The Missing Taylor

by R C Cameron

  William is still in good shape. He is average height with bronze skin, white hair, green eyes and stuck-out-ears.

  I had a great time aboard, and he shared his knowledge of fishing the sea around Miami. He showed me where to fish, how to bait and the ideal depth to fish. We caught a dozen species but returned most to the sea except those we could eat in the days ahead.

  We returned to port late afternoon. I helped him tidy his ship and wash it clean from salt water. I invited him to come aboard PRIVATE EYE and have dinner with me. We both would appreciate a fresh baked grouper, and he accepted.

  My yacht fascinated him even though it’s about the same dimensions as his. The contrast is age. His ship is over 30 years old, mine onto its first year. Technology allows small refrigerators, grill oven, showers, large windows and much more.

  As the grouper cooked in the oven, I prepared a martini which he accepted graciously. He asked questions about my years in the FBI, my family and my current occupation. He still showed curiosity given his age.

  It was a great day, and I enjoyed every minute. When William left around 9 pm, he shook my hand, wishing we could meet again. Possible, I told him, South Florida was now my permanent home. On Sunday, I took a tour of the city of Miami since I had some free time. I visited the Seaquarium and took in the feeling of South Beach.

  (--)

  At 10 am sharp on Monday morning, at the corner of South West 72nd Street and South Dixie Highway in Miami, Nadine was walking down the street in my direction. She had discarded the business suit she wore during our initial meeting for a more relax jeans with tank tops and flip-flops. She walked rapidly, with her purse on her shoulder. I had arrived somewhat earlier, not knowing what the Miami traffic was like. I grabbed a Starbuck coffee on my way and sat on nearby stairs while waiting close to the First National Bank of Miami.

  “Good morning,” she said with a large smile extending her arm. She looked in a better mood than during our initial encounter.

  “Good morning Nadine. You look fine on this beautiful South Florida day.”

  She smiled again.

  "I love this area Mister Tanner. Knowing you're a latecomer to the region, I trust you will love it too."

  I reviewed the reason for being here and explained, to the best of my knowledge, how our visit would proceed. As a joint renter of the safety box, she has access to its content. She needed to sign the registry, and they would grant her access. I would be a simple observer. I handed her the key recuperated from Mark’s storage locker.

  We entered the bank and proceeded to the service counter where Nadine asked to gain access to her safety box. She did not know the number, but she was a joint renter. The box was also in her brother’s name, Mark Taylor. We waited while the personnel performed the necessary verifications.

  After checking her credentials, we passed behind the service counter and descended to the basement. The vault was directly ahead of the stairs. Following our guide, we entered and moved to a wall full of safety boxes of varying sizes. Our guide inserted his personal key into the one numbered 256, and Nadine did the same. The door opened revealing a metallic box which our guide pulled out. He asked that we follow him into another room where they provided private areas for owners to manipulate their boxe’s content. The guide exited the room and waited just outside, giving us some privacy.

  I lifted the metallic cover, revealing a brown envelope on top, with other papers in the bottom. I grabbed the open-ended envelope. Inside, a stack of money materialized. I extracted it and aligned bills on the table. A quick count gave me close to sixty thousand dollars. I examined the rest of the papers in the box, and they appeared to be life insurance documents naming Nadine as the beneficiary. I wondered who keeps that amount of money in their safety box? A few rich people maybe, but Mark wasn’t rich as far as I knew. Something wasn’t adding up.

  I turned to Nadine and her eyes told me she was expecting a question.

  “How did Mark get his hands on close to sixty thousand dollars as a replacement bartender? That’s a lot of tips.”

  (--)

  I contacted Wayne Freeman, the lead detective on the Taylor investigation from the Miami-Date police before I left for the bank this morning. We agreed to meet at the Melting Pot again, around 4:00 PM, hoping to beat the traffic when returning to the Marina and to enjoy the rest of the day. I told Wayne I would sit at the bar, just ask the barman to point me to him.

  He was right on time and I appreciated this virtue, too often neglected. We moved to a booth when he arrived, to get some privacy. He had a blue suit with the ugliest yellow tie. He would be easy to pick out in a lineup. Freeman set a brown envelope which appeared full on the table between the two of us as if delivering a package. I thought for a second he would ask for a signature. He lips pressed together, he looked furtively at me. I understood the message: he was irritated because his superiors passed the baton to an outsider.

  I needed his support, his cooperation, not his bad mood. Smiling, I rehearsed my speech in my mind and when I was ready; I looked into his eyes.

  “Sit down Wayne, thank you so much for making time to see me. It’s nice to meet you in person.”

  He sat down and crossed his arms. Not one word yet, his features remained tight. I intercepted our server to get Freeman a beer. Maybe that would loose him up.

  “I understand you guys did a top-notch investigation in the Mark Taylor file. His family has only good words for the police department, and the work you did. John Russell also appreciated your efforts, he mentioned it a few times when I met him. You have been unlucky so far that’s something that can happen in the best-run investigations.”

  I stopped, waiting for a reply. Silence greeted my introduction, so I continued.

