Backwater Pass

by Steven Becker

  “I have to call Grace,” I said to Justine. “Can you show the warrant to the dockmaster and get him to open the gate?”

  Grace answered my call and I gave her a brief rundown on what had happened. Her new partner must have been whispering bad things in her ear about me. I heard the tone of her voice change when I told her I only had a name—she had guessed I was using her even though she usually got credit for the arrests. But Grace was a pro and it only took her a minute to come back with Brockmore’s vehicle registration and home address.

  “I’m in the middle of something. It’s going to take me a while to get there.”

  There was another way, though, and I thanked her for the information then dialed Susan McLeash.

  “Want to get in on the party?” I asked.

  From the background noise it sounded like she already was.

  “Give me a minute,” she said.

  The noise slowly faded until I guessed she was outside.

  “Can you sit on a suspect?”

  “Really? You want me to babysit?” she asked.

  “Guy’s got a sixty-foot boat and owns a concrete company,” I inserted the high points from his resumé, thinking that should get her attention. “Name’s Albert Brockmore.” I gave her the address and told her what I wanted.

  Justine was coming toward me with a dockmaster I didn’t recognize and I disconnected before she could hear who I was talking to. He unlocked the gate and went back to the office, probably figuring that being seen with us would hurt his income stream. Justine and I walked to the end of the pier where the boat was docked. The two crewmen, a man and woman, were still off to the side.

  “You want them in custody?” Johnny asked, handing me a piece of paper with their names and contact information.

  I thought for a minute, studying the pair. They had the sun-worn, washed-out look of boaters. “Thanks, but I’ll take it from here. Appreciate the help.”

  He nodded and went back to the Interceptor. Unlike Miami-Dade, there was no ego, drama, or the inevitable pissing contest. The ICE team was probably glad to help, but also happy to get out of here without any paperwork required. When I turned back to the crew, still standing on the dock, they looked relieved the ICE agents were gone as well.

  “We’ve got a warrant to search the boat,” I said, holding out the envelope containing the paperwork. Neither one moved and Justine climbed aboard. There wasn’t much for me to do onboard. She would call me if I were needed so I started asking the crew questions.

  It turned out that the boat was normally docked up the Miami River. Not a long run from here, but surely in a less expensive marina. They had fueled up and were heading there when Johnny Wells stopped them. It didn’t appear that Brockmore was trying to flee the country—at least not yet.

  We spoke for a few minutes and they claimed ignorance of this morning’s activities, saying that Brockmore had taken the boat out by himself, something he often did. He had asked the man who often captained the boat to meet him here; also, from what the male crewmember said, this was not unusual as the boat was a monster to dock alone. The woman turned out to be the man’s girlfriend and had just gone along for the ride.

  Double-checking their IDs against the paper Johnny had given me, I wrote down the marina and slip number where the boat normally docked and released them with the promise to call me if Brockmore contacted them. I checked in with Justine, who grunted back, a sure sign to stay away. Unlike the TV shows where detectives and techs would swarm a scene, she preferred to work alone. She was meticulous and would set up a search grid so that she could cover every inch of the area without contaminating it. When I walked away, she was about halfway through the cockpit.

  I was walking away because I had an idea. Every marina had a neighborhood gossip and I just happened to know the resident one here—and where to find him. Gordy, owner of Bottom’s Up Boat Cleaning, was at the bar in his usual seat. I didn’t like the man or how he made his living by exploiting women. He hired them to clean boats in their bikinis, often offering more than the detailing package.

  We had crossed paths before and I could tell by the look on his face that he felt the same way about me. I had not been able to tie him directly to any crimes, but he was always too close. If something had gone on here, I bet he knew about it. Trapped at the bar between two older women he was flirting with, I could see him squirm.

  Standing back, I allowed him to extricate himself. I wanted information; embarrassing him, despite the reward, would get me nothing. We met at our assigned palm tree.

  “Hello, Gordy,” I started.

  “Agent.” He looked over at the bar like I should buy him a drink.

  “Let’s see if you can help first,” I started. “Mud Man. Know the boat or the owner?”

  When he smiled I saw the same ultra bright white teeth that Brockmore had. They both shared the same spray-on tan as well. There was no doubt they knew each other.

  “Guy’s a piece of work. What do you want to know? This one’s on me.”

  I stayed quiet and let him continue.

  “Keeps his boat at a low-rent place up the river and brings it around here for show. Too cheap for my services.” He glanced over at the bar.

  I guessed his offer of free information would require some lubrication. “The usual?” I asked. He nodded and I left him to order his drink. When I returned he took it and drank half through the small straw.

  “I was saying. Word on the water is that things are not going so well for him. Concrete business, right?” He finished the drink in another sip.

  I nodded and ignored his glance toward the bar. He would have to give me better information for a refill. He must have sensed the terms and continued.

  “I saw him all liquored up at the bar a few weeks ago. Going on about this bridge and getting shut out of the concrete. It was a Saturday, I think. Started bragging about being called in to deliver some concrete and how they wouldn’t forget him.”

