“How did you end up being the one on the deck drinking beer?” Q questioned.
“Rank,” I grinned.
“We don’t have ranks,” Q reminded me as I pulled a fresh and frosty beer out of the fridge.
“Bring that up at the next board meeting,” I suggested, twisting the top off and turning back to the sliding door.
“We don’t have board meetings, either,” Q called after me.
“I’ll look into that,” I promised over my shoulder.
2
THE WEATHER WAS gorgeous and lounging around on the patio deck of the MP did turn out to be the plum duty assignment of the day. I was well into my second beer in the gentle comfort of the MP’s sheltered deck when I was gripped by the idea to call Q back to the boat, drop the case and head for the Keys. We had more money than we could spend in five lifetimes, we didn’t have to do this anymore and the temptation to walk away right at that moment was nearly overwhelming. I had to remind myself that there was a reason I didn’t sit around a lot. When I sit around it reminds of a bad time when there was months of sitting around and I start getting a little crazy.
In truth it was getting harder to keep going, even in our new, mostly legitimate business. We had been out of our original line of work for nearly three years. The idea of what we originally became was born in the wholesale monitoring and intelligence bonanza that happened in the wake of 9/11. It took the moral ambiguity of a new breed of government bureaucrat who was fine with the means if it produced the ends to fashion the concept into reality. At first it was a small team and a couple small recovery jobs and, in just months, it blossomed into an enterprise scale operation. The government supplied the targets and support intelligence, we supplied the recoveries and the money flowed in by the truck load. The cash came in bales and bricks, shrink wrapped on pallets; sometimes neat, cleaned and pressed, other times hurriedly stuffed in bags. We took our cut, they got theirs and it was all so far under the radar that everyone who worked with us just assumed we were part of some new anti-terrorism task force.
Looking back it was easy to see the confluence of forces that made us successful. The threat of terrorism, the explosion of monitoring and intelligence gathering, the secrecy --every goddamn thing was suddenly classified. It was the perfect environment for us to grow and flourish. We operated for years and when the new administration took over I was genuinely surprised when we didn’t get shut down right away. After the first couple years the number of recoveries started to decline and gradually the organization dwindled down to what we were today. We were never officially sanctioned so we were never officially decommissioned. The various agencies we worked for didn’t take the access we had away but we weren’t automatically included when new systems came on line. Instead of putting us out of our misery our access became more and more limited.
Our numbers thinned but the cash we brought in financed a new corporate infrastructure that was almost as powerful in some ways, more powerful in others. We went corporate just as the world moved away from individual liberty and sold out to their new big business overlords. We still did a lot of work for the government, but the jobs were different and many agencies were able to expand their own resources on the ground to the point they didn’t need outside help.
For the time being one of our old government customers would still own us if we ran afoul of local law enforcement. That was likely more out of fear we might start talking but we were definitely more careful when it came to the local cops these days. Someday the powers that be would stop worrying about what we could tell the local cops or the press and, instead of a call back, we’d get burned. Maybe they were just hoping we’d retire quietly.
Yet, here we were, rolling downhill on another job instead of crushing beer cans and talking minor league baseball at the Green Parrot in Key West. Part of that was a calculation that if we quit working completely, we’d lose our edge and there were still people out there plenty unhappy about the old days. Then there was that problem about sitting around.
Before I could start wallowing in the past again I noticed a familiar car pulling into the parking lot. Minus my earpiece Deek used my cellphone to send me a message about the new arrival.
BAD BOYS, BAD BOYS
The message was the beginning of the song that used to introduce a popular reality TV show about the police. Great, now I’d have that damn song stuck in my head the rest of the day.
I watched Detective Douglas Johansen make his way up the dock out of the corner of my eye. In his early 40’s, trim and athletic, he wore a Navy blue polo shirt tucked neatly into khaki slacks. A slightly fatter than normal belt carried a gold badge just forward of an older model Glock 17. With his sandy hair cut with military precision and aviator sunglasses he had the kind of deep, even Florida tan people who spend their free time out on the water possess. Only the slightest bit of pudge around the middle gave away his age, otherwise he had the rugged yet civilized good looks that had gotten him into and out of two marriages. There was no way Johansen would ever make it as an undercover cop, he positively radiated law enforcement.
Watcha gonna do when dey come for you…
I took another pull off my beer and tried to ignore the song playing in my head.
“Hello there!” he said. “Permission to come aboard!”
“Oh, hey, Doug! Get on up here, you old sea dog,” I joked. Unlike our previous guest, Detective Johansen had boat manners and would never step aboard another person’s boat without permission, or a search warrant, depending on the situation.
I rose to accept the finger-crushing handshake. His hands were another telltale sign of both his age and career. Big, knotty hands with lots of scars, particularly around the knuckles, spoke to a lifetime of dealing with people who didn’t want to be arrested. Like most cops he still wore a watch, in his case one of those fat diver’s watches.
“I figured you’d be turning up,” I quipped. “Get you a beer?”
“I shouldn’t,” he protested. “On duty.”
“You plan on shooting anyone today?”
