“The eye of the storm’s probably going to come over Pensacola. Maybe swing a bit to the east of here. Hurricane-force winds stretch about a hundred miles out from the eye.” He wasn’t out of breath. Walter was. He found himself thinking that this kid’s in good shape.
“There’s already nine-, ten-foot swells,” Walter told him, trying not to gasp like an old man.
“I’ve been out in worse. Northeast quadrant gets the worst part of the storm. Traveling west I’ll be driving away from it. Got a little delayed. I’m getting a later start than I wanted.”
Walter helped Joe lift the bag onto the boat deck. By now, Walter’s jumpsuit was soaked at his back and chest. Sweat poured down his forehead and dripped off his nose, but he needed both hands to lift his end of the tuna bag down the steps into the cabin.
Joe dropped his end of the bag. Something inside moved and groaned. Walter’s eyes shot up to meet Joe’s. He was still holding his end of the bag when Joe shoved the snub nose of a revolver into Walter’s gut and said, “Guess you’re coming along for the ride, Mr. B.”
CHAPTER 54
Maggie knew if she waited until after the hurricane to ask questions no one would remember a white stainless-steel cooler with a bright yellow-and-blue tie-down or its owner, a guy named Joe, who might have a boat docked at the marina. Memories of before the hurricane would be eclipsed by the chaos of the storm. Besides, she had promised Liz Bailey that she would meet her on the marina. While she waited, she might just as well ask some questions.
The condition of the body parts suggested they hadn’t been in the cooler for long. Decomposition had only begun. From past experience—an unfortunate piece of trivia to have in one’s repertoire—Maggie knew it took about four to five hours to thaw an average-size frozen torso. There had been no ice left in the cooler when it was found. Considering the warm water of the Gulf and the hot sun, she estimated the packages had been inside the cooler two days. Three at the most.
Even if the body parts had been destined for one of Lawrence Piper’s surgical conferences, it still didn’t explain how Vince Coffland ended up as an unwilling body donor.
Before Maggie had left the comfort of her hotel room she had done a quick search of Advanced Medical Educational Technology on her laptop. The company advertised educational seminars at a variety of Florida resorts, providing a venue for medical-device makers to showcase their latest technologies to surgeons from across the country. They promised hands-on experience while upholding donor confidentiality by not disclosing their procurement procedure.
After viewing competitors’ Web sites, Maggie realized AMET was only one of several legitimate companies buying “precut and frozen body parts” from brokers like Joe. From her quick analysis, Maggie understood that demand was high and supply limited. She couldn’t help wondering if Platt had been right when he asked if this killer might be taking advantage of hurricanes in order to find victims. Now Maggie realized that might be exactly what this killer was doing, using the storms as a cover to fill his growing orders. Was Vince Coffland murdered out of cold-blooded greed?
The marina was crowded and the shops were busy, trying to accommodate the desperate boat owners. In between sales Maggie struck up a conversation with the owner of Howard’s Deep Sea Fishing Shop. A huge, barrel-chested man, Howard Johnson towered over Maggie. His thick white hair was the only indication of his age. Somewhere in his sixties, Maggie guessed. However, his neatly trimmed goatee had streaks of blond, hinting at the golden-haired surfer that appeared in the photos along the walls. He wore a bright orange-and-blue button-down shirt with a fish pattern, the hem hanging over his khaki cargo shorts.
His shop was kept neat, with unusual and colorful gear. A railed shelf ran along the upper quarter of the four walls, filled with models of various boats and ships. Maggie found herself mesmerized by all the paraphernalia.
Her eyes were still darting about as she absently flipped open her FBI badge to show Howard. His entire demeanor changed. He nodded politely but his eyes flashed with suspicion. One large hand ducked into his pocket, the other dropped palm-flat onto the counter as if bracing himself for what was coming. Okay, so he didn’t trust FBI agents. He wouldn’t be the first. Maggie showed him photos of the cooler. The last one was a close-up of the yellow-and-blue rope tie-down.
He shrugged. “Looks like a dozen other coolers I see every day. In fact, I have this same make, only the larger version, on my deep-sea fishing rig.”
“What about the tie-down?”
“I use a metal one.”
“Ever see one like this?”