The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (25 page)

Ford's expression was a question:
Why?

Jeth said, "Because ... maybe you don't know what it's like to work the same piece of water year after year. Gets to feel like you own that water. Gets to feel like no one has ever known that piece of water better than you. You get to thinking, as long as you keep working it, that piece of water will always be yours. Hell, almost like you're a damn slave or something, because if you quit working it, then that water's not yours anymore.

"But then something happens," Jeth said. "Something happens and you realize that, hell, to the water you're nothing but a gnat. Little blink of the eye, that's all. You don't own it. No one owns the water. Never have, never will. No matter how much you've been out there. Realize that, and it kinda sets you free. Well, I been set free, and I want to feel free for a while."

Ford said, "I see what you're getting at, Jeth. I really do." Smiling even though he didn't feel like smiling. Ford felt shaken and sad that he had been right, and frightened, too; frightened by association of what was implied and what was inevitable. He felt bad for his friend.

Jeth Nicholes said, "When the time's right. I'll have a look at those tests." Then he took his sleepy big cat and his mail, and went out the door.

Tomlinson showed up about 2
p.m.

Ford was out working on the fish tank's subsand filter when he saw him through the mangroves, walking up the shell drive: scraggly hair, long stork legs poking out of khaki shorts, and a baggy khaki shirt stained with sweat and the sleeves rolled up.

Ford yelled to him, "Hey! Where the hell have you been?"

Tomlinson waved casually, unconcerned, and walked up, grinning blandly. He said, "Man oh man, some hot day to hitchhike. Now I know why so many people steal cars in Florida."

"Hitchhike?" Ford demanded. "Where the hell's my truck? You wreck it? Where have you been for the last two days?" Thinking,
Only Tomlinson can make me sound like a nag. Why do I let him?

Tomlinson walked right past him, up the boardwalk toward the stilt house to get some water. "Out doing research, man. Just like you wanted. Mayakkatee River Estates, remember? Damn, man, don't ever complain about my memory again. And you don't even have synthetic exploration to blame." Meaning substance abuse.

Ford started to reply, then just shook his head, drying his hands on a towel as he followed Tomlinson to the house.

Inside, Tomlinson gulped water and explained that he had taken the bus from Mayakkatee County to Fort Myers, then thumbed his way to Sanibel because Harry had stayed to check on a few things, plus he didn't want her riding in a boat.

"Boat?" asked Ford. "Why shouldn't Harry ride in a boat?"

Tomlinson said. "Because she's got your truck." As if that made sense. "But you and I need to see the Mayakkatee development from the water, just to get the big picture. See what's going on and why. I can hardly wait, myself. I want to see what I've been reading about."

"You made a connection between Rios and Senator Griffin?"

Tomlinson said. "Let's load about five gallons of water on your skiff, a six-pack of adult beverage, ice, and a chart, and I'll explain the whole business on the way up. We're supposed to meet Harry at the El Jobean bridge at six, so we'd better get going."

Half an hour later, in the hot, hazy calm of early afternoon, they were in Ford's flats boat, slapping across the banks of turtle grass and bronze sand, running the old Mail Boat Channel to Chino Island. Then up Pine Island Sound on the inside shallows, following the winding scars of propeller tracks, past Demere Key, past the piling houses off Captiva Pass, spooking stingrays and sheepshead, with Ford standing at the wheel, seeing it all through Serengeti Polaroids. Then out toward the main channel, with the white houses of Useppa Island and Cabbage Key shimmering on the rim of sea. as the skiff etched its own trajectory in the green water, an expanding silver wake.

When the water was deep enough for him to relax, Ford sat on the cushion beside Tomlinson, and said, "Okay, so tell me what the connection is between Griffin and Rios."

"You had it. You knew what it was: the land."

Ford said, "Yeah, but how and why—and how did Sutter get involved?"

Tomlinson said, "I'll start at the beginning."

According to Tomlinson, Griffin controlled twelve hundred acres on the Mayakkatee River where it joined Charlotte Harbor, a great bay northeast of Sanibel. Griffin owned the land with members of his family and through corporations and hidden trusts in which his name was shielded.

"Here's the land and the river right here." Tomlinson had folded a chart into a tiny square so he could hold it in the wind and show Ford. "This acreage comprises the last existing wilderness in the county. Last undeveloped wetlands, anyway. Plus, there are Calusa burial mounds there, set back from the water. More than two thousand years old. Environmentally and historically very valuable ground. Griffin knew if he tried to develop the land, the environmental groups would come down on him with both heels. He couldn't afford that because he's got his eyes on a U.S. congressional seat. Needs all the votes he can get. But he also likes making money. He's a greedy bastard, and he moves in big-digit circles. So he came up with an ingenious plan. At least, that's the way I read what happened."

