After a quick breakfast and a shower, I headed over to Slipstream’s. It was close to nine, but the parking lot to the apartment complex was full to near-capacity. I left the truck and climbed the stairs to his unit. On the way up, I noticed several window shades move and doors crack open. The residents clearly had their law enforcement radar on.
It took several knocks before a bleary-eyed Slipstream opened the door. The cigar stub drooping from his mouth looked like it hadn’t moved since I’d left him, and he appeared to have found something to supplement the pills I had given him. My watch told me there was not nearly enough time for me to make him presentable and still make my meeting with the state guy. All I could get from him was a vague promise that he would be ready in an hour.
It took pushing through several hard yellow lights, that I hoped didn’t have red light cameras, to reach the coffee shop and I was still a few minutes late. A tall, lean man dressed in khakis and a short-sleeved shirt that said state employee all over it came toward the truck. I grabbed my phone and met him on the sidewalk.
“Jim DeWitt.” The archeologist extended his hand.
“Kurt Hunter.” I never bought into the theory that you can tell a man’s personality from the quality of his handshake, and I hoped I was right as I released the limp wrist. “Getting hot out here; come on inside.”
He might have been a few inches taller, but I felt like I towered over him. I didn’t run into too many academics, but his physical demeanor and patch of a goatee pegged him as one right away. His coffee drink seemed to match his personality: double macchiato, no milk, little foam. I stumbled over the words when I asked for it and was surprised when, added to my black coffee, the bill was over ten bucks. I asked for a receipt. Even if I had to get DeWitt to sign it, I was going to get Martinez to reimburse me for this.
We took our drinks to a corner table. With his eyes on the table, DeWitt fussed with his beard and stirred his coffee as if he were weighing the problems of the world. I guessed it was up to me to get the ball rolling.
“Did you work much with Gill Gross?”
“I don’t know if worked with would be the right phrase.” He continued to rub his beard, then took a sip of his drink. “I am the underwater archeologist in charge of this area. Lot of treasure hunters around,” he said in a whiny voice, trying to sound like he was overworked. Slowly, he took another measured sip.
His pauses were getting annoying. “Can you tell me what he was working on?”
“He had several permits for different areas. Do you have the coordinates for where you found him?”
I got the feeling he was probing me for answers rather than the other way around. Pressing the home button on my phone, I was about to show him the picture I had taken of Morehead’s computer screen but thought better of it. “The boat was drifting by the light near the Cape Florida Channel.” I knew I wasn’t being very specific.
“That’s a fair ways from his closest permitted area.”
We were getting nowhere. “Are the claims public record?”
“Yes, but they can be rather large areas and the state has a right to keep them private. Public safety, you know.”
Or greed, I thought and decided to try a different tack. “What was the permit for? Anything brought up?”
That started the ritual all over: first the grooming of the beard, then the prolonged sip of coffee. “So, in a perfect world, we would have inspectors watching over every salvage vessel. Instead, with our limited budget, we rely on the prospectors to report finds. They generally stay within the boundaries of the law, but are very secretive. Are you sure you can’t pinpoint where Gross was diving when he was killed?”
He certainly had a backward interest in this. “Wouldn’t the permits tell you? What was the closest?”
“Agent Hunter,” he said, starting the beard thing again.
I didn’t wait for him to start the coffee drinking ritual. I glanced at my phone screen, using it as an excuse. “I gotta go. Maybe if you think of something…” I handed him a card and stood.
He had continued anyway. Finishing his sip of coffee, he carefully wiped the foam from his mustache. “You have a responsibility to report any findings to my office.” He countered with one of his own cards.
I left the meeting thankful that I hadn’t brought the object sitting behind my seat in with me. I might have to turn it over, but he hadn’t mentioned how quickly. After fifteen minutes with the bureaucrat, I found myself clearly sympathizing with the salvors. Looking at my watch, I figured Slipstream had had enough time to join the living. I left the parking lot and retraced the route to his apartment.
This time of year, the heat doesn’t turn up until late morning, and I had decided to give the air-conditioning a break. That decision might have saved my life when I heard two men yelling at each other from the front of the apartment building. As I turned toward the back where Slipstream’s apartment was, I noticed that the lawn chair previously occupied by the landlord was empty.
The argument seemed to pick up in intensity as I rounded the corner of the building. Slowing, I stopped when I saw the gun in Slipstream’s wavering hand. He was leaning over the railing in front of his apartment pointing the barrel at the landlord, who was yelling back about the rent being late.
The landlord stepped back and reached behind his body. Thinking he was reaching for a gun, I slammed on the brakes and reached for my weapon before opening the door. Bracing myself against the door, I saw he was pulling out his phone. Slipstream was the only asset I had right now, and as flaky as he was, I couldn’t afford for him to go to jail.
In the bright sunlight, the lights on my truck would be worthless and I wished I had a siren, or at least a hailer. Without either, I called out, “Drop the weapon and stand down.”
