Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery by H. Terrell Griffin

And then it was gone. Just as suddenly. I, Matt Royal, good guy, had just scared an old man to death. A mean, nasty piece of crap who had been responsible for more grief than I could imagine, but an old man, nevertheless.
    The spirit gum had done its job. The mustache was still firmly attached to my lip. I hadn’t touched anything, so my fingerprints wouldn’t be in the room when the cops came. A careful search would probably turn up my DNA in the spit that had been knocked out of my mouth by the old man, but my DNA was not on file anywhere, and the only way I could be tied to the room was if I were arrested and the cops were trying to pin the deaths on me.
    I picked up the hat and glasses, put them on, and left the suite, walking purposefully toward the elevator. I was sure there were security cameras somewhere, and I didn’t want to look like the furtive Longboat Key lawyer that I was.
    I went through the lobby, looking straight ahead, and out the door. I worked my way back to the rental Chevy and threw the windbreaker, pillow, and belt into the backseat. I exchanged the cowboy boots for running shoes. I sat in the car and used the spirit gum remover to get the mustache off my face. I drove south to 5 th Street, headed west on the MacArthur Causeway to I-95, and drove north.
    I left the Interstate in Hollywood, and rode through town looking for supermarkets that were still open. Every supermarket has a Dumpsteroutside, and they are emptied daily, usually the first thing in the morning before the store opens. I dropped each item of the disguise in a different Dumpster, and went back to I-95. I found a Holiday Inn Express and checked in, paying cash.
    I didn’t sleep well. I kept wondering if I would have shot Banchori if he hadn’t had the heart attack. I’d wanted him dead, but I was still feeling the effects of killing Chardone. They weren’t pleasant. I was a little more concerned about Dennis. I didn’t know if he had been involved in his father’s business, but he certainly knew about it. But I’d killed Dennis in self-defense. In fact, I hadn’t meant to kill him at all. Just an unlucky, for him, blow to the neck. I’d probably crushed his larynx and caused him to choke to death. I could live with that.
    I didn’t understand a man like Banchori. He dealt in death like sane people deal in widgets. Bought and sold. No thought of the life he was taking. Yet, he was genuinely devastated by the death of his son. Could he not make the connection? Not understand that other people would love and grieve just as he did? Or, did he just not care?
    I drifted off to sleep, and was awakened by the chime of my cell phone. I opened my eyes. Sunlight was drifting in under the drapes that covered the windows. I looked at my watch. Nine a.m. I rolled over and answered. It was Carl Merritt.
    “Did you see Banchori last night?”
    “No. I haven’t gotten out of Sarasota yet.” Another lie to a friend. “I’m headed your way today.”
    “I called you at home and got your answering machine.”
    “I’m not at home, Carl,” I said pointedly. “I’m with a friend.”
    “Oh. Sorry. Well, you can save yourself a trip.”
    “Why?”
    “Banchori died last night.”
    “Died?”
    “Yeah. It looks like a heart attack, but we won’t know for sure until the medical examiner gets finished. His scumbag son was in the room with him, and it looks like somebody beat him to death.”
    “I’ll be damned.”
    “No great loss. The son was a stone-cold killer. He worked South Florida for the old man, but we could never get the proof to arrest him.”
    “Well, Banchori probably wouldn’t have been much help anyway.”
    “Matt. Tell me why you wanted to see the guy.”
    “I wish I could, Carl. I can tell you it has to do with a civil case. It involved an investment that Banchori made. Nothing criminal. I just wanted to get his take on how my client handled the investment. I’d heard Banchori was a bad guy, and I couldn’t find