Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series)

by Wayne Stinnett

  Rusty had done a lot of work over the last year and it showed. Just over a year ago, this was nothing more than a shallow canal, accessible only by skiff, a type of shallow water boat that’s very common in the Keys. He’d dredged it to ten feet and enlarged the end to make a turning basin large enough for a 60 footer to comfortably turn around. He had concrete poured along both sides down to the waterline, with built in rubber fenders and added water and electric hookups every thirty feet. The result was a slow influx of permanent and semi-permanent liveaboards.

  Across the canal from me was a beautiful blue and white wooden sailboat. It belonged to my old friend, Dan Sullivan. He spent nearly as much time taking care of his boat as he did playing his guitar, which was considerable. She was over 100 years old, a gaff rigged Friendship, built in Maine at the turn of the last century.

  Next to him was a big, slow moving, 36’ Monk trawler, owned by a young couple from South Carolina. They arrived in Marathon a few months ago and I hadn’t met them yet. Of course, I spend most of my time on my island up in the Content Keys.

  Further north from the Monk were two smaller sloops. Nobody lived on them and I had no idea who owned them.

  Astern the Revenge was an old, sedate, 30 foot Pearson cabin cruiser. She was owned by a middle aged man by the name of Hank Cooper. He’d arrived in Marathon nearly broke and devastated after a divorce, the Pearson was apparently the only thing his ex-wife didn’t get. He seemed intelligent and educated, but took the first job he could find as an overnight cab driver for the islands largest cab company, Cheapo Taxi.

  Aft the Pearson was the small boat dockage, with an assortment of ten or twelve skiffs and open fishing boats, depending on the season. Rusty had installed a fuel dock at the end next to his big, flat topped barge and offered both gas and diesel fuel. The lower rates he charged for dockage attracted the small boat owners and offset a slightly higher gas price than surrounding marinas.

  “Jesse!” The familiar voice came from across the canal. Dan was in the cockpit of his sloop. “When did you guys get back?”

  “A few hours ago, Dan. How’s things been here this week?”

  “Nothing exciting,” he called back. “You up for a morning run?”

  Dan and I worked out on occasion. He preferred running and I preferred swimming, but we had a mutual interest in martial arts. “Can’t this morning,” I said. “We have a meeting in an hour.”

  He gave me a questioning look, but I didn’t elaborate. “Well, it’s Saturday, so you know where I’ll be this afternoon. I’ll buy you a beer later.”

  I replied by lifting my coffee mug and nodding, as he trotted off through the tree line on a path that would take him over to Sombrero Beach Road. Dan played weekends on the deck behind Rusty’s bar. It was probably the most profitable addition Rusty had made this year. The deck was quite large, with seating for almost a hundred people, and a small stage in the corner.

  Deuce stepped down from his sloop, walked over and joined me on the bridge. I poured coffee into the extra mug and handed it to him. He sat down on the bench seat to port and asked, “Think they’ll be on time?”

  “I’d bet my life on the tax man being punctual.”

  “No doubt,” he said.

  “The Florida Historical Society guy sounded mighty interested, too,” Rusty said as he stepped aboard.

  “Grab a mug from the galley, Rusty,” I said.

  He disappeared into the salon, then climbed up to the bridge and pouring himself a cup as he asked, “What’d the feds say?”

  “Not interested,” Deuce replied. “They knew it’d cost them more in attorney fees to prove ownership. But they will expect a 1099 from the Historical Society.”

  The sound of tires on the crushed shell driveway interrupted our conversation as the three of us turned around to look. I smiled when I saw the Jaguar sedan pull into the little parking lot.

  Rusty noticed my smile. “Nice lady there. She ain’t gonna wait forever, brother.”

  “Shut up, ya damn Jarhead,” I said. Rusty and I had gone through boot camp and served together in a few places early in my career. Deuce’s dad was our Platoon Sergeant when we were stationed together in Okinawa, Japan. Rusty left the Corps after just four years because his wife was pregnant. She died giving birth to Julie and it’s only been the two of them for the last 27 years.

