He paused for effect and I started imagining the wreck below us loaded with gold and silver.
“It was complicated times and probably not like you’re thinking. You see it was the privateers, with the blessing of the Confederacy, that were after the treasures. Willing to split the recovered goods with the government for their sanction, the privateers raided any boat they saw on these waters in an attempt to enrich themselves and keep the South’s money in the South.
“And unlike the Spanish, who were fanatics about record keeping, there are no records of what went on here.” It had been pirates robbing smugglers—neither wanting to attract attention. There would be no records of whatever was below us. I checked my watch. Ray and Mac had been down for thirty minutes already. I had another twenty minutes to finish my interrogation.
“You worked with Gross on finding this?”
“Towed a goddamned magnetometer around for weeks. You’d be surprised how much crap is out here. Dive after dive of crap.”
I’d learned quite a bit about artificial reefs; the nicer term for crap. The dumping of debris was better regulated now, but in the past, mountains of tires and other environmentally dangerous objects had been dumped on the ocean floor. “And what about hunting down the Spanish galleons?” That was how Gross had made a name for himself.
“Goddamned Ponzi scheme. You think you can go out and raise money, telling backers you’re looking for steel ships with no manifests or records? These are one percenters handing over money mostly for bragging rights and the romance of it all. They ain’t interested in steel ships. You want to see how this works. go check out Bugarra’s party later.”
“So, he found these wrecks and paid out some of the undocumented finds to his investors?”
“Right on, special agent.”
I wondered what a state archeologist’s interest in steel ships was. “And DeWitt?”
“Goddamned state wants a piece of everything more than fifty years old. Hell they’d want a piece of me if I was down there." He laughed.
Just as he said it, I heard a boat coming toward us. Unlike when we’d been underwater, I could easily tell its direction and turned my head to the northwest. A large center console was up on plane, heading right toward us. For a minute I thought it was the Miami-Dade Contender and readied myself for a confrontation. As it approached I saw outriggers flopping from the bright red T-top and realized it was a private boat.
I didn’t have to wait long to see who it was, and wasn’t really surprised when a few minutes later I could see Jim DeWitt at the helm. He continued directly toward us, ignoring the two dive flags flapping above us. I yelled across that there were divers in the water, but his wake had already reached us and he idled alongside.
“What the hell are you doing? We have divers in the water.”
He ignored the comment. “I could ask the same question. You have a permit for salvaging this wreck?”
I was pretty sure I had the upper hand. He was a state inspector on federal property. I decided to call his bluff. “You’re within the Biscayne National Park boundary. The state has no jurisdiction here.”
That shut him down for a minute and I watched as his face grew red. He knew I was right; now I needed to figure out what his true interest in this was.
Twenty-Three
What I really needed was a maritime attorney; the closest thing I had was Martinez. Despite Susan’s visit, I thought I might have his support in this. A Gill Gross wreck resting inside the park boundaries was big, even if it wasn’t a Spanish galleon. It would probably mean another TV interview—one that I would be sure to miss.
“Because we’re a branch of the federal government, one phone call is going to set a dozen attorneys to work on this.” If it came down to a pissing battle between the feds and the state, the feds usually won, if by no other means than out-resourcing the locals.
“I am asking in the name of archeology to preserve this site until we can sort this out,” DeWitt said.
I had no intention of marking or exploiting it and was speaking for myself when I agreed. Unless of course the site affected my murder investigation, which somehow kept finding itself on the back burner. Mac and Ray could be trusted. Neither wanted the kind of trouble that involved bureaucrats or lawyers. Slipstream would have to be watched, but that was standard procedure now, anyway.
“If that’s all?” I asked the state man before releasing the lines and pushing his boat off.
“You haven’t heard the last of this, Hunter.”
He said this as he was moving away. Mac and Ray appeared by the dive ladder as if they had been waiting for him to leave. I could smell the cigar in Slipstream’s mouth behind me.
“Guy’s a freaking prick.” The cigar smell moved closer.
There was no question that we agreed on that. There was something about the smug look on DeWitt’s face as he’d pulled away that told me I wasn’t done with him. There were more than a few contradictions about the man, starting with how he could afford the boat he had just pulled up in on a state archeologist’s salary. Working for the state, I didn’t think he could be making much more than I did. The twin-engine thirty-footer cost more than I made over several years. His relationship with Maria Gross was also troubling. There certainly appeared to be more going on between them than just paperwork.
What I needed now was some time; I had to get DeWitt off my back. Susan had to be neutralized as well, and I figured that the best way to do that was to go directly into the belly of the beast—back to headquarters.
“You guys want to do another dive or have you seen enough?” It was close to one already and they would need over an hour’s surface interval in order to get any kind of bottom time for a third dive.
“I got enough,” Mac said. “We want to see anything else, we’re gonna need to run the blowers.” He looked around at the dozen or so boats on the horizon. “We do that now, it’ll put up a cloud of sand; that’ll be like chum to yellowtail. Best done before daylight.”
“Yeah, spear gun, too. Some big snapper around that stack,” Ray said.
“Great. Let’s head back in and sort out what we’ve got.”
