“Deal. Give me five minutes. I’ll clear it with the boss and text you back.”
I went to the boat and took in the fenders on the outside that I had used for Susan’s boat. Looking back at the island, I could see the party was still going on up on the balcony. The rest of the action had moved farther inland where there was more shade. Several boats came and went while I waited. The departures generally were one or two people leaving empty-handed. The arriving boats were crowded and packed with beer and food. This party was just getting going. A helicopter flew overhead, hovered, and came back around for another pass. I could see the local news station’s logo on its side. The media attention would only add fuel to the fire.
The engine was already running in anticipation when Justine texted that we were a go. I released the lines and was quickly out of the harbor and heading toward Miami’s skyline. I stayed inside the bay, and after passing between the #1 and #2 markers at the edge of the Featherbed Banks pushed the throttle up near its limit. Now that I was back on the clock, fuel was no longer an issue, and with nothing less than ten feet of water below my hull all the way back, I pushed the boat to its limit. Soon the seven remaining buildings that made up the outpost known as Stiltsville appeared on my right and I took a quick glance over. Before I could reminisce about the murder there, I was into the main channel and lined the bow up to the center span of the Rickenbacker Causeway.
Dodge Island lay ahead and five minutes later I pulled up to the giant tires secured to the seawall and used for bumpers. Justine was there waiting and I helped load her equipment; not failing to notice that she’d brought an overnight bag. When everything was aboard, she dropped down to the deck and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I returned that with a real kiss, pulled away from the dock, and headed back to Boca Chita.
Encouraged by the news coverage and incubated by the beer being drunk as the sun passed through the sky, the island was loud and rowdy when we returned. As we’d arranged, Pierce’s boat pulled in just after we docked. I nudged Justine to look back, wondering if she would recognize Susan. If she could, she was better than me, because what I saw was frightening.
17
“What have you done?” Justine asked.
The tone of her voice was my first hint that she didn’t approve; then I realized she didn’t recognize Pierce. “That’s that FBI guy, Pierce.” That didn’t seem to faze her.
“So, you’ve let a sociopath loose at a biker convention. How do you think that’s going to end?”
She had seen Susan in action and knew what she was capable of. “Pierce should be able to handle it.”
She turned away, clearly thinking that I had made a mistake. I looked at the happy couple and accepted the fact that she was probably right. Susan was dressed for the event; almost as if she’d been prepared for it. With her hair curled and falling loosely around her face, she had the disheveled look down, but even from here I could tell it was held in place by a whole lot of product. Her makeup leaned heavily on mascara and eyeliner, with bright red lipstick setting off her china-white skin. It actually looked better than her usual pancake makeup. Her middle-aged breasts were propped up and revealed by a tight shirt and vest whose buttons strained at her midriff. Tight jeans finished the ensemble. I had to wonder if these had all come out of her wardrobe and if they did, where she hung out on weekends. Pierce handed her a bottle of beer and the two walked together into the crowd, looking very much like they belonged here. Even if her identity was discovered, what had gotten Susan suspended—illegally firing weapons, killing suspects, and coercing witnesses—would probably elevate her status with this group. I turned back to Justine and tried to change the subject. “Here’s what I found.”
“Lead on, but I still don’t like this.”
If I’d had a dead body, she might have been distracted enough to forget. There was little that turned my girl on like a fresh corpse. I hoped I had found something of consequence or her already skeptical mood was likely to turn against me. I grabbed one of her cases and led her to the area I had found.
Justine bent over and then went to her knees when she saw the etched concrete. This immediately drew a crowd of spectators. I had to think it was her butt they were commenting on rather than what she was doing. She was oblivious; focused only on the evidence.
“Why didn’t you tape the area off?” she asked as she opened one of her cases. “This could have been ruined.”
I breathed in relief. The scolding implied that I had found something of value. There was no good response, so I nodded and asked her what I could do to help.
“Grab the other case from the boat,” she ordered.
Reluctantly, I left her for the few minutes it took to retrieve the case. When I returned the crowd had thickened and I could hear some of the comments. Justine was clearly a satisfactory addition to the party. Ignoring them I kneeled next to her, trying to shield her body from the crowd, and opened the case. I couldn’t help but notice it was heavier than the other two, and when I opened it I found the answer. There were several hammers and chisels inside as well as enough wrenches and screwdrivers to take apart an engine.
“I thought about jackhammering it up,” I said, trying to break the tension.
It was her turn to ignore me and I stayed quiet, handing her the tools as she asked for them. She had a ball peen hammer and a cold chisel ready to remove a section when she stopped short, leaned over, and looked like she was sniffing the concrete. “Come here and smell this,” she ordered.
Catcalls answered when I leaned in and we touched heads. I wanted to look at her, but placed my nose against the concrete and breathed in. To my surprise there was fruity smell. “Smells like fruit.”
“Correctamundo. I would guess whatever did this belongs to the propionate family. I’d have to do some testing to see which one, but that stuff keeps showing up.”