“Not really,” He smiled, showing a couple crooked teeth and one topped with a gold cap, evidence that not everyone who didn’t want to be arrested was always on the receiving end.
I picked up the intercom phone. “Jennifer, bring us a couple beers, please,” and then hung up.
We made small talk for a couple minutes until Jennifer came up from below decks with a pair of cold beers and two frosted mugs. I didn’t have to look to know she was there, Johansen’s gaze flicked over to her, not that I could blame him.
Jennifer was 5’9 of leggy 28 year old fresh Florida native. Her medium-length strawberry blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was lean and muscular with the kind of muscle definition that spoke to hours she put in at the gym and the hours she put in surfing and paddle boarding afterwards. Despite the lean physique, she was genetically blessed to still be soft and round in all the right places. Like everyone we employ, Jennifer had excelled at self-defense training we used to thin the herd of prospective candidates. Her instructors said she fought with fearless abandon and, by all accounts, she fucked the same way. Since her boobs were so firm and round, she rarely felt the need to contain them with anything other than a bikini top and then only on public beaches. The curve of her crew top only served to whisper at the wonder of the goodies underneath. Her shorts capped long legs that ended in an ass that swished a siren song of delight. Johansen was clearly impressed.
“Afternoon,” he said brightly.
“Detective,” she acknowledged, gracing him with her best Florida ray-of-sunshine smile. “It’s good to see you. Anything else you gentleman need?” she asked, turning the sunshine my way.
“We’re good, Jen, thank you. That’ll be all,” I said in dismissal.
The smile never dimmed as she picked up my empty and headed back below, Johansen’s gaze following the world class ass all way down the stairs.
“Now that’s my idea of
a crew,” he said appreciatively, ignoring the frosty mug and hauling a pull from the stubby brown bottle of the Jamaican beer that was particularly popular here in Florida.
Every rotation had at least one crewman distractingly good looking and for no other reason than, for what we were paying, we could be selective about who we hired. Jennifer, one of our better hires, had been with us four years.
“She makes this boat look good,” I agreed. “So,” I said, quickly changing the topic. “What’s your interest in Mrs. Meadows? This case has federal jurisdiction.”
He blanched at the change of subject that pulled him back from his fantasies involving Jennifer. “Just trying to help out a fellow vet,” he said, taking a sudden interest a loose corner of the beer bottle label. “The Mrs. did some pro-bono work for some of the military families in town...contracts and such...I just figured--”
“Just figured if you could get to him before the Feds, you can wrap up the case for the FBI and Mrs. Meadows will be eternally grateful while her husband does a deuce in the federal pen,” I finished for him.
“It’s not like that,” he countered defensively.
“I’m just messing with you, Doug,” I said less sharply. “Honestly, he might get a better deal if his wife’s high-powered law firm gets to him before the Feds can hide him away somewhere.”
“What I figured,” he said, somewhat more relaxed. “Hey, I appreciate you all helping out, even though I still haven’t figured out exactly what it is you do...or did.”
“And you never will,” I assured. “Believe me, it’s better that way.”
He grunted and took another pull at his beer. Our relationship with the local cops had a long and sometimes difficult history. After the second time the locals tried hauling us in for questioning, one person was let go from the department, two more ended up with black marks on their service records. After that we were untouchable; not so much as a parking ticket. Then we dropped a couple high profile cases into their collective laps, the kind of arrests that lead to promotions and career advancements, one of which belonged to the man in front of me. After that we reached an uneasy truce with the department. We did them the occasional favor on a tough case and they kept their questions and quiet suspicions to themselves. Luckily for all the parties involved, we didn’t come around as much these days.
“So,” he began after a few moments of savoring the breeze and beer, “you have any leads yet?”
“Not yet,” I answered honestly. “We’ve only been on the case a couple hours.”
That got a smile. “I know,” he grinned, “it’s just the last time --”
“We solved the case in an afternoon,” I finished for him. “But the time before that it was two days. Maybe we set some unreasonable expectations; we got lucky.”
“I was kinda hoping you’d get lucky this time,” he said easily. “Ah, fuck it. The Feds are going to find him first anyway and the whole thing is going to turn into a giant jurisdictional clusterfuck.”
“Always does when the Feds are involved.”
“Not for you,” he pointed out.
That was also true, but less so today than just a few years ago. The reality was that Homeland Security was turning into a giant pain in the ass and we were spending more time and company resources staying ahead of their bullshit and off their radar. They couldn’t stop two shitheads from some dirt water craphole from setting off bombs at the Boston Marathon but they could make us broaden our corporate structure and spend a crapload of staff time on identity management.
“Even we don’t dick with the FBI.” I offered my guest a less nuanced truth.
Another grunt, another pull on the beer bottle. “It was a long shot,” he sighed.
“We’ll do our best,” I said reassuringly.
“I should head back,” he said rising to go. “Appreciate your help.”
The second handshake was a little less bone crushing.
“No problem. I’ll let you know as soon as there’s anything to report.”
I watched him amble back down the dock, a good cop just two years away from a pension going out on a limb to help a fellow vet. At least that was the story he was selling, we’d find out the truth soon enough.
