“I’ll see what I can do about making this a permanent arrangement.” I turned my gaze to the lobsters in the pen. When he didn’t acknowledge me, I studied his expression. It looked like there was a bomb about to blow in him and I wasn’t sure how long the fuse was. Without a word, he started his engine and idled away. I waited until he was around the first bend in the channel, and sat back trying to make sense of his anger.
I got it that Ray wasn’t squeaky clean, but it wasn’t the same as a dirty cop taking bribes to look the other way while people were killed. That might be a little melodramatic, but Ray busted his butt to keep the park running smoothly. If he needed to sell some legally caught seafood to make ends meet, that was more the fault of the government for not taking care of its own, not a crime. On the scale of poaching, he was small fish.
Movement in the pen caught my eye. The lobster had sensed some kind of danger and crept back into a corner. Looking around, I saw the shadow of a four-foot nurse shark as it passed over the bottom. Brushing against the metal grate, it felt for an entrance. Finding no way in, it moved on in search of easier prey. Watching the lobsters as they started to separate, sensing the threat was gone, something looked wrong to me.
Water distorts size by about twenty-five percent. I’d witnessed this first-hand when hunting for lobsters and spearfishing. It took a while to get a feel for a keeper, and those in the pen all looked legal. The water was shallow here, and I reached over the gunwale to try and extract one. The pen was crowded, making it easy enough, and I quickly had one in my grasp, but without a glove the sharp horns punctured my hands. Stepping back, I reached into the console, found a pair, and put them on. The little bit of protection allowed me to grab one of the smaller ones and I pulled it from the water.
I had no gauge on board, but did have a tape measure used for documenting crime scenes. Holding the crustacean in one hand, and, after fumbling to hook the end over the carapace, I pulled the tape to the end. It showed three and a quarter inches. Considerably larger than the three-inch limit.
15
I checked a half-dozen, each time with the same result. There was no question, that the lobster were legal. I had to assume my tape measure was accurate, leaving the gauge used to measure them suspect—and the possible murder weapon.
Lobster gauges are simple instruments. Since they are made from lightweight metal or plastic, it's easy to make a homemade version. I didn’t recall any writing on any of them, either: There was no information from a manufacturer, or a logo, or even an identifier like “Lobster Gauge.” Untraceable: Gauges could come from anywhere.
Finding legal-sized lobsters here complicated things further. The potential markets for the lobsters was wide open now. I was no longer looking for someone willing to buy shorts “off the books.” To complicate things further, if Hayward had a shill with a commercial license, the tails could be sold to any of hundreds of distributors or seafood operations, including mom and pop shops, and restaurants.
My next steps were clear: First, find the ”fixed” gauge used to incorrectly measure the lobsters, and then find out who was buying them. Locating the gauge, which was also possibly the murder weapon, was my first priority; I already had a good idea who I could talk to about the market, especially if Hayward was selling them without a license.
Before I left, I realized that, although I’d taken pictures with my personal cell, I hadn’t adequately documented the pen or my discovery of the lobster inside it with my work phone. Martinez would see the pictures as they uploaded to our cloud storage, and they would also be GPS-stamped for location, as well as time and day.
Satisfied the pictures were clear enough, I pulled several lobsters out of the pen. It was a bit of a struggle to hold the tape measure and take pictures at the same time. My solution was to place the hooked metal end of the tape measure in the closed cooler top and, using the three-to-six-inch marks, I could hold the crustaceanary evidence in one hand and the phone in the other. They weren’t perfect, and the angle I had taken the photos from was not clear enough for them to be used as evidence, but they were good enough to prove my theory.
When I had finished with the scene, I looked around the lagoon one more time and, finding nothing of importance, decided to leave. It was easier locating the channel in the daylight than it had been last night, and as I idled through the winding passage, I started thinking. Finding the rigged gauge would be essential, but I decided to try my other investigative option first to both save some miles and to talk to Ray. Calling him on the radio might attract unknown and unwanted attention, so texted him. At least I would know who was (and wasn’t) listening in. It wasn’t unusual for me to communicate during the day with Ray. I often saw things while out on patrol that Martinez missed with his desk-bound surveillance.
He responded that he was on Boca Chita Key, working on the docks there. The island was near the northern border of the park, miles past headquarters. Changing my plan, I texted that I would catch him later, and headed toward Bayfront Park.
Whatever weather had blown through last night was long gone, leaving in its wake a comfortable day. That description was a bit of a misnomer in the land where five months of the year could be classified as “hell.” Today didn’t rank as one of those and, despite my churning mind, I enjoyed the ride across the bay. Having my conscious thought occupied with piloting the boat had freed my subconscious to sort things out. Investigating a murder isn’t philosophical. The journey is not the destination—only a solution is. As I pulled into my slip, I had no answers, but at least I had a plan.
Looking around the marina I saw the twin-engine RHIB that Robinson had used earlier. There was no point in checking it for evidence. Robinson was the sole user of the vessel and I doubted he would have killed a co-conspirator on it. Not one to get his hands dirty, his involvement probably amounted to receiving a fat envelope for his sanction. The single-engine FWC boat wasn’t there either, and I wondered where Scott had gone after leaving the lagoon. In retrospect, I should have followed him. The evidence would have been there when I returned.
