I had formulated my strategy by the time I reached headquarters, and I left the truck behind the building. It was strange seeing the empty parking lot on a weekday and I instinctively lowered my head when I passed the security camera on the corner. I almost felt sorry for Martinez as I approached the next camera in his surveillance chain. This one covered the dock. The longer the shutdown lasted, the more video he would have to watch.
I half expected to see a chain locking my boat to the dock at some point, but there was nothing untoward as I stepped aboard. After starting the engine, I released the lines and idled back into the turning basin. The fuel was low, and I headed toward the pumps at the marina by Bayfront Park. I knew the attendant, but noticed as he handed me the nozzle that he was reserved. “I got this,” I said. After sticking the spout into the fuel inlet, I reached into my pocket and removed my wallet. I could see he was relieved I was not going to try and charge the fuel to the NPS account that I assumed was frozen.
Filling up at a marina was at least a dollar more per gallon than land-based pumps, and after topping the tanks I was shocked to see I had taken seventy gallons, totaling over two hundred-fifty dollars. I had never noticed before. With no paychecks coming and the fees for my attorney, Daniel J. Viscount, having left my bank account in three figures after my custody hearing, I would have to start conserving my resources. Boats were not fuel efficient by nature and I changed the display on the fuel gauge to show current consumption. I’d never bothered to find the sweet spot between conservation and speed before, but now I realized the seven-mile trip home could cost twenty bucks if I ran the engine at full throttle. I settled on another fifteen minutes and half the gas.
After clearing the last channel marker, I started thinking as I sped across the light chop. Again the organization of the club surprised me. It had been less than a day since the body and drugs had been discovered and they knew I was the investigating officer and where I lived. The setup at the bar last night came to mind.
Zero was standing on the dock reassuring me that despite the shutdown things were normal here. Ray’s boat was gone and I guessed he was doing what he always did. He was a creature of habit, and I doubt even the politicians could change his path. Becky came out and I watched her grab Jamie as he tried to mount Zero,
“Hey, Kurt, hear anything?”
I wondered if Ray had told her about our visitors. “Nah, headquarters is deserted and I haven’t listened to the radio.”
“Hope it don’t go on too long. You’re lookin’ a little rough, everything okay?”
“Yeah, just working a case. Been up all night.”
“You and Ray both. That pencil pusher Martinez don’t know what he has with you two. I bet he ain’t workin’.”
I didn’t want to go down this path with her. “I’m gonna grab a pole and head out for a bit.”
“There ya go. Ray’s out checkin’ our traps, too. Maybe get some lobster we can sell.”
Knowing the boundaries of the park like the lines on his hands, Ray knew exactly where to place his traps to catch the protected park lobster when they moved and crossed the invisible line. I suspected that he sold some on the black market, but I wasn’t going to rat him out. Without him, the outer islands would be reclaimed by the sea.
“Just gonna hang out around Featherbed Banks.”
“That ain’t the spot if you’re really fishing,” she said.
I caught her suspicious look, but let it go. After petting Zero and playing with Jamie for a minute, I headed back to the house. The couch looked inviting, but I knew whatever sleep I got would be restless and short-lived. There was too much going through my mind. I filled a small cooler with some ice, a few waters, and a six-pack, finally grabbing my spinning rods on the way out. I had started out fly fishing because that’s what I knew, but once I had learned to catch bait, if I wanted to fill up my freezer, the spinning rods were the ticket.
I paid my respects to Zero on my way to the boat, loaded up, dropped the lines, and headed out. It was a comfortable morning and I pulled up to the near side of the banks and dropped the Power-Pole. Once in place, I stared at the clear turquoise water. I’m not sure whether I was melancholy because of lack of sleep or because of the bodies I had found in this pristine water, but I just sat on the gunwale and watched the turtle grass swaying in the current for a few minutes. My plan had been to chum up some baitfish, which I would catch on a multi-hook Sabiki rig. Ray had tried to teach me the art of the cast net, but throwing one had so far eluded me.
