The Rogue
Horse Recovery
Book One of the Recovery and Marine Salvage Inc Series
Chris Poindexter
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
1
THE WEATHER WAS as nice as it gets in Florida with afternoon highs in the low 80s under sunny skies and a gentle northeasterly breeze off the ocean. High wispy clouds looked like they’d been dashed across the sky with painter’s brush. There was just enough wind to kick up a little chop on the Intracoastal that rocked our boat gently against the pier. Other than the drone of other boats the only noise was the occasional squeak from one of the half-dozen plastic bumpers that cradled the big boat against the motion of the waves.
Our boat was named Mission Parameters; at least that’s what we called her this week. It had gone by several names over the years and the name and registration changed regularly. Today she was tied up at the marina in West Palm Beach, a sprawling collection of boats large and small. Mission Parameters stood out as one of the bigger boats in the marina; her big white hull trimmed in blue towering over the smaller boats. The MP was a newer Ocean Alexander 90 with a posh salon that was more amenable to business than our other boats, most of which had more utilitarian decor.
“She’s here,” a voice in my head announced unnecessarily. The spacious windows offered a great view and pleasant vista. I could see our guest walking across the parking lot even without the stealthy security cameras positioned at various strategic spots around the boat, a standard feature on all of our watercraft.
Our visitor made her way down the dock with a long, athletic stride, her auburn hair tossed by the breeze and rhythm of her pace. She looked neither left nor right, but fixed her gaze directly ahead, eyes hidden by fat Italian sunglasses. The lady was tall, maybe 5’10, and dressed in a grey business suit with a hemline just high enough to show off superbly muscled legs, made all the more appealing by black designer shoes. Instead of a purse she had a thin briefcase slung over one shoulder.
“Not armed,” another voice in my head announced. I liked this voice better, a dusky smooth female voice with a vague accent that few people would recognize as Portuguese. As much as I liked that voice it rarely had much to say.
Our guest had just passed what looked like ordinary storage boxes, which actually contained a low power backscatter x-ray system that provided a cursory weapons check. One can’t be too careful in our line of work.
“Wooowee, boss! You would not believe the body underneath that suit!” the first said. He had a better view from the thermal camera than the rest of us.
“Pig,” the second voice declared.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” countered the first.
The second voice retorted with what was certainly a very bad word in Portuguese. It’s annoying when the voices in my head start fighting.
“Settle down, you two,” I chided calmly. “Q, would you mind showing our guest in?”
My associate sitting next to me levered his lanky frame out of one of narrow, padded chairs and made his way aft through the sliding door and out to the rear deck. Twenty years my junior Q still had the flexibility of youth and the lean, hard frame of someone in a line of work that required physical fitness.
Our guest didn’t wait for an invitation to come aboard but stepped deftly onto the fantail and up the narrow steps to the open deck; no small feat in high heels yet she clipped up the stairs with practiced familiarity.
“Right this way, ma’am,” Q said, opening the sliding door for her.
Q isn’t handsome in the same way Hollywood leading men are handsome, his looks stop just short of that lofty standard. His nose is a shade too big for his face and, having been broken more than once, it lists slightly to starboard. His dark hair has just enough insolent curl that it will never lay quite right. Despite his imperfections, Q has the chiseled character, sharp eyes and trim military physique that usually rates a second glance from most women, but not our guest. She breezed past Q with focused indifference. Clearly the lady had no time for the hired help.
She flipped her sunglasses up to the top of her head as she crossed the threshold into the salon and made straight for me like a lioness on the hunt. She had steel grey eyes framed by her tousled auburn hair and the business suit was tailored well enough to see the outline of the toned and fit body underneath. The first voice in my head was definitely right about the quality. I rose to accept the firm and professional handshake while the steely gaze slashed through my skin and tried the drill its way into my soul.
“You’re The Fat Man.” It wasn’t a question. “I thought you’d be…”
“Fatter? Yeah, I get that a lot. Please, have a seat,” I said gesturing to the long couch across the table from a row of chairs. “Can I get you anything before we get started?”
“Thank you, no,” she said with clipped and practiced precision.
Q quietly joined us, sliding into the leather seat opposite our guest at a slightly odd angle. While our guest wasn’t armed, Q most definitely was. “This is my associate, Q,” I said by way of introduction. The steel eyes flicked momentarily in his direction; if she was afraid of him she didn’t show any outward sign. While she didn’t know it, she had good reason to be afraid of him.
“Listening in but not with us are V and Deek,” I explained the voices in my head as I picked up a thin tablet computer off the coffee table.
“Not big on names,” she observed, shifting her challenging gaze back to me.
“Occupational necessity, I’m afraid. Detective Johansen said you had an urgent matter for us?”
“My name is--”
“Marissa Meadows,” I finished for her, scrolling through the information flowing across my tablet. “Your maiden name was McPerry, you grew up in Iowa, just outside Cedar Rapids, went to college at the University of Nebraska and later law school at the University of Louisville where you finished third in your class.”
