Backwater Flats

by Steven Becker

  The hallway was quiet, with Susan gone and Martinez prepping for his press conference. I wandered down to my hole-in-the-wall and opened the door. Turning on the light, the only source of illumination in the windowless room, I sat at the desk and started processing the video I had just seen. I felt I needed to keep the discovery of Susan’s truck in the parking lot at the time of the murder from Martinez. It wasn’t to protect her, but more to buy me some time to figure out how to approach him without worrying about him getting defensive.

  Once again, I’d covered for Susan last night. By giving witness to the perceived threat of the fishermen, I gave a plausible explanation for the discharge of Robinson’s weapon. If that wasn’t enough, I had driven her home. But faced with the choice of which of them to protect, if the two-headed monster of Robinson and McLeash were on opposite sides of a coin, I would call her name every time.

  Checking the time, I figured I had two hours until Allie and friend arrived, and sent off a quick text to Justine as I headed out of the building. Martinez’s door was closed. He was either putting the final touches on his makeup or had already left for the TV studio. Waving goodbye to Mariposa, she called me over.

  “Did you have a chance to run down those leads?” she asked, probably knowing I hadn’t.

  “I was up that way and kind of got diverted.”

  “No worries. I heard about your afternoon. The boss had a smile on his face that could have cracked his makeup on his way out the door.”

  “What did you find?” I changed the subject as quickly as I could, not wanting to revisit the visual of Martinez applying his makeup.

  “They treated a woman.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “I tried, but they all hide behind that HIPAA law thing. Said we needed a warrant for them to divulge personal information.”

  I already knew the name. Susan McLeash lived in the vicinity of the clinic.

  26

  Could Susan McLeash kill someone? The question was running on a continuous loop in my head. I decided that, despite all her defects, our girl was a train wreck, not a cold-blooded killer. Robinson was in my sights, but I was wary of confronting him until I had some hard evidence. Martinez’s warning about treading lightly around another agency was a rare pearl of wisdom from him. Susan was another story. I had no problem confronting her. The list of questions was growing as fast as the evidence to her involvement. My head was spinning a half-hour later when I pulled up to her condo.

  If we were to have any kind of candid conversation, I needed to surprise her. She was too accomplished a liar for me to give her any time to fabricate her answers. It was a crapshoot if she’d be home on a Friday around happy hour, but I had nothing else.

  I knew I might be treading water and killing time until one or both of the fishermen were arrested, but I still wanted answers. I already knew Robinson was involved, but not to what extent. The best-case scenario for taking him down was if one of the fishermen rolled on him. Thinking about those two, I picked up my phone and texted Grace, asking if they had been apprehended. It was a long shot, at least this close in time to the incident. They had headed toward the river after dumping the body and likely had docked the boat. With the video of the rescue going viral, there was a good chance they had seen it and taken off. It made sense for them to go inland. There might be a lot of water here, but with radar and the shaky condition of their boat, there were few places to hide.

  Without waiting for an answer, I took a deep breath, left the protection of the truck, and crossed no-man’s land, reaching Susan’s door without taking any fire from the enemy. Breathing in again, I rang the bell and waited.

  “Just a minute. You’re early!” she called out from inside.

  Last night was still fresh in my mind, but she had apparently moved on and was ready for more action. A few seconds later, I heard the click-clack of heels on the tile floor and the door opened.

  “Oh, Kurt.” The disappointment was evident. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Susan. We need to talk, and I thought it would be better to do it in private.”

  “Well, your timing sucks.” She looked past me, scanning the street for whoever she was expecting.

  I wasn’t in the mood for her games. “It’ll just take a second.”

  She knew her best chance was to get rid of me before her date showed up. Opening the door enough to let me in, she shot another glance at the street before closing the door behind me.

  What stood in front of me was nothing I wanted to see. I’d have a hard time forgetting it.

  Her skin-tight leather pants bulged in all the wrong places, which the low-cut, too-tight blouse was supposed to distract you from—and failed. Fortunately, she had chosen to leave the shirt untucked. Her makeup did little to cover her cross-eyed look. Averting my gaze, I tried to remember why I was here.

  “Last Sunday. Where were you around three?”

  “Would that be A.M. or P.M.?” she snarled. “You looking for me to give you an alibi, Hunter?”

  I might have had the element of surprise, but she was still quick with her retort. “Your truck was at headquarters at the time of the murder. It’s in the security video.”

  Her eyes crossed even more as she thought back. “I was here. Saturday night was kind of a rough one. Slept most of the day on Sunday.”

  I could only imagine what a bender she must have been on to sleep all day. I had seen her pretty much obliterated on many occasions and still make it into work the next morning.

  “This is important, Susan. How did your truck get there?” I did my best to make it seem like I was on her side.

  She shrugged, causing her breasts to lift. “I don’t know.”

  I scolded myself for looking, but unfortunately, what has been seen cannot be unseen. This might have been the first honest answer she had given. “Who were you with Saturday night?”

  She fought hard to hold back the first tear. As it streaked down her face, leaving a trail through her makeup, others followed, creating a deep trough.

  “Can I get a drink?”

