Bitter End (Seychelle Sullivan #3) (19 page)

Because it was manatee season, we were not allowed to put Mike’s inflatable dinghy up onto a plane and speed our way south to Hollywood. These big marine mammals that weigh more than half a ton come to South Florida in the winter months to try to stay warm. They are bottom grazers, and when they come to the surface to take a breath, the propeller on a dinghy like ours could cause them a fatal injury. Even in daylight, boaters would never see them before they hit them. Now, with only our dim red and green running lights, we would never see them were it not for the lights on the docks at Port Everglades that lit the area bright as day.

When I was a kid, it didn’t take all that long to pass through Port Everglades, even at less than five knots, a no-wake speed. The loading docks and piles of shipping containers ran only about a thousand yards south of the inlet and, after that, the wooded banks of the Intracoastal Waterway were covered with mangroves and tall Australian pines. Today, with the growth of Southport, the trees were almost all gone, and from the inlet all the way to the Dania Canal, the inland bank was now consumed by passenger terminals, cruise ship docks, and cargo dockage for container ships, all presided over by the looming 150-foot-high gantry cranes that looked to me like the giant walking armored vehicles out of the old Star Wars movies.

As we motored south on the Intracoastal, I did my best to fill Mike in on the little I had learned. Mike knew more than I did about the background of the whole Pontus operation—Fort Lauderdale police had been watching him even back when Mike was on the force, he told me. I told Mike about the Pontus family side of things— at least what I knew—and about my conversation with Zale, including his father’s mention of this Thompson guy, his inside man.

“I’d really like to find Thompson and talk to him. See who he thinks might have killed Nick. Ask him what he thinks about the new bosses, too.”

“Okay. That’s the plan, then. Long as it leaves me time to hit the tables,” Mike said.

When we got to the TropiCruz dock, I held the dinghy’s cable and padlock while Mike walked over to talk to the kid who was handling the valet parking. Just beyond him, I saw a group of protesters standing on either side of the entrance to the parking lot. They were carrying signs and marching back and forth. A Hollywood cop had his cruiser parked on the side of A1A, his emergency lights flashing to slow the traffic as it entered the TropiCruz lot and passed the protesters. He walked over and shook Mike’s hand, patting him on the shoulder. Apparently they were friends from the old days.

Mike came back and told me that it would be all right to lock the dinghy up at the end of the gambling boat’s dock by the chain-link fence that separated it from Martha’s Restaurant. He said the valet kid and the cop would keep an eye on it. When we went over to thank the kid, he asked, “You got coupons?” and he proceeded to tell us that nobody ever paid to go on these trips. The owners expected to make their money off the gambling.

I told Mike to wait a minute, I wanted to go over and see if someone I knew was among the protesters. He wandered over to shoot the breeze with his cop buddy while I walked out to the highway. I searched the group for Kathleen’s amber pageboy cut, but she wasn’t among the cluster of people shouting at the cars as they turned into the TropiCruz parking lot. In fact, as I neared the group, I saw that their signs were protesting the docking of the big casino gambling boat in their neighborhood. This was an entirely different group of protesters. Kathleen’s group was against Pontus building the condo and dock facility, but Pontus didn’t even own TropiCruz at this point. It was strange seeing two groups of protesters in my town, but just like the other group in Lauderdale, the common point was “Not in my backyard.” Nobody wanted the casino gambling boats in their community.

Just as I was about to turn and leave, I saw her. Not Kathleen, but the older woman with the white hair pulled back on her head. She had already been watching me when I spotted her, and she didn’t look away when our eyes met. There was still that strange element of anger or defiance in her face, and I felt there was something very familiar about her.

“Hello?” I said as I walked up to her. “Mrs. Wheeler?” She looked startled that I would know her name. “Did you want to tell me something?”

She swung her head, looking all around her, as though trying to gauge the best escape route. When she came back to face me, she said in a surprisingly strong voice, “You are the tugboat skipper. You were there.”

That was when I remembered where I had seen her before. On the seawall, in front of the Downtowner Restaurant, the morning Nick had been shot. She had been there pushing a baby stroller full of clothes.

