Durell stumbled, unprepared, but managed to ask, “Why?”
“I’d been running shark lines, a half dozen hooks on buoys. Sharks die if you don’t get to them quick, so I wanted to make a final check, then clear the hooks, before leaving for New York. I don’t keep the sharks. I do tag-and-release. There was one small bull shark, I tagged it and let it go.”
Durell said, “Tagged it?,” and I knew he was wondering if there was a way to prove I was lying.
I nodded. “And while I was out there, I stopped and checked one of the transmitters Mote Marine set near the channel. They’ve sunk about two dozen between Boca Grande and the causeway. It was buoyed, but it looked like it had drifted off-station. So I stopped.”
From the corner of my eyes, I was gauging Palmer’s reaction-guilty people get overtalkative-but decided it was okay to add, “Mote sets out underwater monitors to track fish they’ve tagged-sharks, snook, some others. The transmitter I pulled had some benthic growth but looked okay. So I towed it closer to shore, but not as close as I would’ve normally, because the tide was so low. I didn’t want to risk running aground and missing my plane.”
Time for Durell to study his clipboard again. I had just used the man’s trap to give credence to my story.
He cleared his throat and said loud enough for Palmer to hear, “Mote’s about as respectable as it gets in the fish-research business,” but he wasn’t ready to abandon his plan because he offered another easy out. “If you work with Mote, there’s no judge or jury would question what you was doing on the water at that hour-even if the scientists at Mote can’t confirm you checked their transmitter thing. What is it, sorta like an underwater antenna?”
I said, “Looks more like a shock absorber on a car. They’re called VM-2s. The tags we use, PIT tags, they’re miniature transponders. Check with Mote. They might be able to confirm it, even give you the exact time because I was carry a tag coded with a personal ID. The VM-2 should have transmitted the number automatically. You know, keeping track of who services the equipment.”
The man said, “You sure about this?”
“Unless there was a malfunction, my ID should be in their computers.”
“Maybe you already talked to them, said you was out there.”
I said, “Nope.”
All true.
The big man sat back and placed the clipboard on his knees. He mulled it over as if deciding to stop playing games. “Doc, let me ask you straight out. Did you kill Bern Heller?”
Heller had drowned. The Gulf of Mexico had killed him, not me. “Absolutely not.”
“Did you have anything to do with it?”
I said, “They found his body on Naples Beach, you said. That’s forty miles south of Sanibel. Couch the question any way you want but my answer’s not going to change. I didn’t kill Bern Heller. I wasn’t anywhere near the man, wherever he was, when he died.”
Durell said, “Then why didn’t you return the calls our people left at your lab? We been trying to get in touch for two days. You don’t check messages?”
I said, “At first, I thought it was because you wanted my opinion about how long Heller had been dead. Your department’s hired me five times as a consultant. But when I realized it was because you were actually thinking of me as a suspect, I decided, screw you, I’m not in Florida, I have more important things to do.”
Suddenly not so friendly, Durell said, “Did you, now?”
“That’s right. Finding a kidnapped boy takes precedence over answering questions about a dead man I didn’t like to begin with. But if you’re interested in my opinion, I’ll tell you-no charge.”
Unconvinced but wavering, Durell said, “Keep talking,” giving me more rope.
“A more reasonable scenario is that Heller, a convicted serial rapist and murderer who had a limited amount of time…” I let Durell see me thinking about it before I asked, “How long before they sent him back to prison, a few months?”
Looking into my eyes, Durell said, “A few weeks, no more.”
I said, “A convicted murderer who had a narrow window, he might have headed for Mexico. It’s only four hundred miles across the Gulf. So he either hired some lowlife to crew aboard his boat or he hired someone else’s boat and they pushed him overboard. Took his money and kept going. Can you tell me how he died. A blow to the head? Drowned?”
