Forty minutes later, the two detectives entered the forensics lab on Stock Island. “What ya got, Walt?” Ben asked.
The older man pushed his wheeled office chair from one examination table to another, spinning around as the chair rolled across the floor. “The box itself is just a cheap, standard money box. You can buy one in any Walmart or Office Depot. The key wasn’t recovered at the crime scene, but they’re really easy to pick.”
“What was in it?” Devon asked.
“Four-hundred and ninety-three dollars and forty-seven cents in cash. There were also several bundles of business cards wrapped in rubber bands. Each bundle was for a different business on the island, mostly bars. A receipt book with no custom imprint, but the copies indicate it was a local cab driver’s book. They get business cards from local bars, write their name on the back, and hand them out to tourists, along with one of their own. Bartenders base what cab they call for a patron on how many customers the cabbies send to them.”
“What else?” Ben asked.
“An ounce of cocaine,” Walt replied, removing his reading glasses and tossing them on the desk. “Which makes no sense to me at all.”
“How come?” Devon asked.
“One of the bundles of business cards was for a cab company. The prints on the box match the owner of that company. Cab drivers in Monroe county are registered and their prints are on file. It didn’t take the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System long to find a match, as it searches outward from the area where the suspect prints are lifted. This money box appears to belong to Lawrence Lovett.”
Ben’s eyebrows came up. “Lawrence?”
“So you know him?” Walt said. “If you know him half as well as I do, you know something’s not right here.”
“Totally out of character,” Ben agreed. “But he wouldn’t be the first decent person to step over the line.” Turning to Devon he said, “Contact property crimes with both the Department and PD. Find out if Lawrence Lovett has filed a stolen property or robbery report recently.”
Devon walked to the other side of the room, taking her phone out of her purse as Ben sat down across from the older forensics man. “What about the coke, Walt? Can you tell me how many times it was cut and where it came from?”
Walt put his reading glasses back on and picked up a clipboard. “Very high grade. Eighty-nine-point-seven percent pure from Venezuela. The other ten-point-three percent is levamisole, a drug used to treat worms in cattle. Really easy to get in South America.”
“Only stepped on once,” Ben thought aloud.
“Yep, probably just before it went on the boat. Most interceptions made before delivery here in the States are about ninety percent purity.”
“So, this ounce could be the personal stash of the importer?”
“Most likely,” Walt replied. “Or someone high up in the chain.” He tapped the little plastic bag. “This is definitely not street-level coke, Ben. Even kilo packages are usually cut to anywhere from seventy to seventy-five percent. A one-ounce package like this would be considered heavy street quantity and usually less than fifty percent pure. Something a street dealer would cut again to about twenty-five percent cocaine, and then break up two ounces into individual eighth ounce packages for sale. The size of the package is grossly inconsistent with its purity.”
Devon came over to where the two men sat at the table. “No report of property crimes by anyone of that name.”
Walt and Ben looked at Devon, then back at one another. “Why wouldn’t Lawrence report that his cash box was stolen?” Walt asked.
“Maybe it wasn’t,” Ben said, standing up. “Maybe he forgot it on the salvage boat where he killed two people.”
Billy and I arrived at Sombrero Beach just as the sun was rising beyond the tip of Tingler Island. Within a few minutes, it disappeared behind the clouds. The parking lot was mostly deserted, except for four cars, one of which was a sheriff’s patrol car. The deputy got out as Billy parked several spaces away from him.
We got out of the Blazer, and Billy quickly released the catch for the boards on the roof as I opened the back door to let Finn out. On the other side of the high dune, I could hear the waves crashing on the shore, sounding like a train going by.
“Excuse me,” the deputy said, as he got closer. He wasn’t anyone I knew. Finn sat down next to me, watching the approaching deputy. “You know there’s a hurricane out there, right?”
“Yeah, Deputy Arnold,” I replied, reading his name tag and pointing to the southeast. “It’s two hundred nautical miles that way.”
