“Where you go, I go,” he said. “A car will be waiting at Trans Global for both of us.”
I glanced over at him and asked, “Who’s supplying the car?”
“Not who you think,” Bender replied. “A private contractor I know.”
I handed him my phone and told him to text Linda with the message, “Meet me for lunch at Area 31?” He sent it and a few minutes later handed it back and said, “She said ‘okay.’”
We rode in silence for the next hour and were soon entering the mouth of the Miami River, downtown Miami’s skyline soaring up from the edge of the water. The river isn’t so much a river anymore, not in the truest sense of the word. Oh, it still has its source, deep in the Everglades, and the mouth of the river is still in the same place, where it was once settled by the Tequesta, but it’s now the home of the bustling Port of Miami. Today, once you pass through the heart of the city and Little Havana, which grew up around it, it’s been dredged, diked, and straightened for most of its six-mile course, following a perfectly straight line northwest alongside US-27.
Go-fast boats aren’t an uncommon sight in Miami, and most are custom painted just like this one and easy to tell one from another. I’d removed the name from the transom a year ago, changing it from Beech’s Knot Cream to Fire in the Hull, but the distinctive paint scheme was just like it had been when Beech owned it, canary yellow, cerulean blue, and lime green over a fire-engine-red hull. A gaudier boat in Miami would be hard to find.
Arriving at the Trans Global docks, I reversed the engines and backed into a canal on the south side of the river, tying off at their little-used small boat dock under an overhanging bald cypress, one of the few still standing in Miami.
Anthony’s woodworking shop was just a few blocks from here, so after checking in with a friend at Trans Global, we walked out front, where a black Escalade sat idling in the parking lot.
Both front doors opened and two tall black men got out. The driver stayed by the door and the passenger came around the hood and extended his hand to Bender. Bender shook hands and pulled the man into a shoulder bump.
Turning to me, Bender said, “Jesse, I’d like you to meet David Norton, former Chicago narco detective. David, this is Jesse McDermitt.”
At first glance, the man had appeared younger than he did now that he was closer. And vaguely familiar, I thought as he removed his dark wraparound sunglasses and turned toward me. Both he and the driver were tall and fit looking. Both with shaved heads, wearing dark slacks and jackets over button-down shirts. Norton, the taller of the two, was just under my six foot three.
“Pleasure to meet you again, Gunny,” he said, showing a perfect set of white teeth. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“You two know each other?” Bender asked.
I shook Norton’s hand and said, “I remember an armorer named David Norton. Three Six?”
He nodded and turned to Bender. “I worked in the armory at Lejeune. Third Battalion, Sixth Marines, must be eleven or twelve years ago. During a weapons inspection, the Gunny here chewed my ass over a speck of dirt on a weapon we rarely employed anymore.”
“So, being an asshole has been a lifetime occupation for you?” Bender asked me.
“Yeah, pretty much,” I replied. “Bet you never got a gig on an inspection after that, did you, Norton?”
“Absolutely not,” he replied, with a wide grin. “You guys have us for as long as you need. Where to?”
Walking to the car, I said, “First stop is just a few blocks away, Northwest Fourteenth Street and Thirty-First Avenue.”
I climbed in the back with Bender, who explained that Norton had helped him out on a case just before he’d left Chicago to join the Secret Service in Washington.
“I didn’t help him out,” Norton corrected. “I was a flatfoot on the south side who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Bender was about to leave and didn’t want to be wrapped up in all the paperwork and testimony. He dumped the whole case on me and made out like I’d solved it all on my own.”
“You had all the answers,” Bender said. “You just didn’t know the questions yet.”
As we backed out of the parking lot and crossed the short bridge where River Drive becomes Delaware Parkway, Norton turned in his seat, placing a beefy arm on the console and said, “So, what’s the case you guys are on?”
Before Bender could say anything, I said, “Case? We’re just picking up a couple of boxes a friend made in his cabinet shop.”
