by Matthew Rief
MATTHEW RIEF
LEGEND IN THE KEYS
A LOGAN DODGE ADVENTURE
FLORIDA KEYS ADVENTURE SERIES
VOLUME 8
Copyright © 2019 by Matthew Rief
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
CONTENTS
LEGEND IN THE KEYS
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE END
About the Author
Logan Dodge Adventures
Gold in the Keys
(Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 1)
Hunted in the Keys
(Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 2)
Revenge in the Keys
(Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 3)
Betrayed in the Keys
(Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 4)
Redemption in the Keys
(Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 5)
Corruption in the Keys
(Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 6)
Predator in the Keys
(Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 7)
Legend in the Keys
(Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 8)
Join the Adventure!
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matthewrief.com
PROLOGUE
Key West
January 1905
Henry Flagler stood at the end of the old wooden dock, glancing at his pocket watch as a ship steamed into port. He was in his mid-seventies and had a thick white mustache and short white hair. He wore an expensive black suit and matching top hat.
As the steamer was being tied off, the captain, a tall Norwegian man dressed in his blue uniform, strode across the gangplank and headed straight for Flagler. Reaching into his front pocket, he grabbed a small package and handed it to the businessman without a word. The two men exchanged quick glances while Flagler felt the weight of the package, then slid it into his own pocket.
If either of them had directed their gazes toward the main deck of the steamer, they would’ve seen three Cuban deckhands observing their quick transaction. One of whom, a wanted criminal named Julio Lopez, had an old silver revolver secured out of sight under his waistband.
Satisfied, Flagler nodded to the captain, then turned and climbed into the passenger seat of his custom White Steamer automobile. The driver took him down the dock onto the dirt-and-sand downtown streets. There were few cars on the island. Most walked or used the trolley, which Flagler’s driver had to avoid during the drive over to his house.
Key West had a population of just over twenty thousand residents, making it the largest city in Florida. In the 1850s, US Senator Stephen S. Mallory had dubbed it “America’s Gibraltar” due to its strategic location right at the mouth of the Gulf of Mexico. The island had a bustling economy fueled by fishing, sponge diving, cigar-making, shipbuilding, salvaging, and its status as a naval port.
Flagler’s temporary residence was a white Victorian-style mansion just a few blocks from the waterfront. When the wheels stopped and the driver opened his door, Flagler headed inside, then up to the highest part of the house. Three stories up, he stepped out and turned his gaze to the east. From up in the crow’s nest, he could see all the way to Marathon on a clear day.
In the quiet of the moment, the genius businessman let his mind wander. The following day, Flagler and his Florida East Coast Railroad executives would announce to a group of the town’s leading citizens that he was going to bring his railroad to Key West.
“What kind of man tries to build a railroad across the ocean?” he asked himself for what felt like the thousandth time.
Flagler was seventy-five years old. He’d accumulated over sixty million dollars over the course of his illustrious life. He made a small fortune every month from his Standard Oil holdings alone. It was expected that a man his age would slow down and step away from the realm of ambition. People thought he should spend his days back at his Palm Beach estate, sitting in a chair and admiring the view until the end of his days. But that wasn’t Henry Flagler. He had a strong passion for progress, a clear vision of how things could be, and a work ethic that few could comprehend, let alone match.
Looking out over the city and the surrounding ocean beyond, he thought back to his humble business beginnings in northern Ohio. The naysayers had been prevalent when he’d turned his sights to oil—when he’d embarked on an ambitious endeavor that would transform him and his friend John D. Rockefeller from wide-eyed ambitious young men in their twenties into two of the richest men in the world.
When Flagler had turned his attention away from oil years later, there had also been writers, politicians, and fellow businessmen who’d urged him not to try and turn a muddy settlement in Biscayne Bay into a city. In less than ten years, he’d transformed Fort Dallas, a middle-of-nowhere town with just a few hundred hardy settlers, into a sprawling city he called Miami.
He looked off to the east at the islands of the Lower Keys.
I’ve made a living out of doing the seemingly impossible. And I’ll do it again.
He was resolved. Firm in his convictions and dedicated beyond comprehension to making his visions reality.
He smiled, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the small package the captain of the steamer had handed to him back at the dock. Untying the strings and unfolding the packaging, he grabbed a beautiful massive yellow diamond and held it up to the afternoon sunlight.
A gift for his third wife. A little token of his affection.
He smiled and shook his head.
As if the millions I’ve spent on her over the past four years haven’t been enough.
