Figuring the best thing I could do was get some sleep, I stepped aboard my center console, released the lines, and started across the bay. Reaching the dock in twenty minutes, Adams Key was quiet. I noticed Ray’s boat was gone, and even Zero failed to make an appearance as I pulled up to the dock. The only sound was a boat in the distance. From the frequency of the engines, it was coming fast and hard, a dangerous move through the windy pass.
The sound got louder, then quieted as the boat entered the mangrove-lined channel. I expected the quiet was temporary, as the brush tended to muffle sound. Too soon, the engine noise regained its volume, and I turned just in time to see the quad-powered center console fly out of the channel. I’d been just about to dock, and was still aboard my boat; now I had to decide how to deal with the inevitable wake. Rather than having the boat tossed against the concrete pilings and dock, I pushed down the throttle and spun the wheel away. It was just in time, as the first wave from the wake lifted the boat.
Giving tickets for speed limit and wake zone violations wasn’t usually my thing, but as the second wave lifted the boat, anger rose in my gut. I didn’t so much care if the offending boat grounded; it was concern for the safety of other boaters and property that caused me to slam down the throttle and follow. Any oddsmaker would have given me a zero chance of catching the much-faster boat and, without a light bar above the T-top, the only thing that would indicate to the speeding boat that I was the law was the forest-green fabric of the canopy, a signature of the park service, and the hailer, a new addition.
Steering with one hand, I yanked the microphone from its holder and turned the radio to “hail.” Keying the button, I called out for the boat to stop. There was no reaction and, thinking they hadn’t heard me over the engine noise, I switched the dial to “siren.” Keying the microphone again, I heard a single blip. I held it down, and allowed the siren to blast. There was no question that it was loud enough, and a few seconds later, I saw a head turn, and finally the boat slowed.
Pirates of the Caribbean might have been a Disney movie, but there was a very real risk when approaching this new generation of go-fast boats. It was a good sign that they had stopped, and I hoped this was just an overzealous boater at the helm rather than a smuggler. Running up to the larger boat with my starboard side to his port, I tossed the fenders, and called over to the two men aboard to grab the lines. The feeling of dread eased as I saw their faces, and expected my hunch was correct.
“Kurt Hunter, National Park Service,” I called over the gap.
“What can we do for you?” the man asked.
There was no discernible accent and he appeared amiable. “You realize how fast you were going through the creek?”
“Just checking the boat out. Sorry about that.”
I gave him a stern warning, but was not in the mood to write a ticket. Martinez might have appreciated the revenue but, unlike the FWC, he had yet to institute a quota on citations. That gave me an idea.
“Y’all ever get stopped by the fish and game guys at Bayfront Park?”
They looked at each other and shook their heads. “We’re kinda new to this.”
I wasn’t about to rant about quad-powered outboards and novice boaters, but they might be the perfect pair to get me some information. “I’ll let you go with a warning, but I need something in return.” From their expressions I could tell I had their attention. I reached into my pocket and pulled out two cards. Reaching across the gunwales. I handed one to each of them. “See what you can find out about those FWC guys and give me a call.”
“What, like get pulled over or something? We don’t even have any fishing rods.”
“No, nothing like that. Just hang out at the ramp and wait until they pull someone over. Then see if some of the boaters will talk to you.”
“Like a survey?”
Now they were getting it. “Exactly. Give me a call later, and watch your speed around here.”
I had no doubt they would cooperate. It was either that, or have one eye scanning the water looking for me the next time they came out. Aside from Bayfront Park, there were only a few other places to launch in this part of the county. The chances of them running into me at some point were pretty good.
Removing the lines, I tossed them across and idled away. Once clear, I pulled in the fenders, and headed back to Adams Key, hoping to get some rest.
Ray’s boat was at the dock when I returned. He and Becky were unloading groceries while Jamie played with Zero. They had a strange look about them. “Hey,” I called out as Ray came over to help with the lines.
“Heard about the FWC guy getting killed,” he said.
Though he preferred to stay away from headquarters, and the mainland in general, Ray was as wired into the coconut telegraph as anyone. “Yeah, got any ideas?”
“That whole office, from Robinson down, is crooked.”
“Yeah, I don’t like the way they set up shop across from the ramp and just pull random people over.”
“Cross between a speed trap and a DUI checkpoint, if you ask me,” Ray said, shaking his head.
Forgetting the fancy name Justine had called them, I remembered the soft pieces of lobster I’d seen in the cooler. “You know what they do with the stuff they confiscate?”
“That’s a good question. Seen them taking shorts off people, but never did think what they do with them.”
“Wouldn’t think it amounts to enough to kill someone over.”
“People been done in for less, but I hear you there. Unless they got a big score, but the guys setting up them casitas’d be smarter than to run in there. Plenty of other spots to offload if you weren’t wanting attention.”
Ray had been my educator when I first moved here: from teaching me about the passes and creeks the smugglers preferred to the illegal casitas—man-made habitats used by poachers to draw in lobster—as well as where and how to fish these waters. Patrolling his hot spots had netted me more than a few arrests.