“The water’s dangerous,” Arnold said. “The red flag is out and there’s a tropical storm warning in effect.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Billy said, coming around the hood with a surfboard under his arm. “When else do the Keys see waves?”
The deputy glanced at Billy, then ignored him and addressed me again. “It’s too dangerous, sir. Help might not be able to get to you in a timely manner.”
I really didn’t like the dismissive look he gave Billy. Aside from skin and hair color, we looked much alike. Both of us had bare feet, and wore shorts and tee-shirts. Billy’s was a red Rusty Anchor shirt that Rusty had given him last night, and mine was a faded blue Gaspar’s Revenge shirt, frayed around the neck. Billy, being Indian, had no facial hair, whereas I hadn’t shaved in over a week and hadn’t had a haircut in three months. Of the two of us, I probably looked more like a bum than Billy.
“Son,” I said, looking down at the deputy. “I live here and this is my friend from Fort Myers. We’ve both been around the sea all our lives, and I make a living from it. If either of us ever needs help out there, it’ll be beyond the capabilities of the sheriff’s office.”
Deputy Arnold squared his shoulders, propping one hand on his holstered Glock. “What’s your name, sir? Do you have any identification?”
Just for the heck of it, I reached into my front pocket. Though I never needed it, I now kept a little billfold with me all the time. I showed the deputy the badge and ID that Deuce had given me some months back, up in South Carolina.
Deputy Arnold’s eyes grew just a little wider, making him look even younger than he already looked.
“I’m Special Agent Jesse McDermitt, Homeland Security.” Nodding toward Billy, I added, “This is my partner, Billy Rainwater. Unless you have something more to tell us, we’ll be going surfing now.”
The young deputy looked at Billy, then back at me. “No, sir. Just be careful out there, okay?”
Without a word, I grabbed the other board off the roof and followed Billy along a walkway, Finn leading the way. Ahead I could hear the pounding surf. I doubted anyone would be here, so I hadn’t bothered to bring Finn’s leash. Besides, he was already well-trained and I could call him off a chase with a seagull.
“You still get a hard-on when someone tries to push too much weight around,” Billy said. “Admit it.”
“I believe in personal responsibility,” I said, admitting nothing. “I’m a grown man and don’t need a twenty-something deputy looking out for my well-being.”
“That why you live way out there on an island? So nobody else is responsible for you? Which, by the way, I’d like to see some day.”
“Part of the reason,” I replied honestly, as we reached the beach access. Having others responsible for me sometimes put them in harm’s way, something I tried to limit. “If you can stay for a day or two, we can head up to my house once the seas lay back down.”
Billy stopped and turned. “And what the hell’s with the badge?”
“Deuce swore me in a few months back for an op,” I replied. “Guess I just forgot to resign.”
“Ha!” He turned and strode toward the beach access. “You just like pulling rank on the underlings.”
I followed after him and looked out over the beach. “Well, it does tend to shorten some conversations.”
An elderly couple was walking away from us to the right, and t
wo guys were paddling out on surfboards. The sky was overcast, but so far it wasn’t raining. Far out toward the southern horizon, the sky looked darker and I could see big waves breaking over the reef line. A steady wind of what I guessed was nearly thirty knots was blowing out of the east, building the waves and pushing the water westward. As the waves marched across the surface, they wrapped around Tingler island and came ashore here at an angle to the beach.
“Whoa,” Billy murmured. “They aren’t big, but look how long.”
He was right. As a wave started to break far off to our left, its lip curled along the beach for several hundred yards, breaking in the shallows the whole length of Sombrero Beach. Other smaller waves moved around the north side of Tingler Island, causing a bit of chop in the near shore water as they collided with the larger waves off the ocean.
“Those are some pretty big waves,” I said.
Billy glanced over at me and grinned that daredevil grin that had gotten both of us into so much trouble as kids. “They’re only about four to six feet, Kemosabe. Smaller than you.”
