Backwater Bay

by Steven Becker

  While I looked at her belongings that were sticking out of the drawers or still scattered on the floor and furniture, I observed two things in particular. The first was the quantity and quality of her stuff. The second was why this apparent crime had not been reported. This was a curious business. I wondered what whoever had done this had been after and why. I got the impression that Holly didn’t leave the house much. Her concerns and anger issues with Herb, gave me the feeling that she was trying to say it was him without using the words. That might explain why there was no police report.

  Twenty-something women had stuff. Clippings, pictures, cactus gardens. They were still young enough to hold on to their teenage years. Abbey had a lot of stuff, and I recognized some of the brands; they weren’t from Target. It was apparent she had been making good money and I thought again about Gordy’s business plan. Moving from her personal belongings, I started looking at the pictures, many pinned to the wall with thumbtacks and not framed. There were several from her high school years with friends and what looked like family. I saw a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Holly, presumably Abbey’s mother. Another picture showed Abbey, Holly, and the same woman sitting side by side, suited up and ready to jump off a dive boat. Feeling dirty, I finished and left the door as I had found it and went back to the house.

  The house felt empty, and I called out for Holly. There was no answer after several attempts and I had to decide if her condition might be life-threatening.

  Considering the state she was in and the last two gulps of vodka I’d seen her take, I thought I’d better have a look around. It didn’t take much investigative skill to find her curled up in a ball on the couch. I checked to make sure she was still breathing, put a blanket over her, and left the house. If there was something to be learned from her, it wasn’t going to come out today.

  Justine was hunched over a microscope comparing shell casings. “Be just a few minutes,” she said.

  “Can I use a computer?”

  “Sure, any of the ones on the counter are fair game.”

  Three computers were lined up on a table against a wall. I went to the far one and started hunting. There was something I couldn’t understand about Abbey’s being killed by a propeller wound to the stomach. If that was indeed the cause of death, she would have had to be floating on her back with her scuba gear on. Two possible scenarios came to mind. The first was that she was cleaning the bottom of a boat, and while she was near the stern, the engine started and was put into gear. I closed my eyes for a minute and tried to picture this. The second was that she was already dead and with the buoyancy of the wetsuit and BC was floating face up on the surface. Both brought up more questions than they answered.

  Justine came over and looked at the pictures on the monitor. “Nice,” she said, and pecked my cheek.

  “That stomach-wound thing is bugging me.”

  “Most of these are hand and foot wounds,” she said, looking at the screen.

  “Exactly. She would have had to be cleaning the bottom of the boat when it was started and put in gear.”

  “Or already dead. She would have heard the engine start and freaked out. You can hear really well underwater. Not necessarily direction, but the engine starting would have been loud and clear.”

  “Makes you wonder how she got into the mangroves too.”

  “I want to have a look at the last boat she was working on. My friend Gordy gave me a name.”

  “Why don’t you see about the boat, and I’ll run the hair? Compare notes at dinner?”

  We made plans to meet when she got off at eight. With a smile, I went back to my car. I had kept a weather eye on the storm clouds building since early morning and was rewarded when the skies opened with a brief but intense afternoon thunderstorm. The torrential rain slowed traffic to a crawl and the visibility was bad enough to cause many drivers to pull onto the shoulder to wait out the storm. I plowed ahead, thinking about my new BFF, Gordy.

  With the palm of my hand, I rubbed the interior of the windshield, trying to help the defroster, and couldn’t help but notice the fog coming out of the vent. Another Florida first. As suddenly as it had started the storm abated and the sun came out. With it, the traffic began moving again, and I reached the marina a few minutes before five. I parked and walked down the dock to the small building that held Bottoms Up’s office. The air-conditioning was working overtime, dripping condensation into a puddle that had made a deep indentation into the wood plank beneath it. I went around to the front and pulled on the sliding glass door handle, only to find it was locked.

  “Hey, man, you looking for Gordon?” The fuel attendant asked.

  I was wrong. He went by Gordon. “Yeah. National Park Service, I have some questions.” That sounded lame. I thought about using special agent, but that was worse.

  “Hangs out at the bar over there.” He pointed to an outdoor bar near a long rectangular pool.

  I thanked him, walked back to solid land, crossed the parking lot, and entered the pool area through a custom metal gate. The pool and deck were empty. It looked like the storm had driven everyone to the bar. I walked up and stood on my tiptoes to see if I could find old Biff. I heard him before I saw him. Before I confronted him again, I wanted to get a sense of the lay of the land.

  I felt a little like a creeper standing behind a large potted palm tree and spying on Gordy, but in my capacity as a special agent, it was called investigative work and part of the job. That made me feel a little better. He sat in the shade at the bar under large rotating fans, with a cool drink in his hand, while I baked on the pool deck. He had a woman on either side of him and appeared to be holding court.

  It seemed like a pretty comfortable scene until I looked at the faces of the people sitting around the bar. The only word that came to mind was losers. The men had comb-overs and potbellies, the women too much makeup and too few clothes. It was also a little early, in my opinion, for the amount of alcohol being consumed. From a quick scan of the drinks sitting on the bar, I determined these were not froufrou cocktails from a laminated menu with parrots on it. These folks were drinking straight alcohol. There was nothing to be gained here, and I looked out at the marina, wondering where the Big Bang was docked.

