Backwater Cove

by Steven Becker

  11

  He wasn’t hard to find, not even for an experienced special agent. Gordy rarely left the marina. It was his place of business, and had a bar—all that he required. His radar must have been running on high with the police activity because as soon as he saw me, he ducked behind several women he was talking to. It wasn’t a bold move, just a natural reaction for a sleazebag who used the premise of a legitimate business to exploit women.

  Abbey had worked for Gordy and was murdered on the job. Thanks to Susan killing the main suspect, his involvement was never really clear. The case was closed, but not solved.

  Gordon was his real name and boats were his game, or so he said. Bottom’s up Boat Cleaning used attractive women to clean hulls and detail boats here in the marina. Cleaning the boats in the water, at their slip, was far less expensive than dry-dock, and there were obvious perks to the right kind of owner or captain having a hot bikini-clad woman around, cleaning the decks and stainless.

  “Hello, Gordon,” I said as I approached the bar. He was still playing possum, but knew I had seen him. “Nothing to do with you, just have a few general marina-type questions,” I said, trying to put him at ease. It would have been a stretch if he was involved in this, but he knew what went on here.

  “Special Agent,” he said, rising to his full height.

  He was several inches taller than my six feet, but had gone to pot. “Buy you a drink?”

  “Nah, but we can talk over there.”

  He put his three-quarters full highball to his lips and took a long sip. When he put it down, it had less than a quarter left. “You sure about that drink?”

  “What the hell.” He motioned to the bartender.

  I removed my wallet, ordered a club soda for myself, and paid, telling the bartender to keep the change from the twenty I handed him. There was no way Martinez was going to reimburse me for this, so I might as well toss away a fe more dollars and make a friend. With our drinks in hand, Gordy led us to an out-of-the-way table behind a large potted palm. I knew it blocked the view from the bar, having used the same plant to hide before.

  “Let’s skip the pleasantries. What can I do for you?” Gordy said, slurping half the drink in one gulp, letting me know he could end this meeting with one more sip.

  “Pier 4? Rosen’s charter boats.”

  “What about them?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  “It’s all for the U,” he said.

  I remembered the bartender at the club saying something about the group being from the U. Florida residents wore their college loyalties on their sleeves: Seminoles, Gators, Hurricanes. I kind of got it, but Northern California is not ripe with football rivalries. These folks were fanatics. If you went to one of the big three, everyone knew it. Jobs, promotions, and all kinds of favors were granted from alumni to alumni. It would be a rare occurrence to find a Gator hiring a Seminole if there was another Gator in the room.

  “Do you work for him?”

  “He uses a more traditional service. There’re enough women floating around that dock, he doesn’t need to pay a premium for his cleaning needs. Besides,” he said, making a chopping motion with his right hand, “I’m a ‘nole.”

  With this information, I tried to dig deeper, knowing he would throw Rosen and Alex under the bus for no other reason than they were Hurricanes. Every Florida State alum still sought revenge for Wide Right. “Whatever you can tell me. There’re two missing girls I’m trying to track down.”

  He opened up, even to the point of ignoring his drink. “Rosen is a big-time booster. He’s all in for the U. Alex and that bimbo wife of his are sucking the straw from both ends, trying to sway high school recruits and then keep them happy for a few years hoping the dumber ones’ll sign him as their agent if they make it to the pros.”

  I had heard on the radio something about National Signing Day coming up. “Guess next week’s big for them.”

  “You could say this is their busy season,” he said, finishing his drink. “That help you out?”

  I had a few more questions, but didn’t feel like paying the toll and buying another drink. The information he had given me was a big start and, if I needed more, I knew where to find him.

  “Appreciate your help,” I said, rising and extending my hand. He blew off the handshake in favor of making a sucking sound with his straw.

  I continued with my original plan and started walking to the dockmaster’s office. It would help with the timeline if the marina had any information about the boats that had gone out yesterday, especially the one that Misty and her friend had hastily disembarked from.

  I entered the air-conditioned office and waited for the boy to get off the phone. He held up a finger, letting me know he would only be a minute. I studied him as he talked. He was carefully, and expensively groomed. His haircut and product alone were probably half my paycheck. The earrings he wore in both ears looked more real than fake and I couldn’t help but notice the chain around his neck. If it was real, it had cost a fortune. He looked younger than his size and had the stubble of a carefully outlined beard.

  Dockmaster was one of those kinds of jobs where you could line your pockets if you were cool and could keep your mouth shut. It was like being a doorman in New York City—tip heavy. Generally, they were punks. Through my years on patrol, I had run into enough two-bit drug dealers and make-believe businessmen to learn some of their quirks. One that I used now was silence. Fearing their empire was about to crumble, they talked. Especially with the younger variety, they couldn’t stand quiet, and if you left a vacuum, they would fill it.

  He set the phone down and introduced himself.

  “Kyler Smith.”