A few minutes later my cell chirped the arrival of our next set of guests. A non-descript government sedan turned into the parking lot and two men and a woman got out of the car. This meeting wasn’t going to be nearly as much fun.
It took the trio a minute to orient themselves and figure out which boat was the correct one. A minute later they were headed up the dock, an older but well-sculpted man a half-step in front of the woman, the younger and larger man bringing up the rear. You didn’t need to be psychic to read this bunch, they were depressingly Government Issue.
LOADED FOR BEAR
Deek’s text came a few steps after they passed the crates on the dock. That meant a primary weapon and backup piece for each of them. That was quite a lot of firepower for people who spend most of their career behind a desk filling out paperwork. I left my comfortable perch on the back deck and decided to meet them on the dock. I didn’t have time for this, didn’t like them and they weren’t getting on my goddamn boat.
The Big Cheese with political hair and expensive jacket reached for his ID. “I’m--”
“Don’t bother,” I cut him off. “Your names don’t matter. You,” I said pointing to him, ”are definitely FBI headquarters in D.C., you,” I gestured to the woman, “you’re something else, maybe some interagency cooperation thing--or something like that, and junior back there is local FBI field office.”
He started to say something else but I just plunged ahead. “You’re here to tell me that if we find anything you expect me to bring it to you right away and that’s a waste of breath. If I was going to tell you, I’d tell you. If I decided not to, there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. And, even though both of these people told you it would be a waste of time, you still decided to come down here and show me how they do things up in D.C.”
He flushed crimson as the woman, a muscular but attractive lady in her mid-30s, let out an involuntary chuckle. Their entire career in law enforcement was learning how to control situations and interviews and this one was definitely not going by the script.
“Who do you think you are?” he flustered. The boss was not used to being challenged and didn’t like it one bit.
“Oh, simmer down,” I continued. “The only reason you’re even down here in the first place is you two are having an affair,” I nodded at the woman.
He flushed startled recognition, she laughed and the younger FBI agent looked uncomfortable.
“Hey, it’s alright. It works for you because the wife never gets wind of it...not that she’d care...and the lady here gets her next step up the ladder. And the sex is good.”
“It’s okay,” she corrected.
He directed his surprised expression her way and his jaw line tightened. If he didn’t like being challenged, he liked people ganging up on him even less.
“So here’s what you can do,” I softened my own tone a bit. “You can walk away in a huff, determined you’re going to find out who that son of a bitch is. You’ll make a couple phone calls, do some computer searches and ten minutes later your phone will ring from someone way above your pay grade telling you to back off. You can either have a passive-aggressive little fit and do that or determine to keep digging on your own time and end up losing your job. If you get canned you’ll also lose your house in Falls Church and the trophy wife. Then you’ll end up working for a private security company at about half what you’re making now, minus what the wife gets.”
I could almost see the gears turning. “The way I see it you can either let this go and go home with this delightful creature and get your dick sucked, or you can start down the road to ruining your career and this lively she-devil will have to find another way to fuck her way to the top. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I added hastily. “I wouldn’t re
spect you if you were fucking your way to the middle,” I said to her.
“Good to know,” she had wolfish smile with one slightly crooked tooth.
“Well, there it is. Dick sucked or end of career. Up to you. You have anything on your mind, son?” I asked the junior FBI agent in back.
“Nah, I’m good,” he said quickly.
“Good man. Well, there it is. We’re done here.”
And with that I turned and headed up the steps of the MP. My cell phone chirped a message the second I was out of earshot. I’m sure Deek had heard the entire conversation; the cameras on the MP were all fitted with directional mics.
ANOTHER GUEST
Fuck, this was getting tedious and the beer was making me sleepy. Deek attached a frame grab from the security camera that showed a slender Hispanic man in his late 20s. He was watching from the shady area of the parking lot, waiting until the Feds left.
At least whoever he was had the sense to obey the number one rule of parking in Florida: Always park in the shade. He leaned over the driver’s side window and I could make out another person in the car, someone larger and more angular. Apparently he told him to wait there because as soon as the government sedan wheeled out of the parking lot he struck out alone our direction.
He was lucky it was still early and shy of the full heat of the day or he would have been sweating through that shirt before he got to the dock. He was seriously overdressed for the waterfront and he looked uncomfortable and out of place. He was out of his element on this particular errand; uncomfortable in both dress and decorum. As he got closer I could see that though he was slender, there was an underlying quickness and efficiency to his movements. He was meticulously groomed, hair slicked back from his narrow face and he sported a gold watch that was way above the average person’s pay grade. My phone beeped.
LITTLE GUY, BIG GUN
Of all our visitors today he was the only one to give the odd crates along the dock a second look. Well, at least this one was interesting and he was careful. Generally I liked careful people. Being careful makes people reasonable and predictable, two characteristics I could work with. I went down to meet him; this guy obviously didn’t spend much time around boats.
The Rogue Horse Recovery: Book One of the Recovery and Marine Salvage Inc Series (Recovery and Marine Salvage, Inc.) Page 2