As curious as I was, with the crowd around us, an explanation would wait. “What do we need to do?”
She stood and for the first time noticed the crowd gathered around us. “We should clear the scene and document the trail, then get some samples.”
We both looked around, wondering how to accomplish this. Moving a crowd of bikers was easier said than done. Before I could figure out what to do, the loud base of a boom box started up and distracted the crowd. It was like someone had yelled squirrel and the group had moved on to the next shiny object. I was curious and watched where they were headed, only to find a woman dancing on a picnic table.
“Crap, that’s Susan,” Justine whispered.
I wanted to reply that at least she was doing something useful, but held that thought. “She likes her attention.”
“Aren’t you worried about her? I mean, I know she does some crazy stuff, but she’s one of the good guys.”
That was debatable. “Pierce has some standing here.” I still didn’t know how, what, or why. “He’ll handle it. The area’s clear here. Let’s at least take advantage of the distraction.”
“Just keep an eye over there. You’re responsible for her.”
I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her right then. I couldn’t ask for a better role model for Allie. I agreed and we switched to work mode. Justine, used to working alone, was efficient and I let her take the lead, doing whatever she asked and watching Susan at the same time. There were several women dancing now; I hoped there was safety in numbers.
We knew that the trail led to the lighthouse, making it easier to identify the path of the chemicals. Within a few minutes, Justine had yellow numbered cards placed along the route and was taking pictures. The trail did indeed lead to the entrance to the lighthouse and I tried not to get excited at the discovery. She was back at the spot I had originally found, sniffing around like a hound dog. Finally, she settled on an area and asked for the tool case.
She donned safety glasses, and placing the chisel about six inches away from the spot, she began to tap the blunt end with the hammer. She held the tool almost perpen
dicular to the surface and started tapping with the hammer. I let her go, not wanting to be a know-it-all, but she was getting nowhere. I was about to say something when I heard another bass booming louder than the one in the campground.
The music coming from the table Susan and her new friends had been dancing on stopped suddenly, and I looked over at the group. Someone called out and they ran to the beach. Watching them move reminded me of some of the schools of fish I had seen diving. Each movement by any single person echoed through the group. Fish schooled for protection; it was the opposite watching the herd on the beach. They were the predators.
Susan had been left behind and I took the opportunity to both see what the new distraction was and to talk to her without anyone seeing. Justine, still struggling to remove the sample, waved me away and I walked over to the picnic table.
“You might want to take it down a notch. It could go badly if these people find out who you are,” I said.
“You think you know so much about everything. I’m just doing the undercover thing.” She started dancing again, this time to a song coming from the water.
“Susan.” I almost wanted to slap her and bring her back to reality. “Undercover means discreet.”
“I got your discreet right here, Hunter.” She banged her hip against me, reached over and grabbed a beer bottle, which she quickly drained.
I wanted to ask her how many she’d had, but the answer didn’t really matter. After less than an hour as an undercover agent, Susan McLeash was drunk. Justine was right; this wasn’t going to end well. A new song started playing, this one louder than the first, and Susan took off in the direction of the crowd. Running after her and dragging her back to headquarters crossed my mind, but that could backfire easily. The only thing I could hope for was that she had her phone. I would have to brief Martinez and ask him to call her back in. Hopefully, she would listen to him.
I moved closer to the group, staying far enough away to not attract attention, but I wanted to see what was happening. They were dancing, shouting, and calling lewd comments. Nothing unusual, but their energy was directed at the water. I moved to a clump of trees nearby that looked like a good vantage point as well as an offer of concealment.
Out on the water, less than a hundred feet off the beach, was a very expensive boat full of very expensive women. The name of a prominent strip club on South Beach, that I was all too familiar with from a prior murder case, was stenciled in bold letters on the hull. The girls, thinking the barrier of water offered protection, were posing and encouraging the men—and women—on the beach.
There were several other boats stopped nearby, though none as close. Apparently, the social media posts and news coverage were fueling a fire that was already dangerously close to being out of control. Several bikers, clutching several beer bottles between their fingers, were wading out to the boat, and I realized the predicament the boat and girls were in.
There was a hundred feet of water between them, but it was brown. If the group wading toward them were determined or drunk enough to make it through the muck, they could easily navigate the thigh deep water and reach them. From the looks of the two fresh white scars its propellers had plowed through the seagrass, the boat was going nowhere. Looking at the nearby mangroves I could tell the tide was starting to fall. They’d probably floated in and dropped anchor not realizing that the tide was their enemy.
From the look of the two men at the helm, who were drinking from insulated tumblers and laughing at the action, I doubted they realized the lower units and propellers were becoming engulfed in muck. There was a chance they could get free now, but with every passing minute their situation got worse. If I yelled, I could possibly attract their attention, but the crowd would likely turn on me. The only solution was to go around by boat.
