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  Splitting the window, she started to scroll through maps of the Keys. They were all similar, but none matched the patterns so carefully etched on Diego and Teqea’s bodies. She got up and stood by the chart table next to the desk. She stared at a large-scale NOAA chart of the Lower Keys that was open on the table. Pattern recognition, whether in lines of code or in visual objects, was her specialty, but she knew it was her subconscious that solved the riddles, so she just stared at the chart, letting her inner processor work.

  It was the grid lines drawn over the features and soundings that caught her attention. She studied the key with the help of a small magnifying glass she found in the drawer and was able to see that the lines indicated latitude and longitude. That all made sense. They were the means of locating a position, but in antiquity they were “undiscovered.” Ancient mariners had a more instinctual method for navigation, using stars, swells, and experience to estimate their positions. Their GPS units were built into their heads.

  She went back to the laptop and looked at the two tattoos side by side. Though the artwork was different, they too showed an underlying grid, but it didn’t match the lines on the present-day chart. She closed the windows and opened the Internet browser, entering “ancient mariners charts” into the search window. The results were far-reaching, but slowly she narrowed down the results chronologically. Charts from the 1970s and 1980s were cluttered, not only with the latitude and longitude lines but also with Loran lines. This was closer to the patterns she was trying to match, but she knew they were too recent to be utilized in the tattoos, their lines based on signals from land-based radio towers.

  The vibration of the engines changed and she went to the window, realizing it was almost dark. Land was ahead, and they passed a marker with a red triangle on top. The boat turned and slowed before heading into a harbor. The men were moving about the boat now, readying it for port. The collar bothered her, but it did have a benefit; she was deemed safe now and was given more freedom. Unwatched, she opened the cabin door and looked out at the harbor, trying to think of a way out.

  ***

  “There he goes,” Mac said as they watched the boat move past the former fuel depot, now a resort island, blocking their view for a minute before the boat reappeared and turned into the channel to the Key West Bight.

  “What we gonna do now?” Trufante asked. “I’m getting hungry.”

  Pamela came by his side and slipped an arm around him. “Happy hour in Margaritaville!”

  Mac expected he was thirstier than hungry, the lure of Duval Street so close whetting his appetite, and she was not exactly a good influence. “Let’s make sure they get a slip here before we make any moves.” The boat was out of sight now, but the radar showed it moving directly toward land. Soon it stopped, and Mac waited, assuming they had found a slip.

  “Come on, Mac. It’s almost dark. They’re parked for the night,” Trufante said.

  “It’d be nice to have a closer look,” TJ said.

  Mac could tell Trufante was amped up and ready for a party, but his mind was made up by TJ’s plea.

  “You’re right. But I’m thinking we ought to go around to Garrison Bight. They won’t know the boat, but they know us.” Mac started the engines and hit the switch for the windlass to raise the anchor.

  Trufante was clearly pleased and went forward to knock the mud from the hook before securing it in place. Mac zoomed in the chart plotter, checking the best route to the marina. He could have felt his way around the island, but he didn’t get down here often enough to know it by heart. Actually, he avoided the place like the plague.

  Twenty minutes later he called the harbormaster at Garrison Bight and arranged for a slip. They entered the harbor and docked. Trufante jumped out of the boat, gallantly extended a hand to Pamela, and helped her ashore. Hand in hand, they headed toward the restaurant at the end of the dock.

  “What the…?”

  Mac could tell TJ was getting anxious. “Let ’em go. He’s a handful by himself. With the girl along, it only complicates things more.”

  “You’re right. I’m just worried about Alicia,” he said, checking his phone like there would be a miraculous message from her.

  “I got a little cash. Let’s grab a cab and do some surveillance.” Mac fiddled with the electronics, shutting down the systems one at a time. He accidentally hit an unmarked switch and jumped when blue LED lights started flashing under the transom. Both men laughed at the display obviously intended to attract attention to the boat when it was tied up at the marina, spotlighting Celia’s kids on her transom. He shut off the lights and the rest of the systems, then went below and turned off the battery switch just in case he had missed something.

