Backwater Tide

by Steven Becker

  “Ain’t that always the truth. Nice lady you got, though.”

  Justine came out of the building before I’d reached the entrance.

  “Nice,” she said, pecking me on the cheek.

  At least she approved of my clothing selections. Taking a look at her, I was glad I’d made the attempt. I smiled, wondering how I had gotten so lucky.

  “You need to do something about his cigar.”

  That was her only comment as we approached the truck. Slipstream relocated himself to the backseat and Justine brushed off the passenger seat before setting her bag on the floor and sliding in.

  She took a second to evaluate her escorts before buckling her seat belt. “You both look nice.”

  I knew there was a but coming.

  “You going to lose that stump in your mouth?”

  “You think I’ve never mixed with these people before. Don’t worry about me; I’ll blend right in.”

  I both hoped and doubted that would be the case. On the way to the beach, I told Justine about finding the wreck and our dives. When I mentioned the visit by DeWitt she asked if I had talked to Grace since we had seen her at Gross’s house.

  “No, I guess she’s wrapped up in Morehead’s murder investigation.” I had actually been so involved with finding Gross’s treasure that I had forgotten about the dead attorney. Justine, working from within Miami-Dade, had a different perspective.

  “Maybe you should call her.”

  That was unusual, coming from her. “Okay. What’s up?”

  I saw her glance in the backseat. “I don’t know, but there’s something going on here.”

  I was pretty sure it was because of Slipstream that she didn’t say more. As much as I wanted to know right then, it would have to wait. Justine seemed preoccupied and Slipstream knew better than to say anything, making for a quiet ride to the Savoy.

  It was like entering a different world when the traffic came to a halt about a hundred yards from the hotel entrance. From where we sat, we could see the line of expensive cars, with valets scurrying like rats to move the people to the party and the vehicles out of the way. I’ve used my Park Service truck and credentials to avoid these kind of situations before, but this time I sensed it was better to be invisible. To that effect, I pulled into the left lane and drove past the entrance.

  “What are you doing?” Justine asked.

  Slipstream leaned forward in the backseat.

  “I want to go into this incognito, not be identified as the agent investigating Gross’s death the minute they see the truck,” I said. I had thought about taking her car, but with Slipstream chewing on the cigar behind me, I didn’t think that would be a good idea. As it was, I would have to add a detailing of the truck to get rid of the smell onto my expense report.

  Several other people, all driving ordinary vehicles, must have had the same idea as me. The parking lot for the hotel next door was full, as was the strip center across the street. Finally, about a quarter-mile from the Savoy, I found a spot and parked.

  “What about my foot?” Slipstream whined as his limp suddenly returned.

  Justine got out of the truck and grabbed her bag. Walking over to Slipstream she recoiled her leg as if she was about to nail him with a side kick to his ankle, and he stopped. “Now for the cigar.” She pulled it out of his mouth and tossed it into a nearby trash can. A smile crossed her face for the first time since I had picked her up.

  Slipstream grumbled something and started walking ahead of us. I purposefully hung back several paces to distance myself from him. It was time he earned his keep and that meant he had to go in alone. I also wanted to talk to Justine.

  “What’s up with Grace?”

  She looked down. “Okay, I guess it’s pretty obvious we have a history.”

  I kept my mouth shut and let her continue.

  “So, there was a case a few years ago, just when I started. Evidence went missing, some very expensive jewelry. I was assigned to the case and processed the pieces. Then they disappeared from the evidence locker.

  “Internal affairs started an investigation. They found the surveillance tapes were missing and the evidence log had been doctored. It was a high-profile case and fingers were pointing everywhere.”

  “Did they ever figure it out?”

  “No, the suspect went free. It was one of Grace’s first cases as a detective and she ended up taking the fall.” She paused and I could see a tear in her eye. “But I did my own investigation and discovered it was her old partner.”

  “Tracy? Did you tell her?”

  She shook her head. “Believe it or not, there was another winner before him. I wanted to talk to her, but it would have been like telling someone their spouse is cheating on them. I took it to Internal Affairs. They questioned her and she turned on him.”

  “Why does she hold it against you?”

  “ I went on the forensic evidence; it was all I had.”

  She said it like she was making an apology. Her inquisitive nature was one of the things I loved and admired about her. “That’s your job.”

  “I should have given the evidence to Grace instead of the IA people. I put her on the spot and she had to turn on her partner rather than having the opportunity to uncover his duplicity and expose it in her own way. The former action made her a rat; the latter option would have gotten her a commendation. She’s never trusted me since.”

  Reputation meant everything to Justine and I could guess how much the distrust had hurt her, as well as the never-ending water cooler talk amongst the detectives. When I had first met her, several had given her a hard time. I had thought at the time it was because she had rebuffed their advances, but now suspected it was more complicated.

  That explained Grace’s bad partner karma. It would take a long time for the memory of turning against a partner to fade—if it ever did. “But she blames you?”

  She shrugged. Justine was a top-notch forensic tech, not a politician. I wondered now if the swing shift had been her idea after all, or if it had been a punishment. Inadvertently, in their attempt to punish her, they had put her where she excelled.

