A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3) Page 3

  “Where’s his office?” I asked.

  “Right here,” she said, pointing to an old-fashioned roll-top at the far end of the room.

  “Do you mind?” I asked, nodding at the roll-top.

  “Be my guest. As I told you, I’ve already searched the whole house, including the desk,” and she watched as I slid open the roll-top.

  It took me a few minutes to go through the desk. I pulled out the center drawer. It was a mess: pencils, pens, erasers, paper clips, white-out, some spare change in an ashtray, rubber bands, glue—everything scattered haphazardly in the drawer. I found a Captain’s Log in the back of the drawer. I pulled it out and paged quickly through it. The latest log was entered a year ago.

  Some small pay envelopes were stuffed into one of the cubbyholes lining the inside of the desk. The others were empty and full of dust.

  “Does Jack keep his logs on board?” I yelled to Cynthia who was rummaging around in the kitchen.

  “Yes,” she yelled back. “The log for the 376 is on board.” I nodded—to nobody.

  “You find anything?” she shot back.

  “Not yet,” I said, trying to break free a drawer on the right side of the desk. Something from inside was jamming it. By pushing my fingers through a narrow space I had created perforce, I was able to manhandle it open and felt a package wedged up against the top frame of the drawer. I forced the culprit down and away from the frame and was finally able to pull the drawer free. It was an eight-and-a-half by eleven brown envelope that had been originally taped to the bottom of the desktop. That’s why it got stuck. The tape gave away, dropping the envelope partially into the drawer and blocking it. I looked around for Cynthia but she was still in the kitchen making a lot of noise.

  “He needs to dump some of this food,” she yelled, irritated.

  I called her into the den.

  “What did you find?” she said, hurrying in and seeing me turn the package in my hands.

  “I found this taped to the bottom of the desktop. You want to open it?” I said, offering it to her.

  “No, go ahead.” Like she didn’t want to touch it.

  The envelope was several inches thick. I unloosened the string that held the flap down, reached inside, and pulled out a stack of photographs, most of the ones on top were 8x10 black-and-white images. We sat down, spread-eagled, on the wooden planking of the den floor and began to sort through the pictures one at a time. The first photograph was of an oil rig, enormous, two cranes extending from either end, one reaching for the sky, the other hanging over the water.

  “My God, he’s taking pictures of that damn rig. Why in the hell was he doing that?” Then she paused. “I had taken him out one afternoon to see it, and he got all upset—about foreigners drilling in American waters.”

  “Maybe wanting to help?” I said looking over at her as she stared at the photos. She held up a plate where the name of the rig stood out in large letters:

  ZHI ZHU NU

  “Wow,” she muttered to herself as she continued to stare, then reached for a few more plates, the shots all taken from different angles but of the same rig. “This is one of the largest oil rigs ever built, did you know that?” she said, holding up another picture.

  I shook my head and leafed through a few more prints. I wondered how the men on the platform would have reacted to a man in a motorboat taking pictures and circling their ship. Because that’s what the rig looked like—a ship—a ship on four giant pontoons.

  “You know the story?” she pressed on.

  “Not really,” I said, only remembering the ongoing fights between the environmentalists and Big Oil over drilling rights in and around the Everglades.

  “Well, a Chinese firm has purchased the rights to do off-shore drilling in Cuban waters, and in May of this past year our government had given the CNOOC” (she noticed I was looking for a translation), “that’s the Chinese National Offshore Oil Corporation, the leasing rights to drill for oil in the Gulf.” She hesitated. “Didn’t know that, did you?” I shrugged. “Didn’t read my articles, did you?” she said, shaking her head. I shrugged again.

  “Should read my articles,” she continued, playing with me. “I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle—intelligent guys like you don’t read my articles. How can any of us make a difference if nobody listens or reads!”

  I’m sure I looked guilty as hell to her because I was, and I hated to admit it.

  “And several Russian firms are ready to jump in as well,” she added. I wondered when we would see Chinese and Russian submarines offshore in the Straits.

