2 Green to Go Read online

  “Come with me, Mr. Reilly.”

  When I stood I felt a wave of nausea. I again touched the knot on the back of my head. It hadn’t subsided but at least it wasn’t any bigger.

  “Do you work with Curro?” I said.

  The man didn’t answer but walked me down the hall, where we picked up a uniformed escort. I was led to an interrogation room: small, with a table and two chairs.

  The man identified himself as Detective Johnson of the Key West Police Department, then got me to give my name, place of residence (the La Concha Hotel), employment (Last Resort Charters and Salvage), marital status (divorced and freshly dumped), date of birth, etc. etc.

  “Are you always this thorough with drunks?” I said.

  “What were you doing on Whitehead Street at three o’clock this morning, Mr. Reilly?”

  I told him about Karen’s going away party at the Pier House, how I had too much to drink and tried to ride my bike home. The rest was a blur, probably as a result of this plum on the back of my head. He asked if he could feel it, which I allowed, then he pressed down, which made me flinch and yip.

  “There were around fifty people at the party and several could confirm I was one of the last to leave.” I felt silly blurting that out, but this guy was so serious maybe we’d balance each other out.

  “You see anything strange as you were traveling on Whitehead this morning?”

  I blinked my eyes a few times. “I’m afraid I don’t recall being on Whitehead.”

  He studied a file for a moment, and his eyebrow rose.

  “You’re blood alcohol level was .26. No wonder you don’t remember anything.”

  He was turning pages and reading what I assumed to be my rap sheet. Lovely. His forehead furrowed. No surprise there.

  “You have quite the colorful past, Mr. Reilly. e-Antiquity? I remember that company. And you were the president?” The long stare spoke volumes. “Says here I’m to notify the Federal Bureau of Investigation if you’re arrested, for anything. Agent T. Edward Booth in Miami. Mean anything to you?”

  I bit my lip. This day was going downhill, fast.

  He asked another few questions but I had nothing more to offer. My curiosity was aroused, though.

  “What happened on Whitehead that you’re wondering if I saw?”

  “What makes you think I’m wondering if you saw something, rather than considering you a suspect?”

  That made my heart double-clutch. “Do I need a lawyer, or what?”

  He stood, stared down at me for a moment, and left me alone in the room.

  What the hell happened? Had I run somebody over on my bike? Possibly, but how much damage could that have done?

  An image fluttered through my mind. I’d seen someone when I crashed. Someone familiar? Maybe it was just details from the vivid dream that woke me in the cell. I couldn’t recall, but whatever Detective Johnson was investigating, it had to be worse than puking on the sidewalk.

  3

  Another twenty minutes elapsed before the door suddenly opened. Someone stood in silhouette thanks to the bright light behind him. He was wearing shorts.

  “The hell you done now, cuz?”

  Currito Salazar stepped inside the door. Five feet eight inches, beer gut, salt and pepper beard, cargo shorts with chicken legs, flip-flops, and a ratty old T-shirt emblazoned with “Full Moon Saloon.”

  “I’m guilty of getting drunk, Curro. I don’t know what these guys are talking about. What happened on Whitehead, do you know?”

  “Let’s get out of here before they change their minds,” he said.

  “You bonded me out?”

  “Ain’t no bond. I’m to take your ass back to the La Concha where you’re to go straight to bed and sleep off the rest of whatever shit you drank last night.” He grinned. “Good party?”

  “Not exactly.”

  We went through the release procedures and I was given back my meager possessions: watch, wallet, and a Spanish piece of eight silver coin on a gold chain. Outside, the heat hit me like a bucket of water and got the knot on my head throbbing.

  Curro’s vintage Cadillac Coupe d’Elegance awaited. The trunk was so voluminous that the lid shut with room to spare after we put my bike in. Maybe I’d be better off in the darkness there myself.

  Once in the car, Curro lit a Parliament cigarette, drained what was left of a Michelob pony bottle, and put the car in gear. We swung out onto Simonton, crossed Duval, and took a left on Whitehead.