  “The family asked I look into Mark’s whereabouts. I’m not here to replace you but add to your team. You guys are busy surely, I enjoy some available time and I intend to continue the investigation with your help if you don’t mind.”

  He shook his head in approbation, the first positive sign so far. JR must have prepared him before.

  “Your buddy could not come?” I asked.

  He replied, “No, his kid had a soccer match tonight.”

  At that moment, Freeman’s beer arrived, that seemed to please him.

  “OK, let me share new information with you then. Today, I visited the First National Bank of Miami branch on Federal where Mark owns a safe deposit box.”

  He moved forward, curious to hear the rest. He may not have known this information yet. It wasn’t surprising, by a fluke I discovered a set of keys and noticed the particular form of the safety deposit key.

  “We found around sixty thousand dollars in cold hard cash in there. Not a bartender’s earnings.”

  “No kidding, that’s a surprise,” he added.

  “He hid the key in his personal effects, almost impossible to find. That discovery may throw new light on his disappearance. Any idea how he would have gotten his hands on such a stack of cash?”

  “No, we know he worked professional contracts in the technology sector in the past but they wouldn’t pay him cash,” he suggested.

  “Drug dealing, maybe?” I offered.

  “It’s possible at this stage, but my partner and I verified with the narcotics division. He’s not on their radar, never has been.”

  If Mark wanted to disappear, no doubt he would have brought money with him and especially cold hard currency. If it was still in the bank, it’s because he didn’t have access to it. Why? That I didn’t know yet.

  “We didn’t find a passport either, so I asked Russell to look into it. Where are we with our demand to Homeland Security?” I asked.

  “Sent yesterday, we’re awaiting a response, Jason.”

  Jason? he was now on a first name basis.

  “OK, case information?”

  “You have the full documentation in the envelope right in front of you.”

  “The plastic bag analysis?”

 
“In the works, I expect the lab to send us results in a few days.”

  “Excellent, Wayne, we’ll be a great team.”

  We continued our discussion for another fifteen minutes before I excused myself; I had to return. We exchanged business cards for future contacts, and I left the bar, a package under my arm.

  I got back to my yacht, and advised the local harbormaster I would stay an extra day, because of the thickness of the file handed me tonight. After dinner, I brought my cup of tea to the aft deck and examined the case data.

  A lot of paperwork resulted from police activities. If you sneezed, a form existed for that. I read through a good part of the paperwork that evening. Police reports contain the detective’s notes after meeting a witness during the case. Occasionally, the police will ask for a formal statement. Nadine, the neighbor and the Black Cat manager all gave statements, the strict minimum I reflected. I read them carefully, but nothing special stood out. I went to sleep with the doubts about the police investigation’s intensity. The file was thick, but the results pretty thin.

  (--)

  The next morning, I untangled the trawler and headed to my home marina, adopting the Intercostal Waterway all the way back. The route is slower because of “no wake” zones here and there but it’s a fun ride.

  I cruised up to Pompano at around 10 knots when the procedures allowed it. On a sweltering day, the breeze generated by my forward progression was more than welcome. Once I secured the boat and attached the power cord, I turned the air conditioning which was a nice option on the trawler as the absence of wind heated the interior today.

  I installed my laptop on the salon table along with the heavy police file when my phone buzzed. Hank Hackman’s face showed up on my display.

  “Hank, I expect you have great news for me.”

  “I did find some information. Let me go down the list. First, on the judicial front, Mark Taylor has no arrest nor criminal history, at least at the federal level and in Florida. I did not examine all the states.”

  “He comes from Illinois, look over there if you can.”

  “OK, regarding his finances, I found affairs at the First National Bank of Miami where Taylor kept a simple checking account. It shows just a few operations, used to manage his living expenses such as phone bills, rent, and other small stuff. Payroll deposits appear inconsistent, some months there are none. I will forward you the documents by email Mister Tanner.”

  “Great, anything else?”

  “Yes, your guy has two credit cards according to his Equifax profile. I peeked at a 12-month period as you asked and looked at his transactions. The last ones originated from Marathon, in the Florida Keys.”

  “Fascinating, on what dates?”

  “September 11 and 12.”

  “Just around the period he disappeared, excellent Hank, send me the data as promptly as you can.”

  “It’s on its way, thanks.”

  I hung up the phone and got my investigative logic going. Mark made transactions on the 11th and 12th of September. His sister tried to reach him on the 13th, to no avail. And he did not answer a few days later. It’s possible something happened to him after September 12th if he’s the one using the credit cards. It is common to see a victim’s credentials used, often by the murderer himself.

  My laptop sounded the new email melody shortly after. Hank was on time again.

  I examined the transactions with interest. A charge of $12 appeared on September 11 at Barnacle Barney’s Tiki bar and Grill, the day after, $52, same place

  I grabbed my phone and called Nadine, I had a few concerns.

  “Nadine, sorry to bother you, but I have a quick question. Did your brother have friends in Marathon or did he go there occasionally?”

  Short hesitation, then: “I don’t think so, why?”

  “I received information Mark used his credit card two days in September, just before his disappearance. I want to understand why he traveled to Marathon, any girlfriends in the area?”

  “I don’t know, sorry.”

