The Missing Taylor

by R C Cameron

  “The tan is not mine, a greater authority controls it. I should put more protection. But I have no one on my case now.”

  “I’ll try to give you better life manners while I’m here.”

  I grabbed her backpack and walked towards the dock and her new residence for the next few days. “You sure travel lite,” I said.

  “Shorts, T-shirt, swimsuits, how heavy can that be?”

  “You have a point there, young lady,” as we neared our floating home.

  “So this is your new toy. It looks wonderful, wow. Give me the official visit, will you?”

  We spent the next twenty minutes touring the yacht. She had pertinent questions such as why a trawler; for fuel economy, a single engine, easy maintenance. She appreciated the reasonable size but still large enough for a comfortable living. Small for a two-person setup but for me, it was perfect. I could control and man the ship solo.

  We proceeded to the flybridge and talked for over an hour under the roof protecting us from the setting sun but still savoring the warm climate.

  My 6:30 meeting was coming up, I told Cynthia. She should look around the galley for the pasta dish I had prepared for tonight. I stepped into my cabin and got the Chicago Black Hawk hat, told Cynthia that I would be back around 7:00 and strolled towards my rendezvous. I gazed at my watch, 6:15, I should be there just in time. The maritime traffic around Biscayne Bay is important with both small and large vessels, coming and going. As I approached the meeting place, I looked for a man wearing a black wetsuit. I saw only one standing around, and I marched right towards him.

  “Jeff?”

  “Yes, Mr. Tanner?”

  “Glad to meet you, let’s sit here,” as I showed a bench close by.

  “Jeff, thanks for contacting me, I appreciate it. The Taylor family hired me to locate Mark. I understand he loved surfing, and I hoped some of his comrades may have knowledge on his whereabouts. You knew Mark I assume.”

  “Yes, I did. I met Mark when he first joined our little brotherhood of surfers, two years ago. He would come around in the morning and late afternoon.”

  “He had plenty of time thus.”

  “Yes, we worked nights mostly. On occasions, he had a full-time job lasting barely a month or two.”

  “And you got to befriend Mark?”

  “I did. I work in a large engineering firm, and I struggle to find time to surf. But not Mark. He never had this problem as he only worked part-time. It always amazed me how he could manage, but he did. Money was not a problem, he earned just enough I guess.”

  “Are you aware what he did for a living?”

  “He told me he worked in nightclubs, as a replacement bartender. He also said he did contractual work on occasions. And I understand his dad has plenty of money.”

  “Did you guys meet at other places than the beach?”

  “Sometimes we had a drink in a small bar close by after surfing.”

  “Are you aware of any girlfriend?” I asked.

  “No, he was a solitary guy. He met women at bars sometimes but they were for one night only, never longer.”

  “What where his favorite subjects, do you remember?”

  “We talked a lot about sports, that’s for sure. His other interest was surfing. He also enjoyed reading about federal politics, especially our strange president.”

  “Interesting, do you know if he was into drugs? Did he talk about that?”

  “I have no reasons to believe he was into drugs, Mister Tanner. I never observed him use. But something is strange, he talked about some places he worked where drugs were being distributed almost freely. He saw people with no education make thousands of dollars by delivering a bag of pills. He worked hours before making that kind of money.”

  “Do you know what places he was referring to?”

  “No, I think he talked about bars in general, at least those he worked at.”

  “Hum, I need to ask, do you know anyone who would want to see him dead?” I had to ask.

  Jeff looked at me and said: “Dead? Do you think it’s possible?”

  “It is Jeff, he vanished over six months already.”

  After a brief pause, he said he did not know of anybody that hated Mark and thus could see no reasons to harm him. I inquired if Mark had other friends and he had a few people to suggest, so I noted their name and phone numbers. I thanked him and he left towards the beach area while I completed my notes on the bench.

