Wild Secret

minutes, then finally talked to someone in the Office of Emergency Response. I spoke with a delightful young woman and told her about the situation.
I don’t think she listened to a word I said. In her defense, we were pretty far out, and the cell signal dropped occasionally.
"If you go to our website, you can see a list of independent contractors for removal,” she said. “Be aware that you will be responsible for all fees, and any potential fines.”
"I'm sorry, maybe I wasn't clear. I am a deputy with the Coconut County Sheriff's Department. We discovered a potential environmental hazard. This isn’t my barrel, and it didn't fall off my boat."
“Doesn’t the county have a dive team that can remove the barrel?"
"Hazardous waste disposal isn’t our area," I said.
She huffed. "Where is the location of this barrel?"
I gave her the coordinates.
"Okay, I'll have our department deal with it.”
"How long will that take?"
"I don't know. It depends on how backlogged they are."
I gave her my number and asked her to follow up with me. I doubted I would ever hear from her again, but I planned on pestering them until the toxic barrel was removed.
The afternoon had evaporated, and we needed to get back to Coconut Key. There was an event we couldn’t miss. We weighed anchor and JD manned the helm, cruising us back to the island.

2
“To one more shift,” Chuck said with a smile, raising his glass.
We all clinked glasses, cheered, and sipped the whiskey. Half the department was in Flanagan’s for Chuck’s retirement party. It was probably the ideal time to commit a crime—somewhere else.
Erickson, Faulkner, Mendoza, Robinson, and Sheriff Daniels were all there. So were Denise and Brenda, the medical examiner. It was Denise’s day off, and the luscious red-head pranced around in shorts and a tight tank top—always a pleasant sight.
Chuck was in his mid-60s and had spent the past 30 years on the force. He was a good cop and a likable guy. He had a round face and a rounder belly. His dark hair was peppered with more gray than he'd like, and his bad knees from old football injuries were catching up with him.
It was time.
He'd written enough tickets and chased down enough bad guys. He'd been in a patrol unit almost the entire time. He’d been shot twice and gotten lucky both times. Still, he liked being out on the street and interacting with people. Somehow, after 30 years in a patrol car, seeing the worst that people had to offer, he still had faith in humanity—not something every cop could say.
Flanagan’s was your typical Irish pub and a favorite among deputies. It had that old-school vibe—dark mahogany woodwork, paneled walls on one side of the establishment, exposed brick on the other. There were plenty of cozy booths, and black and white pictures hung on the walls.
The venue was narrow, like a shotgun shack—booths and tables upfront, the bar in the middle, and the restrooms and an office area in the back. There was a quarter pool table and a dartboard. The drinks were cheap, and the bartender, Rick, had a heavy hand. There was a good variety of beer and ale. The jukebox played mostly old-school rock 'n' roll. This wasn’t the kind of place where you'd hear candy-coated pop rock or droning EDM music. Rick knew everyone's name and what they drank—well, the regulars, at least.
For some reason, the bar had been growing in popularity among the younger crowd. It had suddenly become hip and trendy. It was probably a fad that would last for a few months before the crowd moved on to the next cool place. A lot of people would come in and pregame at Flanagan’s because of the cheap drinks before hitting the more expensive bars on the strip. A block off of Oyster Avenue, Flanagan’s was close to the action but didn't get as many tourists.
“So what the hell are you gonna do with yourself now?" JD asked.
"Besides drive Ellie crazy? I'm not sure.” He paused. “I know what I want to do.”
"What's that?" I asked.
"You’re gonna think I'm crazy," Chuck said.
"We already think that," JD snarked.
“I’ve got my eye on a piece of property in Montana—300 acres of riverfront property. Got a nice little ranch house and a stable for horses. I figure I'd raise some cattle, hunt, fish, and enjoy the rugged outdoors."
"How does Ellie feel about that?" I asked.
"She's not sold on the concept."
"You realize they have actual winters up there," JD said. "And there's no ocean."
"I've been in Coconut Key for the majority of my life. I think it's time for a change. Plus, if I stay here, I don't think I'll be able to let the job go. I'll be trying to pull over people on a daily basis. I love this place, don't get me wrong, but I know too much about the shady side.”
“Every place has a shady side,” JD said.
"Yeah, but maybe if I go somewhere else, I could pretend it doesn't exist.” He sighed and frowned. "Which reminds me, I need to talk to you boys about something," he said.
We were all ears.
"Not here. Let’s save it for later. No shop talk tonight."
We smiled and clinked glasses again.
A scowl twisted Chuck’s face as a drunk guy stumbled by with his girlfriend. He was probably 21. He had a thin build with blond hair and blue eyes, which were glassy and bloodshot.
His blonde girlfriend was smoking hot—tanned skin, shorts, tight bikini top.
The guy caught sight of Chuck and smiled. "Don't worry, Deputy Atwood. I'm not driving."
He lifted his glass, sipped his drink, and staggered away with the hot blonde.
"Friend of yours?" JD asked.
"That's Nick Hartsell's kid, Cameron. Popped him for DUI not long ago. His dad worked some kind of deal, paid the fine, and the kid got off scot-free."
"By the looks of things, it won't be long till he gets arrested again," JD said.
"I guess that's not really my problem anymore," Chuck said. "I'll leave