Backwater Cove

by Steven Becker

  “Heading to Stiltsville?” Roy’s head popped up from his center console.

  Zero was snoozing on the warm concrete, but when he heard my voice, he rose, shook off the sleep, and waddled toward me. “Yeah, might as well fill the freezer if I have to do that patrol.”

  “Careful out there. Your boy Martinez sent me a request to check out number seven. Said there was some vandalism reported.”

  I patted my pistol. He knew the area as well. “You want to run out together?”

  “Sorry, my schedule’s full today. Snapper bites pretty good though.” He went to his console and removed something. “Hold up,” he said, handing me two small packages. “Sabiki rigs. Add a weight to the end and cast’em toward the pilings. Baitfish take’m like candy.”

  “Cool,” I said, taking the packages from him and releasing the lines. I stuffed them into one of my cargo pockets that already had a Ziploc baggie full of tackle. I waved at him as I pushed away from the dock and, turning to port, headed through Cesar Creek. I chose the outside route to save time and avoid the Featherbed Banks that ran across the inside passage.

  The short pass to the Atlantic had a strong and usually tricky current. I had both scolded and helped dozens of boaters off the surrounding flats. Today it was running stronger than usual and I gunned the throttle to give me enough speed to have adequate steerage. That was the mistake that the inexperienced boaters made. They tried to navigate the winding passage at low speeds, thinking it safer. With the current often exceeding five-knots, running at idle speed was like treading water, making the boaters victims of the turbulent water flowing through the pass.

  I plowed through at twelve knots to overcome the incoming tide and followed the trail of green and red markers leading to deep water. Once clear of the flashing light, I turned to port and headed north. The wind had dropped overnight and the water had a light chop—perfect conditions for the small bay boat and good for fishing. I got the boat up on plane as the miles-long stretch of Elliot Key flew by to port, followed by the smaller Sands and Boca Chita Keys. Fowey Rocks Light soon rose from the water on my starboard side and I headed toward the first in the chain of steel lighthouses running down the length of the Keys, standing sentinel over the deadly offshore reef.

  Once I passed the light, I cut into shallower water, using the skyline of Miami as a guide until the first of the structures came into view. I slowed, scanning the water for the green #1 piling that marked the entrance to Biscayne Channel. These were shoal-ridden waters and, though I could see the number seven structure, the channel was the only safe passage. I entered it and halfway through the pass, cut the engine to an idle and turned to port. Raising the tilt of the engine until it was barely sucking water, I proceeded across the flats to the buildings.

  The structures were now in a trust that was responsible for the joint-custody agreement between the owners and the public. The homes were rented out for photo shoots and small conferences—aka parties. The problem was that unless there was a boat tied off, you never knew if they were occupied. We got notice when an official reservation was expected, but the buildings were magnets for all kinds of unauthorized activity, from portable meth labs to kids’ hangouts.

  The water was only several feet deep and crystal clear, making it easier to steer while looking over the side than using the depth finder. I made my way between two colorful buildings and headed toward the southernmost structure. Reaching it, I circled the house and tied off to one of the pilings.

  I climbed up the ladder and reached the deck surrounding the structure. There was no evidence of any activity. The windows and doors were intact and, after trying the knob, I found it locked. I peered into the windows as I circled. There was no sign of any wrongdoing.

  My mission accomplished, I started to the ladder and looking down into the water, saw a school of small baitfish circling a piling by the boat. I moved faster now and, after reaching the boat, pulled out the package that Ray had given me. After securing a weight to the end, I attached the small swivel to my spinning rod and pulled the line from the package. Two of the dozen brightly colored tiny hooks snagged my shirt and after freeing myself, I tossed the weight overboard and casted toward a piling several feet from the boat.

  The weight took the line to the bottom and when it stopped, I closed the bail. With small jerks, I retrieved the jigs and suddenly felt a tug on the line. I reeled faster, feeling several more tugs as I retrieved the line. Three small baitfish came with it as I slung the weight over the gunwale. I tossed them into a bucket and threw the rig again. This time, knowing what to expect, I pulled in a half-dozen more. Sticking the hook in between one of the small fish’s lips, I tossed the line toward the piling and soon had a nice snapper aboard. Several more followed—enough to hold me for a few weeks.

  There was no need to communicate with Martinez. He already knew where I was, and would only expect to hear from me if there was something wrong. I had no ice, so I tossed a bucket of seawater into the cooler with the fish, threw the remaining baitfish back, and untied the line from the piling.

  Idling away from the structure, I decided on a course between the closest two structures hoping that would be a clear path back to the channel. On my port side were two yellow and pink structures and to starboard, a plainer building with a mansard style roof. Passing between them, I scanned the water for the dangerous coral heads that were famous for gutting the hulls of unsuspecting boaters. Several were knocked over, the result of careless boaters trying to anchor here. Skirting them, I steered closer to the two structures and cut the wheel to make my turn when something caught my eye. On one of the pilings by the lower building was a piece of fabric.

