Backwater Pass

by Steven Becker

  “Probably makes sense. You know anyone?”

  “Thought about just finding a random plant and asking.”

  “Not very scientific, but those guys work with it everyday. If there’s something odd, they’ll probably notice. I have to get going. You about ready?”

  “Whenever you are.” I carried our plates around the counter and into the kitchen, then rinsed them in the sink. Zero came up beside me as I washed them and the pan. I had a dishwasher, but didn’t use enough plates to warrant its use. Finally, Zero gave up and went to the bedroom, seeking his last bit of attention from Justine. I finished and went to check my phone before we left. Even on vibrate, it would be pretty much useless while the boat was running.

  There were no new notifications and I texted Allie good morning before setting it down. It was a little scary how he seemed to know exactly when to call, but a split second before I set it on the counter it rang.

  “You going to work today?” Martinez asked.

  “I’m about to head back to headquarters. I think we should talk if you have a few minutes.” It was the last thing I wanted, but I needed to make sure he was on board with me investigating the case. I realized again how well off I’d been out in California with only myself to report to. The special agent in charge there, my boss, had been several hours away. He’d had no choice but to work his own area and pretty much left me alone. Here, I felt stifled by Martinez.

  Justine was ready and we headed for the boat. After Zero’s longer than necessary good-bye, I idled away from the dock, spun the wheel, and headed toward Bayfront Park. With the wind at our backs it was an easy ride, but it also blew the engine noise back to us, making it hard to talk. I enjoyed our closeness, though I was already preoccupied with how to handle Martinez.

  “Can you give me a few minutes?” I asked Justine as we pulled into my slip.

  I couldn’t help but notice that Susan’s boat was here. Apparently it hadn’t taken her long to fall back into her old routine—she would likely be sitting behind her desk fine-tuning her latest report. Her boat was tied off, ready for a hurricane, and I realized I had forgotten to check the weather. “Can you see what that low is doing?” I asked Justine while I secured the lines.

  She worked her phone, moving through several apps. It was amazing how they disagreed, but I had learned how to compare and take the strong points from each.

  “Not really organized and looks like it’s moving north.”

  With the help of our smartphones, everyone in South Florida was a hurricane expert. The forecast was good news and bad. We were not going to get a hurricane, but the show would go on as scheduled. I thought about embellishing the weather angle, but Martinez would see through it. Weather affected his budget; he knew what to look for.

  Justine and I parted ways at the top of the walkway leading to the dock. She went to the right, where her car was parked; I went for the main entrance. Mariposa greeted me with a warm hello.

  “How’s the boss?”

  “Him and that Susan have been all secretive. You know what’s going on with them?” she asked.

  I was surprised that for once I knew more than she did. If anyone wanted to know what was going on here, Mariposa was usually a clearinghouse of schedules, rumors, and gossip. Unlike our boss, she did it the old-fashioned way, by building relationships.

  “I’ll fill you in on the way down.” Normally I would delay heading into his lair as long as possible, but this morning it was me who wanted something from him. I climbed the stairs, rehearsing what I planned to say. That all fell apart as soon as I saw Susan sitting in her usual chair by his desk.

  “Moorings secure?” he asked, motioning me to the other chair.

  I confirmed that they were and slid by Susan. From my customary seat I glanced over at the monitors. Two had feeds from the security cameras—one carried a close-up of the parking lot and I thought he might have something to say about Justine being here. The last screen that I glanced at before he started talking had a satellite view of the storm.

  “Big news, Hunter,” he said.

  I played dumb, but did not fail to notice he was in his podium uniform. “What’s that?”

  “Biscayne Bay National Park is about to get a new artificial reef.”

  He seemed awfully pleased with himself. “I kind of figured that out.” It was time to burst his bubble. “You realize that leaves us with a murder scene at the park.”

  “What are you talking about?” Susan asked, turning toward me with a hateful look.

  “Whatever caused that bridge to fail, even if it was accidental, is manslaughter. The bridge didn’t just fail on its own—someone caused it.”

  “The University wants to put this behind them and dedicate the wreckage as a memorial.”

  “Of course they do,” I said, under my breath.

  “What does that mean? This is a big deal for the park. Artificial reefs are known fish attractors and placing it in sixty feet of water with mooring balls surrounding it will allow divers access.”

  I figured it would be a boon for his budget as well, but not much else. I was all for artificial reefs. We had destroyed enough natural habitat. I knew that as long as the debris was clean, it would quickly become a sanctuary. “We can’t just let them dump it without an investigation,” I argued.

  “Be that as it may. The engineer is saying it’s the contractor’s fault and we’re dumping the debris tomorrow morning.” He opened a file and handed me a piece of paper. “This is your assignment.”

  9

  Sitting in Martinez’s office with him and Susan staring at me I had no choice but to look at the paper he had just handed me. It was a schedule of events. Text marked with yellow highlighter indicated my responsibilities. I scanned the other items and saw he and Susan were handling the ceremony. If they were the chef and maitre d‘ in this restaurant, I was in charge of valet parking.

