Backwater Flats

by Steven Becker

  Finally, I saw her and, regardless of the circumstances, my heart leapt. I wasn’t sure how long the honeymoon phase lasted, but we were still in ours. She pulled the door open and held it, while even the automatic closer tried to deny my entrance. I slipped in anyway. Passing the stairs that led down to the old lab, we entered the new annex. Floor-to-ceiling glass on both sides of the hall protected the inner workings of the Miami-Dade forensics lab. Beyond the barrier, individual LED lights glowed from the pieces of equipment set in orderly rows. It was past six, and there were only a few desk-lights showing the occupied workstations.

  “What do you have for me?” she asked, pulling me around the corner and planting a big kiss on me.

  Anxious that we would be seen, and really missing the old lab, I pecked her cheek back. We entered the lab and I pulled the gauges from my pocket, handing them to her. Her brows furrowed, and she kind of cocked one eye half-closed. I knew I was in trouble and, wanting to avoid the lecture, started to explain. “My prints and DNA are going to be all over them.”

  “Evidence bags. Gloves. Hello…”

  “I grabbed them on the run. I should have bagged them when I got to the truck, but they haven’t left my pocket.”

  She rolled her eyes. This argument wasn’t over, but the gauges drew her attention. “So, what’s up with these?”

  “Sid said he thought a metal gauge like this could have killed Hayward.”

  “And there are thousands of these suckers between here and Key West. What makes you think these are special?”

  “I’ll bet they are.”

  Gauges in hand, she took them to a table with a large light illuminating the surface. A pistol, a few casings, and some other evidence were quickly placed in a cardboard box and set aside. I remained silent as she got to work. Justine had her own process, and I figured if I was patient and let her work through it, the results would be the same, and it would be better for our marriage.

  Her first step was to lay the gauges on a piece of black felt to provide contrast. Pulling a camera out, she took several pictures of them, then laid a ruler next to them and took several more. I waited, holding my breath for her to discover what I suspected.

  “Hey, they’re over three inches.”

  The ruler showed a strong eighth of an inch over—maybe more. From my experience, the majority of the crustaceans fell in this range, maximizing the officers’ take without being too obvious.

  She realigned the ruler for a more accurate measurement. “Three and a quarter? You got these off the FWC boat?”

  I nodded and explained everything that had happened over the last few days.

  “They’ve been fleecing the public for their own gain.” She was angry now.

  Revealing the entire scam, I explained how they set up what amounted to a roadblock near the ramp, checked boaters as they came in, and issued warnings about the confiscated product while writing tickets for safety infractions.

  “The boaters are thinking they got off easy. They’ll never report the officers taking their lobster.”

  “Exactly. But the trail ends there.”

  Having taken proper precautions from the moment she grabbed them, she already had a pair of nitrile gloves on, and picked up one of the gauges. Swinging a magnifying glass over the object, she turned on the unit’s light and started to examine the gauge. “I’m not seeing anything unusual.”

  “Try the other.”

  She swapped gauges and started inspecting the second. Seconds later, she turned to me. “I’ve got blood.”

  Leaning over her, I saw the faint trail on the edge of the blade. “Could be from a fish, or a cut, or something.

  “See this?” She showed me a knot of hair. “That doesn’t look like it came from a fish. You may have found the murder weapon.”

  “What’s next?” It felt good to be finally getting somewhere. Really good, but I didn’t want to jinx it, and kept my poker face intact

  “Oh, I’ve got a busy night ahead with this.”

  She liked to work alone and that sounded like my signal to get lost.

  “Breakfast later?” Turning back to her workstation and ignoring me, she confirmed my suspicion by not responding to the question. I’d been around her long enough that her obsession with her work didn’t bother me; rather, it defined her—that and several other lovable qualities.

  Leaving the lab, I glanced back, but she was too involved in whatever test she was running to notice. It was just getting dark when I stepped outside and wondered what to do. There was no way I could sit around the condo or head back to the isolation of Adams Key when I knew her results were only hours away. I thought about Susan, wondering if something might be gained by finding her happy-hour spot.

  Scott might have known where it was, but I didn’t want to involve him any further. The man’s career was already in the proverbial chum-grinder. Mariposa seemed to know more about the goings-on at headquarters than anyone, and even though the FWC wasn’t based there, their officers were around often enough that she had probably chatted them up. In any case, I knew if I asked her anything, it would be held in confidence.

  The conversation started with some stilted pleasantries. I hadn’t wanted to call her when she was off-duty. Mariposa has a knack for getting to the heart of the matter. She saw through my pretense, and allowed the conversation to shift to work, and told me about two bars. One in Cutler Bay, the other in Kendall, where she suspected they hung out. Thanking her and again confirming we would be over Saturday night, I punched the name of the closer place in my phone and headed to Kendall.

  It was a strip-mall affair, but a chain, and it didn’t look like a dive, either. Entering, I saw a myriad of TVs lining the walls and set over the bar. I scanned the crowd and saw no one familiar. I thought about asking the bartender, but decided against it. If they did hang out here, he might contact one of the officers and let them know that someone was asking questions. Catching a look at myself in a mirror, I didn’t expect the uniform would do me any good, either, and when I got back to the truck, I changed into a polo shirt. The khaki shorts were vanilla enough; I didn’t think anyone would notice they were federal-issue.