  15

  It wasn’t something that would typically even arouse my curiosity, except it was new looking and appeared to be a dead match to the pieces I had picked out of the mangroves on Adams Key. Hoping this was not going to play out like I thought, I idled the center console until the hull brushed against the barnacle covered piling. Martinez would have a fit that the newly repaired boat had suffered its first blemish and I should have dropped fenders and come in from the side, but my attention was riveted to the piece of floral print fabric waving like a distress signal in the light breeze.

  It was pinched between a sliver of the piling that had peeled back and I left it in place to preserve it if this was, as I suspected, a crime scene. Moving the boat past the piling, I took the time to drop the fenders, hoping to delay the inevitable, and tied off the boat. To one side was a ladder, installed to provide access from a boat to the house, was secured to the piling, and as I climbed to the weathered deck, I could see how the fabric had gotten there. I paused to look at it again before setting foot on the dock.

  I had made enough noise that if someone were hiding inside they would know I was here. With my pistol held in front of me with both hands, I crossed to the one-story structure. The weathered siding snagged my shirt as I slid along the exterior of the building, and I had to pause to unhook myself before moving to the closest window. Maintenance was a never-ending issue here, part of the reason Martinez was lobbying for the structures to be removed.

  With large windows on all four sides of the building, the room was well illuminated and I had no problem seeing the interior. The older, rustic furniture was askew. Several of the dining room chairs along with the sofa and a recliner were upended in the large open room. To the side was a kitchen with a bar littered with red solo cups and empty liquor bottles. I could see most of the room and inhaled deeply when, despite the evidence of a party gone bad, there were no bodies. There were still the bedrooms to search, inaccessible from the dock.

  Moving around to the door, I checked the handle and found it unlocked. Lifting the lever with the tip of my index finger to preserve any prints, I pushed the door open and entered the room. Swinging the pistol from side to side, I cleared the main room and the bathroom. There were two more doors, both closed, off a short hallway. So far, there had been no sign of foul play,
but as I kicked open the first door, the smell of death hit me.

  Before looking for the source, I cleared the other room and, finding nothing living other than a couple of small crabs, I holstered my weapon and pulled the mag light from my webbed belt. Back in the first bedroom, I moved carefully to the bed, watching where I stepped so as not to compromise any evidence. The sheets were tossed to the side and there was a blood trail leading to the far corner. I moved around the bed and, there on the floor, huddled in a ball was a girl.

  Between the smell and the pool of blood around her, I gagged and went back through the living room to the deck. Backup was at least a half-hour away, probably more. I would have plenty of time to collect myself and have another look. There was no doubt that she was dead.

  I called Martinez first. Misty had been found in the park and she was alive. After she had run off, she was out of my jurisdiction. The dead body lying on the floor in the room between the wood-framed walls and me was clearly inside the park. He didn’t like it, but I could hear the, “at least it’s in Stiltsville,” tone in his voice. He grudgingly acknowledged that this one was not going to be pawned off on Miami-Dade. My next call was to Grace Herrera. I would have loved to make amends with Justine by giving her the scoop on the dead body, but I had to follow procedure. She took down the GPS coordinates and said she would assemble the troops.

  I had some time and texted Justine. There was no response so I suspected that she was out training on her paddleboard. I would have to deal with the day shift crew and Vance would probably be the Medical Examiner. I had no problem with any of them, I was just more comfortable with Justine and Sid.

  With my calls made, I knew it was time to go back inside before the cavalry showed up. Once they got here, I would be in charge, but still pushed to the side—at least until the body was released by the ME and the forensics bagged and tagged. Taking a deep breath, I pulled out my phone, pressed the camera icon, and went back inside.

  Moving slowly now, I worked my way around the perimeter of the main room. There would be plenty of fingerprints and evidence gathered later, but this was my one chance to try to reenact what had happened here.

  From a quick count of the cups lying on the bar top and floor, I guessed that at least two-dozen people had been here. Thinking back to being nearly overrun by the Temptress last night, that was about the number of partiers that were aboard.

  I could guess the drinkers had been young from the empty bottles; vodka and fruit-flavored sodas seemed to be the drink of choice. Aside from looking like a pack of high school football players had run through it, I didn’t see anything else in the main room. I took only a cursory glance inside the bathroom, noting that at least one person had tossed their stomach into the toilet. I guessed that if I looked, signs of several more would probably be on the dock from those that chummed the fish.

  The empty bedroom had been used and I found a bra and panties tossed to the floor. Without touching them, I confirmed that they weren’t torn. At least whatever had happened might have been consensual. I heard the sound of a boat approaching and looked out the window to see one of Miami-Dade’s police boats coming in hot.

  Taking another deep breath, I entered the bedroom. This was a different scene than the first room. I could only imagine what had happened here. When I had looked earlier, I had focused on the body, now I scanned the rest of the room. The sheets were torn off the bed in the direction of the body. There was blood sprayed across the everything in its path. The pattern reminded me of the VIP room at the club. My stomach turned at what I suspected I would see if I took a closer look at the girl.

