by Tom Lowe
“Hot dog! What you do to me?” Nick set Max down like he was holding a ten-pound glowing coal. She looked up at him through sad brown eyes. “Little one, don’t be ashamed. It’s often the effect I have on the woman.”
“Let me get you a towel,” I said.
“No, Maxine is trying to tell me something.”
“What’s that?”
“She hates me so much she pee on me, or she say, Nicky my buddy, you need a shower and I’ll encourage you to take one.” He looked at Max, peeled off his shirt, opened the door from the transom to the dive platform, kicked off his flip-flops and dove into the water. He swam out about fifty feet and turned over to float on his back. He bellowed, “What a fine bathtub!” He turned over and swam like an Olympian competitor back to Jupiter.
I tossed him a towel. “You’re lucky the tide’s in, otherwise Max urine shower might be cleaner than the marina.”
“I don’t think about it, at least not long enough to stop me from having some fun.” A gold cross hung from a chain around his neck and winked in the sun as he dried off.
“Nick, have you seen anybody on my boat, or around it?”
“Lemme think. I’ve just been back one day. Had a little too much Ouzo last night and slept like a dead man.” He closed his eyes for a moment as if steadying himself. “When I first brought my boat back to the marina, I was working against the tide. I remember two people I haven’t seen on the docks walking away from your boat. Man was as bald as an onion. Couldn’t see the woman’s face, but she had a nice ass.”
I told Nick about the murder, the investigation, Slater, and how I’d become involved. After I finished, he looked up at me through eyes so dark you couldn’t see the pupil and said, “Wanna beer?”
“It’s a little too early on my clock for a beer.”
“Come fishing with me, storms and shit send your clock in a twilight time zone, man.” He shuffled into the galley with Max following him, tail wagging. I could hear him chatting with her like she was human. He returned with a Corona, popped the top and took a long pull. “Sean, you got some dick with a hard on for you. You find a woman ‘bout dead, call for help and he thinks you did it. What’s his gig?”
“Don’t know, but I do know someone broke into Jupiter.”
“They steal from you?”
“Don’t think so. Can’t find anything taken. But things have been moved.”
He leaned back into the sofa in the salon, held Max in his lap, and propped his flip-flop clad feet up on a shellacked cypress table. He set his beer on the table and picked at a small scab on his dark forearm. “Think that cop was the one on your boat?”
“Maybe. Why not search my house? It’s closer to the crime scene.”
“He coulda been there. Maybe you just don’t see it yet.”
“Or there could be another reason he was on my boat.”
Nick finished his beer. “What reason?”
“What if he wasn’t hunting for something?”
“Huh?”
“What if he was leaving something?”
EIGHTEEN
The noise from the big diesels in the charter fleet sounded like a semi-truck passing in front of Jupiter’s bow as the boats headed toward Ponce Inlet Pass.
“What you mean? Nick asked.
“Stay right where you are, Nick. Don’t move.”
“I got nowhere to go.” He shrugged.
“Hold Max.”
I found one of my three marine flashlights. It had fresh batteries and was capable of shining a beam a mile across the water. I turned it on, stepped back up to the salon and began slowly panning the light across the floor.
“What you looking for?” Nick asked.
“I’d looked for something taken. Now I’m searching for something left behind.”
“Looks like you are hunting for a lost contact lens.”
“Come down in the master and shine the light across the mattress while I squat down for a close view. Set Max in the cockpit.”
He nodded, put a perplexed Max out the door, and followed me to the master. I handed Nick the flashlight. “Pan it slowly above the bed.
“What are you looking for?”
“Hold it right there.”
“What you see?”
I stood and stepped into the galley for a moment, picking a pair of tweezers and a Ziploc. I knelt down and inched closer to the pillow on the right side of the bed. “Hold steady, Nick.” I reached for the hair follicle, lifted it up with the tweezers, stood and looked at it in the light. It was long and coal black. Roots intact.
