The off-duty deputy shrugged. “Ask your handsome attorney. I guarantee he knows who the Candors are-or, at least, about their clinic. It’s one of those revolving-door rehab facilities that targets public funding. Just like they did in Ohio-prescribe meds, then treat the very same patients when they get hooked. That’s why the Candors are still rich. They know how the system works.”
Dr. Alice Candor had told me the same thing, bragging about it.
I asked, “Is the property near the clinic? If it is, security’s going to be more than just one guard driving around in a golf cart.”
“Stop worrying! Where I think they dumped the stuff is half a mile from the actual facility-you know, the buildings where they keep patients.” Birdy paused to look at me as if gauging my courage, then asked, “Do you have anything planned for tonight?”
She’s leading you into trouble, a voice warned, which is why I replied, “You know I do.” As we’d left Sulfur Wells, I had pointed to the cabins known as Munchkinville and explained I was going to question the owners about their charity donations. But I hadn’t said tonight.
“How about we do this,” the deputy suggested. “We’ll split up the cabins and go door-to-door-” She stopped in midsentence, a woman who was easily distracted, and tilted her nose again. “Smell that? You know what I mean about the air?”
No, but I was happy to switch subjects. “The mounds have a different smell to them, that’s true. It could be the trees-gumbo-limbos and key lime trees, and one called white stopper-it’s got an unusual smell. They made a medicine out of the leaves to stop diarrhea.”
Birdy shook her head in a way that told me I wasn’t close, which gave me an idea. “I’ve got a friend you should meet,” I said. “You two are opposites in most ways, but he’d understand. And he’s fun. Tomlinson’s his name.”
“A mystic, huh?” the redhead said, either not interested or she didn’t believe me. But several minutes later, as we hiked back to the boat, she asked, “Is this guy another one of your gay buddies or is he married?”
That made me smile. “Keeping your bra snapped is the only problem women have with Tomlinson. He lives on a sailboat in Dinkin’s Bay-that’s Sanibel.”
“Is it on the way home?” she asked.
Dinkin’s Bay was three miles southwest, but it was safer than sneaking around rehab clinics after dark. I replied, “It can be.”
“Great. But if we stay late, we’ll drive up there and search tomorrow. My shift ends at six, so we can leave around seven. Okay?”
When I asked, “Where’s this place again?” she picked up her phone and told me, “I’ll send you the link.”
HOURS LATER, I was alone in Marion Ford’s lab, waiting for Birdy to return from Tomlinson’s sailboat, when impatience caused me to open my phone. Instead of dialing Birdy, I sat down, surprised, because I saw the link for the first time.
Sematee Evaluation and Treatment Clinic, Carnicero, Florida
The clinic had a different box number, but it used the same little Carnicero post office as the charity Fisherfolk of South Florida Inc.
Rather than calling my new friend, I texted, How much longer? We need to talk.
It took awhile, but the off-duty deputy finally replied, Float on, Smithie
, which told me I would have to wait until morning-but only because she added the smiley face.
16
In the morning, at my office, after tracing three familiar names to the origins of Fisherfolk Incorporated, a headline in the news caught my attention.
VENEZUELAN LEADER MISSING;
GUERRILLAS VOW RIOTS, “REVENGE”
I couldn’t help but read the story. A revolutionary group known as FARC had been attending peace talks in Caracas and their chairman had disappeared while swimming near a beach resort. No body had been found, but FARC members insisted he had either been abducted or murdered. They were blaming U.S. “covert gangsters” and warned North Americans to stay out of the streets during the protest march they were organizing. The Venezuelan president said he anticipated rioting if the FARC leader was not returned unharmed. Police, he said, had detained several U.S. citizens for questioning.
That alone was enough to worry me, so I hunted around for a more detailed account. The only facts I could add, though, were that late yesterday afternoon the FARC leader had told friends he was going snorkel diving, not swimming, and he was supposedly an experienced diver. An unnamed FARC member was quoted as saying, “We know who did this and will soon have him.”
Once again, I checked e-mails, hoping for a note from Marion or, at the very least, that he had read the e-mails I had sent. There were three now, one for every day he’d been gone, but none had been opened.
I brought up Google Earth and studied Venezuela’s coastline, eight hundred miles along the Caribbean sea, much of it jungle and isolated islands.
That, at least, was comforting. Ford had said the aquaculture company that had hired him was in a remote place. He had also mentioned something about access to clean seawater away from cities. Good! If people were going to protest and riot, they would do it in a place where there were streets, not raw jungle. And police certainly wouldn’t bother with a marine biologist who was in the country to work, not cause trouble.
Ford’s safe, I reassured myself. Even so, I sent him a fourth e-mail that included a link to the story. At the bottom, I wrote, “Get yourself home in one piece!” I was tempted to add a smiley face to prove I wasn’t worried but didn’t.
Thinking about it reminded me that I hadn’t heard from Birdy Tupplemeyer. Her car had been gone when I’d stopped to check on Loretta, so I assumed she’d gotten home okay. I sent her a text, asking, You make it to work? then got back to my own work, which was nearly done-the computer search portion, that is.
In Florida, a nonprofit corporation has to name at least three primary officers. They don’t have to live in Florida, but their street addresses have to be included in the formal documents. I had had to peel through a dozen layers of bureaucracy but had laid the truth bare-a partial truth anyway. It was no wonder the late Rosanna Helms was collecting donations from her friends. Her children, Crystal and Mica, were listed as directors of Fisherfolk Inc. It was the name of the third officer, however, that convinced me a broader truth existed-a truth that would be much harder to unveil, I suspected.
I called Joel Ransler, who listened in silence, then confirmed my fears, saying, “Wow, that’s not going to be easy to prove, Hannah. You know… it might be wiser to gather complaints from people you know, locals who’ve made donations, and create a media stink-see what I’m saying? Stop what they’re doing from the bottom rather than going after power people at the top. The results will be the same, and it’s a hell of a lot safer.”
Joel, for the first time, sounded nervous. It made me curious. “Power people?” I said. “I only mentioned one name.”
“I was speaking generally,” he said. “In county infrastructure, all businesses are linked. Which wouldn’t bother me a bit if there’s a provable crime. Look”-a smile came into his voice-“collect all the information you can. Give it to me when you’re ready, then we’ll have dinner together and discuss it.”
Dinner? I had just shared details about a transparent donation scam. The charity was providing elderly “fisherfolk” with the forms necessary to donate their homes, savings accounts and valuables in return for “tax benefits” and the promise to preserve their “heritage” by displaying family heirlooms and photos in a museum that didn’t exist.