“The delivery was lost,” Patel said.
“No big deal. Send out another one.”
“You know how long it took to get that? Those men you say you trust in Florida, if they are captured, will leave behind records.”
“Those guys won’t give up anything. In their culture it’s a badge of honor to keep quiet.”
“Even if they keep quiet. One record. An email. A phone call …”
“Relax. They called here. I am their attorney and represented their leader, Diego years ago. He’s on our client roster. That will ensure attorney - client privilege. He won’t talk.”
They were interrupted by Patel’s phone. He listened intently, using his free hand to signal to Davies that he needed something to write with. Pad in hand, he wrote out an address.
“We have a lead. The man got away, but this is the address.”
Davies looked at the pad. It took a minute for it to register. He’d seen this address on countless overnight envelopes over the last few months. This was where Mel was staying. When he dialed, her phone went straight to voicemail.
“Interesting. Somehow one of my attorneys is mixed up in this.”
Patel looked at him accusingly. “Melanie?”
Davies nodded.
“Simple, then. Get her to get it back.”
“Not so simple. Currently she’s more loyal to that boyfriend of hers than to me.”
“There are other ways,” Patel said. “Tell me about this man. Can we use him as leverage to get her to cooperate?”
“Name’s Travis, Mac Travis. Been down there for years living off the land in typical Keys fashion. Strong minded guy, just like her father. This guy is invisible. I’ve had a PI run down the basic stuff on him, and the numbers don’t add up. He’s pulling in a marginal income fishing and doing commercial dive work, but it doesn’t add up. He pays his taxes, but has no bank accounts. He paid cash for his house and boat. That’s probably five hundred thousand for the house and another two for the boat.” Davies summarized. He had acquired the information in an effort to get Travis to testify, now it served another purpose. “What do you have in mind?”
“FISA warrants are rubber stamps. Get one on him. It’ll turn up something.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Emails and phone records.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
18
Mac pulled back on the throttles and looked over his shoulder as the boat backed up to an empty dock by Fifty-First Street. Sue ran over to the seawall as Mac and Mel helped Trufante over the transom and onto the dock.
“Patch him up and keep him at your place.” Mac was on the dock holding the boat with one line. “No hospital, no police. I guess you know the drill.”
“Do you look for trouble or does it just find you?” She asked both men. “I don’t know if he keeps me around because he likes me or because I can fix him.”
Trufante grabbed her ass, answering her question.
“Here.” She handed Mac a phone. “You owe me fifty for it. I put my cell number in. Let me know when it’s safe.”
“Thanks. Take care of him.”
Mac jumped back on the boat, took the helm, and handed the phone to Mel. They watched Sue take Trufante to her car and waited for her to pull out before they moved. Then Mac put the boat in gear and headed out toward Boot Key Harbor. They rode in silence, waiting for open water before they started talking. Mac bit his lip. Mel wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
As usual, Mel beat him to the punch. “I assume you’re not going back to your place. Go ahead, spit it out. What are you two in now?“
He put up a cautionary hand. “Sound does strange things in these canals, and you never know who’s staying aboard one of these boats” He cocked his head to the seawall, which was lined with boats. “Seas are down, I’m gonna head out to the lighthouse and anchor up on a mooring buoy over night. We can talk when we get out there.”
He idled past the condos and hotels backing on the seawall. Boats were anchored along it, some with lights on, muted conversation barely audible. He turned left into the mangrove-lined canal leading to Sisters Creek, and hit the throttle. Five minutes later, the boat was in open water, running smoothly toward the lighthouse. Once there, he tied off to one of the mooring balls —frequented by tourist and dive charters during the day but mostly vacant at night. The closest boat was a quarter mile away, and he thought they’d be safe.
Swallowing heavily, he went down to talk to Mel.
***
“What the hell, Mac, what are you mixed up in now?”
“It’s Trufante. He came to me with this box, part of one of his drug deals. Some tourists were out fishing and hooked a square grouper. They took it thinking they were gonna get rich and now it’s snowballed. There were fifty bricks: forty nine coke and one different. It was a lead box soldered shut.” He had her attention now. “I started small, but ended up cutting it open. It was loaded with plutonium, looked like weapons grade stuff. I repackaged it with some industrial material from an old compaction tester. It’s radioactive, but harmless compared to the other stuff. I put the box back in the safe. I think I must have left it open when you came down last night. Anyway, I don’t know what the deal was with those guys and the women, but it doesn’t take much to guess that it has to do with that box. They must have tortured Tru, got him to admit that the box was at my house. That’s all I know.”
“So the Hispanic guy is gone? With a box of …”
“It’s harmless now. Hopefully that’ll buy us some time.”
“Where’s the real stuff?”
Mac went forward and came back with the lead coated ball. He went to hand it to her, but she recoiled.
“Now what?”
“Tomorrow I’m taking this to a spot I know and stashing it ‘till we can figure out what’s going on here.”
“Have you called Jules?” She gave him her lawyer look. “You promised.”
