Skin Tight

23

Joe Salazar said, “You got to steer yesterday.”

“For Christ’s sake,” mumbled Murdock.

“Come on, Johnny, it’s my turn.”

They were gassing up the boat at Crandon Marina on Key Biscayne. It was the sheriff’s department’s boat, a nineteen-foot Aquasport with a forest-green police stripe down the front. It was the same boat that the two detectives had borrowed the day before. The sergeant in charge of the marine division had not wanted to loan the boat to Murdock or Salazar because it was obvious that neither knew how to navigate. The sergeant wondered if they even knew how to swim. Both men were wearing new khaki deck shorts that revealed pale legs, chubby legs that had seldom been touched by salt or sunlight: landlubber’s legs. The sergeant had surrendered the Aquasport only when John Murdock flashed the murder warrant and said the suspect had been spotted on a house way out in Stiltsville. The sergeant had asked why they weren’t taking any backups along, since there was room on the boat, but Murdock hadn’t seemed to hear the question.

When the two detectives had returned to the dock a few hours later, the sergeant had been pleasantly surprised to find no major structural damage to the Aquasport or its drive shaft. But when Murdock and Salazar in their stupid khakis showed up again the following afternoon, the sergeant wondered how long their luck would hold out on the water.

“Go ahead and drive,” Murdock grumped at the gas dock. “I don’t givea shit.”

Joe Salazar took a stance behind the steering console. He tried not to gloat. Then it occurred to him: “Where do we look now?”

The day before, Stranahan’s stilt house had been empty. They had torn the rooms apart for clues to his whereabouts, found none, and departed in frustration. The whole way back, Murdock had complained about how the shoulder holster was chafing through his mesh tank top. Twice they had run the boat aground on bonefish flats, and both times Murdock had forced Salazar to hop out in the mud and push. For this, if for nothing else, Salazar figured that he deserved to be the captain today.

Murdock said: “I tell you where we look. We look in every goddamn stilt house on the bay.”

“Yeah, like a regular canvass.”

“Door to door, except by boat. You know the fuckwad’s out there somewhere.”

Joe Salazar felt better now that they had a plan. He paid the dock attendant for the gasoline, cranked up the big Evinrude on the back of the Aquasport, and aimed the bow toward Bear Cut. Or tried. The boat didn’t want to move.

The dock attendant snickered. “Helps to untie it,” he said, pointing with one of his bright white sneakers.

Sheepishly Joe Salazar unhitched the lines off the bow and stern and shoved off. John Murdock said, “What a wiseass that guy was. Didn’t he see we had guns?”

“Sure he did,” Salazar replied, steering tentatively toward the channel.

“This town is gone to shit,” Murdock said, spitting over the gunwale, “when a guy with a gun has to put up with that kind ofbull.”

“Everybody’s a wiseass,” Joe Salazar agreed. Nervously he was watching a gray outboard coming in the other direction along the opposite side of the channel. The boat had a blue police light mounted in the center. A young Latin man in a gray uniform stood behind the windshield. He waved to them: the world-weary wave of one cop to another. “What do I do?” Salazar asked. “Try waving back,” said Murdock. Salazar did. The man in the gray boat changed his course and idled toward them.

“Grouper trooper,” John Murdock whispered. Salazar nodded as if he knew what his partner was talking about. He didn’t. He also didn’t know how to stop the Aquasport. Every time he pulled down on the throttle, the engine jolted into reverse. When he pushed the lever the other way, the boat would shudder and shoot forward. Backward, forward, backward again. The big Evinrude sounded like it was about to blow up. Joe Salazar could tell that Murdock was seething.

“Try neutral,” the young marine patrolman called. “Move the throttle sideways till it clicks.” Salazar did as he was told, and it worked. “Thanks!” he called back.

Under his breath, Murdock said: “Yeah, thanks for making us look like a couple of jerkoffs.”

The marine patrol boat coasted up on the port side of the Aquasport. The young officer introduced himself as Luis Cordova. He asked where the two detectives were headed, and if he could help. Joe Salazar told him they were going to Stiltsville to serve a murder warrant.

“Only one guy lives out there that I know of,” Luis Cordova said.

Murdock said: “That’s the guy we want.”

“Mick Stranahan?”

“You know him?”

“I know where he lives,” said Luis Cordova, “but he’s not there now. I saw him only yesterday.”

“Where?” blurted Joe Salazar. “Was he alone?”

“Yeah, he was alone. Sitting on the conch dock down at Old Rhodes Key.”

Murdock said, “Where the hell’s that?”

“South of Elliott.”

“Where the hell’s Elliott?”