  I remembered the Open Saturday banner on his building. The crews must have been working the weekend. That was all Gordy had, and I delivered his drink in return for the information.

  On the way back to the boat, I stopped at the dockmaster’s office to get him to open the lock for me and asked a few questions on the walk over. He confirmed that Brockmore often docked here to drink.

  Justine was just finishing up in the cockpit and starting on the cabin when I returned. I called out to let her know I was back and sat on the white fiberglass dock box near the power pedestal. It was time to have another conversation with Burkett.

  25

  As I’d feared, between the rain and crew, the decks had been washed clean of any evidence. I was starting to think this was a dead end. With the new evidence I had a feeling Burkett could provide some answers.

  Justine emerged through the smoked glass door. With a smile on her face, she stood in the cockpit holding a roll of wire attached to a small cylinder. From where I sat I could see it was different from the blasting cap. This was fatter, with a round loop at the end opposite from the wire. It was a fuse igniter. Once pulled the ring would send a charge through the wire to the detonator. The length of wire determined the delay. From the coil attached to the ignitor, I guessed that these were set for about a minute—the perfect amount of time to drop a charge in the water and have it reach the bottom. With gloved hands, she slipped it into an evidence bag. “That’s about all I can find, but it could be enough if there are prints or we can figure out where it was bought.”

  Due to the ability to buy anything over the Internet, the days of tracking down an item’s retailers were pretty much over, but a fingerprint could be enough to get at least an indictment, if not a conviction.

  Even if she had found the smoking gun, I still needed some backstory from Burkett. “How about I drop you at the lab and head over to county? I want to have a conversation with Burkett.”

  “Right on.”

  Justine looked excited about her find. My expe
ctations were lower. We rode back to the lab and I pulled into the lot. We were both immersed in our own worlds, but I pulled her over before she could open the door and kissed her. She got out with a smile, and with the evidence bag in hand walked toward the entrance. Not wanting her to be accosted by the half-dozen reporters still camped out in front of the building would be my stated reason for delaying; the sway of her hips was the compelling one. I watched until she was inside.

  I knew better than to go into the county lockup cold, and called Grace. She said she was tied up, but would make a call to the desk sergeant. I filled her in on what we had found and told her I thought it was time to release Burkett. There was a long pause on the line and I heard JT’s voice in the background.

  “Go on. I’ll set it up,” she said, and disconnected.

  I felt bad that I had put her in a spot with her new partner, but some things were out of my control.

  Burkett was being fast-tracked and had been moved to the pre-trial detention center. After reaching the building I parked and sat in the truck with the AC running, gathering my thoughts. Once I had a plan, I locked the truck and headed for the entrance. Grace had followed through, and after giving my name and showing my credentials to the desk sergeant, I was buzzed in and given directions to an interview room.

  As an officer led me down the hallway, I looked at each room we passed, wondering when political correctness had trickled down to the corrections system. I could have sworn these were the same rooms that used to be called “interrogation” rooms. My escort stopped, keyed in a code, and opened one of the doors. When I entered, I saw Burkett sitting alone at the table.

  “Might have some good news for you,” I started, and sat opposite him. He didn’t look up, and I studied the contractor. He was worse for the wear. The two days here had taken a toll on him, though I wasn’t sure if having to dry out didn’t have something to do with it.

  “What would that be? They’re going to arraign me tomorrow morning and my public defender’s an idiot.”

  I thought about telling him about Daniel J. Viscount, my five-figure-a-shot attorney. I had seen how deep his tentacles had reached into the system and what he could get done. Instead of the referral, I hoped that I could get Burkett released before any hearing occurred.

  “What can you tell me about the concrete suppliers?” I asked.

  His body language changed. “What do you want to know? You call them up and they deliver concrete.”

  “I’m here to help you. We’ve got some new information that is being processed as we speak that could vindicate you.”

  He looked up. “Really? I thought that bitch had a noose around my neck.”

  “She might, but she hasn’t pulled the rope yet. Now, tell me about the suppliers, starting with the bidding process.” I pulled out my pad and pen to show him I meant business.

  “You really think this is going to help?” he asked. The defeated look was back.

  I could have just asked about Brockmore, but I wanted the whole story. “Yes, I do.” My phone vibrated and I held up a hand for him to hold on. It was a text from Justine saying that she had found something. I figured there was no harm in Burkett hearing it from her firsthand and called her back. Once the phone started ringing, I pressed the speaker button and set it face up on the table between us.

  “Hey, we’re on speaker with Burkett. I thought it might help if he heard it from you.”

  “There was a partial print on the detonator. I pulled what I could off and ran it through AFIS. It appears that Brockmore was in the military. His print is on the case.”

  Burkett was fully engaged now. “Albert Brockmore?”

  “Yes, I went a little deeper and found out he was in demolitions. This stuff is his wheelhouse. Need me to go further?”

  I recalled some of the pictures on his walls had been military. “I think we have enough for now. I’ll get back to you when we’re finished up here.” I reached for the phone, but Burkett held up his hand.

