"Nonetheless," I said, "we are at an impasse of sorts. I'm just searching for straws."
Stephen pursed his lips and nodded along as if he was perplexed by this situation that we now shared. He, of course, didn't know how to react. His motivation to help me or Tristan was nearly, if not completely, non-existent, but one can't express that type of heartless lack of empathy about someone who might be in trouble. What would people think?
"You have any idea what the contractor's name is?"
Stephen glanced at the white-tiled floor. "I don't, but I think he was the one that was killed a few months back. I can't be sure."
My curiosity perked up. "Killed? How?"
"Heard a couple of guys broke into his house and killed him. Random bullshit we can't seem to get away from around here."
I studied his face. His brow was furrowed.
"Do you know anyone here that might have an idea where he might be?" I asked, shifting gears back to Tristan. "Maybe he was friendly with someone that still works here. I'll take anything. I just want to make sure that this Marine is safe and back with his family."
I did think that my calling Tristan a Marine was a little heavy-handed, but if Stephen wanted to express his gratitude for our service, then maybe that would motivate him.
He shook his head. "I'm not sure exactly," he said. Eventually, he conceded, "I guess we could ask Tommy. He's been around longer than I have. I think that the two of them were friends. Maybe he knows something about him."
"Great," I said. "Is Tommy here?"
"No, he's not today."
"Stephen, I appreciate the help," I coddled him. "Do you mind having Tommy call me?"
The man nodded. "I can give him the message."
"I don't have a cell phone, but he can reach me at the Manta Club in West Palm Beach." I gave him the number to the bar.
"He is off the next couple of days," Stephen remarked.
"Oh," I said, disheartened. "I don't suppose you can give me his number."
He shook his head. "No, I can't," he said. "That would be a violation of our policy."
"Thank you anyway," I told him. "Hope he gets back to me."
Stephen shook my hand. "I'm sorry I couldn't help more," he said. "I do hope Tristan is okay."
I gave a nonchalant shrug.
"Do you think that he could have just run out on the wife?" Stephen asked with a curious tone.
"Maybe," I conceded, "but I just want to make sure he's safe."
"Seems like you are going above and beyond for him," he suggested.
My eyes narrowed a bit. "That's the thing about serving together. We watch each other's back, no matter what."
His face tightened a bit, and the store manager nodded and said, "I get that."
He didn't, though.
21
The sun was bouncing off the ripples on the surface. Light danced along the edge of the dock like fairies playing chase. My third cup of coffee for the morning was already half gone, and I was considering where I might get a fourth. The Corps trained me to go without sleep, but the feat was made easier with the influx of coffee. Strong, black coffee made it just that much easier.
I strolled along a sidewalk that trailed along the waterfront overlooking the Boynton Marina. After a busy night behind the bar last night, I found myself staring at the overhead in my berth, unable to sleep. A storm rolled through in the middle of the night, and the waves rocked Carina fiercely.
My sleeplessness was filled with a marching of ideas through my brain.
Tristan's house was searched, and given the amount of damage the vandals inflicted, my guess was that the object they were looking for wasn't found. Were they looking for stolen drugs? That could have been Moreno's men, but the destruction had a more intense feel. Moreno wanted to send a message, but in the grand scheme of his business, I bet that a $25,000 loss was minimal. His pride was wounded, and he'd make Tristan pay for that in person.
I also wondered about the phone number I found on Tristan's boat. I cursed the bad luck. The swim I took that morning to avoid Spiky and Muscles ruined any chances of reading it. How and if it fits into the puzzle flitted about my head for a bit. The lightning flashes through the portholes created a creep show effect in my cabin.
Revisiting Kristol seemed in order since my last trip was interrupted. After listening to the clanging of halyards in the wind for the next few hours, I decided to head over to Boynton Marina at first light.
Estaban Velázquez, or Scar as I was used to referring to him in my head, was sitting in a black Suburban in the parking lot. He must have drawn the short straw to be up so early. I didn't think Scar saw me yet, and I pulled around to a neighboring apartment building. He was situated so that he could watch the main dock. I'm sure Moreno's man was still looking for Tristan, and after the way we left things off the other night, I wasn't sure that he would offer me much courtesy. After a few seconds of thought, I decided that a less direct route might go unnoticed. Even if he had been relieved by one of Moreno's other hired hands, a stakeout like that was boring and routine. It's easy to lose focus staring at the same thing for hours.
I passed the slip where C'est Vie was berthed the other day. The slip was empty, harkening to possibilities that she was out bashing the waves or anchored in a small cove. Jealousy welled up in me. That call to the voyage was screaming at me already. I couldn't help but look out to the sea, although in truth, all I could see was the barrier island that blocked the surf from pounding against the marina.
Kristol was still in her slip. She might have had a slight starboard list, and I thought I might want to check to ensure the bilge pump was working properly.
The salon door that I had picked the other day was ajar. It occurred to me that I disembarked Kristol into the water, and Moreno's men probably weren't considerate enough to lock up Tristan's boat. I climbed aboard. My feet splashed as they landed on the deck. The cockpit was holding a half-inch of water, and I took a quick look for the cause. The drain hole leading out the transom was clogged by a rag washed to the back during last night's storm.
