Backwater Key

by Steven Becker

  There was no way Martinez was going to leave me alone without a face to face, so I resigned myself to a trip to the mainland. The only thing in my favor was the following seas, that made the ride back easy. The waves were coming down fast and I expected they would be calm by the time I had to make the run back to Adams Key.

  Half an hour later, I was tied up at the dock and walking into the building. The doors were open, but Mariposa’s desk was vacant. There was a handwritten sign to go upstairs for help. That struck me as odd. The only public interactions that Martinez ever had were held in front of a camera. Helping wayward tourists or answering questions about the park were not ordinarily something he would be interested in. With the learning center and museum next door closed, there were only a few people milling around.

  I could only shrug as I answered questions about why the shutdown affected the tours when they were paying customers. I did the best I could and headed upstairs. Martinez’s door was ajar and I knocked before walking in. I heard him respond and I pushed the door open, only to find Susan sitting there.

  22

  Susan McLeash sat there looking like the Queen of Smug. She looked clean and rested, making me wonder when, and how, she had gotten off the island. The party had taken its toll, though. Her uniform looked tighter and her makeup was thicker. She had also adopted the heavy eyeliner and mascara look the younger women wore. It looked marginal on them and ridiculous on her. She flipped her hair and said hello.

  “Sit down, Hunter,” Martinez ordered.

  I would have preferred to stand, making for an easier getaway, but his gaze directed me to the chair. I sat at an angle, facing away from Susan. Once I was seated, he pushed a file folder across the desk and sat back with one eye on his monitors and one on me.

  “Take a look, Agent Hunter.”

  I opened the folder and pulled out the contents. Three typed pages were stapled together.

  “We call that a report.”

  I started reading and braced myself for his rant.

  “Somehow Susan found the time to write that up and have it on my desk this morning…”

  He continued, but I let his words pass through me while I read. The party was well documented and several key players were identified. There was no mention of the grounded boat or anything of real substance. I glanced back over it and realized most of the information could have come from the media coverage or the internet. I could tell by the smile on Martinez’s face that he was happy with her. There was no need to look at her to know she felt her undercover work had been a success. I also knew better than to criticize her work. As badly as I wanted to know what her relationship with Pierce was all about I kept my mouth shut.

  “Storm took care of the party.” I pulled up the pictures and pushed the phone toward him. He glanced at me and moved the mouse on his desk. The screensaver disappeared showing my pictures on one of his monitors. He had already pulled them off the Cloud. It was like I was looking at someone else’s work, and that’s the way he was treating it. I guess once something made it to the Cloud there was no credit given. “I’ve been working on some other evidence.” I almost said real evidence, but cut myself short. “Seems the body found hanging from the railing was staged.”

  “Really,” Martinez said, turning away from the monitors.

  I had his attention. “There is a chemical trail from the seawall to the lighthouse. We identified it as propyl propionate.”

  “‘We’?” Susan asked.

  I let it go and continued. “The chemical naturally occurs in decomposing bodies. It is also a highly flammable solvent. Traces were also found on the burnt vest.” I could see I had his attention now and delivered the clincher. “There were small amounts in the heroin we found. If enough were ingested, it could be the murder weapon as well.” I knew that was almost too simple a solution, but the facts fit. “Someone used the chemical to kill the man, knowing it would be passed over as the cause of death, then used the same stuff to start the fire. ” I sat back thinking that was as much of a report as he was going to get.

  Martinez appeared impressed. He smelt something bigger than just the murder at the lighthouse. “Are you close to finding where the man was killed?”

  I had no intention of telling him about Justine and my sortie last night. Any mention of Pierce—good or bad—would have Susan running to tell her boyfriend what had happened the minute I left. She would probably give him a three-page typed report as well. If she performed as expected, I had an idea of how to use her for damage control. “There’s also Agent Pierce.”

  “What about him,” Susan said, sitting forward.

  “He’s working both sides of this.”

  “I can vouch for him,” she said.

  “Why don’t you continue to work with him, then.”

  Martinez placed his hands on his temples. I had him on his heels now, and had to close the deal. I looked straight at him. “He trusts her. The bikers know who I am. They’ve pretty much accepted Susan’s cover.” He put his hands on the desk and sat straighter. I could see from the look on his face that his wants conflicted with his needs; he wanted Susan safe, and he also wanted her reinstated. The assignment made sense. Before he could answer she stood.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Martinez sat back in acceptance. At least I knew who the boss was now.

  “Keep me posted, both of you,” he said, turning back to the three monitors he had lined up on his desk. The third and largest had been added when Susan had been reassigned. I wondered if he would need to return it now that she was apparently—at least temporarily—reinstated.

  Several people were at the top of the stairs when I left his office. They looked like a lost family. “Can I help you folks?”

  “We were looking for the tours,” the woman said.

  “Sorry, folks, the facilities and tours are all closed due to the government shutdown.”

  They accepted my reply like sheep and started down the stairs. I stepped back to Martinez’s doorway and caught his eye.

