by R C Cameron
The phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and smiled.
“Hey young girl, how are you?”
“I’m fine, dad, can’t be better.”
“That’s nice, still saving lives in Denver gorgeous?”
“I will not be for the next few days Dad. The hospital owes me vacations and if I don’t take them before the end of March, I will lose them.”
“And what were you planning to do?”
“I was thinking of coming down to Florida and stay with you for five or six days. Do you think it’s possible?”
“Definitely, I am preparing to sail to Miami and Marathon, in the Florida Keys. I am working a case but not full time. You can help me solve it. Father and daughter detective team that would be nice.”
“It sounds great Dad, where shall we meet? Fort Lauderdale?”
“Hum. I am planning to travel to Miami in the morning. When would you arrive?”
“I was planning on leaving the day after tomorrow.”
“Then that would be perfect. Go to Miami International Airport, more choices are available, it will be easier. From there, grab a cab, the Miami Beach marina is 30 minutes away. I will be there waiting for you. Just ring me when you land.”
“Great. I miss you Dad.”
“Me too darling, we’ll have a great time, I hope.”
After ending the call, I was elated. I had not seen Cynthia for quite a while. With my move to Florida, the boat, the PI license, I had been too busy to visit her in Denver.
I returned to my computer. In my search, I found a Facebook page for missing people in South Florida used to communicate unresolved disappearance or the discovery of unidentified bodies. I could post information here to advance my case.
I first got the picture Nadine had provided. I used my phone to make an image I transferred to my Photoshop application. I then isolated Mark from the rest of the group, and I added a neutral background giving me a solo picture of Mark. I would post it on the Facebook page with a short story on his disappearance from Marathon in September last year. Any person with information could get in contact with me through Messenger.
I returned my attention to the police reports to see who the detectives questioned during their probe, other than the Black Cat manager. They talked to employees but few knew of Mark, he replaced only occasionally at the bar. They questioned Nadine and Mark’s neighbors without ever discovering any real information. Nadine told me her brother surfed the beaches of Miami. The police should have questioned people practicing the sport in the area, but no witness fit that description in the police documentation. Nadine’s didn’t mention any surfers in her notes to me. I needed to check out this avenue, I had my work cut out for tomorrow.
(--)
<$Scr_Ps::0>Up early the next morning, I began my search for Mark’s surfing companions. I had hoped the police would have located and interviewed some of them, but as captain Russell said, a limited staff has limited capabilities. Unless a celebrity or a young child disappears, the public shows little concern. Without the media pressure, the authorities dragged their feet on occasions.
While traveling to California once, I observed a group of surfers, all gathered together. The waves were large where they assembled. It was not a surfer every 500 feet spread out, more like every 10 feet, often less. So I needed to discover similar sites where they gathered on the beaches of Miami.
First, I looked into Miami Beach surf shops. I called a sizable group, each time asking where to find the finest surfing locations. I cross-referenced the data with a Google search of the best beaches for surfing in Miami. Several options appeared and my map grew with several possible candidates. I figured Mark would frequent a site close to his apartment. A list of nine such locations now emerged from the lot, all recorded on my portable GPS. I planned to arrive from the sea on my tender, it’s easier to park than by car.
Checking my email, I only had a small note from Hank: “No activity in Illinois”, a dead end.
I published the Facebook page asking my friends to share it to increase the number of people able to offer information on Mark Taylor’s disappearance. You never know. I prepared for a new journey to Miami by resupplying PRIVATE-EYE.
CHAPTER FOUR
AGAIN, I GOT an early start, heading north towards Hillsboro Inlet. The tide was coming into the Intracoastal. I didn’t have to wait for the draw bridge; the clearance is 21 feet here, and I can pass under with ease. I navigated at low speed while studying a half-dozen fishermen trying to catch tonight’s dinner. From the absence of movement on shore, I gathered the fish was not collaborating and pizza night was the alternative.
Once I was out by at least one mile, I set the automatic pilot for Miami Beach then made myself a fresh cup of coffee. After two hours of easy sailing, my phone rang, Detective Freeman on the line.
“Good morning Jason, hope I am not disturbing you?”
“No, I am enjoying a nice cruise down the coast of Florida, headed to your city. As long as I have you, if you are available, why don’t you join me for dinner aboard tonight? Nothing complicated.”
“Maybe I’ll call you back around five o’clock to tell you. Will that work?”
“Sure.”
“Russell asked me to call you. We received the lab reports for the plastic bag you brought in. The lab concludes it’s fentanyl.”
“No shit.”
Fentanyl and the opioid crisis were all over the national news, not just in South Florida. Fentanyl, an opioid used to relieve pain, is at least 50 times more potent than morphine. While it’s available in a medical setting, its bad name comes from illicit usage. Mixed with other drugs, it becomes OxyContin or Xanax sold on the street and consumed as a strong analgesic for chronic pain.
When no time or money is available to fix a medical problem, sometimes it’s easier to take a cheap fake opioid and get a 12-hour relief. Artists like Prince died from an opioid-induced overdose, as have other major names in entertainment. Who would have thought?
“Wayne, I hope you find a few moments to come tonight. It is serious business.”
