by Jack Hardin
“Do you remember the names of the new owners?”
“No. I only dealt with one of the project managers. Caleb. But I hear he died of cancer last year. I think Breakwater is pretty small now. Why are you interested?”
Ellie decided to stretch the truth until she knew what she was dealing with. “Nick did some work for them, but I’m not sure they were paying him fairly. His wife is just trying to collect on the final jobs he did.”
Avi nodded as though he understood. “You know,” he said, “if you want to know more about Breakwater, you should go see Barry Corbin. He worked for Garwood for many years. Even for a little while after they became Breakwater.”
“Barry Corbin?” she repeated. The name scratched at the back of her mind like it was trying to escape from a dark room, as though she heard it before. But nothing clicked in place.
“Yes. He left after the company changed owners, but he could probably tell you a lot more than I can.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.”
“You know,” Avi said, “Nick was telling me he was speaking at some breakout sessions at that convention in Miami. It’s really strange what happened to him.”
“Yes,” she said, “it is.” And then she decided to take a step further. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“The day before he died. When I heard what happened it didn’t seem all the way real, you know? I just talked with him the day before.”
“Did he seem different than usual?”
Avi thought about it for a moment. “No. He was very, you know... laid back. That is how Nick always was. I saw him right before lunch, and he seemed fine to me.”
“Did you remember what you talked about?”
“He was telling me how his little girl is starting to learn piano. I told him a couple of things about my grandchildren.” He shrugged. “I think that was all.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Do you know where Breakwater’s offices are?”
“No. They moved from their old place in Cape Coral. I don’t know where to. Like I said, they’re pretty small now. I was not sure they were even still in business.”
“Can I give you my number?” she asked. “If you hear of anything about Breakwater, would you mind calling me?”
“Sure.”
By the time Ellie drove out of the office complex, she had already decided to wait and speak with Barry Corbin before sending back a reply to the email. She didn’t like the idea of being someone's gopher, someone’s private snoop, especially for one who wasn’t willing to reveal anything about themselves. They might have a good reason for staying in the shadows, but since she didn’t know what that reason was, it held no weight with her. Waiting until after she spoke with Barry would at least keep her a step ahead.
Right where she wanted to be.
Chapter Eleven
Tyler’s stilt house sat on three acres, north of Burnt Store, just south of Charlotte Harbor Preserve. Ellie turned her truck off Acapulco Road onto a pea-pebble driveway, which curved a path through thick growth on either side before bringing visitors to a wide, open area where the house was perched. The yard was full of wild grasses that Tyler kept mowed down, and his back yard sat on the edge of a marsh that overlooked Gasparilla Sound and the Gulf of Mexico beyond. A narrow dock started at the end of the yard and ran ten yards into the marsh. And because it belonged to Tyler, there was no boat in sight. When he purchased the house two years ago, it had a small front porch at the top of the stairs with barely enough room to fit a couple of outdoor chairs. He had quickly rectified that by spending the next couple of months adding a wrap-around porch to the entire house, with a shingled roof over the rear section.
Citrus, Ellie’s exuberant Jack Russell, was on the passenger seat with his paws on the side of the door, whining excitedly as though he had just arrived in heaven. Ellie turned off the truck and was in the process of telling her dog to wait a moment when he leaped past her face and over the steering wheel. He misjudged his landing point, and his chin whacked the side of the door on his way down, flipping him so he landed on his head, his rear end following after. He stood up slowly, sat, and stared quizzically at the gravel. Ellie got out, and when she shut the door to the truck, Citrus startled and looked up at her, dazed.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m your owner. Remember me? I was trying to tell you to wait.”
He pawed at his nose and whined. A pelican drifted low overhead, and the dog’s stupor suddenly vanished. Citrus’s head snapped up, and he yipped at the bird as it glided toward the salt marsh. His ears perked, and he darted toward the water, onto the dock, and, like a defective windsurfer, belly flopped into the water.
