The Missing Taylor

by R C Cameron

  “Compliments will get you nowhere, buddy.”

  “Oh no?”

  She put her hand over her mouth and nodded, a sure sign she was deliberating internally.

  “I have told you everything I know about the case. You are free to join me or not. We will not be worst friends if you decline the invitation, trust me.”

  She continued her reflection while I ordered another beer and a glass of wine from our idle waiter. I expected a polite refusal from Jennifer, so it surprised me when I heard her say: “All right, I’ll help you Jason with one condition.”

  “And it would be. . .”

  “I may call it quits any time, no questions asked, OK?”

  “Works for me. We should both quit if it becomes too dangerous. I’ll drink to that.”

  And we toasted to the occasion.

  “OK partner, now what’s the plan?”

  “Our bad guy at the top of our list is Yang Nelson I believe. We need to figure out who this man is, what he does, if he works, where he lives, his background, his life. We know he surfs at South Point Beach, this could be our starting point.”

  “Do we have information on him so far?”

  “We have a phone number and a license plate, he drives a jeep.”

  We continued to talk about Nelson and decided Jennifer would follow him. I would concentrate on digging into his past. She should watch out for the two Asians, they were dangerous. Her concealed carry license was still valid in Florida and she would have her weapon at all times.

  Another part of our investigation was Ocean Dancer. Why the regular trips to Marathon? Where else did it go? Since I was familiar with the marine business, I would look into this aspect. I also provided Jennifer with the phone number of Barry Gilmore. I would tell Barry that he may receive a call from her if she needed some background information.

  On that note, I paid for our drinks and exited the hotel. Jennifer would be at the South Point beach tomorrow morning. I hailed a cab for Sea Isle Marina where my yacht awaited me. Returning to the Miami Beach Marina was out of the question. Someone tried to kill me there and took the life of an innocent man instead. Somebody may recognize me or the yacht and alert our Asian friends to come back and finish what they started.

  (--)

  Back on board, I contacted Wayne Freeman to talk murder on my boat and my investigation into Mark Taylor's disappearance. I was lucky; I got Wayne after the second ring.

  “Wayne, how are you?”

  “I’m OK, I received your email and pictures. I did not locate these individuals in our files yet. They may be new to the territory and have no arrest record.”

  “Yeah, I see. These two are just executioners. The main guy is a Yang Nelson, a friend of Mark Taylor. He’s the third man on the picture I sent you. I believe the Asians take their orders from Nelson. You should look into him.”

  I gave Wayne the plate number I had recorded in my notebook. By consulting the Department of Motor Vehicules records, he could locate him with ease.

  “And Wayne, I saw Nelson with his two bodyguards in Marathon where Taylor was last seen. I don’t know what they were doing there, but I’ll find out. They appear to be regular visitors to the region. I'm not sure why, but I'm working on it.”

  “Good.”

  “Last thing, I drafted a new buddy on my PI team, another former FBI person. Her name is Jennifer Jones, and she’s helping me with the case. I will give her your number if you don’t mind.”

  “Jennifer, hey. Is she married?”

  “Yes, and two kids at home. Don’t go there.”

  “OK, OK, just checking. I need to follow every lead.”

  After hanging up, I sent a text message to my FBI buddy, Barry, saying: “Florida is fantastic this time of year. You should visit one day.” I was expecting his call as soon as possible.

  But when I woke up the following morning, nothing. I double-checked my phone to make sure I missed no calls. I had not. But when I put it down, it rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Jason, it’s Barry, you called?”

  “Yes, I did, how are you?”

  “I’m fine and still digging for information on the name you gave me, I'll need more time.”

  “Do nothing foolish and end up in the unemployment line.”

  “No, I won’t, don't worry.”

  “I gave your number to Jennifer Jones, an old FBI colleague. She may contact you as well for some information. She’s working with me on the case now.”

  “Your friends are my friends.”

  “Thanks, take care then. I just wanted to touch base.”

  I hung up and dialed my other faithful buddy Hank. He had access to information the FBI didn’t have.

  “How is your search of Mister Nelson going?” I asked.

  “Almost done boss. I should have something for you tomorrow. It’s better to have a full report later than a small report earlier, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll have to agree with you Hank. I’ll send some cash your way soon. Be careful.”

  The next thing on my mind was the large yacht, Ocean Dancer. It had made several trips to Marathon according to the ledger I consulted in the small office. The trips were so frequent, captain James just wrote OD instead of writing the full name.

  I had an idea, uncertain it would work out, but I had to verify it. In the marine industry, there is a system called AIS for Automatic Identification System. It’s a tracking system used by ships to supplement the radar to avoid collisions. AIS combines GPS positioning, satellite operations, VHF communications to track vessels. I have such a system on PRIVATE EYE like most large and mid-size boats. It may not be essential for small crafts sailing along the coast in daytime but it becomes critical if you go out at sea and even more important at night.

  Users of the AIS can know about vessels in their area by having access to the ship name, its unique identification, its position, course and rate of speed. A website even provides online information, so I accessed the site.

