The Missing Taylor

by R C Cameron

  “No idea,” Freeman said. The longer my queries were the shorter his answers.

  “No problem, I’ll follow up with John.”

  Never a good career move to have your boss reverse a decision you made. This would rattle his cage, possibly.

  After a few seconds, he developed his answer. “Still, I dug up information on the two individuals involved in the assault charges,” continued Wayne. “They have records of their own, suspected both of drug distribution in their neighborhood. They belong to a street gang. So far, we don’t have enough probable cause to arrest them. As for why they dropped the charges, you must ask them.”

  After hearing Wayne talk about the two plaintiffs without offering to follow up himself, I brought up another concern. We needed to shake Nelson down by eliminating, at least for a while, his two bodyguards. I argued witnesses could identify the men, at the bar, later leaving with Mark Taylor. But, more damaging still, video footage existed of these two idiots going onto my yacht and killing an honest man. Given William Tudor’s time-of-death offered by the medical examiner and the time from the videotape, was that enough to pick them up and question them? Could the Miami-Dade police get their fingerprints for comparison to any others found onboard?

  “We have to charge them with an indictable offense to get their prints,” Freeman answered.

  “Murder is such an offense,” said Jennifer.

  “Yes, I realize,” Freeman replied.

  “Did you find any fingerprints on my boat besides mine and Cynthia’s?” I asked.

  “We did, but we can’t match them to anyone.”

  “Why don’t you pick them up, at least for questioning?”

  “Miami is a big city. We have to find them first.”

  “Jennifer and I can help you locate them. If they cross our path, we’ll call it in. Would that work for you?”

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  Our food arrived, and we rushed our lunch as Wayne had a 1 pm meeting of importance. I thanked him for his help and promised him we’ll be in touch.

  With just Jennifer and I left, we made up our plans for the upcoming days. She will keep following Nelson. Should she spot the two Asians, she was to inform Wayne. From my point of view, I wanted to get more intelligence on Ocean Dancer’s whereabouts. Without an FBI badge to ask questions, I needed new tricks.

  “Something else troubles me, Jason,” stated Jennifer.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You told me before, images from the dock showed a guy walk towards your boat, and then a second one follows him.”

  “Correct.”

  “How did they know which yacht you were on?”

  “Search me. They followed me, I guess.”

  “Possible. Does your business card include your yacht’s name?”

  “No.”

  “The AIS system we discussed, can it locate with precision your boat inside the Marina?”

  “No, the accuracy cannot show one specific boat when you have dozens in proximity, with tankers maybe, not with small crafts.”

  “Who had knowledge of your exact position at this Marina?”

  I thought about it, and I only had one answer. “Wayne Freeman, we had dinner aboard the night before.”

  A heavy silence descended between both of us, lost in our reflexions.

  As we came out, I placed a call to John Russell with Jennifer still by my side. I told him of our talks and he agreed to discuss the prospect of bringing the two Asians in if they locate them. I promised him we would do our best to help him in that matter. We did not explain our doubts about Freeman.

  Jennifer went her way, my next stop was on Alton Road, curious to learn why Ocean Dancer made these trips to the Marathon Marina so often. I located the offices of Yacht Charter of Miami inside a mini-business mart. Some advertising obscured its entrance.

  My initial strategy involved trying to lure information from whoever I met inside. If I did not get sufficient data, I would need a different tactic. As I walked in, I noticed a common security alarm terminal near the front entrance. Inside, a well-decorated space greeted the normally rich visitors who rented these big yachts. On the right, a waiting area with four large white leather chairs, a glass coffee table in the middle and a massive screen displaying, what else, large yachts in operation. On the left, two small semi-private offices with visitor chairs and a computer screen mounted on a tiny desk. A sales office I assumed. When I looked forward, a large semicircular reception desk with a young lady busy on her keyboard. Behind her, a full-length opaque glass wall with a door on each side of the reception desk complemented the viewable office.

  I did not think the receptionist would provide me with what I was looking for so I used a different tactic.

  “Pardon me miss, my name is Jason Tanner and I’m a private investigator. May I see your manager please?”

  She looked me over and dialed a short extension number. “Mister Thompson, someone to see you in front, Mr. Tanner, a private investigator.”

  As I waited, I examined the space, searching for window and door security apparatus. The ceiling edge revealed no movement detection sensor. I sat down and waited for the manager. Walls displayed promotions on huge posters. One of them attracted my attention, customers may reserve a three-day excursion to Nassau in the Bahamas for a mere three thousand dollars per person on a super-yacht. Since I knew the cost of diesel and crew, I found it amazing such a crossing would make money. Unless it was a loss leader like a retail store's display when you walk in.

  I was pondering this offer when a door opened and a stocky bald man in a business suit came out. He looked around and since I was the only visitor, he walked in my direction.

  “Mr. Tanner, how can I help you?” he asked.

  “Could we go somewhere private?” in the hope he brought me to his office to get a sense of the place.

  “Let’s go over here,” as he pointed to one of the small sales offices. As we sat down, I handed him a business card and he reached inside his jacket for his, but he came out empty-handed. I extracted my notebook from my knapsack and wrote. “And your name is?” I asked.