  As soon as we turned the corner my eyes nearly burst from my head.

  Police cars were everywhere.

  “What the hell happened?” I said.

  “Treasure Salvors was hit in the middle of the night. Picked clean.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  He slowed the car and pointed with his chin. “They found you right out front, too. Lucky you were so fucked up, otherwise they’d still be grilling your ass.” He shrugged. “Even so, I’m surprised they let you go, to tell the truth.”

  Given the gravity of the issue, so was I. An image of my crash popped into my head, and the recollection that I’d seen someone. A couple of people, maybe. I needed to remember what the hell I’d seen and whether it might hold a clue to the robbery.

  Yellow tape and barricades were stacked up in front of the Treasure Salvors Museum. A quick count identified a dozen police cars—Monroe County Sheriff’s Department, city cops, state cops—along with a bunch of news vans.

  Robbed? How much of the half-billion dollars’ worth of gold, silver, and jewels harvested from the wreck of the Atocha over the past thirty years had been kept at the museum? I wouldn’t think much beyond what was in the displays and the gift shop. But considering the price of gold and silver these days, that could still be worth millions.

  A pair of antique cannons were perched atop the red brick stairs outside. Standing in the doorway was Donny Pogue, the director of Treasure Salvors. His Midwestern pallor and round frame looked more stooped than usual as he watched the comings and goings of police.

  “Let’s get you home—”

  “Hold on, Curro, there’s Donny. Let’s ask him—”

  “I’m not going anywhere near that place, cuz. Get out and I’ll circle around the block. I told my cousin I’d bring your ass back to the La Concha, and that’s what I’m doing, but I didn’t say we wouldn’t make any stops.”

  I walked around until I was directly in front of the entrance but still thirty feet away thanks to the police barricades. Donny eventually spotted me, and even from that distance I saw him shrug. He came down the steps, between the two cannons, and over to me.

  “Robbed?” I said. “I thought this place was like Fort Knox.”

  “So did I, but whoever planned this knew what they were doing. Took down the alarms, used light explosives to enter the building and vaults. In and out in fifteen minutes. We didn’t know shit until I got here this morning. Unbelievable.”

  I looked around at the various police cruisers and officers that swarmed the property.

  “What do these guys think? Any clues?”

  Donny shook his head. “They’re not telling me anything. The way it went down, so smooth, I’m sure we’re all suspects. You know, guilty until proven innocent.” He looked back over his shoulder, then leaned in closer to me. “One thing, though—when I got here this morning? I found a note.”

  “What kind of note?”

  “Weird note. It said: ‘This was never yours.’”

  “That is weird. Any idea what it meant?”

  He sucked in a deep breath. “Only thing I can think of is some of Mel’s original investors, ones that crapped out before the find, or maybe competing treasure hunters from back in the seventies. The cops asked for all those kinds of records, anyway. Guess they’ll be checking every possible angle.”

  “Any previous threats or weird comments like that?”

  He rubbed his chin. “I guess you could count those nuts from South Ameri
ca who wanted to repatriate raw materials stolen by the Spanish in the 1500’s.”

  “You mean like the reports out of Peru in the news?”

  “Haven’t seen any of that. I’m talking about the wackos who were in a few months ago. I thought they were historians, or maybe kidding, to tell you the truth.”

  An older man in a suit called Donny’s name from the door of the museum. I thought for a second it was Detective Johnson.

  “Gotta run, Buck.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  A sardonic smile bent his lips. “I’m sure there’ll be a reward of some sort. With all the cops involved, I doubt there’ll be any privateers hired, but you never know. Maybe you’ll finally get that gold doubloon you’ve been after.”

  The suit now stood behind the cannons with his hands on his hips. He called Donny’s name again, and Donny jogged back up the steps. But the suit kept his gaze fixed on me. I turned away. Last thing I needed was for him to find out I was the idiot passed out at the scene of the biggest crime in Key West’s history. That and my past as an e-Antiquity treasure hunter were bound to make me a person of interest in this case.

