by Tripp Ellis
JD pulled an amber bottle out of the bucket of ice and twisted the top. A blast of air escaped. He took a swig of the cold brew, and I grabbed a bottle and offered one to Archer.
She passed. “Do you two always drink on the job?”
JD looked at his watch and grinned. “We are off duty.”
“Are you two ever really on duty?” She asked.
“I don’t know,” JD said. “We just got deputized this morning, so not much of a track record.”
Archer just shook her head. “What did you find out from Wilkes?”
I gave her a brief synopsis. “You can do us a favor. Verify he was actually in Monaco during the time of the murder. Check his accounts for any unusual transactions during that time.”
“I’d need a warrant for that.”
I scoffed.
“Hey, some of us play by the rules,” Archer said. “Have you got anything else?”
"A few leads that we need to look into, but nothing substantial," I said.
"What about you?" JD asked.
"Not much. And it seems you know everything I know, so…”
"What's your angle on this?" I asked.
"I don't have an angle,” Archer replied.
"Everybody's got an angle,” I said, dryly.
"What's your angle?" she replied.
"JD and I are concerned citizens." I smiled.
She rolled her eyes again.
"You can't possibly be interested in the death of a boat dealer unless there is something more under the surface," I said.
She chose her words carefully. "It's no secret he had a lot of dealings with some less than reputable people. I want to know why he was killed, and by whom. I’d like to see if it somehow plays into the broader picture."
"What broader picture?" I asked.
She hesitated a moment. “Do you know how much cocaine has been seized this year by the Coast Guard?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. 150,000 pounds?”
“Close. 167,000 pounds,” she said. “And we’re only capturing a small percentage of what comes through. We don’t know the real number. But it’s probably about 2% of the total. That means 98% is slipping through unaccounted for.”
“You’re never going to be able to stop it,” I said.
“So, why bother, right?”
I shrugged.
“This stuff destroys lives,” Archer said. “I’ve seen firsthand what addiction does.”
“I get it,” I said. “You want to make a difference. We all do. But the only reason the cartels are bringing this in by the boatload is because there is a demand for it. We artificially prop up prices with our failed drug policy, and violence results from the high-stakes.”
“So, your solution is to legalize it?” Archer asked, pointedly.
“I’m not a politician. I don’t provide solutions. I’m just saying, maybe we need to re-evaluate the way we do things?”
“Have you seen what this stuff does to kids? How would you feel if you had a daughter who was strung out on this stuff? Or did things to get her fix?”
“My daughter’s no saint, but she’s smart enough to stay away from that kind of trouble,” JD said.
“Some girls don’t have a choice. They meet a guy, they fall in love, the guy gets them hooked on smack, and the next thing you know, she’s turning tricks for him.”
JD grew uncomfortable. “Okay. Stop. I don’t need to hear anymore. I thought this was going to be a casual dinner.”
“Sounds like this is personal to you,” I said.
“It is,” Archer replied.
I didn’t press the issue, but I could see behind her eyes that somebody close to her had gone down the wrong path—and the scabs were still raw. “So what’s your point? We are obviously not going to fix the world’s problems over dinner.”
She took a deep breath, and I could see that she was deciding how much she should say. “You’re right. I can’t stop all of it. But I can at least make sure we’re not helping. Are you familiar with the Muerte Dolorosa cartel out of Columbia?”
I nodded.
“They are one of the largest traffickers of cocaine and heroin. Yet there hasn’t been a seizure of one of their shipments in the past year. Either they are really lucky, or they’re getting inside assistance.”
8
“You think law enforcement is involved?” I asked.
“Yep,” Archer said. Her eyes blazed into me. “Either someone at the local level, or within the Joint Interagency Task Force itself. Coast Guard? Customs and Border Patrol? I don’t know.”
“I bet that makes you pretty popular,” JD said.
“I’ve run into my fair share of opposition. But I can handle myself.”
“Well, if you think JD and I have anything to do with drug smuggling, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” I said.
“What about your boss?” Archer asked.
“You can’t be serious?” JD grumbled. “Wayne Daniels? Not possible.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to leave no stone unturned.”
“If you think we’re going to snitch for you, you are sadly mistaken,” JD said.
“I’m not looking for a snitch. I’m looking for anything that will lead me to the truth,” Agent Archer said. “And I don’t care where it leads.”
“I can see that,” JD said.
“I was hoping something might turn up with this Kingston case. He obviously had the connections, and no doubt leased boats to Muerte Dolorosa members. All I’m asking is that you keep me informed if you turn up anything that you think I might find of interest.”
JD and I exchanged a glance.
“I don’t see a problem with that,” I said.
Archer smiled. “Good. So we’re all on the same team.”
She looked at her watch. “I guess I’m off duty now.” She grabbed a beer from the bucket and twisted the top.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. Isabella.
Decline.
“Is that important?” Archer asked. “Do you need to take that?”
