The Rogue Horse Recovery: Book One of the Recovery and Marine Salvage Inc Series (Recovery and Marine Salvage, Inc.)

by Chris Poindexter

  “At the elevator,” Amber announced after a minute. “Here we go.”

  “Deek?” I waited until Amber was shielded inside the elevators.

  “Mrs. is in the office,” he confirmed. “Her car’s in the garage and there’s an unmarked car out on the street.”

  Q and I panned our binoculars around to look. The garage roof wasn’t the best vantage and we were a bit exposed.

  “Two o’clock,” Q pointed out.

  They were parked up the street in a non-descript Ford Crown Vic, the choice of local PDs everywhere. They weren’t wearing suits.

  “Locals?” Q wondered out loud.

  “Maybe some joint task force,” I guessed. When the feds needed boots on the ground for routine stuff they could pull personnel from local departments.

  “Definitely not the A team.”

  That was for sure. This pair was called in for manpower. That meant the Feds had given up on Donnie contacting his wife but still had to cover the base.

  “Okay, here we go,” Amber announced.

  We shifted our view back up to the office and could just make out Amber pushing her way through the big glass doors. She had opted for stick of chewing gum in the elevator and let some of the old New York accent creep into her voice.

  “Package for...Marissa Meadows,” she told the receptionist, looking at her electronic pad.

  “I can sign for it,” the girl offered.

  “Not this one,” Amber countered. “It’s chain of custody. Has to be signed for by the named recipient.”

  “Look...Beth,” the receptionist read her uniform tag, “nobody told me about a chain of custody delivery. I sign for things all the time here.” She was not giving up her position of petty power without a fight.

  Amber pulled out a yellow pad. “This,” she began in her best gum-smacking Brooklyn accent, “is a pick up receipt. The recipient can stop by the hub and pick it up in person after 4 pm. Remind her to bring photo ID.” Amber peeled off the receipt with practiced ease and started packing up to go.

  “Wait,” the receptionist sighed. She obviously didn’t like being bested by this grubby delivery driver in duty pants and thick soled boots. “Third door on the right down the hall,” she said pointing at the only hallway in the office. “Come right back here.”

  “Shu-a,” Amber agreed and we lost sight of her as she ambled across the reception area and down the hall. A moment later she knocked and stuck her head in the door.

  “Chain of custody delivery, ma’am,” she said, laying on the Brooklyn. “You Marissa Meadows?”

  “Yes,” we could hear Mrs. Meadows confirm, “but I’m not working on any criminal cases. You sure you have the right office?”

  “That’s what it says here,” Amber showed her the ruggedized tablet she was carrying. “If you don’t wanna sign I can take it back.”

  “No...give it here,” Mrs. Meadows agreed in exasperation. She scrawled her signature on the tablet and Amber handed over the package. Mrs. Meadows was about to tear it open on the spot when Amber interrupted her.

  “There were special instructions with this package, ma’am,” she pointed to the comments on the receipt. “It says to open outside.”

  “Outside?” Mrs. Meadows questioned.

  “That’s what it says,” Amber confirmed, turning to go. “Customer adds those special instructions,” she continued. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

  “See ya,” Amber snipped at the receptionist on the way by who gave her a look reserved for the bums who try to clean your windshield for a dollar at stop lights.

  “I’m clear,” Amber announced when she climbed back in the truck. “God I was so nervous I was afraid she was going to recognize me,” Amber breathed.

  Q and I exchanged the look as we headed back to the car.

  “Why would she recognize you?” I asked, suddenly concerned.

  “Because we had sex one time,” Amber stated flatly, the sound of the truck engine revving and gears grinding in the background. “I was afraid she was going to recognize me.”

  10

  Q AND I said, “What?!” at the same time.

  “Boo-ya!” Deek exclaimed, clearly enjoying that visual.

  “Ha!” was Vs response.

  “Goddamn this thing’s a sow,” Amber complained about the truck.

  “Boss,” Q interrupted pointing up at the office windows. The unmistakable figure of Mrs. Meadows was at the front desk.