“What about me?” Slipstream asked.
I had purposefully ignored asking his opinion. “I’ll take you back to your place.” For the first time today he took the cigar from his mouth.
“Y’all are just writing me off.” He puffed out his chest and tossed the cigar overboard. “You think I’m old and washed up, just scrounging scraps. Let me tell you something.” He patted his pockets and removed a fresh cigar. Taking his time, he unwraped it, bit off the end, and placed it in his mouth. After rolling it around a few times, he continued. “Been at this game since y’all were in diapers. And that’s you, too, Travis. I worked with Wood before you came along, and then some after. You’re not the only one the old boy taught.”
I was lost now. I knew Wood was Mac’s girlfriend Mel’s father, and it was he who had bought and originally lived on the island out by the Content Keys. He was also famous for building or repairing half of the fifty-odd miles of bridges in the Keys.
“You were nothing but a drunk then and it looks like nothing’s changed,” Mac said.
Slipstream backed away; he chewed hard on the cigar and spit out a chunk. I knew he was going to get defensive and this whole conversation was already sideways. It was bad enough having to untangle Justine and Grace. I didn’t need to referee a fight between Mac and the old mate.
“You’ll be here when we dive again,” I promised him.
That seemed to appease him. Ray went forward to secure the anchor after the windlass did its work. I made it back into the wheelhouse and we started toward headquarters. Once we were underway, Mac motioned me toward the back deck.
With the twin diesels running and the water slapping against the hull, we had to yell to be heard, but I was confident Slipstream, who was watching us carefully with a butt-hurt look on his face, couldn’t hear.
“Y
ou better watch that guy. Him and Wood had a partnership for a while. Guy’s a snake. Never caught him red-handed, but we thought he sold some of the artifacts off a wreck of the 1733 fleet before they split it.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” I told Mac about the waypoints on his computer. “He’s a slippery one, but better to keep an eye on him than let him run loose.”
“We’ll disagree on that.” Mac looked at the water ahead of us. “I’d like to get this a little more organized and come back. I can bring some equipment and if we get out before sunrise, fifteen minutes with those blowers ought to open her up.”
His interest almost sidetracked my priorities. “I have to get a legal opinion first.”
“Yeah, probably for the best. Back in the day, we’d do the work and let’m know later. Nowadays it’s not worth even looking, though that Federal angle you got is worth looking into.”
The ornamental lighthouse on Boca Chita Key passed on the port side. Ray had taken the direct route back to headquarters and now, inside the protection of the barrier islands, the two-foot waves dropped to a light chop and the engines purred as the deep V cut easily through the water.
Mac took advantage of the quiet. “This whole thing has gotten all upside-down. If it weren’t for private money, no one would be out looking for wrecks. There’s a bit of history for sure, but thinking it’s safe on the bottom of the ocean is a fallacy. Especially down here in the tropics. You’ve got worms and the shifting sands and storms break up and cover whatever’s left of even the best-preserved wrecks. If it don’t come up, it’s going to get lost forever.”
I had heard him rant about bureaucrats before and knew that it had to be special for him to work a salvage job anymore. His interest in Gross and this wreck proved that. Living out on the island, he had few bills and worked his traps far enough out that FWC left him alone. It was a simple life for a not-so-simple guy.
“Being inside the park changes the rules.”
He nodded and continued to watch the water ahead. After several minutes of silence, I left him to his thoughts. While we continued in, I started to rehearse what I was going to tell Martinez. There was little point in hiding anything from him and thanks to Slipstream, he knew the general location. The irony that the wreck lay just inside an imaginary boundary negotiated by the same bureaucrats we were cursing wasn’t lost on me. The park boundaries were arbitrary, especially on the northern and eastern edges. Stiltsville had been included in the eighties, expanding the northern end to form a parallelogram; the wreck lay within its outside angle.
I was ready with my speech, but it was going to have to wait. When we pulled into the common channel leading to Bayfront Park and the small headquarters marina, Ray cut the wheel and worked both throttles to make the tight turn. Once we were inside, I saw the commotion on the docks—Susan wasn’t the only one who’d found out what we were up to. The media had as well.
I saw Martinez standing uneasily on the floating dock. Though this kind of attention was usually what he lived for, he seemed like a fish out of water, outdoors in the actual park, and not behind a lectern. I could see the distressed look on his face when the cameras turned away from him and instead focused on Gross’s boat. If the turning basin in the marina had been several feet wider, I think Ray would have goosed the throttles, using the thrust from one engine in forward and the other in reverse, to spin the boat and escape. But it was too late. The only way out was to back out and, with the blind corner and narrow channel, that was a sketchy endeavor. I felt the rpms rise in the engines under my feet and for a moment thought he was going to go for it anyway.
I made it to the wheelhouse before he could commit and reassured him that it was safer to run toward the bullets than away from them. Dealing with the media, as my experience a few days ago clearly showed, was not my forte, but I did understand that these guys were like heat-seeking missiles. Once they found a target they were relentless—and unforgiving.
Ray backed the forty-foot boat into one of the open slips. The one Johnny Wells used for the ICE Interceptor would have been perfect, but the quad-powered boat was there. We barely fit between the pilings of the slip and the bow jutted out into the channel.