  Together they walked down the dock and passed the oyster bar. Mac was hungry, but it would wait. He wanted to make sure that Hawk was here for the night. A pink cab pulled to the curb, answering his signal, and they got in. Mac gave instructions to the driver, and ten minutes later they were standing at the end of Simonton Street, looking into the harbor. Mac paid the driver, noting his dwindling cash, and together he and TJ surveyed the harbor, looking for Hawk’s boat. He breathed a sigh of relief when they saw it docked by the far corner of the marina.

  “Come on. As long as we stay in the shadows, we should be okay,” Mac said, leading the way around the first pile. Most of the boats had lights on, making it difficult to stay out of sight, but they reached the slip just before Hawk’s, apparently unobserved. Mac pulled TJ into the shadows when he heard a loud conversation on the deck of the trawler.

  “You are under orders,” he heard Hawk say.

  “You might be my boss, but this ain’t the Navy.” It sounded like Ironhead.

  “If you care for your employment at all, you will stay aboard,” Hawk said.

  “I’ll be back soon,” Ironhead said.

  They huddled together, out of sight, as the thug passed. He was clearly on a mission and walked right past them. Mac exhaled, watching the ship to see if Hawk would follow. He started to plan. Without his muscle, this might be as vulnerable as they were going to find him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A hand reached in and snatched the silver coin Trufante was bouncing off the bar. “True dat. Heard you got your ass run outta town.”

  Trufante winced when he heard the voice. He turned slowly and grabbed the man’s arm, a large smile appearing on his face as he squeezed it until the coin dropped back on the bar.

  “I was just playin’, homes,” the man said. “And whatcha got here?” From his stare it was obvious what he was talking about.

  “Pamela, this here’s Jimmy. A turd I know from a past life,” he said.

  “Shit. If I’m a lowlife, what does that make you?” Jimmy said and slapped him on the back.

  She turned back to the bar and started humming “Ship of Fools.” Trufante put an arm around her, but she ignored him and started tapping on her phone. He turned to face Jimmy, his larger-than-life smile gone.

  “You’re lookin’ a little rough around the edges—even for you,” Trufante said. The bare-chested man standing at the bar looked like a wannabe from The Sopranos. Even his half-fake New Jersey accent, carefully groomed to include all the right words, belied him. He stood a head shorter than Trufante, gaining a few inches with his trucker’s hat complete with knock-off designer sunglasses set on the visor. A rip-off Tommy Bahama shirt was unbuttoned, revealing way more than anyone would want to look at. The outfit was completed by ratty board shorts in a different pattern than the shirt and rubber flip-flops. If his attire wasn’t bad enough, it was capped with a continuous layer of sweat coating his entire body.

  “Hey,” he called to the bartender. “Send down a round, would ya?”

  The only redeeming factor about Jimmy was his wallet. He was always flush with cash, buying him friends in a town where the natives barely got by. His means were unclear and his persona shady—also okay in a town that lived on the edge. The bartender set three glasses in front of
them. Pamela finished her old one, pushed the glass forward, and started in on the new one, all without taking her eyes from the phone.

  “So, whatcha been up to?” Trufante asked, feeling he owed him something now that he had bought a round.

  “This and that. It’s Key West. Always an opportunity,” Jimmy said.

  Trufante nodded his head. That was something he could relate to. Pamela swung around and, with a loud slurp and a giggle, finished her drink.

  “Babe. You think we could get out of here? It’s a little creepy-crawly,” she said.

  Jimmy appeared not to notice the comment was directed at him. He moved down the bar, slapped someone on the back, and reached around him, grabbing an oyster from the tray on the bar. He moved back to Trufante and Pamela, slurping the mollusk directly from the shell. Trufante felt a jab in his side, so he turned to the bartender and asked for the tab. Seconds later, as if the bartender couldn’t wait to get Jimmy away from his customers either, he handed Trufante a slip of paper.

