Backwater Flats

by Steven Becker

  “Think there’s any bumps?” I asked her. Though I was just learning, I was really enjoying catching what waves I could.

  “Intervals today. The plan remains the plan.”

  My idea shot down, we parked on the bay side and unloaded the boards. The exercise felt good, clearing my mind and releasing the tenseness in my body. That is, until we started the first set and the gap between us opened. Pulling as hard as I could, I closed it near the end of the last minute of the interval, but Justine kept a commanding lead. As she looked back at me, illuminated by the sun, her smile made losing acceptable.

  Her interval workouts were intense, but typically short, and an hour later we were heading back to the condo. I couldn’t help but notice the tension and anxiety starting to creep in on me as the clock ticked toward my inevitable meeting with Martinez.

  4

  One of the benefits of being slower than Justine was watching her from behind. After an hour of that view I was ready to take the lead as we entered the condo. True to form, Martinez called just as the door closed, putting an end to any extracurricular activities I had in mind.

  Leaving Justine to her morning nap, I left for headquarters. Monday morning traffic became my first obstacle, as brake lights from the road ahead were visible before I exited the parking lot. Road construction raced to stay ahead of the increasing population but, despite the near-constant disruptions, the streets rarely seemed to improve. I’d left about twice the time needed so, as unwelcome as the delay was, I would make my meeting. Sacrificing my coffee stop as a bit of insurance, I rubbed my eyes and waited for the traffic to start moving.

  Finally, after turning south on the turnpike I caught a break that put me at the headquarters parking lot entrance about fifteen minutes early. Pulling in, I noticed the crime-scene tape was still in place. A small group of Park Service personnel and FWC officers stood, heads bowed, outside the perimeter. To my surprise, Susan McLeash was one of them.

  Parking in my usual spot, I climbed out of the truck and headed over to the group.

  “Heard you caught the case,” Susan said. Her tone was harsh.

  I’d hoped the impromptu memorial would stifle her bitterness, but it persisted. Sidled up against one of the FWC officers, Hayward’s partner (if memory served from observing them yesterday), she either knew the man or was angling for a date. There was no attempt at respect for the dead in her wardrobe and makeup. With her uniform just a little too tight in all the wrong places and wearing enough makeup that I worried it would crack if she showed any emotion, Susan looked decidedly out of place among the somber group.

  Checking my phone, I saw I still had ten minutes until my meeting with Martinez and stuck around the outskirts of the mourners, hoping they might break up and I could speak to Hayward’s partner. Just as I was about to leave, the group broke up. I moved closer to Susan, taking a deep breath as I approached to avoid at least that first waft of her heavy perfume. As she chatted up the FWC officer, I could see he didn’t mind the stench. From the look of him, the department didn’t require physicals and, in his world, Susan might be a catch. I tried to use that to my advantage.

  “Who’s your friend, Susan?”

  “Jim Scott,” he said as he extended his hand.

  I studied the man for a brief second. Curiosity got the better of me after seeing the way Susan was stalking him. I couldn’t help but check out his ring finger, not surprised to find a wide, gold band ensconced on the pudgy digit. From the look of it, cutting it off would be the only method to remove it. That indicated he had been married when he was a thinner, and probably younger, man. Susan apparently didn’t care.

  “You were on duty with Officer Hayward yesterday? I saw you out in the channel.”

  “Right, he was my partner.” He turned back, glancing down at the dried blood staining the parking lot.

  “I’m Kurt Hunter, a special agent here. I’ve been assigned the case.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a card, which I handed to him. “Do you have any time we can talk? I’ve got to go into a meeting with my boss now.” I didn’t expect it to last long—they never did.

  “Robinson’s got me scheduled this morning. I could meet you this afternoon.”

  I wondered why a supervisor wouldn’t give a deceased man’s partner a break, but then I wouldn’t expect Martinez to have extended me any courtesies in the same circumstances, either. We set a time and I started toward the main entrance.

