Backwater Cove

by Steven Becker

  “I thought you were tossing this one to Miami-Dade?” Justine asked.

  “It’s not so much him,” I looked down at the corpse. “There’re two living girls out there and I think this is all tied together.”

  I pulled out my phone and started for the door.

  “Calling your buddy Grace?” Justine asked.

  I shrugged. Sooner or later she was going to have to either get over this or tell me what the baggage between them was. Once outside the autopsy room, I glanced back through the glass, but her head was down. Turning away, I pressed connect and waited. The phone rang several times, then went to voicemail. I left a message to call me and stood in the small office wondering what to do now.

  Justine would be tied up here for a few hours at least and Martinez would be all over me tomorrow morning for spending the day in Miami. Unless something happened fast, he’d have me back on patrol. I remembered the blood on the dock and the empty slip at the marina. Maybe a quick patrol wouldn’t hurt.

  I knocked on the door and entered the lab. Justine looked up and met my eye, as if she was daring me to tell her I was meeting Grace. Fortunately, I didn’t have to see if this would be a defining moment in our relationship. “I’m going to run by the marina and see if the Temptress has come back.” I almost added, alone, but decided that would just be throwing fuel on a fire that wasn’t really burning. “You guys look like you have a few hours. I can come back at midnight.”

  She smiled, “Say hi to the boys from the U.”

  I took that as an okay and left before Grace called me back. The night air was a relief, not only from the autopsy, but from the friction with Justine. I looked around the lot and realized I’d been tagging along with Miami-Dade and had ridden here with Justine—I only had my boat. Pulling my phone out, I found the Uber app and dialed up a ride. Thankfully, there was a language barrier and the drive was quiet.

  Traffic was light in the interlude between happy hour and the late-night exodus from the South Beach clubs. We reached Dodge Island a few minutes later and I directed the driver to where I had docked earlier. It had only been half a day, but felt like much longer. The lights of the marina were less than a quarter mile across the channel—there was no reason to change plans.

  After crossing the Intracoastal, I tied off toward the end of the empty fuel dock and was halfway to Pier 4 when I decided to turn back and grab the binoculars. I felt out of place walking along the seawall in my uniform, but everyone else was so absorbed in what they were doing, they barely noticed me. Several dog walkers gave me a head nod, which I returned and continued toward Pier 4.

  The marina was laid out with at least a dozen piers jutting into the Intracoastal Waterway at ninety-degree angles to where I stood. One at a time, I stopped, trying to get the best view of Rosen’s yachts without being seen. The best vantage point turned out to be two piers away, where I sat on a bench and placed the binoculars to my eyes. Bright lights hit me as I focused on the dock. The marina and many of the boats were typically well lit, but there was a halo around Pier 4. The yachts came into view as I fine-tuned the focus. One by one, I checked out each boat, pausing at the empty slip where the Temptress birthed. They were all lit, reminding me of the lines of sportfishing boats on display closer to the entrance. And as I scanned the docks, I saw there was quite a party going on.

  I had noticed the hip-hop beat before I sat down, but now, watching the bodies on the decks of the boats swaying to the rhythm, I knew where it came from. Scantily clad “hostesses” were dancing with boys that looked too big for their young faces. Alex came into view, passing out insulated tumblers. The recruiting party was in full swing.

  I panned the binoculars back to the closest boat to the seawall trying to single out Misty, and I found her several boats over. Even from this distance, I could tell she had applied a ton of makeup to cover the bruises—but at least she was alive. If I knew what her friend looked like, I would have tried to find her as well, instead, I kept an eye out for a girl with matching bruises.

  I watched as Alex called out to a group of the boys. They sauntered over to him and he opened a box. They converged on him like the swarming defense they would probably become, and one boy held something over his head. It caught the light and I saw the real Turnover Chain.

