"Yes," she responded as she rose to her feet.
"Hi," I started, "I was wondering if you had a second to answer a question."
"Are you selling something?" she asked as she pulled off the soil covered gardening gloves.
"No, ma'am," I assured her. "I'm wondering about a boat that was recovered yesterday."
"Oh," she remarked.
"I was told that it might have been found on your dock," I explained.
"What exactly is your question?" she asked. "You seem to be hem-hawing around the subject."
"Hem-hawing," I repeated with a chuckle. "I'm sorry. I guess I am. I'm curious if it was your dock, and if you happened to see the man that was in it."
"Good. Or at least better. You should be more direct," she told me. "The answer is yes. My husband found the boat early yesterday, banging against our runabout. We never saw anyone in it. He just tied it off and called the sheriff."
"He didn't see any sign of the thief around the shore?"
She pulled her glasses down to look at me. Emerald eyes stared at me with questions.
"Was it your boat?" she asked.
I smiled. She seemed astute, and no story I told would be accepted by those intuitive, green eyes.
"No," I told her. "However, I saw the man on the boat take something that wasn't his. I'm trying to find him so I can get it back."
"Very obtuse," she pointed out.
"True, and if I were able to tell you more, I would."
Her arms folded, and she stared at me across her yard. "I'm not sure that I'm going to be much help. The deputies hauled the boat away, but nothing was taken or disturbed on our property. My husband thought it broke loose from another dock at first. It wasn't until the deputies ran the registration that we found out it was stolen."
"Thank you for your time."
She gave me a little nod, and I turned and walked back toward the park. Stopping on the bank, I studied the shoreline. Anyone ditching a boat would need another form of transportation. I walked slowly along the grassy edge of the water. When I made it about a quarter of the way along the park's shore, I noticed a cut in the bank where someone drove a boat up onto the first foot or so of the shore. The rut was reasonably deep, and it was made with considerable force. Most people don't run the bow of their boat on shore since they don't want to damage the hull. If it were stolen though, then the driver wouldn't be as concerned about tearing up the boat.
From where I stood, I imagined the myself jumping out of the boat and then pushing it back out onto the water. Maybe even leave the vessel in low gear so that it moved away from where I jumped out. By the time it was discovered, banging against someone's dock, I could be long gone.
Turning, I looked toward the street. If I was leaving here, the direct route would be the best. It was dark by the time the boat was ditched, and the less time milling around was the safest. I beelined toward the street. Across from me was the dental office where I parked the marina's Toyota.
A smile formed on my face. On the corner of the building was a camera aiming at the parking lot and the street.
I crossed the street and entered the office. The receptionist was a graying woman with short hair and thin-framed spectacles.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. I do have a question, though."
She perked up in her chair. "What can I help you with?"
"I am trying to track a boat thief. He abandoned the boat the night before last in the park across the street. It's possible your cameras might have caught something."
"Oh," she remarked with raised eyebrows.
"I wonder if I could take a look at your security camera footage."
"Are you with the police?" she asked.
"No ma'am," I explained. I needed to keep Peterson out of the mix, and honesty was going to be a lot more complicated. So I lied. "The kid that stole the boat is a runaway. I'm trying to help the owner of the boat, and the parents keep the kid out of jail and get him back home."
She nodded. "I don't think I can just let you see our camera footage."
"I understand," I said, "but do you mind talking to your boss? I just want to find this kid before something bad happens to him."
"If you'll take a seat, I'll talk to Dr. Koenig."
I smiled at her. "Thank you so much."
Sitting in the stiff but padded wooden chair, I leafed through a saltwater fishing catalog. Those catalogs inevitably have ten things that ignite my desire to provision up and head out to sea. I was reading the description of the fishing rod and considering that my own was wearing. That mahi I snagged a few months ago put some strain on the rod. A stronger one might prove beneficial.
The door opened, and an attractive brunette in her 40's appeared. She was wearing a white coat, and the name "Dr. Eliza Koenig" was emblazoned on the right side.
"I'm Dr. Koenig," she said. "Are you the one interested in our security cameras?"
Rising to my feet, I said, "Yes, doctor."
"You're looking for a runaway?" she asked skeptically.
"Yes," I extended a hand to the doctor. "I'm trying to get a bead on what car he got into. Unfortunately, there's been a stolen boat and some other possible issues that his family would like to head off before he gets too far in over his head."
"Are you a policeman?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. I'm a private investigator."
She nodded. "I can't let you take the footage, but I can allow you to look at it."
"That would be more than helpful."
She motioned for me to follow her. "The footage is accessible on any of our computers. I'm going to put Calvin with you," she explained. "I hope you understand."
An African American man appeared around the corner that was well over six feet and looked like a linebacker.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't get your name."
"I'm Chase Gordon."
"Mr. Gordon, this is Calvin."
A sizable muscular hand gripped mine when I extended it. The vice-like grip was the rite of passage that dated back to the cavemen. Two brutes squaring off in the most amiable of contests. When the two cavemen have shown their strength, a unspoken decision is made, and the hands are released. The two may part as comrades or adversaries based solely on the perceived outcome. In this case, I felt an immediate kinship to Calvin.