  Cutler Bay was the next stop, and in the same kind of establishment, I scored. The problem now was how to infiltrate a group where I probably wasn’t welcome. My tactic was to ignore them. Walking directly to the bar, I sat by myself and asked the bartender for a beer. I didn’t necessarily want to drink it, but ordering a non-alcoholic beverage would be just lame. I could see the reflection of the group on one of the flat-screen TVs set over the bar. I wasn’t sure if they noticed me, but I had made sure my stool was on the route to the restrooms. Sooner rather than later, I would be noticed.

  Unfortunately, Susan spotted me on her way to the restroom. The worst possible result. If she brought me to the attention of the group, both our covers were blown.

  I needn’t have worried.

  “What are you doing here?” she snarled, slurring her words just enough to let me know she’d been here awhile.

  I cursed quietly. This was not the first time I’d seen her in this condition and the results of her work while inebriated were far from stellar.

  “Just seeing if I can help.”

  “Help somewhere else.” She turned away and headed for the ladies’ room.

  I wanted to be gone by the time she returned and frantically tried to get the bartender’s attention. He took his time cashing me out, and in the interim, one of the FWC officers passed by my stool. I was hopeful he hadn’t noticed me, but before entering the alcove to the restrooms, he turned back and looked directly at me.

  “Hunter, isn’t it? There’s a group of us over there with your coworker, Susan. Come on over and join us.”

  He must not have gotten the memo that I had the plague. I was in deep now and needed to make a move before Susan returned. If she saw the two of us talking, it could get ugly, and if I joined the group in her absence it would be worse. Begging off, I finall
y got my credit card back from the bartender and, learning the lesson to pay cash up-front next time, headed for the exit. Sitting in the truck, I wondered what other kind of badly conceived trouble I could get in before Justine had any results.

  Trying to pull out of my investigative death spiral, I called Ray. I’d never asked him about where he sold his product. I knew fishermen worked strange hours and, in order for the buyers to get the catch fresh from the boats, they had to ensure they were accessible to the fishermen. After today’s scuffle, I would rather have talked in person, but he was a twenty-minute car ride, then a forty-minute boat ride, away.

  Ray answered quickly. He kept his cool as I explained the threats that Scott had made against him, and promised to keep a low profile. I’d rather that he said he would stop selling, but it was his life. In return for promising to keep his identity out of my investigation, he gave me two names. Only one had an address; the second was a boat.

  If there was one thing I had learned about locals, both here and in my previous job in rural California, is they believe they have a claim to the local resources. Be it dredging for gold in the streams of Northern California or selling seafood here, residents think being born in a place entitles them to extra privileges the rest of us are not granted. I sympathized with Ray, but didn’t agree.

  Sitting in my truck, I decided that it would be easier to check out the land-based enterprise first. The boat sounded like a better venue for a sketchy buy, but locating it would be more difficult, and it seemed like the logical thing to at least eliminate the real business. Hayward was selling legal tails, but he was in the same position as Ray: Neither had a commercial fishing license.

  Back in my maps app, I typed the address in. The location was only a fifteen-minute drive, and I followed the directions to South Dixie Highway in Coral Gables.

  The business was larger than I expected—too big to be buying from small-timers like Ray or Hayward. I was bothered that I now classified Ray and Hayward together. Pulling into the parking lot, I circled the premises, noticing the large walk-in freezers in back. After circumnavigating the entire property, I pulled up to the front door. From my truck I could see a “Closed” sign, but it offered an after-hours number. Security cameras were visible on the corners of the building and by the entry. Since there was no point in concealing myself if I already had been recorded, I got out, took a picture, and left.

  The boat was my next stop, except without an address it wasn’t easy. Ray said they hung out under the bridge over Bear Cut. It was an out-of-the-way location, but easily accessible from both land and water. Most boat traffic used Government Cut, just to the north, leaving the smaller crossing, with Key Biscayne the only land beyond, as a backwater.

  Pulling back onto South Dixie Highway, I turned left and headed toward the Rickenbacker Causeway. Servicing several parks and beaches, the only commercial areas the roadway serviced were the Seaquarium on Virginia Key and the small community of Key Biscayne. This time of night, the road was quiet.

  The first span over the main waterway was long and high, constructed with sailboats in mind. I cruised over it and reached the second bridge where I could see the lights from several boats below the structure. At first, I thought I had made a mistake in coming by land, and this operation might have been more productive if I had come by water. But since there was no boat traffic I would have been seen approaching from miles away.

  Turning back to my trusty map app, I zoomed in on the area and found a small dock area labeled Darwin Beach. After a quick Google search, I discovered it was on the grounds of The University of Miami’s Rosenstiel School of Marine and Atmospheric Science, and the pier was an extension of a bar called the Wetlab, run by the students there. Sounded like a perfect cover to observe the goings-on of the boats anchored under the bridge.

