Backwater Flats

by Steven Becker

  Dropping my speed slightly to navigate through the pilings, we reached the bay side without incident. Once clear of any obstructions, I turned for the main span of the Rickenbacker Causeway, and called Grace Herrera.

  29

  Just as we reached the crime lab, I received a text from Grace that the fishermen had been taken into custody. I responded, asking if Susan had been with them. The answer came back negative.

  For a brief second, I wondered if I shouldn’t have requested Miami-Dade check the water under the boat. Susan’s whereabouts were unknown, and the last person she’d been seen with was the captain. I’d already witnessed him dump one body today. I recalled him saying when he picked Susan up that he was taking her to meet someone, and hoped that was the case.

  There’s a feeling I get when a case is about to wrap up. That doesn’t mean everything is going to be neat and tidy, but between the lobster gauge in the dry bag and the fishermen in custody, it certainly seemed like my investigation was coming to a head. For all the legitimate detective work that I had done, it appeared that taking Allie and her friend lobstering might have provided the smoking gun.

  Justine met us at the door and, after exchanging hugs with Allie and introducing Lana, we headed back to the lab. It was close to eight o’clock on a Friday, and the lab was deserted. Wanting to know if the gauge would tell me who the killer was, I pushed Justine to give Lana the abbreviated tour. I caught a couple of looks, but Allie had been through this before, and was itching to see if her find helped solve one of my cases.

  “Alright, kemosabe, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Justine held up the bag and inspected the exterior.

  I bit my lip, knowing I better be patient or she wouldn’t hesitate to toss me out. Allie and Lana hung onto every word and action as she finally removed the metal piece from the bag.

  “Can we check if it’s a legal one or not?” I asked.

  Her eyes burned through me, and I knew I had overstepped my bounds. Everything she did, from receiving evidence to appearing in court, was based on procedure. She would get to it when she got to it.

  In the meantime, I stepped aside and called Grace, asking her to send over the fingerprints of the fishermen as soon as they were processed. She was more than happy to comply. The arrest was a gift and, in addition to the attempted murder they already had been booked on, if one of them turned out to be Hayward’s killer, she would get a good deal of the credit.

  Moving back to Justine’s work area, I noticed a ruler on the table alongside the gauge. Peering over Allie’s shoulder, it looked like the gap between the two points was three inches—a legal gauge.

  That changed the equation. The killer was someone who had discovered the scam, and was not part of it—or at least not the procuring part. If I was right, that eliminated Robinson—and Susan. They both knew about the rigged gauges. The fishermen knew nothing except that the lobster they were buying were legal size. I doubted they gave a thought or care to where they came from, or how they were obtained. Scott moved back into the lead of suspects, and I texted Grace to see if he was still in the hospital.

  “My money’s on Scott’s fingerprints being on the gauge,” I said to Justine.

  Finally, I had said something that didn’t get daggers shot at me. Instead, it was pointed sarcasm.

  “And, Detective, what makes you think that?”

  “It’s a legal gauge. Whoever killed Hayward didn’t know about the scam.”

  “Scott thought they were confiscating shorts?” she asked.

  “Dudley Do Right, is what they call him. There’s a good chance, yeah.”

  “Well, let’s have a look-see.”

  Justine took the gauge to a glass-enclosed unit and placed it inside. After pressing a switch, the unit sent a stream of powder into the case, allowed it to settle, and then sucked out the remainder. When it cleared, several fingerprints were clearly visible on the gauge.

  “There ya go,” Justine said, removing the metal piece from the machine. “I’ll start running them now.”

  “No need.” While she had been working on the gauge, Grace had sent over the booking records for the fishermen. I handed her my phone. “That’s the two fishermen, and we have Scott’s prints here already. I’m betting it matches one of them.”

  “Right on, Sherlock,” she said.

  Allie and Lana giggled at the barb while Justine carried the gauge back to her workstation. The prints on my phone were no use to her, but she had digital access to the records. She scanned the prints on the gauge.

  “How long does it take?” Allie asked.

  It was good to see two teenage girls interested in something besides their phones. “The longer it has to search, the less likely there’s a match,” Allie said.

  “You’ve been watching too much CSI: Miami,” Justine said. “You need between twelve and twenty points in common for it to be a match. The program works through the entire print, either way.”

  A few seconds later we had our answer, and it wasn’t the one I was looking for. No Match appeared in large capital letters on the screen.

  “Any other bright ideas?” Justine asked.

  “Robinson and Susan.” There was no one left.

  “The only thing Susan McLeash can premeditate is her next drink. She didn’t kill him.”

  The girls giggled again, but Justine was correct. It was looking like Robinson had set up Susan. Scott must have found out and hid the evidence. Blackmail as a motive came to mind. ”Susan’s a federal employee, her prints are easy, but I’ll have to get Robinson’s.”

  “There might be an easier way. If Scott wasn’t the killer, maybe he planted the bag.” Justine picked up the dry bag and started to examine it.

  After carefully checking the folds, especially where it rolled over on itself to make the seal, she took it back to the print machine and placed it inside. We waited for the smoke to clear. Several partial prints were visible.