“Yeah, and you were there, too. I remember you.”
 

“You are a very tall young woman.”

“Listen, ma’am. I need to get on that casino boat. It’s sailing soon and I don’t have much time. If you saw something Monday morning, you’ve got to tell me.”
 

“You want to talk about the black car.”

“You saw the black car?”

“Seychelle!” Mike hollered. “Hurry up. Let’s go!”

I turned to the ship and saw Mike standing at the base of the gangway. “Just a minute, Mike,” I yelled.

“That boat?” she said. “You’re getting on that boat? ” Her long finger pointed behind me.

I turned to look where she was pointing, and I saw Mike waving his arm through the air motioning for me to come. “Yes,” I told her. “I’ve got to go. But I want to talk to you about what you saw that morning.”

When I turned back around, she was ten steps away from me, the crowd closing in around her. I saw her white bun over the tops of their heads, and I realized that she was rather tall, too, but age and probably osteoporosis had her stooped over slightly. “Mrs. Wheeler! I’ll find you,” I said. “We’ll talk again.” She didn’t turn around.

I trotted across the blacktop parking lot and joined Mike at the base of the gangway. We were greeted by a couple of young twenty-somethings dressed identically in black slacks, white tuxedo shirts, and black bow ties. The woman was petite with straight black hair, and the guy looked like a frat boy. He was the one with the metal detector and he joked with Mike about almost missing the boat as he wanded us. When he ran it over Mike’s legs and the thing began to squeal, I was worried that Mike might be carrying a gun, but he just lifted his pant leg to show the artificial leg, and the young man laughed nervously and waved us through. Off to one side, and wearing a walkie-talkie on his belt and a wire to his ear, stood a tall, thin, once-blond and now balding guy. He looked like he was some kind of head honcho. He wore a blue oxford shirt and a beige tie that matched his pants, giving him an aging preppie look. He paced the dock, checking out all the passengers, and as his chest was almost concave and his posture so hunched forward, he looked like he had to keep moving or else he’d fall on his face. I wondered what his role was, and if he could be Thompson.

The gangway took us into the darkened casino located on the lowest of the three decks. We were directed to climb to the top deck, where the buffet was spread out. As we climbed the stairs, Mike started whistling the theme song from
Gilligan’s Island
, and I punched him in the arm and said, “Don’t forget why we’re here, Gilligan. Remember, my friend Molly’s sitting in the Broward County jail.”

On the top deck, the crowd was bigger than I expected. The bar was doing excellent business, and the atmosphere was that of a party that hadn’t quite started yet. A young guy at an electronic keyboard with a laptop computer on a stand just above it was playing a Jimmy Buffett tune. I wasn’t sure which keyboard was producing most of the music. He had a habit that, after five minutes, I was already beginning to find quite annoying: winking, pointing to audience members, and shouting out “Who’s yo daddy?” in the middle of a song.

The upper deck had a hardtop cover over the mid-ships section, while aft were tables and chairs out under the stars. Roll-down curtains with cracked and scratched plastic window panels protected the midships area from rain and wind, but no longer provided any visibility. Over the bar and around the musician’s stage, they’d hung little strings of Christmas lights, and with the Corona sign over the bar, the decor reminded me of a cheesy Mexican restaurant. If only the food looked that good.

I told Mike about my encounter with Mrs. Wheeler. “Now, I guess she thinks I’m in the enemy camp because I’m patronizing the casino gambling boats.”

He’d heard of her. I guess most people who had worked for the county or the city knew about her activism.

“She was always a walker” Mike said. “I don’t know how old she is, but I think she’s lived in Fort Lauderdale all her life. You know, like back when it was really just a little pioneer town. She used to walk all over town then, and she still does today, some seventy or eighty years later. Now you see her mostly down along the Riverfront. She’s always around, watching the river traffic. All the FLPD cops know her.”

“She was there, Mike, the morning Nick was shot. I saw her in front of the Downtowner just before it happened. She said she saw the car with the shooter.”

“Well, she shouldn’t be hard to find. First thing tomorrow. I’ll make some calls.” Mike’s eyes shifted focus and he began staring at something behind me with an amused look on his face.

