by Tripp Ellis
“I’ve got angles everywhere.” JD grinned.
“What exactly do you plan on doing with these?”
“One can never have enough explosive devices. Besides, they might come in handy during the zombie apocalypse.”
I rolled my eyes and put the case in a stowage compartment.
We raced up to Miami at a speed that would make a Formula One driver nervous. Wind raced through my hair, and the howl of the flat six roared. JD pumped the music, and it almost felt like a road trip. But this destination wouldn't be pleasant.
We were about halfway to Miami when red and blue lights flickered behind us.
JD pulled to the shoulder and made sure to display his badge when he handed the officer his driver's license and insurance.
"Is there an emergency or other reason for your excessive speed?" the highway patrolman said behind mirrored shades.
"My daughter is in the hospital in Miami. I'm trying to get there as quick as possible. We're not sure if she's going to make it."
The officer frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that. Be careful. I’ll radio ahead that you're coming through so you won't experience any more delays."
"Thank you, sir,” JD said.
"I'll keep your daughter in my thoughts and prayers."
JD could barely keep a straight face. He looked to me and grinned and winked as the officer started back to his patrol car.
Jack dropped it into gear, let out the clutch, and we were off to the races again.
"You've got nine lives, JD," I said.
Scarlett had been arraigned that morning and charged with possession of a controlled substance under Florida statute, 893.13 (6) (a). If convicted, she could face up to five years and a maximum fine of $5000.
JD had coordinated with a bondsman and an attorney. We just had to wait for Scarlett to get released.
The inmate release area was dingy and grimy and looked like it hadn't been cleaned since 1962. It took on all the wondrous orders of the people who came in and out—a mix of body odor, alcohol, smoke, and vomit.
When we arrived, the computers were down. So, we had to wait an additional two hours for her to get processed out.
When Scarlett was finally released, she looked like she’d been through the ringer. Her hair was frazzled, and her mascara had stained her cheeks from crying.
She was wearing a skimpy black dress from the night before, and who knows what happened to her shoes? The soles of her bare feet were black like coal, and she held an envelope in her hand that contained personal belongings—her watch, jewelry, credit cards, and money.
She ran into JD's arms and gave him a hug. "I'm so sorry, Dad."
She looked up at him with red puffy eyes. I’m sure her sad and pathetic and adorable face melted his heart, but he tried to be stern.
"You're not going to weasel your way out of this one with a sad face. You're in a lot of trouble, young lady!”
"It's not my fault."
"Save the bullshit for someone else."
We left the station, and Scarlett climbed into the backseat of JD's 911. If you've ever been in a 911, you know there isn't much of a backseat.
"Can we get something to eat?" Scarlett asked. "The food in there sucks."
"I should let you starve," JD grumbled.
He cranked up the engine, and we peeled out of the parking lot.
"Where do you want to eat?" JD asked.
"Anywhere," Scarlett said.
We stopped at Chucky Burger and had cheeseburgers. We were all pretty famished. We sat in a booth and devoured our meal, and no one said much of anything until near the end.
"Tomorrow you're going to rehab,” JD said.
Scarlett's face went pale, and her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "What?"
"It's all set up. It's a 28 day program."
"No. I don't need to go to rehab. I'm not a drug addict."
"Let's see… You overdosed, and you got arrested, all in the span of one week. I’d say you’ve got a problem."
She glared at him, her face turning red. "I do not have a problem!”
"I beg to differ. You've got quite a few. It's real simple. You go to rehab, follow the program, or I stop paying for your attorney, and you can take your chances with the public defender."
She huffed.
"Take your pick. 28 days, or five years?"
"This is SO not fair."
"You're right,” JD said. “It's totally not fair. I shouldn't have to drive up here and pull you out of jail. You're smart enough to know better."
Scarlett shifted her gaze to me. Her eyes were like lasers. "I can't believe you told him."
"It was part of the deal," I said.
"You are so not my favorite person anymore."
JD looked at me. "This is gratitude. Now I'm convinced we should have left her in there."
"I've been through a traumatic experience. You don't need to be an asshole, Jack."
It was the wrong thing to say to JD. "I'm the asshole? You’d better be careful. You are way, way, out of line."
She gritted her teeth and glared at him as she slid out of the booth and stormed out of the restaurant.
"Ungrateful little…” He stopped short of calling her a bitch.
"Maybe go a little easier on her. She did spend the night in jail."
"Oh, hell no! Her little manipulative act might work on you, but I'm all stocked up here.”
JD took his time finishing his meal. He paid the tab, and when we strolled to the parking lot, Scarlett was leaning against the car with her arms folded.
Her eyes threw daggers at JD, and the two didn't speak the entire way home. It was about 10:30 PM by the time we got back to Diver Down.
I climbed out of the car.
Before Jack sped off, he said, “Remind me to have Ashley send you that encrypted file. Maybe you can look it over tonight?”
"Sure thing."
"Thanks for coming to get me, Tyson," Scarlett said as she slipped out of the back and into the front passenger seat.
