Martinez had desk legs and wavered as the wake rolled under the dock. He made a beeline to solid land, calling after me that Susan would be with me from now on. I put my hand to my ear as if I didn’t hear him and turned to my boat. Susan was undeterred and followed.
“Where’re we heading?”
“I’m heading to Boca Chita to have another look. You’re free to come, but you better take your own boat. I don’t know if I’m coming back here.”
That didn’t seem to bother her at all, and I relaxed as she started to untie her lines. The last thing I wanted was to be attached at the hip to Susan McLeash. Pulling out of the slip, I looked back and saw her just behind me. Tempting as it was to race her, I followed the posted speed past the boat ramp at Bayfront Park. It was probably a good thing for the boaters to see there was still a sheriff in town; with both park service boats heading out I suspected they would be more observant of the park rules. Somehow the fish, lobster, and crab here knew the boundaries better than the boaters and the populations thrived inside the park. The people tended to push those same boundaries, often claiming ignorance even when they had chartplotters that clearly showed their boat’s position and the perimeter of the park.
Susan was tentative on the water. I knew she preferred a barstool to her boat, and I could almost hear her cursing me as I pulled away from her. It was satisfying, but in the end leaving her behind would serve no purpose. A mad Susan was a dangerous Susan. What I needed was to find something for her to do that would keep her occupied and out of my hair. Paperwork would fit that bill. As soon as we reached Boca Chita, I intended to dictate my report and email it to her to transcribe. Her name next to mine on the bottom would justify her paycheck, and that would be good enough for her.
With at least part of a plan in place, I slowed and let her ride the smooth water between my wake. Despite the quagmire I was in with the case, I soon found I had a smile on my face as the boat hopped over the low waves. I’d never been a boater in California. The coast and water there were unforgiving. The shore was rock strewn with seamounts, and the water was always cold. Mark Twain had been dead on when he’d said the coldest winter he had ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. I remembered taking Allie to the bay, and wearing our down coats in August.
Florida was a boater’s paradise. It hadn’t taken me long to become hooked on the feeling of freedom, similar to riding a motorcycle, but without the restriction of those bothersome lanes. When the boat went up on plane and the warm air blew through my hair, I couldn’t help but forget everything else.
The feeling was short-lived. With the seas down, we reached the small harbor in about twenty minutes. With Susan on my tail, I slowed to an idle and entered the protected water.
I was surprised to see it full, with boats rafted two and in some cases three deep. Tying two boats to each other when the seawall was full was legal. Three was not, but I wasn’t about to start writing tickets, especially when I saw the people aboard. I hadn’t paid much attention to the boat traffic on the way out, and now, faced with an island full of bikers, I wondered where this was going.
I had heard about motorcycle club runs. They were made famous in the ’50s by Marlin Brando in The Wild Ones. The Hell’s Angels took things to a whole new level in the ’60s, often invading unsuspecting towns for a weekend. It was a crafty sheriff who could navigate those waters without a riot. The tradition had continued, but most clubs were exactly that: motorcycle enthusiasts that enjoyed riding together, and the past incidents had faded into history. Their presence was often a boon to the locals, not a call to man the hospitals and clean out the jail cells.
The scene playing out in front of me was definitely the ’60s version.
Drifting into the middle of the turning basin, I dropped fenders on both gunwales, not sure what my plan was. Susan pulled up alongside and I thought about anchoring one of the boats outside of the harbor so we would only have one to deal with. Before I could tell her, I saw a man waving his arms over his head and calling for me by name. He was dressed like a biker in blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a vest. I idled closer and recognized Ron Pierce. He directed me over to one of the boats, only rafted two deep by the lighthouse, where he hopped from the seawall and crossed to the outside boat to throw me a line.
It was my best and only option. Something needed to be done here and when I looked back toward Susan to coordinate our docking maneuver, I saw her on the phone. Her decisions were seldom good and I bumped my boat into reverse, cutting the engine toward her stern. Tapping her boat, I at least distracted her while she yelled at me. The ruse bought me a little time and we were soon tied off.
I thought about sending her out to ticket the boats that were three deep, but with the crowd gathering around the seawall, I decided against it. Though she would have gone into it blindly, knowing Martinez would be impressed with her production and the income he could add to his budget, I wouldn’t put her in that position. I did recognize the opportunity to see how she and Pierce acted together.
She was savvy enough to realize that her beau was working undercover, but she still sidled up to him in her annoying post–fifty-year-old way. I had pegged Pierce for around forty and found it interesting how some menopause-aged women reacted when a younger man showed them some attention. But I had bigger things to deal with and now that I was on the clock, I could no longer be selective about how I did my job.
The island offered primitive camping, and ordinarily a ranger would be by to collect overnight fees. My concern was the general atmosphere and the safety of any other visitors, not whether they paid or not. I doubted there were any tourists left and hoped they’d managed to escape to the campground at Elliot Key. Alcohol was legal here, but it was a long way to the closest liquor store: seven miles by boat and another half-dozen by car. When the stock ran low out here, I suspected there would be some impaired boaters. That was something I needed to worry about and I asked Susan to have Martinez call in some backup.