The bug went deep with me. I was exhausted, but there was no fighting the urge. If there was water, I needed a line in it. After a few minutes, I went to the console and retrieved a baggie of Tropical fish food. Mixing a small amount of water into it, I started tossing clumps into the water. It didn’t take long for the small fish to find it, and a minute later there was a school beside the boat. Dumping the rest of the contents in the water, I went for my rod, but before I could attach a weight to the end, I saw the telltale smoke and the faint sound of an old diesel engine on the wind. The crabber was coming back.
I did hesitate and watched the baitfish for a minute, trying to decide how far I should go on my own time and gas money. But these people had come to my island. My conscience overrode everything else. This was my home and if there was illegal activity going on in the park, I was going to stop it. I took one last glance at the fish swimming below the boat and put away the rod. Back at the helm, I simultaneously started the engine and lifted the Power-Pole. If I wanted to see where the crabber was from, I needed to get out of its way. If they were looking for me, a park service boat hanging out here during a government shutdown was too much of a coincidence.
Keeping an eye on the fuel gauge, I ran south, heading straight for the channel running through Cutter Bank. Beyond lay Card Sound and North Key Largo, what I called the wild west of the bay. It was an isolated area strewn with mangrove-lined coves on the inaccessible mainland, and protected on the eastern side from the Atlantic Ocean by what was commonly known as a smugglers’ haven.
The water narrowed here and I quickly spun the wheel to port and headed for a small creek I knew in the mangroves. I entered Anglefish Creek and slid into the first side channel. This was where I had first met Johnny Wells when we had taken down a shrimper trying to offload square grouper. Concealed by the mangroves, I waited.
I was out of my comfort zone now and watched the telltale smoke pass by. This was a desolate area, with only the Card Sound Bridge, the less-traveled alternate entrance to the Keys, ahead. I moved out of the creek mouth and, giving the crabber a comfortable margin, began to follow. There was only one way through Card Bank and the bridge, so I dropped back.
When the crabber was well through Card Bank I picked up speed to follow. Ahead I could see the span of the bridge and to the right I saw a low building. It must have had a parking lot because though I couldn’t see the vehicles, I could see the sun’s reflection off the glass and chrome. The crabber was heading right toward it. I dropped back again and studied the chartplotter, pressing the option to show marinas and ramps. An icon displayed on the screen in the area where I saw the activity ahead and I zoomed in to read the label. It was Alabama Jacks.
The famous roadside eatery had been on my take Justine there list, but we hadn’t made it yet. I crossed under the bridge and entered the canal running parallel to the road. As I approached the restaurant, I realized the glints of sunlight I had seen from the water were the reflection from the chrome off a row of at least twenty motorcycles. Right in front, tied to a wooden dock, was the crabber. As I approached I saw another forest green T-top and thought it might be Ray selling his catch. I approached to tie off next to him, and noticed the hull was newer. Between that and the configuration of the antennas on the T-top, I knew I was looking at Susan McLeash’s boat.
11
Finding out what Susan had been up to would be easy work. All park service equipment was equipped with a GPS tracking chip and I had
the code for her boat from one of her previous misadventures. It would be a simple matter to look up her movements over the last few days. There was always the chance she was innocent, though if her past behavior was an indicator, she was up to something. I remembered having to remove the dock line for her boat to get at mine the other day and had wondered about it then. It wasn’t my job to watch her, but she had clearly used the boat at least twice after being reassigned. With her history, that was a red flag. Once I was through here I would have a look.
I turned my attention to the crabber. The crew looked familiar, and I pulled my phone from the waterproof compartment below the helm and scrolled through the pictures I had taken yesterday. The men unloading unmarked boxes from the crabber were the same ones that had been aboard the other day. While I had the phone out, I switched to the camera and started taking pictures of the activity on the dock.
