Follow the Evidence (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 2) (5 page)

“I was fine until you opened the
friggin’ door,” he replied. “You want to grab something to eat or not?”

At least he wasn’t putting me on
about the food at the Drunk Monk. I’d lived over the place for a handful of
years. When I was drinking, it made life hard. It had been one of the best days
of my life when the place added bar food to their lineup of beer and liquor. A
big payday on the Hunt case let me buy the building. My office and apartment
were on the second floor. I’d rented the other office suites to a couple web
designers and a local lifestyle magazine. Best of all I rented the ground floor
to my buddy Dave Holiday who ran the Drunk Monk. The place had been a dive for
years. Dave worked there and saw the potential. He bought out the old owner,
classed up the place, and hired a cook who came up with a fantastic pub menu.
Now customers lined up every night. I ate there at least once a day, sometimes
twice. Dave let me run a tab and at the end of the month, we traded meals for
rent. Since I wasn’t drinking anymore, it was a good arrangement.

“Yeah, let’s go downstairs,” I
said, “but I haven’t tried the chicken yet.”

“I thought you’d never ask. That’s
why I stopped here first,” he said. His smile was back. “I was hopin’ to catch
you. Guess I should have called.”

“What, and give me a chance to duck
out on you,” I joked. “No problem, let’s eat.”

Dave at the bar shouted to us as we
came through the door and as we headed for my usual table, Dave said, “Roscoe,
what are you doing with that deadbeat?”

“Just slummin’ Dave, just slummin’.
Is Ben cooking?” Roscoe replied.

“He is. Don’t tell me you know him
too?” Dave asked.

“Oh, we goes way back,” Roscoe
boasted. He fanned himself with his pork pie hat.

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” Dave
said. “Need menus?”

“Naw,” I said. “Roscoe tells me I
need to branch out, try new things.”

“You have got to get the fried
chicken,” Dave said. “It’s the best in town. I don’t know what Ben does, but
I’ve never had anything like it.”

Roscoe gave me a conspiratorial
wink.

“Something to drink?” Dave asked as
he leaned over the bar.

“Sweet tea for me,” Roscoe said,
“and I’ll have the chicken. Can’t wait to have Ben’s fried chicken again.”

“Unsweet for me, I said, “and I’ll
have…”

Roscoe glared at me.

“I’ll try the chicken,” I said.

“Sweet, unsweet and two chicken
dinners it is. Thanks, gentlemen,” Dave said.

“So to what do I owe the honor,
Roscoe?” I asked when Dave was gone.

“Nothin’ special, I was just in the
area.”

“Cut it out man, this is me,
remember. You hate downtown,” I observed.

“Well, I wanted to see you,” he
admitted.

“Did Stan send you?” I asked.

Stan Lee was my other good friend.
The three of us had survived a couple tours in Iraq together. Stan was a newly
minted lieutenant at the Orange County Sheriff’s Office.

“He might have mentioned he hadn’t
talked to you in a while,” Roscoe mumbled.

“Tell him you found me sober and
leave out the fact that we ate in a bar,” I joked.

“Seriously captain, how’s it
going?” Roscoe and Stan were both mother hens.

“I wish for a world of peace, harmony,
and nakedness.”

He gave me a frown and shook his
head. “You can’t laugh off a drinkin’ addiction captain.”

“Fine, I’m busy as ever. In fact, I
picked up a new case today,” I replied.

“Not that, you know…” He put his
thumb to his mouth and mimicked taking a drink.

“I haven’t had a drink in six, no
eight weeks. Cross my heart.” I put my hand over my heart. I didn’t mention I
thought about booze pretty near every moment of every day.

“You know its touch and go without
a program. Why don’t you come to a meeting with me?” he suggested.

“I appreciate it Roscoe, but I’m
OK, really.”

“I can be your sponsor. You’ll
learn a lot about yourself, your addiction, look what it’s done for me. Without
AA I’d be dead.”

“Roscoe, I’m not a joiner. I don’t
want to learn about myself and I don’t want to go to any damn meetings,” I
insisted. “I can do it myself.”

“No you can’t, captain and I’m the
one who can tell you why. I tried it on my own and it didn’t work.”

Dave arrived with our tea and a
basket of yeast rolls. If I needed a program, it was to keep me off the damn
yeast rolls. They were hot, buttery and I could eat the whole basket.

