The go-fast boat steadily gained on them.
Mer climbed up to the bridge. Leroy had his hands on the controls. His head swiveled back and forth between the smuggler's boat and safe harbor.
"You know how to give a distress call?" he asked.
Mer grabbed the radio and keyed the mic. "Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Mer Cavallo of the dive boat LunaSea." She released the button and waited for a response. A male voice crackled across the air. She could barely make out his words over the whine of the engines, the wind, and her pounding heartbeat. "Request immediate law enforcement assistance."
The two men were too far away for Mer to get a description, but close enough to see the driver raise his arm. He fired another shot. The bullet struck the railing by Leroy's head. They both flinched.
"We are being pursued and fired upon. Repeat. They are shooting at us." Mer's voice climbed an octave as she reported their coordinates and approach path to Port Largo.
Without waiting for a response, she slammed the mic into its cradle. "Be right back," she shouted.
Sweat moistened her hands and she slid down the ladder rails, landing on the deck with a shin-banging thud.
Another shot. This one aimed at her. She ducked. Tried to make herself as small a target as possible.
The V-berth to her right offered safety. A place to hide. She turned her back to it and dashed toward the bale.
The plastic-wrapped bundle sat in the open on the stern. Mer slid behind it. She pressed her back against the camera table for support, wedged her feet against the water-soaked bale, and pushed. Her legs strained. The bale barely moved.
The driver raised his arm again and aimed. She scrunched lower. The open transom of the boat left her exposed. The only thing between Mer and a bullet was a sodden bale of drugs. The very thing she needed to get off the boat.
Her hand went to the pendant around her neck. With a growl, she redoubled her efforts. The table leg bit into her back as she shoved the bale across the skid-resistant deck, making agonizingly slow progress. Finally the bale teetered on the edge of the swim platform, and with a final jolt it fell into the churning whitewater behind the LunaSea. The dark plastic disappeared under the wake. For a horrible moment, Mer thought the bale had sunk, but then it popped up and bobbed on the swell.
The captain of the go-fast throttled back and broke away from the chase to retrieve the bale.
Mer's entire body shook as the adrenaline ebbed, leaving her weak-limbed and unable to get up. The angles of her seahorse pendant dug into her palm and she forced herself to relax her grip.
Fifty yards away, the smuggler pulled his boat alongside the black bundle and idled. The dark-haired passenger leaned over and tried to raise the bale into the boat. He couldn't do it on his own and the captain left the helm to help. Together they pulled the contraband into their vessel.
Leroy coaxed every bit of speed from the LunaSea he could, and it bumped and slammed across the waves. The distance between them and the smugglers grew. Mer drew a deep, steadying breath, but blew it out in a huff of renewed fear.
What if it wasn't the bale they wanted?
She clambered to her feet. Her cellphone was wedged in the corner of the camera table, still trapping the tattered remains of the list of names. But the coin was gone.
The flutter of fear returned. She had to warn Leroy. They weren't out of danger. Not yet.
3
Mer and Leroy looked over their shoulders the entire way back, only powering down the LunaSea's engines when they hit the no-wake zone at the entrance of Port Largo. A Coast Guard patrol boat fell in behind them and escorted them safely through the main canal. Even so, it wasn't until Mer saw the Monroe County Sheriff's deputy on the dock that some of her tension eased.
The dock had never looked so welcoming. Behind palm trees, the Aquarius Dive Shop loomed into view like a weary sentinel. In the six months she'd worked here, she'd looked upon it without really seeing it: an aging two-story building with a retail shop on the upper level and the nuts and bolts of the charter business below. This afternoon, though, everything was in sharper focus—the snap of the dive flag tickled by the breeze, the beauty of the bougainvillea crowning the retaining wall between the parking lot and the dock, the worn wooden handrails alongside faded turquoise steps.
