Caribbean Rim Read online

  “Hmm, then I’m glad I use a sailboat on my dive trips.” She pursed her lips, still reading. “Coral samples, too. Collecting coral is illegal for most folks. You must know some powerful people, they give you papers like this.”

  Ford, a marine biologist, did. He had used similar credentials often enough to know they were useful, but not enough to disguise an obvious lie. “Leonard Nickelby has nothing to do with my project. He supposedly knows a lot about wreck sites in the islands, and diving wrecks is a hobby of mine. My friends thought he might give me some tips.”

  “What kinda wrecks?”

  “Any kind, as long as they’re not too deep. I’m pretty new at it. That spot you told me about sounds interesting, the one you haven’t figured out yet.” He was referring to a sandy basin where she claimed to have seen what looked like dinosaur bones even though dinosaurs had never roamed the Bahamas.

  Tamara indulged him. “That’s smart mixing business with pleasure. Collect your coral and study sharks while doing what’s fun. This man, Nickelby, let me ask you something . . . Well, it don’t matter. Been lots of experts show up on this island and they’re all after treasure of some type. No one ever says what they’re really looking for.” Her eyes, when they made contact, added, Including you. “Come on now, sir. There’s nothing illegal about hunting other valuables that might float up here.”

  “Such as?”

  “You serious or playing dumb?”

  “I’m asking.”

  “Oh-h-h, people look for lots of things. Glass fishing floats, they can still be found. Others collect rare wood that sometimes floats all the way over from Africa. Or bottles that wash up on the windward side. Someone like you, though, might have something else in mind.”

  Ford looked at her blankly.

  “Come on. The gray rock, you know? That’s where the money is.”

  “The what?”

  “Amber wax. Floating gold, as old-timers would say. Most come here these days, that’s what they’re after. It’s a recent thing.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Truly?”

  “Are you talking about cocaine?”

  She rolled her eyes like a teenager, meaning he was way behind the times. “Ambergris. Ambergris from the belly of whales. You’re a scientist and don’t know that? It sells for more than gold to perfume makers in France. Stuff washes up on the reefs, if you know where to look, sometimes balls of forty, fifty pounds. New Providence used to be the best place, which is why no one bothered with the south islands ’til recently. No need to pretend with me if that’s your reason, sir.”

  Ford was familiar with ambergris, its origins and content, but was more concerned with losing the confidence of a woman who might be a useful source. And not just because of the wayward archaeologist.

  “Tamara—mind if I call you that? I’m going to trust you with something I should’ve told you right off. Dr. Nickelby stole a logbook from a friend of mine. That’s not the main reason I’m here, but I would like to find him.”

  “I knew it,” she said. “I’m almost always right about such things. Like a ship’s log from a boat?”

  He added a few details. The logbook belonged to an aging treasure hunter who had invested forty years of travel, hard work, and research in the notes the book contained.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before—”

  “Because we just met and I want to keep this out of the news. Nickelby’s a respected public official in Florida. His wife’s worried. She wants him home safe. I happened to be in the area anyway, so why not try to talk some sense into the guy before the police have to get involved?”

  That won her over. Temporarily. “Bet she’s mighty angry, too, him and that teenage-looking girl he’s acting the fool with. What exactly’s in your friend’s book so important you gotta show me those government papers, then pretend to like wreck diving?”

  “I’m not pretending,” he said, and tucked the research permits away. “Let me charter you for the day and I’ll tell you the rest of it. That spot you mentioned sounds like a good start. What I’m looking for is bleached coral. I’m sure you’re familiar with it, a disease that has nothing to do with bleach. Thermal bleaching, it’s called, very common on reefs around—”

  “Tell me this now,” she interrupted. “That little man’s an archaeologist? Explain something. I told him about the same spot, what I’d seen—a big tusk-looking bone from dinosaur times—but he wasn’t interested. That doesn’t make sense. Spanish wrecks, that’s what he’s after, and you know it. Either that or amber wax.”

  “Like you said,” Ford replied, “everyone’s looking for something.”

