by Scott Cook
“A tree hugging modern day Robin Hood… from the hood?” I inquired with an arched brow.
Marsha laughed, “Wow! I think I’ve got the right girl. Yes, it’s something like that. I grew up in Southwest Florida. Not on Sanibel, I can assure you.”
She spoke in a well-educated tone with just a hint of something… I wouldn’t call it an accent, exactly. More of a mode of speech. Either she was a mind reader or something must have showed on my face because Marsha nodded and smiled.
“I got a grant to attend Florida State,” She explained. “First person in my family to go to college. Then I did my graduate work at Brown University, in Rhode Island. Somehow, the Ivy League thing and the New England influence smoothed out my speech. And I’ve been referred to as High yella more than once in my career.”
I tilted my head. I’d heard that term once or twice in my life, but I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. Again she read my mind or at least my face.
“It’s a nicer way of calling somebody a house nigger,” Marsha admitted candidly. “A black person who affects a white attitude in order to be more easily accepted by whites. Old slavery term that’s sometimes still used derogatorily today.”
I scoffed, “You’re not speaking Ebonics doesn’t make you less black. Any more than me not talking in the slang of my Miami Cuban upbringing makes me less Hispanic.”
“Exactly,” Marsha said, hoisting her mug and sipping. “There are many people in the world who like to pigeonhole everyone and everything. That’s part of why I asked about your politics. Occupational hazard, I suppose.”
I took a deep pull of the rich hard coffee, “I’m not affiliated. I guess independent. I like to evaluate each issue on its own and not filter my opinions through a party. If I had to describe my politics, which I really don’t take much interest in, I’m socially liberal and fiscally conservative. Scott is the same way. In fact, I borrowed that description from him, but it fits.”
“Fair and balanced,” Marsha commented with what sounded like approval.
“Yup, just like Fox news,” I deadpanned.
She laughed heartily, “God help us… all right, well. To sort of set the stage, what do you know about the Ten Thousand Islands?”
“Not a whole lot,” I admitted with what I thought was remarkable calmness. Again with the Ten Thousand Islands… “What I do know is that they’re a collection of mangrove islands that start around the Marco Island area and run southward along Florida Bay and inland where they blend with the Everglades.”
“That’s right,” Marsha said. “They’re also the site of some interesting history, good back country fishing and an environmentally protected area… albeit controversial. Controversial in that developers, homesteaders and other groups are constantly lobbying to have them opened up. To allow more construction, more research and even to allow the purchase of land or whole islands by private citizens.”
“But isn’t the Ten G’s a National Park?” I asked.
“Part of them are,” Marsha explained. “The northern parts, between Cape Romano and Everglades City, for example. Then some of it is also located in Everglades National Park. Yet there are plenty of islets and even true islands that aren’t protected. Believe it or not, there are a handful of old timers, grandchildren of the old Florida cow hunters and dope runners and whatever that still squat on remote places out there.”
“So how does this concern you and by extension, me?”
Marsha stared at the nearly vanished sun for a moment, swallowed a healthy sip from her mug and frowned, “From Cape Romano to Cape Sable is virtually untouched and undeveloped Florida land. The islands themselves are a natural filtration system that allows runoff from the Glades into Florida Bay and provides it with a lot of nutrients. This nutrient rich water then travels into the Keys and is partially responsible for the amount of fish and the ecology there as well. Simply, it’s a vast and very delicate ecosystem that we humans have already screwed up enough. The last thing that Florida needs is for modern development to encroach. For people to run water and sewer and power down there and even start farming near the Shark River and Cape Sable.”
“Okay… I agree.”
“The point, Lisa… is that there is a movement to change that,” Marsha said. “As you probably know, Florida has been a victim to big developer money for over a hundred years now. For the last few decades, sanctions have been put in place to stop it, and it’s worked… but nothing is a hundred percent. There are organizations in this state, organizations with political backing, that are moving to annex some of the land south of Everglades City. And it’s not simply for the purpose of providing jobs, as is always the primary reason for big development in this state.”
“I’d think you’d be behind that sort of thing,” I commented.
“Sure, if done properly,” Marsha rebutted.
“Okay… but can anyone grab up any of the land in the Ten G’s area anymore?” I asked. “I’m no expert, but from what I understand there are many layers of protection, from Collier and Monroe County up to the state level and even the Federal government.”
Marsha drained her mug, “Watch.”
The upper rim of the sun dipped below the horizon, but nothing else happened, although I thought she was hoping to see a green flash.
“Doesn’t happen often, the flash,” Marsha stated. “But it’s amazing when it does… okay, so on the surface of things, you’re right… however, there’s a loophole that some developers and politicians, mainly on the other side of the aisle from me, might be able to use as leverage.”
I gulped down the last lukewarm dregs of my coffee and waited.“The Native Americans,” Marsha stated. “The Seminole and the remnants of the Calusa. They hold a claim over a great deal of that land, over the entire Everglades region, in fact.”
“And you think they could try to pressure the state to release some of that land and make it available for sale?” I inquired.