  I heard the screech of brakes and turned to find Curro’s Cadillac by the curb.

  “Seen enough of this crazy shit, Buck?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready for bed.”

  My throbbing head hadn’t been helped by the sun and flashing police lights. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what I’d seen here six hours ago, but between the headache, dehydration, and exhaustion, I drew a blank.

  4

  Sirens continued to wail up and down Duval Street, driving needles in my aching head. The elevator deposited me on the sixth floor of the La Concha hotel, the highest point on the island, where I hoped the noise wouldn’t be as loud. I opened the door, and—what’s this?

  A letter was halfway under my door.

  My name in Karen’s handwriting on the envelope. I thought of the last letter I found, from my father informing me that I was adopted. Holding the envelope with both hands. I caught a whiff of Karen’s lilac scent and my heart dropped. I placed the envelope on my bookshelf. I wasn’t in shape for any more surprises just now.

  The message light blinked on my machine but I only wanted water, and after guzzling a quart, I collapsed on my bed. Out instantly, I didn’t budge, even though the phone occasionally penetrated my inebriated slumber. Last Resort Charter and Salvage was closed for the day, maybe the week. After an hour and a half and another missed call, I finally turned on the television and lowered the volume to a whisper.

  I expected images from the Atocha Museum but found shots of South American rebels instead. Peru was back in the news. The rebels had fanned the flames of nationalism and were gaining credence in Lima as the elections approached. Centuries of Western opportunism had stripped Peru of precious raw materials and left behind a destitute populace. My archeological and commercial activities there a few years ago would have had me strung up in this environment.

  Washington and European capitols were increasingly under attack as have-nots around the globe found their voices. Revolution fever has spread from the Middle East to South America, and many places in between. According to the news, Peruvian rebels still demanded repayment from past imperialists, to the tune of billions of dollars.

  Maybe we could help them build casinos.

  I got out of bed—very slowly—guzzled some more water, and was stopped cold by a picture of Karen laughing in my kayak with Betty in the background. She’d loved flying around in my Widgeon the past few months, accompanying me on fruitless efforts to find ancient shipwrecks in the waters around Fort Jefferson.

  The phone rang.

  “Reilly, is that you?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “It’s me, Nardi. Got some news for you.”

  Officer Frank Nardi, from the United States Coast Guard, Officer of the Deck aboard the Mohawk, a 230’ cutter, and one of the guys I played basketball with on Tuesdays at Douglas Community Center. What day is this?

  “I know, the Atocha Museum—”

  “Not that, and not so fast. This’ll cost you lunch, but trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

  We agreed to meet at Pepe’s in a half-hour, which forced me up to face the day.

  Coffee could wait until I got there, but a shower was imperative. Ten minutes later, I was ready for food and starting with a handful of aspirin as an appetizer.

  Through the lobby I avoided eye contact with the new day manager, Bruce, who was Karen’s replacement. Maybe it was time to find another place to live. I’d been a month-to-month resident at the La Concha since coming to Key West, and having broken my vow not to complicate things here, I now felt like a trespasser in my own residence. Karen had been the first woman I’d opened my heart to since Heather divorced me in the midst of all my other troubles, but I still hadn’t been able to give her anything more than a good time. She deserved more and she knew it. I was back to the mantra that relationships weren’t for me. La Concha employees gave me sympathetic looks. Maybe they felt sorry for me because I’d lost my girl. Or maybe they’d heard I spent the night in jail.

  Whatever.

  Outside, the sun was blinding. I had to get my blood circulating, but given how I felt, a run was out of the question. Curro had locked my red bike to the rack out back, and I was in no condition to walk all the way to Pepe’s. I got on the bike, only to again hear the sound of sirens. I was not about to go down Whitehead, so I crossed Duval and turned up Simonton. Was the air crisp, or was I shaking from the alcohol still in my system? Hopefully coffee would solve both. At Caroline Street I turned right and double-timed it toward Pepe’s, now late to meet Nardi.