  “It won’t be enough for court, but that’s not what we’re after.” She took the bag back to her workstation and scanned the prints.

  A minute later the screen indicated a match: Jim Scott.

  “Can you hang out with the girls for a bit? I have to make a social call.”

  “You guys want pizza?” Justine asked.

  She was already a rock star in their eyes; this just added to it. I said goodbye, and we made plans to meet later on at Adams Key. Justine would take them back in our boat, and I would follow in the park service center console. If there was a way to wrap this up tonight, I was going to do it.

  Heading out to Justine’s car, I entered Jackson Memorial Hospital into the maps app. Mindlessly following the computerized voice giving me directions, I was looking forward to what Jim Scott had to say, and wondered if it would match the narrative running through my head. At least the fishermen were in custody, I had at least until tomorrow morning before they were arraigned. With the charge of attempted murder of a law enforcement officer hanging over their heads, the bail was likely to be substantial. If I needed them, I had a pretty good idea where they’d be.

  As I pulled up to the hospital, I hoped my distaste for Robinson wasn’t clouding my judgment.

  Grace had texted me the room number, allowing me to bypass the reception deck and head directly for the elevators. Rehearsing the questions on my way to the room, I heard voices and stopped outside. Before I entered, I could hear Scott trying to talk someone into releasing him. I quickly stepped in, to see if I could convince him that this was the safest place for him right now. If he was planning a jailbreak, I aimed to put a stop to it.

  “The tests are negative, but we’d like to keep you overnight for observation,” the doctor said.

  “I’m fine—really.”

  I could hear the frustration in both their voices and wondered how long the conversation had been going on.

  “Hey, how’re you feeling?” I asked as I entered.

  “Hunter, tell them to let me go.”

 
; That was the last thing I wanted to do. Instead, I flashed my credentials at the doctor and asked if I could have a few minutes alone with his patient. He seemed relieved, and quickly left, asking me to have the nurse station page him when I was finished. Scott’s bed was the closest to the door of the twin room. The curtain was drawn around the other space. Before saying anything, I checked to make sure it was vacant.

  “I can’t speak from a health perspective, but I think you should spend the night.” Our brief talk before he left in the ambulance was nowhere close to a statement. I figured he might be able to fill in some of the blanks. Sitting in the chair by the bed, I pulled out my notepad and phone. “You okay if I record this?”

  “I already gave Miami-Dade a statement.”

  “I’m thinking this might cover some different ground.”

  “Do what you need to. I just want to be done with this whole charade.”

  There was no thank you for saving his life, just his usual righteous indignation. I picked up the phone, opened the voice memo app, and pressed Record. After going through the preliminary information: date, time, location, name … I asked him to confirm he had consented to the recording.

  “Just get on with it,” he snapped.

  I figured I might as well start our chat by tossing a grenade.

  “I found your stash.”

  His expression told me he was going into denial mode. I threw the facts out there before he could say anything. “The dry bag had your prints on the fold. The gauge is being processed as we speak.” Wanting to see how he handled himself, I didn’t tell him I already knew the results.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  The room was silent for a few long seconds while he decided how to proceed. In no rush, I leaned back in the chair and waited. Even if you were trained in the tactic and knew it was being used against you, remaining silent was a powerful method to get someone talking.

  “I guess I owe you for saving me. Did they get those pricks that tossed me?”

  “They were arrested a few hours ago.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “How about you tell me why Robinson wanted you dead? The fishermen will be charged with attempted murder; Robinson was merely an accomplice, and I’m the only witness.”

  Suddenly, Robinson’s taking the girls earlier made sense. If I was under his thumb, there was nothing to tie him to the attempt on Scott’s life. Even if the fishermen testified, I wasn’t sure anyone would believe them. I wondered if I should tell Justine what had happened with Robinson and the girls. At least for now, they were safe in the lab. I’d wait until Justine texted that they were leaving before deciding what precautions to take.

  “I’d watch that son of a bitch if I were you,” Scott said, reading my mind.

  “The story—” I was getting anxious now, and thinking twice about leaving Justine to take Allie and Lana back to Adams Key.

  “Alright already.” Scott tugged on his IV, as if he wanted to pull it out and run.

  I leaned forward, sensing the moment of truth was coming.

  “I needed something to hold over his head. Those guys were threatening more than my job. I just wanted them to stop selling the shorts—until I found out about the rigged gauges.”

  “Walk me through what happened after your shift last Sunday.”

  “We had this big blow-up Saturday night. It was about to go to fisticuffs when a couple of the guys dragged me out of the bar. I decided at that point that I needed to protect myself.”

  “So, you witnessed a murder and hid the weapon to blackmail the killer?” Now that my theory was playing out, I was getting even more concerned about Justine and the girls. Then I remembered that Susan was in the wind as well.

  “Something like that. I have no doubt that if I turned Robinson in, he would have implicated me in their side business. Nothing like having a boss looking out for your interests.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Martinez and I seldom got along, but I would never hold something on him to make my life easier. “If you think your exposure is limited to concealing evidence, you’re dead wrong.” I wasn’t going to tell him that his actions could be endangering my family.

