by Andrew Mayne
He decides not to take a chance. He guns his engine and turns away from the pier and flies across the waves and into the waterway.
“McPherson! He’s getting . . .” CRASH!
George’s words are drowned by the sound of the cigarette boat smashing bow first into the black dredging barge anchored at the far end of the pier, plainly visible to anyone making a getaway in broad daylight . . . not so much at night, in the rain, at full speed.
As Hughes and his team run across the pier with their guns drawn, George and I motor to the site of the crash to pull the unconscious pilot from the wreck of his boat.
“I hope we got the right guy,” says George over the roar of the engines.
Me too . . . Me too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
LOW TIDE
I walk into our warehouse office, holding my morning cup of coffee, and find George Solar sitting across from a man I don’t recognize at the conference room table. Hughes has joined them at the far end.
“Oh, hey,” I say, setting my coffee and case down on my desk. I check my watch. “Did I miss an email?”
“Have a seat, McPherson,” says George, his voice devoid of emotion.
“This about the bust last night? Everything get processed?”
We pulled out the driver of the cigarette boat, Armand Alejo, and sent him to the hospital with an armed escort, then spent the next several hours interrogating his accomplices, two men from Venezuela with arrest records for narcotics and armed robbery.
Alejo served in the Venezuelan Navy before fleeing the country. He showed up in the US a few years ago, working on luxury yachts, but he kept getting fired. Presumably because he was ripping them off. At some point he paired up with the other two and decided to grow his budding business.
Why did he choose boats instead of banks? It’s what he knew. He also had contacts in the marine-electronics market and the ability to move stolen goods.
But the interesting part was when we pulled up his Facebook profile and recognized the watermark on certain photos of his girlfriend. It belonged to Greg Hesher, the boat photographer we’d tenuously linked to most of the other robberies. We’re still not sure if Hesher was a willing accomplice or if Alejo’s girlfriend simply had access to his photos.
Either way, she was taken into custody and will now have the opportunity to explain her side of things. Or, more wisely, lawyer up and figure out how to pin the blame solely on her boyfriend.
“This is Ty Russel,” George says as I take a seat opposite Hughes. “He’s with the Broward district attorney’s office.”
Russel is in his midforties and has a shaved head on a skinny neck. He’s wearing a suit that seems too warm for our office.
“Oh great,” I reply.
“No. Not great,” says George. “Mr. Russel is here because Darren Cope’s attorney says he’s filing another lawsuit against the state. Did you speak to the man?”
“Wait? What?” I’m so confused. “What do you mean, another lawsuit?”
“Right now, we’re involved in a ten-million-dollar lawsuit with Cope that looks like it’s going to go to trial. He’s suing us over perceived improprieties in the investigation into the deaths of Chadwick and Timm.”
“I just spoke to him,” I say. “What’s he claiming?”
“Mr. Cope says you held him captive, threatened him physically, and trespassed on his property,” replies Russel. “Can you address any of these allegations?”
“I . . .”
“Shut it, Sloan,” says George. Then, to Russel: “If this is off the record, she’ll answer. If this is in a legal capacity, she’ll want her attorney present.”
I feel like I’m drowning. I ask George, “What exactly was the original lawsuit about?”
“That’s not relevant to this discussion,” says Russel.
“Like hell,” says George. “It seems some investigators on the Chadwick-Timm case got a little too aggressive and pulled Cope’s medical file without a warrant to check up on his alibi for the night of the disappearance. He’d claimed that he’d had complications from outpatient chemotherapy for his lymphoma and had to spend the night at the hospital. They didn’t believe him. Turns out he was telling the truth. Now you’ve stepped into that shit storm.”
“His attorney notified us yesterday that he intends to add your visit to the suit,” says Russel.
“I didn’t know any of this,” I tell the prosecutor.
Russel looks down at a sheet of paper. “That’s not what I’ve been told. I’m to understand that, in a meeting with investigators, they told you specifically to leave the matter alone.”
“We asked for case files,” says Hughes. “That’s all. They declined. There was no mention of any pending litigation or that they’d already screwed up the investigation.”
“We’re an independent investigative agency,” replies George. “We don’t answer to BSO, the FBI, or any other organization that fouled this up. We have the right to ask any questions we see fit, regardless of whether your investigators bungled things.”
“Well, you may be independent, but he’s going to name you in the suit,” says Russel. “Do you even have counsel?”
“That’s what the state attorney is for,” replies George.
“Were you the one that authorized Detective McPherson to interview Mr. Cope?” asks Russel.
George hesitates for a moment, trying to figure out how to answer the question without throwing me under the bus. “She doesn’t need my permission.”
“Detective Hughes? Were you aware that she was going to speak to Mr. Cope?”
Hughes looks even more uneasy. “We often divide up the workload.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
I interrupt. “He didn’t know. Solar didn’t know. I was following a lead.”
“Which lead?” asks Russel.
“That’s none of your business,” snaps George. “It’s what we do. We chase down leads.”
“Well, this lead says his rights were violated. He also says he has it on video with audio. He claims that he has you making threats.”
