Trusting Viktor (A Cleo Cooper Mystery) (10 page)

“We have a bit of a strange situation here,” Pierce said. “Our usual procedure in the case of murder is to immediately cordon off the crime scene and have CSI go over it. But, in this case, the crime scene—”

“If there is one,” I interjected.

Both detectives nodded. Then Pierce continued, “The
potential
crime scene, then, is somewhat out of our jurisdiction. Add to that the fact that days went by before the body washed up miles away, during which time the scene was contaminated by the day-to-day activities there …”

“But we are still inclined to want to see it,” Myers added. “Tomorrow, in fact.”

“Good luck with getting on a working drillship without certification and a TWIC card,” I said, knowing that quickly obtaining these would be nearly impossible under ordinary circumstances. “Even if you managed it, your department would still have to be willing to drop about fifteen large on a helicopter ride out there.” I could tell I’d gotten their attention by the sudden look of surprise that came over their faces. “Unless you’re an employee with transportation provided by the operator or the subcontracted company you work for,
or
you’re a VIP guest of the operator, you’re responsible for your own transportation. I don’t think you guys fall under the VIP category, do you?”

“We don’t have to”, Pierce said, “We’re good friends with the fellows out at our local Coast Guard Station at Fort Macon. They’re all the permission we need, plus they’re going to ride us
and
a CSI team out to the
Magellan
.”

Anger and frustration boiled up in me. “Need I remind you, you’re entering my workplace and could seriously endanger my position there?”

“How so?” asked Myers innocently.

“You know damn well if it got around that I was involved in an attempted rape that ended with one of the crew dying, it would make my professional relationships there even more difficult than they already are. In case you haven’t noticed, I work in a male-dominated industry, especially when it comes to offshore exploration. Right now the word on board is the guy fell overboard and drowned. Why can’t you leave it at that?”

“Because the back of the victim’s skull was crushed, Ms. Cooper. Because you were there. Because you conveniently can’t remember anything.”

“What would my motive be?”

“Self-defense comes to mind. But there’s also the nagging fact that you said nothing to the captain of the ship.”

“What would I say? Hell, I couldn’t even identify the guy I grappled with! What would be the point?”

“How about this,” Pierce said, standing. “The investigation is still ongoing, but we’ll make sure your name isn’t mentioned in connection with the case while we’re out there.”

I sighed and said nothing. Pierce hesitated at the door. I waited, unsurprised at his ploy. “We’ve ascertained that your husband … er, ex-husband, is out of the country. When’s he supposed to be back?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged again.

Pierce pursed his lips and nodded like he’d expected my answer, much as I’d anticipated his throwing in one last question.

My callers had hardly made it to their cars when Henri came back in, Tulip close on her heels. She opened the large oval crock pot on the counter, releasing a cloud of steam redolent of baked chicken and vegetables. Poking around in it, she asked with understandable curiosity, “Why did those detectives want to talk to you about some guy falling off that drillship? I mean, just because you and Dad are invested—”

“I guess because we were out there that night. Remember, we had to stay overnight because of the storm? Speaking of Dad, he’s supposed to be back from Paris today. Have you heard from him yet?”

“Yeah. I thought you knew—he’s not coming back today. In fact, Will is going over to stay with him for a while. He’s leaving tomorrow.”

“What?” I said, as I set the table for supper and poured the tea. “Did Will say why he’s going?”

“Yeah,” Henri said, slicing wedges from a head of iceberg lettuce. “Get this, he said Dad needs him to update his computer … Oh, and don’t set him a place, he says he’s already eaten and needs time to get his stuff packed.”

“Why can’t your father have Will work on his computer at his house in Raleigh or at Seahaven? Why does he have to go all the way to Paris?”

Henri shrugged. “Good question.”

tEN

After dinner I moved
up to my office. There, rotating the circular stage of my old microscope, I examined a sample of freshly washed cuttings from the well. The ticking of the clock and Tulip’s soft snuffles as she chased some critter in her sleep were my only distractions.

I jotted notes in preparation for the call I’d make to Phil Gregson as soon as I’d gone through all the samples. He’d said to call him, no matter the time. I glanced up at the clock, a little disgusted that it was so late. I’d have been finished by now if I hadn’t had to take time for Pierce and Myers. I removed the sample and replaced it with another. I was studying it when Henri walked in.

“You’re working hard,” she said.

“Sometimes that’s what it takes,” I said. “The thing is, this job came up in a hurry and there’s pressure for a return report.” I looked up and registered her expression. “Hon, do you need me for something else? What’s bothering you?” Mothers can always tell, which is both a blessing and a curse.

“Well …”

“Spit it out. Clearly something’s up.”

“I just thought you should be aware of the interest in your project around town.”

“How so?”

“It’s pretty much everywhere—in the shops, on the beach even. The bars are full of it. Even when I was getting my hair cut the other day, that’s all they were talking about. How they’d be affected if you guys make an oil discovery. A lot of people are upset.”

“Gas,” I said patiently. “We’re expecting to find natural gas, not oil. Big difference. So do you think the overall feeling’s good or bad?”