But it was the south wall of the building that held Mer's attention. A riot of blues created an underwater vista across the entire side of the building. Sweeping lines rendered sea life in evocative strokes. Painted just the month before, the mural drew even non-divers to the shop. They stood for photos in groups or used selfie sticks for solo snaps. Mer preferred the artwork in the quicksilver light of dawn when everything shimmered with life. Then, like now, it helped center her.
And at the moment, she needed to be centered. The shaking had subsided, but the confrontation had left her jumpy. Even surrounded by law enforcement and friends, she wasn't convinced the danger had passed.
The timbre of the LunaSea's engines changed as Leroy spun the boat in the canal and eased it parallel to the dock.
Bijoux, the owner of the Aquarius Dive Shop, walked down the dock to meet the boat. The tall woman carried herself like a ballerina, graceful and strong. She handed Mer the bowline and the bracelets stacked on her thin wrist jangled like chimes. "Is everyone all right?" Concern softened her Haitian lilt and creased her forehead.
"No one got hurt." Mer wrapped the line around the cleat. The children had weathered the crisis better than the adults.
"That does not fully answer the question."
Mer stared down the canal to reassure herself that they hadn't been followed. She didn't want to lie to her boss—her friend—so she didn't answer. Instead she edged along the side of the boat and hooked the stern line around another cleat. Using her body weight, she leaned back and the rear of the boat swung toward the dock.
The boat was still in motion when Blake tossed his dive bag over the gunnel and onto the dock. "Who do I see about getting my money back?"
"That would be me." Bijoux extended her elegant hand to help him off the boat. He ignored her offer and jumped the small gap between the boat and the dock, almost striking Bijoux.
Lydia stood in the middle of the boat with an arm around each of her children. "Blake."
"They shot at us, Lydia."
Logan wiggled out of his mother's grasp. "Can we do this again tomorrow?"
Blake blinked at his son and worked his mouth, but nothing came out. He left his family to gather their gear and stomped toward the Coast Guard patrol boat that was docking behind the LunaSea.
Bijoux addressed Lydia. "Of course you will get your money back. And you are more than welcome to return whenever you like. As our guest."
Lydia lifted her gear bag off the boat bench. "I'm sorry about my husband. We're from Canada. We're not used to guns."
Mer picked up one of the children's rental wetsuits and turned it right side out. "I don't think anyone is."
Grace stepped around her mother and approached Mer. "Thank you for keeping my daddy safe."
"You're welcome." Mer kneeled in front of the little girl. "I couldn't have done it if you and your brother hadn't been so brave."
"Weren't you scared?"
"Yes."
Grace cocked her head to the side and wisps of blond hair fell into her eyes. "You didn't look scared."
Mer glanced at the black scuff on the deck where she'd pushed the bale overboard. "You can't always tell how scared someone is by looking at them."
Grace twined her hand into Mer's. "I was scared, too," she whispered.
"You know you're safe now, Grace, right? Your mother would never let anything happen to you."
"I know."
Lydia stood behind her daughter and put her hands on the girl's shoulders. "Thank you for taking that risk. I have to agree with my daughter. You are a brave woman."
The compliment left Mer without words. She'd been terrified. Her thigh ached from the exertion of push
ing the bale overboard. That and something more. Phantom pain? It felt real enough. Too real. She dropped her hand to the top of her thigh but caught herself before she rubbed the round, puckered skin just below the hem of her shorts. The reminder that she'd been shot. Seventy-four days ago.
She dragged herself back to the present. "It's your children who deserve the praise."
Lydia's gaze shifted down the dock to her husband. "Yes."
Blake gesticulated wildly in front of a stoic Coast Guard ensign.
A deputy, clad in the dark green uniform of the Monroe County Sheriff's Office, approached the boat. His bald head gleamed with sweat. "Are you the one who placed the distress call?" His jaw worked a piece of gum while he waited for her to answer.
Mer nodded.
Bijoux took Lydia's dive bag and helped the mother navigate the small drop between the boat and dock. "Perhaps we should talk over here." She herded the family toward the picnic tables to give Mer and the deputy some privacy.
