Backwater Cove

by Steven Becker

4

  “What do you mean no?” I repeated and motioned Becky to the side.

  “That girl’s been through enough for one night,” Becky pleaded.

  “Her friend’s out there. I saw her and now she’s gone.” I said it before I realized how badly it sounded. Ray, who had moved closer to us, tried to save me.

  “You got to let him do his job. “

  “No reason he can’t do his job with the girl safe and sound here,” Becky said.

  She was an immovable force. Ray and I looked at each other and shrugged. “I need a few minutes alone with her to take her statement,” I told her.

  “Don’t you make that girl cry,” Becky warned.

  With a truce in place, Becky went over to the table and whispered something to Misty. I could tell she didn’t like it, but after a few more words of reassurance, she got up and came toward me. I looked at her as if for the first time. She looked entirely different from the girl I had found only a few hours ago. Her body language told me that she was good with men. Her movements were subtle and well-practiced, maybe even coached. She was pretty, in a teenage innocent sort of way, and I pinned her for a hair flipper. Even with Becky’s clothing hanging lose on her frame, I could tell she had a good body.

  She came toward me with a confidence that was confusing considering everything that she had been through tonight. I got the feeling that, law enforcement agent or not, she was used to getting her way with men. Where many men would have been attracted by her and subconsciously acted differently, she wasn’t my type. I preferred my women to be my contemporaries, not their children.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” I motioned to the couch and sat in an adjacent chair. Questions were already formed in my mind, and I took a deep breath before starting. Her facade might have exuded confidence, but I could see how scared she was by her eyes. She probably used them to seduce, but I was a trained investigator and looked past their hazel beauty and saw the truth. I would have to be careful or she would shut down. Reaching for my notepad, I found only the empty pockets of my cargo pants. Motioning to Becky like I was writing something down, she gave me a look that warned me to be careful—that she was watching—and brought me a pad and pen.

  “Let’s start with basics, okay?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Your name and date of birth would be a good start.”

  “Misty Melody,” she said. “I’m nineteen.”

  In one sentence, I had learned that her name was not Misty and she wasn’t nineteen. I had to tread more carefully now, especially if she was underage. Despite the fact that I was sure the response was fabricated, I wrote down her answers. I’d circle back and try to get the truth later. “Where are you from?”

  “I’m from Tampa.”

  I wrote that down too. It was probably correct. Experienced liars stayed as close to the truth as possible. “What brings you to Miami?”

  “Me and my friend Heather, we got a job offer here.”

  “What kind of work were you doing?” I kind of knew the answer already.

  “We’re hostesses.”

  She said it proudly. Looking over at Becky, I wondered if she was able to hear our conversation. It had reached the point that I wanted a witness and asked her to come over. Once she was seated, I started to dig a little harder. “What does a hostess do?” I hoped she was going to say seat people in a restaurant, but knew that was not going to be the answer.

  “We make our guests comfortable,” she said, looking at Becky.

  I saw the scared little girl coming out and backed off. “Can we call any family to help you out?”

  That got me a look I should have expected. Becky saved me.

  “We’re here for you, sweetheart.”

  Misty looked relieved.

  “Does your friend,” I paused to look at my notes, “Heather. Does she have a last name?” I asked.

  “Flowers,” Misty said.

  She clearly knew that I knew it wasn’t the truth, and she looked at Becky for reassurance. I wasn’t sure if Becky understood what was going on here. If she did, she wasn’t showing any signs and was giving reassurance where needed.

  “Where do you guys live?”

  “Like an address?”

  It took everything I had to keep the look out of my eyes and the tone from my voice. My daughter, Allie was almost fifteen now. I knew a little about teenage girls. Fortunately, she continued.

  “We live on boats,” she said.

  The boat I had seen earlier came to mind. “I saw a boat while I was looking for Heather, was that where you were before I found you?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know what boat you saw. We were out on a job.”

  I would have loved to hear what that entailed, but caught a warning from Becky. “Do you remember the name of the boat you were on?”

  “Temptress. We went out of the marina by South Beach.”

  Finally, I had something that might be helpful. “What about the boat you live on?”

  “Spindrift.”

  “What marina is Spindrift in?” I asked.

  “We just move around. Last place was up in Boca.”

  I would have preferred her residence to have a number and street name. Misty made a display of yawning. Whether she did it on purpose or not, I was uncomfortably aware of her body as she raised her arms over her head. There was no time to turn away.

  “I think that’s enough for right now. Maybe you can finish in the morning,” Becky said.

  My eyes caught Ray’s. We were from different worlds, but both knew the look on Becky’s face. This was not open for discussion. “I’ve got a good place to start,” I said, rising from the chair. I said my goodbyes, offering Ray a look that said I felt his pain. He nodded back.

  “Come back in the morning,” he said and locked the door behind me.

  I knew that he wanted Misty out of there as soon as possible and I didn’t blame him. I walked to the intersection where the path split; one side going to the dock, and the other to my house. There was no way sleep was coming, and looking at my watch, I saw it was almost midnight. Justine worked until two and I wanted access to her crime lab—and seeing her was always a bonus. I quickly changed clothes, gathered the evidence I had collected, and sent her a text that I had a missing person. It probably wasn’t going to get the same excited response I could expect if I had a dead body, but it worked.