  (--)

  I got up, walked towards my boat where Cynthia was waiting aboard for our first dinner in ages. The peer sector is quite nice, surrounded by trees and bushes planted by the city making it a pleasant, peaceful zone. I noticed few people walking around the area and I wondered why; it was so beautiful here.

  Lost in my thoughts, someone hit me behind the head by what I figured must have been the biggest baseball bat in the world. I closed my eyes in pain, fell to my knees, lost consciousness.

  When I woke up, Cynthia was next to me and I heard sirens in the backdrop.

  “Don’t move, you may have a concussion,” as an experienced registered nurse would suspect.

  I move onto my backside, knowing right away that was an ill idea. As soon as I rested my head on the ground, my once terrible headache pulsed again. Because of the grimace I made, Cynthia put something underneath my neck so my head rested on something other than the hard cement pathway, a welcomed idea.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I don't know, Dad,” she answered. “You were late and I was getting anxious so I walked towards the point, following your steps. In the distance, I could see a group of people gathered around. When I arrived, I found you here, unconscious. Someone had already called 911. The ambulance arrived shortly after. Stay calm.”

  Easy for you to say kiddo, I thought. I touched the back of my head. It was wet with a large lump already pulsing. When I brought my hand back, I could see plenty of blood on it. The paramedics arrived, moved me onto a stretcher and into the nearest hospital while Cynthia was holding my hand.

  A dozen sutures and a few painkillers later, I was better, while still earring a buzz between my ears. Without surprise, the doctor told me I should stay overnight. I answered I had a personal nurse handling my case. He looked at Cynthia, smiled and signed my release papers.

  We arrived on PRIVATE-EYE around 10 pm with our stomach crying for food. Cynthia moved to the galley getting the pasta going to relieve our appetite.

  “You must have a theory of what happened, don’t you?” she said.

  “Not sure. Well, let me rephrase that. I have been asking around about Mark Taylor all over the beaches of Miami. Someone I questioned, did not appreciate.”

  “You suppose, dad?”

  “Not too many options, dear. Someone mugged me and my wallet is still in my back pocket. My Timex is on my wrist. What else could it be?”

  “A message but which one?”

  “It’s clear. Return to where you came from, stay away from this Mark Taylor investigation. We don't need you snooping around here.”

  Bad guys react when you are getting closer to them and the truth. But in my case, I was getting closer to what? I was clueless so far.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WITH A FEW painkillers, I enjoyed a fair night in my boat's comfortable bed. Cynthia endured the guest room's small bunk. All the windows were opened and a cool breeze with rolling waves transported us both in a deep sleep.

  Up before sunrise, I started the coffeemaker. At the central table, I reviewed my notes again while planning my day’s activities. First, I needed to talk to JR; I forgot calling him yesterday. Next, I would reach out to Mark’s friends as Jeff Mason had suggested. We also had to prepare our excursion to Marathon. When Cynthia got up, she reached for the coffee machine, ate a few fruits and went outside for her morning run, saying she would return in an hour. I told her to beware of South Point Park peer. She smiled, marched onto the dock, stretched, and jogged as soon as she reached the shore.
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br />   I cleaned the galley from yesterday and prepared for a more hardy breakfast upon her return. When I opened the guest room's door to tidy up, I faced pieces of clothing everywhere; so I closed it. I kept looking at my watch to call John early once he made it in the office. Marathon was a six-hour journey at my usual cruising speed. If I wanted to get there before dark, I needed to start no later than one o’clock giving me the morning hours to handle a few looses ends.

  At 8:01, I placed a call to John Russell who answered at once.

  “JR, sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. I was busy and around dinner time, when I could have spoken with you, I was unconscious.”

  “What happened?”

  I informed him of my recent search since my arrival in Miami and how someone attacked me from behind while I returned to the marina. It surprised him I didn’t report the incident, but I said it was a waste of time. I saw nobody, and no witnesses came forward when Cynthia asked the group gathered around me that evening. I saved Miami-Date’s police a few hours of unnecessary work.

