Backwater Flats

by Steven Becker

  “Adams Key for a start. Hoping we can locate someone on your radar.”

  “What are we looking at?”

  “The FWC RHIB.”

  “That old boy actually took it out?” I caught his skeptical look. And as he pushed the boat to the maximum speed he could get away with in the channel leading to the bay, I explained what had happened. The sense of urgency of both him and his crew ratcheted up a notch as we scanned the radar. Zooming the ring out to ten miles, there were too many possible targets. To make matters worse, the radar could not separate items adjacent to each other. The landmass of the islands absorbed any boats against them.

  “You gotta give me a timeline or something. Nice Friday afternoons got ’em all out.”

  I thought for a second, and pulled my phone out. Scanning the messages, I found the one from Allie that they had gotten a ride to my house and checked the timestamp.

  “They would have left the park forty minutes ago,” I answered, cursing myself that true confessions at Susan McLeash’s and my decision to hang with the police chase had endangered my daughter—and her friend.

  “Even with that knuckle-dragger at the helm, that sucker can fly,” Johnny reminded me.

  The boating conditions were stellar, giving even more range to the RHIB. Figuring he’d be running at thirty to forty knots, that would put him about twenty miles out by now. As we idled out the channel, all I could do was try and get into his head. He knew I was more familiar with the backwaters of the bay than he was, so I didn’t think he would try to hide in the park.

  I had to set my emotional involvement aside, and I asked myself what his motive was. Thoughts spun through my head, all of them bad. I decided to find him first and ask questions later.

  “I think he’d be on the outside.”

  Johnny increased the zoom to its maximum. “The outer band is thirty miles. Its range is thirty-six. You’re not going to see much ocean-side with the islands blocking the signal.”

  “Let’s head out Caesar Creek, then.”

  Johnny nodded, nursing the controls until we passed the fuel dock. From here we could see the channel was clear. Hitting the switch for the light bar, he eased the throttles to their stops. Powered by the four, 300-horsepower engines, the boat took off like a rocket. We were up on plane, skipping over the tops of the waves, in the time it would have taken my boat to accelerate.

  Easing back the throttles, he settled the engines in at 4400 rpms and adjusted the trim. The GPS showed our cruising speed approaching sixty knots. With nothing to do until we covered some miles, I tried to control my boat envy and focus on my daughter.

  Adams Key came into sight some five minutes later, and another five after that we were about to fly past and enter Caesar Creek, when I saw two boats at the dock. Ray’s was one and the twin-engine FWC, with Robinson’s bulk at the helm, was the other. I frantically searched for Allie and her friend. They weren’t aboard or on the dock, but a second later, I saw them on the grass playing with Zero.

  Robinson was just about to push off when the wake from the Interceptor hit the dock. As I ducked behind the large console, I saw him grab the dock with one hand and flip off Johnny and his crew with the other. The Interceptor was running too fast to execute a turn before reaching the creek, forcing us to proceed through it and make our turn on the Atlantic side. By the time we circled back the RHIB was gone.

  “Allie!” I yelled as we approached the dock.

  “Dad, what are you doing on that boat?”

  “You know Johnny and the guys.”

  She walked over and said hello to the captain, who had performed Justine’s and my wedding ceremony. “You guys okay?”

  “Hey, Mr. Hunter,” Allie’s friend greeted me.

  “Dad, this is Lana.”

  “Cool boat,” she said.

  My boat envy started anew. “Unfortunately, I was just getting a ride. What’s with Robinson bringing you over?”

  Allie shrugged. She had no idea what I had been going through for the last half-hour. “You were late, and he offered.”

  “That was nice of him.” She was a little too old to give the “don’t take rides from strangers” talk. Besides, he was essentially a coworker. There was no way for her to know he was the lead suspect in a murder investigation.

  “You guys good? I’ll get a ride back to headquarters with Johnny and bring the boat back.” I checked my watch. “Justine probably won’t get here for another few hours.”

  “Can we ride on that?” Allie asked. Her friend crowded behind her as they gawked at the Interceptor—and the crew.