The deputy propped one leg on the gunnel and took a notebook from his shirt pocket. The tide was coming in and the LunaSea's position in the water placed them at eye-level.
"Name?"
"Mer. Dr. Meredith Cavallo. We found the bale—"
"How 'bout letting me finish getting what I need first. Okay?"
Mer pressed her lips together.
The deputy rapid-fired questions. How did she spell her name? Where did she live? How long had she worked at the dive shop? She answered each dutifully and he scratched down her answers.
His pen stopped and he studied her face as if seeing her for the first time. "Hey, aren't you the one who was involved in that Spiegel Grove mess a couple months ago? Detective Talbot's case?"
Her jaw tensed. "Yes."
"Huh." He closed his notebook, straightened to his considerable height, and stared down at her. "What happened today?"
"We found something we shouldn't have found floating in the ocean. Curiosity got the better of us. We dragged it aboard."
"We?"
"Captain Penninichols and I," she clarified.
"Why?" he asked.
"To turn it in."
"What time did you call to report it?"
A flush spread across her cheeks. "We didn't."
"Huh." He snapped his gum. "Why not?"
"We didn't want to give away the fact that we had a cache of what appeared to be cocaine on board the LunaSea."
He shifted his stance and faced her squarely. "Would've had a pretty high street value. Were you going to report it?"
"Of course!"
"How did you know it was coke?"
"When we pulled it out of the water, the gaff ripped a hole in the plastic covering. I looked inside. I'd never encountered anything like this before. I'd never even heard of a square grouper. That's what they're called, you know."
He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. "I'm aware of that."
His demeanor irked her. "Well then, you also probably know that when people lose something valuable, they often go looking for it," she said.
"How'd they happen to find you? It's a big ocean. Did you alert them on a different channel?"
"What? No!"
His gum snapped. Again. "So they just happened upon your boat and somehow knew you had their drugs?"
"It was the GPS tracker."
"So now there's a tracking device. Ever seen one before?"
His scrutiny unnerved her. He had the same flat eyes as a bull shark. Even though he hadn't moved, it felt as if he was circling her.
"No, but after I found the coin and the—"
"Coin?"
"Yes," Mer said. "I found a gold coin. It looked to be in mint condition. Odd considering it was dated 1733."
His eyebrows nearly shot off his face. "Seventeen thirty-three. Where is it now?"
"I don't know."
Another gum snap. "You don't know."
Mer folded her arms. "Are you going to repeat everything I tell you?"
"Let me make sure I understand. You found a bale that had drugs, gold coins, and a GPS tracker?"
"I only saw one coin. Oh, and a list of names."
"What sort of names?"
"See for yourself." She'd be damned if she was going to get it for him. "What's left of it is on the camera table." She motioned toward the back of the boat.
"Wait a minute. You mean to tell me that you saved a piece of paper but not a gold coin? Most everyone I know would have done the opposite."
"I didn't intentionally save either."
"What happened to the coin?"
"I don't know."
"Re-a-lly." He drew the word into several syllables.
The last of her patience packed up and headed north to catch up to her blood pressure. "I've been shot at, Deputy..." She peered at the nameplate above his pocket. "Cole. Things were rather hectic. Pushing a commercial dive boat to top speed across three-foot seas makes for a bumpy ride. The LunaSea has an open transom. That's how I was able to push the bale off when the bad guys—the people you should be looking for instead of giving me the third degree—were chasing us. Maybe the coin rolled off. I don't know. And frankly? I no longer give a damn."
Deputy Cole boarded the boat, forcing Mer to take a step backward as he blocked the exit. "Do you mind turning out your pockets?"
The deputy's implication felt like a slap. She grabbed the inside of her pockets and yanked them until they hung like limp flags outside of her shorts. "Do you want the lint for evidence or are we through?"
"For now."
4
Mer reached above her head and grabbed the safety rail that ringed the bottom of the upper deck. She swung herself over the gunnel and onto the dock, leaving Deputy Cole alone on the boat. Leaning over, she wrenched two of the thirty-five pound tanks from their holders and settled them by her feet. She readjusted her grip and stomped toward the equipment room.
