Swimming With the Dead (11 page)

“What the hell,” he yelled again as he jerked the beer out of Harry’s grasp.  “What are you doin’?  Where were you?”

“What ja mean, mate?” Harry asked.  “I been here.”

“I mean below.  She almost drown down in the compartment.  Where the hell were you?  You were supposed to be last out with the other light.”  James was about to take a swing at him when I grabbed his fist.

“Damn, James,” Harry said.  “You were way ahead.  She was behind you.  I came out the other side.  Tight squeeze but shorter.  You blokes were fine.  Wat do ya mean, drowned?”

“That’s the last time I dive with you, Harry,” James said.  “You’re stupid, careless.  One day it’ll catch up with you.  You’ll end up same’s Michael ’cept you’ll deserve it!”

I struggled out of my vest, too tired to join the fray.  James set the gear on the deck.

“What happened?” he asked me.

“What happened was Harry left me in that passage in the dark.  When the light went out, I went back for him.  Thought he might be caught or hurt.  Finally I realized I needed to start out.  I had just made my way to the refrigeration hold when my air quit.  The pressure gauge had indicated 1,300 when we’d started out.  It should have been plenty.  Glad you were there, James.”

“When I realized no one was behind me, I went back,” James said.  “Saw you coming out of the hold, knew you were in trouble.  Shouldn’ta been nothin’ wrong with your equipment.” 

He picked up the gauge.  “It’s empty,” he said, flicking his finger sharply against the glass cover.  “I don’t understand how that could be.”

I looked carefully at the pressure gauge and mouthpiece.  Everything looked fine.  I ran my fingers along each of the low-pressure hoses that went to the mouthpiece, the spare mouthpiece, and the vest.  They were all new, flexible, and in perfect shape.  At first glance, the high-pressure hose looked good too.  It’s the hose that goes directly to the pressure gauge.  Designed to withstand up to 5,000 psi, it provides an accurate pressure reading from the tank to the gauge.  It was split right at the fitting.

“Look at this.  I handed the regulator to James.”

“Jeez, that explains why you ran out of air.  That thing would have been losing air like crazy.  But these hoses are designed to withstand the pressure.”

“It must have happened when I came back down the passageway. It was too dark to see anything.  I must have sliced it on a piece of metal.”

“It shouldn’t have come apart like that, even if you brushed up against something razor-sharp.  The high-pressure hose is thick and hard.  It wouldn’t split.”  He looked again at the hose.  “Man, this ain’t a high-pressure hose.”

“What?”

“I don’t make that kinda mistake.  How could a low-pressure hose end up on here?  No wonder it split.  Jeez, I am sorry.  I can’t understand this.”

James seemed completely flabbergasted, but he was the one in charge of the equipment.  Had he sabotaged my dive? 

“Where did you put this after you refurbished it?”  I wondered who else might have had access.

“I finished with it after you left the shop this morning.  Put it on the dive boat along with my gear and went to lunch.  You think someone tampered with it?” 

“Possible, unless you used the wrong hose.”

“Can’t be.  I’m real careful with all the gear.”

“Guess you’re getting senile in your old age.”  Harry had been sitting on the edge of the boat without a word.

“How the hell did you get out of the ship?” I asked, turning to him.

“Jus’ went down the other way, mate.  The passage leads to the mess hall and up to the bridge.  No problem.”

“Guess you’ve spent some time exploring the wreck,” I said.  He had to be very familiar with the maze of passageways to make his way out so easily.

“Sure, I’ve dived it a couple of times.  Never know what little souvenir ya might find.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” I asked.  I knew that many of the sites in the BVI were designated national parks and that collecting artifacts was against park regulations.    

“What’s a little coin or spoon here and there,” he said, smirking.  “Besides, who’s to know?”

What a cocky asshole.  I refrained from comment, but James was really angry.  He’d be waiting for Acuff to make a mistake selling something that he shouldn’t have in his possession.

I spent the return trip querying Acuff about finding Michael.  He wasn’t particularly helpful.

“Went out with Dunn and Carr that afternoon,” he said.  “Carr and I kept working our way into the interior of the ship till we found him.”

“Who actually located him?” I asked.