  “Don’t be surprised if you see a Chinese aircraft carrier in our waters sometime in the near future,” she said, almost as if she were reading my thoughts. “They’re building one of the largest in the world even as we sit here looking at their derrick,” and she was nodding her head like I was a willfully uninformed idiot just like all the other unconcerned Americans she was trying to bring her story to.

  “Moreover,” she continued, “there are now over 125 leases to drill in the Eastern Gulf—all the way down to the Keys and north into the Florida Straits. That covers over 700,000 acres of Florida water. And that’s what I’m talking about, Cooper.”

  Lesson for today.

  “And eventually,”—another lesson—”that will do it for the Everglades and for our ground water. And,” pausing, “our children will inherit all the chemicals that the oil companies are pouring into our swamp and you can kiss our paradise goodbye,” she complained, tossing her hand like she was throwing it all away. Paradise Lost.

  “So, go back and read my damn articles, Cooper.”

  And then she stopped—thank God—picked up the photos and began to page through them, laying them out so we could both study them.

  She puzzled over one of them. “This one…” she said, picking up one of the plates, “this one is different,” and she held it up to the lamp next to the desk. “It’s smaller,” she added, studying it carefully. “I wonder where this picture was taken?”

  It was a mere shadow of the Zhi Zhu Nu. No heavy cranes leaning out over the water. And the deck was no more than maybe fifteen feet, twenty max, above the surface of the water. The sun was setting behind the derrick, so Jack was looking from east to west when he took the picture. I picked up several more photos as Cynthia continued to stare at the one she was holding. The ones I turned over were of the same rig, only Jack must have been circling it now, much like he circled the Zhi Zhu Nu. In all there were six shots of this rig, catching the structure from every angle, even some of the workers who were staring at the camera—in one shot a man was pointing a rifle at him.

  “The Feds have ceased issuing drilling leases in the eastern Gulf. But…,” she continued, holding up one of Jack’s photos of the smaller derrick, “the state of Florida—now that’s a different matter. State waters extend from seven-and-a-half to ten statutory miles from the coast into the Gulf.” She paused again, still studying the photo. “I wonder where in the hell this baby is?” she mused, mostly to herself, looking closely for a landmark.

  “Had he ever supplied you with material for your articles?”

  “He told me he was working on something but never what it was.” She paused to wipe sweat from her forehead. “It’s hot in here,” she said, handing the photo to me.

  “It’s certainly not in the deep part of the Gulf. See how close the shoreline is in the distance?” I said, pointing to a vague stretch of land behind and to the right of the derrick.

  Cynthia sighed and shook her head. “I sure hope Jack didn’t get himself killed because of me.”

  Chapter Five

  The Pilot House

  It was not far from Jack’s house to the Pilot House Marina—a little over four miles. A ten-minute drive. It was early afternoon when we left his place. I retraced my steps back to US 1, passing streets that were named after fish: Bass, Bonefish, Jewfish, Snapper, and Marlin and finally came to Transylvania Avenue—oddly out of place amon
g the fish streets—and turned right. In a few minutes we were back on the Overseas Highway and heading south toward the Lower Keys.

  On the left we passed John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park, a large expanse of green that extends out into the Florida Straits. I turned off the highway at Laguna Avenue near the Holiday Inn where there are some famous shrines: Bogie’s Cafe and the African Queen. From Laguna, I turned onto Homestead Avenue—Cynthia right behind me—passed an Office Depot and a Bank of America, and finally hit Ocean Bay Drive, a two-lane road, lined on both sides by scrub palms and sea grape all growing wild, and by telephone lines trying to fight their way through the branches. I was looking for American Legion Post #333—my landmark. It came up quickly on my left: a two-story, cement block building painted yellow years ago. It was now faded and dirty. The surrounding area was pretty much the same: run-down buildings with tired paint jobs, and dusty. Just past the American Legion building was a post office sitting on the corner of Seagate Boulevard and Ocean Bay. And directly behind that was the Pilot House Marina. I turned left onto Seagate.