  The door to the car opened and a woman got out. She had a huge mane of dark red hair, which caught the sunlight filtering through the trees and gave the appearance of a Phoenix. She was dressed in dark blue Capri shorts, a light blue short sleeved blouse and navy topsiders. She walked toward the boat in a casual way that was born of a self-assurance few women possessed.

  “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

  “Like he’s got the cojones to tell you no,” Rusty said.

  Jackie Burdick stepped lightly down to the deck and was up the ladder to the bridge in seconds. “He’s got ‘em, Rusty. I’ve seen them myself. He’s just afraid I might cut ‘em off next time he’s on my table.”

  Rusty and Deuce both roared with laughter, scaring a pelican off the end of the dock into the water. Lieutenant Commander Burdick was the doctor on duty at the Navy hospital a few months ago when I had to undergo emergency surgery to remove a bullet lodged near my spine. A few weeks later she stepped in front of another bullet meant for me and spent a week in her own hospital recovering.

  “Good to see ya again, Jackie,” I said.

  She sat down in the only remaining seat, the second chair next to me. “Thanks for inviting me, Jesse. You actually found it?”

  “It’s stored below,” I said.

  “I’d love to see it.”

  “You guys wait here and yell down if our guests arrive.” Jackie and I went below, through the salon into the forward stateroom.

  “You know,” she said with a seductive smile, “not many guys would use a million dollars in gold to lure a lady into their bedroom.”

  I’d gotten used to her quick, frank, and flirtatious ways over the last few months. No denying she was very attractive, but we were only friends. I bent over to key in the code to open the bunk. “Not many ladies are worth a million bucks.”

  “Flattery will get you anywhere.”

  The bunk raised up and I bent again to haul the big chest out. “Push the bunk back down, would ya?”

  I set the chest on the bunk and spun the combination lock. Sunlight was coming in through the top hatch as I opened the trunk. It struck the gold bars inside, which reflected the golden light back up and throughout the stateroom.

  She clutched both hands to her throat. “Oh my!”

  “Go ahead. Pick one up.”

  She looked up at me and grinned. Then she reached into the chest and started to lift one out. I could tell it was heavier than she thought. A ten pound gold bar isn’t very big, only seven inches long, two inches wide and an inch thick. Not much bigger than a candy bar. She finally got one in each hand and asked, “How much are these two worth?”

  “You’re holding about a quarter million dollars.”

  “That’s more than I’ll earn in three years in the Navy! And you just picked it up off the bottom of the ocean?”

  “Well, it took us a couple of months of research and a week of diving, but yeah.”

  She gently placed them back in the chest. Then she turned and looked around the stateroom, stopping for a moment at a couple of mementos from the Corps that hung on the bulkhead. “What are these coins?”

  “They’re called ‘challenge coins’. In a military bar, if one person challenges another to a drink, the one who produces the higher ranking coin drinks free. High ranking officers have them made and give them out to subordinates.”

  “You have a lot of them,” she said stepping closer to read the names. “This one on top, PX Kelley, who’s he?”

  “Means I drink free anywhere. He was the Commandant of the Marine Corps, when I was in Beirut.”

  Tossing her hair over her shou
lder, she appraised me with those bright green eyes. Then she walked around the bunk, her eyes not missing anything.

  “We got company,” came Deuce’s voice over the intercom.

  I took one of the bars out and placed it on the shelf. “Mind lifting the bunk for me?”

  I put the chest back under the bunk, closed it, and took the single gold bar into the salon and placed it on the middle of the settee. Jackie and I stepped down into the cockpit, as two men in suits got out of near identical blue sedans, probably rentals. Both men were carrying briefcases. The shorter of the two reached into the back seat and took out a larger, square case. The two men looked around and then started walking toward Rusty’s house.

  In my experience, landlubbers are very predictable. To them, people can only live where roads go to and you can only find people inside of houses. A loud whistle came from the bridge, stopping the two men. When they looked our way, I motioned for them to come over.