"Calvin, can you take Mr. Gordon to Jeanette's office? You can use her computer."
"Yes, Dr. Koenig," the man answered. He looked at me before turning and walking down the hallway.
"Thank you, doctor," I said to her before following him.
Calvin ushered me into an office. "You can sit there," he said, pointing at a chair opposite the desk.
He typed rapidly on the keyboard. "When exactly am I looking?" he asked.
"It should be the night before last," I said. "From about 6:30." My guess was based on the time I saw the King of Hookers speed away from the drop. At best, the blackmailer could have made it to the northern shore of Lake Clarke in 15 minutes, although that was being generous on my part.
"Okay," Calvin said, "I'm going to run it at four times, so we don't sit here all day."
"Of course," I agreed.
He turned the monitor so that I could see it as well. The camera was aimed perfectly at the driveway to the dental office's parking lot. The video was good quality, and even after the sun had set, the image was well lit. The park was barely visible across Forest Hill Boulevard. Two cars were in the lot: a small Nissan and a Jeep Renegade. It took a second for my brain to decipher the image enough to recognize the top of the Jeep had kayak racks. It was a standard feature on vehicles belonging to the weekend warriors.
We watched cars whip past. The timestamp was flicking past the seconds.
"Who is this kid?" Calvin asked, breaking the silence.
I glanced up at the man. "His parents live over in WPB. He's an entitled shit, but they want to try and rein him in."
He nodded at the "W
PB" reference to West Palm. The town was known for its affluent citizenry. Most of the working-class folks viewed the people from there with a certain cynicism and disdain. Calvin's expression assured me that he thought the same thing.
"How did you get to be a private detective?" he asked.
"I got out of the Marines with very few marketable skills," I replied. It wasn't a lie. There's not a lot of places looking to hire a guy whose primary training was the various methods he could kill a man.
"I get that," Calvin said. "I had a similar problem. Spent four years of high school and two years of college learning how to tackle a guy with a football. I was lucky enough to have three years playing for the Falcons before my knee bent the wrong way."
"Now you're learning the dental trade?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Being a never-was doesn't pay much, so I took a course from one of those schools that advertise during Judge Judy."
"You like it?"
"Eh, it's okay. You like doing what you do?"
"Eh," I repeated him. "It beats getting a real job."
He leaned forward. "Hey, is that your kid?" He pointed at the screen.
"Can you rewind it?"
Calvin fiddled with the mouse, and the images started reversing.
"Hold it there," I said.
The screen showed a figure jogging across the parking lot. He climbed into the passenger seat of the Jeep, which backed out of the parking spot and took a right onto Forest Hill Boulevard.
"I think that might have been him," I said. "Could you make out the license plate?"
Calvin tried to get a clear freeze-frame of the Jeep's plate. "The angle isn't right," he finally remarked. "Let me try something else."
The monitor changed and showed the sidewalk leading up to the dentist's office. It also offered a view of the outside lane of Forest Hill Boulevard. Calvin advanced the frames slowly until the Jeep appeared in the corner. The second half of the plate was visible and read, "593."
I stared at the green Jeep with a couple of kayak holders and smiled.
20
Leaving Dr. Koenig's office, I realized that I still had a few hours before my shift at the Manta. I wasn't sure how the information I had gotten from the cameras would help me, or even if I should do anything with it. Peterson had been pretty clear that he didn't want to find his blackmailer. My curiosity got the better of me, though. Someone had something more than just a sex tape on the mayor.
I learned long ago that everyone has secrets. There are things that we each think would be the end of our world. Some folks cheat, some steal, some just think about it. No matter how much one thinks they want to know a person's secrets, they are usually wrong. It changes your perspective.
From my perspective, I liked Peterson, and I didn't care about his secret. Mainly because I didn't know it. If it was some horrid, despicable act, my actions might be different. Right now, I could argue plausible deniability. In my experience, the secrets people are desperate to hide usually end up being benign. At least as far as I'm concerned. I don't care if Peterson turns out to be gay, a gambler, or any number of other things some might consider taboo.
No point in talking to him about it unless I could iron down more details about the blackmailer. He puts enough value on his secret to pay $70,000.
I sat in the marina's courtesy car and stared at the lake across the street. Thinking about people's secrets brought me back to Tristan. My friend had gotten in with drug dealers, and while they might want to kill him, it appeared that they hadn't yet. My mind flipped back and forth over whether he was dead or alive.
My gut felt that he wouldn't stay out of contact with his family for this long; however, there were secrets that he was keeping. Maybe he was tired of family life. I didn't know Tristan, the husband and father.
Considering his actions throughout his life, Tristan might have found the family man role too intense for him. He needed the attention, and while I didn't have a lot of parenting experience, it seems that toddlers require a lot of attention. I hated to consider that he would just quit on Kayla and Abbie, but it was possible.
