“Really? Damn, that’d be something to try out.”
“How long have you had that dog of yours?” Parsons asked.
“Just over two years. Why?”
“I think we figured out what’s got him so anxious,” he replied, handing me a framed photograph.
In the photo the Minniches were standing on a deserted beach. I recognized them easily from the pictures Chyrel had shown me earlier. What I wasn’t ready for was seeing a dog sitting next to Celia Minnich. A dog that looked exactly like Pescador.
“His name was Nadador,” Parsons said. “It’s Portuguese for swimmer. He belonged to Missus Minnich, a wedding gift from her husband. Nadador was swept overboard off the Obsession during Hurricane Wilma, two years ago.”
“Son of a bitch,” I mumbled. “That’s exactly when we found him. Never could find the owner, though. So I called him Pescador, and he came to live with me.”
“Pescador?”
“Spanish for fisherman. Long story. My late wife and I found him, stranded on a tiny island near mine, where he was surviving by catching fish.”
“With a little luck,” Parsons said, turning to return to the group, “we might have two happy endings. That is, if we can find the Minniches and return her dog to her.”
The two crime scene investigators, along with Doc and his assistant, were still aboard the yacht when Deuce and Julie arrived ten minutes later. Rusty put on a good enough performance, then he and Julie went to my boat to catch up, along with Kim.
“Been too long,” I said, taking Deuce’s hand. “I know you gotta be glad to get out of DC.”
“More than you know,” he said. “I didn’t realize how much I missed this stretch of rocks until we were on final approach and I could see the water. Did you get the boat opened up?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I had Dan take care of it.” Dan Sullivan is a local musician and a friend of mine. After I introduced Deuce to the others, he addressed Binkowski first.
“While the disappearance of the Minniches does look like a kidnapping, Agent Binkowski, and I really believe it is, the national security implications of their work puts my team and Agent Parsons and his men at the forefront of the investigation. We will lean on you heavily for information you can provide through CODIS and any other sources you might have. Solving the kidnapping and getting the couple back have to be second to keeping certain information from getting into the wrong hands.”
“The Bureau will help in any way we can, Agent Livingston.”
Jimmy joined us, bringing my cellphone. “Heard it ringing,” he said. “Took a few minutes, but I found it stuffed in the cushions of the settee. Good to see you, Deuce.”
“Good to be seen, Jimmy,” Deuce replied.
Looking at the caller ID, I saw that the missed call was from someone I hadn’t talked to in a few months. Billy Rainwater had been a year behind me in school, but we’d been close growing up in Fort Myers. He’d followed me into the Marines after he graduated and we’d been stationed together a couple of times during his one tour.
“Someone you need to call back?” Deuce asked.
“It can wait,” I replied. “An old friend from the mainland.”
“I got this, Jesse. Go see to your dog. What’s his problem, anyway?”
“Turns out he knows this yacht. Remember how Alex and I tried to find his owner for months? He used to belong to the Minniches.”
“You’re shitting me,” he said, genuinely concerned. “Well, go check on him and return your call. You don’t get many.”
Linda followed me back toward the Revenge.
“Was it an important call?” Linda asked.
“Billy Rainwater, up in LaBelle,” I replied.
I hit the call button. What Deuce said was true. I rarely received phone calls. Billy answered on the first ring. “Got something you might be interested in looking at, kemosabe.”
Billy’s a Seminole and not one to beat around the bush. He lives just east of Fort Myers, in the little town of LaBelle, on the Caloosahatchee River. He builds four-by-fours and buys and sells guns. Usually legally.
“Kinda busy right now, Billy. You at home?”
“Yeah. Well, I’m at the shop, that is. This is something you’ll wanna take the time to see. Can you come up tomorrow?”
Looking back toward the growing group of people, I had the urge to do just that. A nice long drive away from the crowds, just me and Linda. Then my eyes fell on Waldrup, standing off to the side, watching and listening. He had his shades back on, though it was getting dark fast. Something told me he didn’t miss much of anything. I’d promised him we’d find out who had killed his cousin, and I knew that with Deuce bringing the weight of a federal investigation, and all the resources he had at hand, it was a pretty done deal.
