“Now I remember,” said the lieutenant. “They thought he got drunk at one of those spring-break bars that caters to underage American kids and then went swimming at night or some other misadventure.”
“They got the misadventure part right.” The M.E. snapped off his gloves and began washing up in the sink.
“You’re saying the shark swam all the way back to the Miami River?”
“Of course not.” The M.E. turned off the faucets. “I don’t think Randy ever left Miami.”
“But his passport and luggage…”
“Remember the investigative series he was working on for the paper?”
“I don’t read that trash,” said the lieutenant. “Nobody takes those conspiracy nuts seriously. All their articles about the CIA dealing crack.”
“I know most of it’s baloney, but still entertaining.” He grabbed a hand towel. “Randy was writing about Miami being the arms-smuggling capital of the Caribbean basin. Fancied himself landing the next Iran-Contra scoop. He was naming some pretty big fish, excuse the pun.”
“Luckily it’s a matter for the Costa Gordan police.”
The M.E. glanced toward the tray with the severed hand. “Looks like it just swam back into your jurisdiction.”
“Great.” A deep sigh. “Couldn’t he have gotten robbed somewhere else?”
The examiner walked over and tossed the towel in a bin. “Lieutenant, if it really was his stuff in that Costa Gordan motel and he never left Miami, someone went through a lot of trouble.”
Biscayne Bay
Midnight.
All quiet on the water. The bay had been dark toward the east, but now a thin line of alabaster light appeared on the ocean’s horizon, where a full moon prepared to rise over the Atlantic.
Toward the north, a magical white aura from the distant Miami skyline and, closer, the lights of Key Biscayne with the outline of the Cape Florida lighthouse anchoring its southern tip.
But the island remained a ways off, as did the mainland. Even farther to the south, the Ragged Keys and Boca Chita, the first dribbling specks of exposed coral that grew into the Florida Keys.
A luxury fishing boat drifted silently with the tide in one of the isolated spots of Biscayne National Park. Serge stood up on the bridge with a nautical map and a flashlight, waiting for the moon. Two would-be carjackers lay by the bilge, wiggling with hands tied behind their backs.
“We weren’t going to hurt anyone!” “I swear we’ll never do it again!”
“All my guests say that.” Serge unloaded scuba equipment from one of the oversize duffels in the boat. “And they’re always right.”
The assailants stared at weight belts and mesh gear bags. “W-w-what are you going to do to us?”
“Thought we’d play a little game. You watch David Letterman? He leaves me in stitches!”
“Please let us go! We’ll do anything! We’ll pay you!”
“Shhhhh.” Serge repacked the bag. “You won’t be able to experience the peace out here.”
A beer cracked. “Where’d you get this boat?” asked Coleman.
“Stan.”
“Stan?”
“The High-End Repo Man. He owed me. You’ll meet him later.”
The moon finally rose, giving Serge needed illumination. He raised binoculars.
Coleman guzzled. “What are you looking for?”
Serge scanned the water. “A house.”
“House?” Coleman crumpled the aluminum can. “But we’re in the middle of the sea.”
“It’s one of our state’s most fascinating and historic features.” The binoculars stopped. “And there it is.”
“What?”
“Stiltsville.” Serge cranked the twin inboards and began motoring east just above idle speed. “A village of old wooden shacks on piers in the water.”
“Way out here?” said Coleman.
“That’s the coolest part.” Serge pushed the throttle forward and brought the boat up on a plane. “Most pier houses simply extend from shore, or sit just a short distance from it. Not Stiltsville! In the 1930s, these crazy pioneers started building them far out in the bay on the edge of the open Atlantic, a harrowing distance from nearest land. At its peak there were dozens, but neglect and hurricanes thinned their numbers until now only seven are left standing. If it was daytime, you’d see a colorful collection of eclectic huts with wraparound decks perched in bright emerald-and-turquoise water.”
The boat continued across the water without running lights except for the orange glow from Coleman’s joint. “But why’d they build them so far from shore?”
“To party.” Serge brought the boat around starboard.
“Hold it,” said Coleman. “For a second I thought you said ‘party.’ ”
“It was the first of many wild eras in Miami. The well heeled needed places to keep law enforcement at bay, and they held wild affairs at since-forgotten icons like Crawfish Eddie’s, the Quarterdeck Club, the Bikini Club, and the Calvert. The area used to be called ‘the Flats’ and ‘the Shacks,’ until ‘Stiltsville’ stuck. Despite its remoteness, there still were frequent raids over alcohol and gambling. One outside porch got so crowded with partiers that it collapsed under the weight. They filmed episodes of Miami Vice there.”
Coleman leaned eagerly and strained his eyes. “Do they still party?”
“No, most are now just private homes.”
“Damn.” A frown. “I wish I lived back then.”
“You do in spirit.” Serge looked back toward the bilge. “Guys, you might want to sit up or you’ll kick yourselves for missing this. Actually you won’t be able to miss it, thanks to my plan.”
Coleman pointed with the joint. “Serge, I think I see one.”
“Our destination.” The boat came to port on dead reckoning. “Although most of the shacks are residences, I did a property-record search and this baby’s only occupied a couple weekends a month. Some boating club owns it.”
Coleman looked around. “Where are the others? You said seven.”
“Spread out for privacy. Just like I’ll need tonight. Plus it has the deepest channel.”
The boat completed the rest of the journey without conversation, until Serge pulled off the throttle and threw a line around a pier. He lashed the vessel fast to the cleats.
“Everyone out!”
Serge hoisted his prisoners and rolled them onto the dock. Then unloaded gear. “Coleman, give me a hand with this cooler. It’s super-heavy.”
Soon, they were all snuggled inside the Stiltsville shack. Serge walked around the perimeter, propping open shutters, and soothing views of moonlit water poured in.
Silence. Only lapping waves against the piers.
Serge set a portable, battery-powered TV on the counter and raised the antenna.
Captives flopped around.
Serge rotated the antenna, trying to get snow off the tube. He looked back at the floor. “All that worrying isn’t good for your blood pressure. We’re in one of the most picturesque places on earth. You should look out the windows-very easy on the nerves. I’ve been waiting my whole life to get inside a Stiltsville shack.”
A final twist of the antenna. Serge stepped back as the picture cleared. “There we go.”
Coleman lit another joint. “It’s Letterman.”
“I saw previews this afternoon.” Serge stood with hands on hips. “He’s going to do one of my favorite bits.”
On the tiny screen, Letterman tapped an index card: “And now another edition of ‘Will It Float?’…”
Stage curtains parted to reveal a large, clear tank of water. Statuesque assistants stood on each side.
“Tonight’s item is an Ionic Breeze Air Purifier… Paul Shaffer, think it will float?”
“There’s a lot of plastic. I think it’ll float.”
Serge looked at the carjackers. “Well? Is it going to float? Come on-play along.”
No response.
