“Whadya mean?” she asked.
“This Omega is expensive as dive watches go. It’s not a Rolex Submariner, but a Seamaster like this one sells new for about four grand.”
“Can you use this to ID the victim?”
“Maybe,” Mike muttered before retrieving his cell phone. He placed a call into the conference room where the other detectives were following up on leads related to the two existing homicides. “Hey, on this new Key Largo case. I need someone to run down our list of missing persons. Contact the families and see if any of the missing persons own an Omega Seamaster Diver 300 wristwatch. Also, check Miami-Dade missing persons.”
Mike might have just taken on another case, but he might have caught a break as well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Monday, October 21
Driftwood Key
It was another beautiful day in the Florida Keys. As the operator of a resort hotel, Monday wasn’t especially different from any other day. Guests came and went seven days a week. Meals were prepared. Drinks were served. Entertainment was offered. Daily maintenance functions were undertaken.
Fantasy Fest was underway in Key West, and thousands of people were jamming A1A as they descended upon the southernmost point of the Continental U.S. The Driftwood Key Inn was full, as always, with another couple of bungalows turning over that morning.
Two elderly couples had arrived early, and while their room was being prepared, Hank took them on a short tour of the beach amenities. He offered to walk them down the dock, and then he’d return to the main house to meet with Sonny and Phoebe to place their wholesale orders and discuss their work projects for the week.
“I believe this is your first visit to Driftwood Key,” said Hank casually as the group strolled along the dock toward where Hank’s fishing boat would normally be tied off. Jimmy had taken a family fishing early that morning for half a day. “Is it your first time in the Keys?”
One couple came regularly, and the other had never been to Florida. They were residents of Colorado. As if on cue, just as they arrived at the thatched covering, Bob Marley’s music began to softly play through the speakers that dotted the beachfront. It set the tone for the group to observe the turquoise waters swarming with fish that day.
“Would you mind telling us about the Conch Republic?” asked the man from Colorado politely, pointing at the flag gently flapping in the breeze.
Hank smiled and nodded. This question was often asked while he interacted with guests. He reached into his back pocket and retrieved his Conch Republic passport. The novelty item, issued by the official Conch Republic office in Key West, was bent and cracked from decades of spending time in Hank’s pockets. He studied its crest, a combination of the Conch Republic flag, a dolphin jumping out of the water, and a sailing ship on the ocean. He ran his fingers across the official motto and read it aloud to his guests.
“We seceded where others failed.”
He handed the passport to the man from Colorado, who opened it and began to flip through its pages. It looked as official as any passport from any nation he’d visited.
As they admired it, Hank explained. “Here’s what happened. Many folks down this way believed the United States declared war on the Florida Keys. In April of ’82, as part of its anti-drug programs, the U.S. Border Patrol set up a roadblock and customs checkpoint just before A1A crossed over to the Florida mainland, which, as you probably know, is the only way in or out of the Florida Keys.
“It was the first time the U.S. government had set up an armed checkpoint that was within the territory of the U.S. itself and not actually at any internationally recognized border. Customs agents began checking IDs and systematically searching every vehicle leaving the Keys, looking for drugs. Within hours, the stopped cars had produced a traffic jam nineteen miles long, forcing travelers to wait for hours before being allowed to continue on.
“Over the next few days, as word spread across the country about the massive delays, tourists began cancelling their Key West vacations. Delivery trucks from the mainland stopped going to the Keys. The businesses, like ours, that were so dependent on outside tourists and supplies, were completely paralyzed.
“It so happened that Skeeter Davis, the owner of the Last Chance Saloon right in front of where the border patrol had set up the roadblock, was a friend of Key West mayor Dennis Wardlow. After a day, he was on the phone to the mayor, asking if he could do anything about the situation. The Key West City Council met and decided to have their lawyers seek a federal court injunction to force the border patrol to lift the roadblock.
“To avoid the traffic, Mayor Wardlow and a few other officials flew to Miami to make their case. On April 22, the court ruled against them and refused to issue an injunction. As they were leaving the courthouse, reporters asked him what the city would do next, and Mayor Wardlow announced to the reporters, ‘We’re gonna go home and secede. Tomorrow at noon, the Florida Keys will secede from the Union!’”
The group laughed as Hank relayed the mayor’s words with an excited voice as if he’d uttered them himself. He’d told the story hundreds of times before, so he continued with the unwritten script that he’d recited from memory and practice.
“Well, the story flew around the country, and when the Key West city government gathered at Clinton Square, in front of the old customs building, at noon on April 23 to formally announce their secession, they were surrounded by reporters from across the US. They were also surrounded by federal agents wearing earphones and blue suits, who stood out amongst the locals, who were wearing tee shirts and flip-flops.
“The mayor stood on the back of a flatbed truck and announced that since the U.S. government had decided to treat the Keys as a foreign country and had already established the border to be at the Last Chance Saloon, Key West might as well be a foreign country.
“He declared himself to be the prime minister before presenting the Conch flag just like the one above us. He even had a pledge of allegiance.”
“Do you know it?” asked one of the guests.
Hank smiled and placed his right hand over his heart. “Of course, I’m a Conch.” The group chuckled as he turned reverently to face the flag and recited the pledge.
“I pledge allegiance to the flag of my tiny island nation. And to the Republic for which it stands. One nation, under the sun, indivisible, where the liberty is true and the justice is divine. Long live the Conch Republic!”
Hank thrust his fist into the air as the group of four guests cheered him on. Everyone exchanged high fives, and Hank imagined they’d be racing down the highway shortly to join the movement.
Hank left out the part of how the newly anointed prime minister then formally declared war on the United States of America, and for one full minute, the citizens of the new Conch Republic attacked the US Navy and Coast Guard officials who were present by pelting them with stale Cuban bread. It was all in good fun, of course, but would generate a far different reaction if it had occurred today.
While the guests got a good laugh, Hank felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was a text message notification from Peter.
Peter: Call me. 911.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Monday, October 21
Washington, DC
The U.S. Department of State was headquartered in the Harry S. Truman Building in an area of Washington, DC, known as Foggy Bottom. It was one of the oldest neighborhoods in the District located just west of the White House. In the nineteenth century, Foggy Bottom received its name because it was in a low-lying marshy area near the Potomac River. Fog, and later industrial smog, would settle there, lending the appearance of a perpetually cloud-covered part of the city.