Dangerous Depths (5 page)

“It’s a sleep aid,” Mary said. “Ambien.”

I remembered the medicine bottle I’d pulled
out of the ocean the night before.

“Elyse had a bout of insomnia,” Mary said.
“It must have been eight months ago now. It’s important that she
get enough sleep to maintain equilibrium. I insisted on giving her
a sample of the Ambien and told her to take it if she needed it.
But as far as I knew, she never did. What was her blood level?”

“Minimal. I’d guess two or three tablets,
just enough for a ‘dead to the world’ night’s sleep,” Hall
said.

Dunn summarized the scenario as we stood
outside Elyse’s door. He had it all worked out. Elyse had taken a
couple of sleeping pills, then fallen asleep with the stove on. The
flame had gone out, the fumes filled the cabin, the gas had settled
in the bottom of the boat and exploded.

I didn’t want to hear it and headed to the
door before he could finish.

“Hannah, stop!” Mary demanded, catching me by
the wrist.

“Let me go, Mary. I need to get into some air
that doesn’t smell like death and disinfectant.”

“Hannah, listen to me. I’m sure Dunn is
right.”

“Dunn is dead wrong. Come on. The only reason
Elyse even had those sleeping pills was to humor you. The only
thing Elyse ever took to help her sleep was damned chamomile tea,
for chrissake.”

“What are you suggesting, Hannah?”

“Someone slipped her the pills, turned the
damned gas on, and left her to die.” It seemed obvious to me.

“You don’t need to find a scapegoat here,
Hannah,” Mary said. “It’s not your fault that you didn’t stop over
at the
Caribbe
last night.”

The psychoanalysis bullshit really pissed me
off. I didn’t want to hear it, especially because I knew she could
be right.

“Dammit, I think Elyse needed my help. I
should have seen that note, Mary. She wouldn’t be lying in that
hospital bed now if I had.”

“Come on, Hannah. If it hadn’t been for you,
she’d be dead right now.”

“Yeah.” I pushed the door open and walked
quickly into the heat and sun.

Dunn caught up with me at my car. “Detective
Sampson.”

So I was Detective Sampson again. A sure sign
he was about to get on my case.

“I don’t want you trying to make anything
else out of this thing with Elyse. It’s pretty clear what
happened.”

“Hey, Chief, no problem.”

“I mean it. I don’t want you going off on
some half-baked notion about murder. We’ve got enough on our
hands.”

“Okay, Chief.” I climbed into the
Rambler.

“I want you to get back to the office,
Detective. Stark needs help running down those reports about boats
being broken into,” he said as he pushed my car door closed.

***

I’d go back to the office. But I decided to
make a stop first. It was on the way…sort of.

I knew where the Ingrams lived. Elyse and I
had dropped Jilli off there just last week. The house was hidden
behind a row of dense frangipani, the ground beneath littered with
fragrant pink and white blossoms. The only way you’d know the house
was back there was the sign that read “Ingram” in unobtrusive
lettering on a wooden post. I had the feeling the Ingrams didn’t
really want visitors wandering down there. I turned in anyway.

The driveway was paved and lined with more
frangipani as well as mango and rubber trees and ended at a
circular drive, the center exploding in color—orchids,
birds-of-paradise, and more. All around the exterior of the house,
hibiscus, oleander, and red ginger flourished, obviously tended by
a loving hand. In spite of the beauty and fragrance of the gardens,
the structure itself felt a bit forbidding. It was an old,
Spanish-style stucco, the windows closed tight against the
heat.

I’d asked Elyse once about Jilli’s parents.
She’d said they were originally from London but had lived on
Tortola for years. He was a lawyer and involved in offshore
banking. Clearly, he’d done well.

I walked up the front steps and lifted the
brass knocker. I could hear it echoing through the interior, then
the sound of footsteps. Finally, a tall thin woman answered the
door. She wore a tennis outfit, one of those white, short things
with a racket embroidered on the pocket. The look was complemented
with red lips and long red fingernails. She was in her mid-forties,
hair in one of those Dorothy Hamill styles popular about
twenty-five years ago.

“Mrs. Ingram?”

“That’s right. And you are?”

“Detective Hannah Sampson, Tortola PD.”

“What’s she done now?” she asked.