  Her thin smile was either a ruse or that of a willing conspirator. “Sounds like this book you’re after might be valuable. It contains wreck numbers, I suppose. Or what did your friend do, draw maps? Like, X marks the spot? Mister, I can count how many of those I’ve heard about. You plan to steal that logbook back, I suppose.”

  Ford’s laughter sounded genuine. “If I had the nerve, it might be fun trying something crazy for a change. But, no, I just want to talk to the guy before he screws up his life more than he already has. It’s kinda weird, though, I’m not the only man looking for him. Remember anything else about the foreign guy you mentioned?”

  “Screwin’ up people’s lives,” Tamara said, “is what a lot of men are good at. The same’s true of you, I suppose.”

  His expression asked, Me?

  Her dubious snort replied, Don’t play innocent.

  Ford had to laugh again, because she was right. “I’ve done too many dumb things to list, but the life I screw up is usually my own. Are we on for tomorrow? I’ll pay cash.”

  The frankness of that seemed to go over okay. She got around to saying, “First light, meet me at the dock. If you change your mind once you see my boat, I suggest you hire your treasure hunter friend.”

  3

  Carl Fitzpatrick, past retirement age but fit-looking in khaki shorts, his eyes bleached gray by the sun, said, “Nickelby’s wife scares me more than him running loose in the Bahamas with my logbook. She called yesterday out of the blue. That’s why I had to see you. Did you warn Doc?”

  Ford’s pal, Tomlinson, couldn’t look at the man without hearing the Buffett song in his head, “A Pirate Looks at Forty,” but more like seventy-something in Fitz’s case. Him with his beat-up SUV, a compressor and dive gear in the trunk, and business cards that read

  Professional Treasure Hunter

  As Featured in Miller Lite Commercials

  &

  National Geographic

  Oh yeah, on the back, Argosy, True, and a few other magazines that had gone tits-up decades ago. Plus, a link to a documentary featuring Fitz, Mel Fisher, and Jack Haskins, a trifecta of treasure hunting pros, although Mel had been the only one to make it big.

  “I didn’t see the need for a warning, just shared with Doc what you said. A reporter, a writer of some type, might already be in the Bahamas looking for Nickelby. So what? But, you know, to keep his eyes open. Oh, and explained I’m leaving a day late because you wanted to—”

  “Reporter, my ass. What, she’s threatening Leonard with an exposé in the Key West Citizen? Horsefeathers.”

  Leonard—Nickelby’s first name, which took a moment to connect. “That’s my point,” Tomlinson said. “There’s no need to put Doc on serious alert for something like this.”

  “But there is. I’m worried it’s someone pretending to be a reporter. And if it’s the guy I’m thinking of—”

  “Who?”

  “Did you follow the stories about the SS Panama? It’s a deep-water wreck, sank in 1877, with literally tons of gold ingots. The guy who found it was a MIT grad shyster who built an underwater robot—”

  “Jimmy Jones, the hotshot treasure hunter,” Tomlinson said. “I haven’t heard that name
in a while.”

  “Professional conman and thief, more like it. Gave us all a bad name.”

  “Wasn’t he beaten to death in—”

  “Jimmy, yeah, in prison about a month ago, and no wonder. He surrounded himself with the big-money crowd, the greedier, the better—including his hired help. But smart in his way, I’ll give him that. The Panama went down in water a mile deep—the Tongue of the Ocean. So he built a big-assed robot, and salvaged what no one thought would ever be salvaged, then ran off with—”

  “I know the story,” Tomlinson said. “How does this concern Doc?”

  “Because the guy I’m thinking of worked security for one of Jimmy’s investors. Ex-military turned cage fighter, I heard, probably an ex-con, too. His name . . . maybe it’ll come to me, but a Latin-looking tough. He wanted to get into movies and maybe did, but mostly he kicked whosever ass he was told to kick. The whole salvage group was dirty. Now do you see?”

  Fitzpatrick’s voice had mileage, a gravelly wisdom like the old prospector who’d played opposite Bogie in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. But Tomlinson was in a skittish mood he’d been battling for weeks and he lost the battle now. “Goddamn it, Fitz, what’s the connection?”