“No,” I lied.
Kim returned to take our order. JD ordered the soft-shell crab. I was craving a bowl of lobster bisque. Agent Archer opted for the fried shrimp.
The meal was excellent.
By the time we finished, JD's phone was blowing up. He exchanged half a dozen messages with somebody, then shoveled the last bits of his softshell crab in his mouth. "I hate to eat and run, but booty, I mean duty, calls."
I raised a curious eyebrow. "Belinda?"
"She wants to meet for cocktails." JD's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Are you sure you don't want to tag along? I can tell her to bring some hot friends."
"No, thanks. I'm fine."
"Don't let me keep you from anything," Archer said.
"You're not keeping me from anything,” I said.
JD put his napkin on the table and stood up. "This one's on you, right?"
"I've got it," I said.
"We talked about business, so we can expense it."
“I don’t think we can expense it if we're not getting paid.”
“Out of pocket expenses.” He said goodbye to Agent Archer and dashed out the door.
“He is quite the character," Archer said.
"That he is."
"Are you sure I'm not keeping you from anything?" It was almost like she was fishing.
“You like blues music?"
Archer shrugged. "I guess."
"There's a guy playing over at The Crazy Conch tonight. He's Stevie Ray reincarnated."
She looked at me, confused. "Who's Stevie Ray?"
I dropped my head in my hands and shook it with disbelief. "Only one of the greatest blues guitar players of all time."
"Aren't all blues songs sort of the same?”
"That's beside the point. I mean, you could say the same thing about all pop songs."
She conceded that fact. "Are you buying the drinks?"
>
"Sure."
"Count me in. We’ll call it research."
"You’re driving," I said.
She shook her head. "I don't drink and drive."
"You had two beers?”
"I'm not doing anything to jeopardize my position. I worked too hard to get here. That’s a 60 day suspension without pay.“
"So, you're a risk taker?" I said, dryly.
"Funny," she groaned.
We caught an Uber over to The Crazy Conch. It was like most of the bars in Coconut Key—thatched roofs, bamboo, and tiki torches. Jimmy Dale Watson could certainly shred on guitar. He had tone for days and had a gravelly voice that could sing just about anything with an extra heaping of heart and soul.
He was as good as any of the great guitar players in history. The sad thing was he had 4000 followers on Facebook, hustled CDs after the show, and barely made enough from the gig to get to the next town.
The Crazy Conch had a pretty laid-back vibe. There was usually a mix of tourists and regulars. Old timers that sat at the bar all day long and would look at you funny if you took a seat next to them. Without fail, every time I was here, there was a guy on roller skates dancing to the music. He twirled around for a few songs by himself, then skated out the door and onto another bar.
The sun was down, and I decided to switch to whiskey. We sat at a cocktail table and took in the sights and sounds.
"How long have you been in Coconut Key?" I asked.
"Six months," Archer said. “This is my first assignment out of the academy. I put it as number one on my wish list, and I got it.”
“Why this?”
She hesitated for a moment. “My sister started doing drugs at 16. Got hooked up with the wrong crowd. She was trafficked, strung out, and dead by 19.”
That hung in the air.
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyes grew slick. “Yeah, me too. But I swore I would do everything I could to keep that from happening to another girl.”
“An admirable goal.”
She quickly changed the subject. “So, the band is not bad. Not totally my thing, but I can dig it.”
“Not bad? Not bad? It’s Jimmy Dale Watson! Trust me, someday, you’ll be telling your grandkids that you saw him in some dive bar when he was nobody.”
She looked at me with a healthy dose of skepticism. “Doubtful.”
“What? Not planning on having grandkids?”
She laughed. “Slow down. I haven’t even gotten to the kids part.”
There was an awkward pause.
“You got any kids?” she asked. “Ex-wives?”
“Nope.”
“Want any?”
“Kids, or ex-wives?”
She chuckled. “Well, hopefully when you commit, it’s for life.”
I shivered. “That’s terrifying.”
“One of those, are you?”
“I have no problem with commitment. I just haven’t found a situation I want to commit to.” I smiled.
She scowled at me playfully.
“But I think someday I’d like to have kids. Settle down. Have a nice family. Have someone to take care of me when I get old and can’t remember my name.”
“So, you want kids for purely selfish reasons?”
“No. I didn’t say that… Besides, at the rate I’m going, I’m not going to live long enough to get old, anyway.”
“What makes you say that?”
I shrugged. “This is Coconut Key. I could wash up on the beach with two bullets in the back of my head. This place is turning out to be more dangerous than some combat zones I’ve been in.”
She let out a resigned sigh of agreement.
We ordered another round of drinks and talked some more. I stuck with whiskey, and she stuck with margaritas. I forgot to warn her that they were pretty lethal here. She stood up to go to the bathroom and fell back into her seat. “Whoops,” she slurred.
I rushed to help her as she tried to stand again. I took hold of her arm and steadied her.
