by Andrew Mayne
“Are you sure you didn’t miss it?” asks Cardiff.
I ignore the stupidity of his question. “I did a thorough sweep in the most probable zone.”
“What about the improbable ones?” he replies. “It seemed like you didn’t clear the area directly below the guardrail and only did a narrow band.”
“Those are the FBI tables,” I answer as calmly as possible while unfastening my regulator from the tank.
“Well, this isn’t the FBI. We don’t quit until we find what we’re looking for.”
I think he’s goading me into saying I have to go pick up my daughter or that I’m tired. Instead I vent the other tank and start attaching my regulator. “Who said anything about quitting? I’ll do as wide a pattern as you want. I have three more tanks in the car. I can do this all day and night.” I throw the last part out just to bait him. “It’s overtime and a half for me.”
Solar watches this exchange, then looks out at the causeway. “Swanson, you mentioned the driver was smoking a cigarette?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
“And how do you know that?” he asks.
“I saw the sparks from the butt as he threw it out.”
“Do you recall at what part of the bridge?” asks Solar.
“No, sir. I was still far back. Maybe in the middle.”
Solar walks through the grass back up to the causeway and starts a slow pace down the sidewalk, staring at the concrete and into the water beneath the rail.
“If he finds the cigarette butt, I’ll eat my own dick,” Cardiff murmurs.
“I’ll find you a teaspoon,” I mumble before putting the regulator in my mouth and letting it vent.
Cardiff blinks, trying to figure out what I said. Swanson turns red.
Solar stops a third of the way across the causeway and shouts back to me. “McPherson, can you do a three-foot-wide sweep from here to about twenty feet out?”
I give him a thumbs-up. “Swanson, you got the line?”
I plunge back into the water, curious to see what Solar thinks he’s found.
Over the years I’ve heard stories from other cops about the man. His ability to find evidence seemed almost supernatural. From the trial, I know for a fact that Uncle Karl went to great effort to conceal his cargo, but Solar somehow knew exactly where to tell the DEA search team to look.
Some said he’s simply got a knack. Others said he had informants and might have been dirty himself.
Up until now I’ve chosen to believe the latter, because it makes Uncle Karl’s conviction look more like a miscarriage of justice, but damned if I’m not curious to find out if it’s the former.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE KNACK
I find the gun four feet from the edge of my first search band. Right where Solar told me to look. It could have taken me ten hours to get this far, if at all. Instead, it only took four minutes.
I slide the gun into a pouch and place a weighted ribbon in the spot where I found it, then swim to the surface. Solar is leaning over the edge of the railing, still staring down at me.
Cardiff and Swanson look surprised.
“The cigarette butt,” Cardiff blurts out. “I said I’d eat my dick if he found that.”
Solar does a slow turn toward him with an expression I can only describe as contempt. Well, at least he hates everyone. That’s good to know.
“How the hell?” asks Swanson as he lets the line go slack and the raft begins to drift.
Solar catches it. “Let’s let Officer McPherson dry off first.”
Officer McPherson? Did I just get a promotion from white-trash drug smuggler to possible human being?
I hate myself for how much this grudging nod of respect means to me. But it does mean something . . . How do assholes make us care what they think?
I swim over to the seawall, and Swanson gives me a hand up. After putting my gear back in the truck, I unzip my wet suit, causing a moment of panic as the cop doesn’t know whether to keep staring or look away.
I’m wearing shorts and a Lauderdale Shores Police Department T-shirt underneath. When he realizes I’m not about to strip down to a G-string, he relaxes.
Shorts and a T-shirt are a lot warmer underwater than the bikini I wear for recreational diving, but it puts my male colleagues at ease when they realize I’m not about to parade around a crime scene like a French model in South Beach. Maybe it disappoints them too. Who knows?
I towel off and slip my aqua shoes back on. Solar and the others are standing by Cardiff’s truck as he photographs the gun.
Even in the water, I could see that the serial number had been filed off. A clear sign that this gun belonged to a bad guy who was up to no good. I’m sure they already have a suspect in mind.
Cardiff sees that I’m all packed up. “All right, let’s have the amazing Solar tell us how he pulled this out of his ass.”
From out of nowhere I blurt, “Maybe he was the one driving the car.”
Cardiff blinks, and Swanson’s jaw drops. Solar stares at me and makes a slight nod.
“I’d say that would be the obvious answer,” he replies. “But I have an alternative explanation for you.” He looks at me, ignoring the others. “This way.”
I follow him onto the causeway with Cardiff and Swanson behind me.
“Did you time it?” asks Cardiff. “From when the driver saw the bridge and decided to toss the gun?”
Solar says nothing and keeps walking.
Swanson puts a hand over his eyes and squints at the water. “Is it the way the light reflects this time of day?”
I keep my theory to myself, because it doesn’t sound any better than theirs.
We reach the point where Solar told me to look, and he comes to a stop. “The cigarette.”
Swanson stares at the ground around his feet. “I see a lot of them.”
Solar doesn’t even acknowledge the man. “Page six of the forensic report on the car.”
“What about it?” asks Cardiff.
“Residues. You recall?”
