Dangerous Depths (12 page)

“It’s got to be the same people involved in
all the thefts,” Stark reasoned, “not just kids coming out from
shore in their little boats. How many has it been? Ten, twelve, in
the last week? And it’s the same each time, get on and off quickly.
It’s got to be someone with a fast boat cruising though the
anchorages. No one in a dinghy is going to be moving from Tortola
all the way up to the Sound. It’s probably someone who doesn’t look
out of place and can scout things out, make sure no one’s on board
without looking suspicious. Maybe it’s a charterer, down here
vacationing.”

“Doesn’t seem likely,” I said. I liked to
think of this as creative brainstorming, but really Stark and I
were grasping at straws. “Guess it could be one of the cruisers
that have been sailing these waters for years. The thing is, most
are pretty self-sufficient and independent and have enough money
and resources that they don’t need to risk stealing from other
yachters.”

“We did get a report of one boat anchored
over in Cane Garden Bay for several days, a small yellow-hulled
vessel, looking pretty scruffy. The sails were torn and mended and
the hull unpainted. There wasn’t anyone onboard when I went by the
boat.”

I remembered seeing the boat just this
morning when I went out with Tom and Liam. It was anchored over in
Benures Bay and hard to miss period. It looked like it was
abandoned and ready to sink.

“Guess we should go by and say hello,” I
suggested.

“What’s our rationale?”

“Hell, checking his park pass or something,”
I said.

“Why don’t you and Snyder go?” Stark
asked.

“Come on, Stark, a little water won’t hurt
you, and just your ponderous presence will convince the guy he
should fess up. Besides, Snyder’s out looking for the
Libation
.”

Stark would never admit it, but he was scared
shitless of any water over an inch deep unless it was in a glass. I
couldn’t imagine how someone who had been born and raised in the
islands could fear the water and actually be successful at staying
out of it. But Stark had managed.

I’d once tried to talk him into learning to
dive. If I were going to build a skilled recovery team, I needed
someone besides Carr, someone in the department, who could
accompany me under the surface. And I trusted Stark. But he’d made
it clear that he’d never even consider it and that anyone who
strapped a tank on her back and went under the water was just plain
nuts.

“Christ,” he said, grabbing his sunglasses.
“Let’s go.”

I took the wheel and headed the
Wahoo
across the channel and over to Benures Bay on Norman Island. The
water was choppy, the wind having picked up in the last hour. The
Wahoo
bounced uncomfortably across the surface, throwing
spray up over the bow. Stark sat beside me, trying unsuccessfully
to look relaxed.

“Why did you become a cop, Stark?” I asked,
hoping to distract him from the horrors of drowning as we reached
the channel and deep water.

“My dad and one of my brothers are fishermen.
My other brother works for a charter company in Miami. What was I
supposed to do? No way I was going work at anything that involved
water.”

“Is your family still around?” I asked.

“Sure, my mother keeps trying to get me to
join my father. She doesn’t like my working for the police, thinks
it’s too dangerous. Me, I say being out on this damned water is
what’s dangerous. My uncle died out in the Anegada Passage. His
boat went down in a storm. We never found him.”

I could see that Stark was disturbed by the
thought of having the sea as his grave.

“You ever been to the States?” I asked.

“Yeah, about six years ago. I decided to live
in Miami with my brother. You know, get out of this backward land,
find some action. I managed to get a job with Miami PD. Worked my
way up to narcotics. It didn’t take long. Something about my black
skin and accent seemed to make me a good candidate for
undercover.”

Stark had obviously not lost the look, but
getting into undercover narcotics took more than a good cover. He
would have needed to be street-smart, savvy, and quick.

“Christ, Stark. Nothing like a death
wish.”

“Yeah, and me just a simple island boy. I did
it for three years and had enough. The pressure got to me, and
Miami, well, it’s not the BVI. All the people, the pace. I didn’t
like living that kind of life. I came back to the islands to stay.
Got my old job back.”

“Smart move,” I said. “I’d take these islands
any day.”

“What about you, Sampson?” Stark asked. “Why
did you become a cop?”