Durell’s expression said no, so before he answered I asked, “How about the exact time the body was found? Six days drifting in the Gulf, his body should have been closer to the Dry Tortugas, not Naples, if he started off Sanibel… unless he got swept in by a vortex current. But if he went in the water off Tampa Bay, that would be about right.”
“Tampa, huh?”
“I’d check with the port, ask about tramp cargo vessels and shrimpers that left Thursday or Friday. Or… Heller could have been killed on Naples Beach, above the tide line. This phase of the moon, the tides get progressively higher every day, so it could have taken a while before-”
Palmer interrupted from the front, saying, “Heller was living on a forty-two-foot yacht parked at the marina he used to manage. We know for sure he was aboard the boat early Friday morning. If his body was drifting, how much difference would twenty-four hours make?”
I said, “You mean, if he went into the water on Saturday, not Friday?”
“Yes, off Sanibel.”
She was thinking about the watch with the broken crystal.
I said, “That works. Five days, the body would be off Naples or the Ten Thousand Islands. Again, depending on the vortexes.”
Durell slid his pen under the clipboard spring and sighed. “What do you think, Shelly?”
The woman said to Durell, “Can we verify what he just told us?”
Durell said, “Well, I dunno…,” as I asked, “What did the Coast Guard say?”
There was a silence, the two officers wondering if the other was going to answer. Finally, Palmer said, “They give us similar information. And… they also suggested we contact a local firm named Sanibel Biological Supply. Which is you.”
“Me and one part-time employee.”
“They said you’ve got charts and graphs, every missing boat and person, for the last ten years.”
I said, “It’s a hobby. Currents in the Gulf are tricky, and there’s never been a long-term study. I just told you what I think. If you provided more information, maybe I’d have a different opinion.”
Palmer said, “Even if we hired you, I couldn’t share-”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I wouldn’t work as a consultant in this case.
Aside from the ethical conflict, there’s a personal conflict: I’m glad the guy’s dead. If he was murdered, I agree with the locals: Someone did the world a favor.”
The woman’s smart, dark eyes filled the rearview mirror, looking into mine. “You realize you’re being recorded?”
I replied, “Yes.”
“Then I suggest you keep your mouth shut until we do the roll-by. I want to add, just for the record, that you don’t have to do the roll-by. Say the word, Dr. Ford, and I’ll cancel it. Or we can wait while you consult your attorney.”
Once again, I checked my watch. Eight hours ten minutes until deadline. I said, “I signed the papers. As long as we get this done as fast as possible, I’m willing. But, just for the record, Detective Palmer, whatever your witness says won’t change the fact I’ve been telling the truth.”
29
At midnight, I stood in the ten-acre parking lot of a retail minicity, Edison Mall, hoping either mercy or bad memory would prevent the woman, whose killer I had killed, from sentencing me to a murder charge or, worse, a night in jail. If Will Chaser was still alive, his death was only eight hours away.
The lot was empty except for security carts and three squad cars sitting at angles beneath yellow sodium lights. I also noticed a fourth car. It was parked on a curb, in shadows, behind monoxide-poisoned shrubs. Its rear window was cracked a few inches, the g
lass tinted.
Durell had told me to walk to the nearest lamppost, turn left, turn right, then stand until he waved me back to our black sedan. Because he said it was okay to look at the squad cars, I did. But I focused on the less obvious car, using peripheral vision.
When I got to the lamppost and pivoted, I saw a facial oval-female eyes, a portion of nose and forehead-studying me from the unmarked car. As instructed, I turned, turned again, then stopped. I wasn’t looking directly at the car but could see the rear window. Durell had also told me to remove my glasses, so I did. Cleaned them on my shirt before straightening them on my nose.
The window dropped another two inches. In the sterile light, filaments of hair appeared, framing the woman’s face. Something odd about the left eye. It was swollen the size of my fist, I realized, the eye a solitary creature within, as if peeking out from a cave. Six days since Heller had beaten her. No wonder the woman was afraid to be alone at night.