“Was Carr that went in first.  I was right behind.  Duvall was in that compartment like I showed you, just kinda swaying in the current, leg caught under that refrigeration box.”            

“Do you think it was an accident?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” he said.  “Stupid move.  Pulled that compressor right over on hisself.  Not much chance a gettin’ out from under.  All he could do is wait for his air to give out.”

“The police report said that his regulator was out of his mouth, floating in the water.”

“Yeah.  Thing was floating above his head.  I figure he ran out of air and thought he was a fish, ya know, could breathe water.” Harry was actually gloating, as if there was no way it would ever happen to him.

“Did you notice anything on the body or in the water around the body?”

“Just a bunch a fish and shrimp feeding on him,” he said, smiling.

“What about blood or vomit, foam around the mouth?”

“Didn’t see nothin’ like that.”

“Did you look?”

“Hey, my job was to get down there, look for the guy, and bring him up if I found him.  That’s what I did.”

“Why do you think he went out by himself?” I prodded.  This guy was a fountain of information.

“Beats me,” he said.  “I hardly knew the guy.”

“Where were you the morning Michael died?”

“You expect me to remember where I was a month ago?  Guess I was workin’ like usual.”

“Where would that have been?”

“Hell if I know.  I work for lotsa people down here.  Freelancing is what I call it.  Fixin’ boats for whoever wants to pay me good, mostly over at the boat yard, sometimes for SeaSail. Don’t think that be none of your damned business, though.”

“If it’s murder, it’s my business.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, Duvall got careless and drowned.”

By the time we tied the boat to the dock, Harry had consumed the entire six-pack that he’d stashed in the cooler. 

“Hey, Ms. Sampson, think about it this way,” he said as he swigged the last of his beer and walked unsteadily down the dock, “least you didn’t end up like Duvall.  Besides, it builds character and makes a great story for all your friends in the U.S. of A.”

“Thanks, Harry, but I think I’ve had enough character building in my life already.”

When I got back to my hotel room, I called Mack, mostly because I needed to hear a friendly voice.  I had come close to dying in that wreck, and I wasn’t at all sure it had been accidental.  At this point, I didn’t know whom to trust.  James had seemed innocent enough—upset that his equipment might have been faulty.  And he had come back for me.  But he would have known that once I’d made it to the opening, I would have made it to the surface.  It could all be an act on his part.  Maybe he and Acuff had conspired to get me out of the way.  Was I really that much of a threat?  I had absolutely no proof that Michael’s death had been anything but an accident.

Mack picked up on the second ring.  “Sampson, good to hear your voice.  You’ve only been down there a couple of days.  You miss me already?”

“Actually, I do.”  I told Mack about my near-death experience diving and what I’d discovered so far.

“Jeez, Sampson, sounds like I need to come down and watch your back.” 

“Any leads on Greta’s murder?” I asked.

“Nothing much,” he said.  “No surprises in the autopsy.  Her only injury was the bullet wound to the chest.  Weapon was a thirty-eight caliber.  We haven’t found the gun.  We questioned the husband.  He’s pretty devastated, and friends report the marriage solid.  Evidently they had just renewed their vows.  ’Course, you never know what goes on behind closed doors, but I’m just not seeing him as the killer.”

“What about fibers, fingerprints?”

“Nothing yet. We’re working on it.”

“Well, let the boss know I called, okay?”

“Sure.  Look, you be careful down there.  And I’m serious about the backup.  Call me if you need me.”

Chapter 10

I was in the bar, a double gin and tonic in hand, watching the sun dip into the water, when Peter O’Brien arrived.

“You look lovely,” he said. 

I’d showered and made an attempt to pull my hair up, though stray wisps hung helter-skelter.  I told myself it was the natural look and left it at that.  When I’d packed, I’d jammed a crushable dress in my suitcase, an afterthought.  It was a sexy affair—black, calf-length but skimpy on top and form-fitting.  I wore it now in an attempt to regain some equilibrium, prove I was fully alive after my near death.  The turmoil in my stomach was finally subsiding—more to do with the double gin than the dress.