Ellie took the front steps to the top, where a wood-stock Ruger 10/22 was leaning against the porch rail. As she pulled open the wood-framed screen door, its rusted spring protested loudly. It was, she had decided long ago, one of her favorite sounds in the world. You could hear the sound of a screen door creaking open and slapping shut just about anywhere and feel like you had just come home.
The inside boasted an open floor plan with no walls to separate the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room. Large casement windows provided a nearly 360-degree view of the surrounding forest, marshes, and Gasparilla Sound. She could see Tyler on the back porch, leaning up against the rail, and she made her way across the tile floors and joined him.
He had an old coffee can in his left hand. It was full of pebbles, and he was picking them out one by one, tossing them lazily over the rail where they landed at the edge of the yard and bounced to the waterline. Citrus was still swimming happily in the marsh.
“Hey,” Tyler said. “Your dog didn’t ask if he could swim in my pool.”
“From the looks of it, you haven't cleaned it in a while.”
“I guess it’ll be all right then.”
Leaving the can on the railing, Tyler stepped over to a compact refrigerator sitting next to a wicker couch and withdrew a beer while Ellie settled into a cushion. He picked up his bottle opener—a customized .50 caliber brass casing with a tapered cut in the side—and popped the top. He handed the bottle to Ellie, but not before he leaned across and gave her a prolonged kiss. Ellie closed her eyes, relishing the warmth of his mouth on hers.
He smiled after they pulled away. “I needed that,” he said, then leaned down and grabbed an open beer sitting near his feet.
“Me too.” Ellie tucked her feet beneath her and for the first time tonight noticed Tyler’s hair. “You get a haircut?”
“Yeah.” He looked up and ran a hand across his head. “Gail usually cuts it, but she was out this week. I figured I’d go ahead though since, you know, some people thought I looked like I was in a boy band. You like it?”
It was uneven on top, and the sides didn’t seem to blend well. “What was the name of the girl who cut it this time?”
“Fran. Why?”
“Is Fran blind?”
“What?”
Ellie pursed her lips together. “Maybe you should just find your hat.”
“Whatever. I’ll bet my mama would like it.”
Ellie looked at the bottle’s label. “What’s this one?”
“That…is an IPA from a cool little microbrewery in Bradenton.”
She took a slow pull and savored the taste of bitter hops mingled with hints of orange. “I like it.” Out in front of them, a blue heron swooped down and landed gracefully at the edge of the marsh. Ellie loved it out here. She felt like she was on the edge of the earth. Dusk was beginning to set in, the sun hovering over the horizon, preparing to dissolve into the ocean as it continued its eternal dance with the darkness. Palmettos rustled against the side of the house, and the sea grasses bent and bowed in the marsh, obeying the wind. “Hey, what’s the .22 doing on your front porch?” she asked.
“Some wild hogs ran through here before I left for work this morning. I waited for them so I could get in a few headshots, but they never did circle back. I set it back out after I got ho
me.” He laid his empty bottle on the deck at his feet. “I was talking to Tiffany earlier today,” he said. “She’s not doing so great.”
“Yeah,” Ellie said quietly.
“Hell, I’m not either,” he said, and then sighed deeply. “I hate this. Tiff’s going to have to start over, and Nick won’t ever get to see his daughter grow up and get married. What the hell happened?”
Ellie ran her thumbnail across the label of her bottle. After receiving the cryptic email about Nick earlier today, she spent a fair amount of time debating with herself whether to tell Tyler about it. Tiffany too, for that matter. Tyler would worry about Ellie getting involved, and Tiffany would understandably want to inform the police. The looming roadblock was that Ellie had been told not to go to the police. And yet she had nothing substantial to go on. Nothing but an invisible hand conveying an opinion about Nick’s fate.
