The Missing Taylor

by R C Cameron

  From my pockets, I extracted Freeman's business card and got his email address which I used to create a new message by attaching Nelson's picture with his friends. I noted time frames on the DVD he should watch. I hit send and called him. No answer, so I left a message.

  “Wayne, it’s Jason. I emailed a picture of two suspects found on the surveillance videos. Look at it, these are the culprits. Picture and videos are only hours apart, they're even dressed the same.”

  For the rest of the day, Cynthia and I rested and spent happy moments on the beach just enjoying the scenery. Soon, we needed to return to Miami where a plane would fly Cynthia to Denver, her vacation ending. I was sadden by her departure, but glad she’d be out of arm's way. While returning, we stopped at a fish market to grab a Pompano. The store provided better than the high seas!

  Back on our yacht, while preparing dinner, Nadine returned my call. After a brief status of my investigation, I got to the essence behind my call.

  “Nadine, I need you to produce DNA from Mark. They prefer a blood sample but different options are available. I suggest you go back to the storage locker and retrieve either a tooth brush, a comb or a hair brush. We’re looking for hair samples or something he put in his mouth. Can you do that for me?”

  I wished I had thought about that when I visited the storage.

  She agreed to my suggestion and promised a search by tomorrow. I gave her Lieutenant Angelillo’s address and a case number to write on the package. I then called Angelillo to tell him of an upcoming delivery of DNA sample for his missing person case.

  After an excellent dinner, we stepped up to the flybridge with our cup of green tea in hand. The salted smell of the ocean joining us, the humidity still present. The overhead canvas was a blessing, the sun was not my best friend. Blowing on the hot tea did nothing to cool it down, we both rested our cups on the table along the L-shaped seating.

  “You know dad, I have butterflies in my stomach now, I worry a lot about this case. Someone attacked you already, hit you on the head, and left you, it was only a warning. Someone does not want you investigating Mark Taylor's whereabouts. The FBI and the Chicago police department are big outfits, you had colleagues, friends on the service, support teams back then. Today, you have nobody around to make up the difference.”

  “I have you now,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly. In 36 hours, I'm returning to Denver. I won’t be of any help then. If thugs want to batter you, I cannot intervene.”

  “You can run and call the police.”

  “Don’t be funny dad. This is serious. I think as an FBI agent, you would be fine. As a lonely private investigator, you are facing more trouble in my humble opinion. You’re good but you’re alone.”

  She was right. A single man against a gang; no contest.

  “Do I need to remind you a man died on your yacht three days ago and a murderer was looking for you?”

  She was right again.

  “I get the point, Cynthia. Let see if I can’t hire temporary help. I have an idea, let me work on it.”

  The rest of the evening was especially enjoyable, she discussed her new boyfriend again, a sure sign of a growing relationship. She apologized to return to her quarters, I remained alone. I searched my contact list, looking for a name in particular. It was late, but I called her mobile number, anyway.

  “Jennifer, it’s Jason Tanner. How are you?”

  “Jason, long time no see. Where have you been?”

  “My days at the FBI are behind me now. I retired last year with a full pension and, with Laura's passing, and a lot of time on my hand I keep busy by impersonating a private investigator in South Florida.”

  “I am sorry about Laura, I could not attend the funerals but I was present in thoughts with you.”

  “Thank you, it means a lot.”

  “What prompted a call today, Jason? Are you visiting the Miami Zoo? Are you looking for a personal guide or pleasant company?”

  Jennifer was a former FBI agent, like me, from Chicago. Pregnancy interrupted her career twice. After her second child, she called it quits. This coincided with her husband getting a promotion to head a large branch of an investment bank in Miami.

  “Well, Jennifer, my new part time investigation activities are taking me in a direction where I should not work alone. I need help, someone to figure out this situation and to watch my back. I was hoping we could work together again.”

  “Hum, maybe. You still have to fill me in, but I think I can arrange a temporary employment. The boys are old enough they can manage by themselves. My husband can order out.”