The retained water receded quickly when I pulled the cloth from the hole. I tossed the greasy, wet towel onto one of the benches.
A rotten smell struck me as soon as I stepped through the salon door. Turning my head instinctively into the fresh air, I swallowed a lungful before moving inside. There was no help. The cabin was like a balloon filled with rotting air just trying to escape.
Tristan's boat had been searched just like his house. Maybe not as destructively. The salon was tossed, and all the compartments were opened and emptied. I wondered if they searched the boat first, and then Tristan's house. That might explain the level of damage that the house sustained as the searcher was growing more frustrated.
I began picking up the charts and papers that seemed to belong in the navigation table. There was no method to the search. They simply threw everything out of the way to find whatever it was. That would seem to indicate it was a specific thing they were looking for, and they knew exactly what it wasn't. Even small compartments and containers were opened and strewn about.
When I retrieved all the paper charts, I organized them and began flipping through them until I found the chart for the Texas coastline. The one that was missing a corner. I recalled it being a single-paged chart, as opposed to some that were in booklets.
I collapsed onto the settee with a bit of dejection. I had hoped that I could find the chart that had been under the now-torn paper when Tristan had jotted down the number. Maybe I could find the impression and make out the phone number. The search party had thrashed that idea by wrecking chaos throughout the cabin.
Picking up the cushions, I straightened the cabin up some. There was no way I was going to spend the hours it would take to clean everything up. I just wanted to be able to move around.
The Bertram's circuit board had been turned off, and I flipped the circuit breaker that let the batteries recharge from the shore power. The littl
e green light for the bilge pump illuminated, and I heard the whir of the motor as it pumped the rainwater from last night into the ocean.
The refrigerator was opened, and the source of the bad air was found. Without power, the food that had only been moldy before had begun to spoil. Buzzing flies had congregated around the fridge. My hand pushed the door closed hoping to trap the odor inside. I picked up the toolbox that Tristan stored in the gimballed oven. The box was open and empty. The VHF radio was under the table. I found the handheld GPS chart plotter in a corner where it had been tossed without thought.
Turning it on, I watched as the little globe rotated while the device connected to the satellites. The screen was small, but it showed the coastline with a small arrow that pinpointed the location of the GPS in the marina. It was an older model, and it looked like it hadn't had a software update in a few years. Still, as a backup device, it would get a sailor where he needed to go.
There were two saved points in it. I looked at the coordinates. Both were to the south and within a half-day's journey on the Bertam. Maybe a bit longer for Carina, but I'd expend almost no fuel to get there.
They probably didn't mean anything. One looked like it was just west of the Gulf Stream. I'd have to double-check, but it looked like it was somewhere on Long Reef. I'd done some diving along there. The area was loaded with sea-life, and usually, I could spear something for dinner.
The other point was farther south-just west of the Keys.
Probably just some good fishing spots, I told myself. Or, I considered, it could be a couple of good rendezvous points for someone picking up contraband.
Powering off the unit, I stuck it in the left pocket on my shorts. I wanted to look a little closer at those coordinates. If they were somehow connected to Moreno, that information might prove valuable at some point. On the other hand, if they were just one of Tristan's favorite spots to find some fish, then I would love a day on the water with a hook hanging off the side.
The forward cabin was tossed as well. The full-size mattress from the bed was turned up on its side, the hanging closet left open. While the boat was a mess the first time I came aboard, this time, it looked like it needed a complete refit. That might be a stretch, but if it didn't get cleaned up soon, the end result might require a complete gutting of the interior.
I stepped out of the salon and into the cockpit. The sliding door couldn't lock without a key, but I could at least secure the hatches and try to make sure no water got inside.
Turning to disembark, I stopped and stared at Scar. He stood about thirty feet down on the walkway, waiting. I climbed off the Bertram and looked down the dock at Velázquez. He seemed to be inviting me to approach him. He was wearing a brown jacket that I guessed hid whatever gun he had chosen to replace the Colt .45 I took from him the other night. His eyes were dark and bruised, and I didn't want to give him a chance to repay me for those black eyes.
"Mr. Velázquez," I greeted him as I came closer.
His lip sneered at me. My eyes darted around for a second. We didn't have any eyewitnesses about this morning, and I wasn't sure why fortune was frowning on me.
"Sorry about the nose," I remarked.
"I'll repay you for it, don't worry," he growled in a thick accent.
"I'll let you one day," I told him, "or at least, I'll let you try. As long as you understand that what I told your boss is true and in play. If something happens to me, I can promise that your boss will catch a bullet one day."
He glared at me.
"Don't worry," I assured him, "I made sure to describe your jacked-up face too."
Scar said, "That's if they find you."
I pointed at the cameras hanging on the corner of the covered docks. "Don't get filmed doing it then," I said. "And don't bet that there is a criteria for how dead I am or how I got that way."
He grunted. "Mr. Moreno has said that if you can provide Locke's location, you'll be spared any retribution."