Norton looked at me, then Bender, his mouth widening into a big, toothy grin. “Uh-huh.”
I looked at Bender and got an almost imperceptible nod. Truth is, I know Bender’s a good judge of people. So am I. Which is why I took his nod to mean he trusted Norton.
“What do you know about anything Zoe Pound is involved in lately? Do you know Sonny Beech?”
“Beech?” Norton responded, his curiosity piqued. “He disappeared without a trace about a year ago. Word on the street at the time said there was a shooting. Right back there at what used to be his warehouse. Nobody I know has spoken his name since summer. Zoe Pound has gone to ground lately. About two weeks now, no headlines, no shootings, no heads on pikes. They’re still running drugs and a little prostitution on the side, but for the most part they’ve been really quiet since the beheading thing.”
Just then, the driver, who had yet to say a word, pulled into a small crushed-shell parking lot and said, “Schultz Cabinets?”
“This is the place,” I said, opening the door. “Open the back, would ya?”
Bender and Norton climbed out of the Escalade as well. I made a quick survey of the area. Two empty lots, overgrown and fenced, and a shuttered business on the opposite corner. Though I could hear activity two blocks away on the riverfront, it was quiet here, no cars on the streets or people walking around.
A neighborhood in decline, I thought. I noticed the other two men made the same quick survey. We walked toward the front door of the business, while the driver opened the back doors of the big SUV and stood by them, also looking around the area. It becomes habit in some occupations, I guess.
“Hey, Jesse,” Anthony said from behind the worn countertop as I stepped in and removed my sunglasses.
The front room was small, with a large window facing the lot that was covered with heavy steel bars. Inside were a few displays of handmade wooden cabinets. Anthony specialized in making odd-size and shape cabinets which couldn’t be found at the big box stores. He had a lot of customers who were amateur boat builders and restorers, as well as the usual kitchen remodelers and builders.
Standing up to his full six-foot-six height, he came around the counter. He always reminded me of an old buzzard, his head cocked forward on narrow shoulders, with a long, hooked nose being the most prominent feature after his height. Though he was three inches taller than me, I probably had sixty pounds on the man. He still wore his hair in a crew cut, the remnants of a past in the Army. He was mostly gray, except for a little around his collar.
“Hi, Anthony,” I said, taking the hand he offered. “Good to see you again. How’s Anne?”
“Mean as a cottonmouth and twice as deadly,” he said, glancing at Bender and Norton.
“These are a couple of friends, Paul and David. Guys, meet Anthony Schultz, the best boat cabinetmaker in all of Miami.”
They shook hands all around and Anthony invited us back to the shop. Walking through a heavy door, the dim sound of work being performed that could barely be heard in the lobby now grew louder.
We passed through another door at the end of the hall into the workshop, where Anthony’s crew of four young men were busy cutting, milling, and sanding, the sound of power tools filling my ears. The noise and smell of the wood dust reminded me of my childhood, helping Pap build boats.
“Yours are over here,” Anthony said, leading us to a corner where two narrow cabinets stood on end, each having a full-length door, which was coated in white fiberglass, like
a boat’s hull. I touched the spot where I knew a hidden latch in the back would release the door. It opened smoothly, with the quiet hiss of hydraulically dampened spring-loaded hinges. The interior revealed a cloth-lined recess that would fit the titanium stand now stored in the rafters of one of the bunkhouses. I inspected it closely, using a micrometer and yardstick that Anthony handed me. It was perfect.
I opened the other one in the same manner and caught Norton’s eyes widening just a fraction of an inch. Bender didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. That, or he was very good at hiding it. I inspected the clearances on this one even closer and found it to be as flawless as the first.
“Great work, man,” I said as I closed the second cabinet’s door.
“Easy when I get such detailed drawings,” Anthony replied. “If you ever get tired of fishing, you could make a decent wage in the design field.”
