Esperanza Woodring's place, where chickens scratched beneath palm trees by the dock. He turned west into narrow Tarpon Bay cut, then angled north onto the grass flats before throttling down, stopping the boat. Pine Island Sound spread away northwest to southeast, a gray water field of flux and flow that showed the swirls of rising bars and the contours of grass bottom smooth as a golf course. Low tide, late afternoon, and not many boats were out. But having the woman along neutralized the delight Ford would have felt being alone on a spring low, watching water drain away until the sea bottom showed itself.
He unlashed the net booms and cranked the outriggers down, listening as the woman said, "Maybe I should tell you why I've been assigned this interview." She was still standing by the wheel, trying to stay out of the way.
"Why you're interested in Tuck Gatrell," Ford said.
"He is your uncle."
"He's my uncle."
"But we're not interested just in him. We're interested in everyone who lives in that little village, Mango. And other places along the boundaries of Everglades National Park, too. We're trying to build our files."
Ford eased the boat into gear and threw the nets out, watching to make sure they didn't swing out tangled. He said, "Oh?"
Walker hoped he would say more; hoped his tone would suggest the approach she should take. So far, the man didn't fall into the textbook categories of friendly witness or hostile witness. It was as if he was standing back, watching from the gallery, not even there. She had a sheath of data sheets on all the work-ups—people she was supposed to interview—but Marion Ford's was only two paragraphs on a single page. The biology business, navy, and ten years with the NSA, National Security Agency, which implied all sorts of interesting possibilities, and why she'd jumped onto the boat instead of just setting up a phone interview. See what the guy was like for herself.
She said, "Part of that area—around Mango, most of the village—is being annexed for a state park project. A sort of add-on to Everglades National Park, and we're doing backgrounds on landowners to see who might be hostile to the project. A kind of survey."
She watched his face to see whether he believed that. He said, "That explains it," though she could tell he didn't buy it at all, something in his tone. Way too passive. So she added, "Of course, that's not the only reason."
Ford was at the throttle, looking back at the nets, checking his watch. He wanted to do a short drag, seven minutes tops. Didn't want to crush any of the unwanted specimens in the accumulation of tidal grass and sea hydroid. Easing back on the throttle, he smiled at the woman and said, "You mean there's more?"
"You've probably heard that three men disappeared in that area within the last few weeks."
Ford said, "I don't think so. Where?"
Walker studied him for a moment, thinking that he might be lying. "Three men in separate boats on separate days," she told him. "You haven't heard anything about it? It was just south of Mango, on the park boundary."
Ford said, "And you suspect Tucker Gatrell?"
"No, not at all. I'm—we are—just trying to assemble a picture of the people in the area, trying to get background. Two of the men had been hired by the state to complete an environmental survey project. A census, they call it. And we're trying to come up with a list of people who might have a reason to . . . ah, object to the
survey." She smiled, watching him. "People think law enforcement is all guns and car chases, but it's not. Not at the FDCL. It's mostly research. Interviews, like I'm doing now."
"Must be a long list."
"Of people to interview? They gave me only thirty names,-maybe that's not all of them. The third man was a fishing celebrity. He had his own television show."
Ford said, "Were they similar? The three boats. That could be a key."
"No. I mean, I'm not sure. Three boats couldn't all be alike. That would be too much of a
He unlashed the net booms and cranked the outriggers down, listening as the woman said, "Maybe I should tell you why I've been assigned this interview." She was still standing by the wheel, trying to stay out of the way.
"Why you're interested in Tuck Gatrell," Ford said.
"He is your uncle."
"He's my uncle."
"But we're not interested just in him. We're interested in everyone who lives in that little village, Mango. And other places along the boundaries of Everglades National Park, too. We're trying to build our files."
Ford eased the boat into gear and threw the nets out, watching to make sure they didn't swing out tangled. He said, "Oh?"
Walker hoped he would say more; hoped his tone would suggest the approach she should take. So far, the man didn't fall into the textbook categories of friendly witness or hostile witness. It was as if he was standing back, watching from the gallery, not even there. She had a sheath of data sheets on all the work-ups—people she was supposed to interview—but Marion Ford's was only two paragraphs on a single page. The biology business, navy, and ten years with the NSA, National Security Agency, which implied all sorts of interesting possibilities, and why she'd jumped onto the boat instead of just setting up a phone interview. See what the guy was like for herself.
She said, "Part of that area—around Mango, most of the village—is being annexed for a state park project. A sort of add-on to Everglades National Park, and we're doing backgrounds on landowners to see who might be hostile to the project. A kind of survey."
She watched his face to see whether he believed that. He said, "That explains it," though she could tell he didn't buy it at all, something in his tone. Way too passive. So she added, "Of course, that's not the only reason."
Ford was at the throttle, looking back at the nets, checking his watch. He wanted to do a short drag, seven minutes tops. Didn't want to crush any of the unwanted specimens in the accumulation of tidal grass and sea hydroid. Easing back on the throttle, he smiled at the woman and said, "You mean there's more?"
"You've probably heard that three men disappeared in that area within the last few weeks."
Ford said, "I don't think so. Where?"
Walker studied him for a moment, thinking that he might be lying. "Three men in separate boats on separate days," she told him. "You haven't heard anything about it? It was just south of Mango, on the park boundary."
Ford said, "And you suspect Tucker Gatrell?"
"No, not at all. I'm—we are—just trying to assemble a picture of the people in the area, trying to get background. Two of the men had been hired by the state to complete an environmental survey project. A census, they call it. And we're trying to come up with a list of people who might have a reason to . . . ah, object to the
survey." She smiled, watching him. "People think law enforcement is all guns and car chases, but it's not. Not at the FDCL. It's mostly research. Interviews, like I'm doing now."
"Must be a long list."
"Of people to interview? They gave me only thirty names,-maybe that's not all of them. The third man was a fishing celebrity. He had his own television show."
Ford said, "Were they similar? The three boats. That could be a key."
"No. I mean, I'm not sure. Three boats couldn't all be alike. That would be too much of a
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