Jonathon King - Shadow Men

We then went to work on printing out a topographical map of the Everglades corridor along the Tamiami Trail and a two-mile border on either side. The satellite imagery that was used to create the map was detailed enough to show the curve of Loop Road. It showed the Everglades National Park visitors' center at Big Bend and the Gulf Coast visitors' center just outside Everglades City. Without too much map-reading expertise, you could make out the larger groups of hardwood hammocks and cypress stands. When Billy used the longitude and latitude notations from John William's crudely sketched book, the corresponding points were stunning. The groups of X's he had recorded under a pen squib of trees came up in three groupings of existing trees found by the satellite. All were less than a mile as the crow flies south of the existing roadway. By simple choice of elimination, I focused on the spot with the three X's. If a father and two sons were buried there, the chance of finding some sign of them had been enhanced dramatically. But we were still talking about hundreds of square feet, and then only if the figures were exact.

While Billy checked more calculations, I used one of his office lines to call the Frontier Hotel.

"Bar, can I get cha?" said the woman's voice after eight rings.

"Josie. This is Max Freeman, the tall guy who was in the other day meeting with Nate Brown?"

"Yeah. I know who you are-always pullin' trouble behind you."

"Yeah, well, I need to get a message to Mr. Brown, and he said you'd be able to contact him."

There was silence on the other end.

"If he comes in, I'll contact him," she finally said.

Right, I thought. Maybe next month. But what was I going to do?

"OK, fair enough. If you contact him, can you give him this cell phone number and tell him to call me as soon as possible?" I read the number off to her, going slowly, pronouncing clearly, not knowing if she was even bothering to write it down.

"OK?" I said.

"OK. I got it. But I don't think Mr. Brown ever used a phone in his life. He usually finds folks when he wants to find them."

"Yeah, I know. But these were his instructions, to call you, Josie, OK?"

"He said me? By name?"

"That's right."

"OK, then. I'll get it to him," she said, and might have let some point of pride slip into her voice.

"Thanks very much, Josie. I owe you," I said, but hung up before she could ask me how much.

I went back to the map. Billy had marked off mileage amounts along the roadway, and distances from recreation turnouts to the X's.

"It's g-going to b-be very inaccurate," he said, maybe not knowing, since he had never been in the Glades himself, how obvious the statement was.

"You plan to say anything to the Mayes kid about all this?"

Billy shook his head.

"N-Not him. N-Not PalmCo's people," he said. "We keep it to ourselves and see wh-what we come up with. This way we keep it out of the p-press. No one knows what we're after or where we're l-looking."

I thought of getting my truck swept again by Ramon and his crew. I thought about the look of satisfaction on Nate Brown's face when he'd ditched us into the mangroves and lost the helicopter tail.

"You're optimistic," I said.

"I'm a lawyer," he responded. "It's w-what I do."

I used his phone to page Richards and then rolled up a copy of our treasure map.

"I'll let you know when Brown gets in touch with me," I said.

"Good h-hunting."

I was in the truck trying to think of a good place to take a nap when Richards answered the page.

"Hey. What's up?"

"Dinner tonight?"

"You beat me to it, Freeman. Can we just have something at my place? I've got someone staying with me and it might help to have you there, you know, to give your perspective on things?"

"Sounds like your friend in denial," I said. "She too scared to go home now?"

"You're quite the detective, Freeman. Can't talk now though, I'm in the shop. How about six thirty or seven?"

"I'm there."

"Good."

My brain was feeling clunky from lack of sleep, too much alcohol and too much grinding. I drove south on A1A until I got to the entrance of a beachside county park, paid the seven dollars to get in and then found a quiet parking spot in the shade of a line of Australian pines. I rolled both windows down for a cross-breeze and then put my seat back. Within five minutes I was asleep.

The squawk of a bird woke me, or maybe the yelp of a child, or the clatter of beach chairs being loaded into a car. It took me a moment to realize where I was, but then I banged my knee on the steering wheel and the quick shot of pain cleared my head. I checked my watch. It had been two hours. I climbed out of the truck and took a few minutes to stretch out the kinks in my back and the tightness in my hamstrings. Behind me the western sky was smeared in soft washes of burnt orange and purple. To the east, through the trees, the surf was slushing up onto the beach. I walked to the park rest room and stood at the sink splashing cold water into my face and finger-combing my hair. You'll be quite the date tonight, Freeman.

I took A1A down to Lauderdale, stopped at a doughnut shop, just for the coffee. I passed the spot where the Galt Ocean Hotel once stood, where Joe Namath made his outlandish promise at poolside that he would beat the Colts in Super Bowl III and then went out and did it. I made a special pass by the Elbo Room, the corner bar where spring break was immortalized in the 1960s. It was a cool and lazy evening, and I was in an unusually buoyant mood until I parked in front of Richards's place and heard a harsh, guttural yell coming from the garden entrance at the side of the house. There were two unfamiliar cars in the driveway, a two-door Toyota and a black Trans Am with a spoiler on the back and an air-scooped hood. I was running the possibilities through my head when the man's barking sounded again.

"Goddamnit, Kathleen. I need to talk with you now! I know you're in there!"

I started up the driveway, shifting into cop mode, feeling the trace of adrenaline trickling into my bloodstream. Signal 38. Domestic disturbance. Worst and most unpredictable call a patrolman gets.

I came around the corner and his back was to me. He was dressed in civilian clothes, jeans and a tank-top T-shirt. He had one arm over the top of the wooden fence gate to Richards's backyard, searching, I assumed, for the lift latch that would unlock it.

"Come on, Richards," he said, taking his voice down a notch in volume but not in anger. "I know what the fuck you're doing. Stay out of it and let her come out and talk, just talk." He lowered his voice further and whispered, "you fucking bitch."

I took a few more quiet steps, set my feet and said, "Nice talk about a superior officer, McCrary."

His head twisted around like he'd been bitten in the ass and when he recognized me he slowly came off the fence and squared up.

"This ain't your business, P.I.," he said, and I could see the muscles in his jaws flex. Here was something male to put his anger on, something he could understand.

"I believe you're trespassing, officer. Not a pretty charge to show up on a report to your sergeant," I said, measuring the distance between us and moving just slightly to my right away from his dominant hand. I had spent too many years at Frankie O'Hara's father's gym in South Philly, first as just a kid in the neighborhood fascinated by what went on inside, and later as a sparring partner for the professionals who worked there. You never forget the fundamentals or the moves after they'd been punched into you by professionals.

"And you're just the kind of prick who'd write one up on another cop, aren't you, P.I.?" I watched his hands flex at his sides and then curl into fists.

"It might be a good time for you to relax a bit, McCrary, and take a walk. I think-"