Corruption in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  Pete Jameson was a relic in the Keys. He knew just about everyone and everything that happened from Biscayne Bay to Dry Tortugas. A real renaissance man of all things boating, fishing, and diving related. He was in his sixties, with a bald tanned head and an impressive beer gut.

  Pete rose to his feet and greeted each of us.

  “I’d hate to see the other guy,” Pete said, motioning toward the cut on my forehead. “You been trying to scare away the tourists again?”

  “Only the bad ones, you old sea dog,” I replied. “Charles said you wanted to see us.”

  He paused, then glanced over at Frank standing across from us. Professor Frank Murchison had moved down to work at Florida Keys Community College after years at Harvard, no longer able to deal with the New England winters. He was average height and wore a beach shirt and a Panama hat.

  “Have a seat,” Pete said, sliding back into his chair. “You guys look like you need to eat something.”

  He was right. I was starving, and the smells rising up from the kitchen were torture for my grumbling stomach.

  A waitress arrived and filled us each a glass of Key limeade, then Pete and Frank got to talking with us about the festival. It was just normal pleasantries until the food arrived. I could tell that they both had something important they wanted to talk to us about, but I didn’t want to press them about it.

  The food was incredible, blackened grouper sandwiches, grilled redfish, and coconut shrimp with dipping sauce in a cut open coconut. I tried to savor it but was so hungry that my food disappeared from my plate in what felt like seconds. When we finished, we relaxed for a few minutes, then Pete leaned over the table, lowered his voice.

  “Let’s go have a chat in my office,” he said.

  The five of us rose from the table, weaved our way across the balcony, and entered through the sliding glass door. Pete’s office was in the far back corner, and we all piled inside before Pete shut the creaky door behind us. It wasn’t very big, maybe a few hundred square feet, and most of it was taken up by his desk and bookshelves. The walls were covered with photos and maps, and every horizontal surface had something interesting on it, from model ships to old coins. I had a brief flashback of when I’d first moved to the Keys. I’d entered Pete’s office and asked him about the possibility of a sunken Spanish galleon loaded with Aztec treasure somewhere off Key West. So much had happened since then that it felt like a lifetime ago.

  Pete sat up on the corner of his desk and looked up at the three of us.

  “I heard through the coconut telegraph that there’s an oil rig just a few hundred miles from here,” Pete said. “That alone is reason enough for steam to shoot out my ears, but I also hear that it’s been causing some trouble. You guys think it played a role in the death of those two women?”

  “Only one is dead,” I said. “The mom. Charlotte is still alive as far as I know. And to answer your question, yes. We can now say with certainty that the oil rig and the attack are linked.”

  Pete glanced at Frank, then continued.

  “Well, I know you guys well enough to know that you’re gonna do something to try and get to the bottom of all of this. I got to talking with Frank, and he has an idea of how we might be able to help.”

  We glanced over at Frank, who was standing beside him.

  “I have a friend who’s tenured up at Texas A&M Galveston,” Frank said in his confident and articulate voice. “He’s the head of their marine engineering department, and he just so happens to specialize in offshore oil technology. I figured he could be of service in this situation, maybe give us some insight into what’s happening here.”

  I’d first met Frank back when we were searching for U-3546, a lost German U-boat that had sunk thirteen miles south of Islamorada. He’d also played a huge role in our search for pirate treasure on Lignum Vitae Key. He was smart and resourceful and seemed to have an endless supply of contacts.

  “How well do you trust him?” I asked.

  The words jumped out of my mouth uncontrollably more than anything else. I already knew the answer, though. Frank wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t trust the guy.

  “We were undergrads at Harvard together,” Frank said. “We were in different programs but met each other while taking part in the student body government. He’s a good man, and he knows as much about oil rig technology as any man alive.”

  “What’s the alibi for him coming down here?” Ange asked. She glanced over at me and Jack, then added, “We’re already involved in this crap. The last thing I want is to have this guy’s blood on our hands.”