The face disappeared for a moment-the witness was saying something to the driver-then reappeared. Because of the tinted window glass, the face took the shape of an antique cameo. The woman’s eyes were intense, unwavering. They invited contact. I refused.
The woman said something else to the driver. A moment later, I heard the radio squawk, then Durell talking before he called to me, “Walk toward the highway.”
I started for U.S. 41, with its lighted stream of Saturday-night traffic, pickup trucks, tourist rentals and tricked-out pubescent coupes. When I was within ten yards of the woman’s window, Durell hollered, “Far enough! Come on back.”
As I turned, the woman and I locked eyes for the first time. The human iris does not communicate, but facial components do. I watched her one good eye focus, then widen… and I felt a sickening dread. She recognized me. No doubt about it.
The window dropped another inch. I saw a healthy conformation of cheeks, full lips, hair that was sun-streaked, glossy, one side of her face articulate, thoughtful, but the other side a bloated mask. The woman wanted me to know she recognized me, I realized, just as she wanted me to get a glimpse of her face. Her focus was tunneled, my personal conduit into whatever it was she was thinking or had suffered.
Still staring at me, the woman nodded-a slow-motion assent or signal of some unavoidable honesty, I couldn’t be sure. She spoke to the driver once more, then disappeared behind the glass.
When I returned to our vehicle, Durell was in the front seat. “Think the witness recognized you?” he asked.
The man already knew if the woman had recognized me or not. He was baiting me once again, and I was tired of it. “Something wrong with your radio, Les? Wait here while I go tap on the window and ask.”
“No need to get smart-assed about it.”
I’d closed the door but now opened it to get out. “I don’t know what your problem is. Too many years, not enough promotions? Whatever it is, I’m done with your chess game. Either arrest me or I’m calling a cab.”
Detective Palmer said, “Hold on.” She reached to make certain the recorder was off before saying to Durell, “Why not have one of the uniforms take you back to the station? We’re done here.”
I liked the sound of that but listened closely, hoping for a more definite acquittal.
“What’s the problem, Shelly? You got a hot date waiting?”
“What I have is a professional obligation to take Dr. Ford wherever he wants to go. That’s why you need to catch a ride… Les .”
“You’re not taking anyone anywhere, Detective,” the man snapped, “until I say the word.”
Palmer’s eyes filled the mirror once again, and I was startled when she lifted her eyebrows, sending a message-a private and personal message just for me.
“Captain, what’s going on here?” she said. “I don’t want to have to note in my report that in my opinion we risked a harassment charge. The witness just told us Dr. Ford’s not the man. Absolutely sure of it, no room for error. And Sarasota says there’s no reason to hold him. Their resident confirmed he accidentally hit a security alarm, a big misunderstanding. So what I’m going to do now is thank Dr. Ford for his cooperation and take him home-with your permission of course, Captain.”
I was trying very hard not to show my relief as she glanced into the mirror again, buckling her seat belt. I was also busy processing what she’d said about Myles not pressing charges. From the way it sounded, the man had covered for me. Why?
Durell was getting out of the car, moving slower than he once had. He’d put on twenty or thirty pounds. “You’re gettin’ kind of smart-assed yourself, Shelly,” he said. “What I think is, you got an itch that’s not been scratched in way too long. It’s making you snotty. Boys at the station don’t say much when I tell ’em. Just sorta look uncomfortable, like I made a bad joke or I might order one of ’em to help you out.” He made a hacking sound of laughter before he slammed the door.
In the game of good cop-bad cop, the pros sometimes take the role that least reflects their convictions about the suspect. Not because it’s fair-even though it is-but because it can broaden the range of inquiry. Palmer had been the good cop all along.
Before we pulled away, the woman told me to get in the front seat, then handed me her cell phone, saying, “The guy in Sarasota County, Nelson Myles. He passed along word he wants you to call. It wasn’t appropriate for me to tell you earlier. While you’re talking, you want me to drive you to Sanibel or back where you started?”
I said, “Give me a minute?” then punched the buttons as she read off the number.