“Meals‘ll be out in a minute. I
didn’t ask you about the veggie. We got green beans or broccoli and mashed
potatoes with or without gravy,” he said.

“Green beans and the potatoes
with,” I said.

“Make it two,” Roscoe chimed in.

“Come on captain,” Roscoe insisted
when Dave was gone. “It ain’t so bad.”

“Drop it sergeant. If I need help
I’ll ask,” I insisted.

“You won’t need no help with this chicken.”

I looked up to see who was
speaking.

“Somebody order the special?” he
asked

The huge black guy beamed with a
disarming smile. The mountain of a man with a shaved bullet head and arms the
size of my thigh stood holding two steaming plates. He wore loose dark pants, a
tee shirt, and a stained full-length white apron that came down to his black
crocs.

“That’s us,” Roscoe said.

The cook put the plates in front of
us and said, “Roscoe! Great to see you.”

Roscoe leapt up and the two hugged.
Roscoe then turned to me.

“Ben,” he said, “meet Mac Everett.
The captain and me served together. Captain, meet Ben Tracy. Best cook and
fighter you’ll ever come across.”

“Pleased to meet you Mr. Tracy,” I
said and I shook his hand.

“Listen to you, Mr. Tracy. It’s Ben
or its nothin’,” he replied with a broad grin. Turning to Roscoe he said, “As
for best fighter, well that was a long time ago.”

“Ben was East Coast Military champ
in 19…”

“Ah, never mind what year that
was,” Ben said with a touch of embarrassment.

“Well, it’s good to meet you. I’ve
been here most every night since you started, but I haven’t had the chance to
meet you. I live upstairs.”

“Oh, you the guy upstairs what owns
the building? I’m glad to meet you. Look I have to get back to the kitchen.
Stick around. We’ll have a bull session later.”

Ben headed back to the kitchen
while Roscoe and I dug in. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.

“You’re right. This is damn good
chicken,” I said, licking my fingers.

“It’s the secret ingredient. I’d
tell you, but I’d have to kill you,” Roscoe joked.

“You know?” I asked.

“Of course I know. What don’t I
know?” he said.

“OK spill,” I said.

“Well don’t tell anyone, especially
Ben.” Roscoe looked around then said, “He uses grape soda in the batter.
Brother it is good,” he purred.

“Grape soda, I might have stuck
with the burger if you told me that earlier.” I took a tentative bite. It was
sweet and crispy. “You’re right. This chicken is great.”

“Told ya,” he replied. So what’s
this new case,” Roscoe asked as he tore into another thigh.

“It’s a fool’s errand I’m afraid.
I’m running down a girl who disappeared off a boat.”

“Cruise ship?”

“Nope, some sailboat found off the
coast.”

“You don’t mean the Nassau Ghost
Ship! Wow, that was creepy. There’s even a rumor the boat was cursed.”

“There was a hurricane, remember?”

“That makes it worse,” Roscoe
shivered. “Are you going to hold a séance or use an Ouija Board for this one?”

“No smart ass, I’m going to do what
I always do, interview witnesses, if I can find someone to talk to. You should
have seen the girl’s father.”

I left out the fact that the girl’s
mother had written her off.

“Coast Guard do a report?” Roscoe
asked.

“If you can call it that. All I’ve
got is a two-page idiot sheet, a Marine Casualty Report. It doesn’t say much of
anything.”

“Who you gunna interview?”

“I figured I go over to Canaveral
tomorrow and see if I can talk to the crew that found the boat,” I replied.

“Not much of a plan,” Roscoe
chided.

“Well, aren’t we just a ray of sunshine?”
I replied. “It’s a start.”

“No, it’s not much of a plan and
the chopper crew won’t talk to you without clearance from their CO,” Ben said
as he pulled up a chair. “Mind if I join you?” he said.

“Did I mention Ben’s retired Coast
Guard,” Roscoe smiled.

“What you got goin’ Mr. Everett?”
he asked

“I’m looking into those people that
went missing off that sailboat in Hurricane Eva,” I replied.

“Bad business, that one, but I hear
a chopper crew picked up a couple of fishermen in the area. Maybe you could
talk to them,” Ben suggested.

“I could if I knew who they were,”
I replied. “All I have is the Casualty Report.”