With Becky now well into her third trimester, I helped Ray with the groceries, then headed across the clearing to my house. Just as I reached the door, my phone rang. Glancing down, I didn’t recognize the number, but it was a local area code and I thought about the two yahoos I had just given my card to.
“Hunter,” I answered.
“We done what you asked, but we didn’t need to talk to no one. Son of a bitch pulled us over on the way in, and he was a damned site meaner than you.”
6
“Slow down, and tell me what happened.” They were both talking at the same time and I assumed they were on speaker. One account would have been preferable, but I didn’t want to stop them.
“We was coming in the channel, nice and slow like you told us, and this dude flashes his light bar and calls out over his loudspeaker that we should idle toward his boat. We got over there and he started doing a safety inspection.”
The voice changed. “Can they do that? I thought it was fish and game. You seen us. There weren’t a rod on board.”
“Some folks’ll fish with traps.” I wanted to end that rant and find out what had happened. “A big center console like yours with four outboards and outriggers—it’s quite the fishing machine; I can see why he would check you out.”
The compliment slowed them down. “So, what happened?” I asked.
“Shoot, we got all that stuff. Ain’t nothing he could have done. Son of a bitch ran our drivers’ licenses when he couldn’t find anything else. ”
“Did he check your coolers and fish boxes?”
“Sure enough, but they’re empty. Didn’t even bring no beer this trip.”
“I really appreciate your help. If you think of anything else, please let me know.”
They hung up, leaving me to wonder if it was standard procedure for the FWC randomly to check safety gear and registrations. Their modus operandi seemed to border on harassment. There was always the possibility that the officer could have been influenced by the two rednecks running a mid
-six-figure boat. Profiling worked both ways. I thought about who I could call and verify if this was normal operations or not. Robinson was out of the question, and there was no one else within the agency who would trust me enough to give a straight answer.
Susan’s offer came to mind. I found her number in my contacts and pressed connect. The minute she answered I realized the decision to involve her was an indictment of how tired I was.
“Funny you calling,” she said.
The background noise told me she was in a bar, which gave me an excuse to end the call and figure out how to deal with my mistake.
“Maybe tomorrow morning we can go over some things,” I said, deciding it would be better to talk to her sober.
“That’d be good. I know I’ve gone off the reservation before, but I think I can help you with this case.”
I heard someone in the background, and was damned near sure it was Pete Robinson. Neither her location or company were a surprise, and I wondered if there might be something to be gained from my following Robinson. I had called Susan on her work phone, and as with mine, Martinez had permanently enabled location tracking. In this case, it would work to my advantage.
“Nine tomorrow morning. Your office,” I said, and disconnected before she could reply. Standing in front of the open refrigerator, I realized how hungry I was, and, eyeing the steaks, pulled them out. It was early for dinner, but I’d been up all night. I texted Justine that I was going to eat and go to bed. She acknowledged with a smiley face emoji and a comment about wearing me out this morning. I called my work day complete, grabbed a beer, and carried the steaks outside to the grill.
Sitting on the porch, sipping the cold beer and smelling the fat as it dripped and drizzled onto the grill, I tried to think about anything but the case. I’d been here before, where I was so focused on results that I couldn’t see the forest through the trees. In my previous life, the same kind of thinking had cost me my family.
My best work was done cruising the flats and checking out the barrier islands. Yeah, I tossed a few lines, which wasn’t exactly procedure, but when I fished I became one with nature, and often saw things I would ordinarily miss; both crimes and clues. I’d started doing this back in the Plumas National Forest in California. In the same methodical way that I now patrolled the waters of Biscayne National Park, I had used an ATV in Plumas. In my work, I’d discovered wilderness, whether water or land, held magnets; water in the forest, and land on the water.
A lifetime ago, while walking the streams of the Plumas wilderness with my fly rod in hand, I had found a strange eddy swirling behind a rock. Checking it out, I realized that there was something pulling water from the stream, and on further investigation found a concealed irrigation line running uphill. I followed it to what—at the time—was the biggest pot-grow ever found on federal land. In hindsight, I should have reported it to the DEA and spared my family the wrath of the cartel whom it belonged to.
Hoping I had learned my lesson, I tried to relax and think about the fishing and diving trip that Allie, Justine, and I were planning for next weekend. Finally, I was able to fall asleep—for a few hours.
I knew enough to set my phone to “do not disturb,” but the two numbers it didn’t block were Justine’s and Allie’s. I expected it was Allie, checking in with her typical “SUP?”, but it was Justine.
“Hey.”
“Oh crap, did I wake you?”
“Nah.”
“Typical male answer. Sorry.” She paused. “Anyway. I got the forensics processed and the report back from Sid. I don’t think it was a knife that killed him. Sid thinks it’s a blunt object, about four inches long, with barbs or points.”
I was wide awake now. Knives were hard to place. If the weapon was found, it would need to have forensic evidence intact. It wasn’t like a gun, where each barrel had a specific signature that could be matched to the bullet. The weapon Justine described sounded unique, hopefully something that the killer wouldn’t discard. I was excited, but it was still like finding a needle in a haystack.