I looked out over the work area. His workers were all young men, one black, two Hispanic, and one white. All were busy performing various tasks, learning the basics from a master carpenter. It was a good trade to learn. A skill that might get them out of the neighborhood. One day, one of them might be Anthony’s competition, but he never let that stop him from sharing his talents and secrets.
“Nobody touched these but me,” Anthony said, drawing my attention away from the workshop.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” I handed him a small roll of hundred-dollar bills, which disappeared into the front pocket of his coveralls without being counted.
The four of us each took an end of the two cabinets and carried them out to the waiting Escalade. Loading them and closing the doors, I turned to Anthony. “Y’all come down sometime. Rusty has a cook that performs magic with some Jamaican spices and herbs.”
“I heard about him,” Anthony said, bobbing his head on a long skinny neck. “Even up here in the big city. We’ll have to do that.”
“It’s all true, brother,” I said, shaking his hand. “Thanks again.”
We climbed in the car and Norton immediately turned in his seat and looked at me. “I recognized what that’s for, you know.”
“Well, now I’ll just have to kill you,” I said with a grin.
“What?” Bender asked.
“Need to know,” I told him. “And right now, you don’t.”
“Where to?” Norton said, through his big toothy grin.
I glanced at my watch and said, “The Epic. How about you join me for lunch, Norton. Bender here has to go see someone down in Homestead.”
Ten minutes after unloading the cabinets onto the boat, the driver dropped me and Norton at the luxurious Epic Hotel on the corner of Biscayne and Brickell, then pulled back out onto US-1 with Bender in the front seat, headed south.
“Who are we meeting?” Norton asked.
“An FDLE agent by the name of Linda Rosales. Know her?”
“Heard about her,” he replied, as we walked across the expansive patio area to the front doors. “Good cop. You always meet cops in such high-priced places?”
“Only when I’m in Miami,” I replied. In the lobby, we boarded the elevator and I pressed the button for the sixteenth floor. We rode up in silence with two couples.
We got out at the terrace bar of Area 31 Restaurant and I looked around and found Linda sitting at a table off to the side. Not the best view of the waterfront, but a commanding view of the rest of the terrace. She had her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and was wearing a light grey skirt and jacket, with a pale red, almost pink blouse beneath it. And a Glock, I thought.
I introduced Norton to her as we sat down. A waiter was ready to take our drink orders, leaving a menu for each of us. I set mine aside as Linda leaned over and gave me a kiss.
“So what brings the Old Man of the Sea to the big city?”
Norton grinned at the public display.
I just smiled and said, “A boat.”
She laughed at my joke. A hearty laugh. “Good one,” she said.
The waiter arrived and we placed our orders. Linda ordered crudo, a local Cuban dish of grouper ceviche. Norton went for a hamburger and I got my usual blackened mahi sandwich.
After the waiter left, I said, “I thought you two ought to meet. David here is a private contractor and has a close ear to the ground, I think.” Linda looked at me, then at Norton.
“Actually, Agent Rosales, I do mostly security work.”
“Just Linda,” she said with a disarming smile. “What kind of security?”
“Some alarm and surveillance work and the occasional private tactical training, but mostly my team is contracted to provide protection for high-value clients. Usually privately, but sometimes the city offers up a contract.”
“Tell me what you’ve learned about Zoe Pound,” I said.
“I have to use the restroom,” she said, standing up. “Give me just a minute.”
As Norton and I sat back down, we both watched her walk across the terrace. “She’ll have my complete background on her Blackberry in two minutes, won’t she?” Norton said.
“Anything you want kept secret?” I asked. My offering up Norton to Linda as an informant in the way I did got the desired results. She’d let me know anything she learned about the man.
He grinned and replied, “I’m an open book, Gunny.”
Chapter Eleven
“You served together?” Linda asked after we’d finished lunch and come down to the parking lot, where she’d left her gray Ford sedan. “That’s how you know each other?”