  Beads of sweat dripped from my forehead. It was hotter than ten hells. It’s an interesting phenomenon in South Florida that despite what the thermometer says, it seems hotter after it rains. The temperature will usually drop about ten degrees—from nine to seven on my hell scale—but the humidity jumps to a hundred percent.

  I couldn’t put it off any longer and walked over to the bar. “Hello, Gordon,” I said, watching his reaction carefully. I didn’t need my trained observation skills to notice when he gagged on his drink. “Just a few questions.” I cocked my head over toward a quiet corner. He said something to a woman sitting next to him. Even through her heavy makeup, she looked familiar, and I did a double take. Gordy ignored me and we moved to a quiet corner of the bar.

  “I have a question,” I said.

  “Go ahead. I’m a little busy.”

  I caught his glance over to the woman. I figured I’d make it simple. “Who ordered the work on the Big Bang and where is it docked?”

  He looked back to the bar. Another man had taken his seat and was talking up the woman. I saw his glance and caught a break. There was a hesitation, as if he were calculating whether I would find out without him. He clammed up, and I tried a different tack. “That woman looks familiar,” I said, turning in the direction of the woman he had been with at the bar. She was gone and I saw a confused look on his face. Watching his gaze shift to the docks, I saw her following a man who seemed to be ignoring her. When they were out of sight, he turned back to me.

  “Brenda. She owns the Big Bang.”

  12

  Not sure if the moisture pouring from my skin was sweat or if it was the cloud I was walking through, I headed over to the dockmaster’s office and asked where I might find the Big Bang. Before I talked to
the owner, I wanted to see what I was dealing with. The dockmaster took one look at my uniform and pointed me in the direction of a large yacht.

  Passing a line of fishing charters and sailboats, I entered the high-rent district of the marina, and though I knew little about boats, I could tell most of these were sixty feet plus. They were two- and three-stories high, their upper decks and towers looming over me. Stainless steel gleamed and polished teak glistened as I inspected each boat. It was quiet on the dock. The boaters who were actually in residence had taken cover in their air-conditioned salons and there were only a few maintenance workers out.

  I reached the Big Bang. She was every bit of sixty feet and the shadow of her three decks covered the dock. I walked past her, trying to do an inspection, although I wasn’t sure what I was looking for—or at. Basic boat nomenclature was fairly simple, and I had mastered port, starboard, bow, and stern as well as the other basics. After reaching the bow, I studied the waterline on the walk back to the stern. Nothing struck me as unusual, but it probably wouldn’t. These people had hired help for everything: cleaning bottoms, cleaning decks, cooking, and whatever other jobs were needed aboard a boat this size. If there was some evidence here, it would have been removed weeks ago.

  “Ahoy,” I called out. It sounded goofy, but this is what you did. I added a more conventional greeting: “Anyone home?”

  There was no answer, but I thought I saw the reflection of a TV in the smoked-glass window. I heard voices and called out again, rapping my fist against the gunwale like it was a door knocker. Still no answer. The voices raised, and I tensed when I heard a man and a woman. My instincts said domestic disturbance. I wasn’t sure where the line was on interfering in a dispute or searching a vessel but decided that the deck was fair game. I was used to hopping down from the dock to the Park Service’s center-console, but this ship needed a small set of three stairs to reach its deck.

  The white fiberglass sparkled from the beads of moisture that had not yet been baked off by the sun, making the deck look like a field of diamonds. The fight intensified to the point that I started worrying that it might get violent. I crossed the deck and knocked on the salon door. There was no answer. The voices were louder and clearer here. Then something smashed against a wall and the woman screamed. I tried to look inside, but the tinted glass did its job, dimming the interior of the cabin, and I moved closer, almost pressing my face to the door to see inside.

  It was quiet now and I had to make a decision. From what I had already heard, I judged that I had cause, and opened the door. The first thing I saw was a man’s body on the floor. Thinking I had reacted too late and had his blood on my hands, I knelt down next to him and felt for a pulse. It was weak but there. Slowly he regained his senses.

  “Sir,” I called out, probably louder than I should have.

  “He’s not deaf and he’s not dead,” the woman said.

  I looked around, searching for the voice. My eyes had not yet acclimated from the blinding deck to the dim cabin and it took two passes before I saw the shape of a body on the settee. The man moved, and my attention was drawn back to him.

  “Are you injured?” I asked.

  He worked his way to his knees. “I’m lucky I’m not dead.” Rising slowly, he brushed himself off.

  I rose as well and we faced each other. He was a good three inches taller than my six feet and probably in better shape than I was. It was strange to look at him as a victim, but he was the one who had been assaulted. “Do you want to press charges?”

  He looked over at the woman on the couch. “No, just get her off my boat.”

  “It’s not yours until you pay me my half.” She sounded bitter.

  “Don’t ever get married,” he said, brushing past me.