Nick grinned. “You had some company. Good, man.”
“I haven’t had a woman on this boat, and when I bought Jupiter, she was cleaned. This is new. And I know where this hair came from. It’s as dark as her eyes.”
“What woman?”
“She’s dead.”
“How’d a dead woman’s hair get in your bed?”
“Planted. Whoever planted it will return. With a search warrant.”
I lowered the hair into the Ziploc and sealed it.
We both felt Jupiter move. Nick started to say something, but I silenced him by holding a finger to my lips. He nodded at the same time Max barked. I reached for my Glock on the nightstand and left the master cabin for the salon, pistol ready. Dave Collins saw me the second I saw him. Instinctively, he held his hands up. “Sean!”
Nick followed me, and Max followed Dave from the cockpit to the salon.
“Why the gun?” Dave asked.
“Sean just lifted a girl’s long black hair outta his bed,” Nick said.
Dave smiled. “A brunette or a naturally blond woman?”
“It came from a dead woman,” I snapped.
Dave said nothing, his expression one of disbelief.
Nick said. “I congratulated him ‘till he told me somebody put the hair in his bed.”
“Put it there?” Dave asked.
I pulled the folded Ziploc out of my shirt pocket. “Here it is, and I believe it came from the head of the victim I found.”
“Why would someone place evidence in your bed?”
“Because someone wants me to take the fall for her murder. Might be the person who killed her, or might be someone covering up for the person who did it. If it’s someone covering for the killer, then what’s the reason?”
“Sounds confusing,” Nick said. “I’m getting’ a beer. You want one, Dave?”
“No thanks.”
Nick made his way into the galley and said, “Sean, somebody wants you to get the death penalty. You got an Indian leaving an arrow at your house. This cop thinks you killed the girl. Man, I thought I got into a lotta shit.”
Dave said, “I did some translating on what the victim said to you.”
“What’d you find?”
“It’s an obscure, almost dead language called Nahuatl. Originally spoken by the Aztecs. What she told you was…‘Atlacatl imix cuanmiztli.’ And the translation is, ‘He has the eyes of the jaguar.’”
Nick whistled softly. “Who has eyes of the jaguar?”
“Do me a favor, Nick,” I said. “Keep a lookout for anybody suspicious.”
“To me, everybody’s suspicious.”
“If anyone comes too near Jupiter, or climbs on her, get their names and what they’re doing. Then call me.” I stood to leave.
“Where you heading?” Dave asked.
“Would you mind watching Max for a couple of hours?”
“The little lady is always welcome on Gibraltar.”
“I’m going to buy a tiny camera. It’ll be one that will be able to transmit, online, a live video feed to a laptop I’d like to place on Gibraltar, Dave.”
“I get the picture,” Dave said, grinning.
“What’s that?” asked Nick.
“The picture will be of the guy who placed the hair on my bed. He’ll come back to find it, and he may have a search warrant, but he won’t suspect that the evidence will be gone. He won’t know hi
s every move will be recorded on a hard drive. And, gentlemen, that will be entertaining to a grand jury.”
NINETEEN
I found exactly what I needed at a Radio Shack less than twenty minutes from the marina. Within two hours, I had installed and tested the hidden camera I had placed between stacks of books in the master cabin, its fish-eye lens pointed at the bed. The trap was set.
After I finished, I called Dave over to show him my handiwork. “I’m setting the laptop up here on the table in the salon. I’ll go back into the master cabin and walk around. You can watch it on the laptop. All wireless.”
“Essentially like television,” he said.
“Picture isn’t as ready for prime time, but it’ll work for crime time.” I stepped down into the master cabin and heard him applaud.
“Sean, I can see the entire cabin. You have a certain flair for the covert.”
I came back up to the salon. “How’d you know about covert activities?”
Dave only smiled.
“We can stow that laptop on Gibraltar. Signal will go the distance.”
