Peterson expected another call today with instructions, but I was hoping it wouldn't be first thing. He made a call for me last night to Tom Schilling's office and told him to expect me this morning. He knew where I would be if the call came through while I was at the police department.
Kohl's visit to me last night gave me pause. I was already more than a little intrigued by Spikey's and Muscles' appearance on Tristan's boat. They were hired guns. The pieces of Tristan's puzzle were starting to come together. Kohl had managed to put several into the right place for me last night.
He or at least someone at the DEA was watching either Tristan's boat or Spikey and Muscles. Maybe both. Somehow, I doubted that Tristan, Spikey, or Muscles was the DEA's primary focus. I was a little curious who that might be. Hopefully, the detective that Peterson mentioned could offer a clue to the man behind the curtain.
The kettle whistled as the water boiled. I poured the steaming water into my French press and let science turn the coffee grounds and water into a magical elixir. I realize that calling coffee a mixture of science and magic is somewhat contradictory, but I like to think of it in both terms.
Dropping on the settee next to my fresh laundry, I took the initiative to pair socks and fold underwear while I waited. The mundane task let me move around in my head a little. Besides some confirmation that Tristan was into some shady activities, I realized that his employer was looking for him as well. That meant that he hadn't been permanently retired by whoever was funding his drug-running enterprise.
After five minutes, I had several neat stacks of clothes, ready to be stowed away. I poured my coffee in a large stainless-steel insulated cup. The first sip hit my throat before I climbed out of the companionway.
West Palm Beach and all of South Florida had the same weather every day. Hot with a chance of showers. I loved it. Having grown up in northern Arkansas, I was used to hot summers, but every winter, I found myself cursing the cold. As a kid, I spent my summers on the lake and rivers. Swimming, water-skiing, and lots of canoeing. I tried football in my sophomore year of high school. It's not that I minded the game, I enjoyed it. The issue I had was sacrificing my summers for training. That one July and August, I spent practicing with the team every day netted a losing season and two lost months of water-skiing. I didn't sign up the next year, much to the disappointment of both of my parents. That wasn't the first or the last time that they were convinced I failed them.
Randy was adjusting the dock lines on one of the marina's rental pontoon boats as I walked toward him. He glanced up from his knees.
"Morning, Chase," he waved.
"Hey, Randy, how's it going?"
The dockmaster contorted his face. "These kids don't know how to tie up a boat to save their lives."
I wasn't sure what kids he meant. Maybe some of the high school students he hires as dockhands.
"I'm going to borrow the car. Anyone using it today?
He shook his head. "Guess it's you now," he laughed.
"I'll be back in a couple of hours," I told him.
He waved me away with a "see ya later" and went to retie the stern lines on the pontoon.
The West Palm Beach Police Department is about ten minutes from the marina, and I stopped a block away at The Pink Flamingo for a couple of their waffle sandwiches. By the time I got to the diner, I had finished all 32 ounces of my coffee. I got a small coffee, opting to let them keep a paper cup and just fill my big coffee cup.
I devoured one of the waffle sandwiches on my walk to the police department. Tom Schilling's desk was in the middle of a bullpen of about eight other desks.
"Detective Schilling?" I asked as I approached.
The balding, overweight detective looked up from his computer monitor.
I extended a hand. "My name is Chase Gordon. I think Mayor Peterson may have called ahead."
The detective rolled his eyes as subtly as he probably could. "Yeah, I think he called the chief."
He hadn't offered me a seat yet, and I tried to smile patiently. "I appreciate your time. I brought you a bacon, egg, and cheese waffle sandwich from the Flamingo."
He nodded slightly, but his eyes widened. "Thank you," he said, taking the bag. "Why don't you sit down? I don't usually get that many VIPs around here."
Ignoring the jab, I sat down opposite him.
He unwrapped the sandwich and took a big bite. "What can I do for you?" he mumbled through waffle, egg, and bacon.
"I'm interested in the drug trade in South Florida."