  Mariposa was always a welcome sight. Sitting behind the reception desk, she smiled and with her Caribbean lilt asked about Allie and Justine. I told her they were fine and inquired about her husband, trying to snag another invitation to dinner with them—and her husband’s Appleton 21, his “guest-only” rum. She waved me off, telling me with her expression that the boss was waiting.

  Climbing the stairs, I wondered how Martinez was going to handle this. Interagency investigations were always difficult, with each organization trying to protect their turf. Having Martinez and Robinson heading the local offices was not going to make it any easier. My only hope was the constant hammering about his budget would be set aside as the FWC would offset the cost of the investigation.

  I was right on one count and wrong on the other. The only surprise was that the chair next to mine, often occupied by Susan McLeash, was empty. That was good news. At least for now I would be free of my permanent nemesis and occasional partner. Martinez’s eyes remained glued to the three monitors on his desk when I entered. My greeting was a wave of his hand.

  “Distracting having a crime scene in our parking lot,” I said, in an attempt to get the meeting going.

  I could see around the edge of his monitor that he was watching the lot. I leaned forward. “Do you have footage from yesterday?” Reluctantly, as if he was giving up state secrets, he shifted the monitor toward me and with the mouse panned the view across the lot. I inferred from the display that the camera had been pointed elsewhere yesterday.

  “Any footage would help.” Maybe I would catch a break and see the perpetrator enter or leave the area.

  “I’ll be reviewing it.” He looked at me as if I was the guilty party.

  I felt my face flush at the comment. The time stamp on the video would vindicate me. His snarky tone rattled me and I breathed in, trying not to show it. “Good thing Justine was there. We got the scene processed last night. I met the Medical Examiner on-site and attended the autopsy last night.” I yawned for effect.

  If I expected an “attaboy” it never came. “I may need a hand with Pete Robinson,” I said.

  “I’m thinking about passing this off to Miami-Dade.”

  We’d had this discussion before. Crimes committed within the park boundaries were clearly our jurisdiction, but rarely did the investigation stay with us. “I’ve got a few interviews set up. Let’s get through those and see where it leads.” We both knew if it looked like a slam dunk and would get him on the news, he would let me pursue it.

  “Good publicity for the park never hurts.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Short leash, Hunter. I know Robinson can be difficult, but they’ve just lost one of their own.”

  I nodded and rose to leave, surprised when I made it out the door without comment. A glance down the hallway told me that Susan was in her office. As badly as I wanted to get out of the building, I turned in the other direction and headed to my corner of the park-service world, where I sat in my office staring at the four walls for a few minutes, until I determined it would be better to face my nemesis immediately than to sit and wait for the confrontation.

  “Kurt,” she called.

  Of all Susan’s attributes, her sweet Southern voice was the most misleading. Her outward appearance told you exactly what to expect, but the sound of her voice belied the duplicity behind it. I stepped to the door, cautious not to cross the threshold and enter her lair.

  “I know some of the people you might want to talk to. I’d be happy to help.”

  �
��Maybe Robinson.” The words were out of my mouth before I thought of the implications. I was still worried that her smile might crack her makeup.

  “Happy to help.”

  I repeated my request for Hayward’s personnel file and the list of people with access to the schedule and left it at that before I could do any more damage. Heading downstairs, I waved to Mariposa on the way out. Standing outside with no immediate plans, the fatigue of being up all night and the intensity of our early morning paddle started to set in. I preferred to run my cases into the ground, tracking every lead until it was solved. The thrill of the hunt often got me through the sleepless nights, but now, with no immediate direction aside from the interview with Hayward’s partner later this afternoon, I craved sleep.

  I walked back to my truck, grabbed my bag, and checked the crime scene again on my way to the dock. No one was there, and I wondered how long Martinez would allow the yellow tape to remain in place. It stood out to a passerby as a testament to something bad happening at the park; something he couldn’t tolerate. When I talked to Justine later, I would ensure she was finished before allowing Martinez to eradicate the blood stains from the pavement.