“It’s possible. There are two distinct and established groups in the Everglades. Descended from what historians call the Glades culture. The Seminole and the Miccosukee. Then there are the remaining Calusa, an elusive group that’s been dwindling for a long time. Generally speaking, of course, all of these tribes are pro-preservation.”
“Then I don’t see your problem.”
“There is another group, or loose association you might say,” Marsha continued. “Native Americans who still maintain that all of Florida south of Lake Okeechobee is theirs. These include some Seminole, Miccosukee, Tequesta and of course, the Calusa. It’s these folks who could be an issue and be the lever that drives the wedge deeper into the Glades.”
In a flash of insight I said: “And you feel this has already happened. Somebody is trying to convince these people to ally themselves politically. So they gain more control over the land…”
“And then have it stolen from them, legally,” Marsha said tightly, “and I believe that it comes down to a pair of men. There’s a Republican senator for Florida named Maxwell Thorne. He’s always been a friend to Florida’s economic growth. He’s stated on more than one occasion that the Everglades people could benefit from further development on the Southwest coast.”
“You said a pair of men.”
Marsha nodded, “I think we need a refill, it’s starting to get chilly. Yes, a local man, fairly famous. Purported to be one of the last true-blooded Calusa, as it turns out.”
I suddenly knew. I had to swallow a lump in my throat, “Would that man be named Richard Eagle Feather by any chance?”
“He is,” Marsha said, getting to her feet and holding out her empty hand for my cup. “I’m very pleased that you guessed that. Can you also guess what I need from you?”
I handed the mug over, “To find him. He’s disappeared as of Thursday night.”
Marsha grinned, “I’ve got the right girl. Yes, that’s part of it. I also need you to help me find the link between Mr. Eagle Feather and Senator Thorne. I can provide you with
plenty of documentation as to Thorne’s political connections as well as those in the private sector. He wants to acquire a section of the Ten Thousand Islands and we cannot allow that to happen, Lisa. Think about it while I go make you another coffee.”
There was a tingling of excitement in my belly. If there was any doubt left in my mind regarding the possibility of coincidences on an active case, it had been blown completely away. Scott had been right. This thing was far larger and more serious than either of us thought.
21
At the request of Senator Thorne, my weekend at Patrick Space Force Base was cut short. Our little demonstration regarding his security was very effective. It was also something of a job interview for me, strangely enough.
Apparently the Senator, although he had no idea of our little abduction op, had expressed an interest in meeting me to Colonel Warner Grayson. Before we retired for the evening, he asked if I could come and visit him at his condo in Marco Island. He explained, or rather alluded to, the fact that his business was urgent and that he’d like to see me Sunday around lunchtime if possible. I didn’t like it when clients or even potential clients got cryptic. Yet when a United States Senator wanted things done a certain way… you did them a certain way.
Colonel Grayson said he’d be happy to let me duck out a day early. So I spent the rest of Saturday at the base doing a weapons qualification, a physical fitness readiness test and spent several hours co-piloting a C130 Hercules up to NAS Jacksonville to deliver a mixed load of Marines, Army and Navy folks as well as practicing my flying skills and doing so in a far different sort of aircraft than I’d trained on. By the time I got back to the base it was nearly eight in the evening and I called Lisa.
“Hey baby!” She enthused when she picked up. She was always so glad to hear from me and I had to admit that it was heartwarming. A sentiment I shared.
“Hey yourself, beautiful,” I said. “How’s it going?”
She laughed, “Holy Christ… do I have a buttload to share with you. How’s the Navy life?”
“Swell,” I said. “I also have a… buttload… to tell you. You go first, though.”
She filled me in on her meeting at the Randell Research Center and about Sharon’s date. I laughed my ass off.
“Is she back yet? Should we console Juan or what?”
“Dude… she called me and I went over to Doc Ford’s. I’m there now, actually. Doctor Pak is really nice, but Sharon made it clear that dinner and drinks was all he’d be getting.”
“Wow,” I was still laughing. “How’d the meeting with the Congresswoman go?”
“Yet another tale… when do you get released?”
“It’s not prison… I’m actually headed back to Orlando right now,” I explained. “I’m coming down tomorrow morning. I have an appointment in Marco Island. I also want to get caught up to speed and see if we can make some headway. How’s Sharon otherwise?”
“Okay… this whole thing with her dad and now Rick being kidnapped… it’s a lot for her.”
I harrumphed. I felt bad for Sharon, I really did, yet I was getting tired of how tight-lipped she was being, “Has she talked any more about things?”
“Not really,” Lisa said. “A bit about her dad when she was little… did you know her mother was murdered?”
“She told you that?”
“Yeah… I was shocked. I didn’t even know her mom was dead, let alone murdered! Hell, I didn’t know much of anything about her family until a few days ago.”
I sighed, “Yeah… I did know about her mom. A little. Just that the circumstances were mysterious and that no one was ever caught. There weren’t even any real suspects. By then, her father had been gone for five years so he wasn’t likely.”
“When do you head down? I’m at the Sanibel Island Beach Resort and I’ve gotten us a suite.”