With no other options, I turned to the two-story headquarters building to see if Martinez could help. That thought alone dropped my mood into the depression zone. Trying to get over it, I did what all the feel-good experts advise: put a smile on—even if it’s fake. But faking it was a wasted effort, as seeing Mariposa brought the real thing to my face.
I gave her my usual shrugged-shoulder greeting.
She knew the question. “Seems like he’s in a pretty good mood today, Kurt,” she said with her sing-song island accent.
“That’s a first.”
“Him and Susan are cooking something up. Maybe better watch yourself.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Hey. I sent my husband out to buy another bottle of Appleton 21. I think he’ll be wanting someone to drink with. Saturday night?”
I was about to jump at the invite, then realized Allie and her friend would be here. “I’ve got Allie this weekend, and she’s bringing a friend.”
“The more the better.”
“You’re sure?” I wasn’t going to impose two teenagers on anyone—but the rum.…
“No problems, me and Justine will take good care of them.”
I accepted, then realized my error and texted the boss to confirm. Thankfully, Justine returned the question with a smiley face. Counting those hours as time off from entertaining two teenage girls, I again smiled as I walked upstairs to the offices.
Martinez’s door was partially open, with only the legs of the empty visitor’s chair that Susan usually occupied visible. The steel door jamb made a hollow sound when I rapped my knuckles on it, and I was told to enter—of course he knew who it was.
“Hunter. Surprised to see you so soon after your last visit.”
“Did you see the pictures I took earlier?”
“I did. Not sure nature pictures are part of your scope of work—or is spying on another department.”
&n
bsp; Leaving out the part about the tarpon leading me there, I explained about how I had found the lobster pen and the encounter between Robinson and Scott this morning.
“That’s all very interesting.”
True to his administrator’s DNA, he failed to understand the importance of what I found. “Any chance you were able to track the FWC boats?”
“You want to know where Scott is? Look up the DSC number.” He must have seen the confused look on my face, and continued. “Really, Hunter. Do you even read my emails?”
“I noticed the new radio.” I knew DSC, or digital select calling, had been implemented on our boats. Remaining quiet, I waited for his lecture without admitting my ignorance.
“Each vessel has an MMSI, or maritime mobile service identity, number. By inputting the FWC boat’s number into your radio, provided their radio is on, you’ll be able to contact the operator privately and exchange positions.”
“But he’ll know I’m looking for him.”
“So, make something up. Just get him to answer your call.”
“How do I find the number?”
“Really, Hunter. Who’s the investigator here?” He turned to his computer, and moved through several screens. The Darth Vader ringtone I had assigned him went off, indicating the receipt of a message, a split second after he turned back to me. Waiting for a reprisal I held my breath. I usually silence the device before meetings, but had forgotten. He seemed to be either ignorant of the ringtone, or enjoyed it. Either way it was hard to tell from his stone face.
“Go ahead and look. I just sent the entire FWC directory to you.”
Checking my phone, I scanned through the spreadsheet. Sorting by location, I selected Biscayne National Park, and waited for the results to filter. Three entries remained, but the individual boats were only labeled by registration numbers. Looking out the window, I checked the RHIB and copied the other two numbers to a memo. “Appreciate your help.” I turned to leave, but then thought about Susan. “Any idea if Susan’s had any luck with Robinson?”
“They’re out to lunch as we speak.”
That explained Robinson’s hasty exit earlier. “Lunch” with those two could easily turn into happy hour and then … I tried to erase the visual from my mind. That probably meant the assignment I’d left for her was un-done as well.
“She was going to call around to the urgent care facilities and emergency rooms about an infection that was found in Hayward’s wound. Mind if I ask Mariposa to help out?”
He pursed his lips. “Go ahead.” He turned back to his trio of monitors, dismissing me.
I was starting to reach critical mass with my situation here and did my best to hold my temper. It had seemed like a lifeline when I was transferred here two years ago. My ex, Jane, had already been awarded sole custody and had taken Allie to her sister’s in Palm Beach County. I figured they’d be safe there after the cartel firebombed our home out west. It was me the bad guys were after and being offered the job at Biscayne, an out-of-the-way park thousands of miles away, took the pressure off me personally. Over the past year my family life had normalized as much as Jane and our divorce would allow.
The job had taken some getting used to. Moving to Adams Key and spending most of my time on the water was a big change, but I’d quickly settled into island life. Running the boat took a bit longer to master, but I now felt confident in that regard as well. Now, after solving a half-dozen high-profile cases as well as handling the run of the mill stuff, it was time to sort out my professional life. That meant I needed to put my foot down with Martinez and Susan McLeash. I had been their doormat for the last two years and was over it.
On the way out, I asked Mariposa to call around about the infection. She was sweet about accepting the assignment, probably knowing why I’d asked her. I left the building feeling defeated.
Heading back to the marina, I saw no sign of Scott’s boat, so I climbed aboard mine and pulled up the memo on my phone. Turning on the VHF radio, I scrolled through the menus until I saw the screen to enter an MMSI number. The nine-digit number punched in, I hit the call key and waited.