  “Something else, Agent Hunter?”

  “I was thinking that with both of us out working the case and Susan undercover, maybe it would be a good idea to bring Mariposa back. She can help coordinate the investigation and direct traffic from downstairs.”

  “We could use the help,” he said like it was his idea. “ I’ll call her in.”

  Whatever worked was fine with me. Mariposa would be a big help in deflecting the tourists’ questions. She would also be my eyes and ears here. With Susan McLeash running with Pierce, it was going to be essential that someone knew what was going on.

  I left the building thinking I had done pretty well, then heard the sound of a truck pulling out of the parking lot. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was Susan. She had wasted no time taking the bait. Now, I needed to be patient and let her reach Pierce. He would surely know by now that Justine and I had visited the shop last night. There was nothing I could do until she reached him. Walking to the dock, I saw no sign of the previous storms. If my mind were only as calm as the water, I might be able to make sense of things and thought that maybe throwing a few flies would help.

  Fishing gave me a different kind of focus, one that often got my brain into a different place. There was something about stalking fish or game that put my senses on high alert. I could be sitting in the same spot with or without a rod and have two totally different experiences. With a pole in my hand, I saw everything, even things not readily apparent. It took a different kind of concentration to spot the signs, like the small, almost invisible humps in the water when a school of fish moved. That was the kind of focus I needed now.

  I pulled out of the marina and into the channel leading to the bay. It was quiet; the post-storm period when everyone who had been out earlier was back in, and those thinking about it after seeing the improving weather weren’t here yet. I would have liked to find Chico and scanned the parking lot at Bayfront Park for his truck. He was one of the guides that
had helped rather than avoided me. I did my best with the local guides, knowing that with Susan usually spending most of her time behind her desk I was the only one patrolling the entire park. The guides knew and saw everything that went on here.

  Passing the ramp, I headed out of the channel, and after passing the last marker I set a course for a small cove to the south of Adams Key. I had fished it on this tide before with good luck. If the storm hadn’t shut down the fishing, I hoped for some small tarpon or maybe a bonefish. If it had, I would be content to throw some flies.

  The ride across the smooth water cleared my head and I was soon pulling into the empty cove. The Power-Pole secured the boat and I reached into the console for the rod case. I knew better than to keep spinning rods aboard, but the four-piece fly rod fit into a two-foot long cylindrical tube that stashed nicely beside the extra dock lines and fenders. With the rod in hand, I pulled the small fly box and reel from the case and looked out over the water, trying to decide which fly to use.

  I went with a chartreuse Clouser minnow, a multi-purpose fly. I’d started using loop knots recently to enhance the flies’ action and it took me three tries to get it right before I was ready to make my first cast. Stripping line onto the deck, I wound up and with a sidearm motion dictated by the T-top, started false casting. I settled into a groove and was soon casting and retrieving without thinking about it. This was when the juices flowed, but a hit on the fly pulled me back to reality. Using my left hand, I put a little pressure on the line already between my fingers, and slowly raised the rod tip. At the same time I reeled with my right hand to get all the excess line lying at my feet onto the reel.

  The pull increased and I held the line tighter, forcing the fish to pull it free. I sensed the head shake and lifted the rod tip again to set the hook. The tarpon cleared the water in the first of what would be several jumps and I leaned forward to give just enough slack that he wouldn’t break off. I had all the line on the reel now and after releasing my left hand I was able to use the drag to fight the fish.

  We went back and forth until I was finally able to turn the tarpon’s head for the last time. Defeated, he came quickly to the boat where I grabbed the leader, bent over, and clasped the thick jaw. Holding the fish into the current, I released the hook and after a minute let go. With a kick of its powerful tail, it was back in the safety of the mangroves.

  My heart was beating fast as I started stripping line again. After several casts, I was back in the groove and with the extra adrenaline from the tarpon my brain started to click. In this state of mind, I was able to climb above the fray and look at everything that had happened from afar. I soon realized that I was too close to things and my emotions were caught up in the case. As I swung the line back and forth, waiting for the perfect moment to release it, I thought I saw a connection.

  Everything revolved around Pierce. Even before I had first seen him with Susan, he seemed to have had advance notice of both my and the bikers’ actions. I guessed that could be what made him a successful agent, but there was something else.

  I was so deep in thought that I almost missed the shadow in front of me. Through the clear water I could see the bonefish clearly as it followed the fly. It was unusual behavior for the skittish fish. It usually took a perfect cast and presentation to entice the elusive trophy to bite. I started getting excited, but as soon as it saw the boat, it turned away.

  As I pulled the fly from the water and started the motion for the next cast, I saw the missing link. Instead of stripping the line in and readying it for the next cast, I used the reel. It was time for another kind of fishing. I put away the rod, used the saltwater wash down to clean the boat, and headed back to headquarters.

  23

  Everything Pierce had done had been carefully crafted to make me look the other way. I thought back on our initial meeting, when he’d shown up on the police boat like he had been waiting for it, on the setup in the bar where my picture was taken, his relationship with Susan McLeash, and the party out on the island. The only thing that had thrown a wrench in the works was the bust that Stallworth had made.

