Exiting onto Palm Avenue, I headed east, continuing my train of thought. The first mile was the usual urban sprawl: stoplights and strip malls with cookie-cutter housing developments visible behind them. The next stretch was new construction, the previous pattern being repeated ad nauseam.
The construction suddenly ended and the dead-straight road reverted to what I guessed was “natural” South Florida. Broken by intermittent pines, palms, and low brush, the vistas allowed by the flat terrain spread out for miles in front of me. I knew the Australian pines were invasive, as were the green and red iguanas sunning themselves beside the bumpy road, and the pythons hidden in the long grass beyond. As I turned toward headquarters, the road picked up a canal that ran alongside it. Every hundred yards or so, cars were pulled off to the side and I could see men and women fishing with cane poles.
Ten minutes later, I reached headquarters, still with as many questions as answers. Walking into the entrance, I saw Mariposa sitting behind the reception desk and decided, with Susan McLeash waiting upstairs, that procrastination was as good a tactic as any. Mariposa was my ally here, and we exchanged a few minutes of conversation, mostly my inquiring about her husband and his Appleton 21, “guest-only” rum, and she asking about Allie and Justine.
A figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Busted, I said goodbye to Mariposa and, with the body language of a death-row inmate, climbed toward Susan McLeash.
“Hunter. My office.”
I shrugged and followed her. At least her office came before Martinez’s. He probably knew where I was, but at least I didn’t have to see him. Waiting for Susan to take her place behind the desk, I took the visitor’s chair.
“You don’t make friends easily, do you?” she asked.
I guessed who she was referring to. “Robinson?”
“Those guys want a piece of you.”
“Ray, too.” I hadn’t meant to bring him into this, but hoped her influence with Robinson might take some heat off my neighbor.
Counting on her as an ally proved to be a mistake.
“It’s not looking good for him. There’ll probably be an official investigation.”
I reminded myself to keep an open mind about my neighbor. “I’d like to solve a murder, not hang a co-worker.”
“Right, clearance rates and all. Robinson sent over the personnel files for Hayward and Scott this morning. I reviewed them and found nothing untoward.”
Leaving Susan to triage information was like jet skiers’ penchants for jumping other boat’s wakes. They thought it was fun, regardless of the safety of everyone else on the water. “I’d like to have a look anyway.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll email them to you.”
“Any progress on the lobster release idea?”
“Actually, Robinson was receptive. Thought it could be good PR for the FWC and the park.”
Or a smokescreen. “So, they haven’t done anything along those lines? Did you find out what they’ve been doing with the shorts?”
When she leaned back and took a deep breath, my eye was drawn to the buttons on her shirt, which were stressed to the point of breaking. Thankfully she exhaled, saving the buttons and my eyes.
“So many questions,” she said dismissively.
“If you could find out I’d really appreciate it.” I rose to leave.
“Find out what?”
I walked out, then got an idea that I hoped she couldn’t mangle. “Can you call the local clinics and hospitals and see if they’ve treated anyone with—“ I had to look at the note I’d entered in my phone. Instead of trying to pronounce it, I copied and texted it to her. Waiting for her phone to ding, I was slightly disturbed to hear a duck quacking as her ringtone for me.
Picking up the phone, she read the message. “What’s with that?”
“Bacteria. Anyone in contact with Hayward might have it.”
“And you want to see if they sought treatment?”
That didn’t deserve an answer, and I left for good. Faced with the decision of Martinez spotting me on the way to my office or escaping hell, I chose the latter. I wanted to see what Scott was up to, and also have a look at the lobster pen in the daylight. The tarpon in the pass would provide a good excuse for a stakeout.
On my way out of headquarters, I said goodbye to Mariposa, and walked to the docks. Mounted on a pole just below a security light, Martinez’s camera caught my eye. Moving toward my boat, I noticed the FWC center console was gone. Another slip usually occupied by their twin-engine RHIB was empty as well, a very unusual occurrence.
As much as I hated to ask, I had to think that maybe enlisting Martinez’s network of cameras might do some good. I might as well get some intel from his paranoia. Texting him rarely got a response, so I sucked it up and called. The request got a lukewarm response, but I could read between the lines and knew it was an act. If he could contribute to the investigation and get on the evening news, he would.
I asked him to check what time the boats had left and who their operators were, then disconnected. Hopefully, with Susan and Martinez occupied on small but potentially meaningful tasks, I hopped aboard my center console and headed out of the marina, ready to do some real detective work. Rounding the corner, I entered the channel and pulled across to the fuel dock. I was down about a half-tank, and with the dock empty, I idled toward the closest pump. Will met me and waited while I unscrewed the fuel cap before handing me the nozzle.
“On you or the company card?”
“This one’s on the feds.” I handed him the card, hoping Martinez wouldn’t be distracted when the notification that I had spent some of his precious budget on gas crossed his screen. “Seen the FWC guys out here?”
“No, man, the dudes are out actually working since Hayward got killed. Even that fat-ass Robinson went out in the inflatable.”
That explained why the RHIB was gone. I’d gotten information from Will before and decided to press. “You know where they’re at?”