  “You wanted me to call you, Detective Jackson informed me.”

  “Yes, I did. I have strange news to report. Homeland Security replied to the query we launched about Taylor’s passport.”

  “Yes, you have information I gather.”

  “Yes, we got an answer back; NSF.”

  “NSF. What is this?”

  “No Such File. It means no data is available on this passport. We provided a name, date of birth and Social Security Number. It is impossible they cannot trace this person with this data; unless. . . Unless they don’t want to offer the information.”

  “It’s impossible they don’t have a file on this person,” I objected.

  “With politicians, stars or any ‘special’ people, They hide information from us. It started when a Senator got a call from a constituent policeman to complain in person. Now, the government looks after the elite's privacy.”

  “Hum, so Mark Taylor, a common American, working bars, is elite? He’s not a politician, not a celebrity and we have no indication he’s a terrorist, at least, so far. What sort of ‘special’ person could he be?” I asked.

  “CIA, NSA, FBI or others,” responded John, trying to find a response.

  “I guess it’s possible, but it would surprise me in this case. From his background information his sister provided me, I see no period of time where Mark could have trained for one of these agencies. It is not in the cards.” After a few seconds, I added: “Anything else, John.”

  “Yes, someone told us to stop collaborating with you at once, or I should say yesterday.”

  “Oh yeah? Did they give any reasons?”

  “None. Between you and me Jason, call me on the number you see on your phone, it’s my private line, to discuss any issues. I’ll be available.”

  “Interesting. I may call upon you, John. Thanks.”

  “Thanks, Jason. You be careful now.”

  While waiting for Cynthia’s return, I reserved a berth at the Marathon marina for tonight plus a few extras days in case. I called Nadine but she must have been at work. So I left a message telling her I was heading down to Marathon having received new information showing Mark spent a few days in the vicinity before he disappeared. I abstained from telling her about my encounter with a baseball bat. She did not need to know.

  When Cynthia returned, she got into the shower while I completed breakfast which we enjoyed outdoor.

  “So what is the plan for today?” she asked.

  “You and I will watch surfers this morning and then, we hit the road, or I should say hit the sea, and sail to Marathon.”

  “When do we start our stakeout?”

  “Right now,” I said. We cleaned the table, I grabbed my backpack, locked the doors and headed out.

  “Where to, Dick Tracy?” she asked.

  “We are going to the South Point Park, but this time, incognito.”

  After a 15-minute walk, we stepped onto the warm sand. We observed several surfers honing their skills on the fiberglass boards on this Saturday morning. We stayed far away from the group and rented a cabana beach setup which included two chairs and a half-moon top to protect us from the sun.

  From my backpack, I pulled out my ship binoculars and brought them to eye level. I examined the group of surfers while being a quarter mile away, they couldn't see me, but I did. I looked for Jeff Mason to no avail.

  Movement attracted my attention. From the nearby pier, two men were walking along, in the surfer’s direction. While most people on the beach wore swimsuits or shorts, these two guys donned pants and Polo shirts, shoes in hands. I trained my binoculars on the curious couple. I adjusted the focus and discovered two Asian males in my sight, one was tall and bulky while his companion was a few inches smaller and skinny. The image of Laurel and Hardy popped up. Laurel, the tall one had a round face, small lips and his eyes were behind a pair of large round sunglasses. His hair was short and black. He resembled Psy, the Korean singer in Gangnam style. Hardy, his smaller buddy, also wore small rectangular glasses but clear. His distinguish features were a set of long blond hair on top of a black base, colored for sure.

  I watched them approach the surfers and stop in front of the group. One figure emerged from the sea with a board under his arm, walked towards the two men and then, all three gathered around a backpack. The surfer reached in, extracted a towel and dried off. Boy, I would love to hear this conversation. I pulled my notebook out and handed it over to my assistant.

  “Get your cell phone and dial this number, and then this other one? If anybody answers, hang up.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “A hunch.”

