Backwater Key

by Steven Becker

  “I’m not seeing anything.”

  “I started playing with some of the new toys in the lab. There is a handheld laser detector that analyzes fibers for trace materials. I was trying to isolate the accelerant, and came up with some kind of propionate. I have to run some more tests to identify it. The bar graph on the right shows the readout from the vest.”

  I looked closer this time and saw the list of ingredients. There were some I recognized and others I didn’t. Not in the mood for a chemistry lesson, I let it go, thinking it would be better to get the full report. She must have read my mind.

  “We’ll check the drugs tomorrow. I left the duffel you found for the day crew to analyze. I’m still learning how to use some of this new equipment.”

  I saw something in Justine that had been missing since she had been evicted from her small downstairs lab and forced to move upstairs into the new lab. She had even talked about a transfer. This was the first time she seemed genuinely excited to be working again.

  Maybe I should have gone to bed when I’d arrived here, because it turned out that would have been my only chance to sleep. Just as Justine finished her summary, my phone vibrated. I looked down at the screen and saw Ray’s name. For him to be calling this time of night, something must be really wrong. I picked it up and pressed accept.

  “Hey, you guys okay?”

  “That freakin’ dog is killing me, but his barking paid off this time. There was a boat that pulled up to the dock. Crabber, from the look of it. I saw some of those biker guys aboard. Shotgun scared them off, though.” I thanked him and disconnected. It looked like Zero was going to cost both of us a night’s rest. I looked at my watch and saw it was already three-thirty. I decided to waive whatever sleep I might still get and head back to the island.

  Justine must have seen the look on my face. “Go on if you have to,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.” I regretted the words as soon they were out of my mouth. This wouldn’t be the first time I had put work ahead of our relationship and it probably wouldn’t be the last. I could only hope there’d be no lasting damage. I offered an ill-timed peace offering. “Hey. Mariposa wants us to come over for dinner again. How about this weekend?” Working the reception desk at headquarters, the matronly Jamaican was my sole ally there.

  “So, lure me in with some Jamaican rum. Just remember how that ended last time.”

  The Appleton 21 that Mariposa’s husband was only allowed to have with guests had been outstanding that night, as well as the dinner. The only problem was that we had been called away by a distress message from Susan McLeash. “Yeah, that. Can I tell her okay?”

  “I won’t hold this business against her, but you’re going to pay for it. Now get going before I change my mind.”

  I kissed her hard, and reconsidered for a moment if I was doing the right thing. After the warning shot from Ray, I doubted the men from the crabber would be back, but I wasn’t going to leave him and his family out there alone if they returned. Adams Key and the park were my home. I had come to respect the park’s ecosystem and I took my responsibility to protect it seriously. “Call you later.”

  I left quickly and headed to the truck. Several times I looked over my shoulder, wondering if I was being Don Quixote and if I should just turn around and do what any sensible guy would do. Instead I continued to the truck, and with a feeling of foreboding started toward headquarters.

  9

  I was edgy, a mixture of being tired and anxious. Several times I found myself pushing eighty and had to slow down as I headed south on the Turnpike. Between the construction and the ever-present low-riders with their bass booming and going faster than I was, I tried to stay focused. The late night traffic here was dicey. It was hard to believe in the darkest hours of the night, after the bars had closed and before the earliest commuters had hit the road, they would not think themselves prime targets. Just as I thought this I saw flashing red, white, and blue lights ahead, and when I slowed I saw that an FHP cruiser had pulled over the van that had just blown by me. They were parked on the side of the road in front of the police car. Both doors were open and two men were spreadeagled on the shoulder.

  I slowed further when I saw the gang colors, and pulled onto the shoulder. I parked by some construction equipment in front of the van, and hoped that the officer had gotten a look at the insignia on the side of the truck, which was more visible than the junior ranger light bar on top. It was so small it was often confused for a roof rack. I had barely gotten the door open when I heard the officer yell.

  “Stay where you are.”

  “Special Agent Kurt Hunter with the Parks Service,” I called back, raising my hands over my head.

  “Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  “ID?”

  I reached slowly for my wallet, pulled it out of my back pocket, and opened it. The beam of his light caught my eyes and he stepped closer for a better look. I was regretting my decision now if for no other reason than that I was distracting him from the two men. My instincts proved correct when the men took off at a run toward the construction area, where it looked like an overpass was being built. The officer gave me a disgusted look and called after them. They ignored the standard warning and, figuring I was in enough trouble with yet another agency, I took off at a run after them.

  I heard him call after me, and glanced back to see him about fifty yards behind. The area adjacent to the highway was flat and open, making it easy to see the two men. I was about a hundred yards behind and felt my breath shorten. Sucking air, I started falling behind and cursed myself for being out of shape. The extra adrenaline feeding their muscles also helped the escaping men distance themselves. I was running after them; they were running from jail.

  The officer caught up with me just as the men reached a group of containers and construction equipment where they would easily be able to hide. Giving up the chase I stood there bent over with my hands on my hips, breathing heavily and ready to take my beating.

