I’ve been a professional writer for most of my adult life, although I never thought of it that way until later. I was just happy to get paid for college newspaper stories when I worked for The Parthenon. We were required to do a semester on the paper and then could take paid positions after that. The spring of 1988 is when I got paid for putting words on paper for the first time.
It would be 15 years before I considered writing fiction and getting paid for that.
That came about while I was on Grand Cayman with my friend Steve Barnett. We were there for work — I was training local dive instructors in first aid techniques and he was working with dive shops. We both worked for Divers Alert Network at the time.
Steve had been a photopro on the island for a couple years and knew the lay of the land pretty well. He took me to the east end of the island to see the blow holes — where waves crash into the fossilized coral reef, called iron shore, and then shoot straight into the air. This ancient coral represents a time when the ocean was much deeper. At one time, this coral would have been submerged and growing. It is, in fact, what built the island.
Now, this coral is jagged and sort of terrifying. We had walked out to the water’s edge across the iron shore and I remember thinking about what would happen to my body if I fell down. Bleeding out was not out of the question.
And that became the first scene I wrote in my first novel Cayman Cowboys. To get there, I had to create several chapters of back story to explain what would terrify someone so badly that they would run, fall and try to run again. For that book, I effectively started writing in the middle and then worked outward to make it make sense.
For what it’s worth, Mike Scott wasn’t anywhere near this scene. He came in later when I brought in local coral reef sharks. This was also based on a dive Steve and I made that week as well. It was one of the last shark feed dives allowed on Grand Cayman. I brought the two scenes together because I wanted to put my readers on edge.
It’s been nearly 20 years since I began writing Cayman Cowboys, I’m sure I would do a lot of things differently. But I think the story still holds up, it's fun and has plenty of action and adventure.
At the time, a good friend of mine told me she liked the book but that I would never be able to write another one because I had crammed every diving problem into one story. Another friend told me that the dive industry would never support it because of the name. It brought up images of dive instructors on the island behaving badly. That stigma never arose.
Clearly, I owe a lot of that story, Mike Scott’s development and the whole series of books to Steve as well.
I’m keeping this Substack free for now, but if you’d like to support it anyway, buy me a cup of Kofi.
And now for the next two chapters in the fictional Mike Scott’s origin story. If you missed the earlier chapters, visit the previous post here.
Chapter 5
Making some calls to friends around the island, activating the island’s coconut telegraph, in a few hours Mike and Kelly figured out where John Calhoun had been staying on the island. Mike was sure the police would search his room, but he didn’t think they would be looking for the same things as Mike would be.
During their brief conversation at Lone Star, John said he was investigating someone on the island, but he never said who. Mike didn’t doubt that was to protect others and likely himself. If John said the wrong thing to the wrong person, it could have been a problem. Of course, John ended up dead, likely at the hands of whoever he was following, so that instinct turned out to be correct.
Mike wanted to find out who John was after and see if there was any way to connect that person to John’s murder. He wasn’t sure why it mattered to him, but he knew he had to see this through.
Their friends told Mike that John had been staying in a private house he rented from a rich businessman who only came to the island once or twice a year. Their friends knew about it because they provided the cleaning service for the bungalow.
They jumped into the Jeep and headed down a small, secluded road that dead-ended at the house.
“No neighbors anywhere close,” Kelly said as Mike stopped the Jeep.
“That is the upside and the downside of a place like this. All the privacy in the world, but if someone is coming for you, there is no one else around,” Mike agreed.
Approaching the small one-story home, Mike could tell it was exclusive, but it wasn’t pretentious. Not like the newer construction and investment properties in George Town. This was older Cayman, from before it became an island destination for the rich who wanted to play.
No crime scene tape blocked their entrance, but Mike was sure the island police had already been there. Mike just hoped they hadn’t taken John’s things yet. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but he was confident something would be there.
“How do we get in?” Mike asked as they stepped onto the front porch. Kelly smiled.
“Remember Antoinette does the cleaning for this place? She told me where to find the key.” He walked to a potted plant that stood beside the door. Reaching beneath the wide leaves, he found a small glass bottle that contained an extra key.
“Antoinette just told you where that was?”
“Well, I might have told her this guy owed you some money. She likes you, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“I might have implied that you would be very grateful if she helped you out.”
“How grateful?” Mike asked.
“Well, let’s just say she really likes you and leave it at that for now.”
“Great. There are times I wonder why I put up with you,” Mike said. He took the key from Kelly and unlocked the door.
Going inside, they could tell someone had searched the premises and packed up John’s things to be returned to the States with his body. A suitcase stood just inside the door.
“Should we search through his bag?” Kelly asked.
“Nah. If the police found anything that seemed relevant to his death, like the ID of a suspect, they would have taken it with them.”
“Then why are we here again?”
“Call it a gut instinct. I just feel like we might find something the police weren’t looking for. If they found something obvious, they would take it, sure. But I don’t think they were looking for anything like that in the first place. So, they were probably just gathering up his belongings and looking for a suicide note.”
“You think this guy might have hidden something?”
“I just don’t know. I could be completely wrong, and we’ve wasted a couple hours of our day. But this guy was pretty intense. I’m sure someone stuffed him into that wetsuit and threw him in the ocean. If he knew he was making people nervous, maybe he put his notes out of the way somewhere no one could break in and find them.”
