A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3)

by Richard Conrath

  She was nodding like maybe I was convincing her.

  “Come on. Let’s check his house again.” I started to rise. “See if we missed anything.”

  We left Wendy’s. No pancakes, no rolls, no egg sandwiches, no Big Burger, no fries, no Cokes, nothing. For once in my life, I had eaten healthy.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The House that Jack Built

  Early Wednesday Evening

  It was dark when we pulled off the Ocean Highway onto Transylvania Avenue and then left onto Shoreland Drive. It was even darker there. No porch lights. The moon was hiding behind some clouds. I pulled into the driveway, gravel scattering under the tires as they dug in.

  I jumped out and opened Cynthia’s door. “Let me go in first,” I said, looking at the darkness behind the windows. My ever-cautious nature.

  “It’s not locked,” she reminded me. I ducked under the small overhang that protected the entry, opened the door and felt for a light switch.

  “It’s on the right,” she said just as I found it. I flipped the switch. Nothing happened.

  “Light must be burned out,” I said, feeling for another switch.

  “There should be one next to the porch light,” she said, as a noise echoed from the right side of the house, toward the water, then the sound of a motor turning over. I pushed past Cynthia, cleared the porch steps and rushed toward the water. The outline of a small motorboat emerged from the dock, a lone driver pushing it into Largo Sound toward the channel that would take him into the Atlantic. No way to catch him.

  Cynthia was next to me now, breathing hard and looking out over the Sound. “He was in the house. Whoever it was unscrewed the porch light and tossed it,” she added, hanging on my shoulder and struggling for air.

  I shook my head. “At least we didn’t run into him,” I said, thinking back on the time I walked in on two guys ransacking my house in the Everglades. One of them fired at me and hit his buddy.

  “So, what does Jack have that somebody wants?” I mused, mostly to myself. Then, “Let’s go back and see.”

  We headed into the house through the lanai since that was the closest way to the den and Jack’s office. The screen door was hanging on its hinges—probably broken free by the guy who had just fled. The door to the house was open. When I hit the switch, an interior light went on. From the remnants of that light I could see the debris scattered over the carpet: paper, envelopes, stamps, all the stuff that you might find in a desk and then more. Most of the drawers had been ripped out of the desk and thrown into the middle of the room, the contents scattered. The middle drawer was there also. At least he didn’t get the pictures.

  “What else could he have been looking for?” I searched the room while we both thought about that.

  “Maybe someone knew about the pictures and was looking for them,” she said. “I’ve been writing about drilling in the Everglades as well as in the Gulf. Jack has been helping me—scouting around. This is dangerous business, you know—writing about things that happen in the Everglades. You never know who you’re going to piss off—including the people who live there.”

  “Uh-huh. They’re a breed unto themselves.”

  “That’s right. There’s not much of an industry there, but they’ve got to make a living—some of it isn’t legal. There’s a code of silence among them. You don’t break it if you value your life. Jack has lived in the Keys and fished the swamp all his life. So, he’s one of them.

  She paused. Then she said, “You know about the large tract of oil under the Great Cypress I imagine.”

  I nodded. “You mean the Sunniland Trend?”

  “Right. It’s one of the largest oil fields in the country you know, and it runs under the Everglades—all the way from Fort Myers to Miami.” I knew all about it. But she was going to tell me anyway. “That’s a lot of oil—and that means big money. Jack’s been pushing me to get involved in the public inquiry about drilling—you know fracking, poisoning the ground water—that kind of thing. I haven’t done it. Yet.

  “Then of course, there’s the drilling that’s going on in the Gulf—right off the coast of Florida, maybe fifty to sixty miles from Key West, where a foreign country is drilling in waters where US companies are not allowed to drill. And that has wreaked holy hell with the locals—especially since they are suspicious of anything that’s not American. And, as I told you before, Jack is one of those.”

  I nodded and let her talk. She needed to.

  She told me again about how she took Jack out into the Straits to see the big rig and about how mad he got when he saw it—couldn’t control himself, wanted to get himself a gun and show them foreigners a ‘what for’, blow them the hell outta U.S. of A. waters—his words,” she added. “I just hope to hell he wasn’t messing around with that rig.”

  “Obviously was,” I said, thinking of the pictures. “Why aren’t more people covering this story?” I said. “I mean, besides you.”

  “I don’t know. Seems like nobody cares. I mean our own leaders in Congress seem to care. And the President, of course,” she added quickly. “But nothing is being done about it.” She took a breath. “So, I figure I’ll keep telling the story,” and she was nodding her head, reinforcing what she had said. “I’ll be visiting that big baby—again—soon.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “There’s some trouble there. That’s foreign waters.”

  I pulled out my cell. She looked at me with a question but didn’t ask.

  “Calling a partner,” I said. I dialed Louise.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Detective Louise Delgado

  I left a message. Call me.