  “Dammit,” I breathed.

  “What’s wrong?” Amber asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “You did fine,” I snapped. “Take the truck back and get to the office as fast as you can.” The revelation about Mrs. Meadows would have to wait.

  “Okay,” Amber replied, “on my way.”

  Mrs. Meadows pushed her way through the big office doors.

  “Shit! Is she going up or down?” I asked, fumbling for my binoculars.

  “Can’t see,” Q strained to get an angle. “Wait...up! She’s headed for the roof.”

  “Deek?” I asked.

  “Almost ready,” he said calmly. “Routing the call now.”

  “Is Jenn ready on the boat?” This was all happening too fast.

  “Standing by,” he informed me. “What do we do?”

  If Mrs. Meadows recognized Amber we were blown. Deek wanted to know if we went ahead with the plan or pull back and regroup.

  “She’s on the roof,” Q pointed out. “Now or never.”

  All the options swirled around in my head, all bad. “Make the call,” I decided.

  Mrs. Meadows struggled tearing open the thick package. Her hair kept blowing in front of her face and she had to turn so it blew the other way. Like almost every package in the world the easy open tab had been seemingly engineered to tear off after about an inch. Mrs. Meadows tried to work the tiny opening with her French manicured nails, clearly annoyed at herself for not bringing a letter opener. The package finally gave way and Mrs. Meadows pulled out a small clamshell phone.

  “Now, Deek!”

  We couldn’t hear it but we could see Mrs. Meadows jump when the phone rang.

  “Just like in the movies. That never gets old,” I smiled at Q. “Patch us in,” I said to the air.

  Mrs. Meadows let the phone ring a couple times, looking around tentatively before opening the phone like it was a pit viper about to bite her.

  “Hello?” she said tentatively.

  “Don’t say my name.” Those were Donnie Meadows first words to his wife in over a week.

  “D…” She almost said his name anyway, but caught herself. “Baby...where are you?” she asked, looking around at the neighboring buildings. Q and I were far enough way she couldn’t see us but we involuntarily slid down in our seats anyway.

  “I’m safe,” Donnie Meadows informed her.

  “Baby, what happened?” she implored. “The police said something about some stolen bonds or something.”

  “Lady gets right down to business,” Q observed.

  “That she does,” Amber chimed in.

  “Little tense here,” I reminded her.

  “Sorry.”

  “Not over the phone,” Donnie Meadows insisted, fortunately shielded from the chatter in our earpieces. He was calm, focused and sticking to the script. I could see Jennifer sitting across from him writing notes on what he should say having been previously briefed by Deek.

  “Meet me tonight at this address.” Donnie read her the address and time. “Make sure you’re not followed and pack enough clothes for a few days.”

  “Donnie, what’s going on?” she pleaded, forgetting the admonition about using his name.

  “I’ll explain it all tonight,” he said. “Now ditch the phone.” And with that the line went dead.

  Marissa Meadows looked at the now unless device in her hand took one last look over the cityscape stretching out below, contemplating what to do.

  “She’ll go see the boss next,” I wagered. “How are our law enf
orcement friends doing?”

  Q panned over to check. “Still there,” he reported. “Bored as ever.”

  “So far so good,” I breathed. “Come on, Mrs. M.”

  Finally Mrs. Meadows put the phone back in the package and dropped it in one of the trash cans next to the picnic tables that were there for employee lunches and went back inside to the roof atrium where the elevators stopped. We lost her when she stepped inside.

  A moment later she pushed through the heavy office doors and made straight for the big office.

  “There we go!” I love being right.

  She spoke briefly with the receptionist. The curtains blocked our view to the big guy’s office but it was obvious he wasn’t there. Mrs. M and the receptionist spoke for another minute and the secretary passed her a folder. Mrs. Meadows flipped through the documents in the folder, tucked it under her arm and proceeded back to her office. A few minutes later she left the office. It would have been nice to tail her but we didn’t have the manpower. Besides, we already had a good guess where she was going.

