The Missing Taylor

by R C Cameron

  “What do the participants have to accomplish?”

  “Nothing. Fill in a coupon with your name and phone number. Anybody who orders a meal gets one. Not complicated.”

  I paused for a moment. A yacht like this was easy $10,000 per day to rent. Add the diesel costs, the fees, some profit. The Black Cat was looking at a minimum $20,000 fee every trip. Could additional meals compensate for this expense? It looked unlikely in my estimation.

  “I doubt this promo would pay for itself given the huge costs involved. There's another reason for these trips. We haven't found it yet.”

  “It's got to be drug-related, Jason.”

  “I would agree. But we need more information. Why did Mark Taylor come down here?” No response came.

  I re-examined my stack trying to identify the captain and his crew. By examining various trip reports, I concluded Captain Brad Scott was in charge on every trip. His crew was always the same group of three guys and one girl in a rotation. They could operate this ship with only two crewmates if needed.

  “There's also an email in the file, a short communication from Nelson, he would cancel the expeditions if Scott was not captaining on the upcoming trip,” Jennifer added.

  “So he’s an important piece of the puzzle.”

  “Affirmative, and you nailed it, I am looking at some monthly statements, the invoices are more than $25,000. Not cheap by any means.”

  “You know, Jennifer, they stage these activities maybe to hide that Nelson travels to Marathon on a regular basis. The contest is just a cover for his travels maybe. Traveling by sea allows him to bypass any roadblock that the authorities may deploy on the single highway to and from the Keys; that’s an advantage.”

  “And Jason, let’s not forget, if he illegally transports anything, there is more hiding space in a 90-foot yacht than in a Jeep.”

  “That’s true. And furthermore, because he travels in US waters, there’s no need to register with Border Patrol and raise suspicion as well.”

  “When I saw them last time at the marina in Marathon, Nelson went out with the so-called winners of his contest and once they were off, his two buddies disappeared. It could be they had a separate party, or they were on a mission. I think it’s important to find out where these chaps are spending their evening. We must set up surveillance, in Marathon, next time around. We need to find out when.”

  “I already know?” answered Jennifer.

  “How come?” I questioned.

  “Intensive investigation and the fact that the poster on the wall of the Black Cat says the ships sails on April 7th in large characters,” she joked.

  “Well, April 7th is a date,” I declared smiling, she did too.

  CHAPTER NINE

  BACK AT MY home base in Pompano, I woke up feeling happy the following morning, relaxed after a good night sleep. I worked on this difficult case for almost three weeks straight. Now I ought to recharge my batteries, clear my mind, sit back, and return for a fresh start. A part-time investigation gig is what I wanted, not a full 24/7 operation.

  After attending to my domestic chores such as cleaning, and saying hello to my few neighbors around the marina, I made a quick trip to the Rusty Hook. I ordered a fresh Mahi-Mahi sandwich and a Corona after saluting my good buddy, Jeff, in his cuisine; just a fancy name he gave to his kitchen. That was a nice interruption and gave me the energy to finish my day.

  At 5 PM, I mixed my usual martini, moved topside, and speed-dialed my daughter. “Hey gorgeous, sorry I did not call you before, but I have been busy. I verified that your flight, last Thursday, arrived on time, so I am not all that unthoughtful.”

  “You could have called earlier. It’s been almost a week.”

  “I’m sorry, girl, you’re right, my bad.” By using a young person’s expression, I thought I would win points and avoid her vexation.

  “How is your investigation going?”

  My smart reply seemed to have worked, she didn’t sound mad.

  “Well, I followed your guidance and brought in additional help. I met Jennifer after dropping you off at the airport and she agreed to help me. She can get out at any time, no questions asked; that’s fine with me.”

  “That is excellent news dad. I suppose that’s an upgrade, no?”

  “She is well trained and possesses more insight and abilities in criminal investigations, she can stand up for herself, can carry a weapon, but she’s not you.”

  “Nice of you to say, dad. What else?”

  I explained why I believed our adversaries knew about our movement using the AIS technology and why my immediate retreat to Pompano was necessary.