  I drove through the small campus and parked near the bar. The only way to describe the place was “chill”—one of those places Justine and I would enjoy. Having learned my lesson earlier, I paid cash for a beer at the bar and took it outside, where I sat alone at a small table overlooking the water. I didn’t have to wait long before a boat moved in. I grabbed my beer and headed toward the end of the pier for a better look.

  19

  Sitting out by the water drinking beer and staring at the boats under the bridge might have been the most comfortable stake-out I’d ever participated in. The sound of voices from the boats wafted across the water, but even with the favorable breeze bringing them toward me, they were too faint to make out any words. I thought about moving to the beach to get closer, but figuring I would stand out like a cormorant against the white sand, I decided to order another beer and stay put.

  The smaller boat appeared just to be looking for bait. With green lights shining into the water to attract the forage fish, the driver idled around the pilings. Another man was standing patiently on the bow with a cast-net loaded and ready to throw. With half the net over his shoulder and the other half draped by his side, he stood like a statue. The driver must have seen something and moved to the bow with a small bucket. He started tossing what I guessed was some kind of chum into the water. A long minute later, the man with the net whispered something and the driver stepped out of his way. Coiling his body, he swung the net out, snapping his wrist at the last minute so it would open fully. I’d seen Ray throw a net before and tried it once or twice, failing miserably with my attempts. The man showed his expertise, as the net opened and landed like a pancake. He waited for the lead weights attached to its perimeter to sink, then started to pull the line, which drew the bottom of the net shut and trapped the bait fish inside.

  The driver moved forward again, ready to scoop the catch into the bait well. The scales of small silver fish reflected the moonlight as they were hauled aboard, and both men worked to free them from the net without injury. When the last fish was in the bait well, they started the procedure over again.

  With the action on repeat there, I glanced over at the boat I should have been watching all along and saw that a smaller boat had pulled alongside. I had been so mesmerized by the men catching bait that I had missed its approach. I thought for a second about heading back to the truck and grabbing my binoculars, but was worried about being seen if their glass caught a reflection. Watching the water was a popular pastime and, within the confines of the bar’s outdoor seating, nothing unusual. As I weighed the risk of getting the binoculars, I saw a figure climb from the smaller boat to the larger. Even if I’d wanted to, I had no time to retrieve them now.

  Stuck where I was, I slid the chair a few feet closer to the rail and settled in to watch. I could see three men talking on the deck of the larger boat. Between the occasional road noise, the bait boat’s idling engine, and the distance, it was impossible to make out what they were saying. Actions proved to be enough, as two men climbed back to the smaller vessel and grabbed a cooler that they heaved up to the deck of the larger boat. I could tell by the effort that it was heavy.

  Even illuminated by the boat’s spreader lights, and aided by binoculars I could not see the contents. Two heads peered inside, while the man from the smaller boat stood back with his arms crossed and a smile on his face. I guessed he was looking forward to a big payday, but the buyers appeared to have other ideas.

  The cooler lid slammed shut and an argument ensued. I wasn’t sure if it simply was a heated negotiation or heading to violence. The captain reached into his pocket. I feared a weapon, but he withdrew a rolled up stack of bills. After removing the rubber band the fisherman started counting. I followed along, stopping at twenty. If they were hundreds, the fisherman had done well for himself, if they were twenties, not so much, but I expected the former.

  After unloading the cooler, the men shook hands, and the fisherman grabbed the handles of the cooler, easily setting it back on his boat before climbing down after it. There were some mumbled words, then the fisherman idled away. He cleared the bridge pilings, and I could hear the engine increase in pitch as the boat
reached its cruising speed. Seconds later the white running light was a tiny dot on the horizon, and another minute after that the boat was enveloped by the dark night.

  With their business concluded, the men who’d bought the contents of the cooler started to move around the boat. One went to the wheel, and the other to the bow, where he waited by the anchor line. I couldn’t officially detain them from this distance, but I at least had to find out where they docked their boat. Standing by myself, a hundred yards away, on solid ground, I didn’t have any way to follow—until the bait fishermen idled past.

  Not wanting to alert the larger boat, I called out as quietly as I could to still allow my voice to reach them. It didn’t, as the men only waved at me in response. The larger boat had idled over their anchor and the bait fishermen were moving past me.

  I was out of time, and yelled at the bait boat, ordering them in my special-agent voice to stop. To reinforce my standing, I pulled my credentials from my pocket and flashed a badge.

  My voice had carried to the larger boat, and both men turned toward me, but now the distance worked in my favor as they were too far to hear my words. Waving the bait boat over, I explained I was with the National Park Service and needed their help. They idled closer, probably thankful that I wasn’t an FWC officer, which is what I hoped I looked like to the larger boat. My ruse appeared to work, as I could see the sense of urgency as the men tried to free the anchor. While the smaller bait boat approached the pier, the larger boat started to turn. A puff of grey smoke billowed the night’s black backdrop as they started to move away.

  The man at the wheel of the bait boat was clearly nervous and taking his time moving toward the dock. When he was several feet from the pier, without warning, I launched myself, crossing the three feet of water and landing on my feet in the bow. Glancing up at the bridge, just beyond I saw the buyer’s boat’s stern dig into the water as it fought to get on plane.