Breakwater

by Jack Hardin

  “Well, don’t let Carlos drive the boat back. And don’t let him fall overboard again,” Ellie said.

  Carlos Hernández was the founder of HedgeTex, an electronic brokerage firm with offices in every state save Wisconsin and Alaska. His personal stake in the company put his net worth over ninety million dollars, easily making him one of the wealthiest men in Lee County. He made regional headlines last month after pledging a million dollars of his own money to food pantries across the state. His giving habits were generally kept out of the spotlight, but he had publicized the pledge in an effort to compel others to donate with him. Carlos came from humble beginnings, his family immigrating from Honduras when he was a small boy. His parents did their best to provide for their six children, but there were days they went without meals, only eating what little they received from the generosity of friends and what their local food pantries could offer. Carlos had been the only one of his siblings to finish college and start his own business. He never did forget his small beginnings, and now that he was enjoying the kind of financial success most only dream of, he had turned his attention more toward philanthropy, recently stepping down as HedgeTex’s CEO and being content to simply chair the board. He was a poster child for the American dream. His only weakness seemed to be a proclivity toward drinking a little too much whenever he went out on the water.

  “He still claims he meant to fall over last time,” Major said, and headed for the docks. “Thanks for holding things down for me.”

  Ellie spent the next few minutes rearranging the liquor bottles on the back wall. Major had a habit of pouring drinks and setting the bottles back in a slipshod manner.

  “Excuse me. Could I get a little service here?”

  Ellie turned to see a tall man towering over the bar, an expansive smile exposing large white teeth. Carlos was nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, had the arms and chest of a lumberjack and a neck that probably wouldn’t snap if a truck ran over it. The top of his bald head nearly scraped the edges of the palm fronds that hung over the edge of the hut’s roof.

  “Carlos. How are you?” Ellie said.

  His deep voice resonated across the bar. “Well, I’ve fled the confines of my office, and heaven has donated its weather to us. If I can just outfish your uncle, it will be the perfect day.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” she said. “Major’s getting the boat ready. You want a drink while you wait?”

  “I’ll take a Miller if you’ve got one back there.”

  “Indeed.” Ellie opened the refrigerator behind her and grabbed a can. She popped the tab for him and handed it over. He took a long, slow draw as Ellie spoke. “Major tells me the gala will be well attended.”

  Two months ago, Major had convinced Carlos to sponsor a gala that would benefit children’s cancer research. He had worked tirelessly with the staff from Carlos’s foundation to make the event a reality. One hundred people who were somebody in the upper echelons of the society would be attending at five thousand dollars a plate. Once the evening got off the blocks, there would be an auction, where the winner would have an opportunity, at a future date, to put Carlos underwater by means of a dunk tank, right here at The Salty Mangrove. Ellie had liked that idea, thinking that dunk tanks should be revived as an instrument for community entertainment. Secretly, she wanted a chance to get Major on the seat and have a few throws of her own.

  Carlos swallowed before he replied. “It will be a fun night, Ellie. Warren has been very passionate about it. You’re coming too, right?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Besides, I’m his date.”

  “Lucky man.” Carlos looked over to his left and frowned. “Where are Fu and Gloria? I thought they were screwed down to these two stools right here.”

  “They unhinged themselves long enough to go on a cruise,” Ellie said.

  “No kidding.”

  “Stranger things have not happened,” she said.

  A shrill whistle came from the docks. Major was on the deck of the Contender, waving at Carlos. “I’d better go,” he said. “When your uncle is ready, he’s ready. He’s left me before.” He chugged the rest of his beer and set the empty can down.

  “Have a good time,” Ellie said. “And try to stay on the boat this time.” She watched him make his way across the boardwalk and step on board, then waved goodbye to Major as he steered out of the marina and into the sound.

  Katie, her younger sister by two years, appeared around the side of the building and stepped behind the bar. “Hey, sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had a meeting with Chloe’s teacher, and it went long.”

  “Everything good?

  “Yeah. She’s just struggling with some of her reading assignments.” Katie rubbed her hands together. “So, what needs to be done?”

  Major had left a notepad on the counter. Ellie ran a finger down the list. “Looks like...being on time.”

  Katie shriveled her nose at her. “Smartass.”

  “Why don’t you grab some limes and quarter them for the garnishes?”

  “On it.” Katie disappeared into the kitchen.

  Ellie’s phone buzzed in her shorts’ pocket, and she drew it out. The screen showed an email notification with no subject. She opened her Gmail app and waited for it to load.

  She rearranged a couple more liquor bottles and glanced down. Her shoulders tensed as she read the first line:

  Your friend, Nick. It wasn’t an accident. He was murdered.

  Chapter Eight

  Ellie stared wide-eyed at her phone, disbelieving, thinking she was the recipient of some sick prank until she read on:

  Nick stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have. Go talk to Avi Narrano and ask him what he knows about Breakwater. He did some work with Nick and can be trusted. Let me know what he says.

  It’s not safe to go to the police.

  BE CAREFUL. Whoever killed Nick is still out there.

