by Tom Corcoran
“We’ll know the truth,” said Sam Wheeler. “After that, we’ll follow our noses.”
“Well put,” said Sheriff Liska. “Alex, thank you for asking.”
“More on Rampant Eagle,” said Duffy Lee. “I found a link to a Vanity Fair article about billions of impounded Iraqi dollars that disappeared when we sent the money back there for reconstruction. Cash was being tossed around like beach balls, and the period in question matches the time-in-country of both Cormier and Stinson. And get this. It also matches the time when troops from Nicaragua were sent home. Then, right about the time the money dried up, the Dominican Republic withdrew its troops, flew them out.”
“And you placed Cormier in both those countries doing his so-called volunteer work?”
“Where he could reconnect with one or two bad colonels.”
“If Fixler was in Iraq back then,” said Liska, “we’ve got a trifecta. Anything on that go-fast boat stolen in Belize?”
“Nothing official, but I found an unclassified blog on it,” said Duffy Lee. “The boat was a Keeltec Yachts triple-inboard equipped with a constant-transmit GPS and a disconnect alarm. Someone was able to duplicate the signal, install a substitute ignition and engine management system and make off with the boat. They left behind the old system hooked to a solar-charged twelve-volt battery. Anyone monitoring its GPS transmitter would think the craft was at the dock, right where it was supposed to be. The blogger also said that a non-military boat with a compatible ignition was stolen in Naples, Florida, four months ago. That boat’s electronics came from the same company. It was a customized Fountain.”
“Who was the blogger?” said Marnie.
“No way to tell,” said Duffy Lee. “Anonymous and truly weird. He signed in as ‘slut-virgin.’”
Lisa Cormier must have sensed an ill wind blowing. She wanted an ally, not a lover. If I had taken the bait, I could have wound up dead in my shed.
“That report you found of the Fountain stolen in Naples,” I said. “Was there any mention of a performance hot-rod, a Skater?”
Duffy Lee nodded. “All told, Alex, three gone at once. A Skater and two Fountains. It doesn’t paint a good picture of Catherman, the former nautical repo man. He probably had the dockside skill to pull and replace a complex electrical system.”
“So there are four players,” said Marnie. “Four that we know of, and one of them killed Sally Catherman. One of them, maybe the same bastard but not necessarily, killed Lisa Cormier.”
“The feds are searching for a stolen boat,” I said, “and it means more to them than solving two murders. This is far bigger than the boat.”
Sam tapped on the corkboard. “But not bigger than this chart.”
“Keep at it, Duffy Lee,” said Liska. He motioned the rest of us into the kitchen.
“I think we just proved the value of teamwork,” said Liska. “We’ve got Sam’s Cuba trips; Alex’s investigations; one, maybe two moles in the Mansion; cash in the lining of that sealed box; Duffy Lee’s electronic sleuthing; and Marnie’s summary. For right now, I’ll buy Alex’s suggestion that dope smugglers don’t spend much time on strategy. Human smugglers, coyotes, barely plan past reaching the beach. But I think these dudes are smart. So here’s our major presumption. They got their mitts on a shitload of money in the war zone, moved it to Third-World countries, and intend to bring it ashore in Monroe County.”
“Where we have plenty of money to go around,” said Sam.
We laughed for a moment, and half-proud, looked around the room, catching glee in each other’s eyes.
Sam added, “Plus everyone in the Keys stole theirs legally.”
Duffy Lee walked into the kitchen, handed a computer print-out to the sheriff. “So much for scenario,” he said. “We’re less than spectators. Whatever was going to happen already did.”
We all looked at him, stupefied.
“This just popped up on a Miami TV station web page,” he said. “A boat chase in Hawk Channel ended an hour ago. It reads like a three-ring circus.”
Liska studied the printed page, pulled out his cell and, punching in a number, walked out to the yard.
“I just want to think that those pharmaceuticals helped one or two sick people down there,” said Sam.
Marnie rapped her knuckles softly on the back of his hand. He grabbed her hand for a moment then let go.
