Wood's Wall (12 page)

She’d grown up here and knew the Keys were a major point of entry for drug smugglers. The chain of islands was impossible to patrol by boat, especially the Gulf side with all the unmarked channels and small keys. Any smart smuggler knew to use a fishing boat and blend in with the local traffic. Because there was so much volume going through here, the dealers here were worse than your dime-store drug dealer. If this guy had gotten mixed up with one of them, this was going to be bad. 

She dialed her office as she walked, assembling people and assets to get a handle on this thing. A CSI, the coroner, then a couple of deputies and maybe a helicopter to Key West to pick up the witness. The numbers were crunching in her head. Her ever-shrinking budget was about to go under water. She hated that part of her job and tended to ignore it, doing the right thing first and paying for it later as the city council expressed their dissatisfaction.

19

The alarm on the GPS beeped, and Mac signaled Mel to throw the buoy out. The ball splashed the water, the reel spinning, spitting out line until the five pound weight rested on the bottom. He started circling the buoy slowly, carefully watching the depth finder for the right piece of bottom. This section of reef was live bottom — small ledges with sand trenches between them. Common throughout the area, most areas looked the same. Red and black humps marked the hard corral and rocks, while yellow marked the sand on the display. Landmarks were few, making it an art to find a particular rock. But Mac had been here enough to identify the three coral heads clumped together, rising five feet off the three foot ledge. As soon as the image came onto the screen, he had Mel throw another buoy. The GPS waypoint signaled by the alarm only got within 30 to 60 feet, depending on the alignment and signal of the satellites. The second buoy was necessary to mark the exact spot. He steered back toward the first buoy and she pulled it from the water, using the reel to wind the 110 feet of line on until the weight was retrieved.

He nudged the throttle and adjusted course slightly bringing the boat to the second buoy. Mac put the engines in neutral and sat for a minute to see which way the current was running in order to see which way the boat would drift. Ideally the anchor would set right on the coral heads allowing him to follow the line straight to his destination, rather than waste precious bottom time searching. Satisfied he hit the switch for the windlass, which automatically dropped the anchor. Line spun out as he backed down. With the proper scope set out, he stopped and went forward to check if the hook had set. Satisfied, he started to assemble his dive gear.

“I don’t like you going down by yourself.”

“Get certified, then. I’d love the company.”

“What’s the deal with the tank?” She asked.

“It’s Nitrox. Enriched air. It’s got a higher oxygen content and less nitrogen. Lets you go deeper longer.”

“That sounds really reassuring.”

“No worries, girl. I’ve been using this stuff for a long time. It’s just safer at this depth. I can get forty minutes of bottom time, compared to fourteen with regular air.” 

Minutes later, Mac sat on the gunwale, gave Mel the thumbs up sign, and rolled backwards into the water, lead ball in his hand. The water rippled out in rings as he entered, broken only by the boat as he finned toward the anchor line and followed it down. The bottom quickly became visible — with no current and the sun’s help, the visibility was about eighty feet. He took his time descending, clearing his ears as he went. After checking the anchor, he took a bearing on his compass and set out toward the east.

The ledge protruded from the sand about three feet, coral heads scattered in islands in front of it, small fish schooled everywhere. He ignored the scenery, searching for the familiar landmarks, and swam toward a rise in the structure, where three corral heads sat directly on top of the ledge, rising eight feet above the bottom. From there, he got down on the sand and unstrapped the tank from his back. The weighted BC held the tank on the bottom, and he unclipped the dive light from the BC and illuminated the coral. 

He reached under the ledge and removed the two rocks covering the entrance to the small cavern. A huge black grouper had taken his spear into the hole several years earlier and he’d gone in and wrestled the fish, discovering the cavern in the process. He’d kept it in mind ever since, in case he ever needed a hiding place. Now the light illuminated the interior. It was about three feet high, and not quite big enough for a man to fit in, but a great secret spot. The light revealed several round canisters and a dry bag held down with weights. Not a pirate’s treasure chest, but a collection of Mac’s secrets. He placed the lead ball in and moved back out, closing the entrance behind him. 

***

Mac broke the surface of the water thirty minutes later relieving her tension. She knew he had enough experience to dive himself, but anything could happen down there. 

He hauled himself onto the dive platform, taking off his BC and tank. “Done. That’s as safe as it’s gonna get.”

She nodded. “Talked to Sue. Tru’s ok. Not much she can do but keep the wound clean and make sure there’s no infection. She’s got him pumped up on pain killers and antibiotics. I swear I thought he was singing in the background.”

Mac climbed over the transom. “She could be the perfect girl for that boy. Puts up with his crap and can fix him when he’s broke.”

“Is that what it takes to be the perfect woman?”

“You got it, babe.” He punched her shoulder as he went by.

“What now?”

“Gotta deal with the house. Then we’ll try and pick up the pieces.”

She watched him stow his gear thinking how her quick trip to appear in court had gone awry. 