  With the media already alerted, there was no delaying the inevitable in his mind. Unless I could find someone higher up the food chain, the evidence would be sitting in a pile on the seafloor by tomorrow morning. I suspected Burkett had a plan to sabotage the ceremony, but I was not ready to team up with him. Burkett had no power and Roslyn would have dumped the evidence already if it had been up to her. The university was the next and possibly the last rung on the ladder.

  With nothing else to be gained by staying, I took the paper, nodded to Martinez, and left the office. After a quick stop to confirm our next dinner with Mariposa, her husband, and his Appleton 21, I asked her to keep me posted on the plans for the ceremony and headed to the truck.

  Justine sat in her car with the door opened. I hadn’t expected her to still be here. She was deep into her phone.

  “From the look on your face, I’m not going to ask you how it went.”

  “Yeah. They don’t care about anything except the media coverage.”

  “Have you talked to Allie since the other night?”

  “Just a quick hello. What’s up?”

  “I think she’s having some trouble processing all this.”

  “You talking to her now?”

  “Yup.”

  “What about school?” I asked. Her look reminded me it was summer break. I remembered my text conversation yesterday where I had accused her of texting from school. It was hard to stay in tune as a weekend parent, but I knew I should do better. “What can I do?”

  Another patented look. “Maybe talk to her?”

  I promised to, but I wanted to get out of here first. “You need to get to work?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Right. What’s your plan?”

  “Concrete plant and then the University. I’ve got to try and convince someone to not dump that debris.”

  “What about Burkett?”

  “I guess it’s time to bring Miami-Dade in.”

  “Sounds good. How about if we split the concrete sample and I’ll see what I can come up with on my end?” She reached into her backpac
k and took out a pair of gloves, then sorted the concrete chips between two evidence bags.

  “You going to have any trouble with your bosses if you’re doing this?” The word had come down from the Ivory Tower that working for me was off-limits unless it had a Miami-Dade case number attached to it. There were, of course, ways around it, but most involved Martinez.

  “Not this time. We were brought in as consultants. It’s already on the board and they’re billing hours. Anything they can do to accrue charges and cover their butts they will.”

  “I thought the National Transportation Safety Board had authority in these kinds of cases.” Come to think of it, I had wondered about why I hadn’t seen any of their iconic windbreakers around.

  “The University is to Dade County like Vatican City is to Rome. Even though the church is in Rome, the locals have no jurisdiction. Same thing here. The University is state property, but inside the county, and with the Accelerated Bridge Construction program based there, they plan to do their own investigation.” She sounded as if she was reciting the contents of a memo from above.

  “That’s a conflict of interest. They’ll be sued,” I said.

  “I heard papers had already been filed.”

  It was a sad statement about society that we both assumed there would be lawsuits, and the major thrust of some of the agencies that had the resources to solve the case, mainly the University and Miami-Dade, were more worried about liability than the truth.

  I wanted to change the subject from work. “Mariposa is after us for another dinner. You up for that?”

  “Yeah, I like them,” she said.

  There was something in the way she spoke that sent alarm bells ringing in my head and made me start to think. We had spent almost the entire last day together and talked about little besides business. “Maybe we can plan a weekend somewhere?” I asked.

  “Now that would be good.” She slid her hand out the door and we locked fingers.

  That should have made me feel better, but it had the opposite effect. I knew better than to mix business and pleasure and had sworn to myself that I wouldn’t let work get in the way of our relationship, yet I kept letting it happen. I also knew that once I had a case, I couldn’t focus on anything else. Justine was like that in her own way as well. Her paddle time was sacred, and when she was onto something at work it was similar to watching a dog with a bone. I knew that didn’t justify my actions, though, and swore once again to be better and try harder. But I had said it so many times now it felt hollow, and my mood darkened.

  She must have sensed it. “Can I take you to dinner later?” I asked. If I was going to change I figured I had better start now.

  “Yeah, that’d be good if you have time.”

  “I’ll make time,” I said, leaning into the car and kissing her hard. It was a long kiss, the kind that usually led to other things, but that would have to wait until later. Justine closed the door and gave me a smile that told me I was on the right track. I watched as she pulled out of the parking lot, until the car disappeared onto the mangrove-lined road. I went to my truck and moved under a shade tree, pulled out my phone and started to search the local concrete plants. There were several nearby; one in particular was close to FIU. After entering the address in the maps app, I followed the directions to the plant.

  Located west of the Turnpike, the plant looked more like a mining operation than I’d expected. Dredges were working a large lake that had an unnatural tinge to it. If the color of the water could have been named like a paint color, it would have been nuclear green. The plant office was in a low concrete-block building near the front. After seeing the color of that water, I had mixed feelings about the flagpole proudly flying the American flag in a poorly landscaped island in front of the entrance. I found a lone shade tree by the side of the lot and parked.