  The front had passed, leaving a steady northeast breeze making my trip back to headquarters a little bumpy. With the wind at my back, the ride was at least dry and I made it to the dock in forty minutes. After pulling into my slip, I tied the boat off, using an extra spring line to keep the wind from pushing the port side into the adjacent piling, and then walked to the parking lot. Passing the front of the building, I couldn’t help but look up, half expecting a light on in Martinez’s office. I knew my boss tracked my movements and if there was something going on, I suspected he had some kind of alarm that told him I was at it again. The window was dark and I thought that maybe a pre-emptive strike would be a good idea, and decided to send him an email detailing what had happened as soon as I reached the crime lab.

  Susan McLeash’s office was also dark. After seeing her leading a tour group a few weeks ago, I wondered if it was still hers. My counterpart and partner, when Martinez could force her on me, had already been on probation for killing a suspect in one of my cases last summer. She had followed that up by discharging my weapon at a protest and then using my rifle in the Turkey Point case. At Martinez’s urging, I had covered up the first incident, but there were Miami-Dade officers present at the latter. I had done my best to protect her in my report, but anyone reading between the lines would know what she had done. Now, I expected the worst she could do to me was toss me a dirty look whenever she saw me—I only hoped that was the case.

  I reached my park service truck, newly repaired from my last off-road experience. Of course, with the feds footing the bill, the work was flawless. I could only wonder about t
he park service’s priorities. I wasn’t sure if it was Martinez or someone higher up that made the decision, but spending the money up front for four-wheel drive would have been cheaper than the subsequent repairs. While I drove the deserted streets through Homestead to the Turnpike, I wondered how I was going to survive the personalities and bureaucracy of the park. At least in the Plumas National Forest, where I had been stationed before, I had ten thousand acres to patrol alone. My closest boss was an hour away. South Florida often felt like an alternate universe.

  There was no traffic on the turnpike and I let my brain change directions to Misty and her friend. I wondered where she was from and how her parents had raised her to turn into a “hostess”. I had heard long ago that one of the primary goals of a father was to keep his daughter off the pole. I guessed her father had failed her.

  The parking lot of the Miami-Dade Crime Lab was also deserted. I hoped that meant Justine had experienced a slow night and could help me. Walking downstairs, my mood instantly improved when I saw her through the glass partition in the hallway. Justine stood with her back to me, swaying to the music I knew was loudly pumping through her headphones. Her tight braid moved behind her, alternating between hitting each well-developed shoulder. As a standup paddleboard racer, she liked the night shift because it allowed her to train almost every day. She did well in her races, but I preferred the other benefits of her training as I watched her body sway beneath the lab coat.

  Before I was done admiring her, she must have sensed me standing there and turned around. With a smile, she invited me in. I entered and gave her a peck on the cheek, our agreed-on work greeting. Fraternization was discouraged, but we worked for different entities and though some frowned on it, we had made peace with it.

  “I’m very disappointed she’s alive,” she said, then smacked my arm.

  “Yeah, I know. Sad isn’t it.” I asked her the question that had been on my mind since the interview. “How do good girls go bad?” I knew it was a mistake to say as soon as it came out of my mouth.

  “Are you getting involved with another victim. It was alright with Abbey, but what’s up now?”

  I decided to leave it there and move on. Abbey had been my first real case, at least my first victim with a name. “Got one live one and one missing one—maybe dead.” It was interesting how immune I had gotten to death in the last few months.

  “And the game begins.”

  5

  I had her attention now. “How busy are you? I have some evidence I’d like you to look at.” Her brow furrowed and her smile was gone. I wondered if I’d blown it again by bringing too much work into our relationship.

  “I got a talking-to about some of the extracurricular things going on.”

  I had noticed several packing boxes around and expected the worst. Now it was my turn to be worried. Justine had helped me on several cases. If it were not for her taking down Dwayne, a crooked detective involved in a human smuggling ring, I would be dead. Without her, there would likely be a handful of additional dead bodies. “I’m so sorry. I never intended for you to get in trouble.”

  “It was just a verbal reprimand. No paperwork. I just have to watch myself and get approval before going off the reservation again.”

  She must have noticed me checking out the boxes.

  “They’re moving me upstairs to the new lab. Kind of a bummer, really. Like moving back in with your parents.”

  I knew she had resisted the change, liking the privacy of the lower level better than the newly remodeled, high-tech facility. I had to think quickly. There was a missing girl out there and I needed Justine’s help to find her. “What if I filed a report with Miami-Dade?”

  She thought for a minute. “That would work for a start. This time of night there’s no one to call for approval and as long as you have a case number, I can allocate my hours.”