***

Pete had to stay closer to the scooter than he would have liked. There must have been a thousand pink scooters in Key West, many ridden by packs of tourists. It would be easy to lose one on Duval Street. The guy had turned onto the tourist mecca now and was cruising slowly, dodging drunks as he went. Pete watched, two car lengths back, as the scooter turned onto a street and pulled into a driveway where the man got off. Address noted, he cruised by and kept going, driving aimlessly until he worked his way back toward the south end of the island. The road finally dead ended into a beach, and he sat there staring at the water.

There was something weirder than a drug deal going on here. He had no idea what had happened at the house earlier. Trufante and the women were there when the gunshots were fired. With nothing to lose, he dialed Trufante’s number, cursing when it went straight to voicemail. He tried a text, hoping that might get him an answer. He stared at Joanie’s number in the recent calls log, paralyzed by what he’d seen in the last few hours. He’d watched his deal go south, been shot at, and had followed a lunatic to Key West. The guy had then met some Islamic-looking guy with something that had nothing to do with drugs. This was way over his pay grade now. “Why not?” he thought, as he stared at the recent call log. He hit her number. 

Joanie wasn’t the answer to the puzzle, but she answered her phone, excited he’d called. He told her he’d be back in Marathon in an hour. Yes, she’d love to see him. At that, a smile crossed his face for the first time all day. 

The adrenaline had run it’s course and he felt lost. He knew enough to go to the police, but he’d been up all night and didn’t want to face the interrogation he would surely receive. Whatever damage had been done to Trufante and the girls was already done. There was nothing he could do to help them now. He resolved to go to the police in the morning.

20

Heather looked around the room, camera around her neck and notebook in hand. There was a metallic scent in the air. She looked for it’s source and immediately keyed in on the blood soaked couch. The two officers already there had just turned the crime scene over to the CSI people. Or person, as it was in understaffed Monroe County. The coroner was pushing the gurney with the man’s body out the door.

“Can you run through it for me?” she asked the first man she saw.

The younger officer — the one without the wedding band — was quick to respond. “Sure.” He gave her a big smile. “The dude was shot — looks like point blank range — right here.” He pointed to the couch. “There’s evidence of at least four other people in the house — two couples and a single guy, from the looks of it. Not much of a struggle.”

Heather scanned the room, trying to figure out where to start. “OK, I got it from here.”

The officer’s grin faded as it became apparent she wasn’t interested, and his partner smacked him on the back of the head. “I know you’re new here, but that’s the sheriff’s girl. Got no shot with that one, buddy. On the other team.”

Heather shook her head and settled into the scene, trying to recreate what had happened. She moved through the house, camera clicking, stopping now and then to look at some barely visible fiber or clue, bagging them as she went. The couch had a blood spot the size of a melon where the victim’s head had been. She took several pictures of the spot, with and without a measuring tape in place. There was a hole toward the center of the patch of blood. She set down the camera, took a multi-tool off her belt and, knife extended, started probing the couch, grinning when the knife hit resistance in the foam. She got in closer, drew the slug out, bagged and tagged it, placing it by the casing she’d found earlier. 

***

Jeff staggered out of the terminal building, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. He made his way to the sheriff’s car parked in the shade of an overhang, thinking that you had to have a cherry on top to get a spot like that. The passenger-side window of the car rolled down, releasing a blast of cool air as he approached.

“You Jeff Bundt?” asked the woman sitting in the car, sun glasses shielding her eyes, auburn hair blowing from the air conditioning. 

“Yeah.”

“I’m the sheriff from Marathon. Just call me Jules; we’re casual around here. Get in.” 

He was uncertain until the woman kicked open the passenger door. Once inside, she motioned for him to buckle up and pulled away from the curb. He sat motionless, staring straight forward as if awaiting an interrogation he expected to start any second.

“Easy, son. The colonel told me you were alright, just in some trouble. I want to help you get your wife and the other woman back. We’re gonna head back up to Marathon, but I need to know what we’re looking at here. Take your time and start from the beginning. I want every detail you can think of.”

She waited until they were off the island, heading north on US1 before she started asking questions. Jeff recounted the story for the second time that day. He tried to stay focused through her constant interruptions to clarify details. Finally satisfied she starred at the road ahead, leaving him to wonder what was going through her mind. Exhausted, he sank back in the seat, set his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. 

Not sure if she were determined to not let him rest, or if she were just processing everything he’d told her she cleared her throat.

“What now, Sheriff?”

“Call me Jules, everyone else does. Once we get back to Marathon, I’ll sit you down with some mug shots and see if you can identify either of the guys you saw. Don’t worry, it’s not like the big city police shows. We’ve got a much smaller collection here. Then we’ll see if the detectives or CSI came up with anything at the murder scene. Other than that, we wait ‘til he contacts you, then play it by ear.”

“That’s it? Mug shots and sit and wait?”

“If we can identify him, we can get the jump on him. We’ll be in a better position that way. Maybe send a SWAT team in. If we
can’t
ID him, we’re playing more on his turf. But be assured, he
will
open himself up at some point. He wants the money, not the hostages. Which means he’ll get in touch with you.”