  “Thompson, Averell Thompson.”

  “And you are the office manager?”

  “Yes. What is all this about?”

  “Mr. Thompson, I represent a yacht owner involved in a collision while in a Marathon marina. The other ship fled away and I am trying to trace it.”

  “And you think it’s one of our ships?”

  “No, not at all. When the incident occurred, our guests and crew were dining in a local restaurant. It is only when they returned they noticed the scrape on the boat’s port side. They examined all the vessels present at the marina, and none had any sign of a collision. That’s why we believe the culprit sailed away.”

  “And where do we come in?”

  “A yacht sailed into this marina, Ocean Dancer. It is one of yours?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So I would like to talk to whoever was aboard to ask them if they noticed anything.”

  “I see. Wait here a minute.” He returned with a large blue three-ring binder with Ocean Dancer written on the side.

  “When was this mishap?”

  I provided him with a date from the marina ledger when his ship was on-site.

  “Yes, our yacht was in that area on that date. Unfortunately, giving away contact information for our employees and our customers is out of the question.”

  “Ideally I would like to speak with them but failing this approach, what if I communicate with them through e-mail?”

  “Same answer, we don’t give out our employee’s e-mail information.”

  “I see. I will relay this information to our lawyers and let them sort this out.”

  “If the law orders us to identify them, we will but not otherwise. I hope you understand our point of view.”

  “I do, but I also have a job to do.”

  He closed the binder, showing this conversation was over.


  “Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Thompson. I suppose in your position you would also try to find the person accountable for an accident with one of your ships.”

  “Maybe, but we also carry maritime insurance.”

  “My customer does too but I understand the deductible is important and a small investigation may provide enough information to sue the offending party to recover it.”

  “Makes sense.”

  I thanked him again, and I left. I knew I would return.

  (--)

  It was only around 6 PM and it wouldn’t be dark until 8 this time of year. From a safe distance, I watched Averell Thompson lock his office's front door. With time to spare, I drove away, and looked for a quiet restaurant.

  A little past midnight, I parked on a side street near Yacht Charter of Miami, grabbed my backpack and walked behind the business mart. Earlier today, I had scouted the surroundings. On one side of the yacht rental agency, a clothing store, while a barbershop sat on the other side. The barbershop was most likely unprotected; who stole gel or mousse these days?

  Feeling nervous, I reached for my tools to pick locks, unused in quite a while. My hands were immobile when I looked down, but my active mind told me they shook. I worked on the barbershop back door, looked around often and noticed no bizarre movement around me. I doubted anyone could see me in my black jeans and shirt at midnight but you never know. Rusted, I still beat the lock in less than 30 seconds. With great care to keep quiet, I closed the door, still unlocked, and retreated to a hiding place, waiting for an alarm company to show up. After twenty minutes, I was certain nobody would come. I walked back, opened the door and stepped right in. A back room lunch area without windows greeted me, I was in luck. With my flashlight, I checked around and found only one area, under the door leading to the barber chairs which presented a problem. I located a few towels and put them along the door's bottom. I switched the lights on with a long sigh of relief, but something interrupted me.

  A chill ran down my spine as I heard a voice rising in the back alley. I closed the light and move behind the rear door, holding my breath. The sound diminished slowly, the late passer-by walking away. After a deep breath, I flipped the lights back on.

  Looking up, I found a typical false ceiling suspended from the roof structure as I expected. I put a chair on top of a table and manufactured a temporary but fragile ladder. I displaced a ceiling tile and directed my flashlight towards the wall separation between the barber shop and the rental agency. It was a piece of drywall, possibly reinforced, dividing the neighbors. My heavy backpack was a testament I didn’t know what to expect. With my knife I cut out a square hole large enough to get through and installed a portable cord ladder to go down in the office next door. I pass through the hole and descended, removed a ceiling tile on my way down and set foot in the back office area of Yacht Charter of Miami. Somewhat relieved, I looked at my watch; it was 1 AM; I had taken twenty minutes so far; it seemed like a few hours to me.

  I dimmed my flashlight with a piece of cloth, not wanting light streaks showing through the front glass. I searched for the biggest office, assuming it would be Averell Thompson’s. It was right in the corner. I looked around his office, no sign of the blue binder. In the back office space were eight file cabinets, each with three drawers. They were all closed with the standard basic locking mechanism, easy to pick. No labels indicated the cabinet's content. I guess everyone knew where the files were. Good for them, not so for me.

  I started on the first cabinet, unlocked it, and searched for blue binders in each drawer. When I reached the sixth file cabinet, the top drawer contained a series of blue binders. I imagined these were vessel names, in alphabetical order, written on the binder's edge. The middle drawer held the Ocean Dancer pedigree, the same binder Thompson referred to in my presence this afternoon. I didn’t want to remove it since the agency held my business card, and I inquired today about this yacht; too obvious. But I wanted the information it contained.