  “Be careful, if they know where you’re located, they can also figure out where you came from.”

  She was right, the marine traffic application would show Sands Harbor marina as my usual parking spot. With already one attempt on my life, I would need to be alert at all times. Even running my AIS system in silent mode may not be enough. Some information was already out there.

  “Careful is my middle name, dear. In other news, I received a report from my secret weapon, Hank the hacker Hackman, about our friend Yang Nelson. We’ll see what he can come up with, he’s thorough.”

  She asked about Ocean Dancer and I replied I researched this vessel but I did not mention I escalated and cut a hole in a wall to get information. No need to get her excited. She gave me some news from Denver, and we promised to keep in touch more often. I hung up, I was most pleased.

  The next few days were quiet, and I used the time to put my affairs in order, which I had neglected over the last three weeks. I had insurance to renew, bills to pay, that kind of exciting occupation.

  Over that time period, I debated internally, Wayne Freeman's situation. Had he provided my location to the opposition? Was he aware of the endgame? To get rid of me? It also occurred to me that Cynthia may have been on board at the time. Faith made it that William Tudor was on the yacht at that fateful moment. Poor William, life is not always fair.

  I needed to know who’s side Freeman belonged. I could confront him and ask him the terrible question. He would deny it without a doubt. As a detective he would ask: do you have any proof? And I did not; at least, not today.

  Another option would be to bring up my suspicions with his boss, John Russell, head of detectives. I needed to convince him of my theory, unfounded so far, to start an Internal Affairs investigation. Would they find a link between Freeman and Nelson's organization? Phone calls between them, meetings, exchange of money, whatever may provide a connection between Freeman and this gang. They orchestrated William’s death but in reality they were looking to end my life. A nice group of honest folks they were.

  Another way to unmask Freeman existed: I could try to find some incriminating evidence myself, before presenting it to JR. And for that, I needed Hank Hackman. I grabbed my phone and dialed Hank’s number. I explained what I was looking for. If I could get Freeman’s call logs between the time when I provided my yacht location and when they murdered William, maybe it would convince JR.

  “A call log is easy to consult. From his cell phone number, I can determine which carrier he's using. I can then send him a phishing email to get his user id and password to his carrier's website. From there, I’ll extract his incoming and outgoing calls. As a bonus Jason, I’ll even tell you if he paid his account.”

  “Phone number and email; let me work on that. I have the first one already, I’ll get his email tomorrow,” as I looked at my watch. It was too late today. I slept better that night, at least a plan was taking shape about Freeman.

  The next morning provided another sunny and windy day in Pompano with a high near 80 degrees. I was planning to go fishing and eat whatever I caught. But first, I had to make a call and obtain an email address as I promised.

  “Good morning LeBron, Jason Tanner here, how are you this morning?”

  As Freeman’s partner, I figured LeBron must have Wayne’s personal email address.

  �
��Fine, what can I do for you.”

  “First, I wanted to thank you again in locating Mark Taylor's hideaway in Marathon. I visited the bizarre combinations of luxury yachts, cheap rooms and ordinary restaurant. It’s quite something. Our investigation is moving along. Nothing concrete yet, but it’s progressing. The other reason for my call is that I would like to invite you and Wayne to a fishing day this summer. Last time I saw him, he mentioned you guys liked to fish. If you give me your personal email and Wayne’s I will send you information in due time.”

  Holding my breath in silence, my bluff was out there. I hoped it made sense. It took a little more time than expected, but in the end, LeBron gave me both addresses. I updated my contact information on the two police officers and sent it to Hank for his research.

  For a few days, I relaxed, happy to return to a quiet agenda: run in the morning, coffee after, some afternoon fishing. One day, upon my return from my morning occupations, walking in front of the marina’s management office, a door opened and Rick, the lad who runs the place, steps out.

  “Mister Tanner, a package arrived for you this morning. The delivery guy left it beside your boat’s door.”

  “That’s fine Rick. Thanks.”