“There weren’t any. The steering wheel had been wiped too.”
“And in the Carolina parking lot where they think the car was first parked?”
Cardiff shrugs. “Nada. I’m not following.”
Solar turns to me. “Are you getting it?”
I think I am. “Ash. There were no ashes.”
“None in the car. None where the car was parked,” replies Solar.
“So the guy owned a fucking vape pen,” Cardiff interjects, clearly pissed that this is going over his head.
“Or there was no cigarette,” replies Solar.
“But I saw the sparks,” Swanson insists.
I see it before Solar has to point it out to the others.
Jesus, this guy is clever.
It’s obvious when you look for it. Right on top of the railing, there’s a metal scuff mark where the gun struck, created a spark, then bounced into the water.
I tap the rail. It’s steel. Most of them are aluminum and wouldn’t make a spark when hit by the frame of a gun. This was an exception, the outlier.
Cardiff holds the gun next to the scrape on the railing.
“I’m surprised it didn’t go off,” Swanson says under his breath.
“So, you think this is Rodrigo’s type of gun?” Cardiff asks Solar.
“Rodrigo?” I ask.
Cardiff realizes this is the first time he’s mentioned the name in front of me. “Just a name.”
Solar replies to me, ignoring Cardiff’s attempt to downplay the name. “Rodrigo Mustano. He’s the brother of a man I was after. Carmine Mustano, aka Mustang.”
I get a chill. I’ve heard that name before. I think I even overheard my uncle mention it to my father when talking about the trial. Mustano was an enforcer for the cartels. He’s probably killed dozens in the US and god knows how many in Bolivia and Colombia.
“Aren’t there like a hundred warrants out for that guy?” I ask. “What’s he doi
ng back in South Florida?”
Cardiff stares at me for a long moment. “Right.”
I turn to Swanson, trying to figure out what that’s supposed to mean. He avoids eye contact. This has something to do with the conversation I overheard back on the bridge.
“Lately there have been a lot of undesirables spotted in South Florida,” says Cardiff.
“Why?” I ask.
“That’s the question,” says Cardiff, echoing Solar. “Why indeed?”
There’s a long silence, like when you’re waiting for someone to confess. Cardiff is clearly under the delusion that I know something. Meanwhile, Solar is studying us.
“We might be able to get some prints off the shell casings in the magazine,” Swanson suggests hopefully.
“We’ll see.” He eyes my gear by my truck. “You need any help?”
It’s an insincere offer, and I treat it as such. “I’m good.”
Cardiff looks over to Solar. “Can you help me out with some background? I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Sure you’re good?” Solar asks me.
“Yep.”
I can’t tell if he’s being genuine or wants another chance to inspect me like a bug under a magnifying glass.
Cardiff and Swanson drive off with Solar following in his pickup. I load my gear into the back of my SUV and make sure I didn’t leave anything behind.
After I’m all packed up, I get inside and take long, slow breaths. For some reason, I thought that when I became a cop, it’d make me feel less uncomfortable when I was around police. Most of the time that’s true, especially at the Lauderdale Shores station, but outside of that place, my family, not only my uncle, constitutes my reputation—and it’s a mixed reputation at best.
I thought being a cop and a grown-up would mean that I would never have to feel intimidated again. The presence of George Solar proved otherwise.
I’d like to think that’s the last time I’ll have to deal with the man who helped ruin my childhood, but I have the sense to realize that won’t be the case.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HOUSEBOAT
The sun is setting as I reach the marina and load my gear onto the cart I use to haul it back and forth from my houseboat. Most of the other boats have returned, and I spot the cars belonging to the other onboard residents. Like me, they prefer to live slightly apart from society. The towering condos and buildings reflect in the water all around us, but we remain detached.
When I take a step onto my houseboat, I feel the comforting sensation of the vessel giving way slightly to my mass. It’s weird, I know. But living on a boat is like sleeping on a waterbed, if it’s your thing. I think part of it is the contained environment. No matter how stressful the rest of the world is, no matter what your situation on land, on a boat with a radio, a good fishing rod, and some provisions, life is manageable. I can cast off at any moment and take my home with me, far away.
That’s exactly what we did the day after my uncle was escorted from the courtroom and sent to spend the next five to ten years in prison. Instead of heading to our house, which was already under foreclosure, we went to the family boat and sailed to Bimini. We spent a week going around the Bahamian islands while Dad thought and Mom argued with him. Things were already over between them by then, but my brothers and I carried on, snorkeling, exploring, and occasionally taking our little raft to one of the superexclusive islands where celebrities pay tens of thousands of dollars a day to vacation. We even managed to find kids our own age and play with them.
That experience was imprinted permanently on me. Which is why I’ve never been able to live on land for long. Technically, my address is the apartment above the marina where the boat is docked, but the Eclipse is my home. Not that I’m terribly fond of this particular ship. The thing’s barely seaworthy, but the idea of the boat is what’s home for me.