  “Here, babe, ya got it?” he asked, his smile back.

  She gave him a vacant look. “My purse is in the saddlebags on your bike—back at TJ’s place.”

  Trufante’s smile faded.

  “We’ve been on boats, like, nonstop. I didn’t even think.”

  “Tru, Tru, Tru.” Jimmy overheard the conversation and zeroed in for the kill. “Your old friend Jimmy knows you’re good for it. You just give me that coin, and I’ll hold it for collateral. From the looks of it, I could float you something extra on top.”

  The something extra got his attention. After all, it was Key West. If he could put some cash in his pocket and rid himself of Jimmy, why not? It was just another old coin. He reached into his pocket and pulled the dull silver out. Just as he was about to hand it to Jimmy, Pamela stopped him.

  “Let me get a picture of it. I’ll put it on Facebook, like we’re real treasure hunters,” she said, grabbing the coin and placing it on the bar. She stood hovering above it with her phone and took a picture of the front and back.

  Jimmy reached in and grabbed it, biting it like a pirate before putting it in his pocket. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Close enough that Trufante could smell the horseradish from the oyster on his breath, he opened the wallet, wide enough for anyone nearby to see the stack of hundreds. With a flourish, he pulled out two and handed them to Trufante. “That’ll be three bills when you want it back,” he said, returning his wallet to his pocket.

  “Three hundred? For two? That ain’t hardly right,” Trufante pleaded.

  “Shit. A small price for saving your ass. I got no problem keeping the coin. Either way.” He turned and walked down the bar, grabbed another oyster, and continued his search for more victims.

  ***

  “Come on, babe.” Trufante pocketed the money and led Pamela outside.

  “Where we going now?” she asked. “You going to show me a good time in paradise? Sloppy Joe’s, The Bull, Hog’s Breath—let’s do it up.” She took his hand and started across the parking lot.

  He pulled her back into a dark corner by the bar. “How ’bout a little Key West intrigue?”

  “Intrigue? Like spy stuff?” She grinned. “That could be fun. Can we still get a drink?”

  “As many as you want,” he said, pulling one of the hundreds from his pocket. “Why don’t you run on in there?” He pointed to another bar next door. “And get us a couple of drinks to go. I’ll keep an eye on our friend here.”

  She took the money. “That guy creeps me out,” she said.

  “We gotta help Alicia, and I got a feeling he’s gonna lead us right to her.”

  “This isn’t going to get dangerous, is it? Like with those guys at the house?” she asked.

  He leaned in close, flashing his vintage Cadillac grille smile. “Would I be asking you to get cocktails to bring to a knife fight?”

  Reassured, she started bopping over to the bar. He turned to watch the door. Jimmy was seldom welcome anywhere for very long. He should be coming out any minute. As long as Pama-Bama-Jama got back with the drinks first, they were all good.

  She came back from the bar carrying two large red cups and two miniatures. “Look, these are so cute, I had to get a couple.”

  He took the small cup, being careful not to spill it. “Jell-O shots?” he asked.

  “Party on.” She smiled and clinked the plastic cups together. They both placed their heads back and shook the Jell-O from the cup.

  With the shot in his mouth, he reached in to kiss her, but Jimmy walked out of the bar, distracting him. Trufante took the larger cup and pulled her into the shadows.

  “This spy stuff is fun,” she said, kissing him.

  He almost gave into the temptation to close his eyes and enjoy it, but Jimmy was gone. Reluctantly, he broke off the kiss, giving her butt a hard squeeze. “007 here. Ready to roll?” If the spy stuff didn’t work, at least they’d have a good time.

  Slowly, he moved out of the shadows. He looked down the street and saw Jimmy bending over to unlock a scooter.

  “Shoot.”

  “What’s wrong?” Pamela asked.

  “We’ll never keep up with him,” he said, pointing to the scooter.