"You writing a book or something?"
"Something," I answered.
"'Kay," he swallowed. "That's a broad subject."
"How about let's narrow it to drug smuggling?"
"Still pretty broad," the detective stated.
"Let's say I have a boat-something with a nice range. I wanted to pick up extra money. How does that work?"
Schilling put the uneaten half of his sandwich down on the desk. He leaned back in his chair and peered at me over the desk. "It varies. Generally, a courier will drop a load, could be a package, a bale, something. It's usually going to be some set coordinates offshore. You could take your boat and pick up the load. You bring it ashore and pray that you don't get boarded."
"How often do these smugglers get boarded?" I asked.
"Honestly, not enough to stop the traffic. In the last ten years, the amount of cocaine that has been smuggled through South Florida has increased by 500%. Every year tourists find hundreds of pounds of cocaine washed onshore. The traffic just keeps growing, and there's no way to really slow it down.
"The boats that do get boarded are usually the ones making dumb mistakes. They look like they are up to no good. Best way to avoid detection would be to have a multi-million-dollar yacht. The Coasties might board, but they won't look too hard. No one wants to upset rich constituents."
I nodded along.
"When I get back to shore with the drugs?" I asked.
"If you aren't freelancing, then you meet whoever paid you to do the pickup and hand it all over to them."
"If I was a freelancer?"
"You'd sell it yourself," Schilling answered. "But you better stay under the radar, because at that point, the law is the least of your concerns."
I cocked an eyebrow.
He continued, "The big boys in the drug trade are big because they don't like competition. If a guy is horning in on their business, then it's not like the corporate world. He isn't bought out by the big guy. He's dragged out into the swamp and shot."
"Nasty business," I said.
"Indeed," he commented as he took another bite of sandwich.
"Who around here is the big boy then?" I asked.
Detective Schilling swallowed. "Exactly what are you interested in this for?"
"I have a friend. An old Marine buddy that may have gotten in over his head with some of these folks. He's just trying to keep his family fed, and he may have made some bad decisions."
"You think you can help him out of those decisions, somehow?"
I shrugged. "I doubt it. Those kinds of consequences are hard to avoid. The man saved my life, though, so if I don't at least try..."
Schilling nodded knowingly. "The big dog around here is going to be Julio Moreno. He controls most of the drug trade between Cuba and Tallahassee, maybe even farther north than that. He's dangerous, and if your friend is working for him, he is in for a world of hurt. His best bet is to bail out. Maybe negotiate a state deal. I know the DEA is all over Moreno right now. If they could make a case stick, he'd end up in jail for the rest of our lives."
"That's a big 'if'," I said. "I am willing to bet he doesn't have enough of the goods to negotiate a decent deal. Then his family is in danger, and he'll end up knifed in the back in some prison shower."
The detective's face offered a conceding look. "This might be one of those cases where the answers aren't any better than the questions."
"How big is Moreno's operation?"
Sch
illing shrugged.
"What happens if you guys," I paused, "the DEA and state can make a case against him?"
"He'll go to jail, and someone in his organization will step into his place. Or another organization will fill his shoes. Although, right now, he has such a grip, I imagine that he'd run the operation from his prison cell."
"What can you get him on?" I asked.
"Ideally, murder, racketeering, and a long list of charges we'd like to slap him with. Realistically, it will be whatever we can actually tie directly to him."
I sat back in my chair and thought for a second. Schilling finished his sandwich off and wadded the wrapper into a ball. He tossed the ball of greasy paper into the trash can.
"Your wheels seem to be turning," he noted.
"Sounds like my friend's best bet is to get away cleanly and stay as far away as he can."
"Truthfully," Schilling said, "yes. I think Moreno's wake has destroyed countless lives, and it's not hard to get sucked into that. Desperate men and all."
"Thank you for your candor," I said.