I agreed to supervise the marina in exchange for the apartment when I got pregnant with Jackie. The owner, a man called Southie, for reasons I can only assume have something to do with his Boston accent, is a friendly snowbird who comes down here once a year to work on his old yacht. The rest of the time, a woman named Beth and her son do most of the work around the marina. They call me when something difficult needs to be fixed or someone has to be served an overdue-rent notice. That’s not a part of the job I enjoy, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay to give my daughter a fixed home of sorts.
It’s that fixed address that was causing me so much stress yesterday. A day after my driver’s license went missing, I feel a little bit more relaxed. If the killer wanted to stop me from talking to the investigators, he missed his chance. While I haven’t made a formal statement in the Palm Beach station, they have all the critical details. To be honest with myself, I’m more concerned about the fact that the cops don’t seem in any hurry to take my statement. On the surface this should be a good thing, but if the suspicion around me means what I think, they’re only biding their time for a more intense grilling.
I hose down my gear and set it on the stern to dry off. By the time I’ve downed half my postdive beer, Jackie’s ringing me on WhatsApp.
“Hey, Momma!” she says with a large grin.
The photos on the wall behind her are from Run’s office. He must have taken her there after school. His boat-renovation company lies off Las Olas Drive a few miles from here. Typical Run . . . it’s closer to restaurant row than the actual location where his work takes place.
“How you doing?” I ask, setting my beer down so it’s out of the frame. I have one a day on average, but the admonishment from my daughter about it being “early” or “drinking alone” stings, even as playfully as it’s intended.
“Dad wants to know if it’s okay if we get takeout and watch Back to the Future. Is that okay? He said you could join us.”
“Thanks, sweetie. Let me talk to him.”
Run takes the phone from her. His blue, almost silver, eyes and tan face flash a warm smile—not that different from Jackie’s, I’m noticing more and more lately.
He calls over to our daughter. “Hey, brat, give us a second, will ya? Official grown-up business.”
“And who would the grown-ups be?” Jackie snaps back from off-screen.
“Scram,” he says playfully. “Go terrorize Mr. Martinez in the gallery next door.”
She throws a hug around his neck, then leaves the office. Run stares a moment at the phone, trying to figure out the interface.
“Just talk,” I reply.
“What happened to old-fashioned phone calls?”
“Thanks for taking her for another day.” Run’s offer of takeout and a movie inevitably led to Jackie asking to spend the night at his place. Run, the clever manipulator, clearly figured this would give me an easy out if I needed him to watch her again.
“No problem. I’m just trying to maximize the time that she still thinks I’m cool.”
“I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry about that.”
Despite Run’s failings in the relationship-with-me department, he’s an exceptional dad and spends more time with Jackie than many married fathers would. At times I feel a little jealous that he gets to be the fun parent while I have to be the business parent.
“Ha. You have no idea how hard it is to compete with a cop mom.”
Compete . . . He uses that word too. It’s a crummy way to parent, but it’s a reality.
“Anyway, I, uh, figured you were still processing what happened yesterday.”
Processing? Is that what he thinks this is all about?
“I’ve seen more dead bodies than you’ve seen naked ones. I’m not processing,” I respond a little too defensively.
“Sorry. You didn’t give me a lot of details yesterday. I figured it was something more than work stuff.”
“It is, and it isn’t. Whoever killed that woman took my driver’s license.”
The words pass my lips before I can contain them. I really didn’t want to tell this to Run. There’s a s
ide to him that few people ever see. Once you understand what lies beneath that happy-go-lucky charm, it’s hard to look at him the same.
I saw it when we were dating in high school and Seth Kwan made a drunken grab for my breasts at a kegger. I gave him a black eye, but Run pummeled the shit out of the kid until his whole face was black-and-blue. A small crowd gathered, watching Run land blow after blow. Some tried to pull him off; others rooted him on.
A few years later, I was pregnant, and some teenager in a Camaro almost ran us off the road. Run chased him into a parking lot. The kid pulled over and got out of his car, ripping his shirt off in some kind of alpha display.
Run grabbed the blackjack he kept under the seat, exited the car, and clipped the kid in the temple, knocking him out cold.
We left him there in the parking lot, unconscious. Run was steaming mad for ten minutes. Then it vanished, and he was asking where I wanted to go for dinner.
Once you see that side to someone, you never forget it’s there, waiting to erupt.
Run’s face turns a little red, and he looks in the direction he sent Jackie. I can tell that he’s trying to figure out what he’s supposed to say. Does he yell at me for not telling him? Does he make some macho statement about protecting her?
To his credit, he handles it differently than I expected.
In a calm voice, he replies, “Tell me what I can do.”
It takes me a moment to get over this response. Is this a sign of a maturing Run? Or has he learned how to be more calculating?
“Watch her for a few more days. Keep an eye on her.”
“What if she asks?”
I’m about to say she won’t, then remember she’s not six anymore. I wish I could be up front with her, but knowing Jackie, if she thought I was in some kind of trouble, she’d Uber herself here in a heartbeat to protect her mother.
“I’ll tell her it’s work, and I’ll explain later.”
Run laughs. “Explain later. That one always works.”
“Explain what?” Jackie asks from out of frame.
Run doesn’t miss a beat. “Explain the meaning of minding your own beeswax. Why aren’t you bothering Mr. Martinez?”