“I was planning to take my daughter flying tomorrow,” I said.
“I’ll meet you at the airport.”
“About zero nine hundred?”
“Bring some cash,” he replied. “About ten grand.” I heard a click and looking at the screen, I saw the call had ended. Billy was never one for wasted words.
“We’re flying up to LaBelle tomorrow?” Linda asked.
“Yeah, and you might have to look the other way about something.”
“You don’t know your friends as well as you think,” she said, grinning.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“William ‘Walking Bear’ Rainwater, Junior has worked with FDLE many times. He’s a PI.”
“Billy?” I asked, laughing. “A private investigator?”
“Paid informant,” Linda corrected me. “He talks things up, like he’s moving illegal arms, but everything he buys and sells is licensed and legal. Even the fifty-caliber machine gun he sold you.”
“You’re kidding,” I said as I helped her across the gunwale. “I paid the smuggler’s rate for that thing.”
“How the hell does he manage to manipulate me into these things?” I asked Linda when we stepped off the Revenge the next morning.
“Deuce doesn’t manipulate, Dad,” Kim said, following us up the dock toward the bar. “It’s who you are.”
“Who I was,” I corrected her.
“No, it’s who you are and always will be,” Kim said. “If someone’s in trouble and needs help, you just somehow end up being the one.”
The two CSIs had worked gathering evidence well into the night. A couple of hours after sunset, while the CSIs were working, Deuce and I had sat down with the CID and FBI guys. Deuce had been impressed with the amount of knowledge the security man, Waldrup, had provided. He’d also been impressed enough by his stoic demeanor, considering he’d just identified the body of his cousin, that he’d invited Waldrup to sit in.
By then, Deuce had full files on both Waldrup and Parsons, as well as the Minniches and the Albrights. Neither couple had anything in their backgrounds that had jumped out at either of us before we sat down with the agents last night. It turned out that Waldrup was an Army Ranger first lieutenant. He’d been severely wounded in the liberation of Kuwait in 1991 and lost a leg just below the knee. This surprised me, as he didn’t appear to be injured. During his recuperation, he’d been promoted to captain and discharged for medical reasons.
After we’d compared notes and Doc Fredric had confirmed the obvious cause of death of the couple on the yacht, I’d moved the Revenge over to Rusty’s place. Mostly to get Pescador away from the scene. His constant whining and barking at every sound was a constant confirmation that it was him pictured with the couple in the photo Parsons had shown me.
I was now faced with the possibility that if the couple was found alive, I’d lose my dog. Pescador has been with me through a lot and actually killed a man who’d not only stabbed me, but was one of the ones who’d murdered my wife.
The CSIs hadn’t come up with anything startling that we hadn’t already known, or surmised. Parsons and Binkowski had agreed to meet us this morning at the Anchor to go over the C
SI findings, so we’d called it a night just before midnight.
Holding the door open for Linda and Kim, I saw that both agents, along with Waldrup, were sitting at two large tables, pushed together in the corner. Marty and the forensics woman were there as well. Rusty brought another pot of coffee as the three of us sat down, Marty holding the chair next to him for Kim. The suspicious look Kim gave Meg Stewart didn’t escape my attention.
A moment later, Captain Hammonds came in carrying a thick folder and sat down on Marty’s other side, handing the folder to Deuce. “Got the report from our CSI team at four this morning. I’ve gone through everything. We matched prints found at the scene to both couples and all four crew, eliminating them. That left four unidentified sets of prints.” He glanced quickly at Waldrup. “Also, two separate biological samples were gathered from the rape kit.”
Turning back to Deuce, Hammonds said, “These guys didn’t seem at all concerned that they were leaving evidence behind.”
“They’d rigged the yacht to sink,” I said. “Taking any evidence with it.”
Binkowski cleared his throat. “Both the unidentified prints and the DNA samples were sent to our crime lab in Miami. A priority message from the SecDef put this evidence at the top of the list, but it’ll still be a day or two at least on the DNA.”
