Backwater Tide

by Steven Becker

  I had assumed correctly and we took a short break before he made the Y-shaped incision that would allow him access to the internal organs.

  “You don’t have to sit through this,” Justine said. “I’ll give you a full update.”

  “I better stay,” I said, thinking about the football game that was coming on any time now that I would rather be watching.

  “Okay. We can watch the game later. I taped it.”

  I leaned in and kissed her.

  “When you two lovebirds are done, I’d like to get back to it.”

  We walked back into the cold room and waited while he opened up the body. My gag reflex was primed and ready to go, but not needed. Whether the body had been transferred to one of the refrigerated cases lining the walls fast enough to arrest its bloating, or I had become hardened to the smells of death, there was little putrid gas coming from the body and I relaxed.

  Without having to worry about losing my lunch, I watched as Sid removed the man’s organs, commented, weighed, and placed them in jars. I heard something that caught my attention when he removed the lungs and heart. Between the Latin and scientific terms I caught some English that I understood. The words embolism and heart failure stood out.

  “We found the tank empty. Could he have shot to the surface and died?”

  “It seems likely. I’ll order a CT scan of his brain, but I would rule the cause of death as a diving accident if I was asked right now.”

  “What if you weren’t asked right now? The anchor line looked like it had been cut with a knife and there was evidence that something is missing.”

  “And you want me to delay my findings?”

  “Just until you get the test results back.”

  “I can do that, but Vance will be in tomorrow morning and see the reports. I’m off Monday and Tuesday so he’ll be releasing the cause of death.”

  “Appreciate it.” I made a mental note to swing by in the morning and promise Vance a fishing trip.

  Occam’s Razor states that the simplest answer is usually the correct one. This may work with live people, but from my experience it rarely worked with a homicide. I started to organize the case in my head as I watched Sid and Justine methodically complete the interior section of the autopsy and move to the head.

  To me, cases are like jigsaw puzzles. You have to start with the corners—which I label motive, opportunity, means, and a trigger incident that allows everything to happen—and then work on the border. It all seemed too easy. Killing a treasure hunter for what he had found, or more likely where he had found it, was a slam-dunk for a motive. Gross being underwater when he heard the sound of a boat above could have forced him to rush to the surface, where he died of an embolism.

  Motive, means, and opportunity all wrapped up in a neat bundle—too neat, and too easy, but enough to start an investigation. Now all I had to do was convince Martinez this was worth pursuing.

  An hour later, sitting on the couch watching the game with Justine, my mind kept spinning with the loose ends I couldn’t place. Why was the tank empty? Where was the SD card and why had Gross been diving alone in rough weather? The only thing I could guess with any probability of being correct was that the anchor line had been cut to hide the position of whatever Gross had been diving on.

  I was distracted throughout most of the football game. California had its problems, but Pacific time was a blessing for sports fans. Games that started at eight on the east coast aired at five on the west, making for a much better sleep schedule. Just after eleven, a time I would normally be asleep but instead was still up and cursing east coast sports, my phone rang.

  My Monday morning wakeup call had been accelerated—Martinez’s name flashed across the display. There was no point in antagonizing him and I took the call, thinking he intended to leave a voice message. The disruption worked, but didn’t throw him off his game for long.

  “What the hell, Hunter?”

  Apparently, his usual good morning salutation also meant good night.

  “Have you seen the news?” he asked.

  I paused the recorded game and flipped through the channels, finding nothing. He must have seen earlier reports.

  “Are you there?” Martinez said loudly enough that Justine could hear.

  “I sent you an email with all the details as of last night.”

  “I haven’t seen it.”

  I had been right in assuming that he didn’t forward his work emails to his phone. When Martinez was off the clock he was off. That gave me a slight advantage. “I found a boat adrift in the park yesterday. The treasure hunter, Gill Gross, was aboard and dead.”

  “And the location of the boat?”

  “I brought it out to Adams Key. With all the publicity that this is going to get, I didn’t want it in Miami.”

  “And yet you’re in Miami.”

  He knew my location from the tracker on my phone. That fact was one of the larger holes in my plan. “Ray is keeping an eye on it and we just finished the autopsy a few hours ago.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Looks to be an embolism from surfacing too quickly. My theory is that he had been underwater when someone came by his boat and cut the anchor.”

  “That’s not a murder, Hunter. And if you don’t have definitive proof that the anchor was cut there is no foul play here. Once again you’ve crossed the line.”

  I thought he had crossed a line as well, calling this late on a Sunday night. “I am available tomorrow morning if you’d like to meet.” I set it out like bait, hoping for a response.

  “Evaluations are due soon, Hunter. I’d watch yourself.”

  Like that was going to faze me. “Right. See you at eight.” I disconnected before he could answer. Eight was at least a half hour earlier than he typically got to work. Hopefully that would play to my advantage. He’d be mad for sure, but I didn’t care about that. I wanted him unprepared.