“Look at you. Must be nice to be loaded.”
“Well… I have a rich sugar daddy who buys me anything I want.”
“I see.”
“At least if he ever wants to interact with my special woman bits.”
“Jesus… you’re already spending too much time with Sharon. I’ll probably head south at daybreak. Try to hit Malfunction Junction in Tampa before eight. Probably be there by tennish. Then I want you to tell me all about Congresswoman Davies.”
“Well, the quick version for now is that she’s smart, likable and is definitely connected to the whole Calusa thing. She also seems to think that a certain Senator is her adversary. She wants to preserve the Ten Thousand Islands from development and he wants to allow it. A lot more to the story, but that’s the gist.”
A tingle crept up my spine and lodged in my hairline, “A… senator? Did she happen to mention his name?”
“Thorne. Maxwell Thorne.”
The tingle now blossomed into a shiver that traveled back down the length of my body. My mouth was dry and I had to clear my throat, “Well, well, well… isn’t this a tangled web we weave…”
“Why? You sound a little freaked.”
I scoffed, “Not freaked, but surprised. Although maybe I shouldn’t be. Lisa… the reason I’m driving down tomorrow morning is that I have a meeting with Senator Thorne on Marco.”
“What the hell…?”
I frowned, “You know… something else just occurred to me. Something I guess I forgot about the other night, but I wonder… remember those two jackballs in the canoe? What were their names…? Deac and…”
“Troy. What about them?” Lisa asked.
“Remember as they were enjoying their marijuana cigarette— “
She chuckled, “Really pops?”
I grinned, “As they were sparkin’ the owl… the one guy, Troy I think, started talking about ‘her.’ How she ought to appreciate them. How she was old enough to be their mama… but how she wasn’t hard on the eyes? Those guys were maybe in their early to mid-twenties… so the woman they were talking about, the one who might have sent them on that mission to begin with, could be in her mid to late forties.”
There was a long pause, “What are you saying?”
“Nothing really… how would you describe Marsha Davies?”
“Scott… there’s no way…”
I waited.
Lisa sighed, “Well… she’s the right age. Quite attractive and fit… you can’t be suggesting that Congresswoman Davies hired those idiots!?”
“I’m not saying anything now… but all this is certainly stewing in coinky-dink.”
Lisa was quiet for a moment, seeming to ponder what I’d said, “Then who hired the guys who kidnapped Sharon’s uncle? For that matter, who hired the two dudes who shot up Sharon’s place? I mean I know it was Big Daddy whatever… but why? And who killed Proust? Not to mention who hired him in the first place…? Siiiigggghhh…!”
“Good questions,” I said. “My guess is that we’re dealing with at least two opposing factions. Somehow I doubt Big Daddy Walker is the mastermind in any of this. Hmmm… maybe it’s more than two factions. It may be time to up the game.”
“How so?”
I sighed, “Not sure yet. I’m nearly at the house now, though. I’ll check in on things there and figure something out. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Because Lisa and I were both out of town, and because Sharon was with her and her house was in need of a little repair work, Morgan and Rocky had been bundled off to a former neighbor’s place. When I lived at the Woodlands apartments over near Chickasaw Trail and Valencia College Lane, my upstairs neighbor had been a retired nurse. Barbara “Babs” Olsen was in her early seventies and had served in Vietnam as an Army nurse. She was kind, thoughtful and loved the boys and was pleased to have any opportunity to watch them. Sometimes they’d go over to her place and on occasion, she’d come and stay at my house for convenience.
This was not one of those times, though. When I walked into the house through the garage, it was oddly silent and lonely without my four-legged buddies or Lisa to greet me. I deposited
my sea bag on my bed and began to pack another, more civilian-like bag for my trip down to Sanibel and surrounding points. As I loaded in appropriate clothing, I began to ponder the situation we were in once more. Perhaps there were more than two factions. Clearly, there were the two goons who buried the pottery and who worked for “her.” Whoever that was. The “she” in question could also be a middleman… middlewoman. There was Proust, who was either working with those guys or for somebody else entirely. There were the surprisingly large number of men involved in Rick’s kidnapping down at the gas station in Collier County. They must work for someone other than the person who hired the folks up near my area.
Then two guys with guns hit Sharon’s house? That made absolutely no sense at all. Why? What would she have to do with anything?
The obvious answer was her father, who was connected to Rick Eagle Feather and who was connected to the other two graves that were robbed. But then there was the Big Daddy Walker angle… why would he get involved in this?
It was possible that Derrick Walker, a notorious and notoriously slippery drug kingpin in Central Florida would have a grudge against Sharon. Although her relatively recent promotion to lieutenant moved her out of vice and into a more authoritative position directly under Harrison O’Malley… meaning she oversaw all divisions rather than simply operate primarily in drug interdiction… well, she’d no doubt been a thorn in Walker’s side for years.
“Yeah, but you don’t kill a cop like that,” I said aloud to my empty bedroom. I zipped up the bag and stared at the far wall for a long moment. “Not in some outlandish thirties gangster movie way…”