I moved away from the truck, repeating the demand, twice more until I was in a position where Slipstream could see me. The landlord still held the phone, but it looked like he hadn’t made the call yet. With my gun still pointed at the balcony, I moved toward him.
“Special Agent Hunter.” I decided it was better to leave out the National Park Service part. “That man is a confidential informant.”
“Him?” the man asked, looking up at Slipstream.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“The problem is the two hundred dollars he was short on the rent this month.”
In many jurisdictions CIs were paid. I knew of no precedent in the park service, but I needed him. Pulling my wallet out, I took out two hundred dollar bills and handed them to the man.
“And the twenty dollar late fee,” he said, peering into my wallet.
I took out a twenty and handed it to him. “I’ll need a receipt.”
Fourteen
The landlord gave me a smug look and walked away, leaving me staring up at the balcony. Now that Slipstream was on the payroll, I needed to figure out what to do with him. With the stub of the cigar looking like it was going to fall out of his mouth, he leaned over the railing and gave the landlord the finger. I thought about recommending that he apply to Miami-Dade; even without the cigar, he could stand in for Grace’s new partner.
“Come on down, we have work to do,” I called up to him. Slowly, I noticed doors closing and shades being drawn; the show was over. A few minutes later, with the stub still in his mouth and a fresh cigar sticking out of the pocket of his wrinkled shirt, he hobbled down the stairs.
“Damned leg is giving me fits this morning,” he said as he dramatically set his reinforced leg on the sidewalk.
I knew he was fishing for a pill, but I wasn’t buying.
“Not even going to thank me for paying your rent?”
“Shit, I could’a strung that old boy out till next month.”
“Good to know.” His skillset was impressive. “You know this DeWitt guy from the state?”
Before he could answer, a woman emerged from one of the first floor apartments and made a beeline toward us. She looked like the same woman w
ho’d had the lottery tickets in the convenience store yesterday. My first thought was that I had somehow insulted her and she was after me, but when she reached us she smiled, showing a row of brown teeth.
“Your friend gonna pay me the gas money from last night?”
She must have seen my wallet. With her hands balled up in fists on her hips and one leg cocked forward, she was dug in.
“What’s she talking about?”
“Damned taxi service is what I am. Now, you gonna pay me or what?” She reached for the cigar in his pocket.
He brushed her hand away and gave me that look.
“Twenty’ll get rid of her and we can get to work,” he said.
She moved closer to me and I could smell whatever she had been doing last night—and it wasn’t good. It was worth the twenty to get rid of her. After I’d fished the bill out of my wallet, she snatched it and it disappeared into her shirt.
“Anytime, boys,” she said, and walked away.
“You go somewhere last night?”
“Nah, she’s just crazy is all.”
I could believe that, but I didn’t believe him. I had seen how meticulously she handled her lottery tickets. She didn’t miss details.
Slipstream changed the subject before I could ask again. “You were wanting to know about DeWitt? Yeah, I know him.”
We agreed on something. “How’s he work?”
“What do you mean?”
I started walking to the truck, not wanting to be overheard by the neighbors, some of whom were still watching. I waited for him to haul his stiff leg over the curb to the parking lot. “Is he on the water? In an office? How does he find out what’s going on?”
“Whoa there. That’s a lot of asking.”
“By my account it about covers the late fee I just paid for you. We haven’t got to the gas yet. Then there’s still going to be the matter of the rent.” We had reached the truck and he waited for me to unlock his door. “Look. I’ve taken care of your foot and rent. Anything else I can do for you or are you going to cooperate? I thought Gross was your friend.”
“Partner.”
“Whatever.” We hadn’t even left the parking lot and he was already on my last nerve. I thought for a second about pairing him with Susan McLeash. That put a smile on my face. Finally, I unlocked his door and he climbed in.
“Where we goin’? I could use some breakfast.”
That wasn’t going to happen. “That state guy sounds like he’s playing both sides. You know where to find him?”
“Any bar he can find.”
I was getting used to his quippy answers, but it still bothered me. “Any one in particular?”
“Over by the Miami Beach Marina there’s a place loaded with his type. Couple of others up the Intracoastal, too.”
I knew the marina and bar all too well and made a note to pay a visit to my buddy Gordy from Bottoms Up Boat Cleaning. Slipstream was definitely on the mark, putting those two in the same boat or bar as it were.
It was getting close to noon, but still a little early for the bar crowd. I’d found that hardcore drinkers drank at home during the day, waiting for the reduced prices of happy hour before heading out. With a few hours to kill, I wondered about the object sitting behind the seat. It might answer some questions if I knew what it was. Before I could figure that out, the phone rang. I tried to hide my smile when I saw it was Justine.
“Hey.”
“Hey back. I got called in early to process Gross’s house. Interested?”
“For sure,” I answered, wondering why Martinez hadn’t let me know the warrant had been issued. She texted me the address and we agreed to meet in forty minutes. I disconnected the call and pressed the text. The map app opened and routed me to a neighborhood in Coral Gables. The ETA was thirty minutes, which gave me a little time to ditch my partner. After seeing the GPS waypoints on his computer, there was no way I was letting him in that house.