  13

  I found myself staring at what could have been the murder weapon, now being passed around by a group of boys emulating the sideline dance. If it were indeed the murder weapon, there would be no forensics—too many hands had touched it. I sat back, watching the party, trying to think of a way to isolate the murderer. The only thing I was certain of was that he was part of the party. There were several other girls besides Misty with bruises that showed through the skillfully applied makeup. Whether intentionally or not, they seemed to cluster together in an attempt to protect each other. I would have liked to talk to them, but even if I had the authority to walk over and start asking questions, it wasn’t the right time. The best I could do was to document the party. We had a murder, a murder weapon, several suspects, but no motive. Dancing in front of me were a bunch of soon-to-be-famous prospects, any one of whom could have committed the crime.

  I was too far away for my phone’s camera to get clear pictures, even with the telephoto setting. Moving to the next pier, I tried to position myself, but the light and definition of the few pictures I tried were poor. There was a line between how valuable the pictures would be and the cost of getting caught in the process. I decided if the murderer was there, the line moved toward the risky side. I moved over to the adjacent pier and using the largest zoom possible, started taking pictures. They wouldn’t win any awards, but after reviewing the first few, I could make out the faces.

  I was about halfway through when someone approached the locked gate and let themselves in. It appeared to be a uniformed security guard. He went directly to Alex as if this weren’t the first time they had danced together. After a few heated words, Alex disappeared below decks and the music was turned down several notches. It was still pretty loud, but the dock was no longer vibrating. With the party over, I hurried to photograph everyone. I figured I’d wait around a few minutes and see if there was anyone below that I had missed.

  Just as I was about to move, I saw a large, well-lit boat pull into the channel. The music coming from it blended with the turned-down music on the dock, making the overall effect louder. The security guard ran back to the boat and started screaming something to the captain who was in the middle of backing the boat into the slip. He ignored him until it was safely tied off, then to the jeers of the crowd, cut the music. I panned the binoculars over the transom of the boat. The Temptress was back.

  I pulled the phone from my pocket and took pictures of everyone on deck, then put the binoculars to my eyes looking for anything that I might have missed. Surprisingly for the park service’s budget, they were a high-quality, light-enhancing model and I was able to see detail in the shadows invisible to the naked eye. I moved the glasses past several couples making out, cataloguing their location in my mind to photograph when they moved into the light. Last I moved them to the helm.

  It looked like the dockmaster, now dressed in a white shirt with gold braids and epaulets, was running the boat. The young captain was alone at the helm, the party having already abandoned him. As I watched him shut down the motors, I could tell he was not enjoying himself.

  He sat at the helm, looking around at the party. When his eyes found Misty, dancing with one of the recruits a few boats over, they stayed there. He clearly knew her and was so focused that he missed Alex board the boat. The former player climbed the ladder and stood next to him. I was surprised to see they were close to the same height. They were soon deeply engrossed in a heated conversation.

  Sliding around to get a better view, I realized how suspicious I looked standing on a seawall at a marina in South Beach with the binoculars, and stuffed them into my cargo pocket. I had accomplished much of my goal without being identified and d
ecided not to push my luck when I saw the boy rise.

  The party, although toned down, continued. He left the boat and started down the dock. I watched him glance over at Misty again before pushing the gate open with quite a bit more force than was required. Jealousy had been motive for plenty of murders and that’s what this looked like. I decided to follow him.

  I had to resist the urge to run, knowing he was coming toward me, and walked toward a dark spot. Sliding into the shadows, I thought I had been unobserved, but the figure was walking right toward me. Still in the shadows, I was close enough to see him clearly now and confirmed he was the dockmaster. Apparently, the kid I had met before was moonlighting for Alex. Moving further into the shadows, I hugged the wall trying to remain hidden.