Together, we walked down to the edge of the water, where foam was collecting among a lot of vegetation that had been washed away from somewhere. Occasional clumps of foam broke loose from the detritus, dancing across the sand, propelled by the wind. Finn gave chase to each one, ripping the dastardly cretins apart with a single pounce.
“Finn!” I called, when he got too far away. He stopped in his tracks and looked back at me, head cocked quizzically. “Stay close by here. Don’t wander off.”
He loped back toward us and began chasing new clumps of foam. For the next twenty minutes, Billy explained surfing and I practiced going from a prone position on the long-board to a standing position. At the end, Billy said, “You’re gonna fall down the first few times. Try not to ding my stick with that hard head of yours, it’s the only Bing I have left.”
“What’s a Bing?”
“Bing Copeland was the best board maker of the sixties,” Billy said. “That there is an original Noserider. It’s over nine feet long, and the bottom is shaped kinda like a boat. Super stable.”
Ordering Finn to stay close again, we waded out into the surf. The other surfers had wound up far down the beach and were now walking back. The two of us had the water all to ourselves as we began to paddle out.
The first wave nearly rolled me over. Then Billy showed me how to put my weight on the nose and dive the board below the wave. When we were finally out beyond the breakers, we stopped to rest for a minute.
“First time, try just riding on your belly and next time get up on your knees. Just like a small boat, you can steer left and right just by leaning that way.” He pointed with his chin at the other two surfers. “But these long-boards aren’t maneuverable like what those kids have. Take longer to turn, so don’t run over them.”
Billy started paddling hard, as a wave approached. When it lifted the tail of his board slightly, he sprang to his feet. The wave wasn’t even breaking behind him, as he rode down the front of it and turned left, keeping just ahead of where the lip curled over into foaming white-water.
Alone on the water, I looked back and waited. The next wave didn’t look like much, so I lay down on the board and began stroking hard. I continued paddling, waiting for the wave to lift the tail of the board, like it had Billy’s.
It didn’t. When I looked back, I realized too late that I’d paddled faster than the wave. Now I was too far ahead of it and in the break zone, with the crest of the wave bending down toward me.
Ten million gallons of water landed on top of me, rolling me off the board and tumbling my body ass over elbows. Something yanked at my left foot, then started pulling me for a moment—the leash from the surfboard. I tried to orient my body to go the right way, but the lightweight board bobbing on the wave kept pulling me around backward.
I finally stood up, gasping and snorting water out of my nostrils, just in time to see the two young surfers at the water’s edge.
“What he lacks in style,” one of the guys said to the other, “he more than makes up for in age. Hey, old man! What do you call that thing attached to your ankle? It kinda looks like a surfboard.”
The two surfers ran past me, both yucking it up at their joke, diving on top of their boards over another breaking wave. In seconds, they’d paddled out far enough and turned to catch the next two waves, peeling off quickly to the left and ripping up and down the face of the wave, heading down the beach toward where Billy was now walking back. I paddled back out, determined. Turning around, I saw Billy paddling effortlessly toward me.
Over the next couple of hours, I managed to sort of get the hang of it. I even succeeded at riding one wave halfway down the beach. The chop got a little heavier, and the two kids had enough and left. Sitting on our boards, well out beyond the breakers, Billy and I were all alone on the water. Even the sea birds that usually fished here were gone.
“What do you think?” Billy asked.
I’d been watching the waves, waiting for my next ride. The adrenaline rush, once I stood up, was something I hadn’t been ready for. Kind of like when I mash the throttle and bring a boat up onto plane, but far more intense.
I just grinned. “I don’t think I’ll start dying anytime soon.”
It was nearly noon, with the wind blowing at a good forty knots, before we were forced to head back to the beach. As the two of us stood up in knee-deep water, the skies just opened right up. Cold, fat rain drops began pelting us as we waded ashore, washing the salt water from our skin.