The marine patrolman said, “Why don’t you guys just wait a few hours and follow me down? The tide won’t be right until dusk. Besides, you might need some extra muscle with this guy-”

“No. Thanks anyway.” John Murdock’s tone left no chance for discussion. “But we could use a map, if you got one.”

Luis Cordova disappeared briefly behind the steering console. When he stood up again, he was smiling. “Just happened to have an extra,” he said.

A half hour out of the marina, Joe Salazar said to his partner: “Maybe we should’ve asked what he meant about the tides.”

The Aquasport was stuck hard on another mud flat, this one a mile south of Soldier Key. John Murdock cracked open his third can of beer and said: “You’re the one wanted to drive.”

Salazar leaned over the side of the boat and studied the situation. He decided there was no point in getting out to push. “It’s only six inches deep,” he said, a childlike marvel in his voice. “On the map it sure looked like plenty of water, didn’t it?”

Murdock said, “If you’re a starfish, it’s plenty of water. If you’re a boat, it’s a goddamn beach. Another thing: I told you to get three bags of ice. Look how fast this shit is melting.” He kicked angrily at the cooler.

Joe Salazar continued to stare at the shallow gin-clear water. “I think the tide’s coming in,” he said hopefully.

“Swell,” said Murdock. “That means it’s only what?-another four, five hours in the mud. Fanfuckingtastic. By then it’ll be good and dark, too.”

Salazar pointed out that the police boat was equipped with excellent lights. “Once we get off the flat, it’s a clean shot down to the island. Deep water the whole trip.”

He had never seen his partner so jumpy and short-tempered. Normally John Murdock was the picture of a cool tough cop, but Salazar had watched a change come over him beginning the night they took the down payment from Commissioner Roberta Pepsical. Five thousand cash, each. Five more when it was done. To persuade the detectives that he was not the booze-swilling lech that he had appeared to be at the nudie joint, the commissioner had arranged the payoff meeting to take place in one of the empty confessionals at St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Little Havana. The confessional was dimly lit and no bigger than a broom closet; the three conspirators had to stand sidewise to fit. It had been a dozen years since Joe Salazar had stepped inside a confessional and not much had changed. The place reeked of damp linen and guilt, just as he remembered. He and Murdock stuffed the cash in their jackets and bolted out the door together, nearly trampling a quartet of slow-footed nuns. Commissioner Roberto Pepsical stayed alone in the confessional and recited three Hail Marys. He figured it couldn’t hurt.

Back in the car, John Murdock had not displayed the crude and cocky ebullience that usually followed the taking of a hefty bribe; rather, his mood had been taciturn and apprehensive. It had stayed that way for two days.

Now, with the boat stuck fast on the bonefish flat, Murdock sulked alone in the stem, glaring at the slow crawl of the incoming tide. Joe Salazar lit a Camel and settled in for a long, tense afternoon. He didn’t feel so well himself, but at least he knew why. This was the biggest job they’d ever done, and the dirtiest.

By a mile.

In fact, the tides would not have mattered if either of the two detectives had known how to read a marine chart. Even at dead low, there was plenty of water from Cape Florida all the way to Old Rhodes Key. All you had to do was follow the channels, which were plainly marked on Luis Cordova’s map.

Mick Stranahan knew that Murdock and Salazar would run the boat aground. He also knew that it would be nighttime before they could float free, and that they would make the rest of the trip at a snail’s pace, fearful of repeating the mishap.

He and Luis Cordova had talked this part out. Together they had calculated that the two detectives would reach the island between nine and midnight, provided they didn’t hit the shoal off Boca Chita and shear the prop off the Evinrude. Luis had offered to tail the Aquasport at a discreet distance, but Stranahan told him no. He didn’t want the marine patrolman anywhere near Old Rhodes Key when it happened. If Luis was there, he’d want to do it by the book. Wait for the assholes to make their move, then try to arrest them. Stranahan knew it would never work that way-they’d try to kill Luis, too. And even if Luis was as sharp as Stranahan thought, it would be a mess for him afterwards. An automatic suspension, a grand jury, his name all over the newspapers. No way, Stranahan told him, no hero stuff. Just give them the map and get lost.

Besides, Stranahan already had his hands full with Christina Marks on the island.

“I don’t want to go for a walk,” she said. “Grandmothers and widows go for walks. I’m staying here with you.”

“So you can take notes, or what?” He handed her a Coleman lantern. The jumpy white light made their shadows clash on the cinderblock walls. Stranahan said, “You’re not a reporter anymore, you’re a goddamn witness.”

She said, “Is this your idea of pillow talk? Half an hour ago we were making love, and now I’m a ‘goddamn witness.’ You ever thought of writing poetry, Mick?”