She ignored me and continued to cozy up to Pierce. It was hard to tell if he was acting or if he really liked her. I had seen him looking at every woman he saw at Alabama Jack’s yesterday and still had to figure out what his game with Susan was. In an odd way, I felt protective of her. Justine and I had saved her from several bad decisions already and I expected our work wasn’t done.
Not wanting to put Pierce on the spot, I walked over to the lighthouse. Several bikers asked if I was going to open it up, and whether they believed me or not. I responded truthfully I had no key. That brought another problem to the table: I had come all the way out here to see if there was evidence the body had been dragged here and now I had no access to the crime scene.
Pierce came up next to me, apparently not caring that he’d be seen talking to the law. When I looked at him, I noticed a stark contrast between him and the rest of the bikers. His oil-stained, torn, and dirty clothes matched everyone else’s. It was his eyes that were different. Most of he bikers had a dull look; his were alive. He looked like one of them, but at the same time stood apart—almost as if he was their lawyer or accountant. Apparently he had garnered enough of their respect and the group moved away when he got close. It could have looked to them like he was negotiating with me on their behalf.
“What are you guys doing here?” he asked in a whisper.
“Wanted to check something out,” I said.
“Maybe this is not a good time.” He raised his voice so the closest bikers could hear.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Leaving would reinforce his standing in the group, but I didn’t know if that was going to benefit my investigation. “How long are they going to be out here?”
“Hard to say. Usually when the beer runs out, it’s time to go. It’s kind of a wake. You’ll probably have the place back in a few days.”
I realized that the killer was probably somewhere in the crowd staring at us. Having a captive audience was both good and bad. I had to take a chance and hoped that if the order came fro
m him, Susan wouldn’t report it to Martinez.
“Get me into the lighthouse. I’ll do my thing as quick as I can and leave you to your party.”
“That can be arranged.” He called a couple of men over and explained their mission.
They accepted and within a few minutes the lock was hanging loosely on the shackle. “Keep them away for a few minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“If things were that easy…” he said.
I watched as a group started to line up and enter the lighthouse. My crime scene was quickly becoming defaced.
16
“Can you buy me a little time here?” I asked Pierce as I watched a dozen bikers enter the lighthouse, each carrying a case of beer. Several others filed in behind them, including several women. A minute later, I heard voices and then music coming from the small balcony where the body had been found. They were going to be a while.
At least that part of the crime scene had been thoroughly documented. It was the outside and the stairway leading up to it that I wanted to see.
“Let them sort it out themselves. Be patient and watch the survival of the fittest in action.” Pierce stepped away and started talking to Susan.
Sitting on a low concrete wall across from the entrance, I watched as the lighthouse turned into a nightclub, including several bikers acting as bouncers. It was clearly members and old ladies only. Pierce was right. After about fifteen minutes the groups seemed to sort themselves out and no one else entered. I sat there for a while longer just to be sure. My gaze drifted away from the lighthouse to the campground, where tents and makeshift shade structures had been randomly set up in the normally organized clearing. It was hard not to notice some of the arrogant looks I caught from the group. They somehow knew that I felt powerless amongst them.
The group as a whole was a mixed bag, kind of twenty-first-century biker diversity. There was certainly money here, evident from the boats tied up in the harbor. The crafts ran the gamut from small skiffs to several that would have gone into six figures. From a quick count, I figured that there were at least eight bikers to each boat. This had been an organized invasion.
I moved toward Susan and Pierce. “May be a good idea to get some pictures of the harbor. I’d bet some of those boats have been liberated.”
“If I could, agent,” Pierce interrupted. “They see you taking pictures, the phone will be the least of your worries.”
He was probably right. “I’m going to call Miami-Dade and see if they’ll do a flyover.”
“Your funeral. Right now you and Susan are tolerated because you are with me. I wouldn’t do anything to change that.”
Unfortunately the club didn’t have an organizational chart posted on their website. He was right again, and I again wondered what his standing was. There was certainly a level of respect shown to him. I had no choice but to back off.
“I’m going to check out the lighthouse,” I said, walking back to the boat to get my makeshift crime scene kit, which consisted of gloves and several evidence bags I had stashed in the console. After grabbing it, I headed to the entrance of the sixty-five-foot tower. A crowd started to gather around me as I worked. At first I felt threatened. It soon became apparent that they had no intention of interfering and understood I was trying to solve the murder of one of their own. There was no way to tell whether they would allow the justice system to punish the perpetrator or take it into their own hands, but for now, our priorities were the same. First we all needed to know who the killer was.
Thankfully Pierce had Susan’s undivided attention, leaving me free to work on my own. If the murder had been committed off the island, there was only one likely avenue over which the body could have been carried to the balcony above us. The lighthouse was set on a narrow peninsula that formed the northern edge of the harbor. The water on the outside was too shallow for a boat to approach. Even if you were unfamiliar with the area, the visible propeller scars were an obvious indication to stay clear. That left the seawall inside the harbor. There was a small chance they had brought the body from the beach on the ocean side where I had watched the crabber the other day. But when I looked in that direction, I could see there was no way any evidence would have survived the mass of people milling around.