Once we were up above the part of the beach where the waves now reached, far above the usual high tide line, we dropped our boards on the sand. Finn joined us and we plopped down in the sand to watch the squall come ashore in awe.
Finn was already soaked. I was sure he’d probably jumped into the surf a few times to play. The rain didn’t seem to bother him in the least. In fact, he seemed to relish it.
The rain pelted us as we looked out at the turbulent water. The surf resembled the water in a washing machine. The regimented lines of the waves we’d seen earlier were gone. There was more flotsam on the beach, mostly palm branches and reeds—probably from some distant shore that had felt the full brunt of the storm as it crossed the Bahamas and approached Cuba.
Finally, we decided it would probably be prudent to head back to the Anchor for beer and surfing tales. When we got to Billy’s Blazer, the deputy who had been parked there was gone, as were the other cars. We quickly strapped the boards back in place and got in the truck.
Ten minutes later, we arrived at the Anchor, dripping wet. We both carried our dry tee-shirts bundled up under an arm until we reached the door. I pulled on my shirt and looked out along the dock. A yacht in the traditional trawler-style, one I hadn’t seen around before, was tied up on the far side. It looked to be about thirty-five or forty feet, with a long fly bridge that covered the entirety of the salon and a small cockpit. Obviously a live-aboard taking refuge from the storm. The name on the bow was Leap of Faith.
I pulled open the door and walked inside. The Anchor is that kind of place. No shoes, dripping wet, no problem. Finn made a bee-line for the bowl of water Rusty kept in the corner. He quickly and noisily lapped up most of it, then curled up in the corner for a nap.
“Thought I was gonna have to go rescue you two,” Rusty said from behind the bar.
There were nearly a dozen people inside. A few of them were sitting at tables, but most were at the bar. All of them were known to me.
“The day I need to be dragged out of the water is the day you can carve my headstone,” I said, as Billy and I pulled up stools near the end of the bar. Rusty placed two cold Red Stripes in front of us. “Any change in the storm?”
Rusty looked at the big clock on the wall. “Noon update should be coming on, any minute.”
As if on cue, the station switched to a live broadcast. A young female reporter was standing in front of a sea wall, with huge waves crashing against it
. Off to the side, palm trees swayed violently in a heavy wind. The subtext at the bottom of the screen said that she was on Long Key, not far up island. Dramatic backdrop, but the storm was still moving to the south-southwest and nearing the Cuban coastline.
“It’ll cross Cuba,” Rusty said. “After that, my money is on it turning west and then north, either crossing western Cuba or around the tip and into the Gulf.”
“No chance it’ll come this way?” Billy asked.
“Listen to the man,” I told Billy. “Rusty’s made a science of watching these storms.”
“Not really a science,” Rusty said. “I just remember things. No, there’s no chance of hurricane winds here. But we’re still gonna get some big gusts and probably constant fifty-knot winds tonight and most of tomorrow. By nightfall, it’ll all be done here, and Ike will be a problem for folks in the northern Gulf.”
The door opened and I turned to see who it was. Vince O’Hare stood in the door frame for a moment looking around. He spotted me watching him and nodded toward the tables along the windows where nobody was sitting.
“Save my seat, Billy,” I said, picking up my beer.
O’Hare is a salty old lobsterman, accent on the old. I have no idea how old, but he’s well past seventy I’m sure. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge in World War Two and lived to tell about it. His long, scraggly gray hair and unkempt gray beard framed a face that had been weathered by sun, sea, and time. Deep lines gouged his face at the corners of his eyes, which were surprisingly sharp and pale blue, like sea ice.
“Jimmy said you were looking for me,” I said, as I spun a chair around and straddled it. “What’s up?”
“You know Lawrence, right?” the old man said in a gravelly voice.
“Lawrence Lovett down in Key West? Yeah, why?”
“This can’t go beyond this table, ya understand?”
I motioned Rusty to bring us a couple beers. “Whatever you say, Vince. What’s on your mind.”
Fallen Hero: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 10) Page 7