“Not without a lawyer, it isn’t.” Being an easy question, didn’t mean I needed to answer it for him.
“He’s been missing for nine days,” Letson continued.
I took a sip of my tea. The ice rattled as I swirled the glass and set it back on the napkin.
“According to his friends, he was Lily Porter’s boyfriend.”
I knew what was coming next. Jay might have passed along a call to check the Porters’ house.
“I don’t know him,” I informed Letson.
“I doubt you do,” Letson sneered. “He was found dead in Lily Porter’s house.”
“That’s horrible,” I remarked plainly.
“Looks like he was killed a week ago,” he watched me closely. “Tortured.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I turned to face him. “I have been in the Bahamas until two days ago.”
Letson grinned. His teeth were yellowed and slightly crooked. There was a lot about him to not like. He looked pasty. In Florida, pasty was suspicious. Usually, everyone down here is darker or redder. Pale white skin means they aren’t native, they aren’t active, and likely they are not to be trusted. It’s a stupid ruler with no logical or proven measurements. Nonetheless, it gets into my craw and twists.
Plus, he had shifty eyes. Every time his mouth opens, his pupils began darting about.
Basically, it came down to the fact that I didn’t like him. I could make up reasons all day long, but my instincts warned me to be wary of him.
“I know,” he claimed, “I saw the report from the Royal Bahamas Defense Force.”
I shrugged.
“The report mentioned your daughter was on board.”
I twisted my face a bit. “That’s odd. I don’t have a daughter.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Letson leaned against the back of the stool and stared at me. He was biting his bottom lip, a habit that caused the right corner of his lip to swell slightly.
“If you force me, I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice,” he insisted.
“Obstruction of what exactly?” I snapped, “You were looking for Travis Porter yesterday. I have never met him and don’t know where he is.”
“What about his daughter?”
Hunter appeared in front of us holding my seared tuna sandwich. He paused with the plate a few inches above the bar and stared at us. His gaze was questioning what was going on between myself and Letson.
“Thanks, Hunter,” I acknowledged, as well as assuring him everything was fine.
“Can I get you anything?” he directed his question to Letson.
“Just leave us alone,” he blurted harshly.
“Don’t be an ass,” I ordered. “If you plan on charging me, do it now. Otherwise, get the hell out and let me eat in peace.”
“Next time we talk,” Letson threatened, “you’ll end up behind bars.”
He jammed his finger into the bun of my sandwich, penetrating through the bread and fish. Rage boiled through me as I shoved the stool back and rose to my feet. Letson followed suit. He was pushing me to do something rash. The man was a good six inches shorter than me, and he was egging me into an assault charge.
The corners of my mouth lifted slightly as I locked eyes with him. He was making a miscalculation. Letson knew I was accustomed to violence. The last few days had proven that to him. His mistake was assuming that my being accustomed to violence was the same thing as resorting to violence. He thought he could push a button and get a reaction.
“Hunter,” I said aloud, “did you see what he just did to my meal?”
Hunter walked three steps back to us and looked between my sandwich and Letson.
“That’s an asshole move,” he commented with disgust.
“Hunter, meet Agent Letson of the F.B.I.,” I informed him. “He can show you his badge to confirm it.”
“What’s going on?” Hunter asked cautiously.
“Agent Letson is harassing me. In case his superiors need a witness, I want you to remember this.”
A snarl crossed Letson’s face before he turned and stormed out of the Manta Club.
“What the hell, Chase?”
“Thanks, Hunter. He was baiting me. I hope that was a complete backfire for him.”
“Are you going to call his superiors?”
“Doubt it,” I responded. There wasn’t any need. The Feds wouldn’t do anything; they wanted the big fish. I just wanted Letson off his center.
“Want a new sandwich?” he asked.
“Please.” I pushed the mashed-up meal away.
“By the way, there’s a message for you.” Hunter took my plate and handed me a yellow note from his sticky pad.
The message was from Rob. It read, “Oceanfast 48. Christened Bella Nota. Entered the US two days ago in Fort Lauderdale. Bahia Mar.”
I would call him back later. This was a good start for me. Folding the message twice, I stuck the name of the boat in my pocket. I knew where Bahia Mar was. An exorbitant marina in Fort Lauderdale.
“Hunter, can I borrow the phone?”
He tossed the cordless phone to me as he passed by. I dialed room 1335.
“Hello,” Lily’s voice came through the phone.
“Lily, it’s Chase.”
“Where have you been?” she asked.
“Looking for your dad.”
“Have you found him?” she pleaded.
“Not yet,” I admitted, “but I think the people that took him have found me. They are looking for you.”
She didn’t respond, but her breathing seemed to increase.
“I don’t want you to leave the room. My friend Missy will get you some food, and she’s the only one you talk to. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” she answered.
“The F.B.I. is looking for your father, too. At this point, I wouldn’t know who to trust.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to keep looking for the guy that has your dad. But listen to me, these people are killers. You need to know that.”
“Do you think Dad is dead?”
“I don’t think they would still be looking for you if he was, but I don’t actually know.”
