Wood's Reach (5 page)

“I’d say that’s a load of crap. No one that’s not looking for trouble seeks out Trufante.” He gave Mac a sideways look. “You looking for trouble, Travis?”

Mac didn’t answer.

“That’s a bit of a pickle you’re in with the building department,” he said, grinning.

Mac had suspected he’d been set up, and now he knew who did it. There was no way the building inspector would have known he was rebuilding Wood’s place—unless someone had told him.

“Maybe you are here looking for me? Maybe needing some cash to pay for permits?”

Mac reached in his pocket and pulled out the drive, knowing it was a mistake the minute he did it. Hawk took a step closer, close enough that Mac could smell the cheap scotch on his breath. He put the drive back in his pocket, changing his mind. Nothing was worth dealing with this psychopath.

“I’ll find it some other way,” he said and turned to the bar.

“As they say, we can make this easy or we can make this hard,” Hawk said and motioned for Ironhead, who was immediately on his feet, covering the distance between them in several large strides. Standing a close, but respectful distance away so that Hawk could talk, he crossed his arms and blocked the exit.

“Now, maybe you give me that drive and all your problems will go away. The repairs on your boat, the permit,” Hawk said.

Mac felt trapped. There was no way he was going to give the drive to Hawk now. He pocketed it and looked around for a way out. Ironhead noticed and moved a step closer. “Let me think about it,” he said, trying to buy some time and space.

“I think not. Let’s have it.” Hawk extended his hand, palm open.

Mac saw the only way out, and without hesitating, he took a step back, vaulted the bar, and jumped over the back bar and off the deck. Flying through the air with his hands windmilling, he braced himself. Just before he hit the water, he straightened his legs to lessen the impact on his almost-fifty-year-old body. Remaining underwater, he swam to the seawall and carefully lifted himself to see above it. As he looked around, he heard a commotion by the stairs. Ironhead was coming toward him, barreling through a group of tourists, tossing them aside as he descended.

Mac exchanged glances with a tattooed woman standing by the railing and screaming into her phone. She winked at him. Celia was another one of those Keys associates; though not a friend, she was someone he might have at one time or another done a favor for. She now repaid him and moved to the stairs to block Ironhead. Using the cover of one of the boats, Mac pulled himself from the water, turned, and ran toward the mangroves.

Once he reached the cover of the brush, he chanced a look back and heard Celia screaming at Ironhead, blocking his path with her intimidating body, her loose sarong swaying as she moved. Mac didn’t miss the irony that her payback was sport for her.

He turned and followed the edge of the mangroves, carefully avoiding their roots until he emerged at the parking lot for the boat ramp. The center-console was where he’d left it, and he reached into his pocket for the keys, checking that the thumb drive was still there before crossing the asphalt to the boat.

Chapter Six

Trufante led Pamela from the bar. He looked back at the crowd around the stairs but didn’t hesitate, knowing that when trouble was near, he was a bullseye. Pushing her in front of him, he hustled her to his bike. Minutes later, they were cruising toward the Seven Mile Bridge, where he slowed and pulled into the parking lot used by walkers and joggers for the old section of the bridge that ended at Pigeon Key.

At this hour, the lot was empty, and he pulled to the side, where they could not be seen from the street. He knew this area was frequently patrolled at night for vagrants, but he wasn’t planning on doing the two-mile tourist walk.

“You’ve got some interesting friends,” Pamela said.

“Shoot. Me and old Mac go way back,” he said, not bothering to deny it. “What’d you want to do?” he asked to change the subject.

“I’d really like to check out the house. Can we go cruise by?” she asked with a smile she obviously knew he wouldn’t say no to.

He thought for a minute. After seeing the two men that had bid against her at the auction hanging around Hawk, he was suspicious. She rubbed against him, and his better judgment, which he often pushed aside, again retreated. “Why not?” he said and hopped back on the bike. Hopefully the men would be tied up chasing Mac and have no interest in them.

“Mind if we stop by a liquor store first?” she asked, climbing on behind him.