  The marina is located on the north end of Lake Largo. But don’t think of the lake as a large body of water. It’s maybe a football field across. And Seagate is hardly a boulevard. When I think of a boulevard, I picture a wide street overhung with trees on both sides and a wide green space running down the center with traffic running only one way on each side. No, that’s not Seagate. It’s a crowded narrow street jammed with boats lining the side near the marina, and parked helter-skelter, like the owners had just gone into the restaurant for a drink and would be right back.

  Just past the marina, I turned right onto North Channel Drive (a short street) and then made an immediate right into a parking lot that constitutes the marina’s main entrance. The Pilot House is a two-story structure, painted the same pale yellow as the American Legion Post, the second floor sitting on top of the main structure like the top deck of a battleship, set in and squared off. The roof was tin, painted a dull sea green, the sheen worn off by the storms that beat down on it. I parked under a large sign that rose almost as high as the roof of the marina. On it was a large ship’s wheel and to the right of the wheel were the words:

  PILOT HOUSE

  I looked for Huck’s truck. I didn’t see it, but I heard his voice even before I got through the door. He was wearing a rawhide jacket and pants, his Florida cattleman outfit, tassels and all, and talking in an elevated voice to a man behind the desk. We headed his way.

  “What took you so long, Cooper?” he said. “See my new transportation outside?”

  “No.”

  “Red Ford pick-me-up. A V-8 with a 3.5 liter engine,” Huck explained proudly, his thumbs tucked like a cowboy in his belt. Huck is a descendent of Florida’s original Seminole cowboys, not to be confused with the Florida crackers, so-called for driving their cattle with a whip rather than a lasso. The Florida cowboys actually predate their western counterparts.

  “Nice!” I said, wondering how he paid for it.

  “The money you gimme for the last job,” he said, reading my mind.

  I introduced him to Cynthia, and then he introduced us to Sam something or other, the blond guy behind the desk.

  I said “Hi” to Jimmy, because his name was Jimmy not Sam, and he had been behind that counter for years, as testified by the lines on his face. Too much time on the water. His skin was dark, a fair complexion compromised by the Florida sun. The only thing that didn’t tan was his hair. And the sun had bleached that blond.

  He knew why we were there and told Cynthia—probably not for the first time—how sorry he was to hear about Jack and no he couldn’t figure out what happened to him.

  “Jack knows these waters,” Jimmy continued. “It don’t figure,” and his voice was partially drowned by the sound of a chopper flying too close to the marina.

  “Coast Guard,” he said, chewing at the end of his mustache—it was blond too. “They’ve been searching most of the day,” and he glanced at Cynthia—hesitated, then, “They’ll find him,” he said quickly. I knew that was a lie.

  Then I pulled out the photos Cynthia and I had found and showed them to him. “These were in Jack’s house. We’re trying to locate the site of this smaller rig,” I explained, holding up the photo of the oil platform.

  “Lemme see the picture of that big one again,” he said. I flipped back to the Zhi Zhu Nu.

  “That there’s the Chinese rig,” he said, staring at the photo. “Now you tell me what in the livin’ hail are they doin’ out there in U.S. of A. water?” Jimmy’s a Florida redneck. He carries a loaded shotgun in the back of his pick-me-up.

  “It’s in Cuban waters,” I said. “Nothing anyone can do about it. Did Jack ever let on that he was taking pictures out there?”

  “Never did. He always said he was goin’ fishin’. Said it was his way of relaxing: fish and drink beer.”

  “What about this?” I held up a print of the smaller rig again. “Any ideas?” I was trying to hold the picture against some sunlight that had sneaked through a window behind the desk.