  Frank nodded. It was a great question and brought to light the full gravity of our predicament.

  “I’ve had a cancellation in my afternoon speakers’ panel at the college,” he said. “And I need someone to fill it. How’s that for an alibi?”

  “How soon are we talking here?” I asked.

  “Day after tomorrow,” Frank replied. “I already gave him a call and it’s all set up. Even if you guys don’t want to meet with him, he’ll still provide a great opportunity for my students to learn about the industry’s history.” He grinned and added, “One of the nice things about being a scholarly man in paradise: no one bats an eye at visiting you to collaborate on a project. It wasn’t so easy when I lived in Cambridge, even with a Harvard email address.”

  We thanked both Frank and Pete for their help, then headed for the door.

  “Just keep a sharp eye,” I said, turning back to look at them. “Be careful. We don’t know how deep this thing goes, but we do know how far an organization like Darkwater is willing to go to get what they want.”

  Pete patted his hip. I couldn’t see what was strapped to his waistband beneath his worn Salty Pete’s tee shirt, but I didn’t have to. It was a silver Taurus Raging Bull revolver, somewhat of an anomaly in the gun community due to its ability to deliver five .44 Magnum rounds while also being small enough to conceal. It was a beast of a handgun.

  I nodded, then shut the door behind me and headed for the stairs alongside Ange and Jack.

  TWELVE

  As the three of us reached the bottom step, we spotted Jack’s nephew wearing a rubber apron and carrying a plastic tub of dirty dishes toward the kitchen. Isaac was sixteen and had been living with Jack ever since his dad had died in a car accident nine years earlier. He was a good kid and smarter than his years, but he spent so much time on his computer that Jack had insisted that he get a part-time job.

  “I’m gonna stick around for a bit and ride home with Isaac,” Jack said. “We’ve got a few things we need to work on at the house. Will you two be alright without me?”

  He smiled as the last few words left his mouth.

  “We’ll call you if we run into trouble,” Ange said. “Just make sure you’re ready to save us.”

  He laughed, then patted me on the shoulder. He walked across the dining room and held the kitchen door open for Isaac. Oz, the place’s massive Scandinavian chef, made eye contact with me and raised a redfish in the air to wave at me. I waved back, then Ange and I headed for the door.

  I left feeling slightly better about the situation. It was great to have friends in the Keys who were anxious to take the initiative for the greater good. I was looking forward to meeting Frank’s friend and learning whatever I could from him. One of the most important rules of any fight, whether it be a large battle or a bar fight, is to know your enemy. I’d dealt with Darkwater and Carson Richmond before, but I knew absolutely nothing about Zhao Petroleum.

  I called Atticus from where he was lounging beneath a banana tree, and he trotted over happily. The three of us hopped into my Tacoma and cruised through the dark, tourist-packed streets over to my house on Palmetto Street. When I’d first moved to the Keys, it had been my plan to just find a boat and live on it, which I’d done for the first few months. But after striking Aztec gold, and after Jack had found me the perfect place, I’d decided to become a homeowner for the first time in my life.

/>   I pulled into my driveway, which was flanked by pink snowbushes on the left and palm trees on the right. It was a stilt house, a common sight in the islands as every year during hurricane season the chain plays Russian roulette with Mother Nature. Hurricanes and tropical storms peak from mid-August to late October, and last August I’d experienced Tropical Storm Fay’s wrath firsthand while trapped on Loggerhead Key. It was a fact of life that the islanders had always dealt with, and it proved true the saying that every rose has its thorns, even a rose as beautiful as the Keys.

  I pulled my Tacoma right up under the house, parking and killing the engine beside my makeshift gym. I slid out and opened the side door, letting Atticus out, then the three of us headed for the stairs. It was a humble and comfortable home, about seventeen hundred square feet, with three bedrooms and two baths. It had a wraparound porch along with a ground-level outdoor patio and firepit. But my favorite part was its location. It had a lawn in the backyard that extended a few hundred feet before hitting the channel. My Robalo was usually stored in a small shed right over the water.