  Stepping onto the dock, I noticed the FWC boat I’d searched last night was still in place; odd, as Hayward’s partner had made a point to say that Robinson had made him work today. The other boat was gone, though, so I assumed he had been assigned a new partner. Looking up at the sky, I saw several thunderheads building offshore. They weren’t forecast to hit land, but they rarely obeyed orders and, with the opportunity to inspect the boat again, I took it, knowing a storm would erase whatever evidence it held.

  Climbing aboard, I started at the bow, carefully checking every compartment as I worked my way to the console. Leaning over, I opened the hatch and peered inside. It appeared undisturbed from last night. Taking my time, I removed each item and placed it on the deck. I found nothing unusual: fenders, line, safety gear, and several of the gauges used to measure lobster and stone crab. Placing it all back, I went to the wheel and checked the electronics box and small glove compartment. Again, there was nothing of interest.

  I had worked my way back to the transom and opened the hatch there, finding an assortment of typical boating gear. Turning back to the console, two metal measuring gauges caught my eye. They appeared identical to the plastic ones in the console and, knowing that both kinds were readily available, thought nothing of it. Stepping off the boat, I was no closer to the killer than before.

  Moving across the dock to my boat, I climbed aboard, started the engine and released the lines. Idling out of the small inlet leading to the larger channel, the first thing I saw was the FWC boat in its usual spot by the boat ramp, with Hayward’s partner, Jim Scott aboard. Being Monday, business looked to be slow, and I called out to Scott, asking if he would talk to me now.

  Looking around, as if Pete Robinson might be wired into Martinez’s camera network, he agreed. A minute later, I had my fenders out and coasted up alongside the FWC boat. He tossed me a line, which I tied off to the midships cleat, and shut off the engine. Each sitting in our own vessel, we suffered an uncomfortable moment’s silence before he finally invited me over. Climbing over the gunwales, I sat on the starboard side.

  “Sorry about all this.”

  “No problem. I’d like to see justice served on whoever did this. Hayward was my friend as well as partner.”

  “Any enemies?”

  “We’re FWC, naturally a lot of folks resent us, but I don’t think enough to kill for it.”

  “I’m thinking whoever did this knew he would be in the parking lot at exactly that day and time.” I floated my schedule scenario.

  “Likely, but there’s a lot of people who know when our shifts change. Poachers, for sure.”

  I hadn’t considered that angle. Knowing when the officers went on and off duty would make bringing in illicit fish a lot safer. “Anyone in particular?”

  “You work out here. There’s a handful of the usual suspects, but they mainly stay down south.”

  He was right. The southern area of the park near the Card Sound Bridge was a hot spot for smugglers. I assumed it could be the same for poachers. Mostly uninhabited, and with miles of small creeks and canals, this close to Miami it was like a magnet for nefarious behavior.

  I’d run out of questions, but just as I was about to hop back across to my boat I saw Chico, one of the local guides. His flats boat with its distinctive poling platform dropped down from plane and started into the channel at an idle. I was at the helm of my boat when he passed. Instead of his usual greeting, he put his head down and looked the other way. I thought about asking Scott if he knew Chico, but decided I might get more information from Chico himself.

  5

  Pushing off of Scott’s boat, I idled across the way to the fuel dock and tied off at the end closest to the ramp. I waved off Will, since I had topped off the tank yesterday, and called over that I would just be a few minutes. With his boat tied up on the finger pier adjacent to the ramp, Chico was backing down his trailer. I stood to the side and watched.

  Without the pressure from the weekend crowds, almost anyone can take their time to launch or retrieve a boat. But watching the ease with which Chico stopped the truck with its rear wheels just touching the water, walked over to his boat, ran it onto the trailer, and hooked it up, I thought the Coast Guard Auxiliary might consider offering a class or at least a YouTube video for it to help the masses I had watched floundering around yesterday. I waited until Chico had pulled his truck to an area off to the side, where a hose was supplied to rinse off the saltwater.