  The old treasure hunter sat back. “Geezus, shallow up. I thought it was obvious. Nickelby was one of the so-called government experts who helped send Jimmy to jail. So the guy shows up claiming to be a reporter, what does the wife care if he’s legit or not?”

  “You’re guessing. Nickelby’s wife didn’t say—”

  “I’m being careful. I’ve talked to jealous wives before, but never one as fired up as her. On the phone, she asked where to send the reporter—whatever he is—after Nassau because she’d paid five hundred in expenses. Like that’s a big deal. I said, ‘Lady, there’s a thousand miles of islands between Nassau and Port of Spain, you got off cheap.’ Which really pissed her off. That’s when she started making threats.”

  “Threatening you?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “After her husband ripped you off?” Tomlinson’s tone—No way. “Dude, come on. There’s got to be something else involved if you expect me to believe—”

  “That’s what I’m trying to explain.”

  “You admit it, then.”

  “Yes, shit. Okay—” Fitz sighed and rubbed his temple. “I didn’t tell you everything because I was hoping . . . Anyway, now that Nickelby’s wife is involved, I’ve got no choice. You need to hear the whole—”

  “Leaving shit out isn’t cool, man. There’s got to be a reason she was ballsy enough to say shit like . . . What exactly did she say?” Tomlinson got up and began to pace.

  Fitzpatrick gave him a concerned look. The hipster was usually laid-back, not jittery, constantly tugging at his hair like he was now. He was more likely to wander off on philosophical tangents. “Hey . . . are you okay?”

  Tomlinson realized he’d overreacted. “Oh, a little pressed for time, maybe. Why do you ask?”

  “Save the manure for your new crop of weed. It’s the way you’re bouncing off the walls. Are you doing speed again?”

  The barb produced admiration. “Fitz, you haven’t lost your junkie radar. Good ol’ Key West, huh? You learn more there by accident than shrinks learn by design. Meth, no. What I tried was this nasty shit flakka, a synthetic amphetamine. The street names vary, but Five Dollar Insanity sums it up.” He silenced the man with an open palm and took a seat. “Yes, I had my reasons. In fact, smoking a gram of flakka was a well-planned experiential decision. Totally appropriate for the circumstance. That was four months ago—not that I’m counting.”

  “Looks to me like the monkey’s still got you by the nuts. You know my rules about diving and doing business with stoners who’re still using.”

  Rules in the treasure biz? This was news to Tomlinson, but he said, “A residual echo is what you’re seeing. Trust me, one visit to Flakka Land was twice too many. A hit of that shit, wow. The descent was like parachuting into a forest fire after a snort of propane.” A brittle smile offered reassurance. “Ancient history, man. Sorry if I was sharp. Uhh . . . what were we talking about again?”

  Fitzpatrick tugged at his collar and looked around, seeing fish, sea horses in aquariums, and rows of beakers and other stuff on shelves, but no refrigerator. “Is there someplace we can get a beer?”

  They were in Marion Ford’s old stilthouse, the side he’d converted into a lab. Windows opened to the bay, water from every angle, including a boardwalk that led to shore. Tomlinson got up. “The dog, that big retriever swimming around outside—if he wants in, open the door or he’ll bust right through the screen. You want a glass or just the bottle?”

  “Zonk, you sure you’re feeling up to snuff? What it comes down to is, I’m embarrassed at being so damn stupid. That’s why I didn’t lay it all out for you right away.”

  Zonk, a nickname bestowed by treasure hunter friends in Key West.

  “I’ll bring two and ice down a six-pack,” Tomlinson answered.

  “Meth heads,” Fitzpatrick muttered as the screen door closed. “Like I don’t have enough to worry about.”

  * * *

  —

  It was late afternoon, sleepy time at Dinkin’s Bay Marina, the docks empty down the mangrove shoreline. Tomlinson crossed the breezeway into Ford’s home. It was more like a ship’s cabin. There was a galley, bookshelves by a reading chair, ceiling fans above a wooden floor, and a bed behind a curtain where there were more bookshelves and an old Trans-Oceanic shortwave radio.

