Considering what Gross knew about the current political climate, both within the state and internationally, it was no surprise that the salvor had shied away from the Spanish galleons. Mel Fisher had spent millions in legal fees to protect his claim to the Atocha. Despite his victory, the field had tilted against salvors in recent years. In the past, salvors had been sponsored by kings—the most notable being William Phipps and his 1600s search and recovery of the Concepcion’s treasure, sponsored by the king of England. Those days were far removed, and now it was a private enterprise, but even that was burdened by government intervention.
In return for their research, patience, and money, today’s treasure hunters were rewarded with state oversight and legal battles. Recently France had won a landmark decision ensuring that the contents of her ships wrecked off the Florida coast and found by a private firm remained her property. In short, though it might be glamorous to discover a long-lost galleon, it was far more profitable to find more recent wrecks.
Not that they were easier to find. The Spanish were fanatics about documenting everything. The archives in Seville were jammed full of manifests and firsthand accounts. On the other hand, wrecks, especially in the gulf, were shrouded in secrecy. There were no records—but there was treasure. As the last deepwater port in the Confederacy, New Orleans had seen its share of gold leaving the southern states, to be stashed in the Bahamas or traded for goods.
Treasure from the later wrecks was also less problematic to cash in. An eighteenth-century Spanish coin was considerably more valuable than just its metal content—but try and unload it. Mac and Wood had found some and knew that selling was near impossible. Melting down history for cash was not something that Mac was willing to do. He still kept a jar full of coins at the house.
Technically, the Division of Historical Resources classified anything over fifty years old as of archeological significance, so that would include the Civil War-era wrecks. But without the romantic or historical value of the coins and artifacts, there was no conflict in melting them down and cashing them in.
Melancholy settled over Mac. He went down to the galley and grabbed another beer, but before he could take a sip, his phone rang again. It wasn’t Mel’s ring, and he almost didn’t answer, but he thought about Sonya and glanced at the screen. Seeing a local area code, he decided that, with Ruth coming, he owed it to the select few who knew his number to answer.
When he heard the woman’s voice on the other end of the line, he instantly regretted that decision.
“Mac, you’ve got to help me.”
Pamela’s voice came through the phone. If Trufante was Mel’s nemesis, Pamela was Mac’s. He was quiet, not knowing what to say. He never did with her.
“Mac, Tru was here all drunked up and I kind of blew him off. Now with the storm coming and everything, I’m worried for him.”
Mac wondered why she wasn’t worried for herself. He drank the rest of his beer in one large gulp and crushed the can in frustration. It looked like Mel’s worst-case scenario had come to fruition. Now, the question was what to do about it. Pamela was still talking, but he ignored her babble and thought. Sending Billy Bones to pick her up crossed his mind, but that would only complicate things even more. No, he would have to go to her.
“Where are you?”
“Sloppy Joe’s. I work here.”
Now that was an interesting twist. Pamela and work didn’t often go together. He was quiet for another minute while she rattled on about how great the job was. After running every possible option through his mind, he knew he would have to help her. As much as Mel didn’t like Tru and he had his issues with Pamela, they still fell into the family category. As dysfunctional as it was, he would help.
“Hang out by the door. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you, Mac,” she said.
He could hear the relief in her voice, and it might have been the most sincere thing she had ever said. Dismissing that thought, Mac locked up the cabin and headed back toward Duval Street. One step on solid ground brought him into the pre-storm frenzy. While most of the bars had closed, and the employees were hard at work boarding windows, several open-air spots continued to serve and were still busy. There was no point shutting down if there was no way to secure their properties.
After almost being run over by two cars loaded to the max with personal belongings, Mac backtracked to the boardwalk. Reaching Front Street, he turned left on Duval and walked toward Sloppy Joe’s. Checking out the preparations as he went, he noticed only about a quarter of the businesses were prepared. The others were left to the mercy of the storm.
The usually open shutters of Sloppy Joe’s were closed, giving the place a different look. Mac walked to the entrance. The door was open, but a bouncer stopped him.
“I’m looking for Pamela,” Mac said, hoping somewhere in the back of his mind that the man wasn’t judging him.
“Hold on.”
“Mac.” Pamela came forward and reached for him.
He instinctively shied away, but saw the panic in her eyes and accepted her embrace. “You ready?”
“Ready for what?”
And the ball started rolling downhill. The only question now was how many lives would be endangered by what was coming next.
“We have to find Tru,” she said.
As she moved toward the door, he saw her face. It was clear from the damage to her makeup that she’d been crying, and he caved in.
“Where do you think he went?”
Fourteen
Justine was about to climb through the roof. Adams Key, the small island in the string of barrier islands separating the bay waters of the Biscayne National Park from the Atlantic, was secure. Kurt’s only neighbors on the island, Becky and Ray, their little boy, and Zero their dog, had already left to evacuate to her parents’ place in Alabama.
“We can’t wait for that needle-nosed boss of yours to make a decision. Ruth’s coming fast and strong. Remember what happened to this place after Andrew.”
