by Andrew Mayne
“He was showing some people a painting that looked like a rainbow threw up on a dolphin,” she replies.
“And?”
“I told them that. He got pissed and asked me to leave.”
Run stares at me with a wry smile. “I wonder who that reminds me of.”
The first time Run’s mother showed me her art collection, I asked if she bought the pieces from the local art college. It did not go over well. She called me a philistine, and I excitedly brought up an article I’d read about the excavation of Tel Qasile, the port city founded by the actual Philistines. She was not impressed and started calling me “that weird girl” behind my back.
I watch the bluish-purple sky as the sun finishes setting and streetlamps start to turn on around the marina and surrounding streets. Just beyond the small fence that separates the marina parking lot from the street, I notice a parked SUV in a no-parking zone.
I scan the seawall to see if there are any fishermen nearby, then realize that there’s someone in the truck. I catch the glint of light on glass as he lowers something. I instinctively reach into the console by my feet.
Run calls out to me. “Sloan?”
“Just a second.” I set the phone down, pull out the night-vision goggles I keep on board, and step down into the cabin.
Keeping my head down low and my IR illuminator off, I look back at the truck and see the bright glow of an infrared light as someone watches me back.
“Everything okay?” Runs asks.
I step back out onto the deck, pretending I didn’t see what I just saw.
“Let me call you back,” I say, forcing a smile and ending the call.
Beer bottle in one hand, phone in the other, I stroll toward the marina office, pretending not to notice that I’m being watched.
The moment I pass a row of lockboxes on the dock, I put the phone in my pocket and replace it with the gun from my waistband.
CHAPTER NINE
THE KEY
I was twelve the first time I had to threaten someone with real violence. We’d taken our boat to Hammerhead Key on the west coast of Florida so Dad could chase down a legend about a sunken rumrunner that allegedly went down with a full hold of cargo.
My oldest brother, Harris, was back on the boat while Robbie and I took the little Zodiac raft around the tiny islands.
We’d been speeding across sandbars and goofing off when I took us through a thick patch of kelp and fishing line that fouled the propeller. Robbie climbed out of the boat and used a rusty bait knife to try to cut the line.
That’s when we were approached by the two men in the beat-up Boston Whaler. I could spot the out-of-season lobster traps sitting under a tarp.
The fact that they were poachers didn’t faze me as much as the way they looked at me. Both were naked to the waist, wearing ragged cutoffs and the kind of unhealthy suntan that you only see on the homeless. Theirs was the only other boat we’d seen all day.
“Need some help?” the older man asked as they approached.
“We’re okay,” I replied.
Robbie popped his head out of the water and held on to the side of the raft, catching his breath. “I almost got it.”
The look on the men’s faces changed a little when they realized I wasn’t alone—disappointed was the only way I could describe it.
They exchanged glances. The younger one spoke up. “Why don’t we pull you into shore?” He started to reach out for our boat.
Robbie, although two years older, looked to me for direction on how to handle the situation.
“Our parents’ boat is that way.” I pointed to an island in the distance.
“Can you radio them?” asked the older man.
“We don’t have a radio,” Robbie answered before realizing he shouldn’t have said that.
“Our dad’s coming here anyway,” I interjected.
They looked at the sandbars around us that their own boat could barely get over and immediately knew I was lying.
“We can’t leave you out here,” said the older man. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“We’re okay,” I insisted.
They ignored us, and the younger man reached into our boat, grabbed the mooring line, tossed it to the other, then climbed into our raft and watched me for a moment. I sat there, frozen, not sure if I was supposed to be a good girl and let the adults handle the situation or make a protest.
“I almost got it,” Robbie replied.
The younger man looked at the motor and could see the prop was still fouled. “Sure you do. Why don’t you get into our boat and go get help with my dad while I stay here and try to fix it?” He turned to me and asked, “How old are you?”
I’d always been quick-tempered but never violent—except when it came to slugging my brothers. I acted on fear and impulse. Robbie had dropped the knife back in the Zodiac when he came up for air. I grabbed it from the deck and held it in front of me.
“Get out of our fucking boat or I’ll cut your balls off. Then my dad’ll come back and make you eat them! He’s killed people. He likes it.”
The older man let out a loud laugh from their boat while the younger one stared at the blade, trying to decide if I was serious.
I glared at him, not wavering an inch.
“Come on, Christian,” said the other man. “Let’s save your cojones for another day.”
The younger man backed away and returned to the other boat. In my terror, I didn’t move a muscle, but it must have looked like steely resolve.
They pushed off and motored away, leaving Robbie and me alone.
Once they were gone from view, Robbie finally spoke. “You said the F word.”
He clearly didn’t understand the severity of the situation. When we got back to the boat, I tried telling Dad what happened, but he thought it was all a misunderstanding. No doubt he was too mortified to accept what I was suggesting—that his daughter was almost raped or worse while he’d been elsewhere.