Of course, he could easily be running from Moreno. Knowing that he owed the man that much money could have lit a fire under him. I hoped that if that was the case, he ran thinking that his disappearance would protect his family. It was stupid. He should have at least planned for the eventuality that Moreno would go after Kayla or Abbie just to get to him.
I wanted to find some of the people that Tristan was close to now. If, as Moreno suggested, Tristan stole the drugs for his own payday, then someone would have dealt with him. Finding someone to buy $25,000 worth of drugs isn't as easy as posting on Craigslist. It's one of those who-you-know kinds of scenarios.
Before he started running drugs, Tristan was working in Lake Park. Kayla told me the name. Hometown Hardware. The people you spend the most time with tend to be co-workers. Tristan was one to get comfortable. He might even brag about how much he was making or how much he stole.
I decided to take a chance. Pointing the car toward the ocean, I drove toward Lake Park. Just like Lark Clarke Shores, Lake Park was a town bordered by several municipalities.
The marina's car was equipped with an older GPS, something I was grateful for at the moment. The only time my general distaste for carrying a cell phone is tested is when I need directions. No one knows where anything is nowadays. And asking for directions leaves me getting furrowed brows and curious glares.
The trip was estimated at 41 minutes. It took me 43. My foot is light, and I am never in a hurry-part of why I chose a sailboat over a trawler.
Hometown Hardware was situated on the corner of two major cross streets. It was a locally owned store, as noted on the sign on the building. The hardware store was at the end of a shopping center that housed a grocery store, a handful of small businesses, and a local chandlery. The chandlery looked like one of those junk stores that had collected parts off of boats for the last twenty years. They also were stocked with seriously over-priced new retail items they bought from the national chains. The industry standard is that anything with the word "marine" in its description automatically garners a higher price. The used parts, though, tended to be significantly cheaper. I made a mental note to return one day and spend some time digging through the aisles for a treasure or two.
The hardware store where Tristan had worked gave off the vibe of an independent store trying to stave off the economic volleys of big box stores. The sidewalk in front of the Hometown Hardware was lined with Adirondack chairs, grills, and a couple of lawnmowers. I walked through the automatic doors and felt the swoosh of a cool air-conditioned breeze rush over me. The white tiled floors were filled with aisles of various supplies. The first few seemed to be filled with lawn and pest equipment. Followed by paint and plumbing.
The singular cashier, a man with a pair of wire-framed glasses and thin white hair that was past retirement age, looked up as I entered.
"Welcome to Hometown Hardware," he spouted off cheerily. Whether he was or not, the gentleman looked knowledgeable. I was sure that he was asked advice multiple times a day on everything from installing window screens to unclogging drains.
"Thank you," I said, "I'm looking for the manager."
"Oh," the old man sounded astonished and disappointed at the same time as if I had made an affront to his superior customer service. He lifted a phone receiver and said, "Let me get him for you."
I smiled at him, hoping to ease his worries that I was an upset customer. He spoke into the phone for a few seconds before hanging up.
"He'll be with you in just a minute," he told me.
"Thank you," I said gratefully.
Meandering around the front aisle, I looked at the different choices for my pest control needs. Although many might think that was an issue not relegated to boats, it was a constant battle to prevent roaches and ants from making their way aboard Carina.
"How are you?" a man wearing a shirt and tie appeared in the s
tore. He was about ten years or so older than me. His rosy cheeks suggested he recently spent some time outside, something that was probably outside of his norm. "I'm Stephen. I understand you needed to talk to me."
"Yes, sir," I greeted him with an outstretched hand. "I'm hoping you can help me out. My name is Chase Gordon. I'm hoping to talk to you about a former employee of yours, Tristan Locke."
Stephen cocked his head slightly. "I'm not really at liberty to talk about employees. What is it you want to discuss?"
"Well," I started, "can I take you into my confidence?"
He turned his head slowly to the cashier, nodding slightly.
"Tristan has gone missing, and his wife is worried that something has happened to him."
Stephen's eyes widened. "That's terrible. I had no idea."
"Yes, she's distraught," I said in a hushed and urgent tone. "You know he has a little girl too."
The manager shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know how I could help. He hasn't worked here in quite a while."
"Look," I explained, "I'm not official or anything. Tristan and I were in the Marines together..."
"Oh," Stephen said with surprise. "Thank you for your service."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. While I greatly appreciate the implied sentiment behind people's gratitude, I don't like it.
"Thank you," I said. "Anyway, I know the kid. He might be staying with someone that his wife didn't know. You know what I mean." I hoped that he took that innuendo wherever he needed.
"I don't know about that," Stephen said. "He left right after I started. I didn't know him very well. I think he went to work for a local contractor."
I let my head drop intentionally. "That's what I'm afraid of. His wife thought the same thing, but he gets paid in cash. No way to know who he was working for."
"There's a lot of that these days," Stephen said. He didn't continue, and I was grateful. Few things grate under my skin more than diatribes about the perceived state of our society by people making no attempt to better it. Stephen struck me as just that type.
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