Backwater Tide

by Steven Becker

  “We have the unit and will make every attempt to recreate his last hours during our investigation,” I said. From her smile I could tell she had gotten what she wanted.

  “Thank you for your time, and we look forward to hearing more about this mystery,” she said, dismissing us.

  The lights dimmed and she said a quick thank you and good-bye before being hustled off the set. I turned to Martinez. The look on his face told me that I was in trouble.

  Nine

  I couldn’t get out of the building fast enough. It felt as if dominos were falling behind me and I didn’t think I was going to stay ahead of them. Having a newscaster direct the investigation was not what I’d wanted. Martinez and I had a few words before I extracted myself and headed for the exit. I walked away feeling like I had been beaten, but also gained a new respect for Martinez—playing the media was harder than it looked.

  Outside, I was surprised to see news vans and reporters from other networks. I wondered as I brushed away their microphones with a mumbled “no comment” what Martinez had received in return for the exclusive with this station.

  I ran the gauntlet of the reporters, almost wishing I had waited for my boss to run interference. He had been more forgiving than I had expected and reaffirmed that the case was mine. I knew he had ulterior motives, but I wasn’t waiting around for the other shoe to drop.

  Every other word I heard as I made my way to the truck was treasure. By the time the national networks ran the story this evening South Florida would be consumed by gold fever.

  Two women stood by my truck. I could tell on first glance that they were related to each other and not with the media; their faces were nearly identical though their dress and demeanor were totally different. One of them, the older-looking of the two, approached. I was about to say that I had no comment and to watch the news when she held out her hand and introduced herself.

  “I’m Gail Gross. This is Maria. Gill’s daughter.”

  My Google search had revealed that he was divorced. I assumed this was his ex-wife. My assumption proved wrong.

  “I’m his sister.”

  Box number one on my checklist was ticked. Gross’s next of kin had appeared in front of me. I introduced myself and looked back over my shoulder at the crowd of reporters, camera operators, and sound people circling like a sailfish around a bait ball.

  “Can we meet somewhere away from this? I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Sure, there’s a coffee shop around the corner.”

  “I’ll be a few minutes behind you. Might need a few evasive maneuvers to ditch this crowd.” She smiled and the two women went to a richly appointed sedan parked across from my truck.

  They were able to escape unmolested, but the paparazzi were descending on me. After fumbling to unlock it, I finally opened the door and slid inside. The truck came to life and I gunned the engine as a warning to the reporters, then cut the wheel hard to the right, away from the group. I sped out of the lot, hitting several speed bumps hard enough to smash my head into the overhead liner.

  Once on the road, I remained vigilant, worried that a smarter reporter could have been covering the exits and then might follow me as a predator stalks its prey. After several quick turns, however, I felt comfortable that I wasn’t being followed and pulled into a parking lot. Handing the attendant the ten-dollar fee, I asked if there was someplace I could park that would be out of sight. The park service truck was fairly nondescript, but it did have the tell-tale light bar on top. Another ten bought me a corner spot obstructed from the road. He took the bill and gave me a knowing look.

  I left the truck, trying to remember evasive tactics from the spy books I had read. I circled the block once, looking at reflections in storefront windows that offered a view behind me. Finally, feeling foolish, I entered the coffee shop. The two women were already seated at a table, sipping their coffee. I decided to skip the line at the counter and sat across from them.

  “Do you have any other information about Gill that wasn’t released on the news?” Gail asked after she’d introduced me to Maria.

  I studied her for a second. I knew her type and instantly classified her as Santa Cruz hippie. Probably a hardcore tree-hugging liberal, she was dressed in what might be construed by the casual observer as rags, but what I knew from my time in California were probably very expensive one-off designs. Though she wore no makeup, her silver and turquoise jewelry completed her ensemble. “I’m assuming there is no current Mrs. Gross?” I asked if they could show me some ID; I had to make sure they were really the next of kin.

  “I expect you’ll be hearing from Jeanine, his ex, before too long. Piece of work, that one,” Gail confided.

  I noticed the cross look from Maria, who appeared to be her aunt’s opposite. East Coast Elite described her well. Both her makeup and dress told me she was probably a diva. Her body language, as she looked down her nose that I suspect had been altered, confirmed my impression. Both women were blue-eyed and blond. The name Maria didn’t quite fit the young woman in front of me. I wondered if it was in deference to the wrecks he’d sought. Nearly every Spanish galleon running gold back to the Continent had had Maria in her name. “It’s really too early to tell you anything else. The autopsy revealed an embolism. We think he got it from ascending too fast.”

  “My dad was a careful diver. Who was the other diver on board?” Maria asked.

  That was a new wrinkle I should have thought of already. The buddy system was taught like the gospel in scuba classes. “Never dive alone” as well as “Don’t surface faster than your own air bubbles” were the two biggest rules I remembered from my training. Had Gross broken both? “There was no evidence of another diver. Do you know what he was working on?”

  “He was always secretive about his projects. His backers were adamant about it. But if you find out…”

  I added backers to my list of people to speak to. “Any idea who they were?”

  “Only the IRS knows those names,” Maria said.