“Nah, I ain’t exactly in the loop.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Robinson looked hot, though. Pulled in for fuel. Dude was all edgy and shit. ’Bout bit my head off having to wait for a trawler to gas up in front of him.”
I dug through my wallet, found a five, and thanked Will. He pocketed the bill and helped with the lines, then pushed the boat off the dock and into the channel.
At the entrance, I looked both ways to see if I could spot one of the FWC boats. If it had been one of the park-service craft like mine, Martinez would have the location, and I thought of asking if he could hack into the FWC computers and see if they tracked their boats as well, but figured one favor was enough for the day.
Thirty-five miles long and as wide as eight miles, the open spaces of Biscayne Bay were of little interest to people up to something.
That left the coast and out islands for nefarious activity. Whether you were committing a crime or preventing one, that’s where the action was.
I already had seen Scott down by Midnight Pass. South of Turkey Point’s grid of cooling canals, it was in a less-traveled area of the park. Smugglers chose the protection of the barrier islands; poachers seemed to like the mangrove-lined shores of the mainland. North of Bayfront Park and headquarters, I could see the Miami skyline through the haze. The waters from here to there were a lot busier than the southern part of the bay—which was the direction I turned.
It looked like a lot of water in front of me, but there were only two ways to reach the lagoon and the lobster pen. Following the coast would bring me in above the lagoon. The forest-green T-top would be visible from a distance if anyone was looking.
Instead, I chose to cross the bay and come in from below. I would have to fight a hundred feet of mangroves on foot, but I would reach the lagoon unobserved. As I steered toward Totten Key, I could see the markers for the channel leading to Card Sound ahead. Swinging around the red marker, I turned hard to the southwest and followed the channel, turning to the northwest after the last piling. l passed
to the south of Long Arsenicker Key, being careful to avoid the shoals on its south side. Following the coast of the island, I crossed a skinny piece of water before coasting to a stop at a clump of mangroves that the chartplotter told me was the shortest route to the lagoon.
Using a dock line, I tied the boat off to a hefty mangrove branch and slid over the side. Swatting mosquitoes as I went, I struggled to keep my footing as I navigated the maze of roots, knowing that slipping off would find me knee-deep in muck. The lagoon was visible ahead, giving me hope that the chartplotter was correct, and a few minutes later, staying behind the last of the mangrove branches for cover, I had an unobstructed view of the lagoon.
Right over the pen were the two FWC boats.
14
Scott and Robinson were engaged in a heated conversation—probably more of a fight. A strong breeze blew through the mangroves, making it impossible to hear what they were saying. This was a photo opportunity and, using my work phone, I snapped several pictures of the pair. Let Martinez see them together. Maybe then he would fork over more resources than his meager offer of computer assistance and Susan’s supposed “cooperation“.
A blue heron hunting nearby took flight after I stepped awkwardly on a branch, snapping it. I froze and checked the men on the water, but they appeared oblivious. Following the heron’s lead, a flock of white ibis took to the skies. Using the disturbance to cover my movements, I crept closer to the lobster pen. Fifty feet away, I silently cursed the park service for choosing colors that attracted mosquitoes, but at least the forest green and khaki were perfect camouflage for the mangroves.
I could hear the men now.
“Our mandate does not include lobster nurseries,” Robinson yelled at Scott.
“Beats the crap out of selling them. It’s a preserve here. Maybe we should protect it. You know—protect and serve,” Scott countered.
I was starting to like Scott. It might not have been the FWC motto, but it sounded good. Robinson stood by the helm with one hand on the railing and the other on his hip. He easily absorbed Scott’s tirade. His years of experience had taught him to let the storm blow over, but Scott baited him.
“I’ll expose you. Hayward, too.”
“You can’t do shit to me. I’ll have you reassigned to the Keys. See how you like that hell.”
The Key’s tagline is “fishing capital of the world,” and it is. Spread out over a hundred twenty miles, the island chain, with a reef running parallel the entire distance, is impossible to police.
“Bullshit, what y’all were doing. This is damned near close enough to hell, working under you.”
Robinson had heard enough. “I heard you were trouble. Consider yourself suspended pending further inquiry—without pay.”
So Martinez-esque. The proclamation ended the conversation, and the two boats drifted apart. Scott waited for Robinson to leave before slamming his hands on the steering wheel. Stomping around the boat, he slapped the windshield with an open palm and proceeded to beat on the gunwales. Robinson’s twin-engine boat had disappeared from view, leaving us alone. I wanted to call out and reassure Scott that I would have his back, but he was visibly disturbed and I didn’t know how he would react to being spied on.
His tantrum over, he sat on the leaning post, staring into the water. Quiet once again settled over the lagoon. I was frozen like a statue. The heron, sensing the disturbance was over, returned to his fishing, and I waited to see what Scott would do. I could sympathize with his plight. More than once I had been accused of being holier than thou, although his behavior made my outbursts look small. As much as I felt akin to him, I had seen his violent streak. It might have been done in private, and we were all guilty of such behavior when we thought no one was looking, but I couldn’t unsee it.
While I waited for him to make a move I thought about human nature. Every society had standards for conduct, but the lines were different for each person. I wondered if his anger was just enough to make him beat on a boat, or was there enough rage inside of him to kill a man?