  There was no signature, no name, fake or otherwise, taking credit for the correspondence. Ellie noted the sender’s address: justicefornick@gmail.com. Hokey, she thought. But it communicated.

  In the week since Nick fell to his death, Tiffany had been resolute that Nick had not killed himself. Tyler had yet to budge from the same position. And that, of course, left only two other scenarios: an unfortunate accident or murder. There were no other possibilities.

  Ellie’s mind was swirling as she stared at the email. Whoever sent this apparently possessed information that no one else did. Somehow they thought they knew what really happened to Nick. She rubbed her forehead as she re-read the email.

  She knew that finding out who sent this would be an impossibility. Gmail accounts were untraceable, with any information that came with the email referencing Google’s own servers. Only a warrant would provide access to those.

  But why had they sent it to her? And how had they known her personal email address?

  Ellie had worked for the CIA for over a decade, eight of those years as a black-ops agent based out of Brussels. The Agency had ingrained a full range of skills into her until she was a walking Swiss Army knife. One of those skills had been analyzing information—looking at something from every angle, attending to every detail and nuance.

  Now, her mind churned as she analyzed each word, every phrase, looking for anything that might surrender a personality or even a specific person. But nothing stood out. The email was intentionally generic, and she saw no immediate clue that might help her pinpoint who the sender might be.

  A voice from behind her pulled her from her thoughts. “Ellie?”

  She turned around to face her sister, whose dark brown hair contrasted against her blonde. “Good Lord,” Katie said. “Are you okay? I haven’t seen you look that sick since I outfished you last week.”

  Ellie blinked. “I need to head out for a while. Are you good to hold things down here?”

  “Of course. What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Katie eyed her sister. “You’re worry
ing me a little bit.”

  “I’m fine. But you’re good if I leave?”

  “Go on, get out of here. Just call me later and let me know you’re okay.”

  Ellie nodded absently. “I will.” Then she walked out of the bar and down the ramp to her car.

  When she pulled on the handle to the glass door, Ellie nearly bumped into a man as he came out. She smiled a hello and stepped back to allow him to walk through before she went in.

  Jet was sitting behind his desk. He was fit for his age, his toned muscles filling out his polo, his silver hair giving him a distinguished appearance that complemented a sober and disciplined personality.

  “New client?” she asked, using her head to motion toward the parking lot.

  “It seems that way.”

  “He lose his cat or something?”

  “Funny girl. You here to tell me you’re finally going to come work with me?”

  “Funny man,” she retorted, settling into the seat Alex had been in moments before. “What are you doing for him?”

  “He runs a shelter down in Miami. A girl in the neighborhood went missing.” He picked the photo up and turned it toward her. “Two months ago,” he added.

  Ellie glanced at the image. “She’s pretty.”

  “And in a situation like this,” Jet said, “that’s not a good thing.”

  “He’s from Miami? Why didn’t he get a PI from over there?”

  “Already did. Twice. The first guy ended up flying up to New York to work an angle on an existing case and couldn’t give it the time. The second guy couldn’t turn up anything after supposedly working on it for a week. Alex, the man who just left, has a friend in law enforcement over there who told him about me. I’m familiar enough with the area, so it should be a good fit.” There was a Keurig perched on a narrow console table against the wall. Jet pushed away from the desk and walked over to it. He pulled up the lever and removed the old pod, tossed it into a small trash can. “Coffee?”

  “No. Thanks. How’s he affording you if he runs a shelter?”

  “One of his donors didn’t like the idea that the detective assigned to the case was coming up short. As in, nothing but the first name of a guy who hasn’t been seen since.” Jet set a fresh coffee pod into the slot and shut the lever. He pushed the button, and the coffee maker slowly gurgled to life. He turned around and crossed his arms. “That said, you’re really not here to throw in your hat with me?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “But you should know that the winds are blowing stronger in that direction.” She held up her phone. “I need you to look at something. Do you remember my friend who died a couple of weeks ago?

  “Of course. Nick, right?”

  Ellie leaned forward and handed the phone to him. Jet’s reading glasses hung from a thin chain around his neck. He set them on his nose and palmed the phone, frowning deeper the longer he looked at the screen. He read the email several times before handing the device back and removing his glasses.

  “You first,” he said.

  “It helps to explain Nick’s behavior before he died. He was anxious about something. We all brushed it off as stress from a new job. Looking back now, I probably should have known better.”

  The coffee maker stopped. Jet grabbed the mug and returned to his seat. “Any ideas who sent it?”

  She shook her head. “Had to be someone in his broader work circle.”

  “What’s Breakwater?”

  “A local construction company. But I called Nick’s wife. She handled Nick’s books and said he hadn’t done anything for them.”

  Jet drummed his fingers on his desk. “I’m not sure I like the note saying that the police might not be safe.”

  “Me either.”

  “That can only mean a couple of things,” Jet said. “Dirty cops or whoever sent you this doesn’t want any heat coming from the authorities. I assume you need me to look up who and where this Avi Narrano is?”

  “I only have Google available to me these days, and that didn’t return anything I can use. He doesn’t exist on the internet.”