“I was living at the edge of a ghetto and
working on a degree in literature. Somehow it all became irrelevant
when I saw people dying a couple blocks from my dorm. I finished my
master’s in sociology, interviewed with the Denver Police
Department, and never looked back.”

“What about the diving?”

“That came later. The department needed
someone to fill a slot when they lost one of their divers in a dive
accident. I volunteered.”

“I’d call that about as stupid as me going
into undercover narcotics, Sampson.”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you what though—it’s a much
nicer job in the crystal waters of the tropics. Back in the States
I was retrieving bodies from icy lakes and brown polluted water.
Mostly, diving blind. I’ll take this any day.”

We were quiet for the rest of the ride and I
found myself thinking about the diving I had done in the States.
And I thought about losing Jake. He’d been the team leader. It had
been a frigid January morning, and we’d been on assignment, diving
for a body in an alpine lake.

We’d bagged the body and taken it to the
surface, then returned to examine and collect evidence. We were on
our way back to the surface when I turned to make sure Jake was
behind me. He wasn’t. I went back, frantic, searching for him in
the dark, icy water. By the time I got to the surface, I was
hypothermic and out of air. The team found his body the next
day.

Jake and I had lived together for over a year
and had finally decided to make the big commitment. The wedding was
to be that weekend. Instead, I’d ended up standing in the cemetery,
watching the snow falling on his casket. I hadn’t heard what the
minister said that day. I made a promise back then never to get
that close again. It hurt way too much.

I thought I was past the loss, but Christ, my
conversation with Stark had brought it all back.

“Sampson, you have a new approach to Benures
Bay?” Stark asked. I had been so distracted, I had gone right past
the entrance. Muttering an apology, I swung the
Wahoo
around
and headed back to the bay.

The yellow boat was the only one still
anchored in the quiet water. At almost noon, everyone else had
moved on. It was a small sloop, maybe twenty-five feet, lines of
rust running down the hull from the deck. The vessel looked
deserted, no one visible, the boat rocking gently.

As we approached, I saw movement under the
tattered bimini that covered the stern section. Then a man stood up
and watched as we came alongside. He didn’t offer a hand. Stark
threw a line over one of his cleats as I maneuvered the
Wahoo
along the rail.

“Don’t be scratching the hull,” the guy said,
surly. Like it would matter. He was thin, dirty hair, at least a
week’s worth of beard. “What do ya want?”

“Tortola Police,” Stark said. “Want to see
your boat registration and permits.”

“What da hell for?” he demanded.

“Because I said so.” Stark was standing in
the
Wahoo
, hands on hips, glaring at the guy and flexing his
jaw muscle.

When the man went below, I stepped aboard and
took a quick look around. The boat was a mess: engine parts strewn
about, lines tangled on deck, an empty beer can rolling around in
the cockpit.

The guy came back up with his papers, torn
and smudged with engine grease. The boat was registered in the BVI,
owner Timothy Bowen from Tortola.

“Are you Bowen?” I asked.

“Yeah, and I didn’t be invitin’ you aboard.
What’s dis all about?”

“Just routine,” I said. “What are you doing
out here?”

“Jeez, my ole lady and me had a fight. She
don trew me out of da house. I been living on da boat till she
cools down.”

“Where have you been sailing?” Stark
asked.

“Stayed over by Cane Garden Bay a coupla
nights, then come over here. Like dis quiet place. Only a couple
boats ever be here, always leave early.”

“Have you been up to North Sound?” I
asked.

“Hell no. I ain’t going way up dar in dis old
scull. Engine ain’t even workin’. Came across da channel with my
sails. Now dat da winds picked up, I be goin’ back across. I figure
by dis day dat wife a mine be missin’ me real good.”

Stark gave me the look. This guy was not our
thief. “We’ve been checking on break-ins on boats in the
territory,” he said. There were several over in Cane Garden Bay on
Saturday night.”

“So dat’s what dis all about. Well, it
weren’t me.”

“Yeah, we can see that. Whoever is involved
has more moving power than you do. Did you see anything when you
were up in Cane Garden Bay?”

