MARATHON, FLORIDA KEYS
THURSDAY, 12:09 P.M.
I’m here in Marathon, in the heart of the Florida Keys,” a tall Hispanic woman with bright red lips read into the camera. “Behind me is where the fishing boat set sail yesterday morning with four American soccer dads on their fateful trip into the Seminole Flats. They sailed straight into the grasp of the Cuban navy . . .”
“That’s right, Tammy,” said another reporter, touching his earpiece with one finger and holding a CNN microphone with the other hand. “The authorities aren’t releasing any further information about the men . . .”
Jessica had left Castaways Bar & Grill and skirted the media circus in the main parking lot. On the far side was a small boardwalk where fishing charter boats docked: Capt’n Bill’s Charters, Florida Frank, Mad Marlin Max, Sun ’n’ Sport ’n’ Fish. At the far end, across from an empty slip, sat a massive cherry-red Ford pickup truck on oversized tires.
Jessica strolled past the truck. In the bed were ropes, buckets, and fishing gear. Glare on the tinted windows blocked her from being able to see what was inside the cab. No one appeared to be around, so she quickly took a photo of the truck and license plate with her phone. She then raised a hand to her forehead and leaned against the window to peer inside. The cab, too, was filled with boating gear and cardboard boxes.
“Hey!” shouted a gruff voice from behind her.
Jessica spun around to find a lean man with olive skin and long dark hair. He was wearing torn jeans and a cutoff T-shirt that exposed tattoos on both arms. His face was gaunt and unshaven. Jessica could see that he’d once been handsome, but something in this man’s life had taken a toll.
His eyes narrowed in anger.
“Oh my,” she gasped, flashing her friendliest smile and touching her chest with her fingers. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s my truck,” he said, relaxing once he saw Jessica’s face. He took a step forward, and Jessica was overwhelmed by the smell of stale cigarettes.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, running her fingers across the roof. “I was just admiring it. So . . . red!”
“Yes, it is,” he said, looking Jessica up and down. “I didn’t mean to scare you, chiquita.”
“It’s my fault.” She pouted. “I shouldn’t have been looking inside your truck. It’s not right.” Jessica could see one of the man’s arms was inked with tattoos of a buxom mermaid and ¡EN LA GLORIA DE DIOS!
“Well, don’t you worry. We’ve just had some trouble around here, that’s all.” He shrugged and held up his hands. On the other arm was a tattoo of a naval ship, a cross, and the numbers 2506.
“I can see that,” she said, gesturing toward the camera crews.
The man grunted. “You just here to admire trucks, chiquita, or can I help you?”
“I hope so,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “I want to hire a boat.”
“This is the place.” He grinned. “Take your pick.”
“I’m looking for Ricky.” His smile disappeared.
“Don’t know any Ricky.” He shook his head.
“You’re . . . not Ricky?”
“I just said I don’t know any Ricky,” he said through pursed lips.
“Becky over at Castaways said I could find Ricky around here.”
“I don’t know any Becky either.” He pointed at the charter boats. “You should ask Bill or Frank. They’ll take you out on a boat for the right price. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go.”
The man ducked his head and slipped into the truck, started the engine, and reversed out. Jessica waved good-bye to the man, who acknowledged her with a slight nod, before he quickly drove off, heading southwest.
Once the pickup truck was out of sight, Jessica ran back to the Mustang and peeled out of the parking lot in the same direction.
—
With only one road out of town, it wasn’t long before Jessica caught up with the bright red truck just as it accelerated onto the Seven Mile Bridge, a low, flat, two-lane highway suspended over the ocean. She settled behind at a safe distance and forwarded the photo of the Ford to Sunday back at Langley.
A few minutes later, she received a reply text:
Richard Green, Everglades City, Florida.
“Ricky!” she tsked to herself. “You little liar.”
—
Jessica trailed the truck for twenty more minutes and several more bridges before the Ford finally turned off the main road and headed north on one of the islands, then slowed again and veered down a dirt path cut through a mangrove stand.
Jessica crawled along slowly behind the truck and then parked behind a thicket to hide the Mustang. She stashed her hat, grabbed her phone, binoculars, and a bottle of water and pursued the truck on foot.
On the other side of the mangroves, she found a clearing and crouched in the tall grasses at the tree line to get a clear view. Through her binoculars, she watched the Ford pickup drive over another bridge, which led to a small private island with a single structure. The truck parked in front of the house, an enormous Spanish-style villa of whitewashed walls and a red tile roof. At the front were immaculately trimmed gardens, a tropical blend of elephant’s ear plants, bougainvillea, banana trees, and pineapple bushes. Orchid vines of flourescent pink and purple flowers covered a trellis at the main door.
Ricky exited the Ford with a bucket and walked right into the house without knocking. Jessica scanned the windows, unable to see where he had gone. She aimed her binoculars at the back of the house, where she could see a vast deck with a pool overlooking a small private beach. A ring of orange bouys in the sea marked a swimming area.
With no sign of any activity, Jessica set down her binoculars and took out her phone. She marked her location with GPS and sent the coordinates to Sunday, along with a short note:
ID on this house?
Just as she pressed SEND, she heard the loud bang of a door slamming and a man yelling, “Sunshine! Compadre guapo!”
Through the binoculars, she watched Ricky lumber out to the edge of the deck by the beach, carrying the bucket. He pulled a bloody fish from the bucket by its tail and dangled it for a moment before tossing it into the swimming area, igniting an eruption of white water. The shiny black skin of a shark leapt out of the water and then disappeared again. After a few seconds, the shark’s fin reappeared, cutting through the surface. Ricky threw another fish, which was immediately attacked by the shark.
“Sunshine! Compadre guapo!” he shouted again, a huge smile plastered across his face.
It wasn’t a swimming area, Jessica realized with alarm. It was a shark pen. What kind of lunatic keeps a shark for a pet?
Her phone vibrated with a reply from Sunday to both her questions:
Ruben Sandoval.