Wood's Wreck

by Steven Becker

  ***

  Mel was into her second pot of coffee and deep into the charter of the non-profit when Cayenne entered the office. She glanced at the corner of the computer screen and realized it was almost 3. Cayenne nodded hello as if it was 9 in the morning and went for her office.

  Most days she made a late appearance, her chest was lifted high and there was a swagger in her step. Today, her head was down. After seeing her sitting on Mac’s boat yesterday, she knew why. A night in jail would do that to you. She had been furious when she had seen her and it had taken all her patience to know that a confrontation then and there would not help Mac. What she needed to do was research. Mac could scout out the area and see if he could find out anything, but if she could prove that Cayenne’s non-profit was behind this it would put Mac in the clear.

  Her dad had always preached to her to follow the money, and she had helped with his construction company’s books through high school. Balance sheets and profit and loss statements were easy reading for her. This often gave her a distinct advantage in the legal world, where no matter how bright and witty her peers were, the ability to do simple addition was a rarity. And the numbers weren’t adding up.

  When she’d started having questions here, she’d done what she did best when things didn’t make sense— dug into the financial statements. Numbers were more truthful than people.

  The non-profit had been set up as a standard 501(c)(3). Nothing special there. An allowance for officers’ salaries had been spelled out in the charter. The state of the company’s books wasn’t surprising in itself; non-profits often had no business plan, and were after all charities, many set up as tax shelters for their founders.

  It all seemed to be above board in the beginning—several large grants and a gift from her father’s foundation had financed the first two years. But the third year, things had changed. The meager coral sales in the first two years had been recorded properly, but the expenses remained high and the business was operating in the red. Then the monthly deposits in cash started flowing in, with no paperwork to back them up, along with equally large withdrawals that almost matched the deposits. It looked like money laundering on the surface, but she wanted confirmation.

  The door opened and Cayenne walked out, looking defeated. “I’m going to get a drink. You want to come?”

  Mel knew that there would be more than one drink, and that this might give her the opportunity she needed. “No, thanks, but go ahead.”

  “You shouldn’t fuss about those numbers and legal stuff so much. We are doing good work here,” Cayenne said, and walked toward her bedroom.

  Mel put away the papers, not wanting to rouse suspicion, and went to the computer to check her email and wait. Before long, Cayenne emerged in a skimpy cocktail dress better suited for a twenty-year-old, the spaghetti straps barely holding her in. She said goodbye and Mel tried not to chuckle as she listened to the click clack of heels signaling her exit.

  Really, heels in Key West, she thought. It was the flip-flop capital of the world.

  She waited a few minutes after hearing the car start and pull out, then got up and went to Cayenne’s office. The desk drawers were open and she quickly rifled through them, finding nothing interesting. Next she went to the closet and saw a small safe attached to the floor. A quick tug on the handle confirmed it was locked.

  As she was about to turn away, she noticed a cardboard box marked ‘taxes.’ She pulled the box into the room, sat cross-legged on the floor, and started pulling out documents.

  Chapter 10

  The sun had just made its appearance when Jay spat in his mask and placed it over his head. A quick check of his gauges, and, with fins in hand, he stepped down the rungs of the ladder attached to the dock. His feet hit bottom and he reached over and put his fins on one at a time, then swept his arm around his right side and grabbed the regulator, stuck it in his mouth, and submerged.

  Sitting below the waist-deep water was a battery-powered scooter, which he lifted out of the sand. He squeezed the trigger and the small unit pulled him through the murky water of the lagoon, around the switchbacks, and into the open water of the Gulf. This part of the trip always seemed like a Disney ride as he passed twisted mangrove roots with fish darting through them. He checked his compass and changed direction, checking his watch to estimate the distance he would travel.

  He could have done this by muscle memory after so many trips, but even in the short distance to his destination, a few degrees off course and he would miss the traps. Surfacing was risky, as there were occasional boats in the area and it was unusual—but not unheard of—for the law to be prowling around out here.

  When his watch hit five minutes, he started to look around. The bottom was a desert covered in turtle grass, with a few small coral heads scattered throughout. In the distance, he could just make out the line to one of the mooring balls for the coral farm. He laughed into his mouthpiece, almost choking as he took in sea water, at Cayenne’s folly. But it provided the perfect cover for planting the casitas.

  Once a year, some alphabet agency came down and inspected the farm, allowing plenty of notice for him to move all the structures. Otherwise, the local law enforcement generally left the area alone. He reached the first line, checked his compass again and turned ninety degrees to the north. A minute later he came to the area where the casitas should have been and looked around. In the distance he saw an irregular object standing in the sand, and used the scooter to check it out.

  The trap was perpendicular to the sand, and empty. Alongside it was another, upside down on the bottom, and empty as well. He cursed into his mask knowing that someone had gotten into his traps. He had cut a deal with the desperate Cannady woman that had allowed him to place several traps in her coral farm and split the proceeds with her. They were lucrative, but he knew she was always desperate for cash. She was also the only one that knew about the traps and he suspected it was her that had cleaned them out.