After a quick examination of the incredible stone, Flagler wrapped it back up in the packaging. Stepping back down into the house, he called in two of his assistants.
“I trust you with this, Cedric,” Flagler said, handing the package to one of his assistants.
The diamond was to be taken to a local jeweler who was to work day and night for a week to turn the stone into a necklace.
Both of his assistants were in their early thirties, well dressed and with athletic builds. Once they had their orders, they took the diamond back outside and hopped into the car.
“To McLusky’s,” Cedric said to the driver.
The driver started up t
he car and accelerated them toward the center of the island. A few blocks from Flagler’s house, a man suddenly ran over and jumped onto the vehicle. It was Julio Lopez, and he had his revolver pressed hard into the driver’s chest.
“Drive into that alley,” Julio said in his best English.
When Cedric protested, the young raggedly dressed Cuban cocked back the hammer.
“Do it now,” he said.
The driver’s hands began to shake. He accelerated and smashed a trash can as he turned sharply into the narrow alley. Motoring between two shops, he hit the brakes and idled right in front of a row of barrels filled with rainwater.
Just as they stopped, Cedric nodded to his companion, who reached for a weapon of his own. But before he could draw it, a second Cuban appeared from the corner of the alley and smashed a baseball bat against the side of his head. He grunted and jerked sideways from the unexpected blow. The assistant let go of his weapon, and it fell to the dirty ground.
As Cedric jumped to his feet, preparing to retaliate, a third Cuban appeared right behind him. He grabbed the well-dressed man from behind, choking him out and forcing him to the ground.
“We were working on the ship,” Julio said. He still had his gun pressed against the driver. “We saw the jewel.” With a swift slam of his weapon, he knocked out the driver, then stepped out of the car and held a hand out to Cedric. “Give it here.”
Outnumbered, the man had no choice. He reached into his pocket, grabbed the small package, and handed it to the Cuban. After lowering his weapon, Julio unwrapped the package and eyed the glistening diamond. He smiled, then dropped it into his pocket.
Without another word, the angry Cuban with the baseball bat stepped over and bashed Cedric’s head in with the barrel. He fell to the ground, blood oozing from his mouth.
As the three Cuban deckhands headed for the road, Cedric forced his body to work despite its protestations. He reached for his ankle, grabbed a Browning pocket pistol, and took aim through blurry eyes.
Crack!
Gunpowder exploded, sending a .25 ACP round into the back of one of the Cubans. Cedric rapidly fired off another shot. Suddenly, two men were down, leaving only Julio on his feet. The Cuban dove for cover around the corner of the alley. He just managed to slam on to the sidewalk and roll awkwardly as a third bullet flew right past him.
The city looked like a kicked ant hill. People on both sides of the street scattered from the danger as Julio rolled to his feet.
“Stop right there!” a booming voice called out from behind him.
It was followed by a deafening high-pitched whistle. It was a local police officer. A tall, middle-aged man with a mustache and a heavyset frame.
Julio didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. The moment he regained his balance, he took off in the fastest sprint of his life. He weaved in and out of a few running people, grabbed hold of a utility pole to redirect his momentum, and turned down a cross street.
The officer drew his weapon and took off after the fast young Cuban. Julio pumped his arms as fast as he could, his lungs burning and his heart pounding as he tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and the officer.
He knew that he couldn’t escape. No matter how fast he ran, other officers would join in, and he’d be tackled to the dust, convicted, and receive a hefty sentence. No, the only way to get out of it would be to hide. To take cover and let the city cool off before stepping out and making his escape.
Rounding another turn, he spotted a second officer a few blocks down.
Now or never.
He took a sharp right, ducked down below a wooden fence, then made quick work of a fire ladder that led up to the roof of a hotel. Three stories up, Julio caught his breath and looked around, making sure no one had seen his desperate climb.
Once in the clear, he searched the roof for a hiding place. But it was completely empty aside from a rainwater collection system and a line full of drying clothes.
Soon someone will come to collect these clothes.
Looking across at an adjacent building, he spotted nothing but piles of scrap metal and tarps on its roof.
That’s more like it. I can hide there until dark and slither away.
Julio made sure that no one was watching, then climbed up onto the edge and jumped as far as he could. It was only a six-foot gap, but he slipped and hit his head against the adjacent building’s wall. Spinning around, he couldn’t grab hold of the ledge and free-fell thirty-five feet to the ground below.
He landed hard, with a loud grunt and an even louder crack. He curled up and cried out as his hands wrapped around his lower leg, which was bent at a grotesque ninety-degree angle. His tibia and fibula were both severely broken, and he couldn’t stand, let alone run.