Myles sounded relieved when he recognized my voice, which was unexpected. “I’ve been thinking about the Cubans,” he said. “I don’t know of any reason they’d want to stop at Tamarindo-the island’s only two miles from my property-but I remembered that Fred’s GPS was programmed with the route because the channel’s narrow and it’s not easy even when the tide’s high. The island was probably right there on the screen when they started the boat because it’s the only place Fred goes when he’s in Florida. So I’m heading to Tamarindo-it’s only five minutes.”
Myles told me he had brought the Tiara around to his private dock, next to his house, and was getting it ready.
I said, “I’m surprised.”
“Don’t be. No matter what you think, I’m not a monster. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, particularly a child.”
That isn’t what had surprised me. I’d expected his first words to be about Annie Sylvester. Had I told police?
It made Myles more convincing when he added, “After only an hour with you, Dr. Ford, I think I can say with confidence my standards of moral conduct are at least as high as yours.”
There was no arguing the point.
I said, “I apologize for being surprised. But it’s a bad idea, you going alone, even if it is only a couple of miles from your dock.” I noticed Detective Palmer paying attention as I continued, “You have enough political clout with the local police, probably the FBI, too. Have them send a helicopter. Or a boat, if they-”
“It’s been taken care of,” he interrupted. “The sheriff told me, personally, a helicopter was on its way. They’ll use searchlights, and, if it looks like there’s a problem, they’ll land.”
“They need to put down on the beach no matter-”
He interrupted again. “I’m aware of what should be done, Ford. That’s why I’m meeting them. Please stop instructing and start listening. I looked you up on the Internet. There wasn’t much, but I see you run a little marine-research station. I assume that means you’re good with boats. I’m offering you a chance to go with me if you want. But no more rough stuff.”
I checked the time: 12:15 a.m. By car, it was forty minutes to Dinkin’s Bay, then another hour-ten, hour-twenty, give or take, to Tamarindo. If Detective Palmer was willing to push it, we could be at Falcon Landing in less than an hour.
It was the quickest way to the island, but I disliked the prospect of being aboard someone else’s boat, particularly
at night, particularly on an oversized luxury yacht and most particularly when the pilot was an amateur.
I asked, “How many times have you run the Tamarindo channel after dark?”
“A few times,” he said, “several,” but I suspected by the way he hesitated, he wasn’t confident. When he added, “It’s certainly no harder then landing a plane at night,” I was sure of it. The real reason he was calling was because he’d found out I made my living on a boat.
Two factors tipped the scales. At the North Fort Myers substation, Palmer had let me call and check messages at the lab. It would have been helpful to have Tomlinson along, but he’d left a message saying he wouldn’t arrive on Sanibel until nine, Sunday morning. More important, the equipment I wanted to take wasn’t at the lab, it was stowed in the trunk of the rental car, beachside, near Shelter Cottage.
To Myles I said, “I’ll meet you at your place in about an hour. I need to get my cell phone anyway…”-I let that settle before adding-“… plus one or two other things.” I’d shoved the little Seecamp pistol under the seat and I wanted it back.
Demonstrating that he was in charge, not me, Myles said, “I can’t wait that long. You’ve got half an hour…” He stopped, and I heard what sounded like a tapping in the background. Someone at the man’s door? Apparently not, because he then finished the sentence, saying, “… that’s as long as I’ll wait. Call five minutes before you get to security.”
I touched the SPEAKERPHONE button and said, “Repeat that. I’m riding with a police detective, so it’s up to her.”
When Detective Palmer heard, she said, “Buckle up,” and flipped a toggle. Ten acres of asphalt echoed with blue strobes.
We were on I-75, cruising in silence, lights pulsing, doing ninety-five when traffic allowed, sometimes one-ten on empty stretches. As we’d left the mall, Palmer had asked how I got involved in the search for the missing boy. She seemed interested but preoccupied and soon went silent, her mind on something else. We hadn’t exchanged a word in the last twenty minutes.
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