“Okay, got it. We snoop.”
“That’s the best I got.”
Mike and Kelly had been on a number of adventures together in the two years they lived together. Nothing like this, but Kelly had come to trust Mike’s instinct when it seemed like something was going on. He didn’t question it, he just followed Mike’s lead.
“I’ll take the bedroom,” Kelly said.
“Look under the mattress,” Mike agreed. “I’ll check out the sitting room.”
“This isn’t my first time snooping,” Kelly said. He laughed while he walked down a short hallway.
Mike walked into the sitting room and looked around. There was a small desk in one corner, with typewriter on it, and two high back winged chairs in front of a window that overlooked a garden. Mike began by searching through the drawers in the desk. It was the most obvious place, but he had to start somewhere.
Finding nothing there, Mike turned the chairs over, but there was nothing there either. He looked at the bookshelves, but nothing seemed out of place. It was possible John stuck something in a book, but he wasn’t going to open up every one to test a hunch that could be wrong.
“Nothing in there,” Kelly said as he walked down the hall. “I’m going to check the kitchen.” Mike heard Kelly immediately begin opening drawers in there.
There wasn’t much else to the one-bedroom cottage.
“Let me know if you see something in there, but I’m beginning to think I was wrong. Probably just wishful thinking we would find this guy’s notes.”
Mike stood in the hallway and took a deep breath. Was he wrong? Was his imagination getting the better of him, looking for something bigger when it didn’t exist?
Kelly stepped into the hallway and shook his head.
“Okay, I’ve got to stop pretending like I know more than I do,” Mike said. He shook his head. “I’m going to hit the head and then let’s take off. You need to explain to me what you promised Antoinette.”
The maid was a French expatriate and Mike knew her distantly. She wasn’t unattractive, but Mike hadn’t gotten the vibe from her that she was interested in him.
Mike closed the door to the small bathroom behind him as he turned on the light. Finished, he turned to wash his hands. Glancing up at the mirror, he caught an odd shadow out of the corner of his eye. There was a rectangular object in the light fixture above the sink. Mike grabbed it and instantly recognized what he was looking at from his days at the Detroit Free Press. It was a reporter’s notebook.
Chapter 6
The typical reporter’s notebook is sized to easily fit in your hand, so you can take notes on the fly or stuff it in your back pocket while you walk. Mike flipped it open and was relieved to see that John had taken detailed notes, with dates and times. The most recent notes were from the day before.
Mike walked out of the bathroom holding the notebook up with a smile on his face.
“You found it?” Kelly asked, surprised. “What does it say?”
“Haven’t read it yet, but it is definitely John’s. Let’s get out of here and see what we can find out. I don’t want the police coming back and finding us here.”
“Roger that.”
The two men glanced around the bungalow to make sure it looked like it had when they entered and then locked the door behind them. Mike tossed the keys to the Jeep to Kelly and jumped into the passenger seat so he could read.
Mike flipped back through the notebook until he found a note that appeared to be John’s first on the island and then began reading his way forward. Fortunately, the man had better than average handwriting for a reporter. Something Mike couldn’t claim.
Kelly pulled the Jeep into the parking spot at their apartment as Mike finished going through the notebook.
“What did you find?”
“I’ll tell you inside.”
Entering their apartment, Kelly walked to the fridge and grabbed two beers. He held one out to Mike.
“I’ll pass, and you should probably hold off, too.”
“Why? Is it that bad? If it is, I am definitely going to want a beer.”
“Listen to me first and then make your decision. I won’t make you do anything.”
“But you’re going to do something aren’t you?” Kelly put the beers back unopened and flopped down on their couch. “I’m in. You know that.”
“Here’s the thing. I don’t know who killed John, but I know what he was on to. And I’m betting they are connected. And it is all going to happen tonight.”
Mike explained that John was investigating Felix Cortez, a kingpin from one of the Colombian drug cartels. He made regular trips to Grand Cayman to deposit his money in an international bank with offices on the island. Cortez had arrived on a flight from Europe two days before, but he was waiting for his yacht to arrive on the island with his cash for the latest deposit. According to John’s notes, the yacht was due to arrive in George Town Harbor tonight.
“Is this something we can take to the local authorities?” Kelly asked. “How does that help us prove John was murdered?”
“I don’t think so and it doesn’t. At least not directly. I mean, Cayman doesn’t have any problems with someone bringing in large amounts of cash to deposit. In fact, they like it. But what I think we can do is finish John’s story for him and connect the dots. Then the authorities will have to take notice.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to photograph Cortez receiving the money from the boat. John gave me his business card last night. I’ll get his notes, along with the photos to his magazine and let them run the story. That should get the attention of the American authorities as well as the Cayman ones. That will force them to open an investigation.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, the drug cartels are nothing to mess around with.”
“You remember my degree is in journalism, right? I quit because I didn’t feel like I was making a difference where I was. I don’t feel like I can ignore this.”
Mike was still standing, holding the reporter’s pad as he explained what he found. He set it down on their beaten-up coffee table and flopped onto the couch beside his friend.
“I can’t ignore this, but you don’t have to go with me. You’re right, it could be dangerous. You’ve got a pretty good gig here. I don’t want to mess that up for you.”
“What are you talking about man. Of course, I’m in. If you’re going, someone has to watch your back. “What’s the play?”
“We do this our way.”