  “Thank you for doing this,” Burkett said.

  I could almost see the tear fall from Justine’s eye. Yes, she was a geek, but also deeply cared about using her skills to get justice, rather than just solving riddles like many of the other techs. I looked across the table and Burkett nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll call you in a bit.” I pulled the phone back and disconnected. “Got a story you want to tell me now?”

  While he composed himself, I wondered if Susan had found Brockmore. The logical thing to do would be to bring him in for the attempted murder of two park service employees—Ray and me. He could claim that he hadn’t known we were down there and get the charge downgraded to defacement of a public property, which was probably just a misdemeanor. But I decided to wait and get enough evidence to take him in for the murders associated with the bridge collapse.

  Burkett started to talk and I wished I’d had a full-sized legal pad instead of the small pocket-sized one in front of me. He prefaced the actual construction process of the bridge by explaining the bidding process.

  “The best guy doesn’t always get the job, no matter how complicated it is. As long as a company can bond and produce the lowest bid, it is a rare case when they’re not selected. You’ve got to bond. That’s the whole deal. Bid bonds, performance bonds, payment bonds, and guarantees. It’s harder to qualify and get bonded than it is to build the damned projects.”

  “How does that affect material suppliers?” I asked.

  “They usually don’t have to bond specifically for the project, but they have to accept the terms of the contract and working for municipalities generally means a minimum of sixty and more likely ninety days before they get paid. And, that’s the billing cycle, not when they did the work. It could be every bit of four months sometimes.” He breathed deeply.

  “Brockmore’s bid was in line, but he wanted to get paid in thirty days. That would have forced me to use my line of credit. Why would I go with him when another supplier is okay with getting paid when I do?”

  It was a rhetorical question, but I had an answer. “Because he’d deliver on Saturday.”

  “That might have been a mistake, but I was desperate. The job had liquidated damages and the school was not cooperating on extensions.”

  “Liquidated damages?”

  “You accept the project with a given amount of days to complete it. After that, every day the project comes in late there’s a fee. Some fees run into the thousands a day.”

  I understood how that could influence his decision-making process. “So, you were running late and the supplier you had contracted with wouldn’t or couldn’t deliver on a Saturday, so you called Brockmore.”

  “It was a cost / benefit decision. Paying him right away, even if I had to go to my credit line and pay the interest was less expensive than two days of damages for being late.”

  “I guess stuff like this happens all the time?”

  “Pretty commonplace. But I think Brockmore got the mix wrong. His yard wouldn’t carry the fly ash specified. He’d have to bring it in. My feeling is that he substituted an inferior product. We questioned it at the site, but the engineer did his slump test, which fell within the project parameters. That just shows the consistency and not how good the mix is. The other tests take twenty-eight days to allow the concrete to cure.”

  “Why didn’t you stop the pour?”

  He raised his hands. “I’m just a poor contractor—the low man on the totem pole. If the engineer says go, we go.”

  “You know the name of the engineer who did the testing that day?”

  “Larry Shelton. He was one of the better ones.” His eyes opened wide. “Do you think he got killed for this?”

  It was too early to confirm, so I waffled. “We’re looking into it.”

  I rose and said I would do what I could to get him out. Leaving the room, my feeling was that if Burkett was guilty of anything it was not yelling “time-out” loud enough. He hadn’t committed a crime, whereas Brockmore, a
t the least, had tried to blow Ray and me up. I left the building thinking that if Justine didn’t have the smoking gun, I thought I might. Larry Shelton had been killed to hide the bad concrete. Now, I needed the test cylinders to prove it.

  Checking my watch as I got into the truck, I saw it was close to five, and on a Friday, that meant I had to get to the testing facility before they closed or I would have to wait until Monday. After entering the address into the maps app on my phone, its calculation showed I didn’t have a chance. I had one option open to me and paused before I found Roslyn Maya’s number in my call log.

  “Receptive” was not a word that I would have used to describe her, but she proved me wrong. It occurred to me as I sat in Friday rush-hour traffic that if her tester had been killed for possibly being a whistleblower, her firm would come out of this looking good no matter who had actually killed him. In her view it was still Burkett’s fault for using Brockmore’s concrete in place of the regular supplier’s.

  I finally reached the testing facility a half-hour after they officially closed, but Roslyn was waiting in her car by the entrance. She got out and led me to the door, which she opened by entering a code into a keypad. I followed her in. The place reminded me of Brockmore’s offices: totally utilitarian. She led me through a door off the small waiting room, where the magazines looked at least ten years old, and into a large warehouse.

  Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment was lined up against one wall, and racks full of six-inch diameter by foot-long cylinders covered the opposite wall. At the end of the space there were two roll-up garage doors. Roslyn went to a light switch and suddenly the dim room came to life.

  “This is all our testing equipment,” she said, starting the tour.

  “Can we locate the cylinders for the bridge, specifically from the Saturday when Brockmore supplied the concrete?”