“Now you’re talking.” He gave her the best version of his smile, kicked the starter, and revved the bike. They pulled to the edge of the lot, and he felt her arms circle tightly around him and her body rub against his while they waited for the traffic. It was a long wait, but he didn’t mind, barely noticing the empty tractor-trailers heading back after dropping their loads in Key West, or the trucks towing boats, clogging the narrow artery. Finally there was an opening. He kicked the bike into gear, accelerated, and turned left.

Pamela motioned him into a parking lot with a sign for what looked like an expensive deli and liquor store. He complied, and after picking up a bottle of champagne, they headed back onto the highway, traveling another mile before turning right onto Sombrero Beach Road. He slowed as they approached the high school and continued until the road ended in a cul-de-sac by the beach. Out of real estate, he had to stop and have her check her phone for directions. They backtracked and took a left.

“Hot damn,” Trufante said as they got off the bike. The house was as nice as any he’d ever been in, and for a minute he forgot the circumstances she had bought it under.

“See? I told you,” she beamed.

He stashed the bike behind some bushes and followed her to the front door. She tried the knob, but it was locked, and she turned to him with an impish grin. He knew that look and smiled back. “Guess you don’t want to wait until Friday to get the keys. Old Tru can take care of that.”

She smiled back. “The bank wire will go through tomorrow, and I’ll have the keys the day after.” He circled the house, checking all the windows and doors, with her following close behind, clutching the bottle of champagne. “Can’t you get us in?”

He sat on a chair by the pool. “I know I seen something on sliding glass doors. You know, on the Internet.”

“YouTube,” she said and pulled her phone out.

He watched her navigate to a screen and type in something he couldn’t read without glasses. A minute later, she sat next to him and held the small phone between them.

“Can’t believe this shit’s on the Internet?” he exclaimed after watching the thirty-second video of a man breaking into a sliding glass door. “I got this.”

He rose and went up the stairs to the screened-in patio overlooking the backyard and canal. Facing the door, he started lifting one of the panels. Nothing happened. “Gotta be a trick to this,” he said.

“Here, watch it again.” She held the phone out and replayed the video.

“I got it now. Lift and jerk.” He went back to the door, and in ten seconds it was open. “That Internet shit ought to be illegal,” he said as he entered the large living area. “Damn, furnished and all. Let’s hit the couch and pop that cork.” He dove onto the leather sectional.

“I want to check it out first,” she said, activating the flash from her phone.

“Hey. Don’t be doing that. People’ll see the light. I’m betting that on a street like this, there are some nosy-ass neighbors.”

She turned off the light and came toward him. “I guess it’ll wait a few days,” she said and held out the bottle for him to open.

“Why don’t you come here first?” He reached for her.

***

Mac was about a mile offshore when he saw the boat coming after him. He pulled back on the throttle, turning hard to starboard, and steered an easterly course, away from Wood’s. If it was Hawk who had tipped off the building department, that meant he knew Mac was living at Wood’s and would look for him there. He had lost his house after the insurance company had refused to pay for the damages caused by the same CIA agent who had set fire to Wood’s. They had claimed it was terrorist activity and declined to pay, and Mac, unable to afford the repairs himself, had let the bank have the house. Now, although he hadn’t been by to see it, he had heard they had demolished the structure.

Hawk would surely check the island first, thinking that was where Mac was headed. With few boats on the water, he decided to run dark. Without the aid of navigation lights or even the GPS, he cruised over the familiar waters, fingering the thumb drive as he followed the shoreline a safe distance offshore to avoid the shoals and flats invisible in the dark.

He needed to do something with the data. The hours he had spent staring at the pictures on the drive over the years had revealed nothing to him, and he knew he needed another set of eyes. Someone he could trust and who had the skills to solve the puzzle. Alicia was the answer, and he was surprised he had not thought of her before. The former CIA agent was a legend with data. Now working on contract and living in Key Largo with her boyfriend TJ, she was the one person he could trust to figure out the puzzle of the tattoos on the drive. Reputedly, the puzzle dated back to the Mayans; the answer, he was sure, was passed down through the generations by their body art.

Between the cost of the fuel and the dangers of navigating the waters of the Keys at night, he tried to figure the easiest way to get the data to her. Although far from a computer guy, he knew the Internet was faster than a boat—he just needed to get access to a computer.

