Page 19

FAITH

A fter a leisurely lunch at my favorite Cuban cafe on the water, I waltzed into the station and gave Louis a friendly greeting on the way to my desk.

There was an unusual peace, with Ramirez in Tallahassee at some symposium on gunshot residue that I hadn’t been invited to.

Honestly, I was glad to miss it. I’d much rather be working a case than sitting in a stuffy conference room.

And I’d rather be working the case alone, truth be told.

Oscar belittled me every chance he got, but he was the one with tunnel vision, only looking to implicate Coulter. There had to be something else…

The gods smiled upon me when I opened my email. Hallelujah! The subject line from the lab read DNA Results - Kylie Bennett.

I held my breath, heart pounding. Would it clear Coulter or be the final nail in his coffin?

“Holy shit!” I squealed, jumping up out of my chair so fast it flew back away from me on its wobbly rollers. My hand clamped over my mouth and I chased down my chair so I could sit again before anyone saw me making a fool of myself.

A foreign DNA was found in the sample taken from under Kylie’s nails, and it was negative for a match with the sample we’d taken from Coulter. “Oh my God,” I breathed out, and the creak of my old desk chair punctuated my glee as I leaned back with the relief washing over me.

Someone else had been there the night Kylie died, and this proved it.

It wasn’t Coulter. This was huge. I reached around my mouse for my cell phone, but stopped, telling myself that this was news that should be delivered in person.

I grabbed my keys and practically danced out of the station.

As I sped toward Coulter’s house, I had to do a quick self-check on whatever the hell was happening in my chest. I was giddy with excitement.

And deep down I knew that it wasn’t just for evidence that would help clear his name.

I couldn’t wait to see the look on that handsome face when I told him.

Everything was close by in Islamorada, but Coulter lived on the outer fringe of town.

The twenty minute drive south reminded me of what I loved about living in the Keys–the blue water, the white coral rock, the mom and pop businesses that preserved a relaxed way of life.

Coulter lived in an old neighborhood said to have been developed with drug money back in the day.

Parts of Port Antigua were like a postcard of old Florida– the older, more modest homes a nod to the past amid the gargantuan newer mansions.

I turned into the entrance to the neighborhood, down the street that was known among locals as Smuggler’s Row.

Eventually I pulled up to a small concrete bunker of a house on a canal.

The smell of saltwater filled the air as I walked toward the door that was painted an interesting hue that resembled hospital green.

I held up my fist to knock at the door, but a voice called from down by the water. “This is private property, Detective.”

I looked down toward the dock to see Coulter smiling from the bow of his flats boat.

He was perched in the angler’s chair, leaning back with his long, tanned legs stretched out.

“I hope you have a darned good reason for trespassing.” The corners of his mouth curled and I could see the sparkle in his hazel eyes from a hundred feet away.

My heart pounded in my chest and my mouth felt like it filled with glue.

My exuberance in the station was replaced with a momentary paralysis.

It wasn’t just that I was letting him off the hook, it was that it meant he wasn’t a suspect and therefore it wasn’t entirely unacceptable that I felt so incredibly attracted to him at that moment.

“A pretty good reason, I’d say,” I forced from my mouth as I set out toward the dock.

He looked up, a cautious hopefulness crossing his face. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Permission to come aboard?” I asked, grabbing the tall piling next to the boat.

“Permission granted.” He stood and held out a hand, helping me step onto the deck of his sleek flats boat.

I took a moment to steady myself on the gently rocking deck. “I have some news, and I thought it would be better delivered in person.”

“Good news I hope?” He sat on the broad, flat bow of the boat and reached into the cooler beside the angler chair to pull out a bottle of Sandbar Sunday, a local ale that I loved. “Beer?” He asked, patting the spot next to him.

I paused to accept the cold, dripping bottle. There was reason to celebrate, after all. I sat down beside him and gave him a warm smile. “Very good news.”

Coulter’s eyes looked tired yet full of anticipation. “I could use some of that.”

I sat cradling the frigid glass, paralyzed once again.

It was still unreal, and I felt unprofessional at feeling such emotion about a piece of evidence.

The thoughts jumbled in my head like the words in my throat, so I took a deep breath.

Finally, I leveled a steady gaze on him and said, “DNA results came back.”

He stared at me with a dumbfounded look for a second before he asked, “Do you know who did it?”