  A counter separated the galley from a table that seated four. Earlier, after feeding the fish and the dog, he had brought in Ford’s mail and stacked it there. He was a reluctant snoop who, out of respect, only snooped in the hope of better understanding his friends—or protecting them, which was a more palatable excuse.

  Three letters, all hand-addressed, Tomlinson now placed in a separate pile. Ford had a son and a daughter by different mothers, in different parts of the world. One of the kids was having serious problems—exactly who and what, he would have to pretend not to know. It was best to wait until he delivered the letters personally.

  A fourth letter was from Ford’s sometime lover, a local fishing guide, Hannah Smith. Hannah was strong-willed, independent, and as devoted to honesty as she was to her Christian convictions. The woman was also very, very pregnant. Tomlinson added Hannah’s letter to the pile.

  From the fridge, he took two bottles of Hammerhead Ice, a local beer. He chugged one, then opened another.

  Hopefully, Fitz wasn’t waiting with more bad news in the lab.

  Two weeks ago, on the phone, all Fitzpatrick had said was that Nickelby, a government drone, had confiscated his logbook on some bullshit technicality, then split for the Bahamas with a younger woman who wasn’t his wife.

  Fitz didn’t want the police involved. His business required dealing with the Bureau of Archaeological Research, so why risk a bargaining chip he might use down the road when negotiating with the stuffy bastards? The reward for helping to recover his logbook, he’d said, was partnership in a hot new wreck site he’d found.

  Tomlinson didn’t care about a reward. He did care about a friend who had spent decades, from Florida to the Caribbean to the archives in Seville, perfecting his craft. A pioneer, as Tomlinson viewed the man, who loved boats and history as much as he did and also despised tight-assed bureaucrats. He and Fitz had had many fun, beery nights together in Key West. So he had pitched the idea to Ford via email—join forces and have some fun while they tracked down Nickelby. It was a long shot, but a small favor to ask, and the timing was ideal.

  When Tomlinson returned to the lab, Fitzpatrick was fussing with his iPhone. Didn’t even glance at the cold beer at his elbow. “Here, I looked up his web page.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy Nickelby’s wife claims is a freelance writer. T
here’s only one page, sort of amateurish. Looks fake to me. Oh hell . . . need my glasses. Maybe you can figure out this damn gadget.”

  Tomlinson accepted the phone but laid it aside. “I wouldn’t worry about Doc.”

  “You haven’t heard the rest of it yet. Doc’s doing me a favor. You both are.”

  “What you don’t understand is . . .” Tomlinson stopped himself. What Fitzpatrick didn’t understand about Marion Ford could not be shared. Not openly. But a hint or two might put the old guy at ease. “Look, he wanted to get out of Dodge anyway, so he took off last week to do some bonefishing, which, in his world, could’ve meant a trip to Colombia or Fumbuck anywhere. Or maybe he was already in the Bahamas when I sent the email. In other words, you did him a favor.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Exactly. That’s the way Doc plans it whenever he disappears. See, his girlfriend, it’s possible she’s about to dump him again, and he’s got some other heavy family kimchi coming down, so the man was antsy. Plus, he truly loves this sort of thing. Poking around, doing intel-psycho assessments of total strangers.”

  “Psycho . . . ? You lost me.”

  “Get used to it. It’s the Gemini in him. Or could be he’ll use this as an excuse to . . . Hell, let’s not even explore that nest of snakes. Anyhoo, looking for Nickelby is small potatoes compared to what you might call Doc’s usual research trips.” Boney fingers bracketed the phrase in quotes.

  Fitzpatrick missed the inference. “That’s what I mean, a nice guy like Doc, he might be in way over his head. What if the wife sent that cage fighter security freak? I feel guilty enough about not going after Nickelby on my own. And with you still in withdrawal—”

  “Stop saying that. I’m right as goddamn rain,” Tomlinson snapped, then calmly pulled up a chair. “So it’s official, you can’t go, huh? Doc will understand. He knows about that mess you got into a while back.”