  Jet returned his glasses to his nose and scooted his chair in. He entered his password into his laptop, and Ellie stood and paced the office while she waited.

  “Okay, here,” Jet finally said. The printer hummed behind him. He waited for the paper to spit out and then snatched it up and handed it to Ellie. “That’s the only Avi Narrano I could find within three counties. You’re lucky you weren’t told to go talk with John Smith or Jose Lopez.”

  The printout showed a name with basic information: name, date of birth, and, more importantly, an address in Bonita Springs. “Any work information?” Ellie asked.

  “That’s all I could pull up.” Jet eyed Ellie. “You can’t go get involved with this by yourself. If Nick really was killed, then you have no idea what you’re walking into. I know plenty of good cops I could take this to.”

  “Take what to?” Ellie said. “We have one email from who-knows-who stating an opinion. Besides, you know how police corruption works. The good cops start poking around, and the bad ones catch wind of it.”

  Jet sighed. “Let me go with you.”

  “I can take this step myself. I’m going to someone’s house, and you have the address. If I’m murdered on his front steps, send flowers to my sister.” She held up the printout as she turned toward the door. “Thanks for this.”

  “Ellie.”

  She paused.

  “Be careful.”

  The address Jet provided brought Ellie into a quiet suburban street on the east side of Bonita Springs that sat up against Bird Rookery Swamp. The lots were large, the homes small, and Ellie found the one she was looking for at the back end of a cul-de-sac. The front yard had a slight grade that slanted up toward the front porch. It was full of children’s toys: dart guns, a soccer ball, a tricycle, and a few plastic cups that looked like they had been used to dig in the dirt.

  When she rang the doorbell, Ellie heard a gaggle of children erupt from inside. The front blinds shuffled and parted as a small boy stuck his nose onto the glass and stared at Ellie like he wanted her to break him out. A woman’s commanding voice was cause for the boy’s disappearance, and the blinds returned to normal. The door opened, and a portly Hispanic woman was balancing a baby on her hip. Four small children gathered around her knees and looked expectantly at their guest. The woman looked at Ellie impassively, as if she were anticipating a sales pitch for a new cable or electric service. Gray strands shot through her black hair, and Ellie pegged her for a busy grandmother or a babysitter who was in over her head. She yelled something in Spanish to the children, and they fled back into the house. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” Ellie said. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was wondering if Avi was available.”

  “Avi? No. He’s at work.” Then she snapped at a child who was trying to escape across the threshold. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am. Nothing’s wrong.” On the drive here Ellie had considered the best way to approach the topic. She didn’t know who Avi was, who he worked for, or what kind of work he did. All she knew was that at some point he had crossed professional paths with Nick. “A friend of mine,” Ellie said, “Nick Barlow—he did some work with Avi. He died early last week down in Miami. I was hoping I could ask Avi a few questions about Nick.”

  Her brow creased. “Please wait a minute.” She shut the door. Ellie waited patiently, enduring fresh stares from the hopeful escapee and wishing for both of them that someone would wipe his slimy nose. When the door opened again, the baby was no longer on the woman’s hip but was crawling on the floor behind her, clutching a small bag of potato chips that spilled with each motion. “Avi is my husband. He’s on a job site right now. I told him what you said. He said if you like you can go to the job and talk with him. I am Irene, by the way.”

  “Thank you, Irene. That would be great.” The older lady recited her husband’s location, and Ellie punched it into her phone.


  “You know,” Irene said, “I remember Avi telling me about your friend dying. He had a fall?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Irene smiled kindly. “I am very sorry. Avi said he liked working with your friend. He was upset when he heard that he had died.”

  Ellie thanked her and returned to her truck. She had just started the engine when a bright orange dart slapped the windshield and fell into the road. Ellie caught a glimpse of a small boy hiding behind a bush and reloading his plastic rifle. A little girl wearing only a diaper trotted out the front door and mounted a tricycle, her plump face full of joy.

  If only the world were as simple as dart guns and tricycles, Ellie thought. Irene reappeared in the doorway and barked at the children to come back inside. Ellie gave her a goodbye wave and slowly accelerated down the street.

  Chapter Nine

  Victor Cruz sat in the driver’s seat of his Toyota Tundra and debated whether to get out of the vehicle. He knew it would be easier if he didn’t.

  He watched through the windshield as a dozen children scampered across the playground and haphazardly distributed their time between the swing set, the slides, and the monkey bars. A little girl picked up a handful of pebbles and hurled them toward the slide. She was quickly scolded by her mother and redirected to the swings. A boy who looked to be seven or eight ran up the steps of the slide and flung himself recklessly down it as a playmate chased him earnestly from behind.

  On the far side of the playground was a sandy area where children could dig for replica dinosaur bones. The sand pit was shaded beneath a canvas awning, and several adults stood along on the sidewalk or on nearby benches as they watched their children play.

  Cruz put a stop to the internal debate and exited his truck. The playground was fenced in, designed to contain little balls of human energy. Cruz flipped the gate latch, stepped to the other side, and the gate clattered shut behind him as he made his way to the digging pit.