  Rusty and Deuce climbed down from the bridge and the four of us waited in the cockpit for the suits. “Are you Mister McDermitt?” the taller man asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied and nodding to the others I added, “This is Doctor Jackie Burdick, Deuce Livingston and Rusty Thurman. Come aboard, we can talk in the salon.”

  “I’m Chase Conner Mister McDermitt,” the tall man said. “I’m with the Florida Department of Revenue and will also be representing the IRS.” Even at 0800 the temperature was already above 85 degrees and quite humid, but he was impeccably dressed in a dark blue three piece suit.

  “I’m Owen Bradbury,” the other man said, “of the Florida Historical Society. Thank you for inviting me. I’m surprised the federal government isn’t here to challenge ownership.” He too was wearing a business suit, but it was probably a couple of years old and off the rack. Both men were wearing the bane of my existence, hard soled black oxfords.

  “Challenge ownership of gold that belonged to a foreign country that no longer exists?” Rusty asked. “It’d be too expensive a court battle.”

  “Take your shoes off before boarding. Hard black soles damage the deck.” Before either man could protest, I opened the hatch and stepped up into the salon, followed by my friends.

  The two men entered the salon in bare, white feet, choosing to remove their socks, also. They stopped suddenly when their eyes found the gold bar, gleaming in the sun coming through the portholes.

  Rusty and Deuce sat down on the couch to port and Jackie went behind the counter in the galley. “Mind if I get a bottle of water, Jesse?”

  “Help yourself, Doc. Would you guys like a cup of coffee, or anything?”

  Bradbury ignored the question and went to the far side of the settee. He set his large case on the deck, sat down, and opened his briefcase. Conner still stood at the hatch, staring at the gold bar. His fixation was broken when Bradbury picked it up and began studying it, with a magnifying glass he’d pulled from his case.

  “I thought it’d be bigger,” Conner said. “You said it was 110 pounds.”

  “There’s another ten just like it,” Deuce said.

  Conner looked at Deuce, then quickly crossed the salon, set his briefcase on the settee and slid over next to Bradbury. “Ten more like this?”

  “We’re guessing the weight at ten pounds each,” I said. “Maybe Mister Bradbury could tell us better.”

  Bradbury looked up, set his magnifying glass aside, pulled out a small, electronic scale and set it on the table. He turned it on, waited a few seconds and pushed a button on the front of it, holding it for a moment. When he released it, the numbers flashed all zeroes three times and he gently placed the gold bar on it. “It’s precisely 150 troy ounces. That’s a little under 10.3 pounds. It certainly looks genuine and that’s the precise weight of the lost Confederate gold. I’ll have to run tests on all eleven to be sure.” Then he looked up at me. “There were reported to be twelve in the lost shipment. Did you not find them all?”

  “My father found one,” Deuce said. “He was killed for it and the murderer sold it to a pawn broker who probably had it melted.”

  “That’s a shame.” He reached down and picked up his larger case and opened it. Inside was an electronic device with small windows on two sides and a hinged top. “Do you have electricity?”

  I took the offered cord and plugged it into a receptacle inside the cabinet behind him. He turned the device on and explained, “This is the latest in portable precious metal analyzers. It can tell us within 1/1000th percentage point the purity of the gold. Stories about Confederate gold go back to the end of the war. Most finds are found to be forgeries. This one has the correct stamp and a date of 1864. Most of the bogus finds are convincing enough, in that they have the correct markings. Most, however, are gold plated lead. One case I read about was indeed real gold, but the incorrect purity. The forger used highly refined gold, like what is struck today. In 1864, the purity of Confederate bullion was .9985, that is 99.85% pure gold. Today, bullion has a purity of .9999, something no smelter of the 19th century could produce.”

  He opened the hinged top, which revealed a small round window and some kind of electronics in the lid. He placed the gold bar over the little window and closed it. Then he removed a small laptop computer and pugged it into the device and turned both of them on. After taping a few keys, he looked up. “Are you ready?”

  We all nodded and he tapped a few more keys and looked at the laptop display. When he looked up, he was grinning. “Congratulations, gentlemen. This bar is indeed 99.85% pure gold, not plated. More important are the trace elements.” Looking down at the laptop display he continued, “We’re showing .03% zinc, .04% copper, and .08% silver. These are the exact trace elements found in gold coins and bullion struck by mints in France in the 1860’s. You have most certainly found a shipment of lost Confederate gold.”

