by Andrew Mayne
“Anyone there?”
Footsteps.
I pull my hand back from the handle, suddenly concerned I’ve startled Raul’s murderer. What if it’s one of the men from the boat?
The door opens, and I’m greeted by a short Hispanic woman in a house gown.
“Hello?” she says, eyeing me suspiciously.
Okay, probably not an assassin, but don’t be too sure.
“I’m looking for Raul,” I reply.
“He doesn’t live here.”
Tremendous apprehension laces her voice. I have a feeling I’m not the first person to come around asking about him.
“I’m a friend of Stacey’s.”
“Oh . . .” Her face softens, and she opens the door a little wider. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too. Could I come inside and talk to you for a moment?”
She still seems wary and looks past my shoulder, then studies me a little more closely.
“She and I grew up together. My family used to have our boat worked on at her father’s boatyard.”
This seems to be the credential she was looking for. She opens the door and gestures me inside her living room.
Two new navy-blue couches fill the room, along with a glass coffee table and a television unit supporting a massive flat screen.
She excuses herself to go turn off the television in the kitchen, then comes back and sits down on the sofa next to me, placing two water bottles on the table.
Clearly there’s a little money here. Hers or Raul’s?
I make a point of looking around. “This is a very nice place.”
“Thank you,” she replies.
“Does your son live here too?”
She gives me a confused glance. “My son? You mean Raul? He’s my nephew.”
Oh. Interesting. It’s entirely possible the police never even talked to her.
“I haven’t seen him since they found Stacey. Have you? He must be devastated.”
“He’s away on work,” she replies, a little too automatically.
“I see. I’d like to talk to him.”
“Maybe you should call him?” She’s on full alert now. Something I said triggered it.
I have to lie. “There’s no answer.”
If I were a better cop, I’d have figured out a way to get his number through Stacey’s phone records or something like that. But I’m not.
I decide to try another approach. “Miss . . . ?”
“Carolina,” she replies.
“I didn’t know Raul. I knew Stacey. I’m the one who found her body. I think she was trying to tell me something right before she was killed. But I don’t know what. I’m afraid for Raul . . . and I’m afraid for myself. Two men tried to kill me last night.”
She puts her hand to her heart like a good Catholic, and her eyes go wide. I don’t think she was expecting such frank honesty.
“You’re not with the other people who came by asking about Raul.”
“What other people? The police?”
She vigorously shakes her head. “Those men and that woman, they were not police.”
Woman? “Who were they?”
“They said they were business friends of Raul. They wanted to know where he was.” She points to the hallway. “They pushed their way in and searched everywhere.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No, no. These people you don’t call police on.”
“When was this?”
“Two days ago.”
“And you haven’t heard from Raul in how long?”
“Five days.”
“You have any idea where he is or how to reach him? Have you tried calling him?”
She looks at me like I’m stupid. “I’ve tried all his numbers. Nothing. But sometimes he’s out of reach or doesn’t get signal at the yard.”
All his numbers? That’s a little suspicious. “Is there one he uses more than others?”
“Yes. But that phone . . .” She stops, realizing she said something she shouldn’t have.
“That phone? Is it here?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Carolina, the men who killed Stacey may have been the ones that came for me. We need to stop them before they get to Raul.” I try to say the last part convincingly, because I’m pretty sure he’s dead.
“Okay,” she replies. A minute later she returns with an older iPhone.
I press the button, and the screen asks for a thumbprint or a pass code. By the way she’s looking at me, I can tell she knows what it is.
“Please,” I say, holding it out to her.
She presses her third finger against the sensor, and the phone unlocks. Interesting. I bet she and Raul share some other secrets, like safe-deposit boxes and online accounts, but I don’t push.
I open up his recent-calls list and use my phone to take a snapshot of the numbers. None of them have names, which is what you’d expect from someone who wanted to keep their contacts secret.
I notice an app for Bitcoin and other virtual currencies and open it up. The screen prompts me for a password, so I hand it to Carolina.
She stares at it for a moment, puzzled, then unlocks it. It shows a balance of about two hundred and twenty thousand dollars in various untraceable currencies. Curious.
I’m not sure what else to look for, then I remember something she said about not being able to reach him at the yard. Winston’s boatyard was next to a cell tower. Why couldn’t she reach him there? Why would she? That place has been effectively closed for years.
“You said that you had trouble reaching him at the yard? Which one is that?”
She shrugs. “He never told me where. He said it was a secret.”
A secret boatyard? Is that where Winston and Raul were based when they retrieved equipment from Winston’s old boatyard?
“What did he do there?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow a bit. “Raul worked on projects for the navy. Secret things.”
Navy, my ass. Maybe the volunteer Bolivian navy.
“And you have no idea where this is?”
“No.” She’s trying to decide if she should take the phone back from me.
I cling to it, wondering if there are any other clues to be found. What about the Maps app?
I open it and look at the history of addresses.