  He saw me and waved as I approached. Standing in the cockpit, he sprayed the deck from bow to stern, then washed the engine before handing me the hose and, using the trailer’s frame for a step, swung over the gunwale, landing easily on the pavement. I knew he wasn’t finished and handed the hose back to allow him to flush the engine, and rinse the hull and trailer.

  When he was finished, he reached into his cooler and motioned me to a bench overlooking the channel. Unfortunately, it was in plain sight of the FWC agent.

  Cracking the beer he took a sip. “I’d offer you one, but your boss is probably watching.”

  Martinez’s reputation preceded him. “No worries. You hear about the agent that got killed yesterday?”

  “Too bad. Not going to say he was one of the nice guys, because they’re all a bunch of pricks.”

  Chico was someone I could count on to be honest. I already knew most of the guides resented the FWC officers, though I wasn’t sure why. In most cases, once the FWC knew the guides were legit, the professionals were left alone. By checking for unlicensed charters and recreational anglers’ catches, the officers were actually preserving the resource by which the guides made their living. My position was ambivalent. I wasn’t going to let illegal activity occur, but neither would I allow the FWC to run off the guides; in other words, simply protect and provide access. From my patrols I knew many of the guides’ secret spots and did my best to protect them from both the FWC and the public. Although I was on the water almost every day, I had hoped the guides would be extensions of my eyes and ears out there, but their own paranoia, as well as the reputations of my fellow officers and the ones who had preceded me, had soured the guides to anyone in uniform. Chico was an exception.

  When I first arrived on these waters, I was fresh from the Plumas National Forest in Northern California. I had fished the trout in the streams there—most rarely exceeding twelve inches, and many closer to six, what many down here would call bait. Several of the guides had taken my questions about Keys fishing as some kind of encroachment. Chico had always helped me out, and was in a large part responsible for whatever success I’d had here, especially in tossing flies to the resident bonefish and permit two of the prized catch-and-release fish in the park.

  He drank again. “Is this, like a formal interview?”

  “Nah, I just saw you pull in and thought you might
have some ideas.”

  “We keep our distance. They know I’m licensed and everything I do is catch and release, so they give me plenty of space.”

  Bonefish, permit, and tarpon were poor table fair, but elusive and excellent fighters. “Any talk on the water about Hayward?”

  “Robinson instituted a quota system a while back. That’s when they stopped patrolling and started camping out here.” He looked across the way at the officer. “If I was looking for information, I might stick around here and talk to the folks they pull over. Heard there’s a lot of BS going on.”

  That was an interesting phrase, but I decided not to push him. “Fishing been good?”

  “Water’s still hot, won’t be until that first front comes through to cool it down. But it’ll come, always does.” He looked out at the water and drained his beer, ending our discussion.

  “Appreciate the insight. Let me know when the bite’s on.”

  “Will do.” He crunched the can and tossed it into a recycling bin on the way to his truck.

  I watched him walk across the lot, checking that there was no sign of inebriation. Fortunately, Bayfront Park was operated by the county and I had no jurisdiction here, but I would do him the favor of stopping him if I thought he’d had too many. There was something about boaters and beer that I didn’t understand. Never being able to drink in the sun and heat without feeling sick, I wondered how most guys did it. From the way Chico walked, I decided he was sober, and waved as he pulled around toward the exit.

  Walking across the parking lot to the fuel dock, I thought about his advice to talk to some of the boaters, but on a Monday morning, the lot was near-empty. I recognized several of the trucks and trailers as belonging to commercial guides and fishermen, most who wouldn’t talk to me anyway. Even if I was able to corral someone, with Officer Scott sitting across the way, it would cause immediate friction between the Park Service and FWC, something that would likely hinder the investigation.