Hammonds glanced around the table, lingering on Kim for a moment before looking at me. “Do you think it wise to have your daughter here?”
I was about to put the man in his place, when Linda forcefully said, “Captain Hammonds, Miss McDermitt is a student at UF, studying criminal justice. When she graduates, she’ll come to work at FDLE. I’ll vouch for her sitting in.”
“Very well,” Hammonds replied, obviously unaccustomed to having his chain jerked by a woman. “Through Doctor Fredric’s report, assisted by Miss Stewart here, the blood samples were analyzed and compared to the known blood types of the Minniches. Mister Minnich is A negative, pretty rare, less than six in a hundred people. None of the samples matched his. Missus Minnich is AB negative, the rarest blood type. Fewer than one in a hundred people have this. There was a small pool of blood found on the deck in the main cabin area, just behind the helm. The splatter was smudged and foreign particles were mixed with it. The sample was identified as AB negative and the foreign traces were determined to be from an expensive brand of lipstick. Sergeant Jimenez is our blood splatter expert. He reports that the smudged sample was likely caused when Missus Minnich was struck and fell to the floor, her lipstick mixing with the blood.”
“Based on the CSIs’ findings,” Binkowski began, “the Bureau feels certain the Minniches have been kidnapped and are possibly still alive. The director has met with the Homeland secretary and promised complete and full disclosure of any Bureau findings.”
Deuce turned to me. “Jesse, you’re flying up to LaBelle this morning. What’s the range of your plane?”
“You have a plane?” Waldrup asked.
“Yeah. It’s a fifty-three Beaver floatplane. And yeah, we’re leaving inside an hour. It can fly four hundred and fifty miles, Deuce. Why?”
“I’m going with you. We’ll refuel in LaBelle, and after your business there is concluded, you’re going to fly me over the Cay Sal Bank.”
“That’s just gonna have to sit on the back burner,” I said. “I promised Waldrup we’d find out who did this.”
“There’s a chance they’re connected,” Deuce replied.
Thinking that over for a moment, and knowing Deuce wasn’t a speculative kind of man, I said, “Okay, who else is going?”
“I am,” Parsons and Binkowski said at the same time.
“Only one of you,” Deuce said. “Captain Waldrup will be joining us, and there’s only room for one more.”
“You go,” Binkowski said to Parsons. “I’ll drive up to the crime lab and see if I can push the prints any faster.”
“Alright,” Deuce said. “Anything else, Captain Hammonds?”
“I find it unusual to have this kind of discussion in a bar,” Hammonds said, looking around. Rusty, Julie, and Jimmy sat at the bar drinking coffee and watching the Weather Channel. Yesterday’s rain was late getting here, blowing through in the middle of the night.
“Captain,” Deuce said, “Jimmy over there is first mate on the Revenge and has accompanied us on a number of missions. The woman sitting next to him is my wife, a Coast Guard petty officer and a valued member of my team. Rusty is my father-in-law and former Force Recon Marine. As a federal agent, I wouldn’t have any trouble speaking openly in front of any of them.”
“It’s like I told you, Captain,” Marty said. “Locals down here are like family, and in a lot of cases we are family. You’ll get used to it.”
Hammonds glanced at Marty, then said, “No, that’s pretty much it on the findings, until the FBI gets back to us on the results of the prints and DNA analysis.”
Rising, I looked at Waldrup. “Center row, port side.”
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“To offset Deuce’s and my weight in the plane. And if you call me sir one more time, I’ll pull your leg off and beat you with it.”
The big man looked up at me from his chair and grinned. “Just what will we be looking for, Gunny?”
“Beats me,” I replied, looking over at Deuce. “Ask the AIC.”
“We’ve had reports of black marketers working out of the Cay Sal Bank,” Deuce told him. “In Jesse’s plane, we can fly low and slow. If we see anyone out there, you just might have seen them around CephaloTech and can let us know.”
“What are the odds of that?” Waldrup asked, standing up.
“Jesse and I are pretty good at sizing men up, Captain. Tell me something. What’s the registration number on Jesse’s boat?”