A satellite media van pulled into the parking lot. Its tires crunched across the limestone gravel and raised a plume of dust. A dark-haired woman sat in the passenger seat. Wendy Wheeler. Mer's foul mood darkened.
The equipment cage stored the shop's rental gear, air compressor, and ice machine in a room on the ground level of the building. She set the tanks on the concrete floor and spun them so the valves faced the same direction as the other cylinders waiting to be filled.
When she looked up again Wendy had cornered Blake, her teeth bared in a predatory prime-time smile. Further down the dock, Deputy Cole interviewed Lydia.
Mer returned to the boat for two more tanks. The Coast Guard ensign and Leroy both leaned against the rails, chatting as if they were old friends.
The ensign looked up at her approach. Acne peppered his face like buckshot. "Nice move, pushing the bale off. No telling what would've happened if they'd boarded you guys."
"You get much of this around here?" Mer asked.
"Nah. Not like the old days."
Some of her anger dissipated. The ensign didn't look old enough to drive, let alone reminisce about olden days. "When was that?"
"Oh, this was the place to be in the eighties. Mother ships used to transport tons of drugs from South America and the Caribbean. They'd stop offshore and transfer the drugs to smaller courier boats. Back then there was no way to patrol all the marinas. Too many canals and too much shoreline." He puffed up his chest and continued. "Florida City, up Everglades way, built a whole industry around collecting square groupers and running dope. No way to catch them in all the mangroves up there. Least not 'til the Feds came in. Busted the whole town. Course, that was before I started."
"Of course. Did you need to speak to me about what happened today?"
The ensign shook his head. "I got what I needed from the Cap'n here. We'll document it, but sounds like all the fun stuff happened in state waters. The Sheriff's Office will handle it from here. Glad everyone's safe." He raised two fingers to his brow in a casual salute and headed back toward the patrol boat.
Mer
watched him go. The ensign paused next to Deputy Cole and handed him a small piece of paper—probably a report number, something administrative. Cole didn't reciprocate.
She grabbed the last tanks off the boat and retreated to the equipment room.
A few minutes later, a whiff of expensive perfume warned Mer of the reporter's arrival and Wendy's shadow passed in front of the cage door like an eclipse that refused to move on.
"Fancy seeing you again, Meredith."
Silhouetted in the doorframe stood five feet, two inches of pure nosiness. Clad in a posh sheath dress, the reporter wielded her microphone like a weapon. The arrival of her cameraman darkened the room further.
Mer straightened. "Wendy."
"The key to Keys News," she chirped. "I want to ask you a few questions."
Mer fished one of the wetsuits out of the rinse bucket. Water splashed on the concrete floor and spattered the reporter's suede pumps. "I'd rather you didn't."
Wendy burst out laughing. "Silly me. I almost believed you."
Past experience convinced Mer of the futility of trying to avoid the reporter. If Wendy sniffed a story, she worked it until it paid off or fell apart. A small part of Mer admired her. Too bad it wasn't from a greater distance.
"Let's get a shot of you over by the boat," Wendy said. "It'll only take a moment."
Mer wove a hanger into the neck of the wetsuit and hung it on a drying rack. "You should talk to the deputy. I already told him everything."
"Oh, he's so stuffy. I'd rather hear it from you."
The thought of rehashing the event left a sour taste in Mer's mouth. She'd done her part.
She attached compressor whips to the tank valves. "It's about to get loud in here." She clapped on ear protection.
"But I'm—"
Mer pressed the button and the compressor kicked on, overwhelming the small room with noise.
Wendy took a step back but gave no indication of leaving.
Mer considered her options. If she lowered the compressor's flow rate, she'd have maybe fifteen minutes before the tanks filled. Fifteen blissful minutes that Wendy couldn't ask her any inane questions.
Beached_A Mer Cavallo Mystery Page 2