Four men were doing the heavy work; unloading the boat and placing the boxes in an unmarked panel van that could have been a twin of the one Stallworth had pulled over. Several other men were standing by with their hands inside their vests. I couldn’t see the weapons, but they were definitely there. Another two men were sitting in the shade at a nearby table, drinking beer and watching. I recognized one as Doc, the president that I had seen the other night. He was the only one dressed in colors. The man next to him was fitted out in the latest fishing fashion. He had his back to me and from here I could see the outline of a machine gun and the name of a shooting range embroidered on the back of the shirt. Even dressed like this in Florida, he looked out of place, and I suspected he’d never held a rod before. If the club was dealing in weapons it made sense that they had someone local. This looked like a business transaction to me.
I had the boat wedged between two large mangroves. With Susan’s park service boat already tied to the dock, I wasn’t worried about the boat being seen, but if I were recognized, that might be another issue. After the incident at the biker bar with the women and pictures, then their visit to Adams Key last night, I knew I was on their radar—not a place I wanted to be.
If I was going to leave the boat here, I would have to wade across the canal. That would surely attract attention. The only option was to use the dock. I pulled out of the brush and backed the boat behind Susan’s, thinking she might actually be useful in providing an excuse for me to be here. That would require a degree of civility, but I could fake my role. I only hoped she would act the same. After tying off, I climbed the dock and scanned the outside seating area.
There she was sitting by herself, but there were two bottles of beer on the table. I was on my way toward her when I saw Ron Pierce coming from the bathrooms. My gut told me there was something wrong here and I ducked behind a section of lattice beside the building. I hate being right when it complicates things and that is exactly what happened when Ron sat at the table with Susan. I wasn’t sure what kind of game he was playing, but with Susan McLeash involved, I expected the worst.
I watched them through the diagonal slats of wood. It was immediately obvious from their interaction that Pierce was using her. Even if I wasn’t aware of her tendency toward drama, it was easy to read Susan’s body language—they were sleeping together. The question was what was he getting out of it, because he was clearly disinterested in her. His chair was positioned so he could see the table with Doc and the other man, and he watched them as he responded offhandedly to whatever Susan was babbling about. She clearly thought she had scored and didn’t notice that every woman that walked by caught his eye.
I’d wondered earlier how he’d found out about the murder on Boca Chita so quickly and so casually arrived on the scene. Susan would likely still have access to the park service computers and with her relationship with Martinez, she could probably access his surveillance feed. Couple that with the trackers on my boat, truck, and cell phone, and I suspected Martinez wasn’t the only one keeping an eye on me.
There was nothing to be gained by being seen by them, and I turned my attention to the crabber and bikers. The men continued to unload the crabber and I realized I had to do something quickly or the opportunity would be lost. We were south of the park boundary and out of my jurisdiction. Had I seen the crabber take on its load inside the park, I would have some leeway into what I did, but without even an incident being reported, I was powerless. I’d danced with the NPS manual before and knew that I had the authority to follow up on crimes committed inside the park wherever they led. This had caused friction with the local authorities several times, but they had nothing to worry about this time. I would play by the rules.
I looked back at Susan and Pierce and wondered what he was doing here and why he was with her. Somehow, he’d known the meet was here. My best guess was that it was through his contacts inside the club. His tentacles seemed to reach everywhere. Whatever his agenda, appearing here with an LEO officer, even if it was Susan, was brilliant.
Thinking about the tracking capabilities gave me an idea. It struck me that if Susan had been able to track me that I could use the same technology to follow the van. I already knew where the chip and tag were on my boat. As long as I could remain out of sight, I had nothing to lose and decided the risk was worth the reward. I moved away from my hiding spot and stayed out of sight as I made my way back to the boat. Glancing over at the crabber, I noticed the men were taking a break. A rental convertible pulled next to their bikes and three women exited the car. Their heads turned and I quickly hopped aboard, started the engine, and released the lines.