Bowen thought for a minute. “Well, dat be da
night of da full moon party up by da Bomba Shack. Folks going to
shore like crazy and going up dar ta sample dos psilocybin
mushrooms. Kinda funny.”

“You see anyone cruising the harbor that
night?”

“Well, sure, always a dinghy or two motoring
into shore or out to a boat. A lot a drunk folks out in dar
dinghies dat night.”

“Did you notice anyone in a boat with a
good-sized engine, a cigarette boat or speed boat of some
kind?”

“Probably were a few in and out. Dat dar
grocery boat was makin’ some deliveries to a couple of da yachts.
Coupla fishermen came in late. Hell, I weren’t payin’ much
attention. Have ta admit I just about finished a whole bottle a rum
myself dat night.”

It was something. We’d check out the local
fishermen. Hopefully Snyder had identified the owners of the
grocery boat by now. Someone had to have seen something.

“Thanks for your help, Timothy,” I said,
stepping back on to the
Wahoo
. “Hope your wife has cooled
off.”

“Oh, she be welcoming me with open arms.
Dat’s da best part of da fight!”

***

Stark was tying up the
Wahoo
back in
Road Harbor when a nasty-looking guy with fire in his eyes came
storming down the dock.

“What’s this I hear about you and that deputy
harassing one of my customers about anchoring on the reef yesterday
near the Dogs? That skipper said hell would have to freeze over
before he’d come back down here and rent from me. You need to watch
what you do with the tourists, dammit! You are hurting my
business.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I said. I could feel
the blood rising to my face when I finally figured out who this
jerk was—Fred Jergens, the owner of BVI Sail.

He was a lean guy with chiseled features.
Though he didn’t look much over fifty, his hair was white,
straight, parted on the side and cut precisely around his ears. If
he hadn’t had so much hate in his face, he might have been
attractive. Instead, he was clearly a bully, controlling,
domineering and completely unable to keep his emotions in
check.

“Cool off, Jergens,” Stark said, stepping
between us.

“That guy on your cat was about to drop his
anchor in the middle of a coral bed,” I said. “Aren’t you briefing
your charterers on where they should and shouldn’t anchor? He was
about to destroy a bunch of elkhorn.”

“I tell them where to anchor and that’s
anywhere that doesn’t endanger my boats. I’m sick of this damned
concern about a few coral. This is my business and I call the
shots. Elyse Henry has been harassing my charterers since I started
up, and now you and that kid you call a “deputy.” He was almost
spitting now, yelling over Stark’s shoulder and pushing against his
massive frame. I had to admire Stark’s composure. “My boats aren’t
the only ones in the water.”

“Maybe it’s the fact that yours are the ones
causing problems. You need to educate your customers.”

“Just quit harassing them.” He pointed his
finger at me over Stark who was still firmly planted between us. If
he could have reached me, it would have been his fist in my
face.

“You do it again, I’ll be pressing charges,”
he threatened. He stomped back down the dock, turned once to glare
and was gone.

“Jeez, Hannah, is there anyone on the islands
that either you or Elyse don’t anger?” Stark said.

I wondered the same thing, especially about
Elyse.

When we got back to the department, I told
Stark I needed to run an errand and that I’d be back in an
hour.

“Right, Sampson. Maybe I should go with
you.”

Stark saw right through me. I hadn’t been
subtle. In fact, I’d been on a rant about Jergens all the way to
the office. I did manage to avoid any mention of Jergens’s
connection to Elyse. This was my problem. I did not want Stark
involved and in trouble with Dunn.

“I’ll be fine, Stark.”

I headed out the door before he could argue
with me and drove over to BVI Sail. Fred Jergens’s charter company
was about a half mile east of Road Town.

I was surprised when I got there. I’d
expected it to be run down and ill kept. Instead, a sign,
intricately painted in the colors of the BVI flag, graced the
entrance. I drove down a gravel drive lined with flamboyant trees
that were loaded with blossoms. The office was newly painted in the
same colors as the sign. In the back was a small parking lot with
only one other car, a white station wagon with Jergens’s logo on
the side. I parked, walked around the building to the office, and
went in, gun tucked under my shirt.