“FL one three eight seven KW,” he replied with a grin. “It’s a gift I’ve always had.”
“Exactly,” Deuce said, heading to the bar to get a couple of thermoses filled and say goodbye to Julie.
Meg glanced up at the big man and smiled. “I don’t think Mister McDermitt was serious about breaking your leg off.”
“Pull it off, ma’am,” he corrected her. “It’s a prosthetic. I left the real one in Kuwait.”
“Really?” she replied, looking down at his feet. Waldrup hitched up his right trouser leg slightly, exposing his prosthetic. “I never would have guessed it.”
Kim and Marty went outside to say goodbye, and Meg turned to me. “You don’t have room for one more, do you?”
Seeing Binkowski already halfway to the door, I glanced at Deuce, who nodded slightly. I grinned at the smallish woman. “I think you might fit in the boot.”
Twenty minutes later, with Kim at the controls, we taxied down the ramp and into the water. The deHavilland Beaver is a true bush plane. There are still hundreds in service today all over the world. Its ability to lift plenty of cargo and passengers into the air from a short airstrip, lake, or snow-covered pasture is legendary. Mine has WipAire floats, with landing gear that retracts into the pontoons.
Kim raised the landing gear and bumped the throttle up a little as we taxied to deeper water. The wind had changed from the north to the usual easterly breeze and she turned into it, getting clearance from air traffic control at Marathon Airport.
Lining up with the entrance marker to Vaca Cut, Kim pushed the throttle lever forward. The big engine roared as it pulled the Hopper’s floats up onto plane and accelerated across Vaca Key Bight.
“When you said you had a plane,” Waldrup’s voice came over my headset, “I thought you meant you were the pilot.”
I looked back to where Waldrup sat on the opposite side and grinned. “I’m a pilot. Kim’s still taking classes, but will have her license in a month.”
In the time of that short conversation, Island Hopper reached takeoff speed and Kim gently pulled back on the yoke. The ascent was nice and even, as she banked to the south to avoid flying over Key Colony Beach.
“Very smooth,” I said. “You
’re getting better. Once you circle around Key Colony, head north over Long Point Key. LaBelle is just a few degrees west of due north.”
Kim nodded and slowly banked the plane to the left as we continued to climb, the big Pratt and Whitney radial engine pulling the load effortlessly. “You’re gonna land, right?” Kim asked. “I’m okay on the bay here, but landing on a river I’m not so sure about.”
“We’re landing at the airport. It’s a short strip and will be good practice.”
Deuce sat directly behind me, across from Waldrup. Linda, Meg, and the CID man had the wide rear seat. Parsons was looking out the window at the long island chain extending to the far-off horizon. “You know, I’ve never been down here. It looks a lot different from up in the sky. You don’t really appreciate that you’re on an island down there. What kind of business do you have in LaBelle?”
I glanced back at Linda and she nodded slightly. “I’m meeting a gun dealer friend of mine. He has something he thinks I might want to buy.”
“Agent Livingston?” Waldrup asked. “What makes you think the black marketers down near Cuba are involved in the Minniches’ disappearance?”
“Cuba?” Dave asked. “I thought the Cay Sal Bank was in the Bahamas.”
“It’s part of the Bahamas,” Deuce explained. “But the distance from there to Cuba is a third of the distance to the next nearest Bahamian island.” Then to Waldrup, he said, “You gotta call me Deuce, okay, Miguel? To answer your question, nothing I’ve heard points to their involvement. It’s just a hunch. These black marketers can come and go from the little keys that make up the Bank without any kind of intervention from Havana, and it’s well outside our territorial waters. In fact, Castro approves of black marketing. We have wiretaps on a number of phones these people are using, mostly Russians, and since the day before yesterday, they’ve gone almost completely silent. I’m not big on coincidences.”
Less than an hour later, I switched to the small LaBelle Airport frequency and keyed the mic. “Labelle Unicorn, this is deHavilland November one three eight five, ten miles south for landing.”
Fallen Tide: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 8) Page 11