Liska returned. “The feds tracked their Keeltec Coastal Pursuit out of Varadero, Cuba. It went slowly for the first two hours. They thought it was a fishing punt with a small outboard headed for the Marquesas. Then it kicked up speed, veered northeast and met a local boat twelve miles south of Big Pine Shoal. They spent fifteen minutes together—plenty of time for a transfer. By the time the Marine and Border Patrols launched their boats, the go-fast was screaming east toward Cay Sal Bank and the other craft went west toward Boca Chica. They caught the Keeltec with two Nicaraguans and two million bucks aboard.”
“That explains some of the bad boys’ urgency,” said Marnie.
“It sure as hell deflates ours,” added Sam.
“The other boat was chased into the mangroves,” said Liska. “It failed to navigate properly. They’re choppering some guy to the hospital in Marathon.”
26
“How did this happen again?” I said. “How the hell did I get neck-deep in your occupation?”
“Someone should have warned you.”
“You did,” I said. “I didn’t listen.”
“No need to apologize,” said Liska. “We need citizen volunteers to run interference for us. It notches down our peril and you break rules that we can’t break.”
“I didn’t apologize. I just whined.”
Duffy Lee and Marnie had gone home to bed. Liska, Sam and I sat at the glass-top table, passing around the news print-out and alternating shots of Haitian rum and sips of Beck’s Light, the only brand the sheriff had left in the fridge, but fine with me.
“For all the times you shamed me,” he said, “picked up sticks I had dropped, I finally got to this moment where I’m sitting on my ass, drinking beer, doing my job about as well as I’ve ever done it.”
I wasn’t convinced. “How could any of us, me, Sam, or you with your badge, have been of assistance to the Homeland people? We don’t have the training, knowledge, background or weapons. We were going to get in their way. They proved tonight that they’d trample us to reach their target.”
“My main thought,” said Liska, “was they aren’t from the Keys. We know how things work down here. We know how things appear to be strange and aren’t. Or how they look normal when they’re bent all to hell.”
“Let’s hear it for equipment,” said Sam. “We solved fifty riddles in less than four hours, and those bastards got the arrest.”
“Why did you have Detective Lewis bring me here?” I said.
“Purely a matter of convenience, Rutledge. I knew she was running an errand on the island. I asked her to do us the favor.”
“Part two of the story?” I said.
“She figured out that you and Watkins were riding your motorbikes on Cudjoe this afternoon. She wanted to take the Cormier murder case away from Watkins because Beth is your alibi.”
“Talk about conflict of interest,” I said. “Marv Fixler might have been…”
“Don’t even voice the word,” said Liska. “I decided for now to leave the case in the city.”
“For now?”
“I may change my mind if it’s connected to the Hammond murder. Two bodies six days and six car lengths apart. That’s major.”
“You’ve got more to say, I can tell.”
“You want to know?” he said. “You want Sam to hear this?”
“Sam can hear it, too.”
“One of my green-and-whites had to go by Bobbi’s house on Aquamarine, to drop off some paperwork. There was old Marv, out in her yard hosing off his flippers and spear gun and snorkeling gear. Like he was on vacation at his own personal resort. Marv acknowle
dged the deputy but didn’t recognize him. I guessed he assumed the deputy didn’t know him, either. Two days later the deputy came back for the paperwork and there was Marv, sitting back by the canal bulkhead, wearing his Baghdad T-shirt, drinking a beer.”
“Living there.”
“I offer facts but no opinions,” said Liska.
In the parlance of diplomacy, she had run a multi-level liaison.
We sat for several minutes, listened to the pool filter gurgle. It was the most peaceful moment I’d had in a week. After my ride across town in Bobbi’s SUV, while finding my way up Liska’s dark driveway, I had felt a question park itself in the back of my mind. I had wondered about my decisions, to stop seeing Bobbi and to begin a romance so quickly with Beth.
Liska’s well-intended gossip had eased my dilemma.
Sam Wheeler stared above the treetops into the distant night sky. He tracked the downwind leg of a private jet in the airport landing pattern, but he wasn’t pondering air travel. I knew the gears were still grinding.