  He walked into the recess and stopped. Trying to control my breath, I waited and watched him pull out his phone. Seconds later, I could hear the whining as he tried to convince whomever was on the other end of the line that he wasn’t done for the night. Apparently his pleas fell on deaf ears and he went back through the gate and started walking toward the Temptress

  I stayed put for a few minutes to see what he was up to. The dockmaster / captain was the same age as the kids partying on the dock. I could smell the resentment, and sympathize with him. As cocky as he was, for his age, he had done well. The kids on the boat were gifted and, some had probably put in a lot of work to get where they were, but I suspected the party was for a different kind of student athlete and I use that term loosely. The whole recruiting scam was a huge entitlement.

  The music stopped and, turning back to the dock, I saw the Temptress loaded with the entire group pull out of the slip. Moving the party into the middle of the Intracoastal might put them out of reach of security, but not Miami-Dade, and I didn’t want to be around when they showed up.

  I had a lot of pictures to go through and decided that I was done here. Reaching my boat unobserved, I got in, released the lines and idled into the main channel. If anyone saw me now, I was a ways from the marina.

  Accelerating enough to overcome the current, I started toward Government Cut. Once I reached the last marker, I dropped out of gear and pulled out my phone to call Justine. The boat spun in the current and I had to make a correction. Just as I was going to press connect, I heard a loud roar and watched the red and green lights of the Temptress coming toward me at full speed. I dropped the phone on the seat next to me and simultaneously cut the wheel and pushed down the throttle, barely escaping the path of the boat. I could only watch as the triple outboards dug in and accelerated toward open water. Wherever they were headed, I wasn’t going to catch them. Without radar, I couldn’t track them and, without cause, Miami-Dade would not interfere.

  Bobbing in the last of the larger boat’s wake, I picked up my phone and pressed send. When the call went to voicemail, I wasn’t really disappointed, having already decided I’d had enough for one day. I wanted to go home. She was probably still in the autopsy and, using that for an excuse, I left a goodnight message and headed south. I needed time to process what I had seen and would have to deal with Grace and Martinez in the morning. First, I needed a good night’s sleep and to throw a few flies to clear my head.

  Running the bay at night was getting to be routine. At first, I had been intimidated, but I knew the water now and my only fear was striking a submerged object. As I accelerated past the last marker small wind waves slammed against the low freeboard of the bay boat and I had to slow after taking some spray off the port bow. This kind of boat was the right choice for these waters, except for when a northeast wind was blowing across the open water. In that direction there were no barrier islands to block the weather like they did the typical southeasterly winds.

  The extended ride gave me time to think and I started fitting the pieces of the puzzle together. I liked patterns and used the metaphor of a jigsaw puzzle to fill in the missing pieces. First you need to find the corners: motive, means, and opportunity are taught as the ability of the perpetrator to commit the crime. Without any of them, there is no crime. There is also an unknown element to most crimes—that is the human condition that motivates someone to pull a trigger or, in this case, strangle their victim. Motive is the reason and can fester for years. There has to be an event to force it to the surface. Jealousy certainly qualified.

  The clock was ticking on Signing Day. All the recruits now aboard the Temptress would be surrounded by family, friends, coaches, and the local media—and in a few days they would all have signed their letter of intent. When it was over, the schools would be ranked by the quality of their recruiting class—and the boosters, for better or worse, would be judged by the results. This was Alex’s entire year wrapped into a week.

  Alex and Donna appeared united. Unless there was something below the surface, the couple was aligned in their motives which were to keep Rosen happy by recruiting the best high school athletes. The couple had an additional bonus, if they could keep them in step during their college years, the recruits might sign on with them as agents if they were good enough to go pro.

  I understood the dockmaster’s resentments, but pushed too far, could he kill? I wasn’t even sure if he had been at the scene. I thought about asking Justine about the prints that she had found. It’s not like he was the only one with a possible motive—the players themselves were often trouble. This was their one chance and each might do whatever it took to succeed. Right now, that seemed the most likely angle.