"I can't help you there," I replied before I sidestepped around Scar.
He was still standing on the dock when I reached land. He started to walk back, and I tried to put myself on alert, in case he had one of Moreno's other goons lying in wait for me. Instead, I noticed a delivery van in the next parking lot. The driver was sitting in the running vehicle. I waved at him and, I suspected, Agent Kohl or one of his agents.
I was back on-board Carina twenty minutes later. The chart plotter I have is a bigger and more detailed one than Tristan's handheld. I pulled up the coordinates and found the first point. I was correct, it was at the far end of Long Reef. Roughly 100 miles south and situated in the Biscayne National Park.
The second point was near Key Largo, the chart showed it on the edge of Molasses Reef. I stared at the screen with both points highlighted.
Finally, I got to my feet and jumped onto the dock. Climbing the steps to the Tilly, I plotted my time frame. I'd need three days, I figured.
Hunter was behind the bar, and I climbed onto the stool.
"Hey, Chase," he greeted me. "Get you something?"
"No, I was wondering if you could manage everything for a few days."
Hunter winced. "Over the whole weekend?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. I'll make it up to you. I just need to run out a bit."
"Fine," he agreed, "but I want seven days off next week. In a row."
I smiled. "Thanks, man."
He tipped an imaginary hat to me as I jumped off the stool.
"You better tell Missy," he said. "She's been in quite a mood today."
I groaned a little and headed downstairs to her office.
22
The wind was coming out of the east, and the water was choppy enough that Carina's bow would climb on the wave and bash majestically into the trough. We were cruising at only about six knots. There wasn't any rush today.
Missy was lying on the cockpit bench, soaking up the rays of the sun. Her bikini top was hooked on the helm so that she could grab it if needed.
When I went downstairs to talk to her yesterday, I found that Hunter was right. She was in a mood. I'm guessing that whatever headway Michael tried to make with her after our talk had backfired. When I told her my plan, she reminded me that I offered to sail away with her.
I beat into a southerly wind for several hours before we were able to anchor in Biscayne Bay. Today was a short sail out to the coordinates that Tristan marked.
"What do you think is out here?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Probably nothing. Even if this is just a rendezvous point, then we aren't likely to be there at the right time to meet someone. It'll end up being a nice couple of days on the water."
She hummed with satisfaction. "I'm okay with that. I needed some sea and sun."
I glanced over at her bronze skin. She didn't miss out on too much of the sun, but that didn't seem to be what she really needed. There is something soothing about being on the water.
"It could just be a wreck that Tristan logged," I mused. "Long reef is loaded with them. Might be the best thing we find is some snapper or maybe a fat grouper."
"That's not a terrible thought," she remarked, "provided you have something to go with it."
"Don't worry," I assured her, "the galley is fully stocked."
The blue stretched out forever, and behind me, the Miami skyline was shrinking, but far from gone yet. The spot we were heading for was only four miles offshore.
"Are you planning to dive it?" she asked.
"Yeah, do you want to go?"
She shook her head. "No, I don't mind snorkeling, but I don't think I'd like being all the way under the water that long."
"It's pretty serene. There's nothing around you. Not quiet, mind you. The noises are just different under there."
"Will we be able to anchor this far out?" she asked. "I don't want to have to drive around in circles looking for you."
"We should be able to. Most of Long Reef is less than forty feet deep."
"Shouldn't
you have a partner?" she asked. "A diving buddy?"
"Ideally, yes," I said, "but I should be able to manage anything that goes wrong."
"Cause you're a tough son of a bitch?"
"Cause I'm a tough son of a bitch," I repeated to her with a chuckle.
My hair whipped around in the breeze, and I sat back and watched the water dancing around us. I couldn't think of a better place to be than here. The water was a little rough. However, the wind was strong, the sails were full, and a beautiful topless woman was sunning herself beside me. If only my coffee cup wasn't empty. Those are first world problems, I sighed. Life was perfect.
The little arrow on my chart plotter that represented Carina was closing in on the destination point. The autopilot kept the rudder aimed where I needed it to be. I reached over to release the tension on the sheet for the genoa sail. As the forward sail began to flap in the wind, I reeled the line that furled the sail back up into a tight roll.
Our speed dropped after the large genoa sail spilled its air. With only the mainsail up, we slowed to about three knots. Firing up the engine, I wanted to be able to maneuver in tightly to get as close to the coordinates as possible. I released the halyard that hoisted the mainsail and allowed the sail to drop. Even as it descends, the sail catches any wind. I sprang forward and pulled the rest of the main down to prevent that.
Even with the diesel motor running, the problem is that the sea doesn't always care how close you want to be. She's stronger than the motor. And she's always moving, and even in the time it takes to lower the anchor, she will have moved the boat quickly out here in the open water. In a protected bay, it's a lot easier. This was going to be tricky.
It was going to prove even trickier as I watched the depth jump from 36 feet to 78 feet in a second. According to the chart, the point that I wanted to be at was 82 feet deep. Not impossible to anchor in that depth, but generally inadvisable.
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