As a parent, I can understand that kind of willful ignorance to the severity of situations our children find themselves in. My experience on the sandbar, and others that would come later, taught me that there are bad people out there who want to do bad things to you.
I knew this before I pulled my first body out of a canal.
I also know from family lore that some of the bad actors out there were people I’m related to. It might be why I have my own mean streak.
I could have stopped Run when he kicked the shit out of Kwan. I could have told him not to get out of the car when that kid cut him off, but I didn’t.
I wanted to hurt them too.
As I pass the lockboxes on the dock, my right hand keeps the gun close enough to my hip that the shape won’t stand out unless someone’s looking closely.
From the SUV’s vantage point, there’ll be a blind spot when I pass by the marina office. Right before I reach it, I ditch the beer bottle in a trash can, then make a beeline for the far edge of the building.
To the driver it should look like I’m heading into the office. As I get closer, the motion-activated light kicks on, illuminating the parking lot and creating a shadow image of me. Oops. My gun’s visible in my shadow silhouette. I bring it tighter to my body, hoping the watcher didn’t catch it.
At the point I should be entering the office, I instead run around the building, climb over the fence, and slip through a line of shrubs that separates our lot from the public landing next door.
I reach the edge and peer at the SUV. It’s still there. I can only assume he’s watching the office, waiting for me to leave.
That is, if I’m not making a big something out of nothing.
No, you’re not. He was watching you with night vision. There’s no innocent excuse for that.
The SUV doesn’t belong to the Lauderdale Shores fleet, nor is it owned by anyone who works there. So I can be fairly certain that this isn’t someone Chief Kate assigned to look after me.
A car passes the truck and heads i
n my direction, creating a distraction. I cross the street the moment it moves past and walk along the side of the street opposite the truck.
When I get to a position parallel to the driver’s seat, I look through the open passenger window.
The man is still watching the building through his goggles, facing away from me. He probably noticed the lights didn’t go on in the office and is realizing that something’s up.
I take a step toward the truck and point my gun at the back of his head.
CHAPTER TEN
BAIT
The hardest part about being a cop is pulling your gun on someone and knowing that only millimeters separate them from death. A car backfiring, a sneeze, even a nervous tic can turn a routine stop into a fatal encounter. And in this tweet-first, ignore-the-facts-later culture, even doing the right thing can ruin a reputation and earn widespread shaming from people who know less than nothing about what it means to be a police officer in a pulse-racing, life-or-death situation.
I’m thankful that I’m a part-timer with Lauderdale Shores, where I experience aggressive encounters only once or twice a month. In some cities, cops suffer them hourly.
I don’t have to announce my presence. The man behind the wheel knows I’m there by the time I have my gun pointed at the back of his head.
To someone watching this from afar, it might look like I’m overreacting. But I can’t take the chance that he’ll pull a gun from his lap faster than I can draw my own. I have to take the upper hand while I still can.
He catches me out of the corner of his eye. “Put the gun away, bitch.”
He’s in his late thirties: Hispanic or Mediterranean.
“Hands on the wheel. Police.”
The man does a slow turn. He’s got a slight grin on his face. “I’m going to start my car and leave.”
“No. You’re going to stay here until I call for backup.”
“Backup? As far as I’m concerned, you’re just some crazy bitch who pulled a gun on me.” He reaches for the ignition.
What am I supposed to do now? Shooting him is a ridiculous thought, and I have no cause to place him under arrest.
This is the gray zone.
I need to stall him for a few seconds.
“Stop. Don’t turn that ignition or . . .”
I leave it open-ended. He’s cocky and wants to hear what I’m going to say, since he’s now sure that I won’t pull the trigger.
“Or what?” He leans his left elbow on the steering wheel and stares back at me, challenging me to do something.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and raise it up to my face.
“Why don’t you call this one in, little sister.”
The flash from my phone’s camera momentarily blinds him. He responds by swiping his left hand in my direction.
I keep my finger light on the trigger. It’s a ridiculous position for him to try to throw a punch from. Instead, it tells me that he really, really doesn’t want his photo taken.
“Fuck you,” he growls, leaning back and keying the ignition.
He slams the SUV into reverse, almost clipping me with the rearview mirror, then swings out into the street and races off.
I snap a photo of the retreating car, getting the license plate in case anyone questions my memory.
Before his taillights have turned the corner, I’m calling Captain Mercer’s personal cell phone. He’s the on-duty Fort Lauderdale police captain.
“Hey, McPherson,” he says after half a ring. “Find a missing shopping cart in the canal and the ladies at Shores can’t get it out by themselves?”
Mercer loves to refer to us as “the ladies at Shores” because our chief is a woman. He also loves to act like a misogynistic asshole, but it’s mostly show. His wife is former air force and his daughter’s at the Coast Guard Academy, and he couldn’t be prouder.
“You heard about that body I found yesterday?”
“Shit, that was you. What’s up?”
“Long story short, I was in the water when the victim was killed, and the perp may have stolen my driver’s license from my vehicle. Just now I caught some creep watching me at the marina with night vision.”