Kurt put a screw in the last shutter, wondering what the storm would do. Having lived in California until a year and a half ago, this was all new to him. Kurt hadn’t been in Miami in 1992 to see the devastation, but knew the eye of the storm had passed directly over the island he now lived on, erasing, among other things, the remains of the infamous Coco Lobo Club.
“You’re right. A lot of the projections show it turning north.” Just as he said it, the text message signal on his work phone went off. Temporarily reassigned to Ft. Jefferson. He read the message out loud.
“I can live with the Dry Tortugas for a few days,” Justine said. “But what about Allie?”
“I texted Jane this morning.” He looked down and checked the screen, then called her number.
Justine had never had children, but in the year and a half that she had been with Kurt, Allie, his sixteen-year-old daughter, had become like her own.
“With the way this storm’s looking, south is better than north. Jane would probably evacuate to her sister’s in Orlando.”
“They’re gonna get hit, too,” Justine said.
Jane came on the line. Kurt pleaded his case to his ex-wife. From the conversation, Justine could tell she was nervous about the storm and her plan, then got the sense that Kurt was going to ask her to come with them and adamantly shook her head. There had to be a cut-off point in their lives. If Jane were in dire straits, with nowhere to go, Justine would help, of course, but Jane did have her sister. Finally, Kurt smiled. Jane had agreed to have Allie ready.
“We’re out of here,” Kurt said, wiping the sweat from his brow. The park service-issue stilt house was well-built and air-conditioned, but he had shut off all the breakers to stop any surges when power was restored. There was no question it would go out.
They took one last look around and locked the house. Justine smiled at Kurt, who, remembering a piece of advice from his more seasoned neighbor, had a piece of duct tape ready to place over the keyhole.<
br />
A strange feeling came over her as she walked down the stairs from the stilt house and across the concrete path to the dock. They both knew there was a good chance the island wouldn’t look like this when they returned.
Justine felt his anxiety and grasped his hand. “I heard the roads are a mess,” she said, looking out at the calm seas.
“I was thinking the same thing. We can run up the coast and leave the boat by your place.” Kurt started the single hundred-fifty horsepower engine of the park service center console, and Justine freed the lines.
“Once we get Allie, it should be an easy drive south, but how do we get from Key West to the Dry Tortugas?”
They were up on plane now, and the bay boat cruised easily at twenty-four knots over the small waves. Justine pulled out her phone and started searching for an answer. While she searched, Kurt plotted a course to the Miami River.
Originally from Northern California, Kurt had been new to boating when he was relocated to the park in what seemed a kind of a federal employee witness-protection program. He had been assigned here after stumbling across the largest pot grow to date ever found on federal land in the Plumas Wilderness, where he had been working as a special agent. Running a boat at night had at first been intimidating, but he had learned to trust his instincts — and the chartplotter.
With the boat up on plane, Justine saw the smile on his face as he adjusted the tilt of the motor and watched the speed increase, smiling too.
Less than an hour later, they entered the mouth of the river. Usually busy with all manner of boat traffic, from water taxis to cruise ships and freighters, the Intracoastal Waterway was deserted except for a lone cruise ship departing from the port on Dodge Island. After entering the river, Kurt slowed and ran past the million-dollar homes near the bay. As they approached the airport, industrial buildings and boatyards were more prevalent. Justine directed him to the dock used by Miami-Dade, hoping it would be deserted. It was, and Kurt pulled up and tied off the boat.
“Best we can do,” Kurt said as he added a forward and aft spring line.
“I have an Uber en route. Should be a few minutes,” Justine said.
They left the boat, and again Justine had the feeling that when they returned, things would look different. The gate to the street was locked, forcing them to climb over the chain-link fence. The Uber driver pulled up just as they dropped to the ground, and she wondered if he would reject them for shady behavior. With half the county evacuated, it must have been a slow night, and the driver waved them over. Within minutes, they were at her apartment, and, a half-hour later, in front of Jane’s house.
Kurt texted Allie, who responded that she needed a few more minutes, an annoying habit she had recently acquired.
“Any luck on transport to Fort Jefferson?” Kurt asked.
“Two ways. There’s a ferry and a seaplane service.”
Allie must have heard “seaplane,” as she opened the door, and the choice was made, provided the planes were still running. As Kurt pulled out of Jane’s driveway, Justine made the call, surprised when someone answered, and a few minutes later, she had made arrangements.
“Seems the park service uses them all the time. Pilot’s name is Gary. He said he’s taking the plane down in the morning to escape the storm.”
“Awesome,” Allie said, burying her head in her phone.
Kurt glanced back at her. “Let’s leave this off Facebook, okay?”
“Dad …”
Kurt didn’t engage her, and Justine started asking questions about what Allie’s friends were doing for Ruth. Justine had surmised that there was a possible boyfriend, and as Kurt drove toward I-95, he listened as Justine skillfully steered the conversation. As they had suspected, the southbound lanes were deserted, while the northbound were practically stopped.
“With that traffic, Ruth’ll be here before those cars reach West Palm,” Justine said.
“I hope Mom gets going soon,” Allie said.
“Maybe you should text her that the traffic is heavy,” Kurt said as he accelerated into the middle lane. In record time, they were past Miami and about to enter the Keys.