Max did one of her half barks and half whines, which added up to a total command. “Max is ready for dinner. You hungry, Dave?” I was hoping to bounce some thoughts off Dave’s brow.
“Let’s eat,” he said.
“I’ll leave a note on Nick’s boat. Maybe he’ll be back in time to join us.”
I turned the camera on, locked Jupiter, left a note on Nick’s door, set the laptop on Dave’s, and we walked toward the tiki hut with Max following us.
#
ALTHOUGH THE FISH WAS cooked over hardwood to perfection, I had very little appetite. Max had a small hamburger patty served medium well. She ate from a paper plate on the wooden floor next to our table.
Kim brought us fresh Heinekens and said, “Max has better table manners than most of the people I serve.” Max cocked her head and seemed to nod. Kim beamed. “Coffee?”
“Grey Goose over ice and a squeeze of lime, Kim,” Dave added.
I said, “Coffee sounds good. It’ll keep awake for the drive home.”
Kim almost frowned. “You have a perfectly good boat to sleep on, at least I imagine it’s perfectly good for sleeping. Why the hurry?”
“I’m expecting visitors.”
After she left, Dave said, “I think she likes you.”
“Maybe. Maybe she’s just a little lonely. We know for sure Kim likes Max. She gets the free meals.” I sipped the Heineken. “Do you know much about human trafficking?”
“Big market overseas, especially in the sex trade. The women are stolen or duped into believing they are getting legitimate jobs in more prosperous countries. They incur false debt for transportation. They’re forced to work it off, on their backs.”
“It’s happening right here in America.”
“No doubt. You think this is somehow related to the girl you found?”
“I do.”
“How?”
“I think she was connected to one of these migrant camps because some soil in her shoe smelled like chemicals—fertilizers—something with a high phosphate count. But she wasn’t used as a farm worker. Maybe she was forced into prostitution and ran.”
Kim brought Dave his drink. He swirled the vodka and ice in his glass. “Modern day slavery, forced prostitution, human trafficking, right here in the land of the free.”
“I think this murder, and the one that came a few days later, is the work of the same killer that’s cutting one out of the herd when he feels the urge.”
“And they’re the least likely to be reported missing,” Dave said.
“The victim I found, she was just a kid. I think she was in the area and running from someone, maybe bolted from the perp’s car. She escaped and ran toward the river. He caught her. Probably thought he’d killed her on the banks of the river.”
“She was barely alive when you found her. Maybe she played dead and he left. Or perhaps someone scared him off.”
“I investigated some similar cases in Miami. The perp was called Bagman because he asphyxiated his victims with a plastic bag during the rape. There was duct tape near the victim I found. This tells me it was probably planned. I never caught Bagman. Now I know there have been at least fifteen sexual murders of Hispanic women in Florida, rural areas, starting after the Miami murders dwindled down to nothing.”
Dave stirred his ice. “The duct tape could be a similar MO, but maybe not.”
“You translated the words the girl whispered to me. ‘He has the eyes of the jaguar.’ The only victim to survive Bagman said she could never forget his eyes. She said they were like the eyes of a wildcat.”
TWENTY
I had awakened at dawn back at my river house. I let Max sleep in while I sipped a cup of coffee on the back porch and watched shadows fade away across the river. I slipped on my running shoes, went out the back door, and ran along the riverbank.
Later, when I climbed the steps to the back porch, Max was barking and running ran toward the front door, stopping to see if I was coming as her backup.
“It’s okay, Max. Could be someone asking for directions.” I picked up my Glock and wedged it in my shorts near my lower back.
The knock at the door was soft, almost apologetic. I opened the door, startling Detective Leslie Moore. “Mr. O’Brien,” she said, embarrassed. “Good morning.”
“Heard your fan belt the first time you drove by. Makes surveillance difficult.”
“I wasn’t on surveillance.” She looked at my damp T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. “Is this a bad time?”