He’s a quick study and doesn’t need any more details. “You stop him?”
“Yeah, but he called my bluff and drove off. Can I give you a plate and a picture of him?”
“Go for it.”
I read him the license plate number, then text him both photos.
“On it. Want me to send a patrol car by?”
I want to answer no out of pride, but having a marked car roll through the area would definitely discourage my watcher if he decided to loop back for another visit.
“Yeah, that would help. I’m going to call Chief Kate and tell her what’s up. I’ll be on my boat with the shotgun across my knees.”
“I’ll have someone by in five. Don’t shoot any of my people,” he replies, half in jest.
“Then tell ’em to take their shoes off before stepping aboard.”
Mercer gives a cackle and hangs up. I head back to the boat, keeping my eyes on the road around me. I don’t want to be halfway back to the marina and find out that my watcher’s waiting around the bend, ready to run me down.
I make it back to the gate and can see all the way down the street to the stoplight. I think he’s well and truly gone.
Something about the way he acted when I took his photo has me thinking. My phone starts to ring before I can give it any more thought.
“You okay?” asks Run.
“Yeah, fine,” I reply.
“Last time you said that, you were on the way to the hospital to give birth to the squirt.”
“Florida State was playing that day. I’d never have heard the end of it if I made you miss the game. Anyhow, I’ve got another call coming in. Everything is chill.”
“Liar,” he replies.
Got me.
But I can’t have him racing over to play my savior. I need him with Jackie.
I text Run: Just keep your eyes on our girl.
He replies with the one word I need to hear: Understood.
I’m sitting on my stern, drinking my second beer for the night. To avoid looking totally unprofessional, I’ve tucked my gun back into my waistband. The shotgun is within arm’s reach, just inside the belowdecks entrance. If anyone comes walking down the dock, I can have that drawn on them before they reach the plank.
When I spot an SUV pull into the parking lot, I start to reach for it until I realize that it’s Captain Mercer himself.
He spots me and raises his hands in mock surrender. I hold my own up in return.
“I wasn’t expecting you to show,” I say as he approaches the stern.
“I couldn’t take the guilt of you shooting one of my guys if they mucked up your deck.” He eyes the boat and then his shoes.
“Come aboard.” I point to the scratched wooden deck with a shrug.
He joins me and takes a seat on the bait well.
“We ran the car.”
“And?”
“Lease. Biscayne Shipping.”
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
He shrugs. “No listing. Just the name of the holder of the credit card.”
“That’s not very helpful. I’ll ask Chief to run a credit search.”
“No need,” Mercer replies. “I already shared the photo with a couple of people in the department.”
“And?”
“One of them recognized the driver right away.”
I say it before he has a chance to. “Let me guess, DEA?”
“Yep. If I’m not supposed to tell you that, then DEA should have bothered telling me so. But they didn’t. Any chance they were just looking out for you after what happened?”
“It’s not a DEA case, as far as I know. And if that’s looking out for me, I’d rather be on my own.”
He ponders this, thinking about the implications. “You talked to a lawyer?”
I shake my head.
“I don’t need to. If they think I know something, they’re not only barking up the wrong tree, they’re in the wrong forest.”
“Think they’re watching you because of your asshole uncle?” he asks bluntly.
I’d like to defend my uncle but, technically, Mercer is right. My uncle is an asshole. “Maybe.”
“Rough.” Mercer stands and leans against the railing. “So, how well did you know Stacey Miller?”
I feel my heart skip a beat.
“Stacey Miller?” he says. “The girl you found.”
Damn. Stacey. Winston Miller’s little daughter. I hadn’t seen her in years. She used to hang around her dad’s boatyard. That’s why I didn’t recognize her. The last time I saw her, she was maybe thirteen. I could have run into her at a festival or an art-in-the-park since then, but she would’ve been one face in a hundred.
Oh, Stacey. I remember how you loved feeding those miserable ducks by the boat ramp. Treated them like your pets. You even named them.
“You didn’t know? Sorry. Uh, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I take a swig of my beer. “Holy shit.”
“So, you knew her?”
“Sort of. I never thought much about her, to be honest. I didn’t even realize it was her when I pulled her out of the water.”
I can see the father in Captain Mercer’s eyes as he takes this in. “She had a rough life. A half dozen agencies have called up in the last twenty-four hours, asking about her.”
“Asking what?” I reply.
“Who she hung out with. Boyfriends. Arrest records. Reputation.”
“Anyone ask about me?”
Mercer takes his time to respond, which tells me everything I need to know. I see now why it seemed implausible that I didn’t know Stacey Miller. Her dad patched up our boats, and everyone on the water knew Winston. Hell, I wouldn’t have believed me if I claimed I didn’t know who she was. No wonder it seems like I’m covering something up.
The questions come at me in a rush:
Why would anyone think I’d lie about knowing Stacey?
What the hell did she get herself into?
And, most of all, how did Stacey end up in the same canal at the exact same time as my dive?
What are the odds of that?