“I think I might have exceeded my limit.”
“Don’t feel bad. They creep up on you here.”
“I can see that.” She took a minute to get her bearings. “Is the Earth moving, or is that just me?”
“That’s just you.”
“I’m going to attempt to navigate my way to the little girl’s room. Then I’m gonna go home. Thank you for the drinks.”
“Hang on, I’ll help you get there.”
“I can do it on my own.” She took a few steps, then stumbled.
I caught her before she fell. “I think you definitely need navigational assistance.”
I helped her to the ladies’ room, then asked a woman waiting in line to give her a hand.
Archer was in there for a long time, and I started to get worried about her. I was about to call in reinforcements, when she emerged, looking like she’d been through the ringer.
“You don’t drink much, do you?”
“Not this much,” she slurred. “I’m fine now. I worshiped at the altar, tithed, and everything is A-okay.”
She looked far from okay.
I took her arm and escorted her through the bar. We caught an Uber back to her house, and she passed out along the way.
I scooped her out of the car and carried her in my arms to her front door. I revived her long enough for her to fumble for her keys.
15 minutes later we actually entered the foyer.
She kicked off her heels and staggered to her bedroom, peeling off the layers of her pantsuit. Her navy jacket hit the floor, then her pants, then her blouse. I tried not to look.
She face-planted on her bed and was out cold.
I tucked a pillow under her head and covered her up. I grabbed another pillow and moved to the couch in the living room and set the alarm on my watch to check on her. I didn’t want her choking on her own vomit in the middle of the night.
She had a nice little place with an ocean view. The home was cozy and tidy. This was a girl who had everything squared away. The fridge and the pantry were nice and organized. I wasn’t snooping, but I needed some midnight rations—especially since I was on fire-watch.
I snacked on a protein bar and milk, then curled up on the couch. It was the first time I slept on dry land in a long while. It took a little getting used to, without the gentle rocking of the boat.
Soon after I nodded off, my phone buzzed again. At first I thought it was my alarm, but it was Isabella calling.
I reluctantly swiped the screen to answer.
9
"You've been avoiding me," Isabella said.
"I've been busy,” I replied.
“This is urgent.”
"What is it?"
"We have a situation. And you are in the middle of it.”
“What’s going on?”
“Your little FBI friend is causing problems for our client.”
My eyes perked up. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you think I don’t have eyes on you?”
I sighed. Isabella had operatives and watchers all over the globe.
“Muerte Dolorosa is off-limits. they have an agreement with our client. They get to operate hassle free in exchange for their cooperation with Operation Red Storm.”
“Operation Red Storm?”
“If you haven’t noticed, there is about to be a power vacuum in Venezuela—if all goes well. It is in our best interest to have the right leadership installed. The cartel is supplying rebels with weapons and funding, and the CIA is actively involved in PSYOPS. I don’t need to tell you that we can’t have the FBI looking at Muerte Dolorosa stateside and gathering evidence that could connect the CIA.”
“So, that’s how the cartel is moving shipments in and out and avoiding law enforcement?”
"I need you to deal with the situation,” Isabella said, dryly.
"What exactly do you mean by deal with the situation?" I knew what she meant.
"Do I need to spell it out for
you?"
"That's a big ask." I got off the couch and quietly slipped through the sliding glass doors, onto the patio, and closed them behind me.
"It could be a big problem if this gets exposed,” Isabella said.
I whispered, "So you want me to obstruct justice and interfere with federal investigation?”
"No. I want you to get rid of the problem."
“No.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“I said no.”
“You can’t say no.”
“I just did.”
“You owe me,” Isabella said in a stern tone.
That hung there for a moment.
As cold and as calculated as this woman was, Isabella had saved my ass and provided valuable intel when JD’s daughter had been kidnapped. I was trying to put my days with Cobra Company behind me, but I had given her my word I would return the favor.
Cobra Company provided plausible deniability to their clients. It was made up of former spooks and spec-war operators. They’d grown into a force to be reckoned with—a shadow intelligence agency with elite warriors that could be deployed at a moments notice without congressional approval or oversight.
“If you won’t do the job, I will send someone who will. This is non-negotiable, and our client won’t take no for an answer.”
I paused for a long moment. “If you send someone else to do the job, I guarantee you, they will end up in a body bag.”
“Now that’s the Tyson that I know and love.”
“I will steer her in another direction.”
“That’s not what I asked you to do.”
“Assure the client she won’t be a problem.”
“You know as well as I do they like to deal with absolutes.”
“I’ll take care of it. But nothing happens to her. Got it?”
“Dinner and a few drinks, and you’re already whooped? Should I be worried about you?”
“Trust me. I’m saving you, and our client, from a bigger headache. If she magically disappears, there will be another agent to take her place. And more questions will be asked.”
“Have you ever considered psychological counseling? Might help work through some of these issues you have?"
“I have issues?”