“Yeah, the Marine Casualty Report
won’t give you much. It’s a basic run down on the accident they give to the
insurance companies. There ain’t much there you could use, I’d guess.”

“Any ideas on how I can get more
information?” I asked, “I’m open to suggestions.”

“You need the Investigative
Activity Report,” Ben replied, “and someone to pull strings for ya.”

“Who do I have to kill,” I joked.

“Nothin’ like that, but I can help
ya,” Ben said. “I know the Jacksonville District Commander and the CO out at
Canaveral. I brought em’ both up. They owes me a chit or two.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” I
said.

“You ain’t asked,” Ben insisted. “I
said I’d do it.”

We shot the bull until Ben had to
go shut the kitchen down. He promised me breakfast and a couple phone calls in
the morning.

Friday, November 15 broke cool and
clear. Fall in Central Florida is unlike the season anywhere else. Cool nights
give way to misty mornings, followed by warm sunny afternoons.
It’s the
perfect place to live,
I thought, as I stared out my second floor window.

I was out the door by five thirty,
and got in a run. I was doing forty-five minutes three times a week. I didn’t
want to know how far I ran, that would be to depressing. I’d done daily five
milers for ten years in the service. When I came home from Iraq, everything
went to hell.

I downed a gallon of water and hit
the shower. Fifteen minutes later, I was pulling on a pair of jeans when there
was a knock at the door.

“Just a minute,” I called.

I threw on a tee shirt and opened
the door to find a special delivery breakfast.

“Good morning,” Ben said a
Styrofoam container in each hand.

“Come on in,” I said. “Make
yourself at home. What do you have there?”

His smile widened as he said,
“Breakfast.”

“You didn’t have to bring it to me.
What have you got?”

“We got a couple eggs, scrambled, some
fried ham, and toast. Don’t think you goin’ to get this every morning. You got
a coffee pot up here?”

“Yep, I’ll make the coffee,” I
said. “Come on in and make yourself at home.”

I lead him through to the kitchen
where he took a seat at the table.

I put the coffee on and a few
minutes later, we were enjoying a breakfast fit for a king. “Those were the
best damn eggs I ever had,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it. I’d do as
much for any landlord,” he laughed. He sat back in his chair and pulled out a
pack of cigarettes.

“You mind?” he asked.

“Naw, go ahead,” I replied. “I gave
it up. Now I’m working on booze.”

“I shouldn’t smoke, but just can’t
quit,” he said. He took a drag, let the smoke out in a half dozen rings, and
leaned back.

“I know. It’s tough,” I said. “You
mentioned last night you knew the local Coast Guard brass. How’d that happen?”
I asked.

“I trained ‘em, brought ‘em up-we
went through hell together,” he said. “You hang around long enough you get to
know pretty much everyone. The Coast Guard is a small service.”

“How long did you serve,” I asked.

“I retired with thirty years as
Senior Chief, an E-8. That’s the second highest enlisted rating in the
coasties. I was an Aviation Survival Technician rating when they switched to
the Helicopter Rescue Swimmer program in ‘84. It was tough, the training, the
duty.”

“How’d you learn to cook if…”

“That’s a longer story,” he said.

He got that thousand-yard stare I’d
seen in ex military guys get too many times. I knew better than to ask anything
more.

“If you want to talk about it
sometime you know where I live,” I said.

He nodded and took another drag.

It was just after eight thirty AM
when Senior Chief Ben Tracy, retired, picked up the phone, and called in a
couple favors. Captain Ted Duke, Jacksonville District Commander, and Commander
Robbie Swift who was in charge at Station Cape Canaveral were happy to help an
old friend. It took a little wrangling, but Ben got me both the report and
permission to interview the helicopter crew. The payola was a couple boxes of
his fried chicken and I was the delivery boy.

Ben was ready to go back downstairs
when my Fax hummed to life. We both gawked as the machine spit out the first
pages of the report.

“Well Mac, looks like you’ve got
your dope,” he said.

“Yeah it does. I don’t know how to
thank you,” I replied.

“Don’t repeat that crap about the
grape soda in my fried chicken,” he laughed. “Roscoe’s been tellin’ folks that
for years.”

“No problem,” I said.

“And one more thing,” he said.
“Don’t ever leave anyone behind, Mac.”

He shook my hand, and then headed
downstairs to get the kitchen going for the Friday lunch crowd. I knew I’d made
a friend.