Not really worried about concealing myself or the boat before, I had taken the last spot at the floating dock in the wide-open canal. Now, I needed to move. Dropping the throttle into reverse and staying close to the mangroves I slowly idled backward until I was far enough away to turn without being seen. The men didn’t look like they were in a rush, but I guessed after studying the chartplotter that it would take every bit of ten minutes to cross under the bridge and hide the boat in the mangroves on the other side of the road.
The brush was thick, causing me to strain to see through the mangroves as I idled down the canal on the opposite side of the road. Finally, I glimpsed the side of the van and pulled into a slot between several large bushes. After tying the boat to a few of the larger branches I reached into the console for the fillet knife I carried.
The flexible blade was perfect for removing the tracking tag. With it in my pocket, I slid off the bow, careful to keep my feet on the exposed roots as I wove through the tangled maze to the road. Without my uniform I was just another tourist, and with my head down just in case I was recognized from last night, I crossed the road, walked past the row of bikes, and approached the van.
The one thing you could usually count on with gangs was that they were cocky. The premise that there was safety in numbers was one of their key tenets. It might work in a fight, but it slowed things down otherwise. There was a casual attitude among the men. They were still lounging around drinking beer and smoking. I couldn’t tell if it was weed or cigarettes, and didn’t care.
I continued toward the passenger side of the van, which faced the street and was out of their line of sight. Casually, I pretended to admire the bikes as I walked along the road. I made it to the van and relaxed, knowing the solid sides blocked the men’s view of me. But that worked two ways, and I couldn’t see them either.
I was committed now, and walked casually to the passenger door and breathed out again when I found it unlocked. Easing it open enough for me to reach my hand in, I pulled the tracker from my pocket and slid my arm inside. The first contact was a sticky substance. I sucked in a breath and moved further in, looking for a place to hide the tracker. My hand brushed against empty beer bottles and food wrappers. I finally settled on placing the device underneath the floor mat. From the debris on the floorboards I doubted the van would be cleaned anytime soon. Releasing my breath, I pulled my hand out, gently closed the door and continued walking along the road.
There was nothin
g to do but wait until they left and I made my way back to the boat and leaned against the console. It took seconds for the first cloud of mosquitos to zero in on me. With nothing else to do, I pulled out my phone. I had turned off the ringer and vibrator earlier and now, looking at the screen, I saw several messages.
I put the phone back on vibrate only and scanned through the notifications, and stopped scanning when I came upon one from Allie. It was three letters that had become her standard greeting—SUP. I answered with a quick hello and that I was looking forward to seeing her this weekend. We were planning another trip down to TJ’s dive shop. I had a moment of remorse when the latest sign of decay presented itself—I had to squint at to see the detail of the emoji, finally deciding that it was a smiley face. Grace had left a text to call her. She was a phone person and only texted to get my attention. The call back would have to wait.
The phone vibrated and a text from Justine came through. Before giving her all my attention, I quickly scanned the rest of the messages. One had several pictures of a large dolphinfish from a number I didn’t know. When I scrolled through them, I saw Stallworth holding a fish in each hand. They were easily three feet long and I wondered if he might extend another invitation to go out with him. I had almost said yes this morning. The next one, I wouldn’t turn down.
I drank some water and slapped at my exposed skin. There was nothing I could do except try and fight off the mosquitos and wait. My eyes were blurry and I had a headache from the lack of sleep. The last day and a half was taking its toll.
Unable to see the road, I had to rely on my hearing. There were several false alarms as single or small groups of bikes sped by. It didn’t take long to tell these riders from the bikers across the street when they stopped just up the road for the toll and then took off again. Finally, a loud roar came through the brush as the bikers revved their throttles before heading out. I waited, scratching the bites on my neck until the sound of the bikes faded as they headed back to Florida City.
Backwater Key Page 7