  “Nope, sure don’t,” he said, studying the picture. Then he picked up several more, turning each one so that it would catch the light and finally coming back to the same print. “It ain’t in the Straits. That’s for sure. Lookee here.” He was pointing at the hint of a shoreline on one of the plates. “It’s off the west coast somewheres...maybe up around the Ten Thousand Islands,” and he kept studying the prints as he talked. “Why don’t you leave one of them photos with me and I’ll study on it a while longer.” Then he turned to Cynthia. “Anyway, if I can help, Miss Cynthia, you know I will. Jack was a special friend and we’re all prayin’ he’s okay.”

  Cynthia took Jimmy’s hand, held it and thanked him. “No need to cry,” Jimmy said when she began to tear up. “Ol’ Jack’ll show up sure as I’m standing here. He knows these waters. If he’s lost, he’ll get hisself back here. You can take that to the bank.”

  I pushed Jimmy one more time before we left. “Look, I know you’ve been over all of this before with the Coast Guard and the Park Rangers but is there anything more you can tell us about where Jack might have been headed? Into the Gulf? The Glades?”

  He shrugged. “The Straits maybe. But he usually went fishin’ up Ten Thousand Islands way. Like I told the Rangers, he went that way,” he added, pointing toward the channel that leads to the Straits. “Said he was goin’ fishing. I asked him if he was gonna take the 376. He said, No. Just the little boat. And that’s the last I seen of Jack.”

  Chapter Six

  The Search

  It didn’t take long to get Jack’s Canyon ready. The boat was in dock and the fuel tanks were full. “Just like Jack,” Cynthia said as I started the motors and she and Huck cast off the lines. “He’s always ready for clients.”

  “Did he have any scheduled?” I said, suddenly realizing he probably did.

  “Of course,” Cynthia said. I eased back on the throttle to hear what she was saying. “He was booked solid for the next few weeks. But most of his clients had read the newspaper article and called the marina. The ones I didn’t hear from, I called,” and she cast the last of the lines onto the dock.

  I eased the Canyon out into the lake at idle speed until we escaped the No Wake zone. The three Yamaha 350s churned and growled like a cougar trapped under water. In several minutes we were in the channel that leads into the Florida Straits.

  “Did Jack keep a gun on board?” I asked Cynthia, who had one foot on the step that led below.

  “Yes. He never went out without one.” She paused. “Why?”

  I had packed my Glock and Huck had stowed his alligator gun, but I was hoping for another weapon. “We don’t know what Jack ran into out there.”

  “Pirates?” she asked, surprise in her voice. “I never thought…”

  “There are pirates in the Caribbean—as you must know—so…” I was focusing on steering through the channel, the open water of the Straits jus
t ahead.

  “I wouldn’t think pirates got Jack—but that depends on where he went.”

  “I wouldn’t count ’em out,” came a voice from below. Huck. “I never run into one, but my friend has,” he added, coming topside. “That was over by the Bahamas.”

  Cynthia looked worried.

  “Don’t think the worst,” I said. “I checked Noonsite.”

  She stared at me.

  “Noonsite. It’s a web page that reports on pirate activity around the world. It didn’t report any incidents off the coast of Cuba,” I said. What I didn’t say was that Jack’s incident hadn’t been reported yet. But she must have thought of that. “Anyway, most of the time pirates just take your boat if you’re near land. And they leave you stranded.” What I didn’t tell her was that if you’re on the open sea, they’re likely to throw you overboard. And that would be a long swim home.

  “You want to take the wheel?” I said, figuring it might take her mind off Jack.

  She nodded and took the wheel like a skilled helmsman and aimed the Canyon toward the Straits.

  I stood at the rail and watched water fly over the bow as Cynthia opened up the Yamahas. At forty miles per hour the three engines tossed great geysers off the stern, forming a wake that stretched for hundreds of yards. Then she swung the Canyon south toward the Lower Keys where we would ultimately cross through at Islamorada and emerge on the north side of the Keys that faces Everglades National Forest. From there we would head north-northwest into Florida Bay toward the Ten Thousand Islands.

  Jack does a lot of fishing there, she had said before we left, still speaking of him in the present.