Crooked River(10)
As Pickett asked the question, a look came over Pendergast’s face. This expression, too, resembled one commonly seen in a chess match, when checkmate was at hand. “If those are your orders, then I would have no objection to remaining a few days, merely to satisfy my curiosity. Sir.”
“Then let’s inform Commander Baugh at once.” And putting one arm lightly over Pendergast’s shoulder, Pickett began leading the way back to the group clustered nearby on the sand.
5
ROGER SMITHBACK, REPORTER for the Miami Herald, hadn’t waited to get his editor’s green light on the story. When his police band scanner picked up news of feet washing up on a beach on Captiva Island, he had jumped into his Subaru and driven like hell across the Florida peninsula, his radar detector and laser jammer both working overtime to avoid the cops. Smithback was familiar with Sanibel from having taken an expensive vacation there with a girlfriend (now ex—and a pox on her), and he realized it posed a serious access problem. As he drove, he pondered the logistics of reaching the crime scene and getting the scoop. First, he was going to be hours late. There were plenty of newspapers and other media outlets closer by who would be sending out reporters. The Fort Myers News-Press was going to get at least a two-hour jump on him, not to mention the Tampa Bay Times, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune, and the Charlotte Sun. The other problem was physically getting onto Captiva Island. The cops would certainly have set up checkpoints. One would no doubt be at the Sanibel Causeway, which he could probably lie his way through. The bigger problem was getting from Sanibel to Captiva. There was only one connection between the two islands, the Blind Pass Bridge. If memory served, that bridge ended right at the beach where the feet were washing up. It was sure to be locked down tight.
But no way was Roger Smithback, senior reporter of the Herald, going to join a crowd of miserable journalists sweating behind some barrier, pleading for a crumb of a story. He was going to get onto Captiva Island if it was the last thing he did—and the logical way to do it was by boat. As he drove, he poked away at his smartphone, made a few calls, and soon had a plan worked out. Instead of driving onto Sanibel, he would take the nearby causeway to Pine Island, drive south to St. James City, and from there hire a boat to take him across Pine Island Sound to the Captiva Island Yacht Club. The yacht club had a courtesy car available for yachtsmen, which would drive him wherever he wished on the island. All he had to do was act like some rich yachting bastard, passing out lots of twenties as tips.
Smithback then texted Kraski, his editor, and told him he was covering the story—just so it wouldn’t get assigned to anyone else. Screw proper channels: this one was his. Feet washing up on a beach—he fairly tingled at the ghastly appeal of it.
Three and a half hours after leaving Miami, his plan executed perfectly, Smithback found himself waving goodbye to the nice gentleman from the yacht club who had dropped him off near the southern end of Captiva Drive. Captiva was a narrow island, exclusive, with a single road down the middle, driveways on either side leading to million-dollar waterfront houses. In scoping out the scene from afar, Smithback had decided the best way to get close to the action would be to sneak through someone’s yard to reach the gulf-side beach. Access from the public parking lot would surely be closed off and swarming with cops.
He picked a house that looked unoccupied and slipped down the driveway, skirted around the side, then across a backyard to a path that ran through sea grape and hopbush to the broad expanse of beach beyond. He paused in the shrubbery to take off his shoes and socks, shove them in his reporter’s bag, and roll up his pants—to create the appearance of a local beachcomber.
Where the path joined the beach, it was blocked with fluttering strings of yellow crime scene tape. As he looked up and down the shore, he could see that the entire beach had been taped off—and the law enforcement response was massive. There were several Coast Guard vessels cruising back and forth near the shore, with Coast Guard servicemembers dipping nets into the sea, fishing out feet. The beach itself was patrolled by police dune buggies and officers on foot. It looked like multiple departments had turned out—Fort Myers and Sanibel at the least—and there were also a number of Coast Guard Auxiliary regulars in blue jumpsuits. Two Coast Guard helicopters circled above, but there were no media choppers anywhere. Good.
Behind the tape strung along the back of the beach, he could see a number of people watching the action, talking excitedly, taking pictures and selfies. But as he scanned the crowd with his binocs, he couldn’t make out any obvious journalists. All those jokers were no doubt penned up like sheep at the Blind Pass Bridge. He alone had made it to the island…or so he hoped.
At the far end of the beach, near the inlet, he could see what looked like a temporary command post. A white plastic screen fenced it from view. That was where the heart of the action was—and where he needed to be.
Walking fast, he worked his way south through the onlookers. He would need to get some choice interviews from these witnesses—the more hysterical the better. But that could come later. Within ten minutes, he’d reached the point closest to the command center, where the white screen fence began. Scanning with his binocs, he could now get a general idea of what was happening. Dozens of light-green shoes were being brought in, logged, tagged, and placed in refrigerated evidence containers, which in turn were being loaded into the back of an ambulance. They all seemed to have feet still inside them. His heart quickened at the same time that his gorge rose.