She thought for a moment. “Most people I know really hope you guys find something. They know it’ll improve the economy, and they want the work. But there are others, green-minded types, who seem to despise any kind of energy unless it’s a wind turbine.”

“I didn’t know you were so political.”

“I’m not, but I listen to people. And I’m just telling you what I hear. Some of those folks aren’t making any sense.”

“Well, here’s my advice—just steer clear of these discussions. You can’t win them even when you’re right. Their minds are closed; the far-flung environmentalists, I mean. I could give you the ammunition to shut them up—chapter and verse about turbines versus gas platforms and their relative pollution issues—but it wouldn’t matter.” I paused. “Anyway, we’re about halfway done with the well, so it won’t be much longer before we know what we’ve got.”

“Wow. That’s fast. How far down are you drilling now?”

“Oh, just past five thousand feet. We’re in some thin layers of mid-Miocene sandstone, silt, and shale.” Checking my watch, I said, “I’m sorry, but it’s almost ten o’clock and I’ve got to make a call. We can talk more about this later if you want to, okay?”

She came over and kissed the top of my head in reply.

After I reached Phil and gave him a rundown of my findings, I was just about to pull up Elton’s number when he beat me to it. “My lag time calculations are suddenly all off!” he gasped. He was practically hyperventilating. “I’ve checked everything and can’t figure out what’s goin’ on.”

Several complications that affect the lag time came to mind. This is the time it takes for a sample of rock chips to move from the bit to the surface in offshore wells as opposed to a land-based wells—the only wells Elton had experience with.

“Calm down, Elton,” I said. “Take a deep breath.” I waited a few seconds. “Everything’s been fine up to now, so give me the details. Where are you in the well right now?”

Less agitated but still not happy, Elton dutifully listed the particulars. Nothing seemed amiss. Then I had an idea. I said, “Go down to the drill floor and check with Mr. Grant. The drillers could have added another pump to the base of the riser pipe and failed to inform you.”

Only the hum of cyberspace let me know we were still connected. I drew a mental picture for him. “The drill pipe feeds down through the riser pipe that runs from the ship to the seafloor, right?”

“Yeah, of course,”
he said impatiently.

“So, since the riser is so much larger in diameter, if the drillers increased the pressure and velocity with another pump, it’d naturally throw off your calculations.”

“Oh, man! Why I didn’t think of that?”

“Because you’re tired. Call me back if that’s not the problem. If it is, that means you need to improve communications with the drillers. Make sure they know they
have
to inform you of things like this.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And, Elton—after you straighten this out, get some rest.”

“Yes ma’am.”

As I clicked off, a yawn big enough to engulf my head overtook me, so I decided to call myself professionally finished for the day. I went to Will’s room. His door was closed. I knocked softly but got no answer. Henri was just coming back up the stairs, a bowl of ice cream in her hands.

“He’s already gone to bed,” she whispered. “His plane leaves at seven so he has to be at Wilmington International at five.”

“Okay,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

I gathered my discarded clothes and was about to carry them to the chute when I felt something in the pocket of my jeans. My artifact! I’d forgotten all about it what with the shock of seeing Viktor again and being interrogated by the detectives this afternoon.

I fished out the metal piece and inspected it. Obviously it had been underwater for a long time because it was encrusted with very tiny barnacles and stained almost black. I scratched gently at the encrustation with a metal nail file and discovered the little wheel had at one time been painted bright red. Deciding it needed rinsing, I put it under the tap. Once the surface was clean, though, I was still none the wiser about its purpose—or its history. I set it on my nightstand for further contemplation.

Going to bed proved a waste of time. I wiggled and squirmed until I’d practically worried the sheets off the bed. Around midnight Tulip hopped off in a huff and curled up in a chair by the window. I dozed intermittently, but every time I woke, the same thought came to my mind: What were Pierce and Myers going to find tomorrow on the
Magellan
? Would it be something to implicate me? Had I pushed King Kong, a.k.a. Nuvuk Hunter, overboard and blocked it out? Or would they find something to implicate Bud? I wanted to talk to him in the worst kind of way. It would be easy enough. As soon as MaxRoam had become available in cell phones, he’d made sure I had it so I could reach him no matter where I was. Divorced or not, he insisted I keep it because of the children.

At 2:14 a.m., with sleep still evading me, I pulled him up on my iPhone. Since Paris was six hours ahead, he’d probably be having breakfast somewhere. There was a problem though. Without coming right out and asking, I couldn’t think how to find out if he’d come to my rescue that night on the
Magellan
. After putting the phone back on my nightstand and repeatedly picking it up again, I finally decided to stop torturing myself and call him.

“Hi, babe, how’s the drilling going?”

“Good.” I then proceeded to catch him up on the mundane work details.

When I finished, he said, “That all sounds great. How much longer do you think it’ll be before we reach the pay zone?”

“Couple of weeks, if all goes well and we don’t run into any snags. When we reach our target formation, we’ll do a series of test logs, then make a decision on what we have and whether we need to drill any lateral wells. Of course, if it’s a dry hole, that’s another story.”