Bugarra winced when he saw the lanky Cajun stride toward him. The two men might have weighed the same, but he felt small as Trufante towered over his stocky frame by half a foot.
“Party is on out here tonight,” Bugarra said, wondering what Trufante wanted with him.
“You put those boys on me?”
“Why would I do that? Just out here enjoying the pre-storm festivities.”
“Didn’t take you for much of a Duval Street kind of guy.”
Bugarra started to back away, stepping to the side. With his long legs, Trufante reclaimed the ground in one stride. “I know you’re after whatever Mac has, and I mean to tell you that I don’t know anything about it. Now, about all I can do for you is maybe get you laid with one of those hot babes.”
Bugarra had seen the two women. He was alone here, and with no leads, he thought a little distraction might settle his nerves. Besides, he could keep an eye on Trufante at the same time, hoping eventually he would be lead to Travis. Hitting the wall in the search for Gross’s data made the Cajun a possible ally as well.
“Might have a business proposition for you. How ’bout we go have a drink?” Bugarra said, leading the way back into the bar. He’d had his share of confrontations searching for lost riches. It was unavoidable with greedy bureaucrats, sleazy scammers, and competitors all after the same thing. Experience had taught him that with his personality, running toward the fire was usually the best course. Bugarra sucked up his chest and prepared to assume the larger-than-life persona he was famous for. Sometimes it was work, but when he saw the two women, he smiled.
“A round for my friends,” he called out as he reached the bar.
“Now you’re talking,” Trufante said, sliding between the women. “Got us a new daddy now, ladies.”
The shots were placed on the bar, and as the group tossed them down, Bugarra glanced up at the TV and reached into his pocket for his phone. His insurance agent was high on his favorites list, and he pressed the call button. “Be right back,” he said, and stepped away.
The inside of the Hog’s Breath was quiet, with several employees securing what they could. If the storm came through here, the outside bar was a lost cause, but they might save something. It was still too loud to hear, and Bugarra moved to the corner closest to the street.
“Vince, Rick here.”
“Maybe we ought to set an appointment for early next week to review.” There was sure to be damage to Bugarra’s fleet, whether from Ruth or not. Several boats were aging and ready to be replaced. This would be as good a time as any.
He had turned away from the bar while talking, and was surprised to see Mac Travis walking across the street with a tall blonde. Stepping back to use one of the small palm trees for cover, Bugarra watched as the couple walked into Irish Kevin’s. Known for its loud music and rowdy atmosphere, this was not a place that Bugarra would expect to find Travis. A minute later, they walked out and entered the bar next door. They were clearly looking for someone, and Bugarra thought he knew who it was. Before he could decide what to do about it, a rickshaw pulled up next to them and stopped. He couldn’t see Travis or the woman, but he could see the driver. Another ghost from the past had reappeared.
The last thing Bugarra needed was to be seen with Trufante by either Billy Bones or Travis. There were a lot of moving pieces in this puzzle, and he needed to step back to observe. Turning away from the street, he re-entered the Hog’s Breath. On the way to the bar, he bumped into the two men he had paid. They must have done some math and realized that, with the arrival of Bugarra and his wallet, they didn’t stand a chance with the women. Trufante was still at the bar, and Bugarra approached, trying to think of a way to pry the women away.
“There’s the man,” Trufante said, wrapping a long arm around Bugarra.
The Cajun drawl stung Bugarra’s ea
rs like an insect bite. After ordering one more round of shots, mainly for him this time, Bugarra needed to make Trufante an offer that was too good to refuse. Pulling him away from the women, Bugarra faced Trufante and looked him squarely in the eye. Bugarra could tell Trufante was intimidated by the way the taller man’s eyes darted away. “Travis has something that belongs to Gill Gross’s family. I’d pay well to return it.”
Trufante’s gaze met Bugarra’s for a second—enough to tell him the Cajun was bought. Regretting that it was too risky to stay and seduce one or both of the women, he said goodnight and slid out the entrance. The rickshaw was still across the street, and Bugarra was able to make it to Front Street without Travis seeing him. Standing on the corner of Duval and Front, he watched and waited.
Fifteen
“If this ain’t the odd couple,” Billy Bones called from his bicycle-drawn rickshaw.
Mac was starting to worry. They’d covered half the bars that remained open on Duval Street and there was still no sign of Trufante. That left a lot more territory, but it was getting late, and in the company of the two women, he could be anywhere. Mac could tell from looking at Pamela that, though she wouldn’t admit it, the thought of Trufante with another woman was something that had her upset.
“We need to find him,” Pamela said. “I just know he’s in trouble.”
Mac thought it strange how the threat of Ruth was bringing out repressed issues with people. Pamela had left the Cajun and moved to Key West several months ago. Mac knew she was about as stable as a suitcase missing a wheel, which was how Trufante had found her, so her behavior was no surprise to him. By enlisting Billy and his rickshaw, they could cover a lot more ground than on foot, but there was always a downside to working with him. Right now, with the window before Ruth hitting closing quickly, Mac knew he had to do something.
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