Legend in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  He waved her off. “Just took a tumble down some steps, Miss…?”

  Stairs. I figured as much.

  “Walt, this is my wife Angelina,” I said. “Ange, this is—”

  “Walt Grissom,” he said, stepping toward Ange and offering a hand.

  “Wait a second,” I said, “you’re Walt Grissom? Like the Walt Grissom?”

  “Yep,” Pete said, answering for him. “The one and only. Famous treasure hunter extraordinaire.”

  I was impressed. Walt Grissom was one of the best-known treasure hunters in the world. He’d made headlines years ago for his extensive research and salvage work throughout the Caribbean.

  “I liked your book on the Spanish galleons off Jamaica,” I said as I sat down and filled a glass from the pitcher of fresh juice.

  He laughed. “Well, I hope you did. Writing the damn thing took even longer than finding and salvaging the wrecks.”

  I took a sip and leaned back into my chair.

  Suddenly, Jack appeared through the glass. He slid open the door, stepped out, and strode toward our table.

  “Figured you’d be out at least until this evening,” I joked as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

  He looked like he’d just woken up and the word hungover just didn’t do justice to how he was feeling.

  Jack was notorious for his impressive sleeping in. That, combined with the fact that he didn’t wear a watch, meant that he fully embraced the island time mentality.

  “Coffee?” was all he said, and I grabbed the pot and handed it to him after filling my mug.

  There was a short moment of silence, then Pete said, “I heard you had a little excitement last night.”

  I smiled. The coconut telegraph was working even faster than usual.

  I eyed both Pete and Walt. “I’m guessing you two didn’t have us meet you so we could talk about a little brawl.”

  Pete laughed. “Logan here isn’t one for beating around the bush.”

  “Neither am I,” Walt said.

  Pete and Walt then explained the situation, beginning with the history of the Florentine Diamond, a rare stone that had been lost for over a hundred years. I’d heard the local legend before but never thought there was much truth to it.

  In an animated tone, Walt explained how the diamond had been secretly purchased by Henry Flagler, the oil baron co-founder of Standard Oil and one of the richest men of his time. He explained how Flagler had purchased it while planning his railroad down to Key West, then it was stolen and fell into the hands of a famous archeologist.

  “Alfred Hastings hid the diamond and gave a clue to its whereabouts on his deathbed,” Walt explained. “He also spoke the famous last words you all may have read before: ‘Of all the secrets in my life, I hid the greatest at the bottom and in the center.’ Of course, these words are meaningless without the proper clues.”

  “Exactly,” Pete said. “And when one of the clues vanished, the trail quickly turned cold.”

  “Let me guess,” Ange said. “You found the clue.”

  “Well, not yet,” Walt said. “But we have a good idea of where it could be.”

  He continued, telling us about a pair of antique dealers from Miami and their unfortunate falling-out during the Labor Day Hurricane of 1935. He explained how he had good reason to believe that the key to finding the diamond, a custom gold compass, lay somewhere on the seafloor in Snake Creek, a channel that cuts between Windley Key and Plantation Key.

  “Wait a second,” Jack said. “Even if one of these guys had the compass on them, it could be anywhere. Bodies from that monster ’cane washed up all the way as far as Cape Coral.”

  Walt nodded. “We’ve thought about that. If the compass is as big and heavy as we’re expecting, there’s a good chance it fell and sank. Based on Pete’s and my combined salvaging experience, we’re both confident that the compass is still somewhere in the channel.”

  We paused a moment, thinking it over.

  “Say somehow we do manage to find this thing,” Ange said. “What then? That look in your eye tells me you’re not interested in going the Indiana Jones route and donating it to a museum.”

  “I’ve given more treasure to governments and paid more taxes than just about anyone alive,” Walt said. “No, this one’s ours. This one’s my retirement fund, and whatever you all want your half for.” He closed his eyes and continued, “I’m talking white beaches, tropical drinks with those little umbrellas, and a few beautiful women for the rest of whatever time I got left.”