  A banner attached to the wall underneath the weather-worn Brockmore Concrete sign said they worked weekends and I wondered, after seeing the state of the property and as I entered the fifties-style lobby, if they were hurting for money. The interior of the building was as austere as the exterior and a receptionist that might have been there since it was first constructed greeted me. I showed her my credentials and asked to see the plant manager.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d expected a concrete man to look like, but the man that came through the door behind the reception counter was not it. Dark-skinned and trim, there was something about his look and the way he held himself that said cocky, if not arrogant. I tried not to judge as he walked toward me with his hand extended.

  “Albert Brockmore. I’m the owner.” His handshake was firm.

  “Kurt Hunter, Special Agent with the National Parks Service.”

  “Didn’t know they had special agents in charge of procurement now. You from the Everglades or Biscayne?”

  “Biscayne.”

  “Used to deal with this guy named Martinez over there. Park service sure likes their concrete. You guys paid for my boat.” He laughed. “Stopped bidding the work, though.”

  We at least agreed that the park service liked concrete and I couldn’t leave the Martinez comment sitting there. “What happened?”

  “Too hard to get paid. That guy had excuses for everything. Learned a long time ago in this business that when someone’s favorite word is ‘budget’, you’d better watch your receivables.”

  “Somewhere we can talk? I have something I’d like to get your opinion on.” He looked skeptical, but led me back to his office. From the pictures on the wall—exotic vacations, boats, fish, women, and a few older shots of what looked like a military unit—I guessed the concrete business had been good to Brockmore. I scanned the photos on the wall, seeing Albert and a man that looked like he might be his father standing on the transom of a boat holding several large fish.

  “Nice fish. That the boat you were talking about?” The name on the transom was Mud Man.

  “I was only kidding, but yes. What can I help you with?” he asked.

  I got the feeling he was soured on the park service and sat down. I pulled the evidence bag from my pocket and handed it to him. “Anything you can tell me from looking at that?”

  “You’ll have to tell me where that’s from and what you’re after first. I wouldn’t put it past Martinez to send you out here with a sample from the park and have me incriminate myself.”

  This was going to be too easy. “I wouldn’t put it past him, either. This is from the FIU bridge that collapsed.” I seemed to have his attention now and he reached for the bag.

  “I can tell you what’s wrong with that mix without even looking at it.” He motioned me to sit. “See how that crumbles?” He worked the bag with his fingers.

  “Does that mean the concrete’s defective?”

  “‘Defective’ means there is something wrong with it. I believe that was batched to the specs. That bridge-building program at the school called them out. You know anything about concrete?”

  “A little, but I’m good if you start from the beginning.” I took out a notepad.

  “Batching concrete is all about your recipes. Different applications have different ratios of materials. You generally have the same ingredients, but the proportions change.”

  He continued on with a list of aggregates and what factors changed their quantities in the mix. I wrote down the key stuff, but knew most of the information was available on the Internet.

  “Now, that job called for a whole lot of fly ash in place of cement. Those greenies over at FIU spec’d the stuff. It was enough that I refused to bid the project.”

  “What’s the fly ash do?”

  “It’s a byproduct of burning coal. The good stuff comes from power plants, of which we have a ready supply from Turkey Point. But you have to be careful where you use it.”

  I already knew a bit about the nuclear plant located on the shores of the park. A body had turned up among the miles of cooling channels there, on my watch. They also had a conventional coal-burning plant there
. I nodded for him to continue.

  “In many cases it can work as a green solution. It’s a substitute for Portland cement, which is not exactly environmentally friendly.”

  I looked out the window at the bright green lake and I couldn’t help but wonder what “environmentally friendly” meant to him.

  He continued. “Portland’s still the best stuff, though. Fly ash can be substituted if you’re careful; maybe for a slab or sidewalks. If it’s done right for structural stuff it can work, but there are a lot of variables.”

  “Like what?”

  “Water is the big one. Also some of the additives can change things. In this case it was the schedule. If you want the necessary strength with the mix they specified, it takes a lot longer than the standard twenty-eight days for it to cure to strength.”

  I wrote down “twenty-eight” and underlined it. “Kind of goes against the premise of an accelerated bridge schedule.”

  “Like I said, those pinheads at the university wanted it both ways: green and fast.”

  I remembered my dad talking about a triangle he used to use to explain the construction process to potential clients. The three points were cost, time, and quality. His point was that you could have two, but not all three. Achieving fast, good, and cheap at the same time sounded about the same as accelerated and green.

  I thanked Albert and headed out the door. I had the distinct feeling as I walked to my car that he was relieved to see me go.

  Before leaving for my next stop, I checked my messages and saw one from Justine: Call your daughter.

  10

  I called Allie on my way to FIU. For the first time since we had re-established our relationship I was glad when it went to voicemail. I left a message and sent a text as well to ease my guilt, but still felt like I was letting her down. In order to process the disasters in our lives we need answers. I felt I was getting closer to the truth; maybe that would help us both.