“If you’re here to arrest me, it’s a bad time. Something else, not so bad, maybe.”
She smiled. “No, I’m not here to arrest you. You’d be the first to know I wouldn’t do that without backup. May I come in?”
“Door’s open.” As she stepped in the foyer, Max came running and barking.
She knelt down and greeted Max. “Good morning! How are you?” She petted Max’s head, instantly winning a friend. “She’s so cute.”
“Sometimes she’s like having a kid. I have to find a babysitter when I’m gone.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have a dog or a baby.”
“Max was my wife’s baby. Now it’s just Max and me. We’re a river rats.”
“I know that your wife died. I’m sorry.”
“I bet you know that. Good cops usually know the bio of suspects. So you’re not afraid to be here alone with me?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re not a suspect. Never really was.”
I said nothing.
She was hesitant a moment. “Is there a place where we can sit and talk?”
“Sure, follow me.” I led her to my back porch.
“The view is beautiful,” she said, standing next to the screen, looking at the river. “This must be paradise, living way out here. The river is gorgeous.”
“I bought it out of an estate sale. Near foreclosure, I suspect. Always something to fix. Paradise needs a lot of Band-Aids.”
Detective Moore laughed. Her eyes danced for a moment watching a blue heron and a white egret take ballet steps in the water. “This is like a wildlife documentary. The birds seem oblivious to us.”
“They can’t see us. Factor in sunlight, trees and porch screen. It’s a window to nature. Would you like something? Coffee or water?”
“No thanks.”
“You didn’t drive here to look at wildlife. How can I help you, Detective?”
“This is my first murder case with Mitchell Slater.” She paused and looked toward the river. “We don’t have an ID on the vic yet because I’m not so sure we’re working that hard to find one.”
“Meaning?”
“We’ve run all the channels—DNA database—state and national, prints, photo sent to the FBI, FDLE and elsewhere. Nothing.”
“Someone knows who she is.”
“I wish they’d come forward. We will store all dental, anthropological and
DNA records. But the body will be interred tomorrow. Buried as a Jane Doe. A number on the marker. No name.”
“Is there a connection to the Brevard homicide? MO? Anything physical?”
“We’re working with Brevard, sharing the information and resources. So far, nothing to correlate the two deaths except each victim was young, female, pretty, and Hispanic. I’m having a hard time following leads, not that I have a lot.”
“What’s the difficulty?”
“Slater.”
“Not surprising.”
“He doesn’t go out of his way to follow up on anything. And what I bring to the table he dismisses like it was a bad idea. He is pursuing you, and to some extent, Joe Billie. But there’s nothing there. He knows it, but he’s like a bulldog.”
“What’s his agenda?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been watching him, and I think he knows it. I believe he’s on the take from somebody…somebody with power and influence. He seems to be living way above his pay grade. Wears a Rolex when he’s off duty. Connected in the community and with the old Florida money.”
“Any of this old Florida money coming from agricultural interests?”
“Probably. There are rumors he’s about to run for sheriff. If he could have pinned the murder on you, and convince the DA he had a winnable case, he’d get the news media coverage and probably announce his intent to run.”
I looked directly into her eyes. “How do I know you aren’t here to try to implicate me?”
“I hoped you’d trust me.”
“Trust you, I don’t even know you. You stick a cotton swab in my mouth, collect some hard evidence that I found, take a non-suspect into questioning, come to my house, pet my dog, and ask me to trust you. Why?”
“Because I don’t have anyone else.” Her nostrils flared.
I said nothing.
“I’m not sure who I can trust in the department. My partner, Dan Grant, is honest and dedicated. But he’s only been a detective six months. I don’t know who’s in Slater’s camp. Thought maybe you might help. If you weren’t a former cop, I wouldn’t be here. Maybe I’m wrong, but based on the way you acted at the crime scene, I believe there is something in you that seeks justice.”