  The table fell silent for a moment as we let his words marinate. I glanced over at Pete, and we exchanged quick smiles. This guy was quite the character. Regardless, it was clear that when it came to treasure and salvage, he was everything I’d read about him and more.

  “So, just out of curiosity,” Jack said, “how much dinero are we talking about here, man?”

  Walt paused a moment.

  “The Florentine is a one-hundred-and-thirty-seven-carat yellow diamond. Based on pure weight alone and not taking the historical significance into question, we’re looking at about ten mil. But I’m willing to bet we can easily secure closer to twenty, given how rare it is.”

  Twenty million dollars.

  The immense figure rolled around in my head. My mind instantly shot back to what Jack had told me the previous evening at Mallory Square. That kind of money could set up an organization like the children’s shelter for decades, and it could help to fund similar programs around the state. If we did find it, it would be fitting that a good portion would go toward helping the young and neglected children of southern Florida.

  “But we need to move fast,” Walt said. “Like today fast. Been hunting treasure around the world for years, and it’s always the same. Once people catch the scent of treasure, it’s every man’s game. The prospect of sudden immense wealth drives many men mad. It leads to betrayals among good friends. It even leads to murder.”

  His words made me think of Benjamin Kincade, a former Key West police officer and friend who’d handed me over to Black Venom for far less than this diamond was worth. The notorious Mexican drug cartel had put a bounty on my capture after we’d fought off their attempt to steal the Aztec treasure.

  We asked politely if we could have a moment to speak with Pete in private. Walt was happy to oblige.

  “Take all the time you need,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m gonna go raid the kitchen.”

  Pete laughed and told him he’d be opening a tab.

  “You can take it out of my cut for the diamond,” he replied with a wink as he entered through the sliding glass door.

  He disappeared from sight, heading downstairs. I hoped his hangover had dwindled enough for him to be up to the task of stairs this time.

  “Quite the character,” Ange said.

  “He’s old-school Florida Keys,” Pete said.

  “Funny,” Jack said, “I thought you were old-school.”

  “Even older, boyo, believe it or not. Grissom’s been roaming the islands since the fifties.”

  There was a brief silence, and the three of us exchanged dubious glances.

  “I can see you’re skeptical,” Pete said. He shook his head and added, “We can make other arrangements. I just wanted to run it all by you guys first. Now that I’m getting up there in age, you’re the best folks around for a job like this.”

  “You know we trust you,” I said. “Like family we trust you. But this guy, something seems off about him. Seems like there’s something he’s not telling us. I mean, why is he in such a hurry? Doesn’t strike me as someone who’s got a lot of places to be and things to do.”

  “He’s an alcoholic,” Pete said. “Been there myself at one point. It’s not an easy road to travel. He’s also broke. I’d be in a hurry to strike it big myself if I had his lot.”

  “But you trust him, though?” Ange said.

  “The Walt Grissom I used to know was one of the best friends I ever had. He was the real deal. He
is the real deal. If he says we can find this diamond, come hell or high water, there’s a good chance that he’s right.”

  We paused a moment. I looked over at Ange. She locked eyes with me for a few seconds, then nodded.

  “Alright,” I said. “Let’s go for it.”

  NINE

  It was 0900 when we arrived back at the Conch Harbor Marina. We assembled at the stern of Jack’s forty-five-foot Sea Ray at slip forty-seven, just down the dock from where I moored the Baia. He’d named it Calypso when he’d purchased it years earlier. It was a traditional name for his family’s boats and served as the flagship for Rubio Charters.

  It was a beautiful boat, with gleaming white hulls, plenty of deck space, and a flybridge above. Flapping in the calm morning breeze high overhead were two flags: a black Jolly Roger pirate flag and a dive flag.

  We loaded up the cooler, then Ange and I headed down to the Baia to grab our gear. We zipped open a few black duffels and packed up our wetsuits, BCDs, fins, and masks. Jack had plenty of tanks and dive weights, so we left ours.