  We spent most of the evening looking up everything we could find about Zhao Petroleum. I sat with my bare feet in the grass and my laptop resting on the table in front of me. Ange opted for the hammock and swung back and forth beside me while researching with her smartphone. We had a handful of lit tiki torches surrounding us to keep the bugs at bay. While researching, I kept Atticus busy by tossing his favorite tennis ball across the yard over and over again.

  It didn’t take long for us to come to the realization that we were dealing with a major heavy hitter in the global oil community. Zhao Petroleum was a multibillion-dollar oil empire that had offshore drilling operations around the world. It was a publicly traded company, though the majority of the shares were owned by a group of wealthy Chinese businessman. There were a few articles about recent offshore developments, but no mention of an operation off the coast of Florida. Either media outlets were somehow oblivious to what was happening or, more than likely, many of them were bought off or even owned by these guys.

  We also searched for any correlation between Zhao and Darkwater but came up dry. If the two organizations had ever worked together before, it was all kept under the table. Made sense considering Darkwater’s buttoned-up reputation and the illegal nature of their current project.

  “You know, we need to assume that they know we’re involved,” Ange said, shifting her body around so her feet touched the grass and her body faced mine. “That bird had a camera with optics. I tried to shoot it, but it swerved around before I could.”

  “So we need to watch our backs at all times,” I said.

  As if I already didn’t, I thought, glancing at my Sig holstered under my waistband.

  “After the fool we made of Carson at her own resort?” Ange said. “We need unblinking eyes staring out the backs of our heads at all times.”

  Atticus ran over, stopped beside me, and let his drool-covered tennis ball drop from his mouth and land on the grass next to my right hand. I opted for the plastic launcher. Pushing the ball into place, I reared back and catapulted it far and high into the air. It soared over the easement and splashed down at least fifty feet out into the dark channel. He was looking a little hot from the exercise and humid evening air, so I decided it was time for him to cool off. He ran ferociously, dove with reckless abandon into the water, and retrieved the ball. In just a few minutes he was back on the grass, tennis ball in mouth, shaking the water off his coat.

  I leaned forward, grabbed my glass of ice water, and took a few sips. I glanced over at Ange and saw that she was back on her phone, searching for usable intel.

  “I’m sorry, Ange,” I said with a sigh.

  She paused, tilted her head, then raised her eyebrows at me.

  “We’re supposed to be planning a wedding right now,” I said. “Searching for venues and arguing over where we’re going on our honeymoon. Not researching a Chinese offshore oil company and trying to figure out a way to stop a massive illegal operation.”

  She laughed and shook her head. God, I loved her laugh. It somehow managed to be sexy, cute, and refined at the same time.

  “You think I agreed to marry you because I thought we’d have a normal, average Joe life together?” she asked. “I’m marrying you because the sex is good,” she added with a wink. “Joke. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing, but you keep me on my toes, Dodge.”

  I chuckled, then rose to my feet and reached high into the air, stretching the front of my body. I grabbed her a bottled water from my mini fridge under the deck and handed it to her with a kiss on the cheek. I was tired of sitting, so I walked barefoot upstairs and changed into a pair of basketball shorts and a cutoff tee shirt.

  It had been an eventful couple of days to say the least, and I needed to do something to clear my mind. Exercise had always worked well for me in that regard. It’s hard to let your mind drift or stress out when your heart’s pounding and your muscles are begging for mercy. I started out with jump rope and burpees to warm up, then spent half an hour pounding the heavy bag. Ange joined in and we transitioned into a circuit of kettlebell swings, pull-ups, and planks. By the time we finished, my heart was pounding and my body was drenched in sweat.

  I was antsy as hell. I’d never liked sitting around and waiting for something to happen. I felt like we weren’t going to get far with regular online searches. I tried to get ahold of Scott to see if he could be of any more help, but I got his voicemail. I tried not to think anything of it. He was a busy guy, but he almost always picked up, even when he was in a meeting.