He was down on one knee, pulling items from one of the duffel bags. Without looking up, he said, “You said you couldn’t be a part of this, I’m trying to accommodate you. As for the afterglow, you want to waltz in the moonlight, we’ll do that later. Right now there’s a pair of bad cops on their way out here to shoot me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Stranahan said. “They’re probably just collecting Toys for Tots. Now go.”

He stood up. In the lantern light, Christina saw that his arms were full: binoculars, a poplin windbreaker, a pairof corduroys, an Orioles cap, a fishing knife, and a round spool of some kind.

She said, “It’s not for the damn TV show that I want to stay. I’m scared for you. I don’t know why-since you’re being such a prick-but I’m worried about you, I admit it.”

When Stranahan spoke again, the acid was gone from his voice. “Look, if you stay… if you were to see something, they’d make you testify. Forget reporter’s privilege and First Amendment-doesn’t count for a damn thing in a situation like this. If you witness a crime, Chris, they put you under oath. You don’t want that.”

“Neither do you.”

He smiled drily. She had him on that one. It was true: He didn’t want any witnesses. “You’ve had enough excitement,” he told her. “Twice I’ve nearly gotten you killed. If I were you, I’dtakethatasa hint.”

Christina said, “What if you’re wrong about them, Mick? What if they only want to ask more questions? Even if they’re coming to arrest you, you can’t just-”

“Go,” he said. Later he would explain that these cops were buddies of the late Judge Raleigh Goomer, and that what they wanted from Mick Stranahan was payback. Asking questions was not at all what they had in mind. “Take the path I showed you. Follow the shoreline about halfway down the island and you’ll come to a clearing. You’ll see some plastic milk crates, an empty oil drum, an old campfire hole. Wait there for me.”

Christina gave him a frozen look, but he didn’t feel it. His mind was in overdrive, long gone.

“There’s some fruit and candy bars in the Tupperware,” he said. “But don’t feed the raccoons, they bite like hell.”

She was twenty yards down the path when she heard him call, “Hey, Chris, you forgot the bug spray.”

She shook her head and kept walking.

Fifteen minutes later, when Stranahan was sure she was gone, he carried his things down to Cartwright’s dock. There he lit another lantern and hung it on a nail in one of the pilings. Then he pulled off his sneakers, kicked out of his jeans, and slid naked into the cool flowing tides.

For Joe Salazar, it was a moment of quiet triumph at the helm. “By God, we did it.”

John Murdock made a snide chuckle. “Yeah, we found it,” he said. “The Atlantic fucking Ocean. A regular needle in a haystack, Joe. And all it took was three hours of dry humping these islands.”

Salazar didn’t let the sarcasm dampen his newfound confidence. The passage through Sand Cut had been hairy; even at a slow speed, navigating the swift serpentine channel at night was an accomplishment worth savoring. Murdock knew it, too; not once had he tried to take the wheel.

“So this is the famous Elliott Key.” Murdock scratched his sunburned cheeks. The Aquasport idled half a mile offshore, rocking in a brisk chop. The beer was long gone, the ice melted. In the cool breeze Murdock had slipped into a tan leather jacket, the one he always wore to work; it looked ridiculous over his khaki shorts. Dismally he slapped at his pink shins, where a horsefly was eating supper.

Joe Salazar held the chart on his lap, a flashlight in his right hand. With the other hand he pointed: “Like I said, Johnny, from here it’s a straight nine-mile run to Rhodes. Twelve feet of water the whole way.”

Murdock said, “So let’s go, Senor Columbus. Maybe we can make it before Christmas.” He readjusted his shoulder holster for the umpteenth time.

Salazar hesitated. “Once we get there, what exactly is the plan?”

“Get that goddamn flashlight out of my face.” Murdock’s eyelids were swollen and purple. Too much sun, too much beer. It worried Salazar; he wanted his partner to be sharp.

“The plan is simple,” Murdock said. “We arrive with bells on-sirens, lights, the works. We yell for Stranahan to come out with his hands up. Go ahead with the whole bit-serve the warrant, do the Miranda, all that shit. Then we shoot him like he was trying to get away.”

“Do we cuff him first?”

“Now, how would that look? No, we don’t cuff him first. Jesus Christ.” Murdock spit into the water. He’d been spitting all afternoon. Salazar hoped this wasn’t a new habit.

Murdock said, “See, Joe, we shoot him in the back. That way it looks like he’s running away. Then we get on this boat radio, if one of us can figure out how to use the goddamn thing, and call for air rescue.”

“ Which’ll take forever to get here.”

“Exactly. But then we’re covered, procedure-wise.”

It sounded like a solid plan, with only one serious variable. Joe Salazar decided to put the variable out of his mind. He stowed the flashlight, reclaimed his post at the wheel of the police boat and steered a true course for Old Rhodes Key.

A straight line through open seas. No sweat.