  She sounded bitter as if she had been excluded from something. “Did he have any enemies?”

  They both snickered. “He was a treasure hunter,” Gail said.

  I guessed that implied enough. “Anyone specific?”

  “These guys are worse than the long-dead European monarchs they are so obsessed with. One minute they’re jumping in bed together; the next mortal enemies. I think every one of them has had it in for one another at some point.”

  There was something about the way she’d ended the sentence that gave me the impression she had a name. I pulled out my pad and pen.

  “There is one guy that I’ve never trusted,” Gail went on. “Vince Bugarra.”

  That name kept popping up. “You know how I can find him?”

  “You might ask Slipstream. He worked on and off for Gill.”

  I gave her a questioning look. “Does Slipstream have a real name?”

  She returned my look with a shrug. “Anyway, I guess that’s all we have. When do you expect the boat will be released?”

  Interesting that she didn’t ask about the body.

  “Once the investigation is concluded,” I answered and started to get up. My impression was that the Gross women were on a fishing expedition. They had offered up two names who could be their enemies—or competition.

  Maria was fidgeting as if she had something to say. I looked right at her. “Sorry for your loss,” I told her. Her aunt started to rise and she followed. “Can I get your contact information?”

  Gail gave me hers and started toward the door. I looked at Maria, who paused for a minute. “Just for the record.” She looked down and recited her phone number.

  “Do you know where he docked the boat?” I asked.

  “Up the Miami River. Just before the airport there’s a commercial marina.”

  I was pretty sure I knew which one she meant and let it go. They walked out of the coffee shop and I watched through the glass storefront as Gail turned to Maria. Th
eir body language told me that they disagreed on something, but then they moved on, out of sight. I let them go before leaving the shop, and headed back to my truck. The brief conversation had at least yielded a few pieces of information, and I didn’t expect a guy like Vince Bugarra would be hard to find. Identifying “Slipstream” and the location of the marina were my new top priorities. Hopefully I could find all my leads at the same place.

  From the downtown location of the parking lot, I drove toward the river and followed it west. Over the course of a few miles the waterfront properties went from million-dollar condos to commercial buildings, then to industrial lots. I found the marina I thought was the one Maria had meant and pulled in. Hoping the woman in the office didn’t remember me from my last visit, I left the truck next to the trailer where the office was located and knocked on the door.

  I heard a voice call out over the rumble of the window air-conditioner vibrating in its frame next to the door. The command sounded enough like “enter” to give me permission so I opened the door and walked in. A blast of cold air hit me and the woman behind a single desk immediately motioned for me to shut the door. She looked like a flashback from the eighties, with spun-out hair and heavy makeup. I recognized her, but it didn’t look like she remembered me.

  “Hi, I’m Kurt Hunter with the National Park Service,” I said, pulling out my credentials.

  “I remember,” she said with a heavy Russian accent.

  That wasn’t good. I had chased down a couple of thugs running women here and one of them might have been her boyfriend. “Gill Gross keep his boat here?” I asked.

  “That’s confidential. Got a warrant?” she sneered.

  “We have his vessel already. I’m really looking for a guy that goes by the name ‘Slipstream.’”

  She made a huffing sound. “That no-good piece of crap. He’s probably over by the roll-off, picking scrap metal out of it. Whoever gave him that name knew that one. Damned hard to get a day’s work out of him. I’d be happy if you pulled him out of here.” Grateful for her change of attitude, I thanked her for the information and left the office.

  Back outside on the steaming pavement, I decided that “marina” was a favorable description of the place. More of a parking lot circled by razor wire, the asphalt surface was cluttered with dry-docked boats in different states of disrepair or neglect. Off to the side I saw a long dumpster being used for construction debris and walked toward it.

  As I approached, a coil of wire flew out, just missing me. “Slipstream?” A dirty face in the shadow of a bonnie hat appeared over the edge.

  “Depends who’s asking.”

  You had to be clever to come up with that one. I scanned the area for an escape route in case he decided to run and moved toward the only clear path. “Kurt Hunter, National Park Service.”

  “It’s my brother poaching those gators. I’ll swear on it.”

  His hands appeared on the edge and with a move I didn’t expect, he vaulted the side of the dumpster and took off toward the street. I went after him, but he was fast and knew where he was going. Just before he reached the road, I saw the office door open and the woman waddle out. She too was moving fast and once down the stairs she leaned over and grabbed a chain that lay across the entrance. Pulling it hard, it caught Slipstream just before he would have hit the sidewalk and disappeared.

  “I’ll forgive the last incident if you haul that piece of trash out of here,” she said. Before I could answer she hustled back into the air-conditioned office.

  Slipstream was down on the ground grabbing his ankle when I reached him. Rarely did I wear my gun belt, which had a supply of zip ties.. Looking down at the man, I figured I didn’t need it anyway.

  “I’ll sue that bitch,” he screamed in pain.