  The game was over with ten minutes left on the clock, and rather than succumb to more of the announcer’s trite comments I grabbed Justine off the couch and took her to bed.

  Eight

  My phone rang and I reached over to grab it. My first mistake of the day was answering without looking at the caller ID.

  “We’re wanted on the news,” Martinez said.

  I struggled to open my eyes and when I did saw it was still dark out. Justine rolled away from me and covered her head. Most days she would be out training, but she had graciously given us a week off following the race. Whether she was able to keep that promise was yet to be seen.

  The call from Martinez had me wide awake and I listened as he gave me the address of the TV station.

  “This is big, Hunter. Don’t let me down.”

  Before I headed to the shower I found a clean uniform. Taking it with me into the bathroom, I started the shower and hung it on a hook, hoping the steam would take some of the wrinkles out. Martinez had sounded even more excited than usual. He lived for the cameras, but I had never been asked to appear with him. I knew the network and guessed this wasn’t your standard press conference—this was an interview on the biggest morning show in South Florida.

  Apparently news of the treasure hunter’s death had spread quickly, making Martinez happy and me anxious. I had only appeared before news cameras once before, out in California. The exposure from that interview had put me front and center, in the cartel’s sites, finally resulting in the firebombing of our house and the subsequent custody hearing that took Allie away from me for over a year.

  I kissed Justine on the head as I left the bedroom and debated whether to tell her where I was off to. Putting my anxiety aside, I told her to watch channel four at eight o’clock.

  She popped her head out of the covers. “What the hell?”

  Martinez’s morning greeting sounded strange coming from her. “Martinez called and said to be there. They want to interview me.”

  “Awesome. I’ll set up the DVR. You should let Allie know.”

 
; I kissed her again and left thinking about Allie, deciding it was better to show the interview to her later, when I was sure there would be no fallout from it. There was also the issue of Jane seeing it, and that might not be good for what I hoped would stay a relatively peaceful custody agreement. I still had two years to survive until Allie was eighteen and could make her own decisions.

  Leaving Justine’s place, I headed downstairs to the truck, got in, and entered the address Martinez had given me into my phone’s map app. The phone seemed to know where I was going and displayed a picture of the network’s building. I hit GO and left the parking lot. With increasing anxiety, I followed the directions through the quiet streets to the station.

  There was no sign of Martinez when I arrived, giving me a few minutes to decide how to play this. Publicity was not my thing; it was his. That was possibly the only attribute that made our relationship tenable at all. I decided to wait for him and let him take the lead, both because I didn’t want to deal with the network producers alone and because doing so might pay dividends down the road.

  While I waited, I took out my pad and started making some notes. I had found the body, and now with the network coverage there would be little doubt that it was my case. That made me responsible for officially notifying the next of kin. They most likely already knew, but murders, if this was one, were usually committed by someone the victim had known. That put his family on top of the suspect list.

  My list would grow. Justine had found his cell phone aboard, which was now bagged and tagged with the rest of the evidence she had collected yesterday. I hoped the messages and call log it contained would help me establish a timeline for the last hours of his life. Then there was the GPS information stored on the phone, and I made a note to contact the cell provider to get the locations of Saturday’s calls and messages. Unlike the park and the Keys, where you had to travel five miles to the reef before finding deep water, South Florida’s topography was different and dropped off quickly from shore. A hundred feet of water lay less than a mile offshore, in easy cell range. But I wasn’t getting my hopes up. Based upon Saturday morning’s wind direction and current Gross had likely been more to the southeast, where there was little cell service, and that was if his phone was on at all.

  The GPS information from his unit was less promising, but still needed a better look. That was something that I was familiar enough with to work on my own. I didn’t think it would reveal his honey hole, but there might be something there.

  There was still no sign of Martinez when I put aside the list and picked up my phone. Googling Gill Gross, I scanned through the results, trying to gauge the shit show that was bound to follow the interview. The first two pages of results were reports of his death. Finally I started to see results about his life.

  Leaning back in the seat, I watched a video of an interview he had done about six months ago. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but despite his weather-worn look, he appeared optimistic. Video showed what looked like some large urns, still intact, then the camera continued along the wreck, showing a cannon and some ballast. It looked like stock footage and there was no mention of the wreck’s origin or history, only a plea for funding.

  Just as the video ended, Martinez pulled up next to me. I got out of my truck and met him on the sidewalk. After a quick appraisal of my uniform he nodded and I followed him inside. We gave our names to the receptionist and were introduced to a bubbly intern who led us back into the guts of the station. I tried to remember the turns we made in case I needed a quick escape, but by the time she left us alone in a dressing room, I had to admit I was lost.

  “Just follow my lead,” Martinez said, checking his face for blemishes in a magnified makeup mirror. Finding something he didn’t like, he reached for some kind of powder and touched up the spot.