Tomlinson said he was convinced that Griffin put the word out among his high-roller friends that he was looking for an investor who could not only capitalize a major development project but also organize it—hire the planners and architects, sub-out the jobs.

"He probably wanted a total stranger," Tomlinson said. "A guy who could in no way be associated with Griffin, Inc., past, present, or future. And if the guy had a reputation for playing rough, saying to hell with the rules, so much the better. I think Griffin found exactly the guy he needed: Marvin Rios.

"Less than two years ago, Griffin sold the twelve hundred acres to Rios for nearly twice the going price of raw acreage. Completely screwed up the land appraisals the county had done to set the tax base—for that part of the county anyway. Which would eventually put a tax squeeze on other big landholders, but what the hell did Griffin care? He'd made a respectable profit off Rios, right?" Tomlinson was looking at Ford, smiling.

Over the sound of the engine. Ford said, "You mean Griffin didn't make a lot of money?"

Tomlinson said, "I don't think any money ever changed hands. Not one penny. I think it was all done with paper. Now. if Griffin makes more money than he says he does, that's a crime. But if Griffin makes a hell of a lot less money than he says he does, there's nothing in the world wrong with that."

"But why?" Ford was trying to project; trying to put himself in Griffin's place. "Why would he pay big capital-gains taxes? He'd have had to do that, wouldn't he?" Tomlinson said, "Because he was looking farther down the road. Instead of just making a respectable profit, he wanted to make an obscene profit. Let me tell you what happens next, see if you can figure it out.

"Rios goes right to work setting up a syndicate, getting blueprints drawn for a giant planned community. I saw copies of the originals up in Tallahassee, Doc. They were like something designed by earth rapers from hell. Canals everywhere. Trees leveled. Five thousand sodded lawns on a concrete table. It was like Rios went way out of his way to make it a bad project—and he
had.
He wanted it to look like a bad project. That was part of the plan.

"A couple of environmental groups got wind of what was going on, and they challenged the proposal when it got to the Southwest Regional Planning Council. And damn if the council didn't reject Rios's application. They cited environmental concerns, plus the lack of roads, water, and sewage facilities. So that should have stopped him, right? No way.

"In steps the Mayakkatee County Planning and Zoning Board," Tomlinson said. "The board is made up of developers and stooges paid by developers, and they allowed Rios to split the proposed development into three distinct tracts. Which is one of the oldest tricks in Florida. County commissions use it all the time. If voters fight them on a big rezoning project, they just break it into three smaller parcels and rezone them one at a time.

"So Rios gets an okay from the Mayakkatee County Commission to go ahead with his project—but chunk by chunk. He brings in the subcontractors and immediately sets them to blasting out canals, cutting mangroves. Rios is not just destroying stuff the commission is allowing him to destroy; he has his people flagrantly violating environmental-protection laws. Four months ago, a circuit county judge fined the development group five grand for cutting mangroves, and you know what Rios's spokesman said? He said it's the price of doing business in Florida. And he's right. All the developers do it. They calculate the fines right into the overhead, which means—for the big-money boys, the ones who can make the nut—there
are
no environmental laws."

They were just crossing inside Boca Grande Pass now, and Ford could see a great fleet of boats drifting the pass for tarpon; could see the phosphate docks and the green storage tank and the white beach beneath the lighthouse. He said, "So how does Griffin profit from all this? I know he must."

Tomlinson said, "Here's how. First—Griffin is the one who warned the important environmental groups about the project. That's right. I've got copies of the letters to prove it. He's the one tipped them about Mayakkatee Development's scorched-earth policy and urged the groups to join forces. Like I said, it's the last wilderness wetland in the county; a damn valuable piece of ground.

'The state of Florida has a special land-acquisition program, acronym CARL. Through this program, the state can buy environmentally irreplaceable land. With Griffin goading them along, the environmental groups filed an emergency application to CARL to purchase the twelve hundred acres. It's a complicated process: There's a detailed acquisition-proposal form, public presentations, council votes, assessments. The whole bureaucratic jumble. Plus a hell of a long waiting list. But the environmentalists knew that, day by day, Mayakkatee Development was destroying the land and they had to hurry."