I watched Fax, mesmerized as the
machine spit out page after page. I reloaded the paper four times. Finally, all
eighty-six sheets of the Investigative Activity Report printed out.

On the cover page was a note from
Lieutenant Commander Swift. I had an appointment at two o’clock and he said
he’d arranged for me to talk to the crew involved with the
Wind Dancer
incident. I had a couple hours to kill so I started dissecting the
Investigative Service Report.

The first section rehashed what I’d
already read in the Casualty Report. The second section contained information
on movements of the three missing people prior to leaving port and the
condition of the boat. The final section of the report had details of the
Wind
Dancer’s
discovery and the investigation that followed.

A Coast Guard helicopter happened
on the
Wind Dancer
during a rescue of two people from the fishing boat
Danny-L
,
a thirty-year-old man, and an eight-year-old boy. The report had statements
from the helicopter crew, the two people rescued, and a Coast Guard
Investigator. I wrote down the contact information of everyone in the report. A
couple of things bothered me. First, why was the
Wind Dancer
where it
was? Second, the Rescue Swimmer reported the boy plucked from the water thought
he saw a third boat near the abandoned sailboat.
Something else to puzzle
over
.

As I wondered where to begin, my
phone rang. It was Marco.

“Hi Marco,” I said.

“Morning Mac. Did I wake you?”

I knew he was trying to be nice. He
worried about my boozing too. I had a clutch of mother hens around me. It was
pissing me off. I stifled the urge to tell him off and put the best possible
face on it.

“I’ve been up a while. I’ve done my
morning run, showered, dressed, and eaten breakfast, all like a real person. I
even brushed my teeth. Do you want my blood pressure too?”

“So sue me,” he snapped. “This will
be expensive Mac. I had to lay out money on this job already.”

When Marco had to pay for
information it usually was bad news.

“What have you got for me?”

“Your clients…”

“Yeah…”

“Summers’ wife is a former model.
They’ve been married ten years. It’s at least the second marriage for them
both. They both stay out of the news. There isn’t much at all about her.”

“The daughter?”

“She’s a wild one. A handful of
high priced prep schools kicked her out, mostly for alcohol and minor drug
stuff. She’s pretty, smart and daddy’s rich.”

“Sounds like my kind of girl,” I
snorted.

“I don’t think she would go for a
fossil like you.”

“Thanks!” I replied.

“Despite the usual partying, she’s
a good student at the University of Central Florida. She’s president of Alpha
Mu sorority. Word is she was elected president because she could get cut rate
dope.”

“Oh, wonderful,” I said as I jotted
notes. “Any arrests?”

“No, but I daddy could hush it if
he wanted too. He’s loaded.”

“How about daddy?” I asked.

“I’m not finished.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Jennifer’s friend, the one on the
boat with her…”

“Yeah.”

“She’s still attending classes.
She’s here in town.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he said.

“I guess I’ll have to pay her a
visit. What about Parker Summers?”

“No criminal record…in this country.
He owns BRI Ltd. They do emerging markets analysis and manage tariffs,
regulatory agencies, and language barriers for companies doing business in
South and Central America. At least that’s what their website says. Its big
business and he’s heavy into a dozen countries.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“There’s always a problem.”

“He’s apparently greased a lot
palms in the Columbian government,” Marco advised
.
“People down there
are not happy with your Mr. Summers.”

“That’s not unusual in South America
is it? Bribery, I mean.”

“It seems Mr. Summers has been
playing both sides against the middle. I’m told the Columbian government may
open an investigation and his partners are worried, especially the disreputable
ones.”

“He has shady partners?” I asked,
knowing where he was going. “What about Sebastian?”

“That would be the shady one.
Sebastian’s a man who stays in the shadows, but according to my guy at the
Columbian National Police, he has fingers in all things illegal in a half dozen
countries. The cattle and coffee businesses are legit but they’re a cover. By
the way, the Columbian cop was the one that cost you the most.”

“It’s the cost of doing business,”
I replied. “Send me your bill. Thanks for running this stuff down. Let me…”

“There’s more, you asked about
Sebastian’s son too.

“What’s the story on Sergio?”

“The boy’s a jetsetter.”

“So he’s a playboy, is he involved
in the family business?” I asked.

“Don’t know, if I had to guess,” he
replied, “I’d say yes. He likes the ladies and spending money.”