  Louise Delgado is a Miami PD detective in charge of the gang unit—actually she is the entire unit. We became friends when I was working a case that included a double homicide involving two children. A lead took me into Gangland, a section of Miami where cops don’t go. It’s controlled by the 55th Street Boys—a gang that originated from Chicago. Since there are usually over 400 homicides a year in the Windy City—many of them gang-related—Miami cops figured it wouldn’t be long before those figures began to show up in the Magic City. So, Louise went with me into that miserable piece of crap real estate and we got shot up—badly enough to send us both on an extended visit to the hospital. We’ve been friends ever since. Great way to build a friendship, isn’t it?

  My cell rang out a new sound. I had dropped Pachelbel’s Canon. Got tired of it and found a chime that drove everybody crazy but me. So, I stuck with it.

  “You called?” said Louise.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I need some help.”

  Silence.

  “How about, I need some help, partner?”

  “I like the sound of that,” she said.

  In the heat of the last case, chasing down some crazy Russians who were chopping up people for their parts, I had told Delgado that I needed a partner and that she should think about it. That was a month ago. She said she would do that and get back to me. She never did.

  “So...?” I said. “Does that mean...?”

  “Maybe later, partner. I got too many bills to pay and we’ve gotta get to know each other a little better.” She stressed the little and dragged it out.

  “We already know each other.” I didn’t add in the biblical sense—which we already did.

  “That’s funny,” she said. But she didn’t mean it.

  “Anyway, see you tomorrow?” I said.

  “Mañana,” she said. The moon rose in front of the Volvo as I cleared the rise on the bridge that connects Key Largo to the mainland. Cynthia was already sleeping the deep sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Donuts

  Thursday Morning, December 1

  I was frying eggs and bacon when Louise came over the porch of my Everglades house with a box of Dunkin Donuts and two cups of coffee. Once a cop, always a cop.

  “Hey, partner,” is all she said as she let the screen door slam behind her.

  “So, we’re partners?
” I said.

  “Only in the biblical sense, buddy,” she said quickly, then came over to where I was cooking the bacon. We kissed and I saw stars even though I knew they weren’t out for another twelve hours.

  “Wow,” I said. “That seals it.” The grease from the bacon was snapping in the pan like popcorn gone crazy. I shut off the burner, shifted the pan to a cool spot on the stove, and began forking the bacon onto a paper towel to sop up the grease.

  “Behold the chef,” she said, watching me. “And you made a nice table!” she added, studying my handiwork with the place settings.

  “I did,” I said. “I learned from the best. My mom was a Home-Ec teacher. Have a seat.” I used the flipper to fold the eggs onto her plate. I laid four pieces of almost burned bacon next to the eggs. That’s the way she likes them. I do, too. No fat.

  “Where’s Cynthia?” she said, coyly.

  I shook my head. “In the guest bedroom, sacked out,” I said. “Like I said, she’s a client.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, eyeing the toaster.

  “Cinnamon bread…with a brown sugar frosting,” I said.

  “Ouch. There goes my diet,” she said.

  “Vita brevis, ars longa,” I said.

  “That’s Italian for…?”

  “Latin. Be happy.” I thought of the Bobby McFerrin song:

  Don’t worry, be happy

  In every life we have some trouble

  When you worry you make it double

  Don’t worry, be happy.

  I was lying in bed in Pompano Beach with Jillie one night—on our honeymoon—and this song was playing on the radio. I heard it that night and every night after that until Jillie finally made me change the station. It’s driving me crazy! she said. I loved it. But I turned it off. One of the many compromises that you make in a marriage. Too bad we couldn’t make them after Maxie disappeared.

  I saw Louise staring at me. She changed the subject.

  “Your case made the headlines in the Herald this morning,” she said. “You see the paper?” I said I hadn’t. “I got a copy in the car. I’ll get it for you,” she said, rising.

  “After,” I said, motioning for her to stay. I sat down across from her, broke off a piece of crispy bacon, and told her all about Cynthia and Jack Hayward. It took about an hour.

  Sammy came prowling in while we talked, pacing from one end of the kitchen to the other.

  “You fed him today?”

  “Nope. Breakfast is in the fridge. It’s chicken and gravy.”

  “Yuk. Who eats chicken and gravy for breakfast?”

  “Sammy does.”

  Sammy’s a stray cat that I adopted a year ago. He just washed up from the Great Swamp one day, showed up on my porch and gave me that hungry and lonesome look—like a baby left on the stoop. He keeps me company and watches the house when I’m gone. There’s an old gator that hangs out in the back yard. He keeps him company, too. Just far enough away so he doesn’t get eaten.

  When we were finished, Louise spooned some cat food into a saucer and placed it on the front porch, opening the screen for him. He stood there for a moment, stretched, and slowly made his way out, rubbing himself against the doorjamb. That’s the way he makes his exit every morning.

  “How’s your mental health?” Louise said, coming back and sitting down next to me.

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  She took my hand. “You’ll find him,” she said.

  I nodded and took her hand in mine. I didn’t know whether she was talking about Jack’s killer or my son.

  “I’ve been having nightmares again.”

  “About Maxie,” she said. A statement.

  “Yeah,” I said, resting my head in my hands. “It’s like I’m actually watching his kidnapping. Two men pick him up in front of our house and I watch them drive away and...” and my head hurts as I tell it. “The worst part is I can’t do anything about it!” I felt sweat building in my palms.