  I began by asking about the boats down on Pier 4 and he started fidgeting. I stayed quiet, counting to myself and making a private bet that by the time I reached ten, he would be talking. He cracked at eight—not bad for his age.

  “They don’t need to check in and out.”

  “But they ask for favors and you know what’s going on here.” I saw something in his expression. “I’m not after you or any of your buddies. Just trying to figure out a timeline for a crime.”

  “No worries, but I wasn’t working here yesterday.”

  I thanked him and was about to leave when the light reflected off the gold chain around his neck.

  “That for the U?”

  He fingered the heavy medallion hanging on a thick gold chain. Half orange and half green, the school colors, the over-sized U-shaped logo glittered in the light.

  “Turnover Chain, man.”

  I had seen the chain during some of the Hurricane games. It was awarded to a defensive player after they intercepted a pass or recovered a fumble. The bling was intended to bring some of the swagger back to a program that was once famous for it and was now in the midst of a twenty-year drought. It had worked until the team caved in the last three games of the season, dropping from a National Championship contender to a double-digit ranking. I stared at its weight and shape while we talked, and calculated its effect as a weapon.

  “Alex is big with them, isn’t he?” I asked.

  “He wrote me a letter of recommendation and gave me this when I got accepted. Heading there in the fall.”

  “You gonna play ball?” I asked. He was a big kid.

  “Nah, can’t hang with those dudes. I’m going to major in business.”

  It looked like he had a pretty good start on that path. “So, he’s got some juice over there?”

  “Dude’s tight. Used to play back in the day. I think they even gave him one of the real chains after the season.”

  I thanked him and gave him one of the obligatory cards with instructions to call if he remembered anything. The conversation had been productive, but I got the feeling toward the end, especially when Alex’s name came up, that he was getting protective.

  Justine was just about wrapped up when I reached the empty slip. Hoping she had cooled off a little, I started to he
lp take down the tape and collect the numbered placards. It was time to make peace and the best way to do that was with a body.

  “I have an idea for the murder weapon.”

  She gave me a “this isn’t going to work” look and continued picking up her supplies, but I knew she was curious. “You went to the U, right?”

  “Yeah, but what’s that got to do with this? I got a real degree in Forensic Sciences, not like those guys.”

  My girl was a geek, and I loved her for it. “I hear you.” I’d been around Justine and a football game before, when we spent New Year’s together. The two didn’t mix. I stashed my idea for now and went with a sure thing. “Think we can test the blood against the pieces of clothes I got from Misty and the other girl?”

  “That and fingerprints would be my next step.”

  There was something going on here that was over my pay grade. We’d had a few fights, and they were usually work related. She usually said her piece and was done. This was unusual. I had one bullet left. “Can we go to the morgue when you’re done?”

  “I’ll require dinner first.”

  “You got it,” I smiled to myself.

  Carrying one of Justine’s cases, we walked back to the gate. From this side, it had a paddle handle and no lock which allowed me to push it open with my elbow and hold the gate for her. I took a quick look back to see if Alex or Donna had surfaced, but there was no sign of them.

  We walked to the crime scene van. “I came over on the boat with Misty. Can I get a ride?”

  She nodded and placed both cases in the back. Justine was quiet as we pulled out of the parking lot and onto Alton Road. She was about to turn when I saw a souvenir store. “Can we stop?”

  “Really?”

  She indulged me and parked, but pulled out her phone instead of getting out. “I could use your help.” She was about the same size as the club manager.

  She got out and, tossing me a look with a little attitude, we entered the store. My skin instantly started to crawl. The walls were covered with vulgar T-shirts and hats. Towels, shot glasses, and bric-a-brac covered the tables and counters. No wonder she wanted to stay in the van.

  “You looking for something specific?” Justine asked.

  A trace of a smile crossed her face and I knew she was curious. “Here,” I said, leading her to a display of gaudy gold chains. I picked up several and measured the opening in the U against my recollection of the dead man’s neck. I held one up to Justine’s to get a better idea.

  “Just because I went to the U, doesn’t mean I’m wearing one of those. Embarrassing, if you ask me. We were better off swaggerless.”

  Ignoring her, I tried another, this time placing it against her skin. “Got it.”

  “Oh my God! Killed by a Turnover Chain, how fitting.”

  12

  We left the souvenir store with the largest Turnover Chain they sold. My personal expenses were starting to add up after buying Gordy a drink and now the chain. Martinez would never reimburse me for it and Justine wanted nothing to do with it. I guessed the only thing it would be good for after we were done at the ME’s office was a fishing weight. Dangling the heavy logo around my hand, I played with its weight; it could do some damage.

  “Can you see if Sid’s around?” I asked as we reached the van, expecting a more welcoming response to my request if she asked him.

  “You still owe me dinner.” She fingered the heavy medallion. “This bling ain’t gonna cut it.”

  She picked up her phone, located his number, and pressed connect. The call went to his voicemail and I sat back in the passenger seat wondering what I could suggest for dinner that I could keep down if I was able to see Sid. I really didn’t want to sit in on the autopsy, but the only way to know if my theory was correct was to try it. Justine was a fan of breakfast for dinner, and I thought that might be my best bet. “How about breakfast?”

