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Prologue
Swarms of no-see-ums, millions of tiny insects, hovered over the mangrove-covered coastline, glistening like dust mites in the orange-and-magenta twilight. Nearly all of the 173,000 acres that made up Biscayne Bay National Park lie in shallow waters warmed by the Gulf Stream and subtropical climate. FBI Special Agent Andie Henning was north of the Florida Keys, where fresh water from the Florida Everglades flowed into the bay to create an estuary-like mix of fresh and salt water. Her flats boat cruised at the deliberate speed of a hungry but patient crocodile eyeing an egret. Along the shore, hundreds of pink flamingos, ankle deep in the shallows, stood on one leg and watched the passing boat, as if to wonder what the FBI was doing there.
“This is starting to feel like the proverbial needle in a haystack,” said Andie.
Fellow agent Grace Kennedy had one hand on the throttle. At such a slow speed, the outboard engine purred like a sewing machine.
“It’s a million-to-one shot that we find anything before dark,” said Grace.
Andie peered through her binoculars, her gaze sweeping the tangled, exposed root system of a shadowy mangrove forest.
Homicides were not typically within the jurisdiction of the FBI, but a dead body in a national park was not strictly a matter for local law enforcement. The circumstances surrounding this apparent homicide were of keen interest to Agent Henning. A man identifying himself as the killer had called a local reporter to say his victim could be found at low tide in Biscayne Bay National Park. As a rookie agent, Andie had made a name for herself infiltrating a cult in Washington’s Yakima Valley, andby the time she’d transferred to south Florida, she had more experience in the multijurisdictional tracking of serial killers, domestic terrorists, and other homicidal maniacs than anyone in the Miami office.
“How was your date with Perry Mason?” asked Grace. It was an abrupt change of subject, but after two hours of swatting mosquitos a diversion was a good thing.
Andie lowered her binoculars. “You mean the lawyer who asked me out? His name’s Jack. Jack Swyteck.”
“Swyteck? Any relation to the former Governor Swyteck?”
“He’s Jack’s father.”
“A criminal defense lawyer and son of a politician. What’s the third strike against him?”
Andie laughed. “He doesn’t haveanystrikes against him.”
“Does that mean you’re going to say yes if he asks for a second date?”
“He’s not going to ask for a second date.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I already asked him for a second date. And he said yes.”
Grace smiled and shook her head. “A criminal defense lawyer and an FBI agent. I hear wedding bells already.”
Andie’s cellphone rang, which was weird, even if it did sound more like a xylophone than approaching nuptials. She answered and put the call on speaker so Grace could listen. It was Gustavo Cruz, a homicide detective with the Miami-Dade Police Department.
“We found the body,” he said and then quickly shared the coordinates.
Andie checked the map on her cellphone. “That’s outside the park.”
“Yes. Well north of it.”
“The caller said the body was in the park,” said Andie.
“I’ll note that in my report: anonymous tipster sucks at geography. The point here is that it’s outside FBI jurisdiction. We won’t be needing your assistance.”
Turf wars between the FBI and local law enforcement were as old as the oolitic limestone that formed the Florida Keys. Andie was getting the sense that Detective Cruz had sent the feds on a proverbial wild-flamingo chase as MDPD followed better leads to the actual disposal site.
“I thought you were above these games, Gustavo.”
“No games. We got this,” he said, and the call ended.
“Jackass,” said Andie as she put away her phone.
“It’s fine. Let MDPD have it,” said Grace.
Andie was not so easily blown off. “The caller said ‘in the park.’ If the murder was in the park, we still have jurisdiction, even if the body drifted somewhere else.”