I turned around to see what had caught his attention. The singer Mr. “Who’s yo daddy?” was in deep conversation with the ship’s captain, Richard Hunter. There was no mistaking either that it was Janet’s brother Richard— due to the steel wool-covered head—or that he was the captain, due to his dress whites and gold epaulettes. The thing that was making both me and Mike have to cover our mouths lest we burst out laughing was that perched atop that granite dome was an enormous black Stetson. And, Richard was just plugging in a cord to the tail end of a fat and gaudy twelve-string acoustic guitar.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the singer said into the microphone in his best imitation of a smooth-voiced DJ. “We have a treat for you tonight. Before piloting us out to the three-mile limit, Captain Richard Hunter would like to sing a special number just for you, ‘You’ve Got to Fall to Learn to Fly.’ Let’s have a big round of applause for Captain Hunter!”

His voice actually wasn’t half bad, but he tried so hard to get the country twang just right, it was impossible to understand what he was singing. The only words I could make out were “Jesus” and “Lord.” Those got repeated pretty often, so I figured I got the gist of it.

The applause was much louder when he finished than when he had begun. The sad part was that Captain Richard didn’t seem to get it. He really thought they liked his performance. Most of the folks onboard cared more about gambling than listening to music, especially if the music was reminding them that some considered gambling a sin. They were clapping for the captain to quit singing and take the boat out. It was past 7:45.

Mike and I stood at the rail sipping our beers and watched as the little ship finally pulled away from the dock and the captain spun her around 180 degrees in her own length. A couple of deckhands worked the lower deck fore and aft, and I figured if one of them was Thompson, I wouldn’t really have access to him as a passenger. For all I knew, our Thompson could be the ship’s engineer. I would definitely have to venture into some off-limits places if I wanted to meet everyone who worked aboard.

“Hey, I’m gonna get something to eat,” Mike said.

He grabbed a Styrofoam plate and headed right into the buffet line. Now, I have never been on a cruise ship in my life, but I have heard stories, and I have seen cruise ships depicted on television, and this did not resemble anything remotely like those buffets. I didn’t think there was anyone on earth less picky about food than me, but Mike, bachelor that he was, proved me wrong. He proceeded to pile on the crusty scalloped potatoes and dry ham, both of which looked as though they had been baking under the heat lamps since the ship’s noon excursion. I decided that the sandwich I’d eaten back at the house would hold me over.

While Mike sat out at one of the tables under the stars on the top deck aft, I decided to explore and see if I could make my way to the bridge. I dropped my empty beer cup into a trash bin and headed up the starboard side of the ship. A glass door separated the forward wing decks from the gambling hordes. Stenciled on the glass were the words
restricted area—crew only
.

Hell, I figured, what were they going to do? Arrest me? I tried the door. It was unlocked, and I went on through.

I poked my head around the open door to the bridge and saw the familiar figure sitting in the helmsman’s seat, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, and this time only the cowboy hat was missing.

The boat was steaming straight north on the Intracoastal Waterway toward Port Everglades, and the captain was paying little attention to the helm. He was talking to the attractive woman we had seen earlier when she had been greeting passengers down on the gangplank. She was Asian, perhaps Filipino, and her long black hair flowed down her back to her size-six waist. He reached out and placed his hand on her tight black pants, just under the curve of her buttocks and squeezed. From where I was standing, I saw only her profile, but I could still make out the look of distaste that flitted across her face.

“How’d I do?” he asked her.

“Why do you always have to fish for compliments every time you play?”

He reached for her buttocks again. “Because I’m an artist.” He leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “We’re needy. Say something nice. Please.”

“Excuse me,” I said.

They jumped apart, like actors in a bad horror movie, and the captain nearly stumbled as he fell back in his seat, then tried to bounce back out of the chair. “Miss,” he said. “This area is off-limits to our guests.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I saw the sign. But I have a boat myself, and I really wanted to see the bridge.” I widened my eyes in feigned delight as I looked at the instruments and gauges above the helm. “Wow, this is really cool. What kind of autopilot system do you have on here?”