  The dock lights guided me in the last quarter mile to Adams Key, and a few minutes later, when I was fifty feet away from the concrete, I dropped the engine into neutral. Setting out the fenders, I watched the drift of the boat. It had taken me a long few months to get it right and now docking was as easy as parking a car—as long as I figured it out ahead of time. Every approach was different because of the wind, tide, and current. Tonight, I had the benefit of the island to block the wind and the tide was slack providing very little current. After I readied the lines, I idled to the dock, cutting power at the last second before turning the wheel hard to starboard and letting the momentum of the boat finish the job. I sat there for a second after securing the lines, waiting for the island’s alarm. I always judged my success by Zero’s reaction. With no lights on at Becky and Ray’s house, I suspected that he was snoring louder than the boat’s motor and had missed the opportunity. I retrieved my gun belt from the waterproof compartment that I kept it in, when on the water, and stepped up on the dock. With no sign of Zero, I walked down the path, turning to the right at the fork and heading to my park service house.

  When I went to get a beer from the refrigerator, I noticed the empty shelves. I would have to make the trek to the grocery store if I wanted to eat tomorrow. Living out here, there was no 7-Eleven on the corner. Provisions had to be planned. I sat at the breakfast bar and opened my laptop. There would be a strong outgoing tide in the morning and there was a channel I wanted to check out. I made a deal with myself that if I went through the pictures tonight I could fish in the morning. I loaded the shots I had taken earlier into the computer, and with a split screen showing the partiers on one side, I opened a browser window with the top recruiting picks on the other. One at a time, I went through the pictures and compared them to the profile images of the top hundred high school players. It was easy to identify most, with the current trend toward unique hairstyles: designs, dreadlocks and bleached tips were all the rage in the pros and the high-school players were quick to copy. I found all of them and noted names and hometowns. I didn’t know how deep the colleges recruited, but figured if you weren’t on the website you didn’t matter to the Alexes of the world. If you were on his radar, you already had your ticket punched, it was just a matter of destination. All these kids had something to lose.

  14

  I had expected a terse email from Martinez sitting in my inbox when I woke. If my truck and phone had told him I was at Justine’s in Miami, he would have called. Instead, I found a bit of civility in my inbox. Ther
e was no mention of my whereabouts yesterday or the murder at the club. He had either had a golf date or knew it had nothing to do with him or the park.

  With Susan reassigned, I was all he had, and he was forced to work with me. That earned me a little respect, but also more work. Fortunately, he knew if paperwork was added to my workload, it would never get done, at least not to his satisfaction. He had taken some of that burden on himself, including writing my patrol schedules, something I had skirted before.

  The email had a request for me to head to the northern edge of the park and have a look at Stiltsville. The old water-bound neighborhood of stilt-houses built a mile offshore and over the shallows on either side of Biscayne Channel were a thorn in his side and I suspected he had gotten a report of some nefarious activity in one of the remaining houses. What had once been a thirty-structure outlaw community built over the flats south of Key Biscayne had now eroded to seven. The fate of the area had been on the table for years, and finally, in the late seventies, the park’s boundaries were redrawn to include the community.

  The fight had continued, but subsequent storms and the wear and tear of being on the water was doing the work for the politicians. This was one of my least favorite assignments—the only area where I wore my gun belt. With plenty of concealment, it was the bad neighborhood of the park.

  Just as I was about to close the screen, another email popped up. My heart leapt into my throat when I read the successful outcome of the request for a custody hearing. My attorney, Daniel J. Viscount, had done what he claimed only he could accomplish. There were strict instructions that I was to meet him at the county courthouse on Flagler at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. It, of course, ended with a demand, stated as a request, that I should bring his fee. I shot off a reply in the affirmative that I would be there and, with a smile on my face, I got ready to head out to Stiltsville. The patrol did offer a few perks. Hiding in the pilings and shade from the houses lurked some pretty nice sized mangrove snapper and I looked forward to filling my freezer. Instead of the fly rod, I grabbed a pair of spinning rods and loaded them onto the boat.