Weather here seemed to change in a blink of an eye. The storms from earlier were vanishing, replaced by clear skies and sunshine. But it was also hurricane season, and I imagined that this was the last place you’d want to be if one of those paid a visit.
A concrete walk led from the dock to the lighthouse, which sat roughly at the island’s center. I avoided that path and headed north, up the beach, following the wet sand. Thunder continued to rumble in the distance as the storm moved eastward. The only other sounds were the wind, a gentle lap of tiny waves, and the shrill cries from birds overhead.
I felt like a castaway.
The whole cay was only about two hundred yards wide. If not for the thick stands of pine, you would have been able to see from side to side and end to end. At the north point I spotted a green Sundome tent, its rain fly unzipped, set among what looked like foundation ruins. A weathered placard identified the site as the former Tortugas Marine Biological Laboratory, established by the Carnegie Institution in 1904. I had no idea what I was walking into, but since there was no choice I left the beach and followed a narrow trail through prickly pear cactus.
“Are you the person who made the dive on the wreck?”
The words were delivered in Spanish, and hearing a disembodied female voice where there’d just been nothing startled me. Thankfully, languages were familiar to me. It was a side effect of an eidetic memory that came courtesy of my mother’s side of the family. Not photographic. Just a mind that retained facts like a magnet, which had made it easy for me to learn Spanish, French, and some passable Italian. My hope had been that the skills might come in handy one day.
A woman emerged from the tent.
She was a little over five feet tall with shoulder-length dark hair and smooth brown skin. No makeup marred her attractive face. Her almond-shaped eyes sized me up with a tight, almost uncomfortable gaze. She was trim and fit with healthy curves concealed by jeans at the limit of their embrace and a loose-fitting blouse. Being a lawyer and asking a million questions had taught me that conversations hated a vacuum. If the questioner didn’t rush in to fill the silence, the subject usually would do it for you, often to their regret.
So I stayed quiet.
“Can you understand me?” she asked in Spanish.
The accent was American, with a touch of the South. Like my own. I said, “No Spanish.”
Better to keep my linguistic abilities to myself.
“Is this better?” she said in English.
“Works for me.”
“You can’t be Valdez. He sounded older on the phone.”
“I’m not.”
“Are you the fellow who dove the reef?”
I nodded. “You watched?”
“From the beach. I was wondering if anyone would come. I heard about the wreck yesterday when I arrived. But since I’m stuck here till later today, I had no choice but to wait and watch.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Coleen Perry.”
“I’m Cotton Malone. I came for the coin.”
“You work for Valdez?”
There was that name again. New in the mix. But I knew the correct answer. “I do.” I had to tread carefully since I had no idea where this was headed. So I stuck with the facts. “I have what you want.” I pointed off toward the water. “It’s on that boat, anchored out there.”
Jansen had assumed a position about a hundred yards off the north point, near where the water transitioned from turquoise to blue. Once I’d learned what I could, a signal from me would bring him back around to the dock where we would take this woman into custody. Since there was literally nowhere for her to run, that task should be easy. Interestingly, Coleen Perry did not appear anxious in any way and I surmised that this might not be her first rodeo.
“Who were the other guys that went down with you?” she asked.
“Some additional help that I didn’t need.”
“I noticed your boat left in a hurry.”
“You want to deal or talk?”
She reached into her pocket and found something, which she tossed across to me. I caught the offering and saw that it was a plastic sleeve protecting a shiny gold coin a little over an inch in diameter. One side showed Lady Liberty holding a torch and an olive branch backed by lines of glory. The other depicted a bald eagle in flight, with more glory lines and the familiar motto in god we trust. Above the eagle the face value read $20.
“It’s still illegal to own it,” she said.
“Yet you have it.”
“Not anymore. Where is Valdez?”
“He doesn’t get out much.”
“We were supposed to talk.”
I glanced back at the coin in my hand and something occurred to me. If this Valdez was in fact from Cuba, getting paid in cash would not be the smartest move. True, U.S. dollars were used there, but not in the quantities this coin commanded. So what was in the case that was worth millions of dollars?
Time to see what I could learn.
“I’m not in the loop here,” I said. “Just hired help. But I am curious.”
“That’s what got the cat killed.”
“But satisfaction brought it back.”
She smiled. “Okay, what do you want to know?”
I motioned with the coin. “How did you get this?”
“I didn’t. My father did.”
“And it’s too nosy of me to ask where he got it?”
She shook her head. “If Valdez isn’t here, I just want my documents.”
Another new piece to the puzzle. Documents. Now I knew what had made the waterproof case so heavy.
“Like I said, they’re on the boat. I’ll signal and it will meet us at the dock.”
“Do it.”
The sound of propellers biting air disturbed our tranquility. I glanced up and saw a single-engine Cessna seaplane dropping from the eastern sky, descending rapidly, skimming the choppy surface, and making a landing not far from Jansen’s boat.
“Are you expecting somebody?” she asked.
I watched as the blue-and-white plane taxied toward the Isla Marie, killed its engine, then nestled close. I caught the tail ID numbers: 1180206. Was Jansen in trouble? Movement on the rear deck drew my attention. The plane blocked a clear view, but I could see someone hoisting something from the boat. Then people hopped into the plane, which drifted away, its engine restarted. There was nothing I could do but watch as the plane gathered speed, then lifted off into the midday sky.
I turned back to face Coleen.
Who held a gun in her hand.
Chapter Eight
I debated whether to keep to lies.
Frankly, I wasn’t sure what was what at this point.
“I want my coin back,” she said. “It seems you don’t have the documents anymore.”
Fair enough. I tossed the packet over. “You may not believe this, but that plane was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”
“I don’t believe anything, except that Valdez is apparently a double-crossing crook. What was the plan? You get the coin. He gets back his documents? I get screwed.”
I needed to see about Jansen. Hard to tell exactly what had just happened on the boat. He might be hurt.
“I have a friend out there who could need help.”
She lowered the gun and shrugged. “I don’t care. I have my coin. Get the hell out of here.”
I ran toward the water and plunged in, shoes and all. The sea remained churned, surging around the flat spit of island. Jansen had been right about the local currents. They were formidable. But thankfully they were headed out to open ocean, which allowed me to negotiate the hundred yards quickly.
“Jansen. Jansen.”
No reply.
The Isla Marie twisted around its anchor line. I heard a plane in the distance and saw another making a water landing near Fort Jefferson. A bad morning was turning into an okay afternoon and tour operators out of Key West had to make a living. I grabbed hold of the stern ladder and climbed up onto the deck beneath the sheltered roof. The dive equipment still lay where I’d left it. Water dripped from my wet clothes.
“Jansen,” I tried again.
I checked the forward cabin. Empty. I climbed to the upper bridge. Empty, too. Jansen was not on board. Had he been taken by the people in the plane? Or had he gone voluntarily?
I climbed back down to the main deck and considered my options. The waterproof case was gone. It had been here when I’d left earlier. Clearly, it had found its way onto the plane.