  Deuce and Rusty high fived each other and Rusty exclaimed, “Hot damn!”

  “What would you appraise its worth, Mister Bradbury?” Conner asked.

  Pulling a calculator from his briefcase he said, “This bar, at 150 troy ounces is worth $105,318. Assuming the other ten are the exact same weight, the total value would be $1,158,502.”

  “That’d be the melt value, right?” Rusty asked.

  “Yes, the historical value would be quite a bit more. Although not as much as if the entire shipment had been found together. I think I can say without equivocation, that the Museum of Florida History would be willing to pay $1.5 million to have these on display.”

  “Two million,” I said, which caused Conner to smile.

  “No, I don’t think the museum would go that high. I could probably talk them into going as high as $1.8 million.”

  “Seems to me,” Deuce said, “the Civil War Museum in New Orleans might be willing to pay a lot more. Seeing as how the bars were struck there.”

  This brought a frown to both men’s faces. Conner, because he knew if the sale were in Louisiana, Florida would have a court battle to prove the location of the find was in Florida waters. Bradbury, because he really wanted them at his museum.

  “You know anyone in New Orleans, Deuce?” I asked.

  “I do,” Jackie said. “It just so happens that my college roommate from my undergrad years is the curator of that museum. I have her number on my rolodex in the office. Want me to call my Chief?”

  “No need for that,” Bradbury said, taking out his cell phone. “Is there somewhere I can make a call?”

  “Down that ladder well,” I said, pointing forward. “First hatch to port is the crew cabin.”

  Bradbury stepped down into the small companionway, looked left and right and then turned right into the head. A moment later he stepped out and crossed the companionway into the crew cabin.

  It only took two or three minutes and he rejoined us. “Yes, Mister McDermitt, the Museum will be glad to offer you $2 million. I’ll have the necessary documents overnighted to me and we can settle the transaction tomorrow. I’ll arrange for an armed secu
rity detail until then and they will transport the bars to Tallahassee.”

  “Transport any way you like, but no armed security detail is going to be aboard my boat, unless I know them.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider, Mister McDermitt. If word gets out about this, there could be trouble.”

  “Captain McDermitt is no stranger to trouble, gentlemen,” Jackie said. “I removed a bullet from his spine just a few months ago. My guess is the man that did it is no longer among the living.”

  “If you insist,” Bradbury said.

  I knew Conner was waiting for his turn to speak and he did. “Since the find was inside the state’s three mile limit and the sale of this gold is going to take place in the State of Florida, the state will receive 25% of the proceeds. I will also have the requisite paperwork drawn up and overnighted if you have agreed on the price.”

  “Two million is a good price,” I said. “You have a deal, Mister Bradbury.” I extended my hand and he took it, sealing the bargain.

  “I’ll have a cashier’s check drawn up. Who shall I make it payable to?”

  “Better make it to Rusty,” I said. “He holds the salvage license.”

  The two men left and I put the gold bar back with the others, under the bunk. Coming back into the salon, Jackie asked, “Who’s up for breakfast? My treat.”

  “Not me,” Deuce replied. “I had a bite to eat a couple of hours ago.”

  “I have to go to the bank and set up an account,” Rusty said with a sly grin.

  Jackie turned to me and smiled. “That just leaves you and me and I don’t see any dirty dishes in your sink.”

  “Wooden Spoon?” I asked.

  “Good choice, we can take my car.”

  “I don’t fit into those sporty cars very well, Doc. Mind if we take mine?”

  My car isn’t really a car. It’s called The Beast. It’s a beat up 1973 International Travelall 4x4. Not long ago, my friends did some work on it for me while I was in the hospital, swapping the worn out gas engine for a big, powerful, brand new diesel engine, transmission, transfer case, axles, interior, and a host of electronics. They presented it to me the day I was discharged. That was when Jackie stepped in front of a bullet meant for me.