We hopped into my black four-door Toyota Tacoma 4x4, and I cruised us through the downtown streets, pulling into a seashell lot a few blocks inland from the famous Duval Street.
Salty Pete’s Bar, Grill, and Museum was a landmark in the Florida Keys. It looked like an old two-story house from the outside, with a humble entrance and a simple painted sign indicating the place’s name.
The front door swung open as the three of us approached the stairs, and a familiar face stepped out. Jane Verona, Key West’s chief of police for the past year, froze as she laid eyes on us. The short Latina in her late thirties had her head up, her shoulders back. All business. Despite her stature, she was always a force to be reckoned with.
“Harper inside?” I asked.
She nodded, then stepped down to the seashells.
“Upstairs. She… she wants to talk to you, Logan.”
“She give her statement?”
“To the Monroe County PD, and to me, yes.”
We moved past her for the door. Atticus trotted over and nestled into his favorite spot beneath a gumbo-limbo tree at the edge of the restaurant. The dog was smart. He seemed to have a sixth sense, knowing from our body language whether or not it was playtime.
“Logan,” Jane said as I grabbed the worn brass knob. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I nodded to her, then we stepped inside. We were greeted by a bell and the sound of a nearly packed house. Though the outside of Pete’s place was inconspicuous, inside, it was a conch’s paradise. The main dining area was classic but modern. Homey but not overly cramped. Booths on the edges, tables in the middle. Old photographs, stuffed fish, and various maritime memorabilia covered the walls.
And the smell. A tantalizing combination of fresh seafood aromas that made mouths water within seconds.
“They’re in Pete’s office,” the floor manager, Mia, said upon seeing us enter.
She was busy giving orders to her army of waitresses and busboys. Her cheery smile cracked for a moment when she saw us and the words left her lips, then she was back to her lively self.
We migrated across the busy dining area, then creaked our way up a wide wooden staircase. The second floor was filled with rows of glass cases, displaying artifacts and describing history from all over the islands. Pete’s office was in the far corner. Jack spotted us through the cracked door and stepped out.
Jack Rubio was one of my oldest friends. He was a fourth-generation conch, and the owner and operator of Rubio Charters, a popular dive and fishing charter company. He was a few inches shorter than my six-two and had a lean, tanned physique. He wore his usual attire: boardshorts, tank top, and flip-flops. And his curly blond hair was a mess.
“Scarlett, can you wait out here for us?” I said when Jack reached us.
She sighed.
“Isaac’s out on the balcony with a pitcher of Key limeade and a dozen conch fritters,” Jack said.
Jack’s nephew was just a year older than Scarlett. And though the two weren’t exactly peas in a pod, he’d had her at conch fritters.
As she bounded over toward the big sliding glass door across the wide-open space, Ange and I followed Jack inside.
Harper sat on the faded leather couch, and Pete sat behind his desk. Ange strode over and wrapped her arms around the clearly shaken woman while Jack shut the door behind us.
The owner of Salty Pete’s and one of the most iconic men in the islands, Pete Jameson was in his sixties with a tanned bald head, a round belly, and a shiny metal hook instead of a right hand. An avid adventurer, treasure hunter, and collector, when Pete wasn’t at his restaurant, he was out fishing or scouring the islands for relics. As usual, his big oak desk was covered in open books, loose pages, and various trinkets.
After Ange and I comforted Harper as best we could, I sat down beside her and got down to business.
“Jane said that you wanted to speak with me,” I said.
Harper nodded, then swallowed. “I… I want your help,” she said. “I want to figure out who did this.”
I thought for a second. When it comes to murder, there’s usually one best place to start an investigation. Motive.
“You have any idea why someone would want to kill your uncle?” I asked. “Did he have any—”
“Enemies?” she said, then shook her head. “No. John was a good man. Easy-going. Kept to himself mostly. Once Aunt Margaret died, he became somewhat of a hermit. Only left his house for food or to go metal detecting.”