  I glanced at Johnny, who nodded. The girls saw his acknowledgment and without waiting for the words to come out of my mouth hopped aboard, leaving Zero staring at us and pouting.

  “We’ll be back in a few,” I told him. His stump of a tail wagged as he plopped down on the dock to wait.

  With the girls standing on either side of Johnny, I was relegated to the collapsible bench in front of the transom for the trip back. Unlike the balls-to-the-wall trip out, this ride was more of a pleasure cruise; the boat settled in nicely at forty knots instead of the sixty we’d been running before. It was a comfortable ride and probably saved the taxpayers a wad of cash at the same time. Even with the efficiency of the new engines, twelve hundred horsepower, running flat out, will drain a gas tank at the rate of about fifty gallons an hour. I knew I’d been working for Martinez for too long when I figured using the Interceptor for the ride out cost over a hundred bucks.

  The calculations didn’t last long and I started thinking about Robinson. Under normal circumstances—normal being defined as a week ago, or before Hayward was killed—there was no way he would have offered the girls a ride. That left two options: He was trying to be nice and help me out, or it was an attempt to scare me. The latter was the sure bet.

  The Interceptor was back in the channel again, and I looked up, surprised to see Allie at the wheel. I shook my head, aware that life as I knew it had just ended. The only thing in my favor was that we had already passed the fuel dock and I didn’t need to see, or worry about paying, the fuel bill. Slipping into the channel, Johnny took control and eased the boat into its spot on the dock.

  “Appreciate you running me out there.” I wasn’t going to thank him for letting Allie drive the mid-six-figure boat.

  “Hey, no worries. I would have freaked out too if that son of a bitch had my girl.”

  I caught a glance from Allie, who must have heard the comment. She left it alone for now, not wanting to embarrass her friend, who was chatting up the crew. We exchanged a look unique to fathers and daughters—when we returned to the island, I figured we’d be having a chat. The crew started to hose down the Interceptor and I thanked Johnny again before heading over to the park service boat. After riding on the Interceptor, it seemed even smaller than before, and as the three of us idled out of the marina, we each looked over at the sleek ICE cruiser with envy.

  28

  If Robinson’s intention was to scare me, he had succeeded in the short term; but now that I knew the girls were safe, what he had done was to fill my tank with resolve. I’d been avoiding a confrontation until I had more evidence—that had all changed now. My problem was that for the time being I was in charge of two teenage girls, and after what had just happened, I wasn’t going to let them out of my sight. Justine was about two hours out, requiring me to come up with an activity. Otherwise we’d end up sitting around and staring at each other.

  “You guys want to fish or snorkel?” I’d told Allie during the week that it wouldn’t be fair to her friend if we dove and left her alone on the boat.

  “Allie said we could maybe find some lobsters,” Lana said.

  Perfect. “Sure thing. Why don’t you guys get changed and I’ll load the boat? And make sure Lana gets a license with a lobster stamp. You can do it online.” After everything that had happened this week, the last thing I wanted to do was promote unlicensed activity.

  From th
e small storage closet under the house I pulled out three sets of snorkeling gear, tickle sticks, and nets. The plastic gauges attached to the sticks caught my eye, reminding me that I was playing hooky while a murderer was running free. I’d had this conversation with myself before, as well as with Justine. Law enforcement officers are entitled to time off, especially if there was no threat to someone’s life. I was after a murderer, not a serial killer. The distinction was a big one, but didn’t help me relax. Figuring after I got Allie and Lana in the water, I’d check in on the chase, I loaded the boat and waited for the girls.

  They appeared a few minutes later, wearing rash guards over their swimsuits, the long sleeves being essential protection against the coral. Heading out Caesar Creek, I found a nice grouping of coral heads in eight feet of water. Pulling past them, I dropped the anchor in the sand and let the boat swing until the transom was behind and to the side of the area, making it easier for the girls to return to the boat. Allie gave Lana a brief and pretty funny simulation of how to trap a lobster, then helped her with her mask and snorkel. While they finished getting ready, I put up the dive flag. A few minutes later the girls were in the water.