  “Y’all park service boys don’t do much PT, do you?”

  I turned to look at the trooper, standing a few inches taller than I was. I could tell by the set of his shoulders that he wasn’t a stranger to the gym, and he was barely out of breath.

  “I called for backup. They should be here any minute. Those guys think they’re slick, but they’re on an island here. We’ll get them.”

  We were standing in a large area between the north- and southbound traffic lanes. He was right; there was no way out without crossing the highway. “Sorry about that.” I had turned a routine traffic stop into a multi-unit chase.

  “Shoot, this time of night, it’s something to do. Those guys were acting suspicious as hell. I had already called one backup unit.” He paused, looking back as a cruiser pulled off the highway behind his car. He called them on the radio, asking them to move to the next exit and circle back on foot. They pulled back onto the highway and he turned to look at me. I almost wished it was daylight so his sunglasses would hide the piercing look he gave me.

  “What’s your interest in this? Don’t think I have ever had a NPS dude pull over to help before.”

  Before I could respond, two more cars pulled up and he gave them orders. Within minutes, there were police cars at the corners of the construction site. The officers were on foot now, and closing in on the area the men were hiding. I followed the trooper in front of me, staying far enough back that I wouldn’t interfere with the operation—again.

  Slowly the ring closed around the suspects and the trooper in front of me called out to them. There was a moment’s silence and then one of the men yelled that they were coming out. A minute later, the two men walked out side by side with their hands over their heads. They waited patiently while the troopers tightened the circle and finally two approached the men, kicked out their feet, and pushed them to the ground. Seconds later, they were in cuffs and being frog-marched toward the highway.

  “So, you nev
er said why you stopped.”

  This was my first interaction with the highway patrol, and after dealing with Miami-Dade for the past year I was surprised by how friendly they were. “Had a murder out at Boca Chita Key the other day. Looks like gang activity. I saw the colors on the men you pulled over and thought I might see what was up.”

  “Well, that didn’t turn out too well,” he said, extending his hand. “Jim Stallworth.”

  “Mind if I see which gang they’re from?”

  “Nope. Might as well help. Since they took off, I’ve got enough cause to search their vehicle now. You might have done me a favor.”

  The men were complaining that the cuffs were too tight, which only encouraged the two officers leading them to wedge their nightsticks harder against the men’s arms. They reached Stallworth’s cruiser and dropped the men in the back seat. Once the automatic locks on the doors were engaged, they were contained and the tension dropped.

  “Who’s your buddy, Jim?”

  The least I could do was divert the ridicule they were going to dish out. I introduced myself and shook their hands.

  “Little far from the water?” one asked.

  I retold the story of the crabber and the murder at the lighthouse, figuring there was no harm. They might run across something and help my investigation. To that end, I handed all three men my card.

  “Outlaws are causing a lot of trouble. I work mostly south county and I’ve seen a lot of action. It looks like they’re making a move,” Stallworth said.

  “With the government shutdown and all, are they smart enough to move their business out to the park?”

  The troopers worked for the state of Florida and were likely unaffected by the political posturing in DC. Stallworth looked at the men in the back seat. “They might look like a bunch of unwashed bikers, but they are extremely organized. Some of these chapters have been fighting the Feds trying to throw RICO in their faces for years. They always seem to make it go away.”

  “Thanks. Do you know these two?”

  “Look like just soldiers to me. Outlaws for sure, by their colors.” He walked to the window and looked at the two men. “Don’t recognize them, but I hear they’re bringing in out of town help. Word on the street is that something’s going down.”

  “I think it’s started already.” I explained about the setup at the lighthouse.

  “That’d be Doc. He’s president of the Outlaws local chapter. Crafty dude.”

  I remembered him from the bar. “Saw him last night.”

  He gave me a questioning look.

  “I was with an FBI agent, undercover. We went to some bar out west of Kendall.”

  He gave a quick description of Pierce. “I think I know that dude. He’s a little close to the action, if you know what I mean.”

  A call came over all three men’s radios at the same time. Stallworth told the men he had this, and they took off. That left the two of us alone on the highway with the contained bikers.

  “I’m gonna do a quick search of their vehicle. Maybe find something that we can hold them on for more than an hour. Stick around and help if you want.”

  I wasn’t going to say no to that offer and waited by the side of the van. Stallworth came back a minute later with gloves and bags. He handed me a pair, which I put on, and I waited for him to take the lead.

  He took the driver’s side and I went to the passenger’s. Starting with the visors, we worked our way down to under the seats, then finding nothing that could be used against the men we moved to the cargo area. It was set up like a mechanic’s van, with shelves on either side. Boxes labeled with tool manufacturers’ names were stacked neatly and held in place with bungee cords.

  “I’m willing to bet they don’t have tools in them.”

  Stallworth climbed in and removed a red plastic box with the name Milwaukee stenciled in white script across it. He brought it to the side door where I was standing. He spun the box so the clasps faced me. “You can have the honors.”