  I wanted to validate the information, so I searched for my ship, PRIVATE EYE. And there it was, on my screen, a map of the Miami area in the background with a small pink arrow showing my position at the Sea Isle Marina. If somebody wanted to locate me, they had no trouble at all. My boat dealer had set up the system, but I had never looked deeper into its operation. I checked inside the main cabinet in the salon and found a pile of documentation. After a while, I located my AIS receiver/transmitter paperwork. I read through its features, benefits and options until I got to a section entitled 'Silent mode' and how to connect an external switch to operate in this mode. It got my attention.

  I walked to the cockpit and discovered the AIS unit well hidden under the yacht's main controls. Looking closer, I found a small toggle switch without markings. Connected to the unit, it could only have one function, the silent mode; so I flipped the switch.

  I refreshed my computer screen, but it still showed my position, my last position. Others could access this information as well and it frighten me. I located my Glock 17 in my cabin and decided to carry it at all times from now on. I grabbed my binoculars and headed upstairs to the flybridge looking around for people who should not be there or suspicious characters. Nothing was out of the ordinary, but I remained on the flybridge for a while observing folks walking up my dock.

  I had to get out of this marina, find another local berth or return to my home port, and fast. It was Friday, I had a full week, I decided to head home.

  As I headed out at a slow speed, I did not see on the shores of Biscayne Bay two guys looking in my direction. One of them had his own pair of binoculars.

  (--)

  On my way back to Pompano, I texted Jennifer to call me when she had a minute. I did not want to ring her while she was surveilling someone. Later my phone vibrated.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Jennifer, you called O my partner.”

  “Yes, I did. I found out that just about any idiot can locate my yacht through
a public website when my collision avoidance system is active. That is amazing but also problematic. If anybody can locate my yacht, so can our friends.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, so I’m sailing to Pompano right now. I don’t like the idea they know where I am. For now and for the foreseeable future, I have disabled the system, and my yacht is now invisible. I don’t know if I will sail or drive back Monday. I will decide over the weekend. Anything new on your end?”

  “I’m at the South Point beach watching a gang of surfers but Nelson is not here. I’m going back home, and I’ll return tomorrow, Saturday, my chances could be better.”

  “All right, we’ll keep in touch.”

  The morning ride up the Intracoastal was better than perfect. The sun was warm, but not too hot, no clouds around, the light winds not interfering with sailing yet providing a comfortable well-being.

  Feeling I acted like a deserter leaving my new partner on her own, the more I was sailing away from Miami, the worst I felt. I considered returning for a moment, but Jennifer said she was restarting her surveillance only tomorrow. So I cranked up the speed, but still within limits. I wanted to get to Pompano and immerse myself into more research to help forget my cowardliness. Once I arrived, I got busy: I filled up the gas tanks, cleaned the interior, and washed the exterior. I then hopped in my truck, to replenish the yacht’s cooler at my local market.

  Once all these chores were behind me, I headed to my favorite German restaurant where I sat alone at the bar and opened my MacBook to keep me company. With a fine German beer in front of me, I searched for more information on that mysterious ship. If the opposition observed my yacht using the AIS system, maybe I could do the same about theirs. I navigated back to the website and keyed in “Ocean Dancer” in the search area. Its last known position was Miami Beach, but I also noticed more information was available for full members. I got out my Visa card, registered, paid the $29 fee and accessed the ship’s travel history. During the last years, Ocean Dancer navigated only in and around Miami, the Keys, and the Bahamas. Mind you, in silent mode, they could go anywhere I would be blind to those trips, so would the website.

  But I had other questions like what kind of ship was Ocean Dancer? Single owner? Corporate ownership? Short or long-term rental? I doubted a bar owner could afford a ship like this full time. He could lease it on occasions I suspected. While the waitress brought me a new German beer to try, I continued searching. After a good half-hour of looking around, I finally scored. Ocean Dancer was available for charter and offered by Yacht Charter of Miami, a corporation on Alton Road, close to the Miami Beach Marina.

  The AIS system can be silent about a boat’s destination, but the company’s own records would say otherwise. The electronic or paper trail would show who chartered the yacht and where it went. To accounting services, precise information on travels was mandatory. This charter company was now on my radar. I closed the laptop, my Schnitzel was arriving.

  After a good night sleep, I checked my emails while sipping my morning brew. Hank Hackman had come through again. His report on Yang Nelson was a few clicks away. Well structured, it covered his personal information, current address, family, education, employment, criminal or civil procedure implications and financial profile. Since Hank and I exchanged confidential data, we had agreed on using email encryption with a known key between us. I re-encrypted the entire message and sent it to Jennifer, knowing she would call me about the gibberish she received in her email program. I then would pass-on the key to her over the phone giving her access.

  Reading the report with more scrutiny, I discovered he had two prior assault charges brought a few years ago. In both cases, when the main witness recanted his testimony, the prosecution dropped them. This guy had a bad temper but also a certain power of conviction.

  I scrolled down to his professional thumbnail and a few words caught my attention right away: Black Cat. I read from the start and discovered Nelson owned a bar, but not any bar. It listed him as a partner of the Black Cat in Miami. I remembered my first conversation with Nadine; she mentioned this was the last place someone had seen Mark. It’s quite a popular spot on the beach, and Mark Taylor worked there on occasions. Someone called him to replace the regular bartender on that fateful Friday.