  Lugging my backpack and the binder, I walked to one of the two bathrooms in the room. I made sure no window would give me away, and I opened the light. With the book set on the washroom counter, I picked up my small camera and took pictures of pages that could be of relevance. I was interested in the ship’s destinations over the past year, customers, crew and so on. I flipped a page, click, turned another page, click. When I wasn't certain, I clicked anyway. Altogether, it took more than twenty minutes to finish; I held more than a hundred images on my camera. Once my photography session was over, I looked at the ship’s activities on a date of interest, when it stopped in Marathon, September of last year. It was that famous weekend when Mark Taylor traveled to the Keys. I was looking for the ship's real customer name. BC International appeared in the ship’s schedule.

  At full tilt, I returned the binder to its original location and hunted for customer records. A bunch of company names showed up in the second cabinet but they looked like maritime-related, maybe accounts payable. I continued and found another set of files arranged in alphabetical order. In the B section, I pulled up BC International which was rather thick. I went back to the bathroom for another picture session. In no particular order were invoices, statements, requests to rent sent by email and at the start of the file, a form to create a customer’s account.

  Having grabbed as much as I could, I turned the bathroom's lights off, closed all cabinets securing them by pushing the lock-in, just like when I found them. I returned to my point of entry and looked around for debris I may have caused; I picked up drywall dust and climbed back the way I came. On my way out, I reinstalled the ceiling tile. I could not repair the hole tonight, but it would go unnoticed until someone looked into the false ceiling. I cleaned up on the barbershop side, replaced tables and chairs, turned off the light and opened the rear door bit by bit. Not hearing anything suspicious, I locked it, walked back to my car, put my backpack in the trunk and then took a long breath of air. I drove within the speed limit and headed for my temporary shelter near South Beach. Tomorrow promised to be another busy day.

  (--)

  I got up later than usual after my night out. Yesterday's operation tired my entire mind and body. But by 8 AM after a quick shower, I was out looking for breakfast carrying my laptop and my camera's memory card safe in my pocket. The sun was already shining in Miami Beach as walkers and runners were out already. A French bistro crossed my path where I ordered a grilled cheese with bacon. When the lady refilled my latte with regular filtered coffee; I got my laptop out and connected to the restaurant’s Wi-Fi guest network. Security was not an issue here.

  I was now looking at a bunch of images, each one a page from Ocean Dancer's blue binder. I needed to analyze them all. Experience told me a second pair of eyes would be better, so I was thinking of reviewing the data with Jennifer’s help. Therefore, I should get hard copies first. I searched for print shops in the area. I located a FedEx Office doing this kind of work, presented my memory card and got two copies of 112 pages which I put into two separate brown envelopes.

  I texted Jennifer hoping she was available.

  “You know Jason, I am getting a fine tan while working with you.”

  “Part of the benefits package at Private Eye Investigations, darling.”

  “The benefits are better than the pay.”

  “Wow, wow, now. Talk to your union guy about the compensation, not me.”

  “Sure, what’s up, my leader?”

  “A pile of documents needs our review, I could use your help. My temporary quarters would provide table and chairs to work if you don’t mind. Why don't you join me to peg away at this stuff?”

  “What stuff?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you later, it’s a long story.” I answered.

  She agreed, so I asked her to meet me in 15 minutes. I picked up two mezzo coffees from my favorite coffee shop on my way.

  A few minutes after my return, I heard a discreet knock on the door. I walked over, open
ed with one hand and presented a coffee with the other as a sign of gratitude. “Nice,” she said. “Is this also part of the benefits package?”

  “Yes, Mam.”

  She examined my temporary housing facilities, and concluded it was OK, the location makes it great and expensive. I agreed. We sat at the main table, and I described my official visit to Yacht Charter of Miami. I did not impress her. I mesmerized her when I told her about my unofficial visit in the dark of night to the same rental agency offices.

  “You spent years in the Marines, the police and the FBI and then the first opportunity you come across, you break the law.”

  “Jennifer,” I paused for a while, “Averell did not want to disclose the information.”

  “Averell? Like in Averell Dalton of the Dalton brothers?”

  “Yes, just like that. You know, Jennifer, it's possible to get this information with a court order but we can’t waste time.”

  “OK, let’s see what you got.”

  I pushed an envelope in front of her and I opened mine, both of us scanning the documents at a rapid pace, curious. As I was reading, I made notes, things to bring up and get her point of view. I finished reading my stack, so I leaned back and waited. She completed her first analysis just a few minutes later.

  “So let’s compare notes. Anything of interest you have spotted?”

  “Well, for starters, they schedule one trip, every month, over the last year. You had hinted to that from the logs at Captain Pip’s Marina. A bunch of people board in Miami, sail to Marathon and return to Miami the following day, every time.”

  “Correct. But that is pretty much in line with the Black Cat’s promotion going on.”

  “The what?”

  “Well, yesterday, I drove by the Black Cat and I stopped to check out the place. Inside, on the walls, posters were proposing a contest where two lucky winners, accompanied by a friend, get to sail to Marathon on a luxury yacht. That would explain why the Ocean Dancer sails there on a regular basis.”