  “I’m so sorry, Coop,” she said, gripping my hand more tightly.

  “Yeah. The worst part of it is, it’s so real. Like I’m there.” I paused, trying to explain the next part. “The weird thing is I’m looking for clues—you know, road signs, landmarks, geography, kinds of trees, vegetation, anything that would tell me where they’re going,” and I was thinking back even as I talked, trying to remember, “and then I wake and realize that it’s all too crazy—that it’s just a nightmare—and yet...”

  “Go ahead. Talk about it,” she said, her head tilted as she watched me.

  “I see his face in the rear window, Louise,” I said, my stomach turning as I said it. Because I feel responsible. Because I’m the father who didn’t take care of him. “I just need to find him.” I felt my eyes begin to water. “I just need to find him.”

  “You will, Coop“ she said. “You will.”

  We sat there for a few minutes, Louise trying to comfort me, and me not wanting to be comforted. Finally, I checked the clock on the kitchen wall, and we both got up.

  “Okay, sunshine, let’s get the hell out of here and check out that rig.” Then, turning as she started for the kitchen, “Better wake up that journalist girlfriend of yours,” she said, smiling sideways at me. “And by the way, you’re supposed to be cleanup,” she reminded me as she began to clear away the dishes.

  “She’s a client,” I said.

  “Uh-huh.” She threw a towel at my head.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Itsy-Bitsy Spider

  Early Afternoon

  “Watch out for them afternoon storms,” said Jimmy as I filled the tanks on Jack’s boat. It was going to be an expensive trip: three 350 Yamahas with a fuel capacity of 390 gallons. I watched the pump pass $669.00 and continue climbing.

  Louise and Cynthia were already on board, prepping the boat and getting acquainted. I could hear Louise asking her about her work at the Herald.

  “You keep an eye, Cooper,” Jimmy said, as he watched the numbers on the pump climb. “Things blow up pretty quick out there. This here’s a big boat, but it’s a piece of wood in a storm.” I nodded. Jimmy likes to give advice.

  “What’s your last name, Jimmy?” I said.

  “Johnson.”

  “Jimmy Johnson?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any relation?” Referring to the Dolphin’s former coach.

  “Wish.”

  “Wouldn’t have to work,” I said, smiling.

  He smiled, too.

  “I don’t know about this weather,” I said, looking at the skies, uneasily.

  “Afternoon storms. Nothin’ big coming. Maybe. But then this here’s the dry season...” Like I didn’t know.

  “It is that. Still…” and I looked at the clouds in the south over the Straits. The sky was patchy blue from the dock to Cuba with drifting pillows of white scattered here and there, some piled high like mountains of snow. I hate going out on the water in a storm.

  “You be careful, hear?” he said for the hundredth time, as he watched me board.

  Louise and Cynthia cast off the lines and gave me the go-ahead to crank up the motors. They roared, even at idle, like an Indy 500 car pulling into the starting line-up on the track. I throttled ahead and eased the Canyon away from the dock and into the channel. It would be about a two-hour ride to the rig. It would be getting dark when we got there. That was good. Dark is better. And no moon. It would be hiding behind the clouds. Good moon.

  “You want to drive?” I asked Cynthia as she gazed into the wake thrown by the three Yamahas.

  She shook her head. I think she was preparing herself mentally for whatever we would find and wanted no part of getting there.

  It was 2:30 when I steered the Canyon past the canals that fed the channel, each canal lined with houses and docks. Each dock with boats hanging from davits or floating in a slip. No one was out as we passed, though I could smell the smoke from someone’s Bar-B-Que. Maybe later we would stop and get some fish at the Caribbean Cl
ub. I would call Huck. Tell him to meet us there. He knows all the nightlife that hangs around in the Club and even those that don’t—if you believe Huck.

  We were free of the channel and heading into the Straits around 3:00. Clouds had started to pile up. They were stacked across the horizon, mostly white and non-threatening, some with grey spread across the lower edges. I asked Louise to take the wheel while I checked the weather.

  Actually, the journey across the Straits should be a short one in terms of mileage. The shortest point between the U.S. coast, Key West, and the coast of Cuba is 90 miles. But then there is the current that travels through the middle of the Straits northward to the east coast of Florida at about five to six miles an hour. Then there are the sudden storms, and the tropical depressions, and the tornados that blow out of the hurricanes that track the waters of the Caribbean and cross the Straits into Florida, crushing what gets in the way like so much paper. So, it’s a short trip really but a dangerous one as well—as so many Cuban refugees who fought the current to get to U.S. soil will testify. That same current that makes it possible for them to use rafts to get to this country might also kill them. The sword of Damocles.

  But no threat of weather yet—and no sign of rain on the weather channel. There were the clouds, but the water was gentle against the boat. We were about twenty miles offshore when Louise pointed to a boat off starboard, U.S. Coast Guard colors across the bow. They sounded a horn and we waved back. Friendly? Or a warning? We were nearing the International Boundary that delineates the Exclusive Economic Zones of Cuba and the U.S. Maybe that was making them nervous. I wondered what they were doing out here so far from the station in Miami. Looking for illegals maybe.