  We entered the circular driveway to the hotel and our attention turned to the spectacle in front of us. I had heard that Boca Raton and Palm Beach were the places to be seen, but this looked like the red carpet at the Oscars. I grabbed her hand and squeezed, trying to reassure her that I was here for her.

  Right after the valets, dressed as sailors for the event, opened car doors for the attendees, a handful of people in officers’ uniforms discreetly checked them in with an iPad. The guests were then directed toward a carpeted entry, which placed them in front of a pair of photographers. After their photos were taken, they disappeared inside the lobby.

  We had encountered our first hurdle and I was glad we had parked down the street. Now, my choice was to either use my credentials or we would need to walk back to the adjacent hotel in order to access the beach and walk over to the Savoy. I again chose discretion. I saw Slipstream moving away from the entrance as well. He had already made that decision.

  After backtracking to the hotel next door, we entered without any questions and walked straight through the lobby to the beach access, where floor-to-ceiling glass revealed the Atlantic Ocean. Walking back outside, we passed two pools on our way to the beach. Once we hit sand, we took off our flip-flops and Justine slipped them into her bag. From where we stood we could hear the sound of reggae coming from a live band. Well-dressed people stood in groups, drinking what looked like rum punches from souvenir cups and swaying to the music.

  Another group was down by the water. A large white tent obscured a good deal of the view, but I could clearly see the ribs of a Spanish galleon sticking above the waterline.

  Twenty-Five

  Extravaganza was the right word for the event. As we moved closer, I could see a group of notable charities had been given table space under a large tent by the bar. Their displays were professional and their booths well-mann
ed and busy, but the main attraction was at the end, taking up almost a quarter of the tent. A half-dozen large-screen TVs that together made one large display showed a video of an underwater scene, with divers bringing load after load of gold, silver, and jewels up from the bottom.

  Below the screens was a banner proclaiming Shipwreck Hunters, Inc., the proud sponsor of the event, aptly called the Shipwreck Ball. A server passed by with a tray of what I guessed were rum punches in commemorative mugs. I grabbed two from the woman dressed as a wench and handed one to Justine. I didn’t want to drink, but blending in was important.

  Together we walked by the smaller tables being operated by the charities. They were doing a brisk business, but nothing compared to the crowd in front of the host’s table. Sipping the fruity drink, I noticed the contact information for Shipwreck Hunters proudly etched into the plastic mug. If for some reason you missed their pitch, it would come home with you.

  Walking up to their display I saw the excitement as men and women clad in bathing suits ran up to redeem what looked like commemorative coins. We stood there together, sipping the smooth and powerful drinks faster than I had wanted to, and watching the people come and go until I figured out what was happening.

  After registering with one of the pirate-clad, iPad-holding employees, each guest surrendered a credit card that was quickly swiped on the device. Then the patrons were directed to the large tent by the water that we had seen from the other hotel. This appeared to be a changing area, where the guests donned samples of several designer swimsuits. They were given masks, snorkels, fins, and a mesh bag. Once clothed and equipped, several employees helped them adjust the snorkeling gear and ushered them into the water by the shipwreck.

  Some returned to shore faster than others, but all eventually came back with a bag full of what looked like coins and jewels. These were taken to the tent, counted, and recorded by another pirate with an iPad. The new treasure hunters were rewarded with a chit to use at the charity tables. The coins were then placed in a commemorative mesh bag, which I’m sure had the contact information for Shipwreck Hunters on it.

  Even though the event was clearly staged, the participants were jubilant about their finds. With fresh drinks in hand, they quickly made the rounds of the charity tables and dispensed their chits.

  It was brilliant. Everyone who participated came away with a dose of treasure fever, and though the host wasn’t asking for anything now, with their contact information going home with everyone on the coins, bags, and plastic mugs, in a day or two their website would be flooded and their phones would be ringing off the hook with potential backers. This morning I had learned about Gross’s scheme to lure investors, now I was witnessing a different but equally elaborate method. I could only wonder if these guys actually looked for treasure or if their real income came from encouraging backers to part with their cash.

  One man stood out. He was larger both in stature and attitude. Dressed as a commodore or admiral, he worked the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs. There was no doubt he was the man behind Shipwreck Hunters—and I needed to talk to him.

  Justine was, of course, one step ahead of me and steered me to a quiet corner of the tent. She held her phone between us and scrolled down the home page for Shipwreck Hunters. Yesterday when I had checked, the page had been all about the fundraiser. Now that everyone was already here, the landing page was an elaborate ad to lure in backers. At the bottom was a picture of the man himself: Vince Bugarra. A blurb below the headshot gave a short bio.

  What I wanted to see was the expression on his face when he was confronted with questions about Gross’s death. Justine slid her phone back into her bag and we started to work our way across the room. Before we reached Bugarra, I spotted Susan McLeash, complete with her new outfit, walking toward the tent with DeWitt’s hand at her elbow. She carried a mug and took a deep sip before leaning closer to him. At least she was playing her part. I steered Justine away from them. Just as we were out of their path, I saw Maria Gross make a beeline toward Bugarra. I grabbed Justine’s hand and pulled her back, wanting to see what this was all about.