“I’ll call you later,” and he hung up.
Strange, Russell asked Freeman to reach out to me. Was a little push required to get him to cooperate with my investigation?
Good thing JR is on my side.
With an eye out for traffic out at sea, I powered my laptop while the Internet signal was strong enough. I needed to get up on fentanyl. This twist would complicate my investigation. Cash and drugs together spell bad news. If you translate the situation to a Family Feud trivia question, you would get something like: “Name things you find in a drug dealer’s house.” The top two answers would be drugs and cash. Guns would not be a bad one either. We found most of these items in Taylor’s belongings. Was he a dealer himself?
Research I consulted showed an increase in death rates by overdose because of mixing fentanyl with cocaine. Why would you add a deadly drug into an existing one? Well, it seems the combination makes for a more potent mix, more addictive and so brings in more money into dealer pockets. I also read most of the fentanyl comes directly from China. Was there a link with the Asians in my investigation?
Scanning the news, a story caught my attention. Fentanyl was imported as a finish product from China and through Mexico. The cartels were quick on finding new revenue streams. But although the drug was banned, its basic ingredients were not, or very little. Was I the only one who found this situation a bit ridiculous to say the least?
Around eleven o’clock, Miami Beach was getting closer, so I turned the automatic pilot off and slowly maneuvered my yacht to the Miami Beach marina. With my reservations in order, I slipped into berth H9, bow first needing to unload my dinghy over the stern. My next activity consisted of reaching my first high priority surfer site: South Point Park. Located just off the marina where I stayed a few days ago, this area is an urban park and quite popular with tourists and residents alike. As the name clearly says, it is th
e southern point of the Miami Beach area.
After I lowered the tender and tied it to the transom, I grabbed a small backpack and filled it with my long-range binoculars, portable GPS and Glock 17 sidearm. If I left in an hour, it would put me on the site around 4 pm, an excellent surfing period. In the hope Freeman would join me later, I expedited the dinner preparation. Should he make it, I would return aboard. Otherwise, I would continue my search for Mark Taylor's friends into the evening finishing with a late lunch if needed. Both possibilities worked for me. Still early, I walked to a Total Wine store nearby to replenish my inventory making sure I had a good Bordeaux for tonight.
At around four o’clock, dressed in shorts and a tee shirt with rubber flip-flops, I prepared to leave. With my phone in my back pocket, business cards in the front and my notebook bearing Mark Taylor’s picture in my tee shirt pocket, I was ready. I put on my backpack and got into my tender. Inflated, this tiny boat is V-shape up front with a driving station in the middle, and an outboard motor in the back. The small boat can carry one person in comfort with a little load, or it can transport a second party, but without pleasure.
I pumped gas into the engine, pulled once, twice and that was enough to create the gentle sound of my Honda engine. Fumes told neighbors that a motor was active. I untied the tender, put it in forward gear and slipped out of the marina towards Government Cut which provided access to the Atlantic Ocean. I went around South Point Park Pier and the breakers. The surf beach was on the other side of the rock formation used to secure Biscayne Bay’s entrance.
As I rounded the breakers and performed a one-hundred-and-eighty degrees turn, I saw people in the water, sitting on their boards, dressed in black one-piece swimsuits. A few brave, or poor, surfers only wore regular trunks. In March the water temperature was not collaborating.
I looked for a place to beach my craft and found one, an isolated section where I saw no-one close. I sped up and, at a safe distance from the beach, I shut it off, turned around and lifted the outboard motor’s foot out of the water. I got out and hauled my small boat onto the sand. I removed the key, not wanting anyone to grab it and disappear for a fun ride.
I meandered down the beach, always looking for surfers doing their things. It took tremendous abilities to maneuver a board like they had. When a surfer got out, joined a companion or just took a break on his towel, that was my trigger. I would approach him or her, comment on their physical abilities, and ask them if they knew the man in the picture on my notebook. When someone asked why I wanted this information, I told them the truth. His sister hired me to look for him. I handed them a business card in case they remembered something later.
Nobody recalls seeing Mark at South Point Park, so I moved to my next site, the beach at 3rd Street, just a little way from my initial landing. Heading up north, I used my GPS to give me an idea of the exact location. When you drive around the city, it’s easy to locate 3rd Street. Signs are posted on street corners. From the sea, it’s more complex and my GPS was useful. I found a parking space for my dinghy and questioned the crowd in that area as well. No success there either, nobody knew Mark Taylor the surfer.
As I was about to leave and investigate the beach at 12th Street, my phone rang. Freeman was available tonight and would show up for dinner. I gave him directions to my yacht and headed back to meet him. When I got to my personal watercraft, I noticed one side of the dinghy had collapsed. As I approached closer, I saw a one-inch opening. A knife perforated one of its sides it looked like. Someone did not welcome my being here. I had only talked to a dozen people and already got someone mad at me, so much for making a good first impression.
A small compartment inside my tender held patches and a portable pump. In about 10 minutes, the problem was solved, and I was on my way back.