  “This is interesting,” Deek cut in, “the Mrs. left her phones behind.”

  While that was a surprise for us it was an even bigger surprise for her law enforcement shadows who noticed Mrs. Meadows’ Audi leaving the garage only after it came out of the garage headed away from them. Clearly startled, the pair scrambled to give chase but they were behind, traffic was heavy and the Mrs. had a quick, nimble car compared to the banana boat Crown Vic.

  “Should I help her?” Deek asked, wondering if he should create some traffic distractions for them to deal with.

  “Nah, let ‘em go,” I replied. “It’ll be more of an accomplishment if she loses them on her own.”

  They were quickly lost to our sight but Deek could follow them on the traffic cams.

  “Girl’s got skill,” Deek observed. “She’s headed south on Flagler.”

  While it would be tempting to jump across the bridge to Palm Beach, a winding maze of narrow streets lined with tall hedges, there were only a limited number of bridges back to land. Mrs. Meadows sped south on Flagler, then cut back into the older neighborhood around the university district. Even Deek lost her there as there weren’t as many traffic lights and traffic cam coverage is sparse.

  “Damn, lost her,” he said after a minute. “She’s good.”

  “Probably planned that route,” I observed. If she was really good she’d have another car stashed somewhere private where she could make the switch.

  “Where’s our guest?” I asked as Q and I headed back to the MP for some lunch.

  “Water taxi picked him up,” Deek replied. “We’ll slot him up at The Mirage for some rack time. Jen’s escorting the package and Fred is on the move.”

  “Good to know,” Q agreed. The MP would make a nice distraction if the feds got nosey but its fiberglass hull wasn’t much use if bullets were involved. The big, metal slab sides of The Star would be much better cover if things got tense and it had a wet ramp that could launch and recover inflatable runabouts.

  “Asshole!” Amber swore over the comm system, the sound of the truck horn blaring in the background. “Needle dick bug fucker!”

  Q and I chuckled in spite of ourselves.

  11

  WITH JENNIFER ATTENDING to Donnie Meadows Q and I were reduced to being our own galley slaves.

  “How does she find anything in here?” I complained while searching for sandwich ingredients.

  “At least the beer’s easy to find,” Q said happily. Jennifer stocked a variety of domestic and imported beers all neatly stacked on one side of the cooler.

  “Think the Mrs. made it?” he asked, popping the top on a Fat Tire.

  “Out of our hands at this point,” I observed, finally finding a wrapped package of sliced beef. I added that to pile of bread, cheese and a jar of mayo already on the counter.

  “I know how that bothers you,” Q said with a grin.

  “I miss the old days,” I reminisced while organizing the ingredients for my sandwich. “The days we could control the situation. A few years ago we would have bugged the big guy’s house, had a team following Mrs. Meadows and have a dozen people backing us up at the warehouse plus drone surveillance.”

  “And now--”

  “Now it’s like wrecking a building and trying to pull out just the pieces we want as it’s collapsing.”

  “It’s a little better than that,” Q pointed out.

  “Not much,” I mulled. “Hey, we’re moving.”

  At that moment the MP’s big diesels came alive. Only the slightest sensation of motion was noticeable as one of the hanging pans swayed almost imperceptibly. We had been here too long and Mack was moving us closer to the meet location. We opted for one of Fred’s old warehouses south of Fort Lauderdale. The neighboring buildings gave V a clear vantage of the parking lot, it was on the water and Fred would be able to give us cover from that side. The downside was V would have no shot on the south side of the building if trouble came from that direction. Fortunately it was all swamp south of the narrow channel and there was only one road in and out. It wasn’t perfect but at least it was home court.

  It would take the bulky MP about three hours to make the trip and we were assuming the Feds were tracking her. We would meet at the public marina just north of the warehouse. Jennifer would bring Donnie to meet the boat and we’d send the MP out to sea on a wild goose chase. Fred had moved The Star to his marina where she fit right in with the other industrial ships there for service. Q was right, we weren’t deep but it wasn’t bad and we had the element of surprise.

  The galley phone rang.