“Yes and no,” I replied. “We’d known each other briefly in the Corps a dozen years ago. He knows Bender from when they were both Chicago cops. Bender’s the new guy I told you about on Deuce’s team. Former Secret Service.”
“Well, Norton checked out clean,” she said, glancing at him waiting for me by the idling Escalade. “Real clean, in fact. His company was hired by the State several times and he worked alongside one of my counterparts a few years ago.” Then she leaned in close enough that I could smell the scent of her hair. Frangipani, I thought, while she whispered seductively, “Do you have to go back today?”
Do I? The invitation was more than a little tempting.
“Yeah,” I finally stammered. “Kim’s alone on the island.”
She smiled and said, “This weekend, then?”
This weekend, I thought. Shit, Eve’s bringing her husband and my grandson.
“My other daughter and her family are coming down,” I blurted out. Then recovering and not wanting her to think I didn’t want her to come, I added, “We’ll be a bit crowded on the island.”
“They can have the house and we’ll sleep in that luxurious stateroom of yours.”
We both wanted it, that I was sure of. I gazed into her smoky, dark eyes and said, “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”
It must have surprised her a bit. “Really?”
“Why not?” I said. “But we promise each other that no matter what happens, we stay friends.”
Getting in the back seat of the Escalade with Bender, he started to fill me in on what he’d learned from Deuce. Like a hound on a scent trail, he began baying in short sentences before we even backed out of the parking spot. “A go-fast boat was used. They took Beech to Haiti. Deuce doesn’t think there’s any connection. Not to Zoe Pound, anyway.”
“There might not be,” I said thoughtfully, trying to slow his roll just a little. “All we have is conjecture and even that’s pretty thin. The only connection is if your hunch is right, and I’m not convinced they’re trying to draw me out.”
“Then why did you choose to come here in Beech’s Cigarette?”
Norton suddenly turned around in his seat. “You have Beech’s boat?”
I glared at Bender and then glanced to Norton. “It’s not his anymore.” Turning back to Bender, I added, “Fishing, remember?”
I shrugged it off after that. No sense in bucking the wind. Norton was good, I felt comfortable in trusting him, more based on my gut ins
tinct than Linda’s summary in the parking lot. It was obvious that Bender did. I just don’t like a lot of people knowing about my private life.
“What’d you learn from Rosales?” Bender asked.
“FDLE has a lead on one of the guys that killed the Tolivers,” I said after a moment.
“How come we don’t have that lead?”
“This is sounding more and more interesting,” Norton said from the front seat, climbing higher on the seat back. “Where to now?”
“Back to Trans Global,” I replied. I reached into my pocket and got a card from a little metal case I always carry and handed it to Norton. “You hear anything at all about Beech, or Zoe Pound, call me, okay?”
“You got it, Gunny. And thanks for the intro to Agent Rosales.”
When we crossed over the little bridge just before Trans Global’s parking lot, I glanced down to where the boat was tied up. There was a black woman standing beside it, as if waiting.
We got out of the SUV and said our goodbyes, promising to stay in touch. I still hadn’t learned the driver’s name. When they pulled out of the lot, Bender and I walked around the side of the building to the gate and took the path down to the dock.
The woman still stood there as we walked out onto the dock. She was wearing a blue skirt that hung loosely to her ankles and a flower print blouse in hues of bright orange, yellow, and blue, with a long beige coat hanging open.
Smiling at us as we approached, I saw that she was an older woman, probably in her sixties, with a broad, flat nose and high cheekbones. Her skin was the color of ebony and only slightly lined, and her hair was a wild mane of long braids. Not dreads like some island men wear, but each braid carefully crafted and hanging below her shoulders. She was probably very beautiful in her youth. It was her eyes that got my attention, though. She had clear, pale blue eyes that darted around. When she fixed those eyes on me, a charge of electricity seemed to course through my body.
“Dis is yer boat,” she said, in that singsong accent of the people of the Caribbean. But it wasn’t a question.
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