  “Fine. Day after tomorrow, I will drive my daughter Cynthia to Miami International Airport, she’s flying back to Denver. We can get together then. Would that work for you?”

  “Perfect,” she answered.

  (--)

  A glowing sky had grown darker through an early evening, but still the heat index made this period quite warm. The southbound winds helped cool the place, and I preferred this well-ventilated space than air-conditioning inside.

  I switched off a few boats's lights and remained on the flybridge, enjoying the marina's calmness.

  A 90-foot Hatteras motor yacht had berthed late afternoon and settled itself alongside the marina’s exit. This turned into the marina's largest yacht, and it’s an impressive one. I just found it strange that such a large vessel came to a two-bit marina.

  From her aft deck, originated plenty of rock music and short laughs from what sounded like a group of around ten people. Another couple of young individuals, maybe crewman, kept walking the yacht back and forth. Dress them in an official uniform and they resembled prison guards, my fertile imagination at work. From my vantage point, I could only glimpse at the ship. So, curious, I went down to my cabin, snagged a large brim hat and a paperback. I opened Cynthia’s door. She raised her head. In a low voice, I told her I was going for a short stroll around. I will lock the doors, she could sleep peacefully. “Be safe dad,” she told me before rolling over.

  Nonchalantly, I walked towards the marina office. Just in front, an old bench sat alone near a few flowers that had seen better days. A little light from the office allowed luminosity where I sat. From that position, I had a direct view of the latecomers. I sat down, pulled my hat over my eyes and grabbed my paperback, I impersonated a tired sailor reading a nail-biting novel.

  Though I looked concentrated on my novel, my eyes, hidden by a large hat, scanned the surroundings. Music stopped and people moved around. Full lighting on the yacht made it simple to see. I was planning to report home when several lights extinguished on the Hatteras and I heard footsteps originating from the gangplank. A half-dozen people strolled down the ramp in my direction. I lowered my head and raised my book, still illuminated by the office lights.

  The group wandered by while I peaked a fraction of a second only. To my surprise, leading the pack was Yang Nelson with a Chinese girl at his arm followed by two other couples I did not recognize. My eyes moved back to my book as I tried to stay inconspicuous.

  A few seconds later, I turned around and watched them walking away. They were leaving for dinner, drinks, or both. I was unprepared to follow them right now. But the Hatteras aroused my curiosity. What was Nelson doing aboard it? Who owned this yacht? What was it doing here?

  I turned my head towards the empty marina office seeing a night light but nobody inside. Captain James maintained a ledger showing who had reservations, what berths, pricing information and dates. He wrote these details in his ledger. I observed him doing so when I registered. That document may have information of interest for my investigation. My principal question was: had this yacht been here on September 12 and 13 of last year when Mark Taylor disappeared?

  But first, I needed to know the boat's name. With his nose pointed at me, it was impossible to see it. A simple walk would remedy my ignorance. I got up and ambled towards the Hatteras. When I reached its bow, I continued. They paint boat name typically on the tra
nsom. I passed alongside the yacht like a tourist hearing a party aboard. The crew was checking out foot traffic around their floating castle.

  I continued walking along, past the Hatteras, turned and reversed course making a note of the ship’s name, Ocean Dancer. Crewmen continued to look my way. They protected their ship from curious onlookers so I tipped my hat and pursued my stroll.

  When I returned near the office, I looked inside and confirmed it was empty. Way back, an FBI agent showed me a useful trick. I extracted a plastic card from my wallet and approached the office, turned around, my back to the door now. My heartbeat accelerated in anticipation of performing an illegal activity. Shaking it, the card found its way near the lock along the door jamb. It was a simple matter of pushing in, et Voila!