  If you called breaking a woman down a victory, I had just hit a home run. It didn’t make me feel any better, and I nodded. She turned and walked to the kitchen. Scanning for defects in the cheap paint on the hallway walls to avoid looking at her, I followed. With practiced movements, she pulled a Tervis cup from a cabinet and filled it with ice from the dispenser on the freezer-side door of the refrigerator, moved to another cabinet, pulled out a half-full bottle of Kettle One vodka, unscrewed the cap, and poured a healthy dollop over the ice.

  “Want anything?” she asked.

  “Maybe some juice or water? Have to meet my daughter soon.” It was an easy excuse for not drinking with her. She nodded toward the refrigerator and took a healthy sip of her drink.

  As I opened the refrigerator, I couldn’t help but notice there were no pictures, clippings, or notes on the door. A refrigerator is a good indicator of how someone lives their life. The interior was empty as well, save for a partially consumed twelve-pack, some bread, and a pill container. Squinting at the label, it appeared to be an antibiotic. The empty fridge door was interesting as well. Some excessive neat-freaks banned magnets on their refrigerators. A glance around the messy kitchen confirmed she wasn’t one of those. I felt a little sorry that the outside was as empty as the inside.

  Taking my glass, I filled it with water from the dispenser. She had moved to the bar, where she sat, drink in her hand, and tears streaking her face. I moved across from her and leaned against the lower counter.

  “Look. I can help you if you tell me what’s going on. I’ve got to tell you, the evidence shows you’re involved.” I didn’t feel the need to tell her every detail—she knew.

  “Oh, Kurt. I was really starting to like Derek. He was nice to me, took me to fancy restaurants and shopping.” She paused to take another sip. “But then they started saying bad things about him.”

  The entire week I had
been calling Hayward by his last name. It was strange to hear her say his first. “Who did?”

  “Mostly Jim Scott. He even started making threats.” She lifted the glass, swirled the ice cubes, and polished it off. Rising, she moved across the kitchen and refilled the glass. While she had her back to me, I checked my watch, realizing I was going to be late to meet Allie. I thought about texting her, but I couldn’t afford to distract Susan. Her refill consisted of pouring more vodka into the glass. There was no need for ice. Between the insulation in the cup and the speed with which she finished the drink, it had hardly melted.

  I watched her as she returned to the stool and sat down. She was pretty much outright crying now, and I was glad for the two feet of cheap granite barrier separating us that limited the amount of comfort she could expect. The façade Susan used in her daily life had fallen away, revealing a twelve-year-old in a woman’s body.

  I was getting where I needed to be with her, and knowing I was going to be late to meet Allie, I pushed. “What did Robinson do?”

  “Scott threatened him, too. Said as the boss he was responsible for what his employees did.”

  I already knew Scott’s story. I dug deeper into Robinson’s. “I guess he didn’t take that too well.”

  “I tried to stand up for him and Derek, but Scott started getting angry. He wanted to fight. Two of the other guys dragged him outside.”

  That left Susan alone with Robinson and Hayward. “What happened then?”

  “Robinson went to get us another round. While he was gone, I asked Derek if what Scott said was true.” She stopped to drink again.

  “And?”

  “Then he got really defensive and we got in a fight. I got up to leave and he grabbed me, showing me this lobster-gauge thing. Trying to tell me that it was all legit. This whole thing sounded like it was getting too close to home for me. I can’t afford to endanger my job to protect those guys playing games with fishermen and stuff right by the park.”

  Self-preservation was our girl’s top priority. The drink sat empty in front of her. She was rolling now, her eyes were dry, and the previous emotion was gone from her voice.

  “I reached for the gauge, you know, to check it out, and Derek got all freaked out and pulled it back. Cut the crap out of me.” She rolled up her sleeve and showed me a bandage on her arm. “I got up to find something to stop the bleeding. He must have thought I was leaving, but I was just heading to the restroom to clean up. Then he grabbed me for real.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Robinson stepped in and took me outside. He thought I’d had too much to drink and didn’t want me to drive, so he took me home.”

  “What’d he drive?” I was almost rooting for her to give me the answer that would exonerate her.

  “We took my truck. He said something about coming to the bar with one of the guys that had taken Scott home.” She thought for a minute, using the downtime to take another sip. “Scott and the two other guys were gone by then.”

  The evidence against Susan explained, I started to leave when the doorbell rang. I turned and asked her, “Do you think Robinson could have killed Hayward to cover up what they were doing?”

  Before she could answer the doorbell rang again. I saw the panicked look on her face and solved the dilemma for her.

  “I’ll wait till you’re gone and let myself out.”

  She grabbed my arm. “Thanks, Kurt, owe you one.”

  It would have been almost a touching gesture if she hadn’t winked. Badly wanting to see who her date was, I waited a second, then followed her into the hall and slid into the closet. Leaving the door cracked, I immediately felt a sneeze coming on from the miasma of perfume on the clothes. Holding my breath, I tickled the roof of my mouth with my tongue, hoping to subvert it, while I looked out into the hallway.

  Susan opened the front door and a man stepped in.