"What about me?" JD said. "Don't I get a little bit of thanks?”
She turned away, still not talking to him.
23
"Wow!" Dean Melville said.
He stood on the dock, staring at the Slick’n Salty, his jaw slack, and his eyes wide. "You said a few bullet holes."
I shrugged. "Yeah, a few."
"That's considerably more than a few."
"Can you fix it?"
Dean had dark curly hair, brown eyes, a round belly, and a day’s worth of stubble on his face. He was mid 30s, and THE guy to go to for boat repair on the island. "I'm surprised this thing is still floating."
"I don't think there's much damage under the water line."
Dean rubbed his chin. ”I can fix it. But it ain't going to be cheap."
"Take a look and give me an estimate.”
Dean climbed the transom and surveyed the cockpit, taking note of the number of bullet holes and the damage. He scribbled on to his small spiral pad.
It was 10 AM, and the morning sun cascaded over the Marina. Gulls squawked overhead.
Dean groaned as he entered the salon. The wood paneling was pocked and splintered. "Remind me to never let you borrow one of my boats. Who the hell did you piss off?"
"An ex-girlfriend. She didn't like how things ended."
He let out a nervous chuckle, not sure if I was joking.
Dean finished surveying the boat and said he'd get back to JD with an estimate. In the meantime, he recommended diving around the hull and inspecting for damage.
Shortly after he left, Ashley called. She sent me a download link for the data files she had decrypted. I was able to open them on my phone and peruse the spreadsheets. There was a lot of data about Scott Kingston's business.
One of the files contained a list of HINs (hull identification numbers). Much like the VIN number on a car, these identification numbers were used to track the history of the boat.
This particula
r document contained the original HIN number alongside a new number. Kingston had clearly been taking stolen boats and retitling them. The list contained thousands of boats, along with a record of whom the stolen boats were sold to. There was also a column of initials next to each HIN. I assumed this might be the initials of the criminal the boat was acquired from?
I was quite sure the purchasers had no idea they were buying stolen property.
It sent my mind swirling with ideas. I jogged down the dock to Diver Down and looked for Madison. I found her behind the bar. "Hey, do you still have Dad’s files?"
"What do you need?"
"The title on the boat. Anything that might have the HIN number like insurance documents, registration, etc."
Her face twisted, not sure where I was going with this. "I'm pretty sure I kept all that stuff. Why?"
"I just want to check on something."
"Watch the bar. I'll go look in my files."
I slipped around the counter and played bartender for 15 minutes.
Madison returned with the title. "Have you found something?"
I don't know." I looked at the HIN number, then searched the list. For a match.
I found one.
The boat had been sold to Rory Tilman a month after my parents’ disappearance.
It was purchased from someone with the initials XC.
My body tensed, and anger boiled within me. I was now on a mission to find XC. If this person didn't kill my parents, they might be able to tell me who did.
Madison cried when I told her the connection. Her tears were a mix of sadness, anger, and hope. She wrapped her arms around me and gave me a hug.
It was unexpected.
She sobbed on my shoulder for a moment, and I put a comforting arm around her.
"I'll find out who did this." I assured her.
I went back to the boat and continued studying the files. I noticed some anomalies in the accounting reports. I studied the transaction receipts, invoices, assets, liabilities, cost of goods sold, and inventory reports.
Scott Kingston was up to something that just may have gotten him killed.
24
It was a complicated scheme of false sales receipts, over-inflated loan payments, transaction reports for merchandise that never existed, and payables to an offshore supplier. Kingston had failed to file cash transaction reports for amounts over $10,000, and if he would have been caught, he would probably have spent the rest of his life behind bars.
Becoming a Confidential Informant for the FBI had taken the heat off him. But my guess is that made some of his business partners extremely nervous. To top it off, it looked like he was skimming some of the profits.
I called JD. "I think I found something. There's a shell company in the Cayman Islands that Kingston was making large payments to. Votraxx Industries. If we can find out who is behind that company, we might be one step closer.”
"I'll see what I can find out. I'm a little busy at the moment.” His voice was thick with concern.
“What’s going on?”
“I was going to take Scarlett into rehab today. But she’s not here. She took off in the middle of the night. I’ve been trying to track her down.”
“Have you checked with her friends? That former boyfriend of hers?”
“Yeah. They don’t know where she is. Or they aren’t saying. I haven’t been able to get hold of Chloe. I spoke with her parents, and they don’t know anything. They blame Scarlett. Say she’s a bad influence.”
“We’ll find her,” I assured.
“I’m worried about her. God knows where she is, or what she’s doing.”
“We should let Sheriff Daniels know. Put out an APB.”
“Running away and not going to rehab is not illegal, Tyson. I can’t legally make her do anything. She’s an adult. She’s fully capable of making her own decisions. Even if they are bad ones.”
“If I can find her, maybe I can talk some sense into her.”
“Good luck.” He paused. “She does seem to respect you more than she respects me. Who knows. Maybe she might listen?”