  I turned around, entered and closed the door behind me. After a deep breath, I walked to the main counter, searching for the ledger but concluded it must be stored away, nowhere to be seen. Behind the worktop were two more desks. While making as little noise as possible, I stepped over the counter and reached for a pile of documents laying there, nothing obvious. I was getting nervous in a restricted space and in danger of being discovered. My Chicago police experience alerted me they could charge me with breaking and entering if they discovered my activities.

  I pivoted and studied the counter again. Two closed doors were protecting a storage area. I opened one on the right, noting but forms and manuals. Behind the left door, a jackpot waited! I pulled out a ledger Captain James handled like a bible and I crouched, behind the counter. Nobody could see me from outside while I examined the large book.

  I flipped pages up to the last registrations. The first few columns showed date, vessel name and a name, a phone number and other inscriptions I took to be the duration of the stay and slip number. I deduced this information from my Private Eye entry near the top of the page with my name beside it.

  I did not see Ocean Dancer on the last page so I flipped back, nothing. But one entry appeared with just two letters O and D. For Ocean Dancer? A number appeared besides two letters, 12. During my walk to learn the ship’s name, I noted they used slip number 12. The inscription contained no other information for some reason.

  Curious.

  I flipped pages backward until I read another OD at slip 12, in January of this year. Back again, I noticed the same information for November. I flipped to September, last year. It arrived on the 13th, not a coincidence. Ocean Dancer was a regular visitor in the region. Not always on the same days, but once every month at least.

  Now before being a regular, I figured you needed to be a newcomer. I went back again until I located an entry with Ocean Dancer, written in full, with a name and a telephone number. I memorized both, closed the ledger and placed it back underneath the counter. As I prepared to leave, I heard voices outside, my heart rate speeding up. I stayed put, hidden from view. My curiosity eclipsed my wish for safety, so I peeked outside and observed two figures coming from the all-white yacht and walking toward the parking lot. I could bet anything these two guys were Nelson’s friends at the beach in Miami and probably responsible for William’s murder. After waiting until all was quiet, I crawled to the exit, pulled the handle with tenderness but like a typical old door, she let out a screeching noise. Holding my breath again, I got out and closed the door behind me, making sure I locked it.

  I hurried to the parking lot and scanned up and down the street: nothing, vanished. Someone must have been waiting in a car to pick them up, that’s the only explanation I could imagine. I raced back to my floating home, stepped in and locked the back door in a hurry. I pushed a sigh of relief. What was this gang doing here?

  (--)

  At 5:30 in the morning I got up wishing to sail out of Captain Pip’s Marina today. I wanted an early start because I hoped the guests on Ocean Dancer were sleeping their booze off. I heard noises around 3 AM. The Asians had stepped on my boat once and killed the wrong person. My plans did not include offering them a second opportunity.

  The coffee brewing added a welcomed odor, and I prepared a quick breakfast with yogurt, fruits, and toasts. I wished to be on my way soon. When the coffee was ready, I woke up Cynthia telling her why the plan changed since last night.

  She joined me at the salon table. While enjoying our coffee, I went over last night’s activities. My daughter understood we needed to be away when the folks aboard the visiting ship woke up, in case they remembered my yacht and the failed mission to eliminate me.

  Cynthia helped me readied PRIVATE EYE for departure as I warmed up the engine. I hoped the diesel sound was not a wake-up signal for Ocean Dancer and their guests. To reach the sea, we needed to navigate past her. By tying up right at the marina's entrance, she blocked half of the channel. I wished I could have tiptoed by them but that’s impossible. I ran the yacht from the pilot station inside the boat and not on the flybridge, fewer chances of being seen. Cynthia made sure she turned her back to our unfriendly neighbors. Already crewmen were busy on deck of the Hatteras but that’s not surprising, given the small size of the crew quarters on most ships this size.

  We exited the marina at a snail pace as every boater should do. Going out full speed would have raised suspicions. I headed east once out of the marina knowing we would get back on the Miami tack later. The rest of the voyage was uneventful. We arrived at the Miami Beach Marina around lunch time.