Now Ford was nodding. "Enter Robert Griffin to the rescue."

Tomlinson said, "Bingo. I pieced the whole thing together up there in the capitol. Griffin went on record as saying he'd made a mistake selling the land, and now he wanted to help save it. He used his political connections to have CARL immediately consider purchasing the property—or, at least, put the application at the head of the list. Of course, the value of the property doubled when Griffin sold it. And the value of the property more than doubled again when the commission voted a zoning change. Add what the development group is calling 'a projected capital investment recovery,' and you have a piece of property that is going to sell for ten times what it's worth. To the state. Whose checks never bounce. And after only a fourteen-month paper investment in which the only real money that changed hands was to the subcontractors."

Ford said. "So Griffin and Rios probably had a deal on the side where they'd split the profit. The whole thing was planned. Breaking the environmental laws, causing a panic. All of it."

"Harry and I spent hours talking about it, and it's the only thing that makes sense," Tomlinson said. "We don't have irrefutable proof, but we have enough circumstantial evidence to convince any fool. Harry and I have collected copies of thirty-seven memos and letters from Griffin to the various boards and board members that demonstrate that he orchestrated nearly every action relating to that property. He figured he'd come out a winner two ways. The press would see him as an environmental hero. Plus he'd make enough money to buy Learjets and European homes. Not to mention run for Congress."

Ford said, "Rios must have told Sutter. But why would Rios trust a guy like that?" Then Ford amended himself quickly: "Naw. Rios would never trust Sutter. Sutter had to find out somehow after Rios died. Maybe Rios's wife told him."

"If she knew," Tomlinson said. "Or maybe Sutter went through his papers."

Ford was shaking his head, thinking,
The newspapers need to get ahold of this one.

He knew just the investigative reporter to contact.

To Tomlinson, he said, "We're getting into shallow water. I've got to stand up to run these shoals. That's the mouth of the Mayakkatee River over there."

Tomlinson said, "There's a lot more to the story. Some stuff too nasty to believe. Senator Griffin is not a nice man. But he by God knows how the bureaucracy works."

Ford was watching the flat water as it slid toward him. Ahead, he could see the crescent slicks of oyster bars beneath a running tide. Then more bars; acres of oyster bars. The bars grew in a great maze at the river delta; bulwark striations of hard bottom that could rip the engine off a boat.

The oyster bars deflected water into abrupt tidal cauldrons that slurped and boiled with the speed of the tide. Some of the holes. Ford knew, would be fifteen feet deep or more. To get to the mouth of the river, even in his shallow draft boat, he would have to pick his way through these cuts.

Ford told Tomlinson, "At least we're learning why no one ever built on this river before." Meaning getting to the river was not easy.

Tomlinson was thinking,
Florida has that wildflower look, like a flame in the shade. As pretty as any place in the republic...

Like this pretty place now. They'd hunted their way through the oyster maze, then up the Mayakkatee River. The first few hundred yards of river were a twisting mangrove tunnel that broadened into saw-grass flats. Rising out of the saw grass were dome islands of cypress trees, from which snowy egrets flushed: long-necked birds blooming from the shadows like bright white flowers. There were tarpon rolling at the mouth of the river and, farther up, alligators the color of raw pottery, baking on mud slicks.

"Wild animals," Tomlinson said. He was moving his head all around, looking. " 'Bout a million birds. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. Like a dang zoo."

Ford had the engine throttled back so that they moved slightly faster than the tide, maintaining steerage. The water of the river was gem black and clear. Beneath the boat, through the water, Tomlinson could see clumps of oysters and scattered mangrove leaves on the bottom. The oysters appeared golden, the leaves an autumn orange. Tomlinson stood on the forward casting deck, holding the bowline. Ford stood at the wheel, the two of them not saying much.

The riverbank changed gradually into oak hummocks draped with Spanish moss, and then the river forked. From the north artery, immediately noticeable, flowed a marl gray seepage.

Ford said, "The construction must be up here," and turned into the current.

Just around the bend, they saw the first of a series of newly dug canals. The land had been bulldozed bare; trees piled in smoldering heaps; and the river was a murky, milky white. Only the dinosaur shapes of draglines rose above the flat land. Through the smoke haze, Tomlinson could see that two of the draglines were working, swinging sludge out of the canals and dumping it on the bank. Then abruptly, as they watched, both machines stopped, and their operators—tiny in comparison to the machines— swung down onto the ground.