“Yeah I know, I’ll call now.” He picked up the burner phone Sue had left. “Wish I had my phone now.”
“That’s a good one.” She laughed and headed towards the cabin.
He stayed on deck, calling information and then the sheriff’s office. The dispatcher said that Jules was out. He left a message and set the phone down.
Sleep was not even close and alcohol was not the answer tonight. Too much to figure out. He sat on the deck and watched the sky, waiting for the sun to rise.
***
“Sheriff Whitman.” Jules answered, golf club resting on her hip.
“Jules, Dave Rayburn. Been forever.”
“Yeah, it has. What can I do for you?” Julie Whitman had been sheriff of this corner of paradise long enough to know that most calls from old friends were for favors.
“Got a guy that works for me in some big-time trouble down there.”
Whitman’s attitude changed at that. Trouble was her specialty. “Tell me what you have.”
Rayburn told her everything he knew. She was silent as he told of the fake transfer and abduction. When he was done, the line was silent. “Jules?”
“I’m here, just thinking. Can you get him down here fast? I need this firsthand.”
“I can put him on the puddle jumper to Key West. Be there about one o’clock.”
“That’s fine. Tell him I’ll pick him up there. That’ll give me some time to figure this out. One more thing. I need the address of the house they were staying at.”
“I’ll get him on the plane and text it to you. Listen, he’s a good guy. Think he’s just mixed up in a dirty deal. Any help I can give you, just call. I’ll do whatever I can.”
“You got it. I’ll keep you posted.”
She’d grown up here and knew the Keys were a major point of entry for drug smugglers. The chain of islands was impossible to patrol by boat, especially the Gulf side with all the unmarked channels and small keys. Any smart smuggler knew to use a fishing boat and blend in with the l
ocal traffic. Because there was so much volume going through here, the dealers here were worse than your dime-store drug dealer. If this guy had gotten mixed up with one of them, this was going to be bad.
She dialed her office as she walked, assembling people and assets to get a handle on this thing. A CSI, the coroner, then a couple of deputies and maybe a helicopter to Key West to pick up the witness. The numbers were crunching in her head. Her ever-shrinking budget was about to go under water. She hated that part of her job and tended to ignore it, doing the right thing first and paying for it later as the city council expressed their dissatisfaction.
19
The alarm on the GPS beeped, and Mac signaled Mel to throw the buoy out. The ball splashed the water, the reel spinning, spitting out line until the five pound weight rested on the bottom. He started circling the buoy slowly, carefully watching the depth finder for the right piece of bottom. This section of reef was live bottom — small ledges with sand trenches between them. Common throughout the area, most areas looked the same. Red and black humps marked the hard corral and rocks, while yellow marked the sand on the display. Landmarks were few, making it an art to find a particular rock. But Mac had been here enough to identify the three coral heads clumped together, rising five feet off the three foot ledge. As soon as the image came onto the screen, he had Mel throw another buoy. The GPS waypoint signaled by the alarm only got within 30 to 60 feet, depending on the alignment and signal of the satellites. The second buoy was necessary to mark the exact spot. He steered back toward the first buoy and she pulled it from the water, using the reel to wind the 110 feet of line on until the weight was retrieved.
He nudged the throttle and adjusted course slightly bringing the boat to the second buoy. Mac put the engines in neutral and sat for a minute to see which way the current was running in order to see which way the boat would drift. Ideally the anchor would set right on the coral heads allowing him to follow the line straight to his destination, rather than waste precious bottom time searching. Satisfied he hit the switch for the windlass, which automatically dropped the anchor. Line spun out as he backed down. With the proper scope set out, he stopped and went forward to check if the hook had set. Satisfied, he started to assemble his dive gear.
“I don’t like you going down by yourself.”
“Get certified, then. I’d love the company.”
“What’s the deal with the tank?” She asked.
“It’s Nitrox. Enriched air. It’s got a higher oxygen content and less nitrogen. Lets you go deeper longer.”
“That sounds really reassuring.”
“No worries, girl. I’ve been using this stuff for a long time. It’s just safer at this depth. I can get forty minutes of bottom time, compared to fourteen with regular air.”
Minutes later, Mac sat on the gunwale, gave Mel the thumbs up sign, and rolled backwards into the water, lead ball in his hand. The water rippled out in rings as he entered, broken only by the boat as he finned toward the anchor line and followed it down. The bottom quickly became visible — with no current and the sun’s help, the visibility was about eighty feet. He took his time descending, clearing his ears as he went. After checking the anchor, he took a bearing on his compass and set out toward the east.
The ledge protruded from the sand about three feet, coral heads scattered in islands in front of it, small fish schooled everywhere. He ignored the scenery, searching for the familiar landmarks, and swam toward a rise in the structure, where three corral heads sat directly on top of the ledge, rising eight feet above the bottom. From there, he got down on the sand and unstrapped the tank from his back. The weighted BC held the tank on the bottom, and he unclipped the dive light from the BC and illuminated the coral.