Schilling nodded. "I appreciate the sandwich. I understand the drive you have to help your buddy. I had one just like that. We were in the Army over in Desert Storm. He could never adjust to real life, though. Drowned himself in alcohol, and when that wasn't enough, it was heroin. He'd show up at the door of one of us from the unit at least once a year. Every one of us tried to help him. Get him a job, get him into rehab, whatever we could. He would repay us by stealing from us and lying to us. It didn't matter though; he was still a brother. Until he shot a couple of cops in Georgia. He was holed up in a motel outside Macon, Georgia."
Schilling's eyes drifted toward the ceiling. "I guess he didn't want to be taken alive. He charged out shooting. The bastard was a crack shot, too. He took out two Georgia staties before they unloaded into him. Turns out, he had killed another guy when he tried to rob his house. That's why he was on the run."
I knew what he was saying. Some people can't be helped.
"Did this guy have a family?" I asked.
Schilling shook his head. "No, a mom and a sister, but no wife and kids."
"I have to at least help his wife and kid," I said.
Schilling's head bobbed up and down in understanding.
"Just be prepared for the worst," he said. "I've seen it as a cop too much. No one prepares for the worst, and when it happens, it crushes them."
8
The rest of the day was spent on boat chores. I didn't want to be too far from the marina or the Tilly when Peterson called. Missy scolded me again as I came through the Tilly about getting a cell phone.
"Not gonna happen," I told her.
She shook her head as I passed through the Manta Club. "We aren't your personal answering service," she called after me.
I waved back at her over my shoulder.
Randy was behind the counter at the marina store. I grabbed a Dr. Pepper and told him I was expecting a call.
"No problem," he said as he pushed my change back to me.
"You still got that little pressure washer?" I asked.
"Yeah, you want to borrow it?"
"If you don't mind. I need to scrub Carina's topside."
"It's over in the storage room," he said, pointing behind the store where all the tools and extra lines were kept.
"Thanks, Randy."
The power washer was one of the small electric ones, but it would do to wash some of the salt and grime from the deck. Rolling the washer to my slip, I watched the activity around the marina. Two guys in a flatboat were fishing in the middle of the marina. A common but annoying occurrence. It never really bothers me until I try to get my 40-foot behemoth out of the dock with some dumbass refusing to reel in his line and make way for me.
The rest of the afternoon involved me in my swimsuit, spraying the salt residue off the hull. Sweat was drenching my shirt by the time I finally came out of it.
"What time does the show end?" Missy asked from the dock.
Surprised, I shut off the sprayer and turned.
"You just came to catch a glimpse," I joked.
"You have a message," she responded. "That's all."
"You could have called on the radio," I pointed out.
She grinned slyly. "I never said I didn't want a look," she said. "Here."
She handed a slip of paper to me. No name, just a number.
"He didn't say who it was," she said. "Is this about your friend?"
"No," I said, unplugging the power washer. "A favor for someone else."
"You going to be around tonight?"
"At some point," I said. I didn't know how long Peterson's drop was going to take me. "I hope to be in bed tonight. What time is it?"
"Good," she said. "4:36." She turned and walked back up the walkway to the Tilly's entrance.
My eyes followed her as she walked away, something I'm sure she was expecting to happen. When she vanished into the inn, I jumped onto the dock and cut the water faucet off. I disconnected everything and carried the washer back to the tool room.
"Can I use the phone?" I asked Randy when I came into the store.
"Sure, use my office," he said.
Randy's office was more of a closet. The smell of beef jerky and menthol cigarettes hung in the air. The desk was covered with invoices and notes. A poster on the wall mapped out the marina with slip numbers and docks.
The receiver on the phone was gritty from grease-covered hands handling it for years. I dialed the number.
"Hello," Peterson said after the first ring.
"Wilson, it's Chase."
"Thank goodness. Can you meet me at the Manta in 15 minutes?"
"Yeah, Wilson. See you then."
He hung up, and I considered that if I rushed, I could squeeze in a quick shower before meeting him.