“She?”

“Jillian, my daughter.”

“What makes you think this is about
Jillian?”

“You mean it’s not?” she asked, hopeful.

“Well, marginally, I suppose. Do you know
Elyse Henry?”

“Of course, she’s been meddling in our
affairs with Jilli for months now. I heard she’s been hurt. So,
this
is
about Jilli.”

“Do you mind if I come in?” I asked.

“Might as well,” she sighed.

The house was as opulent on the inside as
out. Thick spongy carpeting muffled our steps as she led me into
the living room. The room was dark, drapes pulled against the
sun—blood wine chairs, a cherry table and a sofa of tapestry,
colors picking up the hue of the chairs. The walls were covered
with art, reproductions of the masters. Dark brooding faces stared
out from the canvases. A Rembrandt,
The Man in the Golden
Helmet
, glared at me. Sure, they were works of art but jeez,
better left in a museum. I’d go for one of Gauguin’s oils of
Tahitians lounging in the shade any day.

“Please, sit down,” she said, indicating the
couch. The thing was hard as a rock. I couldn’t see a
fourteen-year-old kid slouching in it.

“Can I get you a drink?” She already had one.
It looked like straight bourbon—no ice.

“No, thanks.”

She poured another couple of inches into her
glass and sat across from me, crossing her legs.

“How can I help you, Detective?”

I decided to get right to the point. She was
already on the defensive anyway. “You know where Jillian was last
night?”

“Like every night. She was out with her
friends. There’s nothing we can do short of locking her up to keep
her home.”

I could see why. The place was a mausoleum,
the chairs designed for the short-term guest—five minutes and
they’d be out of there.

“I heard that she and Elyse were
friends.”

“Some friend,” she said, taking a drink.
“She’s an interfering bitch.” Jeez, the woman didn’t mince
words.

“She was always talking to Jilli about seeing
Mary King, getting to the cause of her drug use. The cause is that
she’s a teenager whose gotten into drugs and the wrong crowd. We’re
her parents. We can take care of things ourselves. We’re going to
put her into a very strict school in the States, one that
guarantees to straighten kids out.

“You know Elyse actually came here.” Rita
Ingram was on a rant now. “She told us that school was the worst
thing for Jillian. Said she needed to be in a drug abuse program
and in therapy. What does she know? Jilli had too much freedom in
that prep school in London. She’d only been there a year and she
was in trouble. We took her to school a sweet little girl. We
picked her up and she looks like a devil-worshiping punk rocker.
We’ve searched her room. I don’t know where she gets the stuff. We
cut off her allowance.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Well, she’s been very quiet lately. Joel, my
husband, is sure it’s because she can’t find anyone who will give
her drugs on credit.”

I didn’t mention that there were other things
her daughter could exchange for drugs if she really wanted
them.

“You know, it’s a nice change,” she said.
“You’d hardly know Jillian is around.”

Yeah, I bet it was. Rita Ingram didn’t need
to face the problem, just play tennis, drink her bourbon and
pretend her daughter was fine now that they’d pulled her out of
school and cut off any funds.

About then Jillian came in. She was a pretty
girl, small boned. Her hair was spiked, dyed pitch black, and
highlighted with purple streaks. She wore a pair of baggy pants
that hung on her hips, sandals, and a tight shirt, short enough to
show her navel, which was pierced and decorated with a gold ring.
She looked a lot older than her fourteen years.

“Hi, Jilli. How you doing?” I asked. The last
time I’d seen her had been a couple weeks ago, walking through town
with Elyse. We’d gone for ice cream. At the time, I could see she
was wired, probably on speed. Elyse knew it too. This was a
different kid. Affect flat, blue eyes unfocused. I’d guess she’d
gotten into Rita’s Valium.

“I’m okay. I heard about Elyse. Will she be
all right?”

“The doctor doesn’t know.”

“I don’t think we can help you any further,
Detective,” Rita said. “Jilli darling, would you show Ms. Sampson
to the door? I’m going to shower.” She filled her glass again and
staggered up the stairs.

“Sorry about Mom. I guess I’m kind of a
burden.”

She walked outside with me, sat down on the
steps, pulled a cigarette from hiding inside her bra and lit it. I
sat next to her on the upwind side.