  After paying for the new lab, the Miami-Dade bureaucracy had extended its tentacles into the forensics business. There was now an administrator in charge—instead of the head technician. I had some first-hand experience with bosses like that. Martinez did everything by the book—except occasionally cutting Susan McLeash some slack in exchange for undocumented favors. Otherwise, it was all about the budget. My own ethos was to act now and ask for forgiveness later. Sometimes it worked; others it didn’t, and that was a risk I was happy to take. I didn’t want to extend that to Justine.

  “I’ll go call it in.” I turned away.

  “Maybe you should call your friend Grace,” she said.

  I couldn’t read her tone. Grace Herrera was a detective with Miami-Dade. She was extremely attractive, but had never been anything but professional. Before I could weigh the pros and cons, she explained herself.

  “Really. She’s the best we have. Making a random call to report something in this department is a crap shoot.”

  “Okay.” I had to agree with her. “It’s almost two. Maybe I should wait until morning.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that late. It’s been a slow night. I’ll clock out and have a look on my own time. If it pans out, I’ll document my hours later. But, make sure you call her in the morning.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully, before Martinez could reach his twin monitors sitting to the side of his desk and figure out what I had been up to all night, I would be well on my way to a solution. “I’ve got the evidence in the truck.”

  “We should probably backdoor-it, just in case. I’ll meet you where the van is parked.”

  I left the lab and went upstairs. There was no one behind the desk so I escaped unobserved. I walked to my truck and looked over at the footprint sitting in the passenger seat. It had eroded in the last half hour and I had my doubts what Justine could do with it. Just in case it got worse, I took a picture with my phone. There was no activity in the lot so I drove around to the side of the building and parked next to the crime scene van. Justine was by the door and motioned for me. I got out and walked around to the passenger door with what was left of the footprint. Opening it, I reached over to grab the hatch. As careful as I was, the movement caused the already decayed heal section to crumble.

  “You have to keep them wet until you can cast them,” Justine said and took the hatch cover like a mother taking back her baby.

  I went back to the truck for the pieces of clothing and the branch with what I thought was blood. She had propped the door open and was already in the lab, hovering over the footprint, when I entered. There was a sense of urgency in her movements and I chose to stand back and let her do her thing.

  From where I stood, I watched her spray the footprint with an aerosol can. The dirt immediately darkened and after about a minute, it looked like it had hardened.

  “You can breathe now. I think I’ve got what’s left of it.”

  I moved closer, staying an arm’s length away, not wanting to do any more damage than I had already done. Even under the bright lights, the tread of the shoe barely showed . It might not be good enough for a trial, but from the pattern, I confirmed my guess that it was a boat shoe. My mind went back to the two boat names Misty had given me and I took out my notepad. “Can we access the Miami-Dade tax assessor’s site? The girl I found gave me a couple of boat names that I want to run. I think whoever left this came off of one of them.”

  “You needing my super-secret password?”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” I gave her bottom a pat, and walked to the computer station.

  After logging onto the site, I entered the names, starting with the Temptress. Half a dozen entries appeared on the screen. “Wow.” I tried Spindrift next and got only four. I wrote down the information in my notepad and looked at Justine. It was past three, and the adrenaline that had gotten me through the last few hours, after finding Misty and looking for her friend, had worn off.

  “You look beat. Maybe we should get you a few hours of sleep,” Justine said.

  Though I didn’t want to admit it, I knew she was right. Slowing down
often got better results than my first instinct of barreling through a case until it was solved. As it turned out, sleep was everything my grandmother said it was. “Okay, I don’t think I can get anything else done before morning.” Knowing that dawn was only a few hours away helped a little and I promised myself that I’d give Grace an early wake-up call.

  I followed Justine back to her apartment and waited for her to open the door. She’d recently given me a key and we had quickly moved past that to shared passwords for our phones—a level-five relationship. Minutes later, we were under the covers and the idea of sleep was gone.

  My internal clock was usually dependable, but I had learned to set an alarm when I stayed at Justine’s. Her blackout shades eliminated any trace of the sun and I had been awakened here by Martinez more times than I wanted to count. There were better ways to wake up, and when the alarm on my phone went off, I rolled over only to find the bed empty.

  “See ya, sunshine,” Justine called on her way out the door.

  She was dressed to paddle. Besides dead bodies, racing stand-up paddleboards was her passion. In order to get her miles in she needed to get an early start—before the boaters were out and the sea breeze kicked in. She often woke at dawn to paddle and took a nap in the afternoon before work. I rolled out of bed and looked at my phone—it was seven. I took a quick shower to buy Grace a few more minutes of sleep, and when I was ready, sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. With my notepad in front of me, I pulled up her contact information, and pressed the phone icon.

  While I waited, I started composing an email to Martinez in my head. Her phone rang three times before a sleepy voice answered. I paused, feeling guilty for waking her, but knew there was no getting out of it. My name was probably staring at her on the phone’s display. Grace saved me from an awkward opening when she answered.

  “Well, Special Agent Hunter, what can Miami-Dade do for the NPS?”

  As a trained agent, I detected a slight tinge of sarcasm in her tone. That was a good thing. Grace was always professional and I was glad she made the first step by opening up. “Sorry if I woke you. Got a missing person that I thought maybe you could help with.”