  “Galley,” I answered.

  “I think we’re being followed,” Mack reported. “FDW boat hugging the shoreline with at least six people on board.”

  Since we weren’t out fishing I couldn’t think of any good reasons for the Florida Department of Wildlife would be tailing us. Mack was always gentle through manatee zones and a careful skipper.

  “Keep an eye on them,” I instructed. “If they get any closer let me know.”

  “Company?” Q inquired.

  “Half a dozen people on an FDoW cruiser,” I informed him.

  Q sniffed the air, “I smell bacon.”

  “Bacon! Great idea!” Jennifer always kept cold bacon handy for salads and sandwiches and I found a plastic container with half-pieces hiding behind a bag of lettuce.

  “I meant the boat,” he clarified, “but give me a piece while you have it out.” Q skipped the bread and rolled a piece of bacon inside a piece of cheese and wrapped both in a piece of sliced beef.

  We ate our sandwiches standing, washing it down with beer. The MP started to roll a bit as we got out in the channel and the wind hit her tall, slab sides.

  No doubt the Feds were hitching a lift from the FDW boat; the timing would be about right. The inlet would be too choppy for the small boat tailing us so they’d pass it off to the Coast Guard. They would obey the “no board” order but it would raise a lot of questions. Maybe not official questions, but they didn’t need to be official to be a pain in the ass. All it would take is one officer calling a school buddy at headquarters and asking if they knew anything. One question leads to another; friend calling friend, each step leaving another confused person in its wake. They would get answers but never clear ones. People may complain about government workers and there was some truth to the stereotype but there were also a lot of dedicated people who were surprisingly good at their jobs. The confusing answers would lead to more people asking more questions. Our covers were good but they weren’t deep. Too many people asking questions would be a bad thing.

  “Uh-oh, I’ve seen that look before,” Q advised me.

  “We’re going to take some time off after this one,” I said through a mouthful of beef sandwich.

  “How long?” he asked, taking a bite of his meat, cheese and bacon sandwich.

  “Months,” I said after considering the options. “We n
eed to pack Amber off for training, maybe recruit a few more. I don’t like how short our bench is right now and there are too many people asking questions.”

  The MP pitched forward as we hit a big wave, big enough to cause our beers to slide on the metal galley counter. When the tide was changing the inlet could get really choppy. While it wasn’t a problem for a boat the size of ours, the little FDW boat with six people on board would be a different story.

  The galley phone rang.

  “Joe’s Pizza,” I said wryly.

  My sense of humor never flustered Mack. “Our friends are hanging back,” he advised me. “The inlet is too rough for their party boat. Looks like we passed off our guest off just in time.”

  As if to punctuate his comment the MP heeled up and slammed into a wave hard enough to rattle the dishes safely stowed in special marine shelving. I hung up and just managed to grab my beer bottle before it hit the lip on the counter.

  “Now they’ll be hitting up the Coast Guard for a favor,” I pointed out. “And then it will be the Broward County Sheriff. This is getting out of hand.”

  My cellphone chirped.

  SAT MSG was the text. That meant Deek wasn’t comfortable using an unsecured line which probably meant someone in the boat or on shore was using an IMSI catcher, commonly called a Stingray, to monitor cell phones in the area. It didn’t take a psychic to figure out who was behind that.

  “Think they have a warrant?” Q asked, noting the look on my face.

  “Not yet,” I said uneasily, “but you can bet they’re working on it.”

  I picked up the galley phone.

  “Bridge,” came the crisp reply. Like most of our ship captains Mackey didn’t joke around much.

  “A message will be coming over the secure sat channel,” I informed him. “It’ll probably be mixed in with a bunch of business bullshit.”

  “Copy that,” he said. I could hear him talking to someone else. “Coming through now,” he informed.

  “On our way.”

  We made our unsteady way up to the main salon, the seas were running three to five with a brisk wind out of the east, causing even the MP to wallow a bit in the troughs. I heard the diesels run up and the MP surge into the waves. It would smooth out when we turned south but it was pretty choppy at the moment.