Through a break in his cries, he heard footsteps approaching. He whipped his body around, trying to ignore the pain as he scanned for his lost weapon. He froze when he realized that it wasn’t the police.
Instead of walking over to detain Julio, a blurry figure bent down, grabbed something off the ground, then put it in his pocket and walked off. Julio was confused for a moment, then he reached a shaking hand for his pocket and felt nothing. The diamond was gone.
He cried out in pain and despair as the figure disappeared around the corner. Then, his consciousness faded.
~~~
Two years later, Alfred Hastings lay on his deathbed at his small home in Key West. The seventy-one-year-old was suffering from tuberculosis and knew that his time was coming soon. With no living relatives, he chose to reveal his greatest secret to the only one who would listen. He reached a weak hand into a leather-bound notebook beside him and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“This is the first clue to the whereabouts of the Florentine Diamond,” he told his nurse. “It’s a rare and valuable diamond. I have kept it hidden all this time, and now, I leave it to you.”
The nurse thought Alfred was growing delirious. She’d heard the legend of the lost Florentine Diamond but had never given it any merit. She was about to prepare an extra dose of medication when he stopped her.
“No,” Alfred said. “I see it in your eyes that you do not believe me. But it is true. Follow the clue. It will lead you to a buried gold compass. Solve the riddle on the back, and it will lead you to the next clue. Eventually, you will find the diamond. You will have enough money for the rest of your life.” He coughed a few times. “I leave it to you because you have been kind to me.”
The young nurse saw the look of passion in the dying man’s eyes. She accepted the clue and pressed a hand to the dying man’s cheek.
“Okay, I believe you,” she said.
Alfred nodded. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. His eyelids were getting heavy, his breathing more and more difficult with every passing second. But he was glad to see his clue in the hands of the young nurse.
Maybe she’ll find it. Maybe someone will find it and it will change their lives.
Alfred died moments later. The young nurse followed the clue a week after but reached a dead end when she ran into massive construction crews on Key Largo. The location where the next clue, a gold compass, was buried had recently been dredged. The miles of embankments created fill for the raised sections of the railroad, and the compass was gone.
Instead of being found by the nurse, the compass had been picked up by a laborer from New Jersey. Excited by the find and not knowing its secret value, he’d stashed it away, taken it up north as soon as he could, and pawned it off.
ONE
Miami
Labor Day 1935
Douglas McCabe was walking along the bustling downtown streets when he saw it. He craned his neck, his legs froze in place, and his jaw dropped open. Stepping through a thick crowd of holiday weekend tourists, he stopped in front of a blanket that was laid flat on a patch of grass. The blanket was covered in antique trinkets, and in the middle, he spotted a gold compass.
McCabe was a tall, slender Irishman
in his early forties. He wore white pants, a white dress shirt, and a thin gray sport coat. A first-generation American, he’d emigrated twenty years earlier with his wife and had made a living bartering and selling with his childhood friend, Caleb O’Reilly. The two men eventually opened their own shop, but the Depression had hit them hard, and they were on the brink of bankruptcy and starvation.
This changes everything, he thought as he eyed a set of initials carved into the side of the compass.
After decades of rummaging through the bowels of antique stores, flea markets, and pawn shops up and down the East Coast, his heart stopped as he gazed upon the object that could drastically change his life if he played his cards right.
Shielding his eyes from the tropical afternoon sun, he knelt down and reached for the compass.
“Payment fos,” an old Jamaican man said from the other side of the blanket.
He sat cross-legged and tapped McCabe with a long piece of bamboo to keep him from touching his prized merchandise.
McCabe’s eyes shot up. He hadn’t even noticed the man. He’d been too transfixed by the find. When his eyes met the old man’s, he saw a look he knew very well.
McCabe had spent years buying and selling antiques for a profit. He knew the art of the poker face and almost always used it to his advantage when haggling. But the moment he laid eyes on the compass, he’d fallen off the radar. He’d displayed his desire, and it put him at the mercy of the seller.
“How much?”
“Ten dollars,” the man replied.
Ten dollars? That’s three times what it’s worth.
It didn’t matter. McCabe needed it, and he’d get it even if he had to sell his soul.
He took one more long look at the compass, his eyes focusing on the initials carved into its side.
A.J.H.
McCabe reached into his pocket, pulled out the money, and handed it to the seller. The old man’s eyes lit up, and he gave McCabe the compass.