  There was no choice. I looked out the window and saw the boat had pulled up to the dock. I would only have a few undisturbed moments before Miami-Dade descended on the crime scene. Moving around the bed, dodging what looked like an access hatch to underneath the house and being careful where I stepped, I squatted down to look at the girl. A floral print dress lay in a pile across the floor that looked like the same material as the piece I had seen on the piling outside the house—I had no doubt it had been ripped from the girl’s body.

  A noise from behind pulled my attention away from the body.

  “This how you found her?” Grace asked.

  “Yeah, haven’t touched anything.”

  “What brought you out here?”

  “Martinez asked me to patrol out here today. Just a coincidence.”

  “Funny how they seem to find you.” It was Grace’s partner.

  Before I could respond, I heard Vance’s voice. The hipster wannabe fly fisherman had been after me to take him out and I remembered Chico saying that the bite was hot now. I only hoped, if he asked, it would be out of earshot of Dick Tracy. Now that the Medical Examiner was here, it was his scene until he released the body and I stepped back to allow him to proceed. I wanted to move away, already knowing what had happened, but I remained glued to the spot. I felt someone behind me and turned to see that it was Grace.

  Calling over to one of the techs working the room, Vance asked them to take pictures before moving the body. Once it was photographed from all angles, the CSIs stood and nodded to him. Slowly, he extended the girl’s legs and eased her into a prone position. The only thing that saved me was what I guessed was the day-old crime. The blood had dried and the girl’s skin had taken on a pearly texture that had no resemblance of life.

  From where I stood, across the room, several things were clear. Grace and I started a running dialogue under our breaths as Vance dictated the same facts to his assistant.

  “Bruises are pre-mortem,” Grace started. “We’ll need a rape kit.”

  I guessed that was only for the DNA. There was no doubt from the signs of struggle and the abuse to the girl’s body that if there had been penetration, it hadn’t been consensual. “Maybe they’ll get something from her fingernails.”

  “Probably. Looks like your girl is going to have a busy night.”

  Vance probed the girl’s liver, concluding as I had that the murder happened last night. He paused to calculate the time of death and came up with midnight—about an hour after the Temptress had passed me.

  It was becoming clear now. Stiltsville had been built to avoid the eyes and ears of the law. My guess was that Alex and Donna, in order to keep the party going, had moved it here. His instructions to the dockmaster had probably been to stay out all night, but the party had gotten out of hand. I thought back to the other girl I had seen last night with makeup hiding the bruises on her face. I had actually been relieved to see her, hoping it was the girl from the beach. If I had found my two live girls, now I had to figure out who the dead one was.

  “Bag her up. I’m done for now,” Vance said. He rose and turned to me. “I guess this one’s yours. Want to join me for the autopsy?”

  I didn’t, but there was something I needed to know. “Can you hold on a minute before you bag her?”

  Vance nodded to his assistant and the deputy stopped.

  “Just a minute.” I left the room and, avoiding the numbered cards placed by the other investigators, walked out the open door, down the dock, and hopped onto my boat. From the watertight compartment I removed the medallion I had bought yesterday, put it in my pocket, and went back inside.

  “Here,” I handed the chain to Vance.

  “What’s this?”

  “Try it on for the murder weapon.”

  He gave me a strange look and we all moved to the body. Leaning over, he held the chain a few inches from the dead girl’s neck. “Could be, but where’d you get it?”

  “This one’s just a knockoff I bought at a souvenir store. Alex has the real one.”

  “I’ll get a subpoena and have it collected,” Grace said.

  “Let’s hold off on that. That chain’s been handled by at least two dozen people.” I pulled my phone out and showed her the pictures and described the party I had seen last night. One clearly showed the group of boys dancing around with what looked to be the murder weapon.r />
  When Vance and the body left, everyone except the techs quickly followed. I took off as well and started constructing a timeline on my way back to Adams Key. I wasn’t done for the day, but my uniform was. It was a brief stop, except when Zero alerted Becky that I was there.

  “That bitch stole my dang phone.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t catch her in time,” I started to explain, trying to think of an easy way to tell her where it was. “She tossed it.”

  “You got it, right? All my baby pictures and whatnot are on it,” she said.

  “It’s in the bottom of the bay. I’m really sorry, but I’ll help you get them from the Cloud and see if Martinez will replace it.” We both knew he wouldn’t. His issues with me were minor compared to Ray. In charge of maintenance on the islands, he was always needing money to keep the buildings and campgrounds maintained in an environment that did all it could to reclaim them.

  “Shoot. I got the Cloud thing. See what you can do with the boss.”

  I thought I had gotten off easy and took the opportunity to head over to my house for a quick shower and change of clothes. Cleaned up, I packed an overnight bag to replenish what I had used from the drawer at Justine’s apartment. It was one thing to use the space, but we weren’t far enough along to ask her to do my laundry.

  Taking a quick look to see if Becky was still following me, I went for the boat and managed to toss the lines and idle into the channel before Zero found me.

  16

  It had been just past noon when I’d left the murder site in Stiltsville. Now, with the sun dropping in the sky, I headed across the bay to Bayfront Park and the inevitable interrogation by Martinez—all so that I could have use of the truck. I knew there was little chance of getting by him and his cameras.