It appeared that he had made a decision. Moving to the stern, he leaned into the water and reached down for what I guessed was a side panel of the pen. Regardless of what had happened, I believed his intentions were good—whether sanctioned or not. I didn’t want him to abandon his efforts just because Robinson was an ass.
“Hey, Jim,” I called out.
His head lifted and he looked around the lagoon. Realizing I was camouflaged by the mangroves, I stepped toward the water and called again.
“Oh, great. What are you doing here?”
The response was expected and thankfully not as defensive as I feared. “I can help.”
“What, let the shorts go? Damned jewfish’ll be snacking on them by dinner.”
“No. I mean help keep your efforts alive.”
His body visibly relaxed. I had his attention. “Hang on for a minute and let me bring my boat around.”
“Whatever. If you heard Robinson, I’ve got nowhere I need to be.”
“Yeah. It’ll just take a few minutes.” I stepped back into the mangroves and crossed to the bay side. The line I had tied to the branch was taut, the current having taken the boat to the extent of the restraint. Forced to wade the flat, I shuffled my feet to prevent sinking into the muck, as well as alerting any stingrays to my presence. Halfway to the boat, a pair of wakes spread out in front of me. Two bonefish. The elusive fish were taunting me, somehow knowing I didn’t have a rod in hand. Watching them as they took off to deeper water, I reached the boat and climbed over the gunwale.
Without having to worry about being seen, I rounded Mangrove Point and entered the narrow channel leading to the lagoon. Scott remained as I had left him and I idled toward his boat. He made no move to put out fenders or offer a line. My presence, at least for now, had been accepted but was not welcome.
“Hey.”
“How much of that did you see?” Scott asked.
“I heard most. Never did like that guy. Surprised he could even run a boat.” That got a chuckle out of him.
“How’d you know we would be here?”
I told him about the tarpon dragging me into the lagoon last night and subsequently finding his nursery. “I actually asked Susan McLeash to talk to Robinson about setting up something like this.”
“Well, looks like I have no choice but to take it down.”
“I’ll look after it for the time being.” With the sun overhead, the setup was much easier to see than last night. About ten feet long and five wide, the metal panels that formed the side were constructed with openings large enough to allow baitfish and shrimp to get in, but too small for the lobster to escape.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“A while. With Hayward selling everything it was hard. On his days off I would tell Robinson there was no confiscated product, and put them here. I thought I could actually do some good until Robinson showed up this morning.”
“Why not just release them near the park?”
“It’s protected here and too shallow for the cubera snapper and jewfish to get at them. Nurse sharks’ll get in here, that’s why I have the pen. When they’re bigger, I release them.”
Though turtle rescue and release was a big deal, I wasn’t sure lobsters would garner the same attention, but it was worth trying. “I’ll have Susan talk to Robinson.”
“Hmph. Those two scare the crap out of me.”
It was my turn to smile. “She can be persuasive to a certain kind of guy.” We both laughed. Things had lightened up enough that I thought I might ask him a favor. “Hey, my neighbor, Ray. Any chance you can back off him a little?”
His look changed. Whatever goodwill created at Susan’s expense vanished.
“He’s in violation,” he said, then paused. “But I guess I’m suspended, so tell him to clean up his act and I’ll back off.”
His attitude confused me and I suspected I wasn’t looking at an ally in this. I wasn’t generally
a quid pro quo kind of guy, and had been accused of enforcing rules too strictly. At least in my mind, there was a difference. When I chose to stand my ground, it was with a purpose, usually life safety. It sounds cliche, but I did draw a line. There were twenty-seven thousand pages of rules and laws. You had to choose which to enforce or you would get mired in detail and miss the big stuff that really mattered. Ray’s side-business was probably a violation. But he wasn’t hurting or taking advantage of anyone, besides maybe extricating a few dollars out of the commercial-fishing pot, but those guys were scared to fish that close to the park boundaries anyway.
I thought it better to drop it. “Right, I’ll see what I can do with him. Appreciate it.” While I waited for Scott to calm down I tried to think if there was another angle he could help with. At this point I had narrowed down my suspects to Hayward’s buyers, a disgruntled fisherman, the man five feet from me, and I hoped least likely, Ray. “You ever go with Hayward when he sold them?”
“Nah, and I didn’t take any money, either. He tried to bring me in, but I flat-out refused.”
“Why not turn him in?”
“Shit runs deep, man, and he knows my history. Threatened to tell the dudes I busted where they could find me.” He looked away for a second.
I followed his gaze to the blue heron hunting on the other side of the lagoon and I wondered if he was trying to figure out how to check the bird’s fishing license. At this point, I was wondering why it was Hayward in the morgue and not Scott. His holier-than-thou attitude was certainly abrasive.
“So, you went along with it?” I had my doubts he was capable of ignoring it.
He shrugged and turned back to watch the heron, ending our conversation. The bird, standing on one leg, recoiled, the feathers on its neck at attention, and stabbed its long beak into the water. With a twelve-inch fish struggling in its grasp, it looked up, opened its wings, and took off.
Backwater Flats Page 9