Loitering with Intent

TOMMY SCULLEY SAT in the right seat of the amphibian Cessna 182 and watched the Intracoastal Waterway a thousand feet below them.

“Okay,” the pilot replied, reducing power. The airplane, with the drag of the floats, slowed immediately and began to descend.

“Always,” the pilot replied. He pointed at the map. “Is that the creek right before we get to your buddy’s house?”

The pilot reduced power further and put in a notch of flaps. “Then we better get down fast; we’re nearly there. Watch for boats and other obstructions.”

Tommy peered ahead. The sun was low in the sky, and the western half of the waterway was in shadow. “Damn, we’re really cutting it close,” he said.

“We had headwinds,” the pilot replied, putting in another notch of flaps. “I see a dock up ahead. We clear of traffic?”

Tommy checked ahead. A large cabin cruiser was moving south on the waterway, but was not a factor for them. “You’re all clear, as far as I can see,” he said.

“It’s the first one up from the creek,” Tommy said. “Can you turn around and come in with my side to the dock? Then I can hop out and hold the plane. Leave the engine running, so you can take off immediately if this is the right place.”

The pilot made a wide turn, set the engine at idle and approached the dock. As he did a man came jogging down the dock.

The pilot maneuvered closer until the wing was over the dock. The man reached out, grabbed the strut under the wing and pulled them until the floats brushed the fenders attached to the dock.

Tommy opened the door and tossed his overnight bag onto the pontoon, then hopped out and closed the door. He gave the pilot a thumbs-up and, with Mike’s help, pushed the airplane away from the dock. A moment later the airplane was picking up speed, and a moment after that it lifted off and headed south, climbing.

“Hey, Mike!” Tommy said, shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder. “How you been?”

“Not too bad,” Michael Levy replied. He was a little over six feet tall, on the slim side, wearing shorts, sneakers and a polo shirt. He grabbed Tommy’s bag and started up the dock. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll show you what I’ve got done.”

GIGI DROVE THE rental car down the paved road, with Larry Lee, which was his real name, in the passenger seat. “Look at that,” Larry said, pointing to an airplane climbing above the tree line, headed south.

“It’s just an airplane,” Gigi said, checking their map. “Here’s the road to the marina coming up.”

“It’s against the law in Florida to land an airplane on a beach or on the inland waterway,” Larry said.

“Slow down,” Larry said. “Slow way down.” They came to a bridge. “Stop at the top of the bridge,” he said.

“We’ve got a nearly empty parking lot, a shack and a floating pontoon,” she said. “No more than a dozen boats, and I don’t see any people.”

“There’s one,” Larry said. A man had stepped onto the pontoon from a small motorboat with a cabin and was walking toward the connecting footbridge that rose and fell with the tide. He was carrying a sailing duffel. “Let’s just wait here a minute,” Larry said.

The man walked ashore, tossed his duffel in the back of a pickup, got in, started it and drove toward the road.

“Go ahead slowly,” Larry said. “Let him get past us, then stop before you get to the parking lot.”

“Yeah, he does. Just pull over about fifty yards ahead at that wide spot. I want to take a look on foot.”

“Gigi, did I ever tell you that I’ve never been arrested, not even for a speeding ticket, let alone a killing?”

“Well, that’s because I’m careful, and I always listen to my own brain, and right now, my brain is a little nervous.”

She did so, and Larry got out of the car. He crossed the road, entered the woods, which was mostly smallish live oaks, and began running lightly through the trees. He slowed down when he could see the edge of the parking lot, then approached the pavement cautiously. From a few feet into the trees he could see everything. The parking lot was empty, and so was the pontoon. The sun was low in the sky, big and red, with the light filtering through the pollution from I-95. It was dead quiet.

Larry looked around the perimeter of the parking lot, checking for men in the tree line, but he saw nothing. He retraced his steps to the road and went to the car. As he put his hand on the door handle he heard something. Whomp-whomp-whomp. He got quickly into the car. “Chopper,” he said. “Let’s go, but don’t drive over thirty.”

“I don’t see the chopper,” she said, and then she crossed the bridge and turned right, and there it was.

Ahead of them, several miles away, a column of black smoke was rising, and the helicopter was flying toward it.

“Accident on I-95,” Larry said. “That’s what the chopper is for. We’re okay; let’s go back to the marina.”

“Turn around and back into a spot, near the bridge to the pontoon,” he said. When she stopped, he got out of the car and looked around, listened. “Pop the trunk.”

She did, and he walked to the rear of the car, still looking around, and got his duffel with its equipment inside. He waved for her to follow him.

Gigi got out of the car and padded down the bridge to the pontoon. “There’s the boat,” she said, pointing to the end of the float. It was a black Boston Whaler, and the name on the side registered.

Larry was already climbing in. He opened the small locker under the steering wheel and came out with a key attached to a plastic float. “Looks like we’re in business,” he said.

“And not a moment too soon,” Gigi replied, checking the sunset and untying the mooring lines. She stepped into the boat, inserted the key into the ignition lock and turned it. The fifty-horsepower outboard purred to life.