Nothing.
Email?
I open the email app, and it asks me for a password. Carolina isn’t offering one up.
I check text messages, but they’ve been wiped.
Okay, this is basically a burner phone.
I’m about to hand the phone back to her when one last idea hits me. I open the photo album, hoping to find some obvious landmarks. Maybe a sign that says SECRET BOATYARD next to a Waffle House I recognize.
No such luck. There’re only a dozen or so photographs, and they’re almost all sunsets or sunrises, the kind of thing Run used to send to me.
One photo shows the sun breaking through a group of mangroves. There’s a canal in front of them with no seawall. I tap the photo, and it shows on a map where it was taken.
The location is southwest of Fort Lauderdale, a place I’m pretty sure there are no boatyards, only an RV storage lot and some tree nurseries.
Interesting.
As Carolina watches, I pull the location up in Google Maps and look at the satellite view.
Sure enough, tucked away from the canal and behind a dense forest of mangroves is a group of small warehouse buildings. They look like they were part of the nursery at one time.
I don’t know when this image was captured, but I have a pretty good idea of what the buildings are being used for now.
It’s the perfect location to work on drug boats, cars, and other clandestine ways of hiding contraband. It must be the secret boatyard.
I hand the phone back to Carolina. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
INCURSION
The frogs are chirping as the sun sets, casting a pink
glow across the sky. I paddle my kayak slowly, watching the mangroves on either side. Occasionally I spot the headlights of a car as it goes down the road to my right. In the distance behind me, I can see the glow of the city. Ahead lies the setting sun and its mirrorlike reflection in the canal.
A turtle bobs its head up and swims along with me for a moment before diving back down. Under the twisted branches of the trees and shrubs lining the shore, soft splashing things crawl in and out of the water.
Although there’s a perfectly good road leading to the mystery yard, it’s also a small one-lane path that makes it pretty obvious someone is coming—and an easy place to get trapped.
The kayak seemed like a more sensible way to scope out the place. For starters, this is public water, so I’m not trespassing—as long as I don’t leave the boat. Second, it’s easier to explain my presence as a kayaker out for an evening trip than if I pull up to the yard looking suspicious.
At least that’s my theory.
I have no idea what I’m going to find. Winston and Raul have to be long gone by now. What they left behind is the mystery.
I’m clinging to the idea that Winston and Raul used the site to install smuggler’s compartments in fishing boats and pleasure craft.
If they did, those boats would probably need to be trailered in and out. I can’t imagine anything floating through these canals with a keel more than a few feet deep.
Winston was a clever guy. It could be something else entirely.
But who knows? It could have been a drug storage and distribution site. Or perhaps there’s no connection at all—maybe this place has nothing to do with anything and Raul took the pictures while exploring like me.
My doubts begin to fade when I spot the gentle slope of a concrete boat ramp leading out of the canal and into a gravel yard surrounded by a tall fence topped by barbed wire.
The fence even crosses the end of the ramp, with a large metal gate secured by a padlock.
An intimidating sign says, PRIVATE PROPERTY. PATROLLED BY WESTGUARD SECURITY.
What’s even more intimidating is the eleven-foot alligator that has staked out the ramp as his personal resting spot. He doesn’t budge as I drift closer.
I once knew an old trapper who lived out in the Everglades. He had a shack on stilts in which he kept his shotguns and other prized possessions. As a security measure, he used to throw dead chickens into the water to keep alligators around.
If one got too close to him, he’d have alligator meat for a month.
Unfortunately, I don’t have any dead chickens to lure this one away, and he sure as hell does not look intimidated by a skinny broad in a rinky-dink kayak.
“Go away, beast!” I raise my voice at him, hoping it’ll scare him.
The alligator doesn’t move an inch. So much for that idea.
For a moment I wonder if he’s even real. There’s not much difference between a nonmoving fake alligator and one that’s resting. Until it decides to move. Then things get deadly.
I could try to push him away with my paddle, but that would put me in close proximity to the creature. If he decided to charge me, the paddle would be as ineffective as a flyswatter versus a lion.
I bring the kayak sideways to the ramp so I can get out without having to step into the water. There’s a better-than-even chance he’ll ignore me and move away mopishly.
There’s also a chance Jackie will see a news report about how some fishermen found my kayak and the partial remains of a stupid woman who got too close to an alligator.
“Okay, buddy. This is the way it’s going to work: I’m getting out, and you can just chill. But if you decide to get a little bitey, I’m going to put a nine-millimeter round inside your teensy dinosaur brain and then turn you into a pair of sandals. Comprende, amigo?”
I point my gun—Solar’s gun—at the alligator’s head while my left hand steadies me against the edge of the ramp.
Being careful not to slip and either fall into the water, making myself extra vulnerable, or drop the gun and shoot myself—making Mr. Alligator’s job all that much easier—I slowly move my weight onto the ramp, putting down first one foot, then the other.