Wilson Peterson was already at the bar when I walked through the door. He was seated at the far end of the bar. The dinner crowd was beginning to filter in with the Tilly's guests. Locals were usually 15 to 20 minutes behind the guests.
Peterson had a Corona Light in front of him. I slipped onto the stool next to him. Hunter appeared in front of me.
"Whatcha need, Chase?"
"Give me a Tecate," I said.
Hunter vanished to grab my beer.
"The drop is supposed to be 45 minutes after sunset at Dehrer Park." Peterson pointed at a package on the floor next to his stool. His foot was resting on it.
"Okay," I said as Hunter set a cold bottle of beer in front of me. When he went back to his other guests, I asked, "Wilson, have you thought about letting me at least try to figure out who is doing this?"
The mayor shook his head. "No, let's just get this taken care of. There is an extra five grand in an envelope for you."
I nodded my appreciation curtly. "Do you plan on staying here?" I asked him. "Or do you want to go along?"
"I'll wait here."
"Wilson, this is a lot of money. I wouldn't fault you for having any doubts or worries about it."
"Chase," Peterson said calmly. "I have faith in you. Otherwise, I wouldn't have come to you."
"I appreciate that," I told him. The truth was I was a little worried myself. The mayor wasn't being upfront about everything, and while I liked the guy, I didn't trust him much. He was a politician, after all. Despite that, I didn't get the feeling that the man was trying to swindle me. He was genuinely concerned about something. It wasn't a sex tape unless the sex was less than vanilla.
I drank half of my beer. "Where in the park am I supposed to go?"
"There's a palm tree behind the pavilion. About 100 feet, they said. Leave the package there and walk back out."
Turning the bottle up, I finished the rest of my beer. I dropped six dollars on the bar and grabbed the package.
"I'll be back then," I said.
"Thank you, Chase," the mayor said.
Throwing a two-finger salute to Hunter, I walked out the entrance toward the marina. Randy w
as leaving as I headed toward the parking lot.
"You taking the car?" he asked.
"If you don't mind. I'll fill it up."
"Great, see you tomorrow, man." He climbed up into his 2006 Trailblazer to head home.
Dehrer Park is, like everything else around here, only a ten-minute drive. It's right off I-95, and across the street from the zoo. The park was beginning to empty as dusk approached. I drove the little Corolla through the parking lot, examining the cars. Dehrer Park is designed for walking and running, and most of the people heading out were wearing jogging attire for their after-work runs.
Not wanting to scare the blackmailer off, I left the park. The southern entrance was near a neighborhood, and I parked on one of the side streets that was opposite the small pond. I watched as the sun sank below the horizon. A few stragglers trickled out of the park, only a few people were left.
The sign at both entrances stated that the park closed at dark-a smart play on the blackmailer's part. I could make the drop without drawing a lot of attention, as long as I didn't stay around too long. I had to be quick. The odds of a cop showing up increased with every second I was there.
It also meant that the blackmailer couldn't stick around. Complicated, to say the least.
Peterson had used an old Amazon box. He taped it up and put it and my envelope in a large plastic shopping bag. With no knowledge of how much $50,000 weighs, it felt heavy enough. I counted the hundred-dollar bills in my envelope. It's hard not to smile when I make five grand that easily.
The sun had been down for ten minutes. I needed to wait another half hour before I drove in there. But if I walked, I thought, I could make it in well under 30 minutes, and there would be less chance of being noticed by the police.
With the Amazon box under my arm, I locked the Corolla and walked toward the park. The circular path that rounded the pond was the quickest route, but it was the most visible. In order to maintain a covert approach, I cut across the field along the tree line.
Within 20 minutes of leaving the car, I was staring across the parking lot at the empty pavilion. Crouching behind a row of trees, I waited. My eyes had long ago adjusted to the dark. A crescent moon hung halfway in the sky to the southeast. The stars were mostly drowned out by the lights of the city, which were sufficient enough to let me make out features in the dark.
Diamond Reef Page 5
