Page 49 of Ground Truth

They passed the Charlotte Harbor Preserve State Park, green and peaceful. A reminder of what the state must have looked like long before the land booms started.

Fort Myers appeared ahead on the horizon. The rigid geometry of its streets a stark contrast to the unspoiled abandon of the park.

“Twenty miles south and ten miles west to go before we reach the point where Reed’s boat went down,” Flint said. He pointed out to sea. “Turn thirty degrees.”

Drake eased the helicopter around, taking the turn gently.

“Thanks,” Flint said.

“For what?”

“Taking it easy on my balance. My head is still swimming if I move too quickly.”

Drake grunted. “Just trying to keep our speed up.”

Flint laughed. Drake would never admit to giving him an easy time. He’d view it as a loss of pride or something.

At only four thousand feet up, they lost sight of land. Drake zoomed out the tiny GPS navigation display. “Good to keep the shore in view. Stay oriented.”

“My visual orientation skills are not that great at the moment,” said Flint.

“Want to circle in toward the spot where we think the boat sank?”

Flint held up his thumb.

Drake turned medium hard. Not the Robinson’s full performance capability, but enough for the additional half G to mess with Flint’s balance and make him woozy.

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Chapter 25

Miami

Once the Robinson was airborne, Gaspar manipulated his keyboard until he located a satellite with a view of the Gulf of Mexico along the west coast of Florida and set his system to record.

He had his own work to do. The Hanna Campbell case wasn’t his problem to solve, and Maria had a late lunch on the table.

Gaspar followed the amazing aromas and made his way to the outdoor dining room, where his family gathered for the Cuban food his kids loved in celebration of his father’s birthday.

Ropa vieja, the national dish of Cuba, was his father’s favorite. It was a hearty stew made with shredded beef, tomato sauce, onions, and peppers. Served with yellow rice and Cuban bread, the meal was both delicious and filling.

For dessert, Gaspar’s mother had made tres leches cake, served as always with sweetened Cuban coffee.

“A meal fit for a king,” his father said, toasting Maria with his coffee cup.

Maria blushed and smiled. “Papa, it’s always a pleasure to cook for you.”

Gaspar’s five children adored their grandparents. After the meal, the family cleared the dishes and resettled on the patio for gifts. The celebration promised to last through the afternoon and well into the evening.

“Maria, I’ll do the dishes and join you in a bit. I need to check a few things first.”

Maria gave him a quick squeeze and a brief kiss. “Don’t wait too long.”

“Promise. I’ll be there soon.” After he placed the dishes into the dishwasher, he returned to his home office.

He sat at the desk and pressed a button to wake up the monitor with the satellite feed from the Gulf. He zoomed in for a closer look at the area ten miles off the Florida coast near Ft. Myers.

Even though there was nothing left of Greta Reed’s yacht, Flint said he wanted to get a feel for the circumstances. Flint always wanted to see things firsthand. Which explained why the Robinson was miles from shore.

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