  He went back to the mooring line, and took another bearing. The scooter took him to the second position a minute later and he relaxed as he saw the antennas sticking out of the concrete roof. One of the things the CIA had ingrained in him was redundant systems, and he applied this to everything he did, including poaching.

  He set the scooter in the sand and hovered over the bottom to approach the lightweight concrete slab elevated off the seabed with 4-inch cinder blocks. He unclipped two mesh bags and a tickle stick from his belt, and let all the air out of the BC. The negative buoyancy allowed him to hug the sand, and he got as low as he could, opened the bag, and stuck the stick into the structure.

  Some lobsters retreated backwards into the deeper part of the structure, but the ones in range of the stick turned and swam tail first into the open bag. He guessed there were at least fifty in the bag, and that was only the first pass. Others scattered into the waters, beyond his reach. He let those go, knowing they would return, and moved to the next structure, where he repeated the procedure to fill the second bag.

  A half hour later he grabbed the two loaded bags and clipped them to his BC. He retrieved the scooter, checked his air, and turned back toward the inlet to the cove. The original plan was to harvest what lobsters he could and then destroy the traps, but he started thinking that even if the Feds found the casitas, there was no way to tie them to him.

  If they didn’t find them, they would be full again within the week. If they did, they were in her permit area and she would be responsible. Sure, she would accuse him, but all he had to do was have Norm make a few calls and the problem would go away.

  Fifteen minutes later, he reached the ladder in the lagoon, took off his fins, and hauled himself and the bags full of lobster from the water. Several thousand dollars richer. He stripped off his gear and went inside where he plucked an ice cube from the machine and put it in his mouth. While he sucked on it, he filled a glass, went to the bar and poured an amber liquid from a decanter. After he’d downed half the drink, he reached for his p
hone heading back outside to the deck.

  A green head broke the surface of the water inside the cage as he walked towards it, but he ignored it and continued pacing the deck as the phone rang and went to voicemail.

  ***

  The sun roused Mac from a sound sleep. It had taken him until sunset last night to haul the boat around the island to the small beach, where he left it tied to a pile. He had cooked the rest of the fish and, too tired for anything else, went to bed.

  He swung his legs to the ground, surprised at how sore he was from pulling the boat. Then he went outside and doused himself in the rustic shower. Feeling refreshed, he headed to the beach to check on the boat. He felt an odd calm, despite his troubles. It was good to be on the island doing only what was essential to his everyday survival. Maybe Wood had it right, he thought as he moved aside the mangroves that disguised the trail and went towards the water. But the calm left him when he saw the boat. The island life would have to wait. Getting the engine started and repairing the hull were only the first steps to finding out what was going on at the Sawyer Keys.

  It still floated, but that was about all he could say for the beaten boat. He waded out and leaned over the gunwale. Before leaving last night, he had stuffed a seat cushion in the hole, and it had held reasonably well. There was only an inch or so of water sloshing around inside the hull. He waded back toward the beach and moved the mangroves away from the skiff. It sat on a truck axle, its bow leaning forward in the sand, unbalanced since the motor was stolen. Mac took a line and tied it to the bow cleat, then started to pull, but the boat wouldn’t budge. He checked the tires and found them almost flat from the couple of years since the boat had been used.

  He went back to the shed and retrieved a bicycle pump and some hand tools, which he took back to the beach. It was harder than he thought to inflate the tires even to half volume, which he guessed would move them through the sand without bogging down. But soon he was able to pull the boat to the water. It floated off the axle and he tied it next to the wreck. Then he repositioned the make-shift trailer, untied the other boat, and guided it toward the waiting transport system. With the line in one hand to hold the boat in position, he went to the beach and came back with a steel cable. He attached its hook to the bow of the boat.

  Now they should be ready to go.

  Back on the beach, he went to the winch and started cranking. The line came taught and the boat started to move up the beach toward the clearing. He had to pause several times to catch his breath; the mechanism and axle made for a much lighter boat, but it was still a workout.

  Finally, the task accomplished, he sat with his back against the wheels and rested, trying to figure out how to patch the hole. It wasn’t the materials that would be the problem—he had noticed epoxy in the shed and there was plenty of wood around. But with only 12-volt power available, he wouldn’t be able to use most of the tools.

  He walked back to the house, pumped a jug full of water, and went to the shed. The batteries were wired in a parallel configuration, ideal for storing power at a lower voltage. By changing the connection from the current configuration of positive to positive and negative to negative, to a serial configuration of negative to positive, he thought he could gang the ten batteries together to obtain the 120 volts he needed.

  The only problem would be the lack of amperage with this setup. He would have to be economical with power consumption, or the batteries would drain quickly.

  One at a time, he transferred the cables, increasing the power output by 12 volts with each battery he connected. When the last battery was wired, he took the heaviest gauge extension cord he could find, cut the male end off, stripped the wires, and attached the leads to it. He eyed a drill sitting on the workbench, plugged it into the female end of the cord, and pulled the trigger.

  The motor whirled to life.

  Now with the power he needed, he went behind the shed and grabbed a piece of 1/4-inch plywood, hauled it to the beach, and set it by the boat. He held the board up on the outside of the hole and took a marker to outline the perimeter on the plywood. It took several trips to fit, mark, and cut, but an hour later, the piece of wood fit tightly to the hole.