“She’s going to be okay. She’s just going through a phase.”
“Her whole life has been a phase.” He changed the subject. “Oh, hey. Dean called with an estimate. I think I'm going to sell the boat as is."
That hung in the air like smoke.
”Really?"
"He does good work, but he's slow as hell. The Slick’n Salty could be out of commission for a month or more. And he needs to custom order those panel replacements. That's 6 to 8 weeks at least. That's a lot of downtime. No charters. Which means no revenue. Scarlett’s legal fees aren’t going to be cheap either. With the attorney I’ve hired to defend this case, I’m looking at $50K.”
"I guess I should start looking for another residence."
“You can always crash on the couch here. And if that little miscreant goes to jail, I’ll have an available room.” It was a desperate attempt to lighten the situation.
I had grown to like living on the boat, and I wasn't thrilled about the prospect of losing my residence. But I didn’t really have any say in the matter.
“Chloe works at Breakwater,” I said. “I’ll stop by and see if I can learn anything.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“I’ll keep in touch.” I hung up the phone.
I went to Breakwater and talked to the manager. He said that Chloe’s shift was supposed to start at 4 PM, but she missed the last two days because she was sick.
I gave it 50-50 odds of her showing up. I went back to the boat and planned to come back to Breakwater later.
Agent Archer was walking down the dock away from the Slick’n Salty when I arrived. I was surprised to see her. "What are you doing here?"
"I just wanted to stop by and say thank you for giving me a heads up the other night. I felt like I came across a little bit… rude.”
"Maybe a little."
She glared at me playfully.
"I take it no trouble?"
She shrugged. "I thought I picked up a tail the other day. But, I can't be sure. I'm definitely looking over my shoulder."
"I know the feeling."
"Have you found out anything new?" she asked.
“Votraxx Industries," I said.
Her face twisted.
"See if you can find out who owns that company."
I filled her in on the details.
"I think Kingston was laundering money for some heavy hitters. I also think he was taking a little more of the profits than he should have been."
"And you think that's why he was killed?"
"Could be. Or it could be they thought he was going to snitch."
"Look, we got Kingston on a possession charge. We leaned on him pretty hard, and he offered to cooperate by giving us a heads up on anyone he thought was moving a large amount of product in the area. In exchange we made the Federal charges go away."
"And that created an opportunity for him to go into business with someone else and put his competition out of business.."
"It happens,” Archer conceded.
"As long as you make your quota, right?"
Her eyes narrowed at me. "I don't care about quotas. You know why I am doing this."
"Sorry,” I said.
There was an awkward pause.
"You got time for lunch?"
She thought about it for a moment. She didn't want to seem too eager. "If you're buying?”
We got a table on the patio at Diver Down. There was a cool breeze, and the midday sun glimmered across the water. The boats in the marina gently rocked, and seagulls drifted on the wind.
Kim took our order. I ordered the calamari and the crawfish étouffée, and Archer started with a Mediterranean salad and grilled shrimp.
"You know I'm still doing paperwork and answering follow-up questions from the incident,” she said.
"I'm not surprised."
"I'm sorry about your boat."
<
br /> "JD's boat. And it looks like he decided to sell it."
She made a sad face. "Oh, no. What are you going to do?"
I shrugged. "I guess I'll have to get a real apartment." I thought about it for a moment. "Who knows,? Maybe I'll buy a boat of my own?"
“And how are you going to afford that? It's not like volunteer deputies are flush with cash." She thought about it for moment. "Speaking of which, how does JD afford that boat?"
“He did okay as a private contractor. He invested well and got lucky with a few tech and biomedical stocks. He keeps his cards close to his chest. He always acts like he’s broke, but I think he's got more than he lets on. I don’t know too many broke guys who drive Porsches.“
"What about you?"
"Getting nosy, aren’t you?" I said, playfully.
"Well, I've looked into your background as much as I can. And I still don't have a lot of answers. You must have been somebody special within the Company."
"Are you calling me a has-been?"
She smiled.
"I prefer the term, retired."
Kim returned with our appetizers. She set them on the table, and the smell of the fried calamari hit my nostrils. I suddenly realized I was hungrier than I had anticipated.
"Can I get you anything else?" Kim asked.
"No, thanks,” I said.
"You're entrées will be out shortly." She spun around and sauntered away.
I attacked the calamari, and Archer dug into her salad.
"So, tell me about your girlfriend?" she said casually, letting it drip from her lips as if it were no big deal.
I sighed. "I told you, I don't have a girlfriend."
"I don't know. Do non-girlfriends always fly in from out of town and surprise you in the middle of the night?"
"I thought it was none of your business?"
"It's not. I was just wondering,” she said, trying to act disinterested. “You know, I would hate for that situation to happen again."
I lifted a curious eyebrow. “Again?”
She shrugged. Well, I mean. Let's be honest. The sex wasn't… horrible."
“Not horrible?"
"I mean, it may have been a little better than I let on."
"A little?"
"Okay. Maybe a little is not a good word in this context?”
