“She works at the yacht club, you say?”
Ron nodded. “She’s always there.”
“Okay. Who else?”
“Well, you talk about experience, there’s Drew. Drew Keck. He’s the guy with the big mustache. He’s also a professional sailor, like Amy. He’s the one Will deferred to most times when it came to sailing. He was the navigator and tactician on the boat.”
“Tactician?” I asked.
“He basically looked at the weather and the wind and decided which way we should go.”
“Was he any good?”
“We won our class, so, yeah, he did all right.”
“How does he know Will?” asked Lenny. “Through the club?”
“Yeah, but he’s also a boat builder. Or you might say a boat repairer. I think he did the maintenance on Will’s boat, and I heard something about them working on a project together. Maybe a restoration thing? Not sure.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s okay. A bit gruff at times, and he doesn’t suffer fools, but I know a few people like that.” Ron shot Lenny a look which Lenny chose to ignore.
“Okay, good. Who else?”
“There was Alec Meechan.”
“He was the one who was supposed to be on deck with Will but wasn’t? ”
“I believe so. Originally it was Will, Felicity and Drew who were on first watch that night, but I heard that Alec offered to swap with Drew.”
“Why would he do that?”
“It was a nice thing to do. Drew had been on watch all day as we crossed the Great Bahama Bank, making sure we didn’t run into anything. Staring at water like that for hours on end, it’s hard on the eyes. When I think about it, Alec should probably have taken first watch to begin with.”
“Who decided who was on watch and when?” I asked.
“There was no fixed plan. We just agreed a schedule on the fly. I guess the only real rule was that Amy and Drew didn’t watch together.”
“Why?”
“They were the best sailors, the most experienced in open water. It made sense to have at least one of them on deck at all times. Other than that, we just divided up the hours, three on, three off.”
“So who made the decision that night?”
Ron shook his head. “I don’t recall there being a meeting or anything. I think Will must have just made the call. We were all pretty tired at that point, so I for one didn’t want first watch.”
“So, what about Alec then?” asked Lenny.
“He’s a young guy—you know how they are,” said Ron. Alec had to be around thirty, give or take, a similar age to me, but Ron either didn’t make the connection or didn’t consider me the same sort of young.
“What’s he like?”
“He's harder work than I generally prefer to put in.”
I frowned and Ron elaborated .
“Everything’s a competition with him. He never gives a straight answer. It’s always a throwaway line, or he’s trying to one-up everything anyone else says. I don’t think it’s malicious—he’s just one of those ones that never listens to what other people are saying because he’s too busy coming up with his own next comment.”
“He sail?” I asked.
“Yes. Not much open water stuff, I don’t think, but on the Intracoastal, sure. He actually skippers sometimes.”
“You’ve sailed with him?”
Ron nodded. “Yes, but only as crew, not with him as skipper. Like I say, he’s young.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning young guys often sail like they drive. A little too close to the wind.”
“What does he do with his days?” asked Lenny.
“He sells sports cars. I think Will used to buy his cars from Alec. Will went through sports cars like most folks go through Kleenex.”
“Where’s the dealership? On the island?”
“No, on the mainland. Palm Beach Gardens or thereabouts.”
“All right,” said Lenny. “Is that everyone?”
“No,” said Ron. “There’s Michael. Baggio I think is his last name.”
“You don’t know him?” I asked.
“No, not well. He’s a nice guy. Didn’t know much about sailing, but was ready and willing to chip in, happy to listen and do what he was told. He was pretty nervous about being on the open water, out of sight of land, but he got through all right.”
“How did he know Will? ”
“I don’t really know. I never recalled him being at the yacht club. And I’ve certainly never sailed with him before.”
“Why would Will have someone who didn’t sail on his crew in an open water race?”
“Not sure. Maybe they did business together. I couldn’t say.”
“You didn’t talk to him on the boat?” I asked.
“A little. I think he said he was from Michigan, or was it Illinois? Came to Florida for his partner’s work.”
“What does he do for a living?” asked Lenny.
“I want to say he said he was an architect. It was something like that. Some kind of professional job.”
“Got it,” said Lenny. “So, how did you all end up on this crew? It’s a mixed bunch. Not exactly an America’s Cup crew.”
“No, but the Nassau race is like that. Most of the boats are cruisers rather than straight-up racing yachts. They're designed for comfort as much as speed. These are owners who take their sailing seriously, but it’s also social. Crews are stitched together around the club. Most guys will get at least a couple of really experienced hands, and then fill in people they know from the club.”
“Okay. That gives us something to work with,” said Lenny. “We’ll have a chat with them and get everything squared away.”
“I don’t want to cause any trouble for any of them,” said Ron.
“Understood.”
We asked if Ron needed anything and he said no, and we tried chitchat for a while but, unlike the constant banter of our office, it felt forced and stilted, and I think Ron picked up on it because he suggested he didn’t want to keep us, and we said we had plenty to do and we’d be in touch.
Before he turned to be led away, Ron stopped. “If you see her, tell Mandy there’s no hard feelings.”
Lenny nodded without speaking. We left the facility under the scornful eye of the guards, and wandered back out to the lot.
