The Butterfly Forest

ONE HUNDRED-FOUR

On the way to the Tampa Aquarium, I followed the back roads, drove fast, and took a lot of twist and turns. If I was being followed, I couldn’t see it. I called Dave and gave him the address on Port Royal Lane. “See if you can find out who owns the house. Can you send an aerial picture to me?”

“Maybe better than that. If I can access the right satellite, I might be able to stream live images of the house and its surroundings.”

“Excellent. Do what you can, and copy the signal to whatever mobile device Thorpe carries, too.”

“Already done.”

“How’s Max?”

“When she walked me this morning, all was fine. We had a slight preoccupation with a pet iguana that one of the boat captains was showing the tourists.”

“Talk later.”

Cal Thorpe arrived right on time — to the second. As he approached, I saw his reflection on the glass at the massive Tampa Aquarium. I turned and said, “It’s been awhile. Glad you could make it.”

“Sounds like the kind of international party I wouldn’t want to miss.” He smiled. Thorpe was my height, a little taller than 6’3”, muscular forearms and chest, tanned, and handsome, angular face with a cleft chin. He wore his hair short and combed straight back. Dark glasses. He was dressed in a blue Hawaiian print shirt hung loosely outside his pants.

“Coffee?” I asked

“I could use a cup.”

We took a back table in a softly lit coffee shop, and I told Thorpe everything I knew. I opened my iPhone and saw the real-time image of a mansion on the bay. “This is the signal Dave Collin’s feeding us.”

Thorpe looked closely at it. “I see three parked cars, one man at the gate… looks like one man at each corner of the property but could have a few others outside not visible. We don’t know how many are in the house.”

“I hope it’s less than what we see outside.”

Thorpe nodded.

I said, “It has to be Gonzales. Who else travels with that kind of security?”

“You want to call for any additional forces?”

“You’re all the back-up I need.”

“How do you want to approach the house?”

“From their least guarded spot… the bay. Let’s get Dave on the line.” I made the call and asked Dave who owned the home.

“County records indicate it was sold to a corporation eighteen months ago, the Fairmount Group. The same group owns a private jet that landed at Tampa International two days ago.”

I said, “And I’d bet you a tank of jet fuel that both are dummy corps and owned by Gonzales.”

“No doubt.”

Thorpe said, “Dave, I saw a dock and a large yacht in the feed you sent. I assume the yacht is owned by Gonzales. We’ll be approaching from the bay. That’s the Achilles heel.”

“Yacht — yes, Fairmont Group. Approaching when?” asked Dave.

“Tonight,” I said. “The bay is very wide at that point. We’ll need a small boat or an inflatable with an outboard on it. Two tanks, masks and fins.”

“I can make those arrangements,” Thorpe said.

“Make the most with your time,” Dave said. “The flight plan has the private jet flying to Trinidad in the morning.”