When Freeman arrived, dinner was almost ready, only the steaks waited for their hot spot on the ship’s grill. Freeman stepped aboard, and I offered him alternate footwear to save my teak floors. I had set up two chairs on the aft deck and he sat in one, at least not my favorite one, so I offered him a drink. He liked beer and I had Blue Moon aboard, so that’s what I brought him, while I fixed myself a dry martini.
In the spirit of exchanging information, I told him I was back in Miami to look for Mark’s surfing buddies. He admitted his squad lacked enough time to research these connexions. I informed him of the attack on my tender and that prompted a long silence. After a few seconds he suggested “Accidental?” I didn’t think so.
It was such a beautiful and warm evening, I moved the dining table outside where we could eat under the stars. I gave Freeman plates to set while I handled the grill. A few minutes later we were enjoying our red meat.
“Wayne, with today’s lab reports, it opens a whole new line of thinking about this case. It’s possible Mark was either buying or selling drugs or even fentanyl.”
“We have no solid evidence yet. Someone else could have left the bag, we have no prints on it. As a curiosity, do you know what we call cocaine or crack pushers in American punk slang?”
“No.”
“A bartender.”
“Well, well,” I said. “Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”
“So what is your plan for the next few days?” Freeman asked.
“I will continue to chase surfers on the beaches from right here.”
“Check the North side, a lot of surfing happens over there too. I will follow up with Homeland Security on the passport question.”
Freeman may not be my favorite person yet, but I found him more enjoyable today.
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll drink to that,” as we raised our wine glasses and watched the sun disappears from the sky.
(--)
The next day, I got up early wanting to catch the surfers in their morning session. I would try to visit as many of the sites I had identified previously. Cynthia was arriving today, so when she called, I would return home and act as the perfect host. My first stop of the day was the beach at 12th Street. I used the same approach as yesterday with one exception: I kept a closer watch on my tender.
During my morning expedition, I questioned at least thirty surfers and was running out of business cards. My watch showed almost noon, and I was hungry, so I returned to the marina. As I approached my berth, I noticed two pairs of eyes on a bench near the docks and looking my way. Probably two friends enjoying the marina views.
As I unlocked the main cabin door and set foot in the salon, my phone rang. I examined the number on the screen, unknown but the 305 area code told me it was a call from this neck of the woods.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Tanner?”
“Yes, this is he. Who is this?”
“I’m Jeff Mason sir, I understand you were at South Point Park yesterday, looking for people with information about Mark Taylor.”
“Yes, I was.” Thanks for calling me.
“A buddy yesterday was talking about you, but I was in the water the whole time, the surf was superb then. When I got out, you had left but my friend gave me your card, and here I am.”
Finally, I was getting a break, maybe.
“Possible we meet today, Jeff? Are you surfing tonight?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I suggest we meet at the South Point Park Peer, I am close by, will that work for you?”
“Fine, around 6:30 maybe, I would give me time for a few runs.”
“Fantastic, I will wear a Chicago Black Hawk hat.”
“Fine, I’ll be in my black wetsuit, as usual.”
“Perfect, see you later.” I created a phone contact using the last number on my screen and I added Jeff’s name.
I picked the peer location for its closeness. It would be a short walk for Jeff, hardly five minutes, fifteen for me, a public park, safe and quiet, nothing would happen there.
After lunch, Cynthia checked in just as her plane landed. I expected she would arrive in less than an hour, so I used the time to clean the guest room where some
stuff had accumulated behind the closed door. This room serves as a storage area when I’m alone, now it would have a real guest. I made it nice by removing and storing the equipment in their rightful lockers, cleaned the floors, it now had a nice aroma and ready for occupation. Her private bathroom checked out as well, everything was in order.
I went upstairs to the flybridge to await Cynthia’s arrival.
The phone rang again, another unknown number from the 305 area code.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Tanner, this is LeBron Jackson from the Miami-Date Police department, I’m Wayne’s partner and I have information for you.”
“Hi, LeBron, nice to talk to you.”
“Same here. I located the place Taylor stayed for those two nights back in September.”
I got my notebook out, “Yes?”
“It’s called Captain Pip’s Marina and Hideaway, the address is 1610 Overseas Highway, the phone number 305-743-3044. It is one of the cheapest motels in the area as you had assumed, he stayed there on September 11 and 12.”
“Excellent LeBron, you did a great job, that will serve us well.”
“Happy to contribute. Captain Russell would like to talk to you when you have a minute.”
“I will call him this afternoon, promised. Thank you again, LeBron.”
I moved to the main salon and got my computer powered up. I searched for Captain Pip’s Hideaway and looked at pictures of the main building, the rooms, the marina. It was all third-rate except for the $165 daily fee for a single room. I could not imagine what the berthing rates would be for my yacht. Other marinas in the area were available, but I preferred staying where Mark had spent a few days.
As I was looking at other images of the region, I heard a car door close and as I looked up, Cynthia was getting out of a white Tesla. I rushed outside and down the docks to greet her and to grab her luggage. I walked to the point of almost running so happy to see her.
“Hey, Dad!”
“Nice to see you, Cynthia, how have you been?”
“Fantastic, look at you now, all trimmed, fit and bronzed. You impress me.”