This book demanded extensive research in several fields, and I am grateful to the experts who took the time to advise me. Dr. Thaddeus Kostrubala, a brilliant psychopharmacologist, has once again provided behavioral profiles on some truly nasty fictional characters. Dr. James H. Peck, fellow Davenport Central (Iowa) graduate, has compiled exhaustive notes on all the Ford novels, and is due much thanks. Attorneys Tim Bruhl and Mike McHale, an admiralty law expert provide much needed information.
These people all provided valuable guidance and/or information. All errors, exaggerations, omissions, or fictionalizations are entirely the fault and the responsibility of the author.
I would especially like to thank Wendy Webb for allowing me to reprint lyrics from her original compositions. Ms. Webb was, in no way, the inspiration for the fictional character Mildred Chestra Engle, but she was the inspiration for Chestra’s haunting voice and lyrics. Ms. Webb, in fact, provided both in her songs, “Morning in New York,” “My Beating Heart,” and “Driving in a Dream.” You may hear Ms. Webb’s music on the Internet at: Wendywebbmusic.com.
Finally, I would like to thank my dear sons and buddies, Lee and Rogan White, for once again helping me finish a book.
The loneliness you get by the sea is personal and alive. It doesn’t subdue you and make you feel abject. It’s stimulating loneliness.
—Anne Morrow Lindbergh
I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
And shut us all within;
And, “Little Sorrow, weep,” said I,
“And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
And think how bad I’ve been!”
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
1
Picturing his grandfather’s face the last time he’d seen him alive—six years ago?—Bern Heller sat at a table where he’d spread the contents of a briefcase sent by the executor.
There were yellowed photos of a young man, tall, blond.
His grandfather?
No resemblance, but his name was there in faded ink.
A photo of him standing beside a man identified as Henry Ford. Another of him holding a drink tray, a towel over his arm, while Henry Ford and a younger guy—my God, Charles Lindbergh?—sat in patio chairs, palm trees in the background.
On the back: Fort Myers, Florida, 1940s.
That was the time to buy property in Florida.
His grandfather had.
Miscellaneous personal items—the attorney had mentioned the briefcase a month ago at the funeral. It arrived today, smelling of nesting rodents. His grandfather had been such a vicious son of a bitch that Heller would’ve trashed it if he hadn’t seen the photos. Henry Ford and Lindbergh—valuable.
Some other interesting stuff, too: Bills of sale for acreage the old man had purchased, handwritten. A passport, German, stamped with swastikas in a couple of places. A nautical map so old the paper flaked in his hands—two sets of numbers, also in ink, near Sanibel Island.
Another old photo, this of an unidentified woman. Glamorous, like a film star from the ’40s, a PR shot. The woman in sequins after lighting a cigarette, her eyes staring through smoke into the camera.
God, the face, those full lips. Her body…
The thought of it, a woman like this with the old man, was disgusting.
An hour later, Bern checked his watch—time to meet with the redneck Hoosier he’d hired to run the marina. He stood and looked through his condo window, seeing more palm trees, a bay and mangrove islands beyond.
M oe was telling his boss, Bern Heller, “The guy said he’d be back with a gun. I think he means it. No”—Moe ducked his head into the straw cowboy hat he was holding—“I know he means it. It’s one of the fishing guides. The spook.”
“Spook?”
Moe said, “You know, a colored guy. You don’t call them that in Wisconsin?”
Heller gave him a look.
Moe kept going. “You’ve seen him. Javier Castillo. The black guy with the Spanish accent. He’s around here most mornings, getting ice, waiting for his clients.”
“Okay…the skinny one who goes barefoot. He doesn’t look Mexican.”
“No, he’s Cuban. In Florida, that’s what most Mexicans are. Javier owns that boat sitting by the fuel docks. The Pursuit, with twin Yamaha outboards, and the radar. A beauty.”
“The greenish-looking one?”
“Yeah. The open fisherman. Blue-green.” Moe turned sideways and pointed so his boss could sight down his arm.
Heller ignored him.
Heller was CEO of a company that had built three marina communities on Florida’s Gulf coast, most of it on land acquired by his grandfather. This was the newest, Indian Harbor Marina and Resort. Two weeks ago, the eye of a hurricane had spun ashore near Sanibel Island, twenty miles south. Bern had been making rounds since, taking notes, directing cleanup, not saying much.
Their properties hadn’t done badly. A couple of condos had lost roofs. Pool screens, ornamental trees, that sort of thing. The worst was right here in front of him, a boat storage barn that had collapsed. Got hit by a tornado, maybe—which is what he was pushing the insurance people to believe.
Heller watched a crane lift a girder from the wreckage as he asked Moe, “What do you think it’s worth?”
“The Cuban guy’s boat?”
“That’s what we’re talking about. I’m trying to make a point here.”
Moe gave it a few seconds before he named a figure, then added, “It’s a well-known brand, less than a year old. We had it on a rack outside the barn. It didn’t get a scratch.”
Surprised by the value, Heller said, “That’s as much I paid for my BMW. How’d a Cuban get that kind of money?”
“The guy’s a worker. He came over on a raft and hustled his ass off. He’s not a bullshitter, either. That’s why we should call the cops now. Javier’s gonna pull a gun if we don’t let him take his boat. The cops should be here waiting.”
Heller had his grandfather’s smile. He was smiling now because Moe couldn’t keep his voice from catching. The man was scared, even though he acted hard-assed, with that cowboy hat, the redneck nose and chin, the face a triangle of stubble because that’s the way movie stars wore their beards. Moe: a hick from French Lick.
“You like that boat?”
“Sure, of course. But—”
“Do you want it?”
“Who wouldn’t, but—”
Bern cut him off. “Then we don’t want the cops here when the Cuban shows. They’d scare him away. Let him pull the gun and wave it around. That’s when we want the cops. Let them take him to jail…or shoot him.” Heller shrugged.
“Either way,” Heller said, “the boat’s ours.”
I n fact, all the boats were theirs. They belonged to the salvage company contracted to clear the wreckage. And the salvage company belonged to Heller. But he wasn’t going to trust this idiot with that little detail.
For more than two weeks, Moe had had to deal with several hundred pissed-off boat owners who paid storage at the marina but hadn’t been allowed on the property since the hurricane. Every morning, they gathered at the gate, getting madder and madder—Javier Castillo among them.
As soon as the storm had blown through, Heller had asked the state to declare the marina a hazardous area because of storm damage, so the boat owners hadn’t been allowed to step foot on the place. They couldn’t move their boats, inspect them, or recover personal items, nothing.