A glance over his shoulder confirmed that the boat with Hawk’s men was still on course to Wood’s island, apparently unaware that he had turned away. He changed course and headed toward land, where he pulled into a small cove and turned back to watch the stretch of water north of the Seven Mile Bridge. The boat was still visible, the LED running lights like neon signs on a gas station in the desert. He watched it until it was over the horizon before pulling out of the small harbor. Trufante’s apartment was only another mile up the coast.

***

Hawk was just able to catch his drink before it spilled when he felt the wake hit his trawler. He cursed the unknown boater running too fast through the canal. Buried back in the narrow channels behind the Sombrero Golf course, his sixty-five-foot steel-hulled trawler was tied off by a small house—his ex’s. It was the only deal he could cut after his house had been confiscated and sold in record time by ICE. He enjoyed the small cabin, just forward and down a few steps from the wheelhouse, that he used for an office. Sitting in an easy chair in the corner, where he could look at the bookcase that held a record of his finds, he drank. It was his own personal showcase, containing one piece from each of the treasures he had found. One single piece that he had held on to after selling the rest.

“What’d you mean he’s not there? Where else would he have gone?” Hawk screamed into the satellite phone. “Have a look around and see if he’s been doing anything out there besides rebuilding the hermit’s house, and then get your ass back here.”

“What am I looking for?” the voice came through the receiver.

He pulled it away from his ear and gave the device a look meant for the man on the other end.

“You’ll know it if you see it.” He hung up, knowing the man wouldn’t. Good muscle seldom meant brains, and Mike didn’t disappoint. He kept the men paired for a reason: one had the brawn and the other had the brains. But they were separated now, with Mike going after Travis, and Wallace, who had already lost the Cajun, on his way back now. Once Mike returned from the island, he had another job for them.

His paranoia had grown over the past few days. First, he’d had to bail his employees out of jail after they had run aground and lost a shipment of artifacts. The government had made it too difficult to sell anything legally. Everything he found was classified as an antiquity or deemed to hold historical or archaeological value, and they wanted it for themselves. All his goods were now discreetly sent to Miami, where they were shipped offshore. In order to make a living in his line of work anymore, you had to sell abroad.

And then, it was troubling about the auction. He hadn’t anticipated losing the house to another bidder. Most everyone in town knew the two men represented him, and most knew better than to bid against him. But Trufante didn’t represent any kind of majority, and the girl was a wild card. She was on his list.

Something remained in the house the woman had bought. After the property had been confiscated, there had been too many eyes on it to go back, but now that the woman had bought it, it might be off the government’s radar.

The phone buzzed, and he grunted at Mike to get back to Marathon. He wanted the unfinished business taken care of tonight.

***

With nowhere else to go, Mac changed course and turned towards land. Not sure if Trufante had a computer, or even if he could figure out how to use it to send the data to Alicia, he steered to the Cajun’s apartment. Mac’s relationship with electronics was similar to his ups and downs with women. They had to have a direct purpose and be easy to understand, the prerequisite eliminating most devices besides a GPS and just about every woman he met. Mel was an exception, but Wood’s daughter was in Virginia, swearing she would never come back to the Keys. He thought about calling her to let her know about the notice, but he rarely used his cell phone and in fact wasn’t sure where it was.

Mac navigated the mangrove-lined creek that led to Trufante’s apartment. His navigation lights and electronics as well as the beam of a strong searchlight were on now, the risk of being seen minimized by the thick brush closing in on either side of him. In reality, this close to land, he was less obvious lit up like a Christmas tree than running dark. The channel opened and he found himself in a small basin. As he turned to the right, it opened further. He spun the boat, skillfully backing it into an empty slip at the seawall servicing a small two-story apartment building. Tying off the boat, he jumped onto the dock, now well above the gunwales with the low tide. Passing the run-down craft next to him, he left the dock and followed the path to the stairs. Trufante’s apartment was on the second floor, and Mac climbed the back stairs, turning when he reached the landing to check on his boat. The Keys were the only place this level of housing would have a dock as an amenity, and it was well used, crowded with boats in all states of disrepair. He checked the dock, not trusting the residents with his boat.