  The resin was a two-part mixture, which he measured into an old bucket and stirred. Unable to find any fiberglass tape for the seam, he used an old bed sheet from the house, torn into strips to bridge the connection between plywood and the hull. First he dipped the strips into the resin mixture, then applied them around the perimeter of the patch. While these dried, he applied a coat of resin with an old paint brush to the plywood to seal it.

  ***

  Mel jumped and started shoving papers back in the boxes when she heard a car pull into the driveway. She kept out the two tax returns she had found and crammed the rest back in the closet. The window looked down on the driveway, and she could see a yellow mini Cooper pulling in.

  She relaxed, scolding herself for both panicking and not being more attentive. Cayenne’s Prius with its hybrid motor could have pulled in unnoticed, and she would have been caught in the act.

  She ran from the room, grabbed her backpack, and left the house before the man could reach the front door. Signaling for him to drive, she went to the passenger seat and waited for him.

  “Jeez, girlfriend. Where’s my hug? What’s got your panties in a wad?”

  She looked over at Marvin. He would have stood out anywhere except Key West, but here he blended. His current look—unshaven, with streaks of yellow in his hair to match his car, an earring dangling from each lobe, and a nylon sweater vest over shorts—was an interesting fashion statement, but she was more interested in his brain. The reclusive accountant had retired and retreated from the city several years ago to live the Key West dream. Once a critical part of her team, his forensic accounting abilities were rivaled only by his outrageous behavior. In DC it didn’t work; but here he was in heaven.

  “Love you, too.” She punched him on the arm. “How’s tricks?”

  “Funny you should ask. But that little bit of gossip can wait for a cocktail.”

  “Let’s get out of here. You help me with this and I’ll be your wingman later.”

  He put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. “Where to?”

  She thought for a moment about where they would be safe. “How about the library?”

  “Woohoo - Sounds like a hot date!” He made several turns, ending up on White Street, and then turned left on Flemming. They parked and walked into the air-conditioned lobby.

  “Let’s go find a quiet spot,” Mel said as they entered.

  She steered clear of the rows of homeless-looking people pecking away at ancient computers by the door and led him to an empty table.

  “OK, sweet cheeks, tell old Marvin all your troubles.”

  Mel started with a brief history of Coral Gardens.

  “Cayenne Cannady … you mean Big Boobs Cannady?”

  “Yeah, that’s her.” She waited for him to elaborate.

  “Sweetie, that girl has issues, and if tell you someone has issues …” He put his hands out.

  Mel wasn’t sure she wanted to hear about Cayenne’s seedier side, at least not until they’d had a few drinks. Knowing your enemy was one of the crucial tenants of her success and she didn’t fail to notice that this was the first time she had referred to her that way.

  Trying to get the conversation out of the gutter, she took the papers from her backpack and laid them on the table for him. As soon as the IRS letterhead on the tax forms caught his eye, his interest perked. For several minutes he shuffled papers, going back and forth in the stack after sorting them into their appropriate years.

  Finally he looked up. “Seems our girl runs her business about the same as her sex life—sloppy, sweetheart, sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.”

  Mel was getting impatient. Marvin must have sensed it, because he continued in a serious tone. “The books are cooked to about a medium-well, but that’s not really the issue.” He tapped the
pile of financials. “These are unaudited statements and pretty much worthless in a court of law. The tax returns, on the other hand—” He tapped a tax form. “This is Form 990, filed by non-profits.” He turned the page to section A and put his index finger on line 5. “Here’s the deal. This line is for what the IRS calls significant diversions. Non-profits are typically money sieves. All full of good intentions, but nobody’s counting the pennies, or even watching the dollars. Fraud and theft are common, but the IRS chooses not to ask questions. Line 5 here is where they ask if anything has been stolen … for any reason.”

  He pulled out the previous year and put the returns side by side. “Two years in a row, the number here matches the cash withdrawals. As long as you fill in the paperwork correctly no one cares, so I’m guessing no one checked up on this.”

  “You mean she’s admitting to taking money?” Mel asked.

  “No. Her accountant is talking to the IRS through this line, saying that something has disappeared, but he’s not sure what it is. Just enter the figure there and every one walks away, no questions asked.”

  Mel stared at the papers and the sizable figure entered. It’s money laundering. Taking the cash for the lobsters and putting it into the account, then withdrawing it. “What about all the cash deposits with no paperwork?”

  “Nothing there—it’s a dead end. As long as they are under ten grand.” He scanned the journal. “And they are. So the IRS could care less about reporting income. If they were more than ten thousand, the banks would report the transaction and it might raise a red flag. But not here.”

  She had a lot to digest, and clearly owed him an hour or so as his wingman. Fortunately, from experience, she knew it wouldn’t take much more than that to get him hooked up. Her phone showed 5 o’clock. If she got rid of him in an hour, she would have plenty of time to rent a stand-up paddleboard and if the wind held, get some downwind time. A good paddle would clear her head and put things in perspective. The pieces were there, she just had to put them together.