“You gonna feed me or what? Can’t be working on an empty stomach.”
It was actually a good idea. “Sure. Got some business in the Gables, I’ll drop you somewhere there.” I wondered if he ate with the cigar stub in his mouth.
That seemed to satisfy him for now. I expected he would be asking for a pill afterward, but I would cross that bridge when I got there. Following the directions on my phone, I followed 836 until the I-95 exit and headed south. A few blocks before the turn off South Dixie Highway came up, I saw a small Cuban restaurant in a strip mall.
“Cuban okay?”
“You’re buying.”
I handed him a twenty, asked for a receipt, and was glad when I had the truck back to myself—but his presence still lingered. He only chewed the cigar, but it took the combination of the open windows and air-conditioning to evacuate the smell.
The GPS directions had me turn into a neighborhood of older ranch homes. Reaching Gross’s house, I saw a red Jeep Wrangler in the driveway. Passing the house, I took a spin around the block, both to kill time until Justine got here and wanting to get a feel for the neighborhood. It was always a good idea, especially in the older areas, to make sure there weren’t neighbors with a dozen Harleys or muscle cars out front.
Most houses appeared to be well maintained, but looked vacant. Only a few had cars in the driveway. Quite the opposite of Slipstream’s apartment complex; most of the residents here appeared to be at work. Finally pulling up to the curb, I stared at the house for a second. I had Gross for a pickup guy, not a red Jeep guy. I removed my gun belt from the glove compartment and buckled it around my waist as I approached the house.
The front of the house faced east and had tinted windows to keep out the morning sun. They were as effective at concealing the interior as they were at keeping out the heat. Moving toward the door, I looked for a doorbell and not finding one, knocked with the butt of my gun. I could have waited for Justine. She would have the paperwork to gain entry legally, but if someone answered, as I expected they would, I was going in now.
“Who is it?” A young woman’s voice came through the wooden door.
My feeling was correct. It sounded like Gross’s daughter. “Agent Hunter. I have some questions.”
The door opened part way, stopped by a chain. The same emerald eyes that I had seen in the coffee shop peered out at me from the dark interior. The door closed and then opened.
“Come in,” Maria said, opening the door all the way.
This was definitely a man’s house: neat rather than clean. The counters and tables were bare and it looked like everything had its place—everything except for the boxes in the middle of the living room. There were about a half-dozen already full and sealed and another dozen or so in the process of being packed. My first instinct was to stop her, but this wasn’t a crime scene and she was Gross’s daughter. I doubted it, but there was also the possibility that she lived here. If not, the house had probably been bequeathed to her.
“We’ve got some forensics people on the way,” I said, wanting it to sound more like standard procedure than a question.
“Sure. I’m just packing some family things. I guess I’ll put the house up for sale.”
I wondered how a famous treasure hunter’s house would be priced. There had to be people out there who’d think there was buried treasure here. “Good market.”
“Hope so.”
I remembered the feeling that she’d been holding something back in front of her aunt. There might never be a better time to see what that was. “Your aunt seemed a little bitter.”
“My dad worked his butt off for everything he had; she’s different. Always wants something for nothing. She expected him to take care of her.”
“Thought she said she was divorced.”
“Twice, but she’s burned through whatever she got long ago.”
“Are you worried she’ll go after the estate?”
“You call this an estate? Dad worked hard, but he was always chasing rainbows and that gets expensive. He could easily l
ose more searching for a wreck that he never found than he’ d make on one he did. And then the state had to take their cut.”
“Did you have much to do with his business?”
“I helped with his books and taxes. Stuff that wouldn’t get done otherwise.”
“What about the state inspector?”
“Yeah, Dad couldn’t be in the same room with that guy. I dealt with him.”
Finally, a break, but just as I was going to ask to see the records the crime scene van pulled up. “DeWitt, right. I got the same feeling about him.” When I heard my own words, I knew I had better watch myself. I remembered Martinez’s comment about being naïve. The human race was more devious than I gave it credit for. Making judgments based on instinct about the people involved in a case had gotten me in trouble before.
A knock on the door interrupted us. Maria went to open it and when Justine entered, I made the introductions.
“Maria Gross, this is Justine Doezynski, from the Miami-Dade lab.” We hadn’t worked out Justine’s last name status yet. She was happy to lose the Doey nickname, but we often ended up working together and one Hunter in the room was usually enough.
“Hey. Sorry about your loss,” Justine said, setting her cases down. “Mind if I have a look around? If there is an office, that would be a good place to start.”
“Sure, last door at the end of the hall,” Maria said.
Justine picked up her cases and left us alone again. I looked around the room, waiting until Justine was out of earshot. There was nothing I wanted to hide from her, but I did it for Maria. While I waited, I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that took up one entire wall. There were two sides to everyone; what they showed the world, and what they hid. I was hoping that the contents of the bookshelves would tell me a little about the man, but I also knew that finding out what was on his private bookshelves was more important.
Backwater Tide Page 9