The channel that leads from the ocean to the cut of Old Rhodes Key is called Caesar Creek. It is deep and fairly broad, and well charted with lighted markers. For this Joe Salazar was profoundly thankful. Having mastered the balky throttle, he guided the Aquasport in at half-speed, with John Murdock standing (or trying to) in the bow. Murdock cupped his hands around his eyes to block the peripheral light; he was peering at the island, searching for signs of Mick Stranahan. Two hundred yards from the mouth of the cut, Salazar killed the engine and joined his chubby partner on the front of the boat.

“There he is!” Murdock’s breathing was raspy, excited.

Salazar squinted into the night. “Yeah, Johnny, sitting under that light on the dock.”

They could see the lantern and, in its white penumbra, the figure of a man with his legs hanging over the planks. The figure wore a baseball cap, a tan jacket, and long pants. From the angle of the cap, the man’s head appeared to be down, chin resting on his chest.

“Dumb fuckwad’s asleep.” Murdock’s laugh was high and brittle. He already had his pistol out.

“Then I guess we better do it,” Salazar said.

“By all means.” Murdock dropped to a crouch.

They had tested the blue lights and siren on the way down, so Salazar knew where the switches were. He flipped them simultaneously, then turned the ignition key. As the Evinrude growled to life, Salazar put all his weight to the throttle.

Gun in hand, John Murdock clung awkwardly to the bow rail as the Aquasport planed off and raced toward the narrow inlet. The wind spiked Murdock’s hair and flattened his cheeks. His teeth were bared in a wolfish expression that might have passed for a grin.

As the boat got closer, Joe Salazar expected Mick Stranahan to wake up at any moment and look in their direction-but the man didn’t move.

A half mile away, sitting on a milk crate under some trees, Christina Marks heard the police siren. With a shiver she closed her eyes and waited for the sound of gunfire.

They could have come one of several ways. The most likely was the oceanside route, following Caesar Creek into the slender fork between tiny Hurricane Key and Old Rhodes. This was the easiest way to Cartwright’s dock.

But a westward approach, out of Biscayne Bay, would leave more options and offer more cover. They could come around Adams Key, or circle the Rubicons and sneak through the grassy flats behind Totten. But that would be a tricky and perilous passage, almost unthinkable for someone who had never made the trip.

Not at night, Stranahan decided, not these guys.

He had gambled that they would come by the ocean.

In the water he had carried only the knife and the spool. Four times he made the swim between Old Rhodes and Hurricane Key; not a long swim, but enervating against a strong outbound current. After pulling himself up on Cartwright’s dock for the last time, Stranahan had rubbed the cold ache from his legs and arms. It had taken a long time to catch his breath.

Then he pulled on some dry clothes, got the.38 that Luis Cordova had loaned him, and sat down to wait.

The spool in Stranahan’s duffel had contained five hundred yards of a thin plastic monofilament. The line was calibrated to a tensile strength of one hundred twenty pounds, for it was designed to withstand the deep-water surges of giant marlin and bluefin tuna. It was the strongest fishing line manufactured in the world, tournament quality. For further advantage it was lightly tinted a charcoal gray, which made it practically invisible underwater.

Even out of the water, the line was sometimes impossible to see.

At night, for instance. Stretched across a mangrove creek.

Undoubtedly John Murdock never saw it.

He was squatting toadlike on the front of the boat, training his.357 at the figure on the dock as they made their approach. Under Joe Salazar’s hand, the Aquasport was moving at exactly forty-two miles per hour.

Mick Stranahan had strung three taut vectors between the islands. The lines were fastened to the trunks of trees and crossed the water at varying heights. The lowest of the lines was snapped immediately by the bow of the speeding police boat. The other two garroted John Murdock in the belly and the neck, respectively.

Joe Salazar, in the bewildering final millisecond of his life, watched his partner thrown backwards, bug-eyed and gurgling, smashed to the deck by unseen hands. Then the same spectral claw seized Salazar by the throat, chopped him off his feet, bounced his overripe skull off the howling Evinrude and twanged him directly into the creek.

The noise made by the fishing line when it snapped on Joe Salazar’s neck was very much like that of a gunshot.

Christina Marks ran all the way back to Cartwright’s dock. Along the way she dropped the Coleman lantern, hissing, on some rocks. But she kept running. When she got there, Caesar Creek was black and calm. She saw no boat, no sign of intruders.

On the dock, the familiar figure of a man in a baseball cap slouched beneath another lantern, this one glowing brightly.

“Mick, what happened?”

Then Christina realized that it wasn’t a man at all, but a scarecrow wearing Stranahan’s poplin jacket and long corduroys. The body of the scarecrow was stuffed with palm leaves and dried seaweed. The head was a green coconut. The baseball cap fit like a charm.