“Your mom’s having a tough time, huh?”

“Yeah. Guess I can’t blame her. I’m not the
sweet innocent daughter they had hoped for. Dad’s just pissed. I
know what they’re thinking. All I need is some hard
discipline.”

“What do you think?”

“I think I’m a bad person. Elyse says I’m
not, but she doesn’t really know me.”

“Your mom doesn’t seem to like you’re seeing
her.”

“Well, you know. Mom wants to be the one I
turn to. I’ve tried to talk to her. The trouble is she doesn’t have
a clue. And Dad, he’s so sure of himself. He’s a ‘take control’
kind of guy who thinks he’s always right. I know he’s disappointed
in me. He can’t understand why I’m not just like my brother. He’s
got this great new job in a famous London law office. Dad can’t
understand why I’m different and he really gets angry that he can’t
control me. Mom doesn’t have much to say about things.”

“What’s your dad think about Elyse?”

“Same as Mom. Doesn’t want me going near her.
He’s sure she’s about the worst thing for me.”

“When did you see Elyse last?”

“A couple of days ago, I guess.”

“You two have an argument or anything?”

“No,” she said, averting her eyes. The kid
was hiding something.

“Here’s my card. You need anything, I want
you to call me.”

“Sure,” she said. Like right, in another
life.

I left her sitting on the steps, elbows
crossed on her knees, forehead resting on her arms, gazing at the
cement. She was so god-awful alone, the pain palpable. What had
happened to this kid?

By the time I got back to the office it was
almost four. Thank God Dunn wasn’t around. The first thing I did
was pick up the phone and call Mary. Her voice mail answered. I
left a message asking her to find some way to check on Jillian,
parents or not. I was worried about the kid. Then I called the
hospital and talked to Hall.

“Hey, Sampson, nice of you to show up.” Stark
was standing behind me when I hung up the phone. “How’s Elyse
doing?”

“No change. Still unconscious.”

“Damn.” That was all that Stark had to say
about it. Typical Stark. But I knew he was upset too. He’d known
Elyse since they were kids, getting into trouble together doing
things like freeing hermit crabs from local pet stores.

His way to deal with his concern was not to
deal with it. He got down to business.

“I could use a little help here,” he said,
throwing a stack of papers on my desk. We’ve got reports about
break-ins on boats from all over the islands.”

The detective unit in our small office across
from the library did all the investigative work and handled
island-wide crime. Other ancillary offices around the islands
handled local disturbances. Our unit was composed of three
detectives—Stark, Alvin Mahler, and me. Jimmy Snyder was a deputy
but he often talked Dunn into letting him accompany one of us.
Usually it ended up being me. He was a smart kid and ambitious, but
still too damned young. Seven street cops also worked out of our
office, as well as Dunn’s secretary.

Stark and I spent the next hour going over
the complaints. Not surprisingly, the break-ins were occurring in
the most popular anchorages, places where there were a lot of
boats, mostly charterers down for a week or two of sailing. Few
people ever locked their boats or homes in the islands. The BVI
were known to be a “law and order” place where the crime rate was
low.

Lately, though, there had been a rash of
reports. Four boats had been broken into over at Cane Garden Bay
two nights ago. It was the night of the full moon, which meant
dozens of boaters headed up to the Bomba Shack for the full moon
party. They’d left their boats unattended—no lights, no dinghy, all
sure indications that no one was aboard.

Whoever had boarded had gotten on and off
quickly, rummaging through chart tables and cabinets. It was
amazing what people left right out in plain sight—binoculars, GPS
units, high-tech cameras, expensive jewelry, fanny packs with cash
and credit cards.

Other reports had come from Soper’s Hole the
next major harbor to the south. Nothing had occurred in the more
remote anchorages or on the islands that were sparsely populated.
Peter Island, Cooper, Jost Van Dyke had reported no thefts. A few
reports had come from the Baths on Virgin Gorda, and several from
North Sound, near Saba Rock and the Bitter End. We split up the
duty and would start checking things out tomorrow. Stark would talk
to the yachters who’d been at Cane Garden Bay and Soper’s Hole. I’d
motor up to Virgin Gorda, talk to the resort and restaurant owners,
and the people who ran the grocery store.