It was protocol for all government, as well as commercial and recreational boaters, to monitor channel 16. If Scott was on the water, his radio should be on. A few seconds later, my radio beeped and I shielded the display from the sun. There was no answer, but a set of coordinates displayed on the screen. In an effort to enhance his surveillance scheme, Martinez might have sprung for upgrades to our radios, but there was no direct interface with the chartplotter. I entered the latitude and longitude manually, checking each set of numbers as I went, then hit GOTO.
Extending past the edge of the chartplotter’s screen, a dark pink line displayed the route to Scott’s boat. I had to zoom out several times to see his location. Not being able to distinguish hazards, the line ran straight through Turkey Point’s cooling canals, and exited into the bay near Mangrove Point. Zooming out one more time, I saw the destination was the lagoon.
The feeling I had, that I should have followed Scott earlier returned.
16
Frustrated by my encounter with Martinez, I ran the boat harder than the conditions allowed. With every wave, spray flew over the bow, covering me in seawater. The fifteen-knot southerly wind meant the typically calm water was covered in whitecaps, and to make matters worse my course took me directly into them. I had started to shiver well before I reached the lagoon. You wouldn’t think a person could get cold in eighty-plus degree weather but, between the spray hitting me and the wind combined with the boat speed, I was chilled to the bone.
I thought about calling for backup, but there was really no one besides Johnny Wells, my buddy with ICE. The bay wasn’t his area, but I suspected he would help if I asked. Unfortunately, his Interceptor hadn’t been in the marina, taking him out of play. As I approached, I felt a sinking feeling in my gut. There was nothing good going on in the lagoon, and I was going in alone. I thought about sending a text to Justine so someone would know where I was headed, but decided against alarming her.
Mangrove Point was coming up on my starboard side. Before entering the pass, I slowed enough to remove my sidearm from the glove box, where I kept it while on the water to protect it from the elements, and to check the shotgun, stored in the console. Removing that weapon from the securing clips, I checked the chamber and magazine. I liked to leave a uncocked, as just the sound of it sliding into the chamber was often enough of a deterrent.
Ready as I was ever going to be, I idled into the pass. I stopped briefly at the entrance to the channel leading to the lagoon and listened for a minute. The waves breaking against the hull and shore were the only sounds I heard, but that meant little. When the water is kicked up by the wind, as now, it is surprisingly loud. Anything short of a gunshot would be inaudible.
My senses were on high as I entered the channel. As the lagoon spread out before me, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw nothing there. Nothing. Glancing around, I noticed the exposed mangrove roots. The tide was low enough that the top of the lobster pen should have been visible, but from where I sat there was no evidence of it. Idling over to its location, I peered into the green water. With the wind blowing, even the protected waters of the lagoon were murky, making it impossible to see the bottom.
There was only one way to find out for sure. Stripping my shirt off, I emptied my pockets, grabbed a mask from the console, and slipped over the side. I dropped under the surface, and started stroking around the area. I submerged several times and combed the bottom, although I was barely able to see my extended hand, .
There was no sign of the pen.
Returning to the boat, several possibilities ran through my mind and I settled on three scenarios: Scott had taken it down, Robinson had taken it down, or a boat had run over it and collapsed it. I decided to discard option three, as there were no other boats out. I was left with Scott or Robinson being the culprit. The DSC locator on Scott’s boat had brought me here, making him the like
ly option—but why? Just as I started to ponder the possibilities, my phone vibrated. The screen showed the call was from a local number, but not one in my contacts. Bracing myself for a telemarketer, I answered, surprised when it was Robinson on the other end.
“Scott took off with one of the FWC boats.”
I asked the obvious: “How does this concern me?”
“Stolen boats in the park would fall under your purview.”
That set me back a step. I feigned like I hadn’t overheard their earlier fight. “You’ll have to explain.”
“Do I need to call that dickhead boss of yours?”
At least we agreed on something. “Where are you? I’d be happy to meet and get the details.”
“I’m standing in the marina at your freakin’ headquarters staring at the empty slip my boat is supposed to be in.”
There was nothing to be gained from staying here, and I had an idea, one that Martinez might actually help with. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
It had taken me closer to forty-five to get down here, but with the wind and seas behind me, and being already wet, it would be a faster ride back. After my boss’s latest blowup about messing with the internal affairs of the FWC, I thought it might be better to drag Robinson up to Martinez’s office to review the footage, rather than ask over the phone.
A half-hour later, I stopped just outside of the channel and put my shirt back on. From the marina’s entrance I could see Robinson pacing the dock. Pulling past the twin-engine RHIB, I noticed the empty slip where the center console Scott had been using usually docked. With a larger-than-usual snarl on his face, the FWC boss came toward my slip. He stopped short of helping and stood with his arms crossed while I tied off the boat.
“Well?” he huffed.
After Martinez’s constant warnings about meddling in other agencies’ affairs, I had to make sure this was by the book. Reaching into the console, I grabbed my clipboard, stocked with incident reports. Whatever I did would be documented and legal.
Backwater Flats Page 10