  As I kept walking towards my home, I wondered what this package could be. I had nothing on order. Even then, the marina’s administration desk hold on to standard deliveries waiting for the owner’s pickup. A gift? It’s not my birthday yet. Documents Hank or Barry would send? Possible, but they would advise me first. Something puzzled me.

  I turned on my dock but a dozen feet out from my boat, I stopped. Rick was right, a package sat in front of my salon's doorway. Wrapped in a brown paper bag, it was a few feet long and roundish, something like a half-baseball bat. My sixth sense got the better of me, and I retreated towards shore. I dialed 911 and informed the operator I received a suspicious package. In the past year, South Florida got its fair share of poisoned envelopes and pipe bombs. They reacted immediately: “Stay away. We’re sending officers right now.”

  I kept watching my dock’s entrance stopping anyone wishing to walk on. It only took a few minutes before sirens disturbed the lunch hour. Two officers first walked to the administration office and then, escorted by Rick, breezed in my direction.

  “You called 911?” one officer asked.

  “Yes, I did. My name is Jason Tanner, and I live aboard the yacht at the end of the walkway over there. Rick here tells me someone delivered a package this morning, but I am not expecting anything. It has a strange form, I don’t feel good about this.”

  “Would anyone wish you harm?” an officer asked.

  “It’s possible.” And I explained in as few details as possible my situation. After a few questions, both officers walked towards my boat, looked around, and without boarding, turned, and now walked back at a hurried pace. I heard one of them radioed a request for the bomb squad, his suspicions equaled my own. One officer prevented anyone from accessing the dock. The other took me away for some additional questions. This time he took notes.

  Soon, a funny-looking truck bearing the Sheriff’s office colors arrived. Three more SUV’s followed. The bomb squad rolled in. Another police officers cordoned off the entire marina. From their vantage point on the Atlantic Bridge right beside the marina, dozens of curious onlookers watched the scene, their phones recording hoping to win CNN’s video of the day. Soon, the police closed the bridge to all traffic and evacuated the crowds to their great disappointment. A bomb the size of which we have seen on my boat could injure someone hundreds of feet away. Authorities took no chances.

  A short policeman dressed in a strange suit transported a small mobile robot and left it on the aft deck of my boat, a dozen feet away from the package. He then returned to his truck to control the machine, an operation I witnessed several times in my career.

  An hour later, the same policeman returned to the yacht, picked up the package and brought it back to his truck. He removed his stuffy protection gear. He emerged all sweaty, not sure if it was the tension or the suit. As he was toweling off, he walked in my direction and said: “False alarm. It’s made to look like a bomb but is missing the essential ingredients for an explosion. There’s no detonator nor C4 in the package.”

  “And you discovered all of that from your truck?”

  “Yes, the robot has twin cameras, sensors, and a few hands we can use to open packages. Cool, hey.”

  “And now?”

  “Safe to go back. I have the package and we’ll see if we can find clues on who may have made this but I don’t hold faith too much. These are amateurs.”

  “I may have a clue for you. Come with me.” I walked to the marina office and asked Rick to follow us. We all went aboard my yacht and I pulled out my laptop, pressed a few keys and located what I wanted Rick to see. A blown-up picture of the Asians on the beach with Nelson flashed on the screen.

  “You know any of these guys?”

  He sat down and got closer. He used arrow keys to view different pictures of the same moment. Suddenly he said: “This one. This is the guy who brought the package this morning.” He was pointing at a young Asian with blond hair, the shorter of the terrible duo.

  The bomb squad officer asked some questions about who this man was but I couldn’t help him. I knew the faces, not the names. He gave me a business card so I could e-mail him the picture and any pertinent information about the stranger for his own investigation.

  On Saturday morning, I called Jennifer. I first reported on yesterday’s activity around my marina. She did not interrupt me, but her silence showed she worried even more. She did not like what she herd. I restated my advice to be careful and offered her to withdraw from the investigation. She had no such intention she answered after a short silence.