  There was little to do now except keep an eye on them, and watch for any boaters ignorant of the warning flag. With an hour before the sunset, the water was quiet, and it was easy to watch the girls as they kicked around on the surface.

  I had checked the scanner and radio. The pickup had eluded the pursuit. That result left me deep in thought about Robinson and his actions; it was only this morning that he’d delivered a subdued Scott to the fishermen and an hour ago he had—or at least showed me he could—abduct my daughter. I had to wonder what was next.

  A scream broke the spell and I jumped to my feet. Allie was kicking hard to the boat with Lana a few yards behind her.

  “We found a ghost trap!”

  The sea floor was littered with old anchors, gear, and traps. It was unfortunate when the lines holding the marking buoys were cut, usually by propellers. Because of this, the fish, lobster, and crab traps all had built-in “escape” panels that allowed the sea life its freedom after a period of time. To a recreational diver, finding a ghost trap, especially one that was fresh in the water was gold. “How long’s it been down?”

  “Looks pretty new,” she said.

  She and Lana kicked back to the spot they’d found it. Over the next fifteen minutes they went up and down, working the lobsters out of the trap, and bringing them over to the boat one at a time. As soon as they hit the deck, I measured them with one of my gauges and, finding them all legal sized, dropped them into the live well.

  “There’s still one more!” Allie yelled. She took a deep breath and dropped under the surface.

  I was helping Lana with her fins and didn’t notice when Allies’ head broke the surface.

  “There’s something else in there,” she called.

  From her tone, I could tell it wasn’t a lobster. Looking over at her, I saw only a whirlpool, evidence of where Allie had dived back down.

  “Do you know what she found?” I asked Lana as I helped her aboard.

  “Nope. But did you see them all?”

  “Nice catch.” She was expecting some kind of celebratory gesture; I wasn’t sure what to do with her, and decided on a fist bump.

  Allie was back on the surface.

  “What do you have?” I asked her.

  “There’s a bag in the trap. I can’t get it out.” She spoke in gasps, trying to refill her lungs at the same time as explaining to me what she found.

  Checking her position against the wind and current, I yelled back that I could move the boat. I went to the bow, where I started feeding out anchor line. The boat drifted back to within a few feet of where Allie was treading water.

  “Should I come in or should we pull it?”

  “I think we have to pull it.”

  “Hold on, I’ll get a line.” The depth was just over the length of a single dock line, so I hooked two together using one of the braided eyes, sliding it into the other, then back through itself. Pulling the line tight, I tossed it to Allie. Lana and I were both at the transom watching her as she took several deep breaths and submerged. It seemed like she was down a long time, but I could see her working below.

  “What do you think it is?” Lana asked.

  I held back the first answer that came to my mind. A package in the water in South Florida usually meant drugs. A weapon was my second guess, and that wasn’t much better.

  Before I could answer, Allie surfaced. She hung by the ladder and handed me the end of the line. I followed it into the water and crossed to the starboard side to get a better angle before hauling it in. Hand over hand, I brought the trap up until it was just at the surface. I could see a sealed dry bag floating in the trap. With a bag of concrete poured in the bottom, the traps weighed over sixty pounds, almost impossible to lift from the water without the aid of a winch. Even holding the weight of it was difficult. I tied the line off to a cleat and caught my breath.

  “Can you open the lid?” I asked Allie, who was still in the water.

  She swam over to the trap and started to mess with the latch. “I tried down there.” I watched as she pulled against the lid. Someone had fastened it shut. I looked around the boat and eyed the fire extinguisher attached to the console.

  Grabbing it, I returned to the transom. “Look out,” I called to Allie. “You too, Lana.”

  I waited until both girls were clear, adjusted my sunglasses to protect my eyes, and slammed the base of the cylinder into the trap. The thin boards shattered and I reached inside, pulling the bag out. With no way to bring the trap aboard, I used a fender, tying it to the line before releasing the trap-line tied to the cleat. The trap fell quickly to the bottom. I wasn’t sure if marking the location was necessary. Depending on what was in the bag, it might or might not be evidence.