  5

  The chatter was lively in the small restaurant, filled with speculation about the robbery. There had been many attempts over the years, none of them successful. Until now. It was big news, but there was still no report, at least publicly, on the extent of the theft. Donny said the thieves had cleaned them out but hadn’t offered any specifics.

  Out of what? And how many whats?

  Frank Nardi was perched on the edge of his seat.

  “About freaking time, Buck.”

  “What happened at Treasure Salvors was crazy, huh?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I’m in a hurry,” he said. “We’ve been scrambled to go on patrol.”

  “Why, did buccaneers make the heist?”

  “Don’t joke. What better way to make a getaway on a remote island after a theft of that magnitude? They have road blocks every ten miles up the Keys and haven’t found shit, so either the goods are still on-island, or the bad guys left by boat.”

  “With what, exactly?”

  Nardi said he didn’t know the magnitude of the theft, but agreed that what was on display and in the gift shop was likely worth millions. Which made it the biggest crime in the long and notorious history of Cayo Hueso.

  “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to tell you about,” he said.

  The waiter came and I ordered fried eggs and their famous refried potatoes along with a tall mug of coffee. Frank only had time for a refill of orange juice.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “A piece of non-sensitive intel you might find interesting.” He smiled and hunkered down on his crossed arms atop the table. I leaned in closer. “We’ve received some transcriptions of radio chatter from boats out of Cuba involved in a salvage operation.”

  “There’s a lot of old Spanish galleons sunk in Cuban waters,” I said. “No surprise there. Fidel plundered quite a few, though, so nobody’s sure what’s left—”

  “I’m not talking Cuban waters or a sunken galleon. I’m talking Manny Gutierrez’s ocean racer you sank on the Cuban territorial line. Interesting thing is, it doesn’t seem to be a government salvage team but a private one, not that there’s much sanctioned private enterprise in Cuba.”

  Frank said something about how things were changing rapidl
y in Cuba since both the Castro boys had died. The power vacuum and ensuing struggle had grown in intensity. All of this was interesting, but my mind had anchored on the news that Gutierrez’s boat was being sought for salvage. The memory of my waterproof pouch sinking with the boat was etched in my mind as the moment my bankruptcy became irreversible.

  At least until last week’s revelation in Geneva, when Ben and I recovered the originals from my parent’s Swiss bank account. I’d tried to find that wreck three times over the past months so I could retrieve my pouch. Given the hasty departure we’d been forced to make the day my maps and key were lost, I never thought to record the GPS coordinates.

  “The boat sank in international waters,” Nardi continued, “so there isn’t anything we can do about it, but I thought you’d be interested.”

  “He was a spy, Frank. Isn’t Homeland Security worried about what else might have been on board?”

  “Not based on what they recovered from Gutierrez’s home and art gallery. He was just an observer and distributor of funds to small cells around Florida. He left all his records intact. His operation was more defensive in nature, in case we launched an assault on Cuba. They had a series of counter-attacks planned.” He paused. “But, yeah, you’d think the intel-types would have already salvaged that boat. And maybe they did. They wouldn’t have told anybody.”

  If our government had salvaged the wreck, then they would already have my copies of treasure maps—which would be fine, since they could care less about that kind of stuff. But if a well-funded private group got hold of them, my now having the originals wouldn’t matter. I didn’t have the resources to compete.

  “Buck, are you listening to me?” Nardi said.

  “Sorry, I was just remembering that day. Maybe Gutierrez had some cash or art on board someone found out about. Maybe that’s what they’re after.”

  “More likely Gutierrez is after it himself. After his hero’s welcome in Havana, and with Fidel and Raul now dead, he’s been building a powerbase within State Security alongside Director Sanchez that could have him well positioned in whatever government emerges. Maybe there’s something on the boat that will help him do that.”