Citrus was still below them, now sprawled out in the yard and convulsing back and forth as he scratched his back against the tough grass. On the edge of the property, a cluster of saw palmetto rustled, and three wild hogs emerged, their confident heads raised high. They were small for hogs, but more than twice the size of Ellie’s dog. They pranced proudly through the yard. Ellie stood up to warn Citrus, but Tyler rose up and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Just hold on,” he whispered. “They won’t hurt him. He’s too fast.”
The hogs snorted as they neared Citrus, but the dog remained oblivious while they sniffed around him. Suddenly, his little eyes flicked open, and like some invisible cook had slipped a spatula beneath him, he flipped into the air, all four paws clearing the three-foot mark.
Ellie and Tyler laughed as they watched Citrus’s ears flatten on his head and his tail shoot between his legs as a black hog started chasing him across the yard.
“Go get your gun off the front porch,” she said.
“No way. This is a lot more fun.”
She smiled. “Yeah.”
Citrus streaked toward the property line and disappeared into the woods. The hogs followed, and Ellie reached out and grabbed Tyler’s forearm when she heard a yelp from the brush. “He’s fine,” he said. “Just wait.” Sure enough, a few seconds later Citrus shot back into the yard like his tail was on fire and disappeared around the house.
They heard a fast, methodical thumping coming from the front steps that softened as it moved to the side porch. Citrus appeared and trotted over to his owner, his troubled face conveying the full range of his emotional trauma. He shot a few nervous glances behind him to ensure he hadn’t been followed.
“Hey, little guy,” Tyler said. “What’s the word?” Citrus looked up at Tyler like he knew Tyler could have done something to stop the terrorists, but didn't. The dog jumped into one of the two empty wicker chairs and settled in, still eyeing Tyler with an irritated suspicion. The two humans returned to the couch and watched as the hogs reappeared, sniffed around a while, and then finally left for good.
“Tell me something about Nick,” Ellie finally said.
“What about him?”
“Anything.”
Tyler grabbed a fresh beer from the refrigerator, rid the bottle of the cap, and leaned back against the cushion. “You have a bet with someone to make a grown man cry?”
“He was your best friend. And you’re not talking about him being gone.”
Now it was Tyler’s turn to fidget with the label. “That’s because I can’t, Ellie. You know, I almost called him this morning to tell him to come by Saturday and help me rotate the tires on my truck.”
“I’m sorry, Tyler.”
He sighed deeply but took up her request. “Nick was probably the most generous person I’ve ever met. He would work weekends to remodel some old lady’s kitchen at no cost or buy his neighbor new tires for his car after the guy lost his job. Everybody loved him. The only person he couldn’t get along with was his own brother. And that wasn’t his fault.”
Nick’s parents had passed several years ago. Ellie met his younger sister at the funeral last week. If the brother had been there, she’d completely missed it. “I guess I didn’t know he had a brother.”
“Yeah. Nate. But they hadn’t spoken in, I don’t know, a decade? They didn’t get along as adults. Nate grew up to be a pile of dog crap and moved up north somewhere. Anyway, Nick was just different. He saw people; he noticed when they were struggling or when they weren’t quite right.” Tyler took a final pull on his beer, draining it in four solid gulps. “When my girlfriend broke up with me the night before I left for college, Nick heard about it and showed up at my place with a six pack of Dr. Pepper and a VHS copy of Top Gun. He never said anything about it, just tossed me a can before turning on the VCR and starting the movie.”
The back porch was quiet for a while, Tyler thinking about his friend, Ellie hurting for him and trying not to think about how a VCR made her feel older than she really was.
“I stopped by Tiffany’s earlier,” Ellie said. “She’s a tough girl. But I can’t imagine.”
“Me neither. When I went by yesterday, Kayla was at the kitchen table drawing a picture of her and Nick together. They were holding hands.” Tyler wiped at the fresh moisture in his eyes. “She handed me the picture and said she hoped Daddy would be home soon. She still doesn’t get it. Doesn’t matter what Tiff tells her.” He shook his head angrily. “It feels like I’ve fallen down a gopher hole. Everything just seems upside down right now.”