  Moving to another subject, I wanted to get updated on Nelson’s stakeout. She had nothing new to report, Nelson spent his time between the surf, his bar and his girlfriend in Miami, what looked like a luxury apartment near Biscayne Bay. But the night before, Jennifer had offered her husband to dine out in town and she brought him to the Black Cat! She has some nerve, this Jennifer. She even entered her name in the ballot box to win a cruise to Marathon.

  “And why did you do that?” I asked.

  “I figured that if I needed to follow the creep to Marathon, I might as well do it in style aboard a fabulous yacht you told me about.” The draw was this coming Tuesday, sailing the following Saturday.

  I concluded our conversation by asking Jennifer to stop tailing Nelson for now. Let’s not gamble and raise his suspicion. We know pretty much where he will be next Saturday if he’s consistent with his schedule.

  (--)

  On Tuesday morning, five days after asking Hank to explore Freeman’s call log, my Inbox alerted me. Hoping to break this case wide open, I frantically pressed on my phone’s email icon.

  As I read the message, I replaced my enthusiasm with disappointment. Hank got the job done all right. He snatched up Freeman’s user-id, got his cell phone account, copied and attached his call log to his message and after further analysis, concluded no smoking gun existed. Three days were of interest: on Thursday morning, Freeman called me while sailing to Miami, that’s when I invited him for dinner. In the afternoon, when he confirmed his presence, I gave him the directions to my yacht. On Friday, Cynthia arrived, that night they attacked me near the marina. And, on Saturday, they murdered William. Therefore, these three days were crucial. Freeman got the information late on Thursday, William was dead on Saturday. If he passed intelligence along, it would be one of these three days.

  Hank associated my personal number to phone calls Freeman made in the morning and another one late Thursday, to receive and then confirm the invitation. There were a dozen other calls in the log and Hank at scribbled names and some addresses where he made them. Half of them were to his partner LeBron Jackson, one to John Russell and the rest to commercial entities. None at the Black Cat, nor to Yang Nelson or to unidentified par
ties.

  When I closed my mail, I tried to come up with a sensible conclusion but my mind wrestled with two options: either Freeman was not the crook I believed him to be or; he possessed a second phone, a throw-away phone.

  (--)

  The days kept rolling on, one long day after another. I briefed Jennifer Wednesday about our weekend plans and adjusted a few details with her. I would drive down to Miami Friday morning and pick her up. Afraid some complacency existed between the crew and guests of Ocean Dancer and the Marina management, I had reserved two rooms in a local motel, but not Captain Pip’s. No need to return there, I broke into their offices last time around.

  Both Jennifer and I were on the same wavelength, Nelson was there for the show, the Asian guys, their names unknown to us, would be present, we hoped, for the business side. These two were our real targets. We both would carry weapons and Jennifer would get a separate rental car so we could follow our target with multiple vehicles to avoid suspicion and detection. I had gotten a pair of walkie-talkies for our direct communications and I would bring my backpack with tools of the trade if we needed to enter somewhere uninvited.

  We settled on Porky’s, the closest restaurant, with a view of the marina. It would allow us to hang around and keep an eye on Ocean Dancer from a dining table. Marathon is the opposite of a typical South Florida neighborhood in terms of design and architecture. Pavement is rare, cement sidewalks don’t exist, street lamps are few. Nice houses surrounded by green grass, flowers, and trees exist but are scarce except in newly developed communities. In its defense, hurricane Irma ravaged the area in September 2017, about twenty months ago. Since then, tax dollars went to rebuild the basic infrastructure. While I think about it, I realize it was approximately the time Ocean Dancer first came to Marathon. I wondered if it was a coincidence. In the aftermath of such a terrible situation, sometimes opportunities develop. Did the Nelson gang profit from this? Hum.

  Jennifer and I spent the afternoon chatting, eating like birds and drinking ice tea. We wanted to be sharp tonight and avoided too much food and drinks. At around 5:30 PM, the large mass of the Ocean Dancer came into view. With our binoculars, we could observe a bunch of people dancing, flirting or just milling around. Yang Nelson looked at ease right in the middle of all the excitement.