Page 24 of Ground Truth

“Possibly. But boating accidents are not rare in Florida. I grew up here. We’ve had about sixty boating fatalities every year for as long as I can remember. Some years, more.”

Drake gave Gaspar a quick glance. “What’s up with that? Are people just bad boaters or what?”

“Mostly. Accidents on the water happen fast. Usual cause of death is drowning. People don’t wear their life jackets, and a surprising number of them can’t swim,” Gaspar said. “Could Greta and her husband swim?”

Drake shook his head. “I don’t know. We can ask Hanna.”

The navigation had been leading them northwest through a series of turns for the past ten miles. Up ahead on the right was a large, landscaped area surrounding a guardhouse dividing two lanes of traffic.

The elaborate sign out front and the navigation’s computerized voice announced their arrival at Turtle Creek Reserve’s entrance gate.

A swing arm blocked the entrance and another blocked the exit on the other side of the guardhouse. Drake pulled up behind a car stopped at the entrance where the driver and the gate agent were arguing.

The gate agent gestured that the driver should reverse away from the gate. The driver shook his fist in response.

“Wonder what this is about,” Gaspar mused.

Drake lowered his window and the angry voices carried. The driver demanded entry. When the agent told him to go away, the driver refused.

The guard pulled out his phone and made a call, shouting a voice command. “Turtle Creek Reserve Security.”

“This is Security. How can we help?” the dispatcher asked through the phone’s speaker.

“Front gate security here. A belligerent male is threatening to break through the gate and into the Reserve. He refuses to stand down. Requesting assistance.”

“On the way,” the dispatcher replied. “Two minutes out.”

The guard lifted the phone and snapped a picture of the driver, although CCTV cameras mounted on the corner of the gatehouse were aimed directly toward arriving vehicles and should have captured reliable video of the incident.

After the guard made the call, the driver of the car screamed obscenities, flipped him off, and mashed the accelerator.

The car jumped forward and slammed through the gate arm, breaking it off near the post.

The driver sped into the residential neighborhood and careened around the first corner.

“What the hell?” Drake said, moving the SUV up to the guard shack. “Need help?”

The guard was a man about sixty with a paunch and a red face and a name badge identifying him as Harris.

Harris said, “Hell yes! Stop that little prick. I’m calling the police right now.”

“We’ll see if we can find him,” Drake said, moving the SUV forward as Harris raised his phone and yelled into the microphone, “Call 911!”

Gaspar fastened his seat belt and Drake pursued. He sped toward the car, which was about twenty yards ahead, narrowing the gap.

The driver took the curves fast and the straightaways faster. Drake, in hot pursuit, downshifted the SUV for more traction.

The driver swerved to miss two couples in golf carts up ahead. The golf cart drivers laid on their tinny horns, but the speeding car kept going.

When the driver reached the turn leading to the golf course, he went in the opposite direction. He headed toward the pickleball courts across the road.

In the parking lot near the courts, he jammed the brakes. The car stopped hard, just short of a high curb that would have taken out his front bumper and maybe his front axle.

He killed the engine, opened the door, and jumped out of the vehicle, running fast toward the pickleball courts.

Drake parked and gave chase.

The car’s driver was a wiry little man. Maybe five six. Thin and agile. Drake was a bigger guy. Longer legs. And he was in good shape. His stride covered twice the distance and he soon made up the lost ground.

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