  By setting up the murder scene and subsequent wake / party on Boca Chita, he had used the government shutdown to his advantage. Not only did he focus my eyes on the island, he had carefully crafted a scenario to place all his competitors in one place—away from something else. Susan had looked well rested this morning, leading me to believe that she and Pierce had left the island shortly after I had yesterday. The storm might have given me another gift. By getting the bikers back to the real world, it might have forced the timeline on whatever he had planned.

  The water ahead was glassy calm, allowing a light touch on the wheel and for me to focus on my idea. The more I thought about it the more comfortable I became with the theory that Pierce had set up an elaborate diversion. The question was how to prove that he’d committed the murder and what he was covering up. It had to be big if it was worth killing over, and by the time I reached my slip at headquarters and secured the boat, I had a good idea where to start.

  I walked past the headquarters building and saw Mariposa’s car parked in her usual space. Martinez hadn’t wasted any time bringing her back. I would have liked to stop in and say hello, but didn’t want to risk seeing my boss. My new theory required a fresh look at the evidence from the traffic stop, and I would much rather see Justine than Martinez.

  Before heading out, I thought about texting Justine that I was heading her way, but stopped after a quick hey. She had been reprimanded for helping me before and I didn’t want to put her in that position again. I decided instead to call Stallworth. He had made the arrest and would know what to do.

  Unfortunately that turned into another decision—one I hoped I wouldn’t regret. After explaining that the Highway Patrol’s mandate was enforcement and not investigation, he suggested I contact the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. The FDLE could certainly handle the investigation, but I was leery of involving anyone new in the case. Instead, I chose the devil I knew and called Grace. I didn’t want to deal with her partner, but at least this time we had a common goal and I knew she was a straight shooter.

  She answered her phone and I explained my theory and what I needed. I could feel the tension over the phone.

  “I’ll give you anything that happens outside of the park. I just want him for the murder.” That seemed to lighten things up.

  “Give me a few minutes. I have to kick this upstairs and get approval.”

  I thanked her and disconnected, thinking I had better start a public relations campaign with the county before I was totally shut out. However, it appeared that the potential upside of the case had been determined to be greater than the liability of working with me. She called back and asked to meet her at the lab.

  It felt awkward being there without Justine. I knew a few of the techs by name, but had never worked with any of them. Grace walked in and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw she was alone. I let her take the lead and we were soon ushered to a large table and asked to wait while the evidence was brought out. I heard the swoosh of the vacuum seal break when the tech opened the doors to the Vault.

  A few minutes later the tech rolled a cart toward us and we stood staring at the toolboxes Stallworth and I had found in the van. We donned gloves and stared at them for another minute.

  “Where do you want to start?” Grace asked.

  “If it were me…”

  I heard him and turned. Dick Tracy stood behind me. My new BFF pulled on some gloves and worked his way between Grace and me. “It all depends what you’re looking for.”

  I already knew that most of the toolboxes contained weapons and had mentally separated them. “What’s the deal with ammo here?” I asked. I already knew that each state had its own regulations, with California leading the pack.

  Instead of answering, he pulled out his phone, pressed a few keys, and handed it to me. The PDF showed the ammo that had been deemed illegal in Florida—quite a lo
ng list.

  “Armor piercing is always hot, but they’re around and cheap. Mostly Mexican loads and not generally reliable. The hot stuff are the shotgun shells. Flechette’s and Dragon’s Breath in particular.”

  I had noticed that most of the weapons were shotguns. They were all one offs, as if they were for display—or demonstrations. I remembered the shots fired from the crabber. “That’s got to be it. Pierce is too smart to smuggle guns. They’re too big.”

  He was skeptical. “There’s money in the ammo. They might run four to six bucks a round where you can buy them, but as soon as you cross the state line, they’re about four times that. It’s not a get-rich-quick scheme, but you can make some serious coin without having to deal with the cartels and other importers. You can buy the damned things off the shelf in some states. Even though sale and possession are illegal in Florida, crossing the state line makes it a federal case, something the FBI would be involved in.

  “Someone like Ron Pierce,” I said. Dick nodded and I realized that having a common enemy might be a good thing for our relationship.

  “Still seems like small beans for a guy with his ego.”

  I had to agree with his assessment, but every indication led me to believe Pierce had something to do with the ammo. We started opening and setting aside boxes. The firearms we put to the side. With all the boxes open we took a closer look at the ones with the shells. The rounds were neatly packed in foam dividers. I took one out and examined it. It appeared to be a standard 12 gauge shell with a brass charge and plastic casing. There was no outward indication of what the rounds contained, but there were three colors. This wasn’t unusual for shotgun shells, which were not only classified by caliber but also contents. The size of the pellets, from birdshot to buckshot, were all identified by the color of the plastic casing. As we continued to sort through the evidence, there was still something bothering me, but before I could put my finger on it, I heard a voice behind me.