“Ron’s in jail and is worried about whether the love of his life, who left him high and dry, is upset with him,” I said. “How can the SA think a guy like that committed murder?”
“The state attorney isn’t paid to think about Ron—he’s paid to win cases and make everyone feel safer,” said Lenny.
I shook my head.
“And Mandy wasn’t the love of Ron’s life,” he said, stepping up into his truck.
“I wasn’t being completely serious,” I said. Lenny pulled out of the lot onto Gun Club Road and turned onto Australian Avenue. “So who was the love of Ron’s life? Or should I ask how many have there been?”
“There’s been one, as far as I know. He was married before, long time ago. I gather they were too young and headed in different directions.”
“Ships in the night,” I said.
“Quite. But she wasn’t it either. Lucille was the one.”
“Lucille?”
“Lucy, yeah. She was one for the ages. A free spirit, that one. She didn’t care about the money, the big house. She was one of those few folks who actually just enjoyed the now.” Lenny smiled at the thought of her, or maybe at the thought of enjoying the now.
“So what happened? Why did they get divorced?”
“They never got married. Ron says she told him on their first date that they were soul mates, but she was never going to marry him. And she didn’t. They were together fifteen years and they never got married.”
“So what happened?”
The joy in Lenny’s eyes disappeared as quickly as it arrived, the thought of this Lucy bringing sadness as readily as joy.
“She died. Cancer. One day she’s dancing circles on the beach, three months later she was gone.”
“Oh, man,” I said, poetically.
“Aha. Six months later he met Mandy.”
“So she was his rebound girl.”
“Maybe. On the surface Ron looks like a player. The ladies certainly enjoy his company. But deep down, maybe he’s a serial monogamist. He’s like a swan. He needs a partner.”
“Right now he looks like an ugly duckling.”
Lenny nodded as he pulled into the lot next to our soon-to-be office. “Let’s fix that. You feel like a walk?”
“I could use some air.”
“Let’s wander down to the yacht club.”
Chapter Thirteen
THINGS WERE QUIET midweek at the yacht club, and we asked for Amy Artiz, and got a lot of frowns and closed mouths, until we mentioned that we were working for Ron. That brought a lot of oh, no and is he okay type comments, and fingers pointed down the dock. We followed directions and found Amy Artiz in the cockpit of a white yacht, looking skyward at a man who appeared to be attached to the top of the mast. Amy couldn’t have been more than five-one, and not much more than a 110 pounds, but it was all toned muscle. She was stocky in a feminine way, strong arms and firm legs and a trim waist. I wondered if she lifted weights or some such. She had brown hair that she tucked behind her ears but didn’t reach within a few inches of her collar, and she had perfect white teeth that hid behind a smileless visage. She seemed vaguely Latina to me, but the barking at the guy up the mast had no accent to it.
“Just yell when it's connected,” she yelled herself.
“Amy Artiz?” asked Lenny as we watched from the dock.
“Busy,” she replied without turning around.
“We’re here about Ron Bennett. ”
“What does that mean?” She kept her back to us and her eyes up.
“We’re trying to get him out of jail,” I said, a little impatiently.
Amy glanced back at us with a frown, gave us the quick two-second appraisal, and then turned away. “Give me five.”
The guy up the mast called down, words lost to me between the wind and the tinking of rigging, but Amy yelled okay , and she dropped down into the cockpit and started pushing buttons on a display of some kind. She did that for a minute or two, and then she stepped back up to the deck and yelled all good . She grabbed a rope that was tied off on the mast and wrapped it behind her buttocks, and as she fed it through the guy up the mast slowly came down. He was in some kind of chair assembly, a wooden plank and rope that looked like a child’s swing.
“How’s it look?” said the guy.
“Better. I think we got it.”
“Good. I’ve got to get into town, but if you need some help to take her out and test it . . .”
Amy turned and looked at Lenny and me on the dock. With his crazy mane of red hair and tanned face, Lenny looked like a boaty kind of guy. My sandy blond locks blowing in the wind usually got me pegged as a surfer or beach bum, and only the latter was remotely true.
“You guys wanna chat about Ron?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Lenny.
“You sail?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
That was news to me. I’d never seen Lenny sail, but then what I knew of his shadowy past wouldn’t have filled the prologue of his biography .
“All right, then. Let’s go,” said Amy, and she thanked the guy and he stepped off the rear of the yacht as we stepped on.
It was a nice yacht, not that I was any kind of expert. I didn’t sail. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it, or I didn’t have the opportunity. Ron was always trying to get me to come down and crew, but I always suspected what he really wanted was for me to meet some of his younger women friends, and I never really warmed to that idea. So I knew a little about sailing, but not enough to get the thing up and running.
The cockpit was a big depression in the deck, like a large built-in sofa. A crew of eight could have sat either side comfortably. There were two large wheels, one either side at the back, and a bank of screens and buttons nearby.
Amy dropped behind the wheels and fired up the motor, and gestured for me to step down and take a seat in the cockpit. I offered my hand and she took it. It was a good firm handshake, but unlike Felicity Havill, Amy’s skin wore the patina of someone who spent a lot of time in sun and salt water.