“Pretty quiet over there,” I said.
“All the years of forethought,” said Sam, “recruiting each other, gathering their equipment… That gang got caught like a bunch of high-schoolers.”
“Maybe they lost their cool at crunch time,” I said.
“I think it’s a cowboy movie,” he said. “They went that-a-way.”
Liska wasn’t convinced. “You think someone fell for a diversion tactic?”
“They stole an unsellable boat,” said Sam, “a military craft with minimal radar presence. Paint it white, put red cushions aboard, it’s still a weapon. They needed its utility. They wanted to move fast and undetected, which we have to assume they’ve done. When the boat was no longer of use, they gave it back, more or less.”
“Along with…”
“Two Nicaraguan mules, a busted-up stolen boat, and chump change.”
“Two million… chump?” I said.
Sam shifted in his chair, sat up straighter. “Four of them, right? Copeland, Catherman, Fixler, Stinson. But we can’t count out Lisa because she was a co-conspirator before she took dead.”
“Okay.”
“Divide two million by five and run it against the years they’ve been plotting this caper. Not much of a paycheck, eh?” He waited and got no answer. “Also, there’s at least one other stolen boat still out there. We may be the only ones who know that.”
Liska pulled out his phone, keyed a number in the cell’s memory. He identified himself and asked to speak to the duty officer. After a short wait he said, “Sheriff Liska, here, Commander. Trying to avoid a conflict. I scheduled a dawn-light marine training exercise for my boat teams in the Lower Keys, but I understand you fellows had a confrontation a few hours ago. Have your personnel cleared the area?”
Sam glanced at me, flashed an expression of admiration.
Liska listened a minute then said, “We won’t be launching until five a.m. I’ll check back again before we roll.”
He clicked off and we stared at him.
He raised his hands, an I-dunno salute. “The boat that crashed in Sugarloaf Creek came up on the radar several times as two blips. A bit later they noticed a smaller boat heading north out of Kemp Channel. When it didn’t try to run north into Florida Bay, they decided it was local. They think it looped east to the north side of Big Pine. Whatever, it fell off the radar.”
“Two targets and two hits,” I said. “The feds have gone home to celebrate their victory.”
“Smaller boat, like a reduced radar image?” said Sam. “Anyone feel like a boat ride?”
“I feel like shit,” I said.
“Rutledge,” said Liska. “Did you really get hit by a car?”
27
“I saw an odd channel marker in Sugarloaf Creek this morning.”
“You didn’t move it, did you?” said Sam.
“I left it alone,” I said. “Turk said he’d been through that creek a few times, and he had never seen a stake.”
“It’s a mystery to me,” said Sam.
He sounded insincere.
“As a senior member of local law enforcement, I didn’t hear this conversation,” said Liska. “Let’s not mention it again.”
We motored slowly in the canal behind Johnny Baker’s home on Cudjoe Key, the waterway illuminated by the outside lights of homes to either side. Open water would be less friendly until the sun came up. The new moon had worked to our benefit on Turk’s boat that morning. This time, in shallower waters, darkness gave points to the other team. They also had a head start.
This was not vigilante action. Liska had called out three of his two-man boat teams, each equipped with semi-automatic weapons and infrared viewing scopes. The skiff launching from the Drost Road ramp, on Cudjoe, had made it to Niles Channel before we were out of Key West. Two units out of Big Pine were instructed to search Pine Channel, Coupon Bight and the Content Keys. They were looking for performance boats that appeared out of place or abandoned, and told not to use spotlights.
We had driven past Catherman’s place on Scabbard Road to assure ourselves that the Fountain and the Skater I’d seen earlier now were gone. From there to Fancy Fool, on the hooks at Johnny Baker’s place, was less than three minutes. Our time from Liska’s home to being underway was forty minutes flat. Not that we were hurried. The real chance that our opponents could have full-automatic weapons and night scopes prompted us to caution. We had one pair of daytime binoculars and two pistols among us.