  I held my breath and opened the two clasps holding the lid shut and raised the cover. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but when we saw the shotgun nestled neatly in a custom foam lining, we knew there was more. After opening several more boxes we had found some shells, another gun, and a large baggie of white powder. The two men in the back of the trooper’s car were going to jail.

  “There you go, your first break,” Stallworth said.

  I wasn’t so sure about that. Gang members were famous for having tight lips and doing time rather than making a deal. It was a badge of honor to do a few years rather than rat out your brothers. The boxes were another matter. I would have liked to finish inspecting them now, but knew there was valuable forensic evidence to be found if I left them for the techs.

  “Where do you take them?” I asked, not sure whether FHP had any kind of detention facility.

  “Everybody goes to county.”

  With the turf war that had already started, that would complicate things. “You have a contact, or do you just run them in?”

  “Usually just call the duty sergeant and they take care of the handoff.”

  I needed to make a decision while I still had some control of the situation. There were two choices: Ron Pierce or Grace Herrera. In theory, getting the FBI involved should be the best option, but from what I had seen of Pierce’s interaction with Miami-Dade I wasn’t sure. They were certainly capable of burying this to spite him. Instead, I decided to call Herrera.

  I checked my watch. The sky had lightened and the surrounding area was turning a light grey as the sun made its move toward the horizon. It was early, but I pressed connect and waited. The call went to voicemail, which I guessed was better than waking her up. I left a message and disconnected.

  “I’m off at seven. Have to take out the trash before then.” He looked over at the men. “Tow’s on its way already.”

  The wheels of justice were running on shift time. “No worries. I just called a detective friend of mine at Miami-Dade. I’m hoping she can handle the intake.”

  “I gotta hang here until the tow truck comes. You’ve got that long to figure it out.”

  For once, I prayed for traffic. The northbound lanes had started to slow down with early commuters, but the southbound lanes were clear and a minute later a flatbed truck came from that direction and pulled onto the shoulder.

  “You’re out of time,” Stallworth said.

  The driver handed him a clipboard. Stallworth signed the form, and the man connected the winch. I heard the whine of the motor as it started pulling the van onto the bed. After ratcheting the tie downs, he waved at Stallworth. I watched as his tires spit the gravel from the shoulder as he pulled onto the turnpike. Stallworth turned to me and I was about to concede when my phone rang.

  10

  “Can you give me ten minutes? I’ve got a Miami-Dade detective on the way.” Grace had jumped at the opportunity for the arrest. I didn’t think it was about the credit—that wasn’t her style—and guessed it was more of a pissing match with the FBI. I had dealt with mainly smaller jurisdictions out west, where the county sheriff’s department looked more like a small town police force. Even with their limited resources they were always happy to see the FBI and other federal agencies leaving town.

  “No problem. That’ll take an hour of paperwork off my plate.” He looked up at the sky. “Looks like the wind is down. You fish, Hunter?”

  That conversation could have occupied more than the ten minutes it took for Grace to reach the site. It turned out he was more of an offshore fisherman, targeting dolphin and sailfish. That wasn’t in my wheelhouse, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t interested.

  “What’d you stumble on this time, Hunter?” Grace’s partner asked.

  I ignored him and helped Stallworth transfer the prisoners into Miami-Dade’s custody and waive the ticket, figuring they were in enough trouble. We shook hands and he quickly hit the road. I watched as he turned on the light bar, navigated through the confused
commuters and made a quick U-turn. At least someone was going fishing today.

  “How do you want to play this?” Grace asked.

  “It’s your arrest. I’ve got nothing tying these guys to what happened in the park.”

  “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “Appreciate that. The evidence should be interesting.”

  I chalked the incident up to my future karma with Miami-Dade, hoping the forensics would help me out in the murder investigation. Grace and her partner pulled into traffic and I stood alone on the shoulder of the Turnpike suddenly feeling very tired. I’d been up for twenty-four hours and remembered the call from Ray about our guests on the island last night.

  If they were still out there, the best shot I had to find them now was to sit off one of the channels they would need to transit when they headed back south. Whether their purpose had been to scare me or worse, they hadn’t succeeded.

  I’d always had trouble sleeping during the day and thought about Stallworth, who was probably hooked up to his boat by now and heading to the ramp. The time clock was shut off and there was no reason I couldn’t soak a line and decided to check out the Featherbed banks. I wasn’t sure about the fishing, but had seen boats there before. It was as good a spot as any from where I could keep an eye on the bay if the crabber was still out there.

  Coming from a stream-fishing background, I’ve been surprised at how different saltwater is. In moving water, the flow and temperature are the two big variables. Both are easy to observe. In the bay waters you have to consider the changing tides and how they’re influenced by the phase of the moon as well as the wind, cloud cover, and temperature. Even if you’re fly fishing, the bait needs to be located because that’s where the fish are. I’d had heard Chico and some of the other guides speculating endlessly about where the bait would be. With the thousands of acres comprising Biscayne Bay, it was like a chess match.