  Before I could react, he was out the door and I felt the boat rock slightly as he climbed onto the dock. There was not much I could do if he didn’t want to press charges, and even if he did, I was out of my jurisdiction and I would have to call in Miami-Dade.

  I turned back to the woman on the settee. She had clearly recovered from whatever had happened and sat with a smug look on her face. “Hello, ma’am. Kurt Hunter with the Park Service.” I walked closer.

  “Brenda,” she said, extending a limp wrist. “I don’t fish or anything.”

  I gave her hand a quick shake. It felt cold and clammy, and looking down on it, even in the dim light I could see sunspots and veins, standing proud on her skin. She was older than I had guessed, making her heavy makeup and skimpy “boating” clothes look out of place. Maybe a thirty or even a forty-something could pull off that look, but not her. After a quick study, I determined she was in her fifties. My vision had acclimated and I confirmed it was the same woman that Gordy had been sitting next to at the bar—the one who looked like Holly.

  “We’re the Park Service. Fish and Game handles that kind of thing.” She sat there with a coy look on her face. I noticed her anger gone and her mood had taken a turn like a tarpon when it feels the hook.

  “Then what can I do for you, Mr. Hunter?”

  She drew out my name like she had been drinking. The man had left the salon door open and I looked down the dock to see if anyone had seen what happened. The heat had kept them all inside. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “The man is Gabe Kniesel. He’s still technically my husband. As you heard, the divorce isn’t final yet.”

  “And I’m guessing the boat is standing in the way.”

  “He’s supposed to pay me half the market value. Except he had a crooked surveyor lowball it. I should get what’s due me. Don’t you agree?”

  I swear she winked at me when she said it. Not caring to offer an opinion on the state of her divorce, I asked what I had originally come to find out. “Did you have the bottom cleaned a few weeks ago?” I asked.

  “Shithead takes care of the maintenance. I was traveling, so I wouldn’t know.”

  It didn’t take a trained investigator to know who she was talking about. “Really nice boat, mind if I look around?”

  “I’d be happy to give you a tour.” She smiled. With an effort she rose, staggered slightly, and sat back down. “The heat gets to me,” she offered as an explanation.

  I felt the boat shift and looked back through the open door to see Gordy stepping down the stairs to the deck.

  “What’s going on in there?” he asked as he walked into the salon.

  “Brenda’s okay,” I said, hoping that was what he wanted to know. I saw the look he exchanged with Brenda and thought I might stick around for a while. Turning an investigative eye toward him, I decided to try to get some insight into what was going on here. “Her husband is okay too.”

  “That’s good,” he said.

  He was glancing around, figuring out how to make his exit. I stood in his way, trying to make him uncomfortable. “Mind if I ask what brings you here?”

  There was a long pause. Finally, he came up with an answer. “I’m trying to collect for the bottom cleaning and zinc replacement. I saw Gabe heading to the boat earlier.”

  “Did he pay you?” I asked, wanting to make a note of the zinc replacements. I had no idea what that meant and filed it away in my head; if I took the time to take out my pad and pen, the moment might be lost. It was also noteworthy that he’d called Gabe by his first name.

  “Her ex is being a ballbuster and wanting to see the old zincs. He was all uptight about it.”

  Brenda started fidgeting on the couch. She shot him a conspiratorial look and I sensed there was nothing more to be gained by staying. Thanking them for their time, I left the salon, crossed the deck, and climbed the stairs to the dock. As I walked back toward my truck, I realized I was more confused now than when I started.

  Before leaving the parking lot, I took out my notepad and wrote down what Gordy had said about the zincs as well as Gabe’s name.

  13

  The incident on the Big Bang had me in a tailspin. I hadn’t figured on my floater putting me
in the middle of a family soap opera. I had evidence building and suspects coming and going but, two days into my investigation, I had no confirmed identity and the cause of death was still a boating accident. It was close to six now. Martinez would be off work and at either the driving range or the bar. I worried about another complaint and knew if I could not confirm Abbey’s identity and convince Sid this was a homicide, not an accident, I would be back on the flats of Biscayne Bay tomorrow morning. On most days, that would have been my preference, but I was getting invested in this case and wanted to see it through.

  The dashboard clock read five forty-five when I pulled into traffic and headed toward the Miami-Dade crime lab. Traffic was light over the causeway and fifteen minutes later I pulled into the parking lot in front of Justine’s office. I grabbed the evidence bag from the seat and with fat raindrops landing on my head, walked across the parking lot and into the building. As if on cue, a loud boom of thunder shook the glass door just as it closed. I looked back at the rain, now coming down in sheets and blocking the parking lot from view, and wondered if this was an indicator of how my visit would go.

  Justine was at her desk and gave me a panicked look when I walked in. She motioned me to a chair in the next cubicle and held up a finger, signaling for me to wait. I saw the reason for her distress when I heard a detective’s voice. Pushing the chair back as far as it would go, I lifted my legs and tried to be invisible, feeling for a minute like I was a kid hiding in a toilet stall.

  “I’ll be back for the forensics,” he said. It was Dwayne’s old partner. We had never proven that he was involved in the refugee case, but we hadn’t disproved it either. My presence would definitely have been unwelcome.