We made the jump across Card Sound in just over ten minutes. Motoring up to the Monroe County Toll Bridge, we turned west into the canal that ran parallel to the two-lane road, then tied off to a dock half a mile inland. After changing, we flip-flopped to shore, then across Card Sound Road.
Alabama Jack’s looks more like a roadside shack than a building and is a perfect example of why you shouldn’t judge a place by its appearance. It had an old wood lattice covering the road-facing wall, a second-story room painted to look like the sky, and a simple red-painted sign indicating the place’s name. There was a row of motorcycles out front that always seemed to be there. Jack’s was a middle-of-nowhere local spot where bikers, couples, and families with little kids all congregated to relish the delicious and funky experience.
We strode inside, and a host led us through the dining area with license plates from all over the country hanging from the ceiling. We picked a spot away from the main groups, a two-seater high table in the corner of the porch overlooking the channel. It wasn’t too bad with the sunshade and the breeze off the sound.
Out of earshot from the other patrons, Ange brought me up to speed on the info she’d received from Jane while the waiter brought us our drinks.
“They identified the man who tried to kill Harper as Patrick Skinner,” she said.
“Rap sheet?”
Ange’s eyes grew big. “Oh yeah. He’d been in and out of prison for the past ten years. Drug dealing, breaking and entering, the works. But recently he’d gotten mixed up with a unique crowd.”
The waiter slipped in and planted our drinks—lemonade for me and iced tea for Ange. I’d considered a beer, but it was still pretty early, even on island time, and I wanted to have all of my wits about me.
We ordered, then Ange continued.
“Turns out this guy Patrick joined the Aryan Order. And he’s been running with them for a while now.”
I’d heard of the Aryan Order. Though I didn’t know much about the group, only what I’d learned by glancing at the occasional news article, I knew that they were an organized white supremacist group that operated primarily in Florida.
“The group is led by this man,” Ange said, showing me a mug shot of a hard-faced middle-aged guy with short, thinning hair, a scruffy beard, and a swastika tattoo on his neck. “His name’s Deacon Lynch.” She slid her thumb down the screen, then showed me another image. “And this is one of his accomplices, Jake Shaw.”
It didn’t take a second glance to recognize the guy. He was the same Jake who’d trespassed on our boat. The one whom I’d taught a lesson and relieved of his weapons, striking a powerful blow to his ego.
I’d had a gut feeling early on that this whole situation went deeper than it appeared. I just hadn’t expected it to be this deep.
I spotted the waiter coming our way with a tray of food, then told Ange that we should probably table the conversation until we were back on the Baia.
We attacked our food. Being so hungry, we ordered the seafood sampler, and I also got my blackened grouper sandwich. I’d ordered the popular item every time I’d visited the restaurant, so it was a bit of a tradition. The sampler came with fried and steamed shrimp, fish fingers, conch fritters, and crab cakes with sides of mac and cheese and spicy fries. By the time we’d cleared the plates, we were both more than satisfied.
“Any update on the intrepid treasure hunters?” Ange asked, polishing off her iced tea and leaning back in her high chair.
All of the white supremacist talk and delicious food had made me forget about the tracking device. I pulled my phone out and brought up the tracking program. After waiting for it to load, I saw the blue indicator dot in the middle of the GPS. It wasn’t in Jones Lagoon.
“Looks like they’re on the move,” I said, watching as the tracking beacon traced across lower Biscayne Bay, heading northwest.
Within minutes, the boat settled into an inlet just north of the Turkey Point Nuclear Power Plant, then stopped beside a building and row of docks.
The waiter cleared our table and brought us our check. As we paid, a man in white shorts, a blue polo shirt, and boat shoes walked right beside us and looked out over the channel. It was a nice, peaceful waterway flanked by shrubs and filled with birds and the occasional manatee.
When the guy turned around, he strode by our table, then froze right beside me.
“Best take your money elsewhere,” he said.
At first, we thought he was talking to someone else. Then we glanced at him and saw that he was peering at us through a pair of designer sunglasses.
“Excuse me?” I said.
He pointed at the screen of my phone that was resting on the table. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be nosy. I caught a glimpse of what you’re looking at and figured you were real estate investors.”
I leaned forward, saw that my phone was still displaying the GPS and the dot indicating where the two guys had scurried off to.
“Why do you say we should take our money elsewhere?” Ange said.
The man chuckled. “That marina’s a dump. Guy who owns it has been trying to pawn it off for a while now. Can’t make ends meet. But it’s no surprise, he never maintains it and scams the few people who moor there. Just wanted to give you a fair warning. The place is a money sinkhole.”
Before we could say anything else, he turned and migrated back toward his group at the other end of the dining area. I pocketed my phone and trapped a