  I already had my Sig concealed under the right side of my waistband with a fully loaded fifteen-round magazine. I didn’t have to ask Ange to know that she was armed as well with her go-to Glock 26. We had plenty of firepower to defend ourselves, just in case we ran into trouble. Not that we were expecting any. We just both liked to be on the prepared side of things when shit hit the fan unexpectedly.

  With our dive gear in order, I grabbed a large heavy-duty plastic hard case from the guest cabin, then ran through a checklist in my mind. Confident that we had everything we’d need, we hauled our gear topside, then locked the Baia and activated the security system.

  Pete and Walt showed up just in time to help us carry the gear over to the Calypso. Pete had filled a large cooler of food and drinks from the kitchen. It was clear that we had a long day ahead of us, and we wanted to spend as much time as we could out on the water.

  Before heading out for the day, I walked over to the office to look for Gus Henderson, the owner of the marina. When not helping customers, I usually found him watching television while snacking on potato chips and lounging on a giant beanbag chair. Today, however, he was working on an old Evinrude outboard engine he had up on wooden blocks.

  “Hey, Logan. You guys looking to buy some raffle tickets?” he said, rising to his feet upon seeing me. “We’re giving away a hundred-dollar gift certificate to the Greasy Pelican.”

  “Not at the moment, Gus,” I said. “Just need to get into storage.”

  “Goin’ kayaking?”

  “Not this time.”

  He unlocked the large shed and pulled open the double doors. The big metal object I was after was right where Jack and I had left it.

  I strode into the shed, then looked back at Gus.

  He smiled.

  “Taking the mailbox out, huh?” he said.

  I nodded.

  A mailbox is a giant metal shroud that’s shaped to form a ninety-degree angle. When mounted to the stern, it’s used to redirect a boat’s prop wash to the seafloor. Credited to being invented by the famous salvager, Mel Fisher, mailboxes have become one of the primary ways to clear away sediment and debris from the seafloor when searching for wrecks or other artifacts.

  Gus helped me load it up onto a flat metal cart.

  “After another pirate ship, Logan?” he asked enthusiastically.

  I laughed. “Not quite. But I’ll be sure to let you know if we happen to find anything out of the ordinary.”

  I rolled the cart out of the shed and down the dock toward the Calypso, the wheels thudding rhythmically with every gap in the mahogany planks. Jack didn’t usually keep it aboard. Having adequate space for patrons and all of their gear during dive charters is vital, so the bulky piece of equipment spent most of its time in storage. Jack helped me lift it up onto the deck, then I wheeled the cart back to Gus.

  Once everything was aboard the Calypso and we were ready to make way, Jack started up the twin 300-hp engines.

  “Topped off the main tanks and the spares, bro,” he said as he motored us slowly out of the marina. “We’re set for a long day of mowing.”

  I smiled and nodded. Mowing the lawn is a term used by salvagers and treasure hunters around the world. It’s used to describe the process of surveying a large area of the ocean floor by performing back-and-forth scans, just like when cutting your grass.

  Once past the white no-wake-zone buoys, Jack hit the throttles, bringing us up on plane and motoring us out of Key West Bight at our cruising speed of twenty knots. It was a beautiful October morning. Not too hot, not too cold. A calm four-knot breeze coming in from the east. A hell of a day to spend out on the water.

  We lounged on the cushioned seats up in the flybridge and opened a few bottled waters. Jack piloted us around Fort Zachary Taylor, then turned east. We had roughly seventy miles of ocean and islands to cover to reach our destination.

  Walt had his leather bag open and pulled out a journal, a few old books, charts, and sketches. He shuffled closer to us and showed us a few pictures.

  “This is how the Florida East Coast Railroad’s emergency relief train looked after the Labor Day Hurricane,” he said, holding a black-and-white photo out in front of us.

  I gazed upon the jagged line of train cars lying on their sides off the track. The scene was bleak, devoid of any structures or even trees. Only scattered, broken remnants littered the flat, sandy landscape. It looked like a scene straight out of a postapocalyptic movie.

  “That looks horrible,” Ange said.