Ellie couldn’t think of an adequate response. Nothing but trite clichés. It’s going to be okay. They’ll get through this. Just give it time. So she didn’t say anything, just reached over and slipped her fingers between his.
They sat in silence for the next quarter hour, watching the sunset, both grieving the loss of a friend and hurting for the wife and daughter he left behind. Ellie could feel a resolve hardening within her. A resolve to find out what really did happen to Nick. Tyler suddenly stood up and grabbed his empty bottle by the neck, then whipped it sidearm toward the water. It tumbled through the yard before splashing at the water’s edge. “I’ll get that in the morning,” he said. “But tonight I need to be angry.”
Ellie stared into the late evening sky, where heat lightning flashed high over the Gulf’s horizon, looking as if heaven itself was shorting out. Just beyond, orange-streaked clouds laced with strands of purple mingled with vibrant and darkening colors against the graying light of dusk.
Like a bruise.
Chapter Twelve
Jet made a mental note to fill his gas tank before making the return trip. He pulled his Nissan Maxima into an oil-slicked parking space and grabbed his phone from the center console before stepping out into an afternoon sun that seemed intent on proving global warming. The drive across the Everglades from Pine Island to Miami had taken nearly three hours. It felt good to finally stretch his long legs. He locked the car and stepped to the sidewalk. Hope House’s cinder block walls were painted a bright, fresh yellow that reflected the energetic color scheme found throughout most of West Hialeah. The front yard of the building was landscaped with pebbles in the place of grass, and a bike rack stood just off the wall with a half-dozen bikes cluttered around it. All of them were secured with a lock of some kind.
There were well kept and proud areas of West Hialeah, but the shelter was nestled into a section of town that looked as though not a single taxpayer dollar had been spent on improvements in three decades. Paint was peeling off buildings like old skin. Forsaken telephone poles leaned at dangerous angles, and the sun-bleached asphalt of W 37th was full of neglected potholes and contained more fissures than Mick Jagger’s face.
Across the street sat a small wood-framed church, the Iglesia Metodista, whose decrepit marquee sign was missing several letters that at some point in the past had been part of a message inviting all to come for Sunday School at 9am. Doughnuts would be provided. A ‘For Sale’ sign tilted lazily in the overgrown grass, and an unpainted sheet of plywood was screwed into the door frame to prevent tresp
assers. All the windows were broken out.
Down from the church was a strip center with narrow shotgun shops: a laundromat, a hair salon, and beyond that a Cuban eatery whose sidewalk sign boasted the best empanadas in Miami. Jet had half a mind to walk down there and try a couple when he was done here. The hole-in-the-wall restaurants always had the best food, provided you didn’t get food poisoning.
Jet stepped beneath an elongated awning covering the sidewalk. It led to the double-glass doors at the front. Entire sections of the walkway had been scribbled upon with permanent marker:
I love Hope House - Renaldo
Thank you for helping me read, Mr. Alex - Diego
H H makes me happy - Rita
You saved my life - MC
By Jet’s estimation, there were over a hundred of these little notes of gratitude. Perhaps more. He pulled the front door open and stepped inside. The noise level was acute. The din of excited conversation, laughter, and competitive insults echoed off tiled floors and concrete walls. The front area, roughly the size of a tennis court, was entirely open with no walls to section off groups or their activities. Nearly two dozen children were in various stages of play. At the far side of the room, two boys stood at one end of a ping pong table, waiting for a solitary girl on the other side of the net to serve the ball. Next to them, a cluster of children was gathered around a foosball table, loudly cheering for the player of their choice with all the fervor of a crowd at the World Cup finals. A group of pre-adolescent boys was huddled in front of a television clasping Xbox controllers, selecting their next play on Madden.
Aluminum picnic tables lined one wall and terminated at a large opening that led back into a kitchen. There was no receptionist’s desk, no counter where you could readily identify yourself and state the purpose of your visit.