I focused a moment, rubbing my chin.
“Do you have any theories on motives for this?” Ange said, being smart and just asking the question flat out.
Harper nodded.
“On the morning of his murder, he found something.” She slipped out her phone and thumbed to a picture. Holding it out for us to see, she added, “He sent me this and was really excited about it.”
It was an image of an oval-shaped gold-colored object with the capital letters C and S embossed in the middle.
“A belt buckle?” Ange said. She was sharper than my dive knife and beat me to the conclusion.
“Not just any belt buckle,” Pete said. “That CS means it’s a Confederate belt buckle from the Civil War.” He pointed at Harper’s phone and added, “Show them the other side.”
Harper slid her finger across the phone’s screen, revealing a second image. This one showed the back side of the buckle. I was just about to ask what the significance of it was, then I spotted initials carved into the corner.
“W.S.?” I said.
“William Sawyer,” Pete said. “Or at least, that’s what we believe from our research so far.” He eyed the books and papers spread across his desk. “But we’ve just started digging.”
“I’m guessing there’s some significance to that name?” I said.
“He was a member of the Avengers, bro,” Jack said.
For a moment, I thought that my beach bum friend had been spending a little too much time in the sun and watching too many superhero movies. Then he explained himself.
“Not Marvel’s Avengers. The real-life ones. The Key West Avengers.”
“Still not following,” Ange said.
Pete cleared his throat. “You see, in January of 1861, representatives from across Florida met in Tallahassee to vote on whether the state would remain with the Union or secede. The vote was made for Florida to quit the United States, and the Ordinance of Secession was signed. News traveled slowly back then, taking two days to reach Key West by schooner and sloop. This is when things got tricky for the southernmost city.”
Pete paused, scratching his chin.
“You see, US Army Captain John Brannan quickly grasped the significance of the situation. He and his men were all of a sudden thick in enemy territory. So what did this captain do? The boldest thing you can think of, that’s what. With neither an order nor even a vague instruction from the north, Brannan took the initiative, rounding up his men in the dead of night and secretly marching his force around Key West to Fort Zachary Taylor. The captain and his forty or so soldiers barricaded themselves in the fort with a hoard of weapons, ammunition, and enough supplies to last for four months. The next morning, Key Westers awoke to find that their town was now under the control of the US Army. With one quick act, Brannan ensured that the strategic port remained under Union control.”
We listened intently. I’d known that Key West had remained under Northern control during the Civil War but hadn’t heard the specifics of how.
“But what does this have to do with these Avengers Jack mentioned?” Ange said. “And what does all of this have to do with the belt buckle and the murder of Harper’s uncle?”
Pete took a sip from the glass of rum resting on his desk. “Jack, you care to take it away?”
“Well,” Jack started, “Brannan and his men taking control of the city rubbed a lot of people in the islands the wrong way. In fact, there’s crazy stories about pro-secession islanders stirring up trouble for the Union o
ccupants. One guy even got arrested for hoisting a secession flag over his shop. Tensions were high. And when a group of locals wanted to leave and join up with the Confederates, the new Union officer in control wouldn’t let them. Only those who swore allegiance to the Union could quit the island.
“So a group of Key Westers, including a man named William Sawyer, stowed away on an English ship. The group eventually made it to Jacksonville and enlisted. After a crazy series of events, they were put in a special Coast Guard blockade-runner group led by a Key West local who’d escaped and made up mostly of old-school conchs. The company operated out of backwater Point Pinellas in Tampa Bay, patrolling for enemy craft and trying to prevent the Union from establishing a blockade on the port. The company dubbed themselves the Key West Avengers to spite the Union occupants who’d taken over their hometown.