  Finally, just after we’d showered and eaten a late snack of leftover snapper, he got back to me. He didn’t reply by calling, however. Instead, he sent me one of our cryptic text messages, which meant that he was wary about who might be looking over our shoulders. The gist of the message was that he was doing everything he could to look into the situation, but he was hitting roadblocks at every turn. I knew that it must’ve been difficult for him, especially with so much money and power involved. These were the type of people who could ruin his career or, worse, try and harm him or his family if they saw him as a threat.

  My reply was coded as well, but simple. I told him that I’d handle it and that I didn’t want to put him or anyone else close to me in jeopardy. He acknowledged me, but I knew Scott well enough to know that he wasn’t a guy to ever back down from a challenge, regardless of how stacked the odds were against him. And it only heightened my desire to figure out what was happening and put an end to it as quickly as possible.

  We spent a few more hours lounging and researching in the living room before deciding to call it a night. It was just after 2300, and before going to bed, I did a thorough search of the property. Seeing that everything was normal, I turned on the security system I’d installed myself, headed inside, and locked the doors behind me. Ange and I crashed in the king-sized master bed with Atticus sprawled out at our feet.

  THIRTEEN

  At just after 0200, my phone beeped to life. I opened my eyes, sprang up onto an elbow, and snatched it from the nightstand. A bright red message filled most of the screen, indicating an intruder alert. Atticus shook to life at the sound, rising to his feet and jumping to the floor. I usually keep my phone on silent while sleeping, allowing it to vibrate only for messages from my contacts. But I’d set up my security system to alert my phone and make a loud noise, overriding my phone’s settings.

  I slid out of bed, rose to my feet, and grabbed my Sig, which was resting right beside my phone. Ange’s eyes popped open, and she sat up and stared at me.

  “Where?” she asked, referring to what security sensor had been triggered.

  She knew exactly what was happening and needed about a quarter of a second to go from sound asleep to fully alert.

  She hopped out of bed and grabbed her Glock while I opened the alert.

  “Driveway Foxtrot,” I said.

  I brought up the driveway security
camera feed on my phone, which displayed the entire front of my house, from fence to fence, in clear night vision. There was nothing, no movement visible. I did a quick check of the other sensors. Nothing abnormal.

  Atticus eyed me, then motioned toward the living room.

  “Stay here, boy,” I whispered as I patted the top of his head.

  Ange and I moved out of the master bedroom, shutting the door behind us. In the living room, we both kept low and quiet, listening for any sign of an intruder. I peered through the kitchen window, looking out toward the driveway. During situations like this, most people like to switch on a light or make a lot of noise. Not me. I like the dark. A light lets your enemy know that you’re alert to their presence, and it also ruins your night vision. I like to preserve my night vision and catch my assailants by surprise.

  On a quiet count of three, I unlocked and opened the side door. We stepped out, our weapons raised, and searched the entire perimeter, keeping to the shadows. Suddenly, I spotted movement. A dark figure wearing a hoodie was heading north on Palmetto Street. I got Ange’s attention and we both closed in, moving quickly but silently in the darkness. We got to within a few hundred feet of him before we heard an engine roar to life. Popping out of the shrubs, we watched him climb into a white SUV parked on the side of the road. The driver hit the gas as soon as the door slammed shut and then disappeared out of sight around the corner.

  Ange lowered her weapon and let out a deep breath.

  “Well, nothing unusual about that,” she said.

  I lowered my Sig as well and breathed normally.

  “It’s safe to say you’re right about them knowing who we are,” I said. “Damn shame that guy ran off before we had a chance to show him some island hospitality.”

  We turned, scanned the length of Palmetto Street, then walked back onto my property. Once inside, I switched my security system back on, grabbed my laptop, and plopped down onto my couch. I brought up all the footage from my security cameras. All of them run on a forty-eight-hour recording cycle. During that window, I can choose to permanently save portions of footage or let it be erased if I don’t need it.