“Miami Jones,” I said.
She arched an eyebrow at me. “Amy Artiz. Miami Jones?”
I nodded. I got that a lot. No, I wasn’t related to Indiana. No, I wasn’t born there. No, I wasn’t conceived there.
“You part Native American?” she asked.
That was left field, so I blinked hard. “Do I look Native American to you?”
“Not in the slightest, but I thought you might be named after the Mayaimi people.”
I nodded at the idea. It was an educated guess, with the emphasis being on educated , which was different from the usual remarks I got, where the emphasis was on the guess .
“No,” I said. “I went to school there. UM. ”
“Shame,” she said, like carrying a name from your alma mater was fratty juvenile.
Lenny untied us from the dock and then stepped deftly onboard and Amy pointed the yacht out of the tight space. As she turned to the Intracoastal Lenny pulled the fenders from over the side and dropped them onto the floor of the cockpit area.
“Lenny Cox,” he nodded, as he plopped down onto a cushioned bench.
“Amy Artiz.” She nodded back. “You’re the guy Ron works for?”
“With, I’d say,” said Lenny.
Amy nodded and put her eyes to the water. There wasn’t much traffic on the Intracoastal, but she seemed to be aware of every vessel. I got the impression that she was a very confident sailor, not just because she was happy to go out in a big yacht with two guys who to her knowledge might not know how to tie a knot, let alone sail. She had that casual assurance of someone who knew her craft so well she could do it in her sleep. I didn’t know anything about Will Colfax other than what I’d been told, but if I were sailing into open water, Amy was the kind of person I’d want to have holding the wheel.
“So how can I help you?” she asked, as she punched some buttons on a console beside her.
“We’re trying to get Ron out of jail,” I said.
“I would hope so.”
“So we are trying to get an idea what really happened that night.”
“Procedures were not followed and someone lost their life as a result,” she said, looking up at the top of the mast.
“What procedures?” asked Lenny. “How did Will Colfax run his boat? ”
“Like a cruiser,” she said, and it didn’t sound like a compliment. We waited for her to expand on her answer, and she took her sweet time. Amy didn’t seem at all uncomfortable with silence, or at least not talking. She played with the console again, and then looked up. We were getting perilously close to the Flagler Memorial Bridge, which was not open and which our mast was way too tall to get under, but Amy didn’t seem fussed by it. She gave the wheel a gentle tug and the yacht spun on a dime and turned away. She pointed us north up the Intracoastal before speaking again.
“Sailing in open water isn’t the same as here on the Intracoastal. Here the weather’s always good and help is always a minute away. There are lots of other boats to assist if you have problems. In open water, it’s just you and the ocean. And there’s only one rule out there.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“Ocean wins. Ocean holds all the cards. Even if it’s dead calm and the water is azure, the ocean wins. It can go from idyllic to deadly faster than any boat can get to safety, so you can’t be cocky.”
“And Will was cocky?”
“You didn’t know Will?” She raised the eyebrow again.
“No, but I’m forming an impression.”
“Will was a type. They believe they can beat anything, anyone. Y
ou get a lot of boat owners like that. They’re successful guys, they do these big deals, think they’re the kings of the world. But you can’t beat nature.”
“So why sail with him?” asked Lenny.
“Look, what I’m saying is, it’s a mentality. It didn’t make him a bad guy. Lots of people thought him utterly charming. I’m just painting a picture.”
“You weren’t on deck that night,” I said .
“No,” she said firmly. There was no regret in the word, just disappointment.
“You think it would have happened differently if you had been?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Like I say, ocean wins. If it wants you, it takes you. But I would have followed procedure.”
“You mentioned. Like what?”
“There should be two crew on deck at all times. No exceptions. We had a big crew for this boat. Three can sail it easy enough. We had seven. Plenty of eyes to go round. There should be no alcohol on the open water. In dock, go crazy, but not out there.”
“There was drinking on the boat?” I asked. Felicity had confirmed there was, but I wanted to hear Amy’s take on it.
“Of course. Some bright spark always stashes a bottle of rum. Like we’re a bunch of pirates.”
“So you think it could have been an accident? Even though it was calm?”
She frowned. “Who said it was calm?”
“The Coast Guard, and the state attorney for that matter.”
“The Coast Guard goes out when no one else will, so anything less than a ten-foot swell is calm to them. And I bet the state attorney’s sailing logbook features a lot of time on Carnival cruises.”
I nodded. I was inclined to agree about the state attorney. He looked too tall to function on a yacht as anything other than the mast. “So it was rough?”
“No,” she said. “Not really. But it was the Gulf Stream. Things change, wind, the swell. A rogue wave.”
“But this cockpit seems pretty safe,” I said.
“It is. But what if Will got up to check a sheet?” She pointed to the deck, where some ropes were coiled up, like the Coast Guard guy had done the day Will disappeared. “All it takes is a small wind shift. If the lines are lax, the boom moves a little, whack, you’re over the side. Or guys like to pee over the transom.” She pointed to the back on the boat. Behind her there was a platform, where the name of the yacht was written.
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