“Not yet. What we know so far is that there was foreign DNA found in the tissue sample taken from under Kylie’s nails. And it doesn’t match yours.” I paused, letting my words sink in.

Coulter’s shoulders pulled back, indignant. “Of course it’s not mine. I told you I haven’t seen her in months.”

“I know,” I said softly before sipping my beer. “The great news for you is that this evidence proves that someone else was there and had physical contact with Kylie the day she died.”

He nodded, taking a long swig of his beer. “Because, before, all the evidence pointed toward me? Is that what you mean?”

I winced, admitting, “Pretty much… ”

“So now you believe me, that I didn’t do it?” His voice and his eyes conveyed the same hurt and disappointment.

I shook my head. “This proves what I already believed to be true.”

Coulter’s jaw tightened and he shook his head, huffing. “Don’t get me wrong…it’s a huge relief that this proves I didn’t do it. But what concerns me is that you guys still have no idea who did .”

“We don’t, not yet. But this is a solid lead. And one that clears you. So can we just celebrate for a minute?” I flashed him a grin and turned up my beer.

“Cheers to that,” Coulter said with a smile, tipping his bottle toward me.

We both looked out over the canal, the sun just starting to ride low in the sky and emanating a pink orange hue that tinted everything it touched.

For a couple of minutes we just soaked it all in, in silence.

It wasn’t the least bit awkward or heavy.

It was easy and free. I was still staring out over the cotton candy clouds when I finally said, “We'll find who did this.”

He reached over and squeezed my hand, sending a jolt straight up my middle. “Thanks for coming to tell me. It means a lot.”

His gaze held mine and I felt myself melting into a puddle before him. This was not good. I had to pull myself together. Clearing my throat, I forced my eyes from his trance, looking toward the sound of rub rails squeaking against the pilings. “Is this the boat you use for your charters?”

Coulter hesitated, letting the smile on his face speak for itself for a few seconds. He could tell I was flustered by him, and he liked it. “I run a few boats out of the marina. This one is reserved for select loyal clients who love the backcountry.”

“Ah, so it’s a VIP experience?” I asked, my nerves easing a bit.

“Yeah, sort of. We try to treat our return clients like family. Seems to work.” He grinned before taking another swig of beer. “They keep coming back.”

Rodman Reels had been around for decades, I’d heard. They were one of the oldest fishing charter operations in the islands. True Conchs. “What year did your dad start the business?”

Coulter chuckled, his eyes sparking. “He’s the fisherman, but he doesn’t get all the credit. My mom was the brains behind the business. They bought the overgrown piece of land on the water that eventually became the marina in 1983. It was an equal partnership from the start.”

As interesting as I found his matriarchal family, my thoughts wandered to the stories I’d heard of the Keys in the early eighties.

It was the time of cocaine cowboys, and when the renegade island chain seceded from the US and the Conch Republic was formed.

“Must have been crazy living here back then.”

“It was still like the wild west,” he snickered. “Dad doesn’t like to talk about it. Mom wouldn’t either when we asked. I suppose they never wanted to glorify it.”

From what I’d heard, the business boom that followed the influx of drug money into the local economy was unprecedented—which made it impossible to know which of the new ventures was funded with dirty money.

In the great boom, it went largely unchecked.

The Rodman family marina was one of the properties that people still whispered about today, though.

“Your parents built quite the operation there, didn't they?”

“Yeah,” he said, with both pride and sorrow in his voice.

“They built it from the ground up. Worked their asses off, and then had a bunch of kids they could use for free labor for years.” Coulter laughed into the top of his beer bottle.

“Dad couldn’t have done it without Mom. Somehow we’re managing without her now.

” His chin dipped to hide his eyes that darkened with grief.

So much grief this man had lived through.

“How long’s it been?”

“Nine months.”

“Rough year for you.” I reached my hand over to his hand that rested on his knee. “Losing two people that you loved.”

“Pretty damn rough.” He stared off at the sun that was dipping low to the west. “Maybe this year will be better than the last.” Turning his gaze back to me, his expression softened.

“At least it’s starting with some good news,” he said with a hint of a smile that faded as fast as it had come.

“Now if only you can find justice for Kylie.”

I patted his knee. “We’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise.”

He looked down at me, intent. “Faith, you give me hope.”

We both turned back to stare at the golden water, and I felt some semblance of hope too. This man was no longer a suspect. He was a man trying to find his way through the darkness. And I wanted to help him find the light.