  “Think you’re gonna get lucky?”

  “No, for dinner. But, yeah I’d like that, too.”

  Our relationship had gotten comfortable over the past few months. There was a mutual trust we shared and the only fly in the ointment was the women that I couldn’t shake. Grace Herrera was more than attractive, but at least she was all business. Some of the women involved in my last few cases were also knockouts and a whole lot less appropriate. I knew she trusted me; it was the other women she had a problem with.

  She nodded, made a left onto A1A, and headed north for a few blocks. Turning onto a side street, she parked in front of an omelet place with a breakfast-served-all-day sign in the window. “How’s this?”

  “Cool.” I said, already thinking about what would stay down. The closest I’d been to a dead body out west was the road kill we were tasked with removing from the park roads. Since being assigned to Biscayne National Park, I had found three bodies, four if you count the man at the club. Fortunately, their condition had been a gradual introduction to human death and decay. The visceral seawater of the bay had washed any sense of life from the first two. They had been in the water long enough for the crabs and fish to get to them. The last, had been mangled by a crocodile, but had still ended up in the water where, after even a few hours, the sea had removed any evidence of life.

  Witnessing the first few autopsies was a clinical experience. I suspected having to watch Sid open up the man from the club would be different—there would be blood, at least what was left.

  “I’ll just have a plain omelet with toast,” I said, catching the eye of the waitress. The menu had twenty combinations and enough a-la-carte ingredients for another hundred.

  “Worried about the body?”

  “Yeah. My first almost live one.”

  Justine ordered a combination of meat and veggies that I’m not sure I could have held down—even without the autopsy. We sat quietly waiting for our food. “You ready for the race this weekend?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation away from work. Living my job had been my downfall before. I had been given another chance and was hoping for a better result.

  “Won’t really know until it’s over,” she said.

  The waitress brought our food and I took small bites of mine while watching Justine inhale hers. I figured from what she’d told me of her training that she had probably done six or eight miles this morning, many at a pretty high intensity. I was proud and a little envious of her; I could barely stand up on a board, let alone race ten miles in open water on one. For the time being at least, I was better off in a kayak.

  Her phone rang just as we were finishing up. It was Sid, who gave us the go-ahead to come by. He didn’t say whether he had started, finished, or where he was with the body. I steeled myself for the worst.

  Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to the medical examiners’ building behind Jackson Memorial Hospital. I put on the medallion and got out of the van, but didn’t get two feet before Justine smacked me and told me to stow it. The fact that the garish symbol represented her alma mater was embarrassing enough, but it was even worse hanging around her boyfriend’s neck.

  We entered the building and went downstairs to the autopsy rooms. We walked inside and stood next to a stainless-steel table. Everything about the room was harsh. From the lighting to the flooring, everything gleamed.

  “Just in time for the cut,” Sid said as he entered the room.

  The body was still in the bag it had been transported in. He might have been excited, but I wasn’t. With his nasal Jersey accent and stooped posture, he bent over the table and started dictating. Justine was shoulder to shoulder with him, assisting. I stood as far back as I thought I could get away with, waiting patiently as they removed the bag and rolled the body onto the table. Sid started dictating again, calling out details of the deceased. I guessed it was all standard procedure and I fingered the medallion in my pocket, waiting for him to complete the posterior examination. When they rolled the body onto his back, I stood stoically, hoping my dinner would remain where it was. The blood had dried and it wasn’t
as gruesome as I had imagined. Finally, Sid looked at me.

  “The neck shows signs of strangulation,” he said, pointing out the light bruising where the murder weapon had tightened around it. “But, he bled out.” Sid took an instrument and folded a piece of skin back revealing the severed artery.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to sit through this whole thing. Let’s see what you have.”

  I pulled the chain out and approached the table, walking behind the man’s head.

  “Ah, the Turnover Chain,” he said, shaking his head.

  I was surprised he knew what it was.

  “It was all good when they were winning, but drop a few games and the luster wears off. You look like an idiot when you’re jumping around on the sidelines with that thing bouncing on your neck and your team is two touchdowns down to Virginia.”

  “Point taken.” I held the U-shaped logo out, trying to size it before I fit it. All I could think of was Johnny Cochran’s famous line: “If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit.”

  “Parcells and Belichik wouldn’t have any of it,” Sid said. “The ’86 Giants didn’t need a chain, they just lined up the ambulances.”

  Sid, was full of surprises. I looked up at him and tried to steady my hands as I placed the huge U over the man’s neck. “Fits.”

  “And the Turnover Chain is the murder weapon,” Sid said. “I guess they never thought about that when they made it.”

  “Now we just need the real one. There’ve got to be thousands out there,” Justine said.

  I removed the pendant, took it to the sink across from the table, and washed the blood from it. “I’ve got an idea where to look.”