  “Another puzzle to resolve is why he left his car at the apartment.”

  “A surfing expedition maybe, a bunch of friends get together, pack a minivan with their boards and head to the beaches?”

  “Possible, thanks, Nadine.” And I hung up.

  Could surfing the seas around the Keys be a possibility? And then an accident? Which nobody noticed? Unlikely.

  I made some more calls to surf shops to discover Marathon was not the Mecca for surfers. The keys configuration just did not produce the large waves surfers crave for. All the folks I talked to offered better alternatives. A few searches on the Internet allowed me to conclude Marathon was a fishing capital, not a unique surfing opportunity. I doubted Nadine’s hunch would materialize.

  I pulled the police file out of the large envelope and dug in for a report in particular. The detectives had questioned someone at the Black Cat bar. There, I found it. Freeman interviewed the manager, Jorge Garcia, on September 20th, some 48 hours after Nadine first reported her brother missing, not quite an example of immediacy.

  I read the document, they called Mark late afternoon when the regular barman complained of having laryngitis. It was not the only time Mark had replaced someone last minute. The manager trusted him, so he called him first. He was available and arrived at the bar around 7 pm. The manager didn’t noticed anything strange, it was a typically busy night at the Black Cat.

  Jackson, Freeman’s partner found a few regulars at the bar who were present the previous week. On Friday night, one of them did notice two individuals seated at the bar. Mark talked to them occasionally, a common duty of a bartender. The unusual thing is when Mark ended his shift at midnight, he then left with the same two guys, Asians he specified. The bar manager could not confirm this statement when questioned again.

  Old friends, new ones, acquaintances, partners, what were these two Asian guys to Mark Taylor?

  I got up and pulled an opened bottle of white wine from the ship’s refrigerator which I brought to the table. My back was hurting again and I reached for my pain medication. With only a few tablets left, I needed to refill soon but examining the label noticed I required a brand new prescription. With Dr. Ferguson retired and three postponements of my pain management meetings already, I was running out of options.

  Would I rely on the street to get my drugs after all these years in law enforcement?

  I parked my thought temporarily and picked up my phone and searched for Detective Freeman’s number from his business card.

  “Wayne? Jason Tanner. How are you?”

  “Fine. Are you still in Miami?”

  “No, back in Pompano, it’s as warm as Miami.”

  “Not a surprise. What can I do for you?”

  “I read in your report the interview with the Black Cat manager and other bar regulars. Someone stated that Mark left with two gentlemen of Asian descent. Were you able to trace these guys?”

  “No, we did not. We examined the night’s billing report, they paid cash. The manager didn’t know them, only that one witness who saw them leave, we had no other leads.”

  “I see and it’s understandable. But I believe Mark may have spent a few days in Marathon after his shift at the Black Cat.”

  “And how do you know?”

  “Don’t ask. But it’s reliable.”

  “OK, I won’t.”

  He would have found out the same information if he dug a bit more.

  “Mark spent time at Barnacle Barney, a bar in Marathon, on both Saturday and Sunday evening. I suspect he must have slept in a motel, not on a park bench. Now you guys have more leverage than I have, could you call around Marathon and look for a motel or hotel near Barnacle Barney? See if you can find Mark on the 10th, 11th or 12th day of September. Begin with the cheapest places. He would not splurge three hundred dollars a night.”

  “I’ll get my partner to do this and get back to you.”

  “Thank you for the continuing
effort, Wayne. Did you receive any news from the Homeland Security people?”

  “No, and nothing from the lab either. As soon as I know, I’ll call you.”

  “OK, thanks, Wayne.”

  I moved outside to my favorite chair with my glass of wine, trying to arrange my thoughts and speculate on what could have happened to Mark Taylor.

  Mark, a solitary man, not married, no steady girlfriend with a temporary replacement job as a bartender meets two individuals while working and leaves with them. He drives his car back to his apartment and hops with the two guys, direction Marathon, I speculate. What for? Not to surf, he left his board in Miami. A temporary bartending gig? Maybe. More likely it’s to meet someone over there, otherwise, they could have talked right here in Miami and save a three-hour drive. But who would they be seeing?

  And if he attended a mysterious meeting, what went wrong in order for Mark to disappear from the face of the earth?

  Another thought crossed my mind. Why didn’t the detectives issue a common subpoena to access Taylor’s credit card transactions? I received the information using my own source but the police had a simple process to get at it in a legitimate way. Why would they not examine this avenue? Were they just lazy or they didn’t want to shake the branches too much and risk something to fall?

  I moved back inside to see about getting dinner ready. In the afternoon, I had walked to my Publix market and purchased a complete red snapper. I prepared it and brought to the Rusty Hook Tavern cuisine where my new buddy Jeff was manning the stoves. The restaurant is just off the marina.

  “Jeff, can I deposit my red snapper filet on your fire?”

  “Be my guest Jason, use space over here,” as he pointed to a free area on his dual grill. It was nice to be a friend of the chef. “But have dinner inside once in a while.” He added with a smirk.

  After an excellent dinner while I watched the news, I started up my web browser to explore Marathon and its hotels, restaurants, bars, marina, the information I needed should I sail over there.