Martinez marched toward us with the cameras and reporters on his trail. I’d seen his boat skills and hoped he knew better than to try and help us with the lines in front of the cameras. Mac ended up saving him from that fate. He hopped over the gunwale after swinging two lines with bowline knots over the outside pilings. In seconds, we had the boat secure.
I lost sight of Mac in the throng of reporters, who were now thrusting microphones toward Martinez. He still looked confused and I saw his eyes move toward the boat. Needing answers to hold their attention but also a minute’s reprieve to debrief me, he eyed the boat. I knew he was well out of his comfort zone and nodded to him. Making my way to the point along the port side where the dock was closest to the boat, I kicked a stool toward the gunwale. Fear was in his eyes as he stepped gingerly onto the boat and, seeing the stool, took a quick step down.
“What the hell, Hunter?”
I’d thought helping him aboard might have gained me some points, but that was not the case. He turned back to the crowd on the dock and raised a single finger, asking their indulgence while he stepped into the wheelhouse with me.
“Who was that guy?”
“What guy?” I had heard the sound of Jesse’s Beast starting from across the channel just after Martinez boarded. Mac would be out of the parking lot by now. I knew if I wanted to preserve our friendship that he would have to stay anonymous.
“Never mind. Give me something.” He glanced back nervously at the press, who were milling around and taking pictures of Gross’s boat while they waited.
“Found the wreck Gross was diving on when he was killed.”
He looked at me, not sure how this was going to play.
“It’s ours. Just inside the boundary by Stiltsville.”
Relief spread across his face and he actually slapped me on the back before stepping out of the wheelhouse. The reporters flooded to him, but now he was in his element. His decision to make the announcement and hold his little press conference from the deck of the boat was as much stagecraft as his fear of crossing back to the dock.
Ten minutes later the dock was deserted. A smile remained on his face, but I could see the calculating look in his eye, like he was an addict looking for his next fix. He was craving more media attention and relying on me to get it for him.
“You have a plan?”
Twenty-Four
I’d just shown him an ace, but I knew I had better keep the rest of my hand close. Martinez’s usual routine after an appearance was to find where his golf buddies would be for happy hour and make sure the TV was set to the correct news channel. With the find of the wreck, his interest in the murder would quickly fade. I knew I wouldn’t have much more time until he was looking to me to either solve the case or abandon it. I had a feeling the fundraiser was going to be my last shot at finding the killer.
Checking my phone, I found a message from Justine that said she was heading to work early and to let me know what time we were going to the fundraiser. There was nothing from Susan, not that I’d expected a report. I had enough confidence in my assessments of her personality to know that if there was a party with money being thrown around, she would figure out a way to get in. The problem right now was getting myself there—and what to do about Slipstream.
He had proven resourceful, persistent, and even a little creative. I didn’t have enough pills left to knock him out and after the request for gas money from the lottery babe, I knew that locking him in his apartment wasn’t necessarily going to keep him there. Then I had an idea from the Tao—and decided to use the force instead of oppose it. “You going to that party at the Savoy?” I asked.
“Bugarra can throw a party. Hot women and free booze. Bunch of high-rollers ain’t about to hand me a dime, but I’m not above scrounging for pennies,” he s
aid bitterly.
He looked down and let the cigar droop from his lips. I didn’t have to be an expert in reading body language to figure out how he felt. But he would be there and that was what I wanted. The fundraiser was my one shot to see everyone associated with Gross in one place. Backers, competitors, and hangers-on would all be there, but without a disruptor, it could turn out to be an innocuous affair. Looking at the broken man sitting on the gunwale, I thought I might have my answer. He knew the players, and between his gruff manners and years in the business, he wouldn’t be shy about letting people know he knew where the bodies were buried.
“Come on. Let’s get you something to wear.” He perked up immediately. I checked my watch. It was already pushing two and I looked down at my outfit. Boardshorts and a stained long-sleeved fishing shirt were not going to cut it for me, either. There was no time to run back to Adams Key or to stop at Justine’s. JC Penney’s would have to do for both of us.
An hour later my wallet was lighter, another expense that I wasn’t likely to get reimbursed for unless I shot the equivalent of a hole-in-one at the event. Leaving the store, we looked more like Twinkies than I would have liked. Both of us wore button down, Hawaiian-style shirts and flat-front shorts. Dress flip-flops replaced our worn boat shoes. If I could do something about the cigar in Slipstream’s mouth, he might pass as presentable.
I texted Justine and told her we would be by in half an hour. She immediately sniffed out the we and called me. It took almost the entire ride to the crime lab to explain why taking Slipstream was a good idea and even after that she still wasn’t convinced, but I wasn’t expecting good behavior. What I wanted from him was to elicit the responses that showed the real people beneath the façades. I’d seen him do it before and he was quite good at it.
The map app on my phone accurately estimated our arrival time and when I pulled into the parking lot of the lab, Justine was waiting. I wanted a quick face-to-face with her. “Wait here. I have to smooth things over with the boss.” I got out and heard him through the window.
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