“This is good information Marco,
thanks. Keep on it, will you.”

“Mac, I’m hurt you thought you had
to ask.”

I hit the main gate at Coast Guard
Station Port Canaveral about one thirty. It was like most military
installations I’d seen. The armed personnel in camo BDUs, road barriers, a
guard shack, and CCTV cameras all brought back plenty of memories.

“Name and identification please,
sir,” the uniformed guard said. I noticed his holstered sidearm. Stateside duty
in the military had changed since I out-processed.

I pulled out my driver’s license.

“I’m Mac Everett. I have an
appointment with Lieutenant Commander Swift,” I said as I handed the kid my ID.

The guard consulted his clipboard.
“Thank you Mr. Everett, the Administration Building is at the intersection of
Grouper Drive and Challenger Road. This is Grouper Drive.” He pointed to his
left, indicating the road ahead of me. “Go straight for two miles then left on
Challenger Road. Admin is on the corner. You can park in a space designated for
visitors. Please leave this,” the guard handed me a map with the date and ‘main
gate’ stamped on it, “on the dashboard.”

“Thank you,” I said and pulled
away.
Grouper Drive
, I thought shaking my head,
where do they come up
with these names.

I drove slowly trying to shake the
uneasiness I felt. It had been twelve years since I’d been on a military base,
but the memories flooding back weren’t pleasant. In the distance, I heard a
helo revving for takeoff. I’d been on my share of those grey birds. When this
one appeared to my right, it was orange and white with U. S. Coast Guard
emblazoned on the side.
It’s OK, Mac.
Those chopper rides were long
ago and far away.

The white sign in front of the
two-story building had the Coast Guard’s crossed anchors emblem and said
Administration. I asked the guard at a reception desk for directions and went
straight to an office with commanding officer in gold letters on the door. Port
Canaveral Coast Guard station wasn’t the biggest military base I’d seen, but it
was squared away. The security people were sharp, vigilant, and well informed.
The buildings were clean and freshly painted. This was a tight ship.

I entered the commanding officer’s
office and encountered an attractive young woman in the standard Coast Guard
uniform, dark slacks and a light blue button down blouse. She had anchor
insignia tabs on her collar. The yeoman looked pretty damn good even if the
uniform was tight. It looked like she’d pop a button or two off that blouse if
she sneezed. Her chestnut hair was in a smooth bun and her minimal make up was
flawless. Her nametag, perched strategically over the apex of her right breast,
said Winter. Aptly named, she had a decidedly frosty attitude.

“Mac Everett to see Commander
Swift,” I said, stopping in front of yeoman Winter.

The desk was spotless. Calendar
centered, pencils and pens in a cup, nothing was out of place.
What a neat
freak.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Everett,” she
replied. I detected a hint of disdain in her tone. “Just a moment,” she said.
She picked up a phone and said, “Mr. Everett to see you, sir.” She put down the
phone, rose, opened the inner office door, and said, “Commander Swift can see
you now.”

Lieutenant Commander Swift’s
receptionist was efficient.
I wonder if she went to business school.

“Mr. Everett,” the Commander said
as he stepped from behind his grey desk.

The military, such limited
imagination in office décor
.

“Thank you for seeing me,
Commander,” I said as I shook his hand.

“Have a seat,” he said, indicating
a couple chairs in front of his desk. I took one and the commander took the
other. “When Chief Tracy asks for something-well, I listen,” he said. “I owe
Ben Tracy a lot.”

“I owe him too. We just met, but
you’re right, he’s quite a guy. He sent this along for you,” I said. I handed
him an insulated bag.

“Is this what I think it is?” he
asked.

“As promised, commander, as
promised and with Chief Tracy’s complements,” I replied. “I shipped a package
like this one this morning to Captain Duke.”

“Mine’s still warm,” he smiled.
“Losing the chief as a rescue swimmer was tough, but what he learned to do in
the galley…”

“I know. I’ve had his burgers and
his chicken,” I said.

“You’re not here to discuss our
retirees, are you?”

“No, sir, unfortunately I’m not.
What can you tell me about the
Wind Dancer
investigation?” I asked
getting down to business.

The commander put his chicken
aside. “The matter is near completion,” he replied, “but you have a copy of the
report ahead of final approval. It’s highly irregular. I hope you’ll keep that
between us.”