“According to the history books, the Avengers’ story ends quickly and without much excitement. The company was disbanded, split apart, and sent to various locations across the Confederate-controlled territory. But there’s another story—one that most people have brushed aside as pure fantasy.” Jack pointed toward Harper’s phone. “But Harper’s uncle finding Sawyer’s belt buckle in the Upper Keys changes everything.”
Ange held her open palms up in the air. “What story?”
“That the Avengers did much more than just patrol Tampa,” Jack continued. “The story goes that this ragtag group of islanders were given a secret mission from the Confederacy. You see, at this time Stephen Mallory, the famous Key Wester whom the square is named after, was the secretary of the Confederate Navy. Mallory had supposedly received word through an intercepted Union telegraph that valuable items transported from the West Indies were being temporarily stored in Fort Taylor.”
“What kind of valuable items?” I asked.
Jack and Pete both shrugged.
“Nobody really knows for sure,” Pete said. “The legend is that it was gold bars. Lots of them. Over two hundred pounds in all. But nobody knows for sure because whatever it was vanished.”
Ange raised her eyebrows. “Vanished?”
“The story goes that after raiding the fort,” Jack continued, “the Avengers were on their way north to Jupiter with the booty when their boat was surrounded by Union ships. They managed to slip through the blockade, but they’d supposedly sunk what they’d stolen, not wanting the Union to retrieve it in case they were captured.”
“But they never came back for it?” I asked.
“No,” Pete chimed in. “They couldn’t. Union ships infested the shores off Florida after that. Then by the time the war ended, many of the Avengers had died, including William Sawyer. The ones who did survive hadn’t been able to find their lost treasure. It had been dark when they sank it, apparently. And a rare thick fog had swallowed them up. The veil of white allowed them to escape the Union ships, but it lost them their prize in the end.”
We fell silent for a moment.
“So, you think that Harper’s uncle was murdered because someone’s trying to find whatever it was that these guys tossed overboard?” I asked.
“Yes,” Harper said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was shaky, but she was doing a good job of keeping herself together, all things considered. “He posted a picture of his find on an online treasure hunting forum. These guys must’ve seen it, then set up a meeting with John. Then they probably asked him where he found it, then killed him and made off with the buckle.”
“But only one of them made off, right?” I said.
She bit her lip and looked down.
“I killed one of them. He… he tried to kill me.”
Ange wrapped her arm around Harper. “You did what you had to do,” she said softly. “You defended yourself.”
I glanced at Jack, then Pete. “Any info on the body yet?”
“Nothing,” Harper said, wiping away tears. “He’s at the morgue. They said they’ll give an update tomorrow.”
I ran over everything in my head. It was a lot to take in. It boggled my mind that people would go to such great lengths just to get their hands on an artifact that might lead them to a treasure that in all likelihood didn’t even exist. But I’d witnessed the power of greed firsthand time and time again.
“What are we gonna do about all this, bro?” Jack said.
I ran a hand through my hair. “Well, for now, we’d love for you to come home with us, Harper,” I said. “I doubt these clowns would bother going after you again, but if they do, you’ll be safe at our house.”
She thanked us and we all stood up.
“I’d love to see that asshole try and best you and Ange on your home turf,” Jack said. “I’d actually pay to see that fight.”
Nothing would make me happier than if the guy who killed Harper’s uncle confronted me next. I’d give him a quick and painful lesson in poetic justice. Then I’d consider handing him over to the police on a stretcher, but only if I was feeling merciful.
But I had a feeling that getting to the bottom of everything that had happened so far wouldn’t be that easy.
SEVEN
The Ford F-350 squeaked to a stop in front of a run-down marina building. A hard-faced middle-aged man with a scraggly beard told the three others in the truck to wait there, then slid out and strode toward the entrance.
Located just east of Homestead, Teddy’s Marina was on its wobbly last legs. The main building looked ready to collapse at any moment. There was garbage and junk everywhere, the porch had missing planks, and the walls looked like they hadn’t been painted since the Clinton administration.