Justine was alone, sweat dripping from her brow, still working the concrete, when I returned. Without telling her what was going on, I offered to help. At this point she was defeated and handed me the tools. I quickly looked at the concrete as if it was a living thing, studying the fissures and cracks for a weakness. I found a small crack and placed the chisel with the tip almost flat against the surface. Justine was about to say something, but I gave the chisel two light taps and she stopped when it started to disappear under the concrete. With a few more hits, a large piece came free.
“We have to go,” I told her.
“What the hell? Are you some kind of concrete ninja?”
I handed her the tools and took the evidence bag from her. “It’s spalling. The layers separate. It’s because of the salt.” I left the explanation at that and grabbed the case. We reached the boat and quickly loaded the cases.
“What’s the rush?”
“You’ll see in just a minute. Can you take us out of here and to the beach on the other side?”
I had no worries about her running the boat. After releasing us from the dock, I started pulling all the extra line I carried from the holds onto the deck while she worked the boat. By the time we reached the ocean side of the island, I had a bridle put together with two hundred-foot lines.
“Holy crap, this isn’t good,” she said as we rounded the point.
18
The tide was running strong now and I could feel the pull of the water against the boat when we stopped to plan our approach. Ahead of us, a stream of bikers were in the water now, trying to make their way to the boat. The women aboard had become less flirtatious and I could see panic on some of their faces as the front-runners approached. If not for the muck, they would have easily crossed the twenty feet to the boat, but the quicksand like marl sucked them in with every step. The heavier men sank to mid-thigh, and several gave up and turned back. The two men at the helm finally recognized the danger; one went to pull the anchor, the other started the engines. We were close enough that I could clearly see there was no water coming from the exhaust port. If they continued to run them, the engines would overheat.
“Okay, Kimo sabe, what’s the plan?” Justine asked.
“Tides running out. If we can get over to the sandy bottom, we can tow them into deeper water.” What I didn’t mention was that the boat would create a barrier between us and the bikers, who I didn’t expect to be happy when the party ended.
Justine took a minute to gauge the current and idled to the boat. The men at the helm saw us and started to wave us off as if everything was okay. This might not have been a mayday, but it was in my jurisdiction and I was back on the clock. It was my decision, not theirs.
We were about two boat lengths away. “Shut down your engines!” I yelled across the water. The men appeared to panic and gunned the engines. A stream of dark brown silt appeared behind them as the propellers fought the muck. “You’re going to burn them up.”
They appeared undeterred and I wondered what they were protecting. “I don’t care what you have; we just want to pull you out.” The men talked amongst themselves. I saw them look at the approaching bikers, now only ten feet from the boat. Probably close enough to smell them. Finally, they realized the threat.
“Okay. What do you want us to do?”
I held up the VHF microphone and signaled six-eight with my fingers. A minute later they acknowledged on the radio. “We have to pull you backward.” Towing them forward would only further entrench the engines. “Take the bridle and attach one end to each stern cleat.” They looked confused, but there was no time for a Coast Guard Auxiliary boating course. “I’ll come aboard.”
Justine looked at me and I shrugged. Though she recognized the danger, she probably didn’t like the idea of me aboard with a boatload of strippers. “Drop me on their bow.” She idled toward the boat, slowly raising the tilt on our engine as we crossed onto the flat. Even with the engine raised to the point that it was barely sucking water, I still felt the drag of the bottom. With a final nudge, Justine got the boat within a few feet of their bow. “You got it?” I asked.
“Right on. Let’s get this done.”
W
ith the lines in hand, I went to the bow of the center console and hopped across the water to the larger boat. The two hundred feet of line threw me off balance, and I landed awkwardly. Getting up, I moved quickly to the stern and separated the lines. With the bridle secure, I took the towline forward and tossed it across to Justine, who tied it off and returned to the helm. She could have used a hand to keep the line clear of the props, but managed to circle the stranded boat and slowly move to deeper water. The lines came taut and I felt a tug, which even though I’d been expecting it still threw me into the gunwale. The boat came free just as the first biker reached it. The girls were all huddled together by the cabin and I could see the relief on their faces when their boat slid into deeper water.
The boat started to move and the closest man grabbed the gunwale in defiance. I stood frozen watching his cold dark eyes as he held on. One arm came over and grasped the combing and I saw another man’s arms land on the transom. “Start the engines!” I called. The man at the helm didn’t hesitate. The second I heard the flywheels catch, I released the towlines.
I thought about slamming something against the men’s grasping hands, but the force of the water running against the hull as we idled off the flat was enough. They both lost their grip and floated back to safety. The crowd on the beach had been silently watching until now. They surged into the water and I had a moment of panic until I realized they couldn’t reach us. I looked for Susan, finally seeing her with Pierce, hanging on the edge of the crowd. There was no going back to the island for me; she would have to be my eyes and ears now.
A few minutes later, Justine had recovered the lines and pulled alongside us. The women gave a chorus of what I thought was heartfelt thanks, mixed with a few offers that I hoped Justine hadn’t heard when I crossed to the center console. The entire time, the men had said nothing.
Backwater Key Page 11