  I extracted my Nikon camera from my bag. Equipped with a fair size zoom, the camera recorded the three men together. I kept watching the trio, snapping pictures, while listening to Cynthia key-in the numbers on her phone. When she got to the second call, the surfer bent down towards his backpack, extracted a phone, and put it to his ear. I heard my assistant investigator say: “Sorry, wrong number.”

  She had reached Yang Nelson, one of the two individuals Mason said were friendly with Mark Taylor. How interesting was this? The beach discussion continued for a few more minutes, and the trio then separated. Laurel and Hardy turned towards the pier where they came from while Nelson picked up his surfboard and walked towards the nearby parking lot.

  “Cynthia, can you follow those two guys but be careful? Stay far away. See where they go if you can. Get a license number if they drive off. We’ll meet up aboard the yacht afterward.”

  Cynthia knew who I was referring to. She got up and walked towards the pier, like a professional tourist, keeping the couple in her sight. When Nelson left the beach through an access corridor, I picked up my bag and walked to the next passageway, a few hundred feet away. He hoisted the long surfboard on top of his jeep and extracted himself from his wetsuit using a towel wrapped around him. With this technique, he emerged in pink shorts with a white polo shirt, his thick black hair combed backward. He hopped in the open air all-wheel-drive vehicle and drove off away from me. I raised my binoculars once more and got the license plate number which I noted.

  While I walked back to the yacht, I called Hank Hackman and asked for a full rundown of Yang Nelson. I provided his license plate number, figuring this should be enough to identify him.

  Back aboard, I called Cynthia’s name, to no avail. I raced up to the flybridge, no sign of her either, I worried. I hoped no one would spot her trailing the Asians, most important, not the ones she was following. All kinds of terrible scenarios erupted in my head and my skin prickled. I rushed down the ladder, all kinds of bad thoughts in my head, and came face-to-face with William Tudor, his yellowing teeth smiling at me.

  “William!” He hated the name Bill. “What’s up?” I said.

  “I thought you had gone for good but you’re back. You must like Miami Beach.”

  “I do. But right now, I have a big problem. Can I ask you a f
avor, William? My daughter has gone out, and I need to find her right away. But if I leave and she comes back, she’ll just try to track me down again. Could you stay here and tell her, when she returns, to just wait for me.”

  “I can manage, brother.”

  “Go inside, grab a drink in the fridge, it is past noon here and 5 pm somewhere in the world. I will join you when I come back, it shouldn’t be long.”

  “Got it, Jason.”

  I hurried over the back rail and ran down the docks in search of Cynthia. From the marina, Alton Road runs only in one direction, northbound. I figured people coming to the area parked near the A1A bridge and walked south towards the Marina or the South Point Park Peer. Closer to the bridge, I looked for either Cynthia or any of the two guys I asked her, without too much reflection, to follow. I could see no one, I looked everywhere, I could not find her. I kept walking-running ahead. A wider road appeared just ahead, 5th Avenue. I headed in that direction still looking for any sign of my daughter. Then I recognized her coming out of a Burger King, of all places. She saw me and stopped in mid-stride. I ran to her. “Where have you been?”

  “Well, I followed them as instructed Dad and as I arrived on Alton Road, gone, they were gone. I looked around to no avail. I walked to the bridge and still, no trace.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, Burger King got my attention. I don’t go there often, but I was hungry and away from my buddies in Denver, impossible to resist.”

  “Well, you scared me. But it’s fine now. Let’s go back.”

  We trudged back. I had my arm around her shoulder. When we reached the ship, we discovered William crouched over the table, in the salon, inanimate. I rushed to his side, put my fingers on his neck, right beside the back of his jaw, nothing. Cynthia got close to William and tested another pulse point on his wrist, nothing either. William was dead. I examined the surroundings, other than the body, everything looked normal to me. The back door was still open. I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1, reporting a dead body on my boat.