  The sneeze almost escaped my nose, but I choked it back, surprised when I saw the captain of the fishing boat step in. He was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, not clothes for a date. Her face showed the same disappointed look I had seen when she opened the door for me. She was clearly expecting someone else.

  “He sent me to pick you up. You ready?” the captain asked.

  Susan grabbed her bag from a chair by the door and they left. The second the door closed, I left the protection of the closet and moved quickly down the hallway. I reached the window just as a red pickup pulled away from the curb. Rewinding my memory, I tried to recall if the red truck had been in the lot at the time of Hayward’s murder, but came up blank. Last night he had driven away in an old beater. This was a newer model, with a lift kit and detailing. Either truck was recognizable. I needed to check Martinez’s video to see if Robinson had enlisted the captain’s help, as he had with Scott; but this time, to kill Hayward.

  What I should have done, and what I did, were two separate things. With a BOLO out on the man already, my duty was to call Miami-Dade dispatch, but I was torn, not wanting to implicate Susan, who at this point appeared to be in the clear. At the same time, I wanted more evidence if he was tied to Hayward’s murder as well. Unlike Robinson, I had witnessed firsthand that the captain was capable of killing someone. It was too late to follow the truck, but I needed to do something, so I called Grace.

  “Should have got the tag number and called it in, Hunter.”

  I didn’t blame her for sounding angry. Instead of apologizing, I gave her Susan’s address, a description of the truck, and the direction they were heading. Grace disconnected, saying she would handle it, leaving me standing in Susan’s hallway, powerless. Checking my watch, I realized I wasn’t late yet, but with the half-hour drive, I would be. The logical thing to do was to let Miami-Dade handle it and head back to headquarters to meet my daughter and her friend.

  Instead, I left Susan’s house, hopped in my truck, and took off in the direction I had seen the red pickup head.

  27

  It was likely a futile effort, but with the help of the police scanner I was able to follow the chase. My thoughts went to Susan. She was a wild card for sure and a certifiable pain, but she was a coworker, and appeared to be guilty of nothing more than being a fool. With the red pickup unaware, at least at this point, that it was a target, I followed the well-coordinated efforts of the Miami-Dade police. I was cognizant of my location and Allie’s ETA. The red pickup was moving south. Currently in Kendall, I could reach headquarters fairly quickly and decided to follow the chase until Allie called.

  When my phone dinged with a message from Allie that they were pulling into the parking lot, I quickly changed course. Making a quick U-turn, I headed south to headquarters, leaving the chase to Miami-Dade. At the first red light, I texted Allie that I was on the way and got a smiley face emoji in return.

  Turning down the volume on the scanner, I headed back to the turnpike. The Friday exodus from Miami changed my status from a little late to very late. The expected twenty-minute trip had doubled. Heading east, traffic continued to be heavy for the first mile until the development tapered off. I found my speed drifting north of seventy as I listened to the chatter on the scanner. It wasn’t as compelling as some chases, but as the dragnet closed in on the red pickup, I started to feel the excitement of a predator just before he strikes his prey. Then the road quickly degraded to a pot-holed mess, adding several more minutes to my tardiness. Finally, I made the turn into the parking lot at headquarters and looked for Allie.

  Pulling out my phone to call her, I saw a message I had missed. The notification must have been obscured by the noise from the scanner.

  “We got a lift to your house,” it read.

  My first thought was that Ray had found the girls, but as I walked to the marina, I saw the twin-engine FWC boat was gone. With Hayward dead, and Scott terminated, that left only Robinson as possible pilot.

  There was little chance that Robinson had seen me when he handed off Scott to the fishermen earlier. He was long gone before I entere
d the water. What I hadn’t counted on was a viral video of the rescue. My advantage was now a liability—a serious one, if Robinson had seen the video.

  Running to my boat, I jumped aboard and pulled out my phone. Scrolling through my messages from Martinez, I found the one with the list of MMSI numbers. I zoomed in on the RHIB and punched the number into my VHF. There was no response, and I racked my brain for any other way to track him. Martinez was long gone from the office, probably standing at attention behind a podium somewhere telling the world, or anyone who would listen, how great he and the park service were—in that order.

  A boat coming into the marina caught my attention. Johnny Wells and his Interceptor were pulling in. The quad outboards hanging from his transom would help, but what I really wanted was his radar. Running back toward the seawall at the side of the marina, I stood by his slip ready to receive the dock lines as he idled in.

  “Yo, Kurt. Thanks, man.”

  “Not a courtesy call. I need your help.”

  “Sure thing, man, we were just calling it a day.”

  A day for the Interceptor probably meant several hundred miles of high-speed action. I meant to add only another dozen, if he was willing.

  “I don’t have time to tell the story, but I think my daughter’s in trouble.”

  “No worries. Drop the line and jump on.” I heard him ask his crew if they were up for a quick run.

  Releasing the line, I ran to the side of the boat adjacent to the dock and jumped onto the gunwale, then down to the deck. Carefully manipulating the twin controls, Johnny was backing out of the slip as I reached the helm. With two engines on each control plus a bow thruster, he had plenty of maneuverability, and had spun a one-eighty in the footprint of the boat.

  “Where to?” he asked as he pushed the throttles forward.