It was time to get a better look at Blood Island. I walked over to Garrison Bight and rented an eighteen-foot Grady-White boat with a 150horsepower outboard hanging off the transom. I only had to go twelve miles to Blood Island, but sometimes the seas in these latitudes kick up without much warning. If that happened, the Grady could take it without breaking a sweat.
I gave the attendant Ben Joyce's credit card and showed him the ID. He asked me a couple of questions to see if I knew how to handle a boat, and handed me the keys.
I bought a fishing rod and some bait from the tackle shop next door, and climbed down into the boat. I put the rod in its holder, cranked the engine, and motored out of the entrance to the bight. I passed the waterfront homes of the Naval officers who manned the facilities at the military installations that remained at the end of the continental U.S., and turned left into the main channel.
The seas were flat that early in the morning, and I made good time on a westerly course. I passed the western-most of the Mule Keys and eased up to Blood Island. I rode around it, seeing nothing but mangroves hugging the water. As I came to the eastern side I saw the deeper water of the cut leading around the island from Boca Grande Channel into the lagoon.
I stopped the boat and let if drift, the engine idling quietly. I put a frozen shrimp on my hook and dropped it into the water. I could see the bottom at any depth along the island. Farther out, in the Boca Grande Channel, the water turned a dark blue, indicating deep water.
My VHF radio came to life.
"The small boat off Blood Island. Please be advised that this is a private island. No trespassing is allowed. Trespassers will be shot on sight. Do you copy?"
I keyed my mic. "I copy Blood Island. Thanks for the warning."
"Remember it," the radio squawked.
Nice people, I thought. I pulled in my line and completed a circle of the island. The only place to land was in the lagoon. I was sure the approach was watched, so the radio message seemed a little superfluous. Maybe they just wanted to make a point.
I came back around to the east side, near the channel to the lagoon, and drifted. I picked up the binoculars that were part of the boat's equipment. I scanned the area around the passage into the lagoon. The island, like all the keys, was flat. There were large trees covering the spits of land that surrounded the lagoon. There was a dock protruding into the water from the main part of the island. Two go-fast boats were tied to either side, bows facing out.
I scanned carefully, but couldn't see any sign of life. Then, a glint of metal in one of the trees near the mouth of the lagoon. I focused on it, moving my vision on and off the target area, just as the Army had taught me long ago.
Then, I saw it. A slight movement, and another glint of sunlight off metal. I could make out a man sitting on a platform high in die branches of a large tree. He had a rifle cradled in his arms and was scanning with his own binoculars. I couldn't make out his features, but he was occupying what seemed to be a guard post. It had rails around the edges and a ladder reaching down to the ground. It had a roof from which rose a radio antenna, almost hidden by the tree branches.
I put my binoculars down and picked up my fishing rod. If he was looking for me, I didn't want him to see me looking for him. I fished for a few minutes, paying no attention to the island. I could feel the guard's eyes on me.
Twenty minutes or so elapsed before I put the engine in gear and slowly motored over the shallows. As I reached deeper water, I brought the boat on plane and headed back to Key West.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I went back to Garrison Bight and moored the boat at the rental company's dock. I told the attendant that I wanted to try some night fishing, and paid him for another day. He told me to keep the keys and take the boat when I wanted it.
I walked a couple of blocks to a dive shop I'd passed earlier in the day. I picked out a complete outfit, including a neoprene wet suit with hood, dual tanks, regulator, buoyancy compensator, weight belt, fins, mask, gauges, and computer. I took it to the counter and asked a young man with a surfer hairdo to fill the tanks for me.
"I need to see your certification card," he said.
"I don't have it with me."
"I can't fill the tanks without the card."
"Look," I said. "I'm buying, what, three grand worth of equipment here? It's of no use to me without air in the tanks."
"Sorry, I just work here."
"Suppose I called the purchases thirty-five hundred even, the last five hundred in cash. Would that get me some air?"
"That it would, my man."
He took the tanks and disappeared into the back of the store. I could hear an air compressor crank up and chug along for a few minutes. Soon, he was back.
I hooked the gauges to the tanks to make sure they were full, and gave him five one hundred dollar bills plus Ben's credit card.
"Can you hang on to the equipment for me until this evening?" I asked.
"Sure, but we close at seven."
"I'll be back by then. Thanks."
It was nearing noon when I called Debbie. "Got anything?" I asked.
"Some. The island is owned by a Bahamian corporation which in turn is owned by a Cayman Islands corporation whose shares are held by a Cayman bank."
"That sounds familiar," I said, remembering what Bill Lester had found out about the owner of Varn's condo. "What's the name?"
"Circle Ltd."
"Do me a favor and call Bill Lester when we hang up. Find out the name of the corporation that owned Clyde Varn's condo. I'll bet it's the same one."
"Will do. There wasn't a whole lot on the island. The Monroe County property records show that the Yates family from New York owned it for about a hundred years. They sold it to Circle three years ago."
"What was the price tag?"
"Two million bucks."
"Anything else?"
"A house was built on the island about fifty years ago to replace one that burned down. I downloaded the plans from the building department. It's a big house with a cistern on the roof to catch rainwater.
"About twenty years ago, the Yates family got a permit to install a diesel generator on the property and to build six guest cabins for family members. Not much other than that."
"What about the spa?"
"The property's owned by a Bahamian corporation. It's the same one that owns the island."
"Thanks Deb. Let me know what the chief says about Circle. Can you fax me a copy of the house plans?"
"Yeah. I'll also send you the plat on the permit to build the cabins. Give me a number."
"Send it to the Key West Police Department with a cover sheet to Detective Paul Galls, and ask him to hold it for me."
"Will do. I'll get back to you on the corporation."
"I'll call you back later this afternoon. While you're at it, find out what you can on a Reverend Robert William Simmermon."
"Sure thing, old pal. Anything else? Like the Yankee box scores for 1947?"
"Nobody loves a smart-ass, Deb," I said, and hung up.
I called Paul Galls and told him I was on my way over and to watch for the fax from Debbie.
I was tired of walking, and I had about decided that I was being a little silly in my precautions. If anybody was watching me, they knew by now that I wasn't destitute.
I took a cab from Garrison Bight to the Monroe County Sheriff's Office. It was a modern three-story building next to the jail on Stock Island. I showed my identification, my real one, at the front desk and was given a visitor's pass to clip to my shirt collar. I was still wearing running shoes and my cargo shorts from the day before, but with a clean golf shirt. A woman in civilian clothes escorted me to Galis's office.