“Verbally?” asks George.
“Yes. Generally, that’s how it works,” Russel says snidely.
“Then, generally speaking, isn’t it your job as a lawyer to know that in the State of Florida recordings require two-party consent?”
“I’m very familiar with the law, Mr. Solar,” Russel shoots back. “I don’t need a lect—”
George slaps his hand on the table. “Hold up. You mean that Mr. Cope’s attorney flat-out told you that he’d recorded Detective McPherson without her permission, and you didn’t point out that this was both illegal, inadmissible, and grounds for her to sue him?”
“We’re weighing all the options . . .”
“You’re so full of shit. You’re going to use this as leverage against him in your lawsuit, aren’t you?”
Russel is quiet.
I’m still processing what George is suggesting. I think he means that since Cope illegally recorded our conversation and admitted as much through his attorney, the state is looking at this as a bargaining chip to get Cope’s original civil suit thrown out.
George glances down at the table in front of Russel and notices something. “What’s that?”
Russel puts his hand over the document for a moment, then pushes it toward him. “It’s an agreement to let us handle the litigation of the claim.”
“So you can bundle them together and get out of your lawsuit?” George picks it up, reads it, then slides it over to me.
I scan the document. Basically, it would allow the county attorney, Russel and company, to represent me. Exactly what George suspected.
“Has Mr. Cope filed the new suit yet?” I ask.
“No. But his attorney has filed a motion with the judge.”
“The judge of your civil suit,” I add.
“But he’s trying to name you in it.”
“You mean add her name to t
he list of investigators. But he’s still suing the county, correct?” asks George.
“Correct,” Russel replies, his eyes on the table in front of him. “But his attorney specifically mentioned a separate lawsuit concerning you, Detective McPherson.”
“Thankfully, qualified immunity is still a thing, and that would be the state’s problem if he was serious,” says George. “But we both know he’s not. Although that wasn’t your intention here, clearly. You wanted to scare us into having you represent us so that you could bargain.”
I rip up the agreement. “I think I’ll wait until Mr. Cope serves me papers. Until then, I’m not going to worry about this.”
“Or you could hire your own attorney and sue him for illegally recording you,” suggests Hughes.
“We all want the same thing here,” says Russel. “Doing that wouldn’t be very productive.”
“We want the same thing?” George points to the door. “Get the hell out of here.”
“We still have to discuss things,” says Russel.
George stands. “Tell your boss Woolsack that she’d better tell me face-to-face what those things are. We’re done dealing with you.”
“You’re making a mistake,” says Russel, still seated.
“GET THE HELL OUT!” George glares at the man with murder in his eyes.
Realizing he’s gone too far, Russel gathers his documents, jams them into his briefcase, and makes a hasty exit.
After the door shuts, George’s fury is directed at me. “Goddamn it, McPherson! Just when we’re looking good with the New River bust, you go pull this dumb bullshit. What were you thinking, talking to a person of interest after they specifically told you to stay clear? And threatening the man? On camera? You’re damned lucky his attorney fucked things up.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. Blood is flushing my face. I can’t even look at him.
“Bullshit like that could close us down! That asshole who just left here? We’re going to need a favor from him one day. Guess what? We’re not getting it. He’s a petty, vindictive little man that will leave you out to dry just to get back at you. And when BSO finds out that we just snatched their golden ticket, they’re gonna be pissed too.” He collapses in his chair. “I’m too old to manage this kindergarten crap.”
“I don’t think—” begins Hughes.
George cuts him off. “Don’t even start. Your job is to babysit her.”
I’d be offended by the remark, but I’m too devastated to care. George is right. I crossed the line. I was careless.
“One-week administrative leave,” says George.
“What?”
“Go home. Think about things,” he growls.
“With a paid vacation?”
He glances at me, locking eyes. “Will it feel like a vacation to you?”
“Please don’t do this.”
He points to the door. “Golden Boy and I have to clean things up from last night. You’re a distraction.”
I’d protest, but that would only make things worse. I grab my case, toss my lukewarm coffee in the trash, and head for the door.
As I’m about to leave, he calls out, “And stay the hell away from Cope.”
CHAPTER FORTY
TIDE POOL
Under a setting sun, Hughes sits on the gunwale of my boat, gently bouncing his baby in his lap, while Jackie shows his wife how to cast off the bow. I was sent home two days ago. I’ve heard nothing from George since, but Hughes has been keeping me up to date. Today, he practically insisted that his wife and he drop by for a visit. I wanted to turn him down, but it was my day with Jackie, and I figured they’d make for better company than her brooding mother.
The plates from our dinner of swordfish are sitting in the galley along with mostly still-full glasses of wine. Hughes and his wife like the taste, but not the aftereffect. As for me, I’m trying to break a McPherson habit for Jackie’s benefit.
“It killed Solar to have to do that to you,” says Hughes, broaching the topic of my forced leave.
“Not half as much as it kills me to have put him in that situation.”
“I’m sure. After you left, he had Denton and the DA yelling at him. It was not a pretty scene.”