“That’s not going to happen,” he said positively. “When are you going back out?”

“Well, not tomorrow.” I took a deep breath. “Remember the body you told me about, the one the police suspected might have been one of the crew from the
Magellan
?”

“Yeah. What’s up with that?” I was listening carefully. Had his tone changed?

“Well, it turns out he was an employee of one of the contractors out there—Voyager, the ROV company.”

“Stands to reason. Wonder what happened to him?” I wasn’t detecting any extra note of concern, but I knew Bud could be cagey.

“I don’t know, but the police feel further investigation is warranted and they’re going out there, assisted by the Coast Guard. Best if I stay out of the way, is how I see it.”

A few seconds of silence followed. “You don’t think they’ll cause any delays on the well do you?” What I detected now—and it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes—was genuine worry.

“At half a million dollars a day, Braxton Roberts won’t allow that to happen. I’m sure it’s the one time your pal Duncan Powell will be glad he’s out there.”

More silence. Then Bud said, “I’m really looking forward to spending some time with Will.”

“I was going to ask you about that,” I said.

“Later. Right now, I’ve really got to run, babe.”

As Henri and I finished our cereal the next morning, she said, “So where are you off to today? Didn’t you mention something about prospecting?”

“Yep. Somewhere west of Fayetteville but not as far as Charlotte. I’m looking for sand and gravel.” I picked up my pack by the door. Tulip was eager to be off on our expedition and was urging me on. I held the door open for her. “I’ll let you know where we’re overnighting when I decide. I should be able to finish up between now and the end of the weekend. Call or text if you need me.”

“And you’re coming back Sunday?”

“Yes, Mom,” I said sarcastically. I started to follow Tulip.

“Wait. What time Sunday?”

“Why?”

“Some friends are coming down from Raleigh and we’re going on one of those scuba tours of wreck sites. You want to come?”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so? We haven’t been diving together yet this summer. Count me in,” I said.

While my trip to the Pennsylvania gas fields immediately following the horrible attack had steadied my nerves and given me some resolve, being in the woods of North Carolina, listening to the sound of woodpeckers in the deep woods, smelling pine sap baking in the June sun, was soul-soothing. By Saturday afternoon, I was feeling my old self again. A little cocky, even.

I was just heading out of a 4,000-acre pine plantation on the way to my Jeep when I got a call from Phil Gregson in Houston.

“Hi, Phil,” I said. “How are you?”

“Frustrated,” he replied.

“Okay. Tell me.” Did I have any choice?

“Here’s why: I’m a little confused because Grant, our head driller—you met him—just called. He says they had to put the junk basket down the hole to clear it for our first sidewall core …”

“Right. It wasn’t originally called for in the drilling plan but added, I was told, so we could correlate the tops of rock formations if things go well and we need to drill more wells later.”

“Well, nice everyone’s feeling positive, I guess. Anyway, on the way down the junk basket got stuck—so I was wondering when you were going back out.”

“Uh, I’m on another job right now. Anyway, I’m not an engineer …”

“I know, I know.” His distress and confusion lay heavy in the air, as evident as if he were standing right next to me. “It’s just that Elton’s starting to sound a little unhinged, and I’d just feel better if you were there.” He exhaled in relief, to prove his point.

“Phil, you’re wound tight as a cheap watch right now too. I guess everyone is. But if the basket’s stuck, well, that’s pretty much going to shut things down until they fish it out,” I said, sighing a lot less audibly. “Tell you what: I’ll give Powell a call, keep up with their progress, and soon as they start drilling again, I’ll go out. As a matter of fact, I’m done out here and just about to get on the road back to Morehead now, so I’ll be ready to roll soon’s they get back down in the hole.”

That seemed to satisfy him. Poor guy. Phil Gregson might be an old hand at staking his reputation on a particular deep-water site, but he wasn’t accustomed to having the very existence of his company on the line. I checked my compass again as I wound through young pines thick enough to practically block daylight, then phoned Duncan Powell.

The bad news was they hadn’t even completed tripping out yet—pulling the drill pipe out of the well to attach a tool to retrieve the basket. Then they trip back in, retrieve the junk basket, then come back out again to add the coring bit, then it’s back down yet again to the section of the well where a sidewall core would be taken. This long and laborious process would take a few days.

The good news was the casing wasn’t damaged and the well was still intact.

Tulip loped up to the Jeep at my whistle and took her place riding shotgun, prepared to give it her all in covering the windows with slobber before we made it back to Morehead.

Scuba diving off the North Carolina coast is always fun, but some days are better than others. Good days are when visibility is more than a just few feet, and Sunday proved to be one of them. Henri and I, along with about twenty-five other divers, were on a tour of a few of the wrecks within easy reach of Morehead City. We’d already seen several, each spectacularly showcasing a vast array of sea life involved in the endless drama of eating or being eaten.

I finned along behind Henri as we explored the remains of
U-352
, a Nazi submarine. A shimmering school of small silver baitfish moved over the sandy seabed toward me, then swooped up and over the