call the police. Maybe we can get them to run your fingerprints. The very least that’s going to do is really fuck up your evening.”