  “Give me a second, I’ve gotta make a call.” Picking up my phone, I paused the recording and stepped out of the room.

  Once out of earshot, I called Grace, filled her in on what Scott had done, and asked her to place him under guard. I wasn’t sure what charge to hold him on, but the DA could handle that. She placed me on hold. Before she came back on the line, I saw a Miami-Dade officer approaching.

  “You Hunter?”

  “That was fast. He’s in there.”

  “There’s another inmate on this floor. My partner’s keeping an eye on him. Is this guy a threat?”

  “I don’t think so. The doctor wants to hold him overnight for observation. That’ll buy me enough time to figure out what to charge him with.”

  “Okay, I got it.” The officer handed me a card with his cell number written on the back. “Just let me know if anything changes. I’ll make sure he doesn’t check out AMA.”

  30

  I didn’t walk out of the hospital—I ran. By the time I reached Justine’s car, the combination of my anxiety and the South Florida heat and humidity had coated my skin with sweat. Starting the car, I configured the AC vents to hit my face, placed the unit on maximum and sped out of the parking lot.

  As soon as I hit the street, I called Justine. The ringing was interminable until the call went to voicemail. That could mean several things: she was still at work, or she couldn’t hear the phone over the boat’s engine. I didn’t want to consider the last option: Robinson.

  Somehow, he had a knack of staying in front of this situation, even if it meant killing someone. With no regard for the speed limit—a condition in which I was not alone—I arrived at the crime lab and called Justine again. Voicemail. I texted Allie, and after a long pause my phone dinged. Whew. Asking her to let me in, I ran to the entrance and waited.

  We were all together now, and that’s how we were going to stay until Robinson was located. I explained to Justine and the girls what Scott had confirmed. There was no point in any more tests. I knew who killed Hayward, and who had abducted and arranged for the failed attempt on Scott’s life: The same guy who had taken the girls for a boat ride.

  Grace called as we were on our way out the door. I stopped in the lobby to answer.

  “I can put out a BOLO on him and send a car by his house,” she offered.

  “If he’s as jiggy as I think, he’ll be listening to the scanner. We’ve got to keep this quiet or he’s likely to bolt or try something stupid.” It was the latter that worried me. “Sending a car by his house is a good idea.” I gave her the names of the bars that the FWC hung out at, as well.

  “We’re going to head back to the island. I’ll leave him to you,” I told Grace.

  The case was over for me. It was up to Miami-Dade to make the arrest.

  A sense of relief washed over me as the pent-up emotions of the past week drained away. We left the lab and drove to the marina. The girls wanted to go with Justine in our new boat, both because of her, and of the speakers that lined the interior. As we idled into the river, I could hear the boom, boom, boom of the bass.

  Passing the high-rise condos on Brickell Point, we turned to the south. Lining up the main span of the Rickenbacker Causeway with the bow, I was just about to push the throttles forward when I heard my phone. Glancing at the screen sitting face-up on the helm, I saw Susan McLeash’s name, and realized there was one option for Robinson’s location that I hadn’t accounted for.

  Stopping the boat, I picked up the phone, expecting Susan’s voice.

  “You’ve got something of mine, and I want it back.” By calling from Susan’s phone, Robinson didn’t need to state the “or else.”

  “Slow down, there. There’s more to this than just the bloody gauge.”

  “It’s all hearsay. My service record
speaks for itself. No jury is going to indict me.”

  “It’s locked up in the evidence locker at the crime lab. Even if I wanted to play your game I couldn’t get it.”

  “Get your wifey to help out, or you’re going to be short a coworker.”

  I had no doubt he would follow through on that threat. “Let me talk to her.”

  There was a pause, then Susan came on the line.

  “Kurt, he’s freakin’ crazy.”

  If Susan McLeash was calling someone crazy, I needed to pay attention. “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, for now. I don’t trust him, though. I think he’s on something.”

  That might explain his behavior. I was about to ask her where they were, hoping she might slip in a clue. When I heard Robinson’s voice, I realized the phone must have been on speaker.

  “Call me when you have it. You’ve got till midnight.”

  Susan’s theory that he was under the influence explained a lot, but the knowledge made him harder to deal with. Robinson had made a mistake, though. In using Susan’s phone, thanks to Martinez’s paranoia, he had given me their location. Scrolling to her contact info, I saw the small map with a red dot. They were at her condo.

  My phone dinged—a text from Allie asking if I was okay. Looking ahead, I saw the faint white stern light of our boat sitting on the water. I texted back I would be along shortly, and waited a second for them to disappear. With Robinson at Susan’s, Adams Key was the safest place for my family. My phone dinged, showing a smiley face emoji. Girl-time trumps dad-time once again.

  Able to put Justine and Allie’s safety from my mind, I spun the wheel and headed back to Miami. Ducking into the river, I stopped the boat and called Grace. She met me a few minutes later at the marina. We were in her territory now, and whatever I did would reflect on her. Aside from that, Miami-Dade made a living out of dealing with crazies.