Telling a kid that her father might be dead was difficult. I could have lied and said everything was going to be alright. After seeing J.J.’s mutilated body, those words wouldn’t even sound real.
My first firefight in the Marines found our unit pinned down in a shop in Kabul. There was an ambush, and our unit was outnumbered. The situation grew dire as hours of fighting found us still pinned in the shop. Twenty-six hours passed, and the only thought that went through my head was that it was all going to end that day. My CO saw that fear in my eyes; she ordered me to survive. The threat was real. My life was in peril but fretting about it wasn’t going to change that. I had to survive.
I don’t think she actually used the word “fret.”
Right now, Lily needed to know the threat was real. Things might not turn out the way she wanted.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“Stay put,” I ordered. “I’m betting that the guys that have your dad are watching me. The F.B.I. too. I can’t come up to you. The only people you can trust are my friend, Missy, who owns the hotel, or Detective Jay Delp at the Sheriff’s Department. If they come to you, do exactly what they say. I’m going to try to keep you safe.”
“Okay,” she agreed.
As I hung up, I saw my second sandwich come through the door in Hunter’s hand.
19
The marina at Bahia Mar was expansive, for lack of a better word. It seemed almost excessive when compared to The Tilly Marina. Situated just off the Intracoastal Waterway, Bahia Mar berthed some extravagant yachts. I consider Carina a modest vessel in pristine condition, and she would have been the ugly duckling amongst some of the ones I was seeing.
Standing on the top of the hill overlooking the marina, I estimated there were billions of dollars invested in luxurio
us weekend hobbies. That kind of economy begets a certain level of security that is difficult to circumvent. Access to the marina was restricted to owners and regulated with a key card at each walkway. Cameras were mounted at the end of each walkway. From my vantage point, six security guards were visible, shuffling along various docks.
The yacht club and resort were a little more accessible but only to potential members. I was rebuffed at the second door entering the yacht club by a crisp man who insisted on my credentials.
Standing on top of the hill, I had no problem spotting the Oceanfast Yacht. The massive yacht loomed over the rest of the boats like a six-carat diamond surrounded by hundreds of one-carat companions. She floated at the far end of the marina on a long stretch of dock. The only stretch of dock long enough to accommodate her.
The walkway that extended over the oily water was locked like the rest with a bold “F” over the automatic metal door. The security of the boat owners and guests appeared paramount to Bahia Mar. Given the cost of a slip here, I suppose it was expected. I’d almost expect breakfast service and a happy ending for what berthing Carina in a slip here would cost.
Three women in their 60s walked past me. They came from the club and appeared to have lunched there. All three had been perfectly groomed and attired for an elegant luncheon. Not exactly the same thing I wore around the marina. These were a different class of people.
There were a lot of guys traipsing around in shorts, but these weren’t the thrift store finds that I wore. These were the high-end brands with price tags that resembled some of the electronics I installed on my boat. The shirts were mostly polo-style with a variety of yacht club logos or ponies embroidered on their chest.
I leaned against the hood of my rental car and took in the yacht club scene. Maybe I needed a pair of khakis and one of those fancy shirts. I might be able to blend in a bit more.
Doubtful, though. My kind doesn’t exist in a place like this. At least, I thought that for another half a minute.
A rumbling rattle echoed through the parking lot. My head, along with every other head within earshot, pivoted toward the noise; a blue beat-up truck rolled into the lot. Calling it a truck was being somewhat liberal. It was more an atrocity. It looked like it could have been an old limo in the 40s, but some fool decided to add a pick-up bed to it.
The engine sputtered and missed. Mechanics isn’t my area of expertise. I can fumble around an engine and occasionally fix something before I make it much, much worse. That lack of knowledge doesn’t stop me from making quick and often wrong diagnoses. My snap diagnosis was that the timing was off.
The powder-blue hulk slid to a stop three spaces away. The engine stalled before the driver could cut off the ignition.
The door creaked as the hinges swung open. A tall, elderly man pulled himself out of the cab. He was in his late 80s, and his hair was gray with hints of the sandy blond that it once had been. He moved without a groan or hesitation that someone over 90 often has. Some would have described him as spry, but that wasn’t fair. He was once a fighter, maybe a soldier.
He glanced my way and studied me in the short glimpse. I could feel him assessing me the way a boxer evaluates his opponent before a match.
I nodded toward him, an international gesture that attempted to allay most fears. He offered a curt nod with his chin as he pulled a folding cart from the bed of his truck.
Curiosity nudged at the edge of my thoughts. I pushed off the car and walked toward the man.
“Can I offer you a hand?” I asked.
The old man gave me a closer inspection as I approached.
“You waiting on someone?” he asked cautiously.
“Not really,” I admitted. “Just admiring the boats from afar.”
He let out a harrumph and a quick, jerky inclination of his chin.
“Sailor?” he asked, glancing at the visible part of my tattoo. The majority was obscured by my sleeve.
“Yes and no. I was a Marine, but I do live on a sailboat.”
“Why aren’t you admiring that one, instead of gawking at other people’s?” he asked suspiciously.