O’Brien didn’t look bad himself: black Dockers and a beige gauzy shirt that implied the muscled body beneath.  He still wore the boat shoes, no socks.  I had to remind myself that this was business and that everyone was suspect in Michael’s murder, if it was murder.  I was pretty sure it was.  I’d been on the island less than forty-eight hours and I’d almost been hit by a car and drowned out at the
Chikuzen
.  Accidents?  Possible, but more than likely someone was trying to subvert my investigation.  And Lydia.  There was something she had not wanted to say when we spoke yesterday.  Tonight I would find out about O’Brien.

I was describing the day’s dive when the waiter arrived and set a martini in front of him.  I hadn’t seen him order.  “They know me here,” he said in response to my bemused look.

“I’ve known James a long time,” O’Brien said.  “When it comes to diving, he is strictly professional.  His is the first shop I recommend when charterers want to hire a dive company.  I’m surprised things got out of hand.” 

“What about Harry Acuff?” I asked.  “Do you know him?”

“Only in passing.  He hangs around the dive shops, the marina.  He’s always looked a bit seedy, a bit too hungry, if that makes any sense.  He works over at the boat yard and does some freelance work as a diver.  He’s very experienced.  Dunn uses him; so does the Parks Service.  He occasionally works on my boats doing the underwater repairs.  Do you think he abandoned you in the wreck on purpose?”

“At this point, anything is possible,” I said.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you found your way out of there,” he said, smiling—or was it a smirk? 

I wondered how glad he really was.  O’Brien had plenty of motive for killing Michael.  He was friendly with James, knew Acuff.  He could afford to pay them well to insure I never made it out of that wreck.

“How about some famous O’Brien cuisine?” he said.

He offered me his arm and we strolled up the hill to his house.  It fell more in the villa category: a huge white stucco with peach-colored trim on a rolling hillside.  Inside, it was airy and spacious, decorated tastefully in an island theme.  The floors were tiled with Spanish pavers.  The furniture was wicker and rattan.  Framed charts and pictures of sailboats decorated the walls.  I picked up a photo from a nearby table that caught my eye.  An athletic couple stood on an old wooden sailboat with a young boy between them.

“My parents,” O’Brien said.  “That was our first boat, named for my mother,
The Catherine
.  She was headed for the salvage yard when they bought her for almost nothing.  A lot of sweat and love went into her restoration.  She’s a classic, brass fittings, teak decking.  And she can really move through the water.  Just not made like that anymore.  These days, most boats are made of fiberglass.”

“Do you still have her?” I asked.

“Yes.  I’ll never sell her.  She’s docked down at the marina.”

We walked out to the pool where an elegant table, a vase of island flowers in the center, was set for two.  The lights from the marina glittered below.  The sultan overseeing his kingdom, I thought.

“I’ve made a typical island meal, grilled red snapper with Caribbean rice and beans.  Thought you should experience island cuisine,” he said as he opened a bottle of Chardonnay and poured.  “Relax and try to forget the day.  Give me a few minutes in the kitchen.”

The wine was finishing the job that the gin had started.  I could feel the tension begin to ease; the pain that had been throbbing down the side of my neck and into my injured shoulder subsided.  I’d better watch it, I silently warned myself.

O’Brien returned, plates in hand.  I was impressed that he had cooked himself and wondered if there was a chef hiding in the kitchen. 

“I don’t cook often,” he said, reading my thoughts.  “Mostly I depend on Marta, but it’s her day off.”

“It looks wonderful.  I’m impressed.”   

“Just my intent,” he said, lifting his glass to mine.

Why, I wondered, would it be important to impress me?  I hardly knew him.

“How did you end up in the islands owning a marina and a charter business?” I asked.

“Actually, I grew up here in Tortola.  My parents started the company.  My father had been a successful businessman in L.A.  He was fed up with the hassle and the cutthroat environment.  He and my mother had always sailed in California.  They decided to sell everything and come down here.  I was only five.  They bought
The Catherine,
fixed her up, and hired her out.  They crewed it, did the cooking, and gave lessons to those who were interested.  The boat and their services were in such demand that they bought another.  It just grew from there, now over a hundred boats.  They came in at an opportune time; sailing was just catching on down here.  And my father was an entrepreneur to the core.  He knew what it took to be successful.”

O’Brien refilled our glasses and continued.