“Correct,” she acknowledged coolly.
I flipped through a couple more screens and continued. “Five years ago you moved to Florida to help your mom, took a job as a law clerk at a firm here in town, passed the bar, met and married Sergeant Donald Meadows when he was home after his second tour in Afghanistan with the 10th Special Forces Group. Since then he’s been on two more tours in the ‘stans while you became the youngest partner ever at Fielding, Fitzpatrick and Associates. When your mom passed you inherited the house, where you currently reside.”
“Impressive,” our guest admitted. Deek’s digital insights always had a way of putting people off their game but it didn’t rattle our guest. Given her reaction I could have just read her the five-day weather forecast. Our Mrs. Meadows was definitely one cool customer. I went on.
“You were undoubtedly sent here by Detective Johansen about your husband, missing since Thursday, and wanted in connection with an armed robbery gone bad at the bonded warehouse where he worked at the Fort Lauderdale Airport.”
“You definitely save a lot of conversation,” she observed.
“Besides your husband, there is an insured package valued at $65 million missing
from the warehouse. Since we’re dealing with a homicide at an international airport that makes it the jurisdiction of the FBI. I’m sure they have some questions for your husband about that package and his dead partner.”
“Donald would never hurt anyone,” she said defensively, the icy exterior thawing a tiny bit at the mention of her husband. “I know he didn’t have anything to do with that robbery. Detective Johansen said you could help.”
“We may be able to,” I agreed. “Any idea what might have been in that insured package?”
“The agents might have mentioned something about bearer bonds...something like that.”
“Bearer bonds?” I asked. “Now there’s a term I haven’t heard in a while. Who even uses those anymore?” The U.S. hadn’t issued bearer bonds since the 80s. You couldn’t redeem them here without going through a lot of paperwork. In the world of electronic exchange her husband went off the rails to steal something akin to clay tablets dried in the sun that he had little hope of redeeming in this country.
“The Feds aren’t giving me a lot of information,” she apologized. “It might have something to do with Panama...I heard one of the agents say something like that.”
“That’s damn peculiar,” I observed. Some Panamanian banks still issued bearer shares for local corporations but not usually in amounts that large. It was an odd way of moving cash and even more peculiar that the transfer would be made through a U.S. airport. Unfortunately those questions would have to wait. “I should warn you that missing persons cases rarely have a satisfying outcome.”
“When people disappear,” Q spoke for the first time, “we either find small pieces or a whole person who doesn’t want to be found and usually doesn’t want to come back.”
“It’s an unpleasant business,” I said trying to smooth over Q’s rough edges. “We usually don’t take them because they’re messy and we don’t like messy.”
“Usually?” she inquired.
“Usually there’s not $65 million in a recovery.”
“That’s what you call it?” She smiled the lion smile of the youngest partner at a prestigious law firm full of stuffy old white men. “A recovery?” It was clear she found the idea amusing at some level.
“We have a specific way of classifying our jobs,” I explained. “If it’s on land, it’s a recovery. If it’s in the water, it’s a salvage. It’s what we do. Find what’s lost and get it back.”
“And Detective Johansen said your fee is usually quite high...he said half,” she pressed.
“Most times,” I agreed, “but you can’t promise us half of the $65 million and the insurance company won’t part with that kind of recovery fee. That’s why you came to offer us the $82,721 you have in savings and your IRA, and you probably also brought the deed on your house, which you now own free and clear.”
She pulled a folder from her briefcase. “I can see Detective Johansen was right about you --”
“Why don’t you just hold on to the deed for right now, Mrs. Meadows,” I said gently. “We’re not in the habit of taking houses from distraught families of the missing.”
“That would be kinda creepy,” Q agreed.
“Then how would we pay you?” That was the lawyer in her asking with the clarity of someone who is keenly aware that every favor in her world carries a price tag.
“Let’s not worry about it right now, Councilor,” I smiled. “For the moment we’ll call it a favor for Detective Johansen. We do favors for the local police occasionally.”
“I thought the FBI had jurisdiction?” she queried.
“We do favors for them, too,” Q added, “and a few other government agencies.”
“Favors,” she scoffed. “Do I want to know?”
“Oh, no” I said gently. “You really don’t want to know and we’re not at liberty to discuss it in any event.”
“Then why would you help us...Donnie and I...we’re not rich or all that well connected,” she used a familiar name for her husband for the first time.
“We have our reasons,” was all I gave her. “Besides, the Feds are probably going to solve this before we can do much.”
“If I can get to him first,” she pointed out, “we might be able to find out what happened and get Don a better deal.”
“That’s smart,” I agreed. “Once the Feds get a hold of him it’ll be a tougher case. Mrs. Meadows, do you have any idea why your husband would do something like this?”