  “There’s an app for that.” She pulled her phone out and pressed an icon. “Two minutes,” she said. Catching his confused look, she added, “Uber, dude.”

  He drew a blank and was about to ask what she was talking about when a rickshaw pulled up at the corner. She grabbed his hand and led him toward it. The driver, sitting on a bicycle with a small cart behind it, greeted them. “Your Uber is here.”

  Trufante was still confused when Pamela pulled him into the open seat behind the driver.

  “I need your destination,” the driver, a rail thin man probably in his mid-thirties, said.

  “How about we go off the clock and do a cash deal?” Pamela asked. “And the first thing would be a drink.”

  “We got to keep him in sight.” Trufante pointed Jimmy out to the driver.

  “Jimmy Bones?” the man asked.

  Trufante had never heard his last name, and he laughed, sure that he had fabricated that along with the rest of his persona. Jimmy was on the scooter now and pulling into traffic.

  “Yeah, follow that scum,” Trufante said, playing the odds that the driver probably didn’t like Jimmy either. Keeping him in sight was not a problem. It didn’t matter what you drove in Key West. A bicycle was as fast as a car on the narrow crowded streets, and the rickshaw had no problem keeping up with the scooter. Jimmy paused at the stop sign at Duval, and Pamela jumped out.

  “I’m getting us a refill.” She grabbed his cup and ran across the street to a counter that called itself The Smallest Bar in the World.

  He would have stopped her, but with the traffic cruising Duval, she would easily have the drinks in hand before they were able to cross. Finally, the driver found an opening, pedaled hard across the street, and picked her up on the other side. Trufante took the cups, and she hopped in, a huge grin on her face.

  Jimmy was a block ahead of them. He crossed Whitehead and started weaving his way to the water. Trufante and Pamela sat back, watching the Victorian houses cruise by like any other tourist couple, except their destination would be determined by Jimmy Bones.

  ***

  Mac crouched down by the dock, watching the trawler. From his position, the windows on Hawk’s boat were hidden behind equipment or bulkheads. The only way to see what was happening was to board one of the boats docked on either side. He looked at the boats adjacent to it, trying to see if they were empty and if they allowed for a better vantage point, but was distracted when he heard someone coming toward them. Turning for a better look, he caught the flash of a lighter and saw the red end of a cigarette. Before he got any closer, Mac slithered back to TJ, pointing to the approaching figure. He whispered for him to stay put and slowly moved toward the dock.

  His eye followed the flare of the cigarette bu
tt, as it caught its last breath of air, before being dowsed in the water. The man was still fifty feet away and looked to be approaching Hawk’s boat. Creeping forward, Mac crouched down by the shore power box, fiddling with the cord like there was something wrong with it. Slowly he moved to the sailboat docked on the starboard side, rose to his full height, and approached it like he owned it. Just as he was about to step from the concrete section of the dock to the wooden finger pier, their eyes locked. The last thing he expected was to see someone he knew, or rather who knew him.

  “Mac Travis? In Key West? I should have figured you’d be around if your boy Trufante was here. And a silver coin too.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin, flipping it carelessly in the air. Mac was about to snatch it from him, but was distracted by a tipsy couple turning the corner from Front Street, looking like they had enjoyed their evening in Key West. The couple turned at one of the finger piers, and he turned back to Jimmy.

  “Where’d you get it, Jimmy?” Mac said quietly. He knew the man, having hired him years ago for a salvage job. Another half-bent Northerner making their way to Key West, needing some temporary work to make it the final sixty miles to what they thought would be their paradise. It was a pilgrimage of the misfits. They often stopped in Marathon, looking for work on the way down, quitting as soon as they had enough money to move on, their minds filled with dreams of the paradise just down the road. Then, disillusioned and often broker than when they had come through before, they’d come back, but with a different attitude. Mac could always tell the ones that would make it and those he would see on their return trip. Jimmy was one of those he’d never expected to see again.