He reached under the ledge and removed the two rocks covering the entrance to the small cavern. A huge black grouper had taken his spear into the hole several years earlier and he’d gone in and wrestled the fish, discovering the cavern in the process. He’d kept it in mind ever since, in case he ever needed a hiding place. Now the light illuminated the interior. It was about three feet high, and not quite big enough for a man to fit in, but a great secret spot. The light revealed several round canisters and a dry bag held down with weights. Not a pirate’s treasure chest, but a collection of Mac’s secrets. He placed the lead ball in and moved back out, closing the entrance behind him.
***
Mac broke the surface of the water thirty minutes later relieving her tension. She knew he had enough experience to dive himself, but anything could happen down there.
He hauled himself onto the dive platform, taking off his BC and tank. “Done. That’s as safe as it’s gonna get.”
She nodded. “Talked to Sue. Tru’s ok. Not much she can do but keep the wound clean and make sure there’s no infection. She’s got him pumped up on pain killers and antibiotics. I swear I thought he was singing in the background.”
Mac climbed over the transom. “She could be the perfect girl for that boy. Puts up with his crap and can fix him when he’s broke.”
“Is that what it takes to be the perfect woman?”
“You got it, babe.” He punched her shoulder as he went by.
“What now?”
“Gotta deal with the house. Then we’ll try and pick up the pieces.”
She watched him stow his gear thinking how her quick trip to appear in court had gone awry.
***
Pete had to stay closer to the scooter than he would have liked. There must have been a thousand pink scooters in Key West, many ridden by packs of tourists. It would be easy to lose one on Duval Street. The guy had turned onto the tourist mecca now and was cruising slowly, dodging drunks as he went. Pete watched, two car lengths back, as the scooter turned onto a street and pulled into a driveway where the man got off. Address noted, he cruised by and kept going, driving aimlessly until he worked his way back toward the south end of the island. The road finally dead ended into a beach, and he sat there staring at the water.
There was something weirder than a drug deal going on here. He had no idea what had happened at the house earlier. Trufante and the women were there when the gunshots were fired. With nothing to lose, he dialed Trufante’s number, cursing when it went straight to voicemail. He tried a text, hoping that might get him an answer. He stared at Joanie’s number in the recent calls log, paralyzed by what he’d seen in the last few hours. He’d watched his deal go south, been shot at, and had followed a lunatic to Key West. The guy had then met some Islamic-looking guy with something that had nothing to do with drugs. This was way over his pay grade now. “Why not?” he thought, as he stared at the recent call log. He hit her number.
Joanie wasn’t the answer to the puzzle, but she answered her phone, excited he’d called. He told her he’d be back in Marathon in an hour. Yes, she’d love to see him. At that, a smile crossed his face for the first time all day.
The adrenaline had run it’s course and he felt lost. He knew enough to go to the police, but he’d been up all night and didn’t want to face the interrogation he would surely receive. Whatever damage had been done to Trufante and the girls was already done. There was nothing he could do to help them now. He resolved to go to the police in the morning.
20
Heather looked around the room, camera around her neck and notebook in hand. There was a metallic scent in the air. She looked for it’s source and immediately keyed in on the blood soaked couch. The two officers already there had just turned the crime scene over to the CSI people. Or person, as it was in understaffed Monroe County. The coroner was pushing the gurney with the man’s body out the door.
“Can you run through it for me?” she asked the first man she saw.
The younger officer — the one without the wedding band — was quick to respond. “Sure.” He gave her a big smile. “The dude was shot — looks like point blank range — right here.” He pointed to the couch. “There’s evidence of at least four other people in the house — two couples
and a single guy, from the looks of it. Not much of a struggle.”
Heather scanned the room, trying to figure out where to start. “OK, I got it from here.”
The officer’s grin faded as it became apparent she wasn’t interested, and his partner smacked him on the back of the head. “I know you’re new here, but that’s the sheriff’s girl. Got no shot with that one, buddy. On the other team.”
Heather shook her head and settled into the scene, trying to recreate what had happened. She moved through the house, camera clicking, stopping now and then to look at some barely visible fiber or clue, bagging them as she went. The couch had a blood spot the size of a melon where the victim’s head had been. She took several pictures of the spot, with and without a measuring tape in place. There was a hole toward the center of the patch of blood. She set down the camera, took a multi-tool off her belt and, knife extended, started probing the couch, grinning when the knife hit resistance in the foam. She got in closer, drew the slug out, bagged and tagged it, placing it by the casing she’d found earlier.
***
Jeff staggered out of the terminal building, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. He made his way to the sheriff’s car parked in the shade of an overhang, thinking that you had to have a cherry on top to get a spot like that. The passenger-side window of the car rolled down, releasing a blast of cool air as he approached.
“You Jeff Bundt?” asked the woman sitting in the car, sun glasses shielding her eyes, auburn hair blowing from the air conditioning.
“Yeah.”
“I’m the sheriff from Marathon. Just call me Jules; we’re casual around here. Get in.”
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