The man pushed his way inside, then strode across a messy room with torn-up chairs, washers and dryers in one corner and a small bar in the other. It was mostly empty, but the few people scattered inside stared at the stranger who moved with heavy steps.
“Where’s Teddy?” the stranger said to a young skinny man with dark curly hair who was standing beside a small counter and register.
The young man motioned toward a side door, then shot the stranger a wink. The stranger nodded, then strode over and opened the door. It led to a narrow staircase up to a small office with red shag carpet, a couch, and various old pictures on the walls. The man came face-to-face with the owner, a frail man in his sixties who sat behind a desk covered with folders, reading the newspaper.
“Lynch?” Teddy gasped. “Wha… what are you doing here?”
The stranger eyed the marina owner. “Still running a shithole for outcasts, I see.”
Ted paused, then swallowed hard.
Lynch stepped to a partially open window and looked out over the edge of the dingy marina.
“What are you doing here?” Teddy asked again.
“Me and my men are here on business. We need to borrow a few boats. And we need your magnetometer.” Lynch eyed a Louisville Slugger signed by Pete Rose resting on a rack beside the window. “You do as I tell you, and who knows? There might be some coin in it for you.”
Teddy chuckled. “If you think I would trust you again, you’re out of your mind, Lynch. You may be fine doing time behind bars, but I’m never going back, you hear me? I may run a shithole for outcasts here, but I’m no criminal. Not anymore.”
Lynch pressed his tongue around the inside of his mouth. “You seem to be getting the wrong idea,” Lynch finally said casually.
Teddy shook his head. “No. I know I’m right because I know you, Lynch. You haven’t changed.”
Lynch laughed. “No, no. I mean, you seem to be getting the wrong idea about this conversation.” Lynch squeezed his lower lip. “You seem to think that this is some kind of… negotiation. But it’s not, Ted. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”
Teddy fumed. “This is my establishment. You come here and say things like that? After all we’ve been through? You should know better than that, Lynch.”
“Should I?”
Teddy clenched his jaw. “I don’t know what dumb shit you’re into this time. Drugs, weapons, trafficki
ng, I don’t care.” He stepped toward his old friend and narrowed his gaze. “But if you don’t get the hell off my property right now, I’ll kill you and sink you in the deepest part of the channel. It’ll make the crabs good and happy, and the world will be much better off without you.”
Lynch snickered. “Teddy, now you’ve gone and pissed me off. After all we’ve been through, I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Not anymore.” Lynch paused, staring at the shorter marina owner. “After that spiel, I’m just going to have to use this place over your dead body.”
Teddy’s eyes bulged and he stomped his heel twice into the creaky floorboards. The door slammed open and a man came running up the stairs. It was the young guy in his mid-twenties with short curly hair that Lynch had talked to downstairs. In his right hand he clasped a Desert Eagle 9mm, which he aimed straight at Lynch as soon as he came into view.
“We’ve had another pest infestation, Casper,” Teddy said. “I need you to deal with it.”
The young man stepped between them, pointing the barrel straight at Lynch. But Lynch didn’t shudder. He was cool and calm, unaffected.
“What are you waiting for?” Teddy said. “Shoot him!”
Lynch’s gaze shifted from Teddy to Casper, and he smiled.
“You remember my proposition, kid?” he said calmly. “Well, it’s time for you to decide.”
Teddy’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe it. What the hell was Lynch talking about, what the hell was going on?
Casper lowered the weapon, then turned to face Teddy. The marina owner shook his head as a cruel smile came over the young man’s face.
“Casp, what… what the hell are you—”
“He’s sick of you, Ted,” Lynch spat. “And so am I.”
Lynch scanned to the right, searching for a weapon. There was the Louisville Slugger on the back wall, an old knife resting on a bookshelf, and a dirty highball glass on the coffee table. Lynch chose the glass out of convenience. It was closer, just within arm’s reach.
Avenged in the Keys Page 4