  Walt nodded. “It was a bloody nightmare. Winds in excess of two hundred miles per hour completely leveled the Matecumbes. The hundred-and-sixty-ton locomotive was the only thing that remained standing.”

  Ange and I stared in awe as Walt showed us a few more images of the train and the surrounding destruction caused by Mother Nature’s wrath. Pete and Jack kept quiet and looked either out over the water or down to the deck. The Labor Day Hurricane of 1935 was a hard subject for many conchs to talk about. It had been without question the most devastating loss the islands had ever experienced.

  I bent down and petted Atticus, who was resting on the deck at my feet. He’d enjoyed the breeze for most of the trip but had gotten hot and was now enjoying the shade. After taking a swig of water, I cleared my throat and grabbed one of the charts.

  “You’re saying that these two dealers fell off the tracks here,” I said, pointing at the Snake Creek Bridge.

  Walt nodded. “That’s right.” He opened the leather-bound journal and turned to the entry he’d showed Pete the previous evening. “According to G.R. Branch, the trainmaster, he spotted two well-dressed men quarrel and disappear into the relentless surging sea while crossing a bridge just before they reached Windley.”

  Snake Creek Bridge is located at mile marker 86 on US-1 and connects Plantation Key and Windley Key just northeast of Islamorada. The bridge traverses a body of water roughly four hundred feet wide at its narrowest. The channel is called Snake Creek, and it runs from Florida Bay to the Atlantic.

  “Looks like the channel’s about two miles long,” Jack said. He’d moved closer and was gazing at the chart. “We can rule out the Atlantic side.”

  “That’s right,” Walt said. “That ’cane traveled north and took just about everything with it.”

  Jack nodded, keeping his eyes glued to the chart.

  “Gonna be only about eight feet deep,” I said, moving my head close alongside my old friend’s. “Little deeper near the bridge.”

  Using the calculator on my smartphone, Jack went to work punching in numbers. A moment later, he had our search area.

  “Fifty acres, bro,” he said.

  “Not even a tenth of a square mile,” Ange added.

  “Sure as hell isn’t the biggest lawn we’ve ever had to mow,” Jack said, eyeing Ange and me.

  He wasn’t kidding. During our search for the Valiant, a famous pirate shipwreck, our search
area had been one and a quarter square miles, or eight hundred acres. Needless to say, it had taken us weeks before we’d found the main remnants of the wreck.

  “But if the compass managed to stay in his pocket,” Ange said, “the search area could grow a lot bigger very quickly.”

  Walt smiled. “I always like to foresee on the side of hopeful.”

  Ange and I looked at each other. That kind of thinking was dangerous in our previous occupations. It was the kind of thinking that got people killed.

  Roughly three hours later, just before noon, Jack eased back on the throttles and motored us into the narrow opening into Snake Creek. Compared to our usual relatively remote search areas, the channel was bustling with boat traffic. We passed two powerboats and a sailboat, both heading out for an afternoon on the water.

  Jack piloted us under the sixty-foot-tall bridge, then put the engines in idle as we all took in the scene. To the west was a small marina. Right beside us to the east was the Islamorada Coast Guard Station. To the north, the channel cut to the right, then eventually split before reaching Florida Bay. A large catamaran was moored in the center of the channel, and a group of paddleboarders were laughing and occasionally losing balance and splashing into the water.

  “This could be problematic,” Pete said, rising to his feet as he looked out over the starboard bow.

  He wasn’t looking at the passing boats, however. He was looking at row after row of housing communities, separated by channels along the eastern side of the channel.

  “All that dredging of silt and soil over the years could very well make this venture of ours hopeless,” he added.

  It was a good point. We could spend a lifetime searching, but if the compass was buried thirty feet under a house’s foundation, it wouldn’t matter.

  If Pete’s words swayed Walt’s resolve in the slightest, he didn’t show it. He rose to his feet, took in a deep breath of fresh air, then pointed toward the shaded line of water under the bridge.

  “I think it’s high time we get the fish in the water,” he said confidently. He was referring to the magnetometer, which is often referred to as a towfish. He removed his sunglasses and added, “See what we can find.”