  I reached down to help him up. Several inches shorter than my six feet, Slipstream looked rode hard and put up wet. I know the old cowboy expression applied to horses, but it fit here as well. It didn’t take long, if you weren’t careful, for the sun to take its toll on your appearance. Balding and wiry, he looked to be about sixty, but the stub of a cigar clenched in his jaw made him look older. I didn’t need to frisk him; any object harder than a billfold would have been apparent against his skinny frame. “How about I take you to the emergency room and get that looked at?”

  “Anything to get me away from Attila the Huntress.”

  He leaned against me, hobbling on his one good leg as we walked across the lot. I chanced a glance at the office when we passed and thought I saw the woman looking out the small barred window. Reaching the truck, I poured Slipstream into the passenger seat and went around to the driver’s side.

  “You ain’t here about them gators, are you?”

  “No, I’m looking into the death of Gill Gross. Heard you worked for him.”

  “Good damned riddance, if you ask me. And ‘worked for him’ ain’t the way it was. We was partners, me and him. Anything we found we was supposed to split.”

  “And did he?”

  “Between the damned state inspector and his daughter, I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. Hounded him to death, they did.” He realized what he’d said and looked down. “He was okay after they got their shares—until this last one, that is. Cut me right out of it.”

  I knew I was only getting one side of the story and the other side lay in the refrigerated case in the morgue. I had reached the entrance to the hospital and followed the signs to the emergency room. When we reached the entrance, I pulled off to the side and went around to help him.

  “You know what he was working on?”

  He dodged the question. “Hey, think you could use that title of yours to get me some painkillers?”

  Ten

  I left a business card with the hospital administrator and headed back to the truck after an attendant helped him hobble to a wheelchair, then pushed him through the door for treatment.

  When I reached the truck I checked my phone, saw a missed call, and hoped it was Justine with some kind of revelation that would make my job easier. The call was from Grace Herrera; probably returning my call from yesterday. It was unusual that she hadn’t left a message.

  The park service had little in the way of support for its law enforcement division. We had our boats, trucks, and radios, but that was about it. Miami-Dade and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement were our sources if we needed more. With the northern and western sides of the park adjoining Dade County, our cases tended to cross the imaginary borders, making working with them unavoidable. I had found it was often better to make a deal early and get their cooperation and use of their resources rather than wait until I needed them and get turned down. I sat in the truck with the windows open and returned her call. It went to voicemail, continuing our game of phone tag.

  Vince Bugarra’s name had come up too many times for me to ignore, but before I went after him I wanted more information. Slipstream had mentioned a state inspector. He hadn’t called him out by name, but using the browser on my phone, I Googled a few terms and found the Florida Division of Historical Resources. After scrolling through several pages, I found a phone number for the Underwater Archeology Program. I dialed and waited. A woman answered. After identifying myself, I asked to speak to the chief. A minute later I had him on the line and explained who I was and why I was calling. “I need the name of your man in South Florida who worked with Gill Gross.”

  His attitude surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. Bureaucrats spend their careers protecting their jobs and he seemed no different. I don’t know whether it was because I worked for the federal government, but suspected it was standard procedure—information was not forthcoming.

  “There is evidence of foul play and I have it on good authority that the inspector might have been one of the last people to see him alive,” I explained. It was close to the truth, though calling Slipstream a “good authority” was a crime in itself. “You wouldn’t want to interfere in a criminal investigation?” The threat didn
’t seem to affect him.

  “Anything that involves what he was looking for or what he found must be reported to the department. Am I clear?”

  I assured him that his turf was safe.

  “Jim DeWitt,” he finally told me. He recited the inspector’s phone number and hung up before I could thank him. DeWitt’s phone was probably ringing right now with orders to stonewall me. I dialed anyway, not surprised when the call went to voicemail.

  I pulled out of the hospital parking and with no destination, I found a shade tree in a park that offered enough cover to turn off the air conditioning and open the windows. A city park service truck drove by and I saw its brake lights flash as the driver must have noticed the light bar on my truck and then the emblem. Not wanting another turf war, I backed out and left the park.

  I remembered my conversation with Sid yesterday and decided to go see Vance at the Medical Examiner’s office. There would be no need to continue the investigation if Vance ruled the death accidental.

  On the way, I stopped at a convenience store for a cup of coffee. I’m a black coffee guy, and would rather drink the motor oil served in gas stations than suffer the pretentious look of a barista when I order my coffee black. Leaving the truck, I entered the store and pressed a finger against each of the coffee thermoses, settling on a cup from the one that felt the most full.

  At the counter, I took a sip from the styrofoam cup. I had to wait to pay while a heavyset woman dressed in a loose-fitting sweatshirt and pajama pants watched the attendant with a skeptical eye as he worked through the woman’s pile of lotto tickets, checking each one under her watchful eye to see if there was a winner. I took another sip and stared blankly at the merchandise on the shelves behind the register: cigarettes, cell phones, rolling papers, and chewing tobacco occupied most of the space. My eyes went back to the cell phones.

  Finally one of the tickets paid off, and the woman used the proceeds to buy more tickets and a pack of cigarettes. Moving to the side of the counter she gave me just enough room to set my coffee down while she sorted out her tickets. She had bought a handful of scratch-off tickets and started mumbling something to herself as she discarded the losers one at a time.