“What did George do?”
“He just took it, at first. He told them you’d been put on official leave. One of them called bullshit, and then Solar unloaded on ’em. I wish you could have seen that.”
“I messed up,” I reply.
“It happens,” says Hughes.
“I crossed the line. I was harassing Cope. I was dumb,” I admit. “I was bad police.”
Hughes shakes his head. “Know why I came to the UIU?”
“I think we had this conversation.”
“We had the ideological one. Let me tell you the practical one. I had a reputation in the department . . . one that followed me all the way from the service.”
“For punctuality?” I joke.
Hughes stares down at his baby. “No. I let some guys down in my navy unit. The short version is a guy did something he wasn’t supposed to. I mean really crossing the line, resulting in a local getting killed. He was a sadistic asshole. We all had to give testimony. There was a ton of pressure. Other guys were telling me we have to stand up for each other. Protect one another. Only . . . I couldn’t protect this. I didn’t see the guy as a brother; I saw him as an evil person in a uniform.”
Tiny fingers wrap around his.
“What happened?”
“I told the truth. Life got difficult. I was called a traitor. I would have taken a bullet for any of them, but they didn’t see it that way. I’d betrayed one of our own.” Hughes shakes his head as he gazes at his child. “But I know I did the right thing. There’s always a gray area. We live in them every day. But this was evil. Once you can’t tell them apart, there’s not much difference between us and the guys we were sent there to kill.”
Oh jeez. This poor man. I can see the hurt in his eyes. I don’t know what to say.
“I came back. Got into the police force, except a couple other guys I’d served with joined the department too. Word got around that I wouldn’t have their back. It didn’t matter about the details. I wasn’t going to be one of them.”
“And that’s when George found you?” I ask.
Hughes nods. “Pretty much. He knew my story.”
“It’s a lot like his. He did prison time as part of a long-term case. First they called him a crook, then a snitch. He loves the gray area, but he can clearly see what’s black-and-white.”
“Yeah. He’s solid. He admires you, McPherson.”
“Me?” I reply. “I feel like I’m a nuisance.”
“You’re kidding, right? You’re his legacy. That’s why he came down so hard.”
“Because I let him down.” I sigh.
“No. Or rather, in his words, ‘That Sloan is so damned stubborn this is the only way she’s going to learn to get smart.’ Or something to that effect. He’s trying to teach you. In his own way.”
“I wish I was a better student.”
“You’ll get another chance,” says Hughes. He looks over his shoulder and speaks almost in a whisper. “I’m not supposed to say this . . .”
“Then don’t,” I tell him. “I don’t want you getting into trouble.”
“Okay. Um . . . let me put it this way: there’s been a development today with the Swamp Killer. Don’t be surprised if your suspension is suspended.”
“What kind of development? Wait, don’t tell me. But why me?”
“Not you in particular. Just about every cop in South Florida. Since you’re one-third of the UIU, Solar’s going to need all hands on deck.”
“George told you this?” I ask.
“What? No. But I’m going to suggest it to him tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I say, deflated.
“Look, you’re on the bench, but you haven’t been sent home. Solar will want to keep you as far away from Denton as possible, but he’s n
ot going to keep you out of the largest manhunt in South Florida history.”
My curiosity is killing me. “So, there’s a lead?”
“Let’s just say my friends at BSO are very, very excited. They’re hinting that Steve screwed up big-time.”
“Anything to do with what we found?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s something else. But if they’re right—a big assumption—we could actually nail this guy.”
For the first time since George sent me home, a ray of light breaks through my gloom.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
MANIFOLD
FBI special agent Denton is standing at the podium of the small auditorium in the Broward Sheriff’s Office next to two detectives from the BSO. Curiously, there are armed deputies standing at all the doors. In addition to submitting to a security check at the front desk, we all had to show ID to get into the room, including George and Hughes.
While George is up front with the other chiefs, Hughes and I are sitting toward the back to put as much physical distance as possible between Denton and me. I’m not afraid of the man. I just don’t want to be a distraction.
I haven’t learned anything else since Hughes and I talked yesterday. The FBI and local police departments have done an extremely good job of keeping whatever they know under wraps. What I can’t figure is why all the police are at this briefing. For something so secret, it seems like the fewer ears and mouths, the better. My best guess is that they’re going to need a lot of manpower.
“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” says Denton. “We believe we’ve made an important break in the hunt for the Swamp Killer. Yesterday afternoon, the editors of the Sun Herald received an anonymous email from someone calling themselves Manifold.” Denton nods to the side, and an image appears over his head, showing a redacted printout of an email message. “In this message, this individual identified himself or herself as the Swamp Killer and made a series of demands, including a deposit of ten million dollars in Bitcoin in order to stop the killing.”
Denton pauses. “I know what you’re all thinking—this is just another nut that crawled out of the woodwork. However, in this case, Manifold provided details about the murders that haven’t made it into any news reports. Some were only known separately by different agencies. In fact, we spent all day yesterday corroborating details, including some we hadn’t been aware of, such as items missing from the homes, et cetera.”