  Cynthia’s flight home left the next day only, so we decided on an afternoon lunch in South Beach. She got ready and when done; I got a cab to drop us on Collins Avenue. Boaters around us recommended a great oyster and seafood restaurant and we wished to end the week on a high note. It was a total success. The restaurant carried around ten types of oysters from a different part of the country and Canada. After the oysters, I ordered a grouper; she selected a red snapper, and we both appreciated the good times. She insisted I play it safe going forward, and I told her Jennifer could be my new sidekick now that Cynthia was returning to Denver.

  "We will be careful honey, don't worry," I said.

  "What if things deteriorate, dad?"

  "I'll call in the cavalry, either the Miami police or at the Bureau where I still have contacts."

  “Another thing that worries me,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I see you popping the pain killers every day now, since I’ve arrived. This opioid is addictive, you know dad.”

  “Dr. Ferguson prescribed them for my back.”

  “No dad. He prescribed them for your pain. They’ll do nothing for your back. You need help to solve your back problem or to manage your pain. These pills are just hiding the reality. Tell me you’ll consult a doctor about your situation.”

  “I will dear, I will.” Happy this conversation was over.

  We spent time on the beach and returned to the yacht around dinner time but none of us were hungry. We skipped dinner and had a cup of tea while relaxing. Her words during our evening discussion, kept turning around safety, backup, protection and others of the same nature. It was clear the investigation worried her. My arguments included the fact that I was a trained FBI agent, a former police officer, and an armed marine. My claims seemed to have convinced her when we retired to our rooms.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AFTER DRIVING MY daughter to the airport in the middle of the afternoon, the cab dropped me off at the Hyatt Regency Hotel. Jennifer and I agreed to meet and discuss her possible involvement in the case. She arrived on time and in a quiet corner of the hotel bar; I ordered a beer while she had a glass of white wine.

  Jennifer is in her early forties but does not show her age. She is five-foot-six-inches with short black hair. Her teeth are perfect and her smile is contagious. But she can be all business when it’s time. She had a great future at the FBI when she called it quits because of her long hours. She is talented and would help my investigation for certain.

  We reminisced about our days at the FBI and remembered friends we both new but ignored their whereabouts. If you do
n’t work at friendship, it gets away from you.

  “So you’re now a sailing private investigator. How did that come about?”

  “Well, first, after Laura’s death, I wanted to spend more time under the sun, so I moved to Florida. The cold weather around Michigan Lake convinced me. Then, I always loved boats but Laura appreciated terra firma. So, in her absence now, I indulged into this little pleasure.”

  “It explains the sailing part how about the private investigator?”

  “I wanted to keep my mind active in retirement, so I figured a few jobs here and there would keep me busy part time. I could continue to use my expertise, my knowledge, and my contacts to help solve cases.”

  “And has it?”

  “It’s close to what I figured it would be except for the one case I am working on right now. So far, it has taken all of my time. And it’s borderline dangerous. The gang which I believe is involved killed a man on my boat and I suspect I was the intended target.”

  “Wow. Not trivial.”

  “ Two thugs killed an unarmed, defenseless, 73-year-old man. I provided the police with information about the crime in the hope they arrest them soon. And don’t worry, I would understand if you backed off.”

  “I’ll decide when I have all the information, Jason, not before. Tell me how it started and how you got to this point.”

  I told the story from the early footsteps at the marina, meeting Nadine, and went all the way to locating Yang Nelson and, what appeared to be, his two bodyguards. I told her about my discussion with law enforcement, with my personal hacker and my old FBI buddy, Barry Gilmore. She listened with interest, asked questions when it was not clear and absorbed the essence of my adventure. She kept nodding as she learned more. When she stopped nodding, she asked a question, then listen again.

  “And that's the story, Jennifer. My daughter suggested I reach out for some help and support and here I am. I think two heads are better than one and with your field experience you can contribute a lot to resolving this disappearance. You have a sharp mind, you’ve done surveillance, that’s an important part of our job.”