“I admire all boats,” I said as I took a paper bag filled with groceries from the bed of his “truck.” “Boat people always admire other boats.”
“Guess you’re in the right place,” he conceded as he pointed toward the back of the cart. “Drop that one there. It has all the cans in it.”
“You live here?”
“Yeah, been here damned near 60 years. In those days, it was all trees, not this damned white concrete they keep slapping up. As soon as the white begins to look dirty, some developer tears it down and starts over. I suspect the wealthiest folks out here are the concrete companies.”
“Floridians sure like their apartments.”
“Not the real Floridians. This here is paradise. Or so they say. Every oaf in the Midwest works 40 hours a week for 50 years, so they can move down here and die. These aren’t condominiums; they are morgues.”
“You gotta die somewhere,” I commented. “Might as well be somewhere sunny.”
“Eh,” he muttered. “Most of them died years ago. Their employers just made sure they continued to clock in for every shift.”
The old man garnered my appreciation. He confirmed my own thoughts. A belief system that has come to fruition over my lifetime. I knew when I was 16 that I wasn’t going to be a nine-to-fiver. Joining the Marines was supposed to be the undertaking of a lifetime. I suppose it was, but I just wasn’t ready for the amount of death and loss that sort of adventure entailed. Now, I’ll stick to spearing my dinner and soaking up the rays for my thrills.
“They can’t get you back to land, huh?” I lifted the last bag out of the bed and placed it in the cart.
“My daughter would like it, but she knows I’ll die out here.”
He pulled the cart toward the docks. I followed along. Something about this man drew me in. It was like a glimpse into the future.
“Marine, huh?” It was a question and a statement at the same time. “What did you do?”
“Recon.”
The old man paused and stared at me for a second as I confirmed his first assessment of me. Without a word, he started walking again.
“You like it?” he asked as he keyed a code into the gate leading toward the F dock.
“That’s too vague a question,” I pointed out. “Did I love the service? Yes. Did I enjoy it? What type of person does? I wouldn’t change it for anything, but there are a lot of regrets. I doubt I’d re-enlist, but I miss it too.”
“Smart answer. I had a friend once that often said that such life experiences weren’t quantifiable. We can hate one aspect and love another. If something was either all good or all bad in our perspective, we didn’t do it right. Too many variables, he would say.”
“Guess he’s right.”
The old man looked off over the rows of boats quietly. “He usually was,” he mumbled under his breath.
He shook the melancholy moment away and looked at me. “Why don’t you tell me what you are doing here?”
I liked his straightforwardness. “I’m interested in that boat there.” My right hand came up, pointing my index finger at the Oceanfast yacht.
The old man said, “You have some exorbitant tastes, Marine.”
“I’m pretty happy with my girl, but whoever owns that one is causing some problems for a friend of mine.”
He smiled. “I imagine your friend isn’t the only one. That one belongs to Joe Loggins.”
“Never heard of him.”
The old man shrugged. “I just hear things around the dock. He has plenty of muscle traveling with him. You don’t get to that kind of status if you aren’t causing someone some problems.”
“By muscle, do you mean security?”
“I’m guessing a little of both. There are uniformed guards on deck and patrolling the dock around it. But there were some other men that had the same look you do. Former military, I would guess. T
hose kind tend to be costly.”
“You know a bit about this kind of thing.”
His pale eyes glanced at me knowingly.
“Guess that means I can’t take a look aboard,” I remarked.
The old man laughed. “Not without a full-on assault.”
He stopped in front of a barge-type houseboat. The boat was old, but meticulously maintained.
“This yours?”
He nodded. “Yes. She’s home.”
The houseboat was over 50 feet long with plenty of deck space. She was perfect for island-hopping through the Keys, and if the weather window was perfect, she could make the jump across the Stream to Bimini. Despite that, she looked like the runt of the litter. Parked between a Carver and a larger Hatteras, she looked like she belonged in a different neighborhood.
“Do you mind if I ask how you can afford to stay here?”
He grinned, showing straight white teeth, “You’re wondering if it’s rent-controlled?”
“A little.”
“No,” he explained, “back in the 80s I helped the owner out of a big bind. In return, I got a slip in perpetuity. The new owners got me as part of the deal. I have a contract that is pretty iron-clad. I know; they’ve tried a few times to oust me. I’d have likely moved someplace more secluded at the turn of the century if not for that.”
“That must have been some bind.”
He shrugged, “It was just a favor. I’ve long ago decided that I wanted to enjoy my youth. I’ve been retired in spurts since the late 60s. Whatever work I do is just to keep me free. I’m just an old beach bum. Always have been, so everything I ever did was to stay bronze and sandy.”
“Can I help you carry your groceries aboard?” I offered.
“No, Marine, I can handle it.” He was brushing me off. “My grandkids are coming over soon for a few days on the water.”
He was politely telling me to move along.
“Thanks for your time,” I smiled. “Fair winds.”
He gave me a nod. Studying my eyes for several seconds, he seemed to recognize something.
“Watch out for some of those windmills,” he suggested. “Occasionally, they tilt back.”
Dark Cay Page 11