  As I tried to decide the best way to handle it, both girls gathered around as I looked at the bag. With Justine’s voice in my head, I fought my urge to see immediately what was inside and took several pictures first. Next, I pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, and conducted a visual examination. If it were evidence found on land, I would have been more cautious, but the seawater would have eradicated any trace of fingerprints or DNA on the exterior of the bag.

  Unopened, it was impossible to determine the contents of the bag, though I guessed it to be lighter than a gun—much lighter. Whatever was inside needed to be handled with care. Protected from the elements, the contents hopefully would be covered with fingerprints and DNA.

  With Allie looking over my port shoulder, and Lana my starboard, I released the clasp, and unrolled the top of the bag, which broke the seal, releasing the air contained inside. Carefully, I opened the bag and peered inside. As I did, I could feel the girls behind me as they pressed closer to get a look.

  Unable to see inside, I reached into the bag. It was mostly empty—except for a rigid object on the bottom. Slowly, not knowing what it was or how fragile it might be, I grasped it gently and removed it.

  That the mystery object was just a lobster gauge was anticlimactic for the girls, who expected something more obviously gruesome, but they didn’t know, as I did, that the dried blood on it was from Officer Hayward.

  This was not the time to examine it further. I placed the gauge back in the bag, and sealed it, before carefully putting it in the cooler.

  “You guys want to run to Miami?” I asked.

  “Are we going to the crime lab?” Allie asked.

  “If it’s good with Justine.” I picked up my phone and called. The girls hovered around me, their excitement evident when she agreed. “We’ll run up to the condo and she’ll pick us up there.”

  “How cool is that!” Allie said, more to Lana than to me.

  With the fender marking the trap, I called Ray to see if he would help retrieve it. After reading the coordinates of the location and describing the fender, he promised he would grab it fo
r me.

  The girls and I then quickly sorted and stored the gear. The lobsters were still in the live well, but there was nothing to be done about that now, as we had no ice. Once we got to Miami, we would have to deal with their disposition. I started the engine and, with Allie at the wheel, went to the bow and pulled the anchor, then returned to the helm and studied the chartplotter. I knew the waters well enough to not need its assistance, but there was a detour I wanted to make. We usually took the inside route, but instead, I took over the wheel and pointed the bow to the northeast, and the open waters of the Atlantic.

  Allie and Lana were forward, sitting together on the built-in cooler in front of the console. I couldn’t hear them, but they were clearly excited about the lobsters, the find, and now a trip to the crime lab. Once past Elliott Key, I continued past Sands and Boca Chita Keys. From there, the barrier islands became smaller, some barely visible at low tide; most not visible at all. In order to avoid the hazards I turned further east.

  In the distance I could see the Cape Florida Lighthouse, but I had to navigate past Stiltsville first. Staying clear of the remaining decrepit stilt structures built on the shoals south of Key Biscayne, I automatically scanned the area around the iconic houses, looking for trouble. The once-popular water-based community had been built in the 1920s to circumvent some of the land-based laws: prohibition, gambling, and whoring, to name a few. These days what was left of the village harbored illicit activity.

  The disposition of Stiltsville was one of the few things Martinez and I agreed on. The park’s boundaries had been extended some years ago to encompass the area. He loathed the maintenance implications on his budget, and I, the trouble the area brought. If it were torn down, we would both be happier.

  I followed the coast of Key Biscayne, giving the shallows around its northern end plenty of room, before making a turn for the bridge across Bear Cut. I was shocked when I saw the old fishing boat anchored under the same span as last night. I couldn’t tell how many people were aboard. And that led me to wonder what had happened to Susan McLeash. Apparently, at least one of the fishermen hadn’t gotten the memo that there was a BOLO out for them, and Miami-Dade, thinking they’d fled inland, wasn’t looking out here.