“Any ideas?”
“Fishing, boating, diving … Think about it.”
At least a half-dozen things popped into my mind—all hard to tie to a killer. “Okay.” I hoped I wasn’t sounding too pessimistic.
“O. M. G. Do I have to come down there and hold your hand?”
I had no idea what she was so worked up about, but the last comment might lead to someplace I’d rather be. “Please. Maybe I’m tired, but I’m not getting it.”
“Okay, kemosabe. I’m off tomorrow. Get some sleep, I’ll see ya in a few hours.”
That made my night, and I easily fell back to sleep thinking about her.
The entire defensive perimeter failed. Zero and I both slept through Justine’s arrival. The equilibrium of the mattress shifting woke me from a deep sleep. Looking up, I saw Justine and reached for her, but she pulled away.
“Not so fast, lover boy,” she said, pecking me on the cheek and rising to evade my grasp. “We’ve got work to do.”
I rubbed my eyes, but gave no response.
“Like finding a murder weapon—hello.”
“I thought it was your day off?”
She reached into her bag and tossed a stack of eight-by-ten pictures on the bed. Each was a shot of the wound, taken from different angles, with a tape measure set beside the gash. Even I could see the rough edges and bruising around the penetration area. It certainly wasn’t a sharp knife that had done this.
“Where do we start?”
“Breakfast. I’m starved.” Seeing no reaction from me, she knew if there was no sex involved, the next-best bet to get me going was food. “I’ll make a steak omelette.”
I put both feet on the ground and rose. “I ate one last night.”
“No worries. I’ll whip something up. Now get moving.”
Still groggy, it took two cups of coffee to jump-start me. Justine dished the omelette onto two plates, and set them on the counter. Now that I was awake, I was eager to hear what she had in mind. Before her call last night, I had no idea what my next step would be; probably tracking down the victim’s friends, family, and coworkers. I rarely got results from this time-consuming effort. Maybe some detectives could read people better than me, but from my experience, evidence solved crimes.
“Where do you want to start?” I pushed my empty plate away, then thought better of it and walked around to the kitchen-side of the counter, where I cleaned the omelet pan and our plates.
“How about that mess you call a tackle box?”
Even though her ultimate goal was not to organize my tackle, you had to love a wife who would sort through your fishing gear. We left the house and went down to the small shed built under the deck. Pulling the two boxes and a bin out, I carried them to one of the picnic tables in the day-use area.
I knew what she was after, but in order to accomplish it, everything had to be dumped out. Starting with the tangle of hooks, weights, lures, and tools, I started to separate and organize the smaller items while she studied the bigger tools. Taking a pair of pliers in hand, she simulated stabbing someone. Not satisfied with the result, she tried the same procedure with a dehooker. The bait knife was set to the side, as it was already ruled out, as were the small scissors I used to cut braided line.
Fifteen minutes later, although I was feeling better about myself for cleaning up the mess, we were no closer to an answer. But I knew solutions often came from elimination. Picking up the boxes, I carried them back to the shed and pulled out our dive gear. The larger pieces—buoyancy compensator, regulator, mask, and fins—were set to the side. The closest thing to a possible murder weapon was the snorkel, but the bendable plastic didn’t have a chance of penetrating skin. Moving to the smaller items we often carried, I eliminated the knives first. All that was left were compasses on retractable lanyards and a few dive slates used to communicate underwater. I had a small waterproof camera upstairs, but again, it wasn’t close to being a weap
on.
“Not getting anywhere,” I commented while I repacked the gear.
“Put that all away and meet me on the boat.” Justine got up and walked toward the dock.
After hanging the bags in the shed, I followed. Tied behind my park service boat was a similar center console that Justine and I recently had bought, and usually docked in a rented slip by her condo on the Miami River. Only a dozen miles as the crow flies, when the weather cooperated as it had today, it was often easier and faster to commute by boat. When the seas were rough, the better option was the longer route, although that meant dealing with Miami traffic and then a shorter ride across the bay.
Ray’s boat was gone, possibly explaining why Zero hadn’t joined us. Glancing back at their house, it didn’t look like anyone was home. It was a little unusual for the family to be gone this early, especially since I had helped with their weekly grocery run yesterday. Setting those thoughts aside, I stepped down into my park service boat.
Justine was riffling through the built-in compartments. I started with the interior of the console. After pulling out the safety gear, there wasn’t much else left except for two mesh nets and tickle sticks. The two-foot-long, narrow aluminum sticks were used to tickle the lobster from their cover and the net was used to trap them. Hanging from the end of the sticks were the standard measuring gauges divers and snorkelers were required to carry. By law, lobster needed to be measured while in the water. Shorts and females, identified by the egg sack on the underside of their tails, were released. Another mesh bag that we used to carry the lobster to the surface was with the gear.
Justine picked up one of the tickle sticks and jabbed with it. It might pierce someone’s skin, but there was no way it was the murder weapon. Before she set them down, though, I focused on the attached gauges.
“What about the gauges?” I asked.
“They’re plastic. I don’t see one doing that kind of damage.”
Backwater Flats Page 4