“None,” she said flatly. “Donnie’s never done anything even remotely illegal.”
“Well, alright then,” I said letting the question drop, “it’s time for us to do our thing.” Q and I stood together, signaling the meeting was over.
“Please find my husband,” she said standing, trying to slide the deed to the house back into her briefcase. “I can give you my number --”
At that moment her cellphone rang, she slid a slick new smartphone out of the side of the briefcase and looked at the display with a wry smile.
“It says it’s you,” she said with a shake of her head, wiping the display with a practiced swipe of her finger. “That’s supposedly my private work line, I also have a personal--” She was interrupted by a beep from another pocket in her briefcase; she scowled looking at the message.
“It’s from you and says, ‘Show me your tits.” Anger flashed across the grey eyes.
Q and I exchanged shocked glances. “I sincerely apologize, Mrs. Meadows. Our communication specialist has a perverse and highly inappropriate sense of humor. He had an accident. There were...some complications.”
“Hey, I did not send that!” the voice in my head protested, “and what do you mean by ‘complications’?”
“You pig!” the other voice condemned.
“I sincerely apologize for that message,” I said reassuringly. “Rest assured he’ll be severely reprimanded. We’ll do our best to find Mr. Meadows and bring him home.”
She shrugged off the distaste. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, with the slightest brush of her hand on my arm.
“No need for that, we’ll be in touch,” I said with all the warmth I could muster and ignoring the brush. Q and I both walked our guest to the sliding doors leading out to the sheltered rear deck. She made her way down the steps with practiced grace and headed off down the dock with the same forward focus as she arrived.
“Boss, I swear to god I did not send that text,” Deek’s protest almost sounded hurt, even though that was just the kind of stunt we’ve grown to expect from him.
“I know,” I admitted. “I sent it from my tablet.”
I got a chorus of “What?” in my earpiece and Q’s eyebrows went up a notch, the closest thing to emotion I’ve come to expect from him.
“Well, she had a great rack, tell me you didn’t want a peek,” I countered.
Q got what I call the “what-the-fuck” look. A subtle raise of the eyebrows coupled with a slight frown and a movement of his head back and to one side.
“Ha!” Deek barked, while nothing but a stony, brooding silence from the other voice in my head.
“She does have a nice rack,” I insisted, “but I really wanted to see how she’d react to the message.”
“Seems it was about what you’d expect,” Q observed.
“Not quite,” I countered. “She acted like someone who gets a message like that every day.”
“Just because she didn’t break out in tears?” V finally found her voice.
“If she had I would certainly have apologized with more passion, maybe even have fired Deek.”
“Hey!” Deek protested.
“He’s kidding,” Q deadpanned.
“At least now we know who our client really is,” I explained.
“Boss?” Q asked. We were having one of those strange moments in modern communication when we were looking at one another but actually having a group conversation.
“Oh, come on, she’s not our client,” I explained. “Whatever is going on here, she’s
most definitely part of it.”
“You got all that from ‘Show me your tits’?” Q questioned.
“She’s not our client but her husband is,” I continued. “We need to find him before the police do and definitely before she does. He’s in real danger.”
“How do we find him?” Q pressed.
“Not ‘we’, ‘you’,” I corrected. “You need to find him and soon. If the cops or the Mrs. get to him first, Donald Meadows is a dead man.”
Q opened his mouth to protest but I cut him off, we didn’t have a lot of time for hand holding. “You and Deek figure it out,” I continued. “You’ve both been through the same Escape and Evasion training he got. You know what he’s going to do.”
“A lot of the Feds have that same training,” Q observed.
“Certainly and I’m surprised they haven’t found him already. That means he’s getting help from someone, likely one of his old Army buddies.”
“You don’t go to someone you knew casually running from the FBI,” Q mulled. “That’s too much heat. It would have to be someone he was in the shit with, someone who owed him.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “Deek, limit the service records search to only those he served with in a combat zone, that are from this area and out of the service.”
“The cops will be working through the same list,” Deek observed.
“That’s right, but it will take them longer,” I countered. “You two better get a move on. Find our run away Sergeant and get him back here and I’ll have Mack stash him offshore.”
“What about me?” V asked.
“The plane is waiting for you, my dear,” I informed her. “As much as I hate to tear you away from your little piece of heaven we’re going to need you back up here.” I really did hate to call her back, it was the first vacation V had in nearly two years.
“See you in 8 hours,” V acknowledged. “Off comm,” she said, clicking off. If she resented being called back so abruptly, she didn’t show it.
“What about you?” Deek inquired.
“Me? I’m going to get a beer and sit out on the open deck until the police get here,” I quipped happily. “I’m going off comm, Deek, message me on the cell” I said, slipping out my earpiece and clicking off.
The Rogue Horse Recovery: Book One of the Recovery and Marine Salvage Inc Series (Recovery and Marine Salvage, Inc.) Page 1