  “I did a little research. Gross was a big deal. Looks like he might have fallen on hard times, though. There’s a lot out there about him needing funding.” I thought I ought to give him a heads-up before we were confronted on camera. He thanked me for the briefing and I saw in his eyes that this might be an opportunity for the park, but I knew it was more about his personal advancement. I saw it as a minefield.

  He continued with the appraisal of his face in the mirror until someone knocked on the door and then entered. The woman looked familiar and by her makeup and dress, my finely honed investigative skills told me she was the talent.

  “I’m Haley Brenton,” she said proudly.

  I’d never heard of her, but Martinez jumped up and shook her hand.

  A man, clearly her handler from his disheveled appearance, stood behind her with a clipboard. Introductions were made and another woman entered and directed me to the chair next to Martinez. I squirmed as she fussed with my hair and applied powder to my face. Martinez seemed happy with the attention; where I was a victim of her ministrations, he was directing her.

  They told us we had about twenty minutes and left the room. I felt foolish with the bib around my neck and pulled it off. Martinez continued to examine his face. Finally satisfied, he turned to me.

  “We need to be very careful here, Hunter. Is there really a crime?”

  The question surprised me. He typically resisted every case I put in front of him. “Forensics is pretty conclusive the anchor line was cut. The autopsy showed the cause of death as a heart attack that was likely caused by an embolism. That’s the grey area. His tank was empty, but that is far from conclusive.”

  “Best stick to the facts and leave your theories out of it for now.”

  The for now was promising. “What do you want to do about his boat?” I asked.

  “Until it’s a problem, let’s bring it to headquarters. There are a few empty slips there and I have surveillance in place.”

  I tried not to laugh, but his paranoid measures might pay off now. I didn’t really want the boat at Adams Key, but there was little to stop anyone from boarding it at the marina. The park headquarters did have a few gates that could block the roads, but there was nothing to stop a boat. At least his cameras would tell us who had been there.

  “Let’s announce that there was no evidence on the boat,” he decided.

  “I removed the GPS; putting that out there might mitigate any problems.”

  “Good idea,” he said.

  There was another knock on the door and someone called out a five-minute warning. I knew this truce with Martinez was too good to last so I decided to firm up my position.

  “I’m going to need to bring in some resources to help with some of the technical aspects. A diving and salvage specialist could really help.”

  “Experts are expensive.”

  At least he still had an eye on his budget.

  “I have a few guys that I could bring in on the side. I doubt they’ll testify in court, though,” I told him. My first case here had led me to the Keys, where I’d met TJ, his wife Alicia, and Mac Travis. Between TJ’s diving prowess and Travis’s salvage experience, I thought they could help, but there was no way either would testify if something developed that ended up in court. Travis was a recluse and TJ’s dive business was a cover for his and Alicia’s work as contractors for the CIA.

  He nodded, giving me his unspoken blessing that I knew could be revoked at any time. “Keep it off the books.”

  Another knock on the door interrupted our conversation. This time it opened and we were led down a hallway into a brightly lit set. We were instructed to sit in two chairs set before a low table with empty coffee cups on top of it. Martinez, of course, took the one closest to the host’s seat. We sat waiting while adjustments to the microphones and cameras were made. It had been only a few minutes and I was already starting to sweat under the hot lights when the woman came in and sat next to Martinez.

  “Ready in five,” a voice that was lost in the bright lights called out.

  He counted down to one and Haley Brenton turned to us.

  She quickly introduced us and got right to the reason we
were here. “The death of Gill Gross brings up a lot of questions. Is this related to the find of a treasure ship?”

  I couldn’t help but notice that the wall behind us had changed to a green screen. Images similar to what I had watched earlier were probably playing behind us.

  Martinez answered. “It’s too early to tell.”

  He went on in the boilerplate language that every law enforcement officer and politician uses when they don’t know anything. Eventually the woman got tired of his “no comments” and turned her attention to me.

  “Agent Hunter, you found Gross’s body aboard his boat.”

  “Yes, the Reale was adrift inside the park. When I boarded I found Gross already deceased.” I thought I sounded like an idiot.

  “Any sign of foul play?”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation.” I felt the noose closing around my neck. She was good and let the silence hang, forcing me to answer. “We will issue information as it becomes available.”

  “So, you suspect foul play,” she stated.

  Martinez cleared his throat. “Agent Hunter is a seasoned investigator. We will issue a statement as soon as his investigation allows.”

  “I understand there was an autopsy last night. What was the result?”

  “We need to notify the family first,” Martinez said, dodging the question.

  “So, you suspect foul play.” Again, it was a statement. “Agent Hunter, what are the next steps in your investigation?” She looked directly at me.

  “After I speak to his next of kin, there are some interviews I need to conduct.”

  “And I bet Vince Bugarra is going to be on the top of the list.”

  I had read about Bugarra in my brief internet search. He was one of Gross’s competitors. “I’d rather not say.”

  Her nostrils flared and I could tell she smelled blood. “What about the electronics aboard? Surely there was a GPS.”