Once I’m on solid ground, I realize that I forgot the rope.
“I’m still watching you,” I tell the gator as I try to keep my gun on him while using my left toe to loop the rope. “Ha, got it.”
I receive no applause for this feat, only more indifference. I’m okay with that.
I walk up the edge of the ramp in the direction of the alligator’s thick tail. Reptilian eyes watch me.
This guy just doesn’t care. Something tells me that Winston and Raul went out of their way to make him comfortable here and unafraid of people. Chicken dinner every night?
“I’m just going to tie this off.” I loop the kayak’s rope through the fence so it won’t drift away.
With my gun still pointing in the general direction of the alligator, I move to the locked gate. Between it and the surrounding fence, the fence maker left a sizable gap. Useless for most trespassers, but there’s enough space for me to squeeze through.
I pull myself through the fence and turn back to the ramp. The toothy doorman makes the sound of leather scraping pavement as he slides into the water.
“Seriously, dude? You waited until after?” The beast clearly wanted to show me that he was leaving on his own accord and was, like, totally not afraid of me.
I tuck the gun into my holster at the back of my jeans and flop my track jacket over the butt. If I get caught trespassing while wielding a weapon, I could get shot.
I survey the yard and realize that there’s been a camera on a metal post watching the ramp the entire time. And it’s not even an inconspicuous camera. A red recording light is shining brightly, making it perfectly apparent this place is under surveillance—or at least looks like it is.
When I was a little girl, some stores were too cheap to spring for security cameras and instead mounted fake plastic ones in the corner, always with bright-red lights and signs proclaiming 24-HOUR POLICE MONITORING.
I hope this camera’s the same thing and that I’m not about to be attacked by guard dogs and private security guards rappelling down from helicopters.
I wait for a minute, inspecting the area and listening for the sound of anyone approaching.
Satisfied that I’m alone, with the exception of my pal floating somewhere near my kayak, I take a few more steps forward.
Passing through the line of trees, I face the two buildings I saw on the satellite map. But there’s a lot more that didn’t show in the imagery.
Aluminum trusses are scattered around, and there’s something even odder—a large, aboveground pool.
It’s the kind of thing you see in backyards in rural areas, about twenty feet long, ten feet wide, and a touch over five feet deep. An overhead lift on wheels is parked to the side, midway between the pool and the larger of the two metal buildings.
As I approach the pool warily, I smell a disgusting stench. Apparently, the pool boy’s been a little lazy. The water is green and filled with leaves and branches.
Out of the corner of my eye, a headlight flashes. I abandon the pool and run to the building farthest from the road. I could have made it back to my kayak, but my curiosity’s getting the better of me.
I slide behind the building and watch as headlights flood the area. It sounds like at least two large trucks.
Damn. I move deeper into the shadows behind the building and find a spot between two large metal drums, tucking myself between them.
Take it easy, Sloan. It’s probably just some . . . whatever.
Doors open, and there’s the sound of footsteps on gravel. I hear splashing followed by laughter.
It could be anyone. Don’t panic.
One of the men steps in front of one truck’s headlights and walks toward the fence along the ramp.
My blood turns to ice as I see his face.
It’s the man from my boat.
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The one I didn’t kill.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BUOY
I press my back against the side of the building, willing myself completely flat. I’m in the shadows, true, but I don’t know how in the shadows I really am. I decide that movement is worse than being visible.
The tall man walks up to the gate overlooking the ramp and peers down at the water. Did he see me on the kayak?
He’s looking for the alligator, which means that he’s been here before. Why? And why did he come back?
Someone else shouts to him, “Check the other one.”
He turns around—his eyes go right past me as he walks over to the building I’m hiding behind. My knees buckle a little, and I panic for a moment, my left hand moving to my back to make sure the gun is still there. It feels nothing.
That’s because it’s still in your right hand, idiot.
The building vibrates as the roll-up door rises. The ramp is about a hundred feet away. I could try to run for it while they’re inspecting the building . . .
I take a hesitant step forward, then spot a shadow of another man as he steps in front of the headlights. I hear the sound of a metal lighter, and my nose swears a moment later when it smells cigarette.
Damn it.
He’s not moving.
Okay. What’s plan B?
I look to my left and realize that the back of the building’s shadowed by overhanging trees.
While waiting for the men to leave is an option, if one of them comes only a few feet around the side of the building, I’ll be caught.
I decide it’s better to make my way toward the back. Worst case, I can lose myself in the mangroves. Although that’s easier said than done. They look incredibly dense from here. I’d probably only make it a few feet.
Shut up and do something, Sloan.
I start creeping back toward the trees. Each crushed blade of grass sounds like a crate of fine china being dropped onto pavement, but I keep moving.
The voices of the men carry as they talk while conducting their search. Boxes are moved around inside, and there’s occasionally metal clanging.
Keep it up, boys. The louder you are, the quieter I am.