  A line of reporters and cameras followed Maria as she approached Bugarra. Surrounded by fawning fans—mostly women—he was oblivious to her approach. Maria marched toward him with what could only be described as attitude. With her head held high, she looked like she was on a mission. The crowd noticed and closed in on the scene. Fearing the worst and wishing I had my weapon, I moved closer as well.

  When they were ten feet apart, Maria broke the spell and called out Bugarra’s name. It wasn’t said maliciously or as a threat; it sounded quite the opposite. Seconds later, the crowd had parted and I was temporarily blinded by a dozen camera flashes as nearby reporters took pictures of what looked to be a happy couple.

  With his large arm draped around her shoulders, he pulled her into an embrace and they kissed. Some guests applauded; others looked on with questions on their faces, but the scene had served its purpose—every eye in the room was on the couple.

  Maria broke the spell again. After another kiss for the cameras, she led the crowd to the changing tent. As if she was the Pied Piper, they followed the first lady of treasure hunting down the beach and waited outside while she changed. A few minutes later she emerged in a designer suit that must have been waiting for her. With her snorkeling gear and mesh bag in hand, she walked toward the water.

  Several waiting photographers followed her as she walked waist-deep into the surf, adjusted her mask, placed the snorkel in her mouth, and entered the water. Behind me I felt the press of people, some watching the water and others trying to get in and out of the tent in time to swim with her.

  Her celebrity status surprised me. From her dress and attitude I had assumed she traveled in these circles, but these people were fawning over her. Maybe it was because she was the daughter of the famed Gill Gross, or because of her apparent relationship with Bugarra, or the theme of the event, but here she was the queen.

  Then I saw the joker. I had been so enthralled in the event I had forgotten about Slipstream. From the corner of my eye, I saw him enter the water from the beach of the hotel next door. There were security guards on the property line to keep the public away from the staged wreck, but a strong swimmer could easily enter farther down the beach and swim to the site.

  Though his body looked like that of a much older man, I guessed that Slipstream had probably had thousands of hours in the water. He would easily be able to reach the site, and as I watched him stroke toward the exposed ribs of the wreck I failed to come up with one good reason for him to be there. If they’d been offering cash for the fake coins and jewelry the participants clutched in their mesh bags as they emerged from the water, it could have been that. But with Maria in the water, I suspected trouble.

  Questions flashed through my mind as I grabbed Justine and led her to the changing tent.

  “What are we doing?” she asked.

  “Slipstream. He’s in the water. We have to stop him.”

  She understood immediately. We skipped the changing part and went right to the pirates handing out the snorkeling gear. I wasn’t sure if it was the distressed looks on our faces or the flash of my credentials—probably the former—but they reluctantly handed each of us a mask, snorkel, and fins. There was no time to change, so I pulled off my shirt and tossed it on the sand. Justine did the same and we entered the water with our gear in hand.

  Because I had little beach-diving experience, I followed Justine’s lead and waded out until we were waist-deep. We put our masks on and started breathing through our snorkels. Turning our backs to the water, we put on our fins and slowly backed in until we were submerged.

  The visibility of the ten-feet of water surprised me. It was, better than I had expected, considering the surf and shallow water. As we swam seaward, the wreck became visible. The setting was so real I couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch one of the beams. I knew they had to be fake, but they looked so re
al.

  A quick tap revealed they were made of fiberglass. Whoever had staged this had done a masterful job. The ribs, partially sheathed with the same material, led down to a deck that was partly covered with sand. It looked so real that when I saw the glint of a plastic coin, I almost reached out for it.

  Drawn in by the scene, I had nearly forgotten our purpose. I looked up and scanned the water for any sign of either Slipstream or Maria. I had seen pictures in Gross’s house of Maria aboard the salvage vessels with dive gear on. Growing up with Gross for a father, she would likely be an accomplished diver. With both video and still cameras recording her every move, she would have gone to the deeper side of the wreck to show off her abilities—that was why she was here.

  Justine, who was several feet ahead of me, looked back. Once we made eye contact, she pointed at something ahead. I finned hard toward the seaward side of the structure and saw a figure darting for the surface. The floral print bikini told me it was Maria. I looked around for Slipstream but, not seeing him, motioned to Justine for us to split up. I moved toward the bow and she went toward the stern.

  With one eye on Maria and the other scanning the water for Slipstream, I watched as she took several breaths, jackknifed her body, and slid back beneath the water. It all looked effortless and the cameras were recording every movement as she kicked twice, reached the bottom, and scooped up a handful of coins.

  Two divers with video equipment recorded her every move as she brought her bounty back to the surface. After several breaths she descended again. Her body movements were becoming more exaggerated as she tired. If Slipstream was going to make a move it would be soon. The entire surface was now covered with prone bodies watching Maria. There was no way to differentiate one from another.

  All eyes were on her as she prepared for another dive. Several people were oblivious to the show and still diving on their own. Some were close enough that I could see them clearly, but those on the far side of the wreck were just blurs as they kicked toward the bottom.