This time of year there were rarely more than a dozen boats out here at one time and they usually tied off near the far end of the seawall, which offered easier access to some of the more secluded campsites. Maybe there was a chance something had survived there. Walking along the concrete edge, I studied the scarred surface. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, because after a few days in the sun and salt, everything looked like rust stains. After finding nothing suspicious, I moved to the walkway, where I got down on my hands and knees and started crawling. I’d passed by this area a dozen times since the murder and hadn’t noticed anything unusual. I caught some snarky comments from the crowd, but this was the only way to see anything.
About ten feet from the seawall I found my first clue. It was the opposite of what I had been looking for. Instead of a dark stain, what I saw was clean concrete; like it had been freshly etched.
Unless it is newly poured and sealed, concrete is seldom clean. It is a porous composite made up of aggregates and Portland cement. The cement by itself is brittle and needs the aggregate for strength. In most cases, on land, concrete is mixed at a plant and uses rock for the aggregate. Out on the islands, the concrete is often mixed with gas-driven mixers, using cement brought in bags and whatever the substrate is available locally, often dredged from the ocean floor. The material often includes brittle shells, which decay over time and leave voids and pits. What I was looking at was one of those voids. Something appeared to have accumulated in it, etching the surface.
I would have liked to ring the area with crime scene tape, but decided the nature of the outlaw was to break rules and the barrier would just taunt them—and I didn’t have any. I stood and stretched, wondering what my next move should be. The crowd took this as an indication that I hadn’t found anything and started to disperse. That was fine with me and I extended the moment until there were only a few people hanging around. I figured that once their beers were empty I would be left alone.
There was definitely something here; whether it had value as evidence or not was over my pay grade. I did know that it was fresh. Unless I had a jackhammer and could bring in the entire slab, I needed an expert and texted Justine with a vague “hey”. There had been some repercussions that had trickled down to her from some of my other cases. With few resources of our own I was forced to rely on Miami-Dade’s benevolence. I guess I had abused it.
While I waited for her to answer, I looked around at the few remaining spectators. A couple off to the side, drinking and making out under the shade of one of the few palms, caught my attention. It wasn’t anything special they were doing, but they gave me an idea of what to do with Susan. The party had moved on at this point and I walked over to Pierce.
“What do you think about going undercover, Susan?”
I saw the smile on her face. If there was an opportunity for glory she was first in line. Her problem was she never evaluated the consequences of her actions.
“What do you have in mind, Hunter?” Pierce asked.
“I’m thinking a little makeover and Susan can be your old lady.” The image at once disturbed and amused me. But if they went for it, Susan would be occupied and out of my hair.
“Yes!” she answered. “You good with that, baby?” She put an arm around Ron, who shrugged it off.
I still didn’t know where he really stood with her, but she was a dog with a bone when she wanted something. Gauging her reaction, I had apparently opened a door to a fantasy of hers. Pierce was silent for too long and I started worrying that he was going to blow up my plan.
“I suppose if you guys are going to be hanging around, one of you might blend in.”
“Oh, Ron,” Susan crooned.
“Better get out of here, then,
before they remember you.”
“How am I going to get back?” she asked.
We spent a few minutes working out the details. Pierce had a boat tied up on the seawall acquired from an unknown source. From the twin outboards and narrow beam I guessed the go-fast boat had been confiscated and was now owned by the Feds. They arranged a rendezvous with the pretense of buying more beer. Smiling, Susan went to her boat, untied the lines and pushed off. She idled out of the harbor and we watched as she got up on plane and headed back to headquarters.
“What do you aim to get out of this?” Pierce asked.
“We’ve both got a dog in this fight. You have the gangs and drugs; I’ve got a murder. It doesn’t take a parole officer to figure out that the murderer is probably out here. We need eyes and ears.”
“Okay, as long as our lines stay clear.”
I could have warned him that she was trouble, but something held me back—maybe the gut feeling that he was as dangerous as she was. They’d be perfect together. My phone vibrated and I moved to the seawall to take the call.
“Hey,” Justine said.
“Hey back. You get a paddle in?”
“Pretty good. Got about eight miles. What’s up?”
“I got something out here on Boca Chita.” I explained what I had found. “What do I need to do to get you to look at it?”
“You’re at Boca Chita now?”
“Yeah; quite the scene, too. The bikers have taken over the island.”
“It’s all over Facebook and the news is showing pictures. Pick me up at Dodge Island. I’ll run it up the flagpole, but no one besides me would take this one.”
She was right about that. Most techs were not like the badasses portrayed on CSI: Wherever. They were generally nerds and geeks. Justine was both of those but had an adventurous streak as well. I looked out at the water to estimate my time of arrival. “Give me forty minutes.” There were no speed limits out here. Travel time was all about the weather.
Backwater Key Page 10