  Chances are, Nelson and Taylor knew one another because of the bar business. As co-owner Nelson would be acquainted with the man behind the bar, only a small number of employees are required to run a bar. Pieces of the puzzle were coming together: interesting!

  I continued my exploration of Hank’s document down to the financial section. Nelson had a few credits cards listed but almost no usage. This was strange in today’s world where debit and credit card transactions are on the rise. The bar business being heavy on hard cash, it was not impossible some of it found the owner’s pockets. This could explain his reluctance to use plastic. From the list of his past transactions, I concluded his credit card usage was when he had no options, like online retail shops.

  Early afternoon, Jennifer called, as expected. “What this garbage you sent me Jason?”

  “Hi Jennifer, how are you?”

  “I’m fine and puzzled at the same time.”

  I explained to her about the encrypted message and gave her the key to decode her email and read Hank’s report. She told me she had picked up Nelson at the beach this morning when he surfed until around eleven. She then followed him to a bar on the beach and stopped her surveillance there.

  “The Black Cat?” I said.

  “How did you know?” she replied.

  “You will see in Hank’s report, Nelson is a partner in that bar, the Black Cat.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s also where Mark Taylor last worked before his disappearance. So Nelson was probably his boss back then.”

  “A partner you said?”

  “Yes, Nelson created an offshore company who owns the bar, but he’s not alone. There is another mystery partner, we don’t have his identity yet. I will ask Hank to continue digging.”

  “I’ll read Hank’s report now that the letters on the screen look like real words.”

  After she hung up, I read the Nelson report once again looking for other clues. He had a younger sister; I wondered if she was part of his business like the bar management. Information on his parents was missing, they may have remained in Singapore where he was born. He immigrated on a student visa when he was 17 and received permanent status at 21. Hank found no marriage licence either.

  I wrote back to Hank to thank him and asked him to dig deeper into Nelson’s business dealings such as other company affiliations, and to do the same research for his family. He also had an associate at the bar. Who was he?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MONDAY MORNING 7 o’clock found me in my car waiting in line for my medium black coffee to go, heading back to Miami. Yesterday I prepared two knapsacks, booked an apartment near South Beach on Airbnb and sent Nadine a detailed invoice covering my last 15 days of work and expenses. A brief call informed Jennifer of my midmorning arrival.

  During the abominable drive on I-95 South, I reached out to Wayne Freeman; he was willing to meet with Jennifer and I for a short time. While on the phone, I suggested he lookup two individuals, Eugene Byrd and Reginald Miranda, both from Miami. My researcher discovered these gentlemen made an official complaint against Nelson for assault but rescinded a few weeks later. I wanted to understand why. Freeman responded by suggesting I should hire my own investigation team. Big help.

  Both seated on one side of a dining booth at the Melting Pot, we expected Wayne any minute now. We looked foolish, but we both preferred to see Wayne’s eyes, an FBI training remnant. He was on time and when he arrived he asked: “Expecting anyone?” as he slipped onto the worn plastic seat remaining and showcasing a broad smile.

  “Thanks for coming, Wayne.”

  “Don’t mention it, detectives are always hoping for a free lunch. You served a fantastic dinner aboard you
r yacht last time. It was great. And this would be Jennifer?”

  “Glad you enjoyed it. Yes, Jennifer Jones, she’ll be working with me.”

  “Nice to see you, Wayne,” as she extended her hand, Freeman did the same.

  “I think you’re in a hurry, so we’ll get down to business. We learned the Black Cat bar’s owner where Mark Taylor was last seen September 10th is Yang Nelson. I read the case files you brought, and you interviewed somebody at the bar, the manager I suppose, but not Nelson.”

  “Yes, I remember now. We talked to a guy, well dressed, polite, somewhat nervous, he said he was the owner, but we checked no further, we took his word for it.”

  Freeman’s body language told me he was on the defensive. Was it the bar itself, its owner or the fact we questioned his investigative actions?

  “No reason to dig deeper,” suggested Jennifer.

  I knew Jennifer, she would not leave it there if this was her investigation. She would want to identify the final authority, the big boss. I figured she wanted to get on Freeman's side, at least initially. So I continued.

  “So, it’s possible Nelson met Taylor as a staff member and then interested him in surfing with his friends. Or, the reverse is also possible, they bump into each other on the beach and when Mark said he was a bartender, Nelson got him a temporary gig. But either way, it’s not important. We now have a connection between these two gentlemen.”

  Wayne added: “Possible.”

  Jennifer looked at me for a fraction of a second, but I understood the subliminal message: is this guy for real? Freeman resisted getting involved in his original investigation, but why? He may have his own reasons, but he was not sharing them with us.

  Our drinks arrived, and we placed our food order. The intermission allowed me to change subject.

  “As I told you this morning, the city dropped simple assault charges on Nelson before even reaching the courts. I wonder if they pertain to his bar operation, like throwing someone out, or from something else.”