Liska sat on the bow, talking to his crews on a hand-held VHF radio. To thwart eavesdropping, they used a digitally scrambled, police-only channel.
“What’s your guess, Alex?” said Sam.
“Take it one step at a time,” I said. “Idle over to the top end of Knockemdown, let our eyes adjust to the dark. Take a look at that man-made channel through Tarpon Belly, then go up the east side of Sawyer Key. They could be north of Sawyer, waiting until dawn to pretend they’re out fishing.”
“I like staying east,” he said. “Too many lobster trap floats to the west. If I snag a pull rope and foul my prop, we’ll be useless.”
Liska half-overheard us. “Let’s work our way out toward Sawyer Key,” he said.
“Aye,” said Sam. “Splendid concept.”
“If you think about it,” I said, “Catherman lives five miles from here. If he ever went boating, he would have visited Tarpon Belly. He would have seen that odd canal cut through its center.”
“The alleged shrimp farm of 1973,” said Sam.
“The worst-kept secret in pot smuggling,” said Liska. “You think Catherman believes, like everyone who finds that canal, that he’s the first one ever to see it?”
“Great way to vanish off the radar,” I said. “Do we know he’s not the one they took to the hospital?”
“I just got the word,” said Liska. “Cormier died before they got him there. Head injuries. Skull versus vegetation.”
Knockemdown Key failed its name. Sam shut down his motor well south of the oblong island and let the northbound current take us inshore. We couldn’t see a thing. No lurking bad guys, no pale boat hulls in the mangrove overhang. We didn’t hear birds or fish. Worse, we couldn’t tell if someone was watching us.
Liska twisted around, took bearings on headlights on US 1 to the south and a radio tower’s flashing red light to the west. “We could practically drift to Tarpon Belly, the way the current’s pushing.”
“I like that,” said Sam. “If anyone is on that island, the forty minutes it takes would be worth the surprise factor. It’s just, if we’re a hundred yards off our mark, we’ll have to crank the engine to get close. Adios surprise.”
“I’m all for doing a fly-by at dawn,” said Liska. “One pass would cover all of these islands.”
“Tarpon Belly’s inside the no-fly zone around Fat Albert,” I said. “You’re talking a couple days’ paperwork—beforehand.”
Liska grunted. “Your thought patterns remind me o
f a kid playing with a light switch.”
“If we really want to find them,” I said, “we could call and ask. I’ve got Catherman’s cell number in my phone.”
“What’ll you ask him to do?” said the sheriff. “Shoot up a flare?”
“Maybe just strike up a chat, bend the conversation,” I said. “If he doesn’t hang up on me.”
“Nothing to lose but your dime,” said Sam. “I love technology when it’s somebody else’s.”
I called but got no answer. It went to voice mail. I said, “Top o’ the morn, Bob,” and closed my phone.
We drifted, whispered among ourselves for twenty minutes.
“Wish I’d brought my jacket,” said the sheriff. “The coldest it gets is just before dawn.”
“It’s October in the Keys, Sheriff,” said Sam. “We’re not freezing our butts in Minneapolis. Or sitting in a Seattle rainstorm.”
“Point taken.”
My cell phone buzzed.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Liska. He keyed his radio, spoke quietly to his teams.
Catherman said, “Is that you just north of the blimp?”
I looked at Tarpon Belly, six hundred yards distant. “That’s us, Bob. My friend Sam Wheeler and I are night fishing. What have you got, infrared binoculars?”
“Wheeler’s a son of a bitch,” said Catherman. “He knows who killed my daughter.”
“Is that why you hired me to find her?”
“That was two-thirds of it. I guess I won’t make you rich, after all. I was going to own every house on Dredgers Lane.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “You’re helping to make Fixler rich. How can you partner with him?”
“He’s got my back.”
“He saw your daughter naked,” I said. “Every square inch.”
“Where do you get that shit?”
“Working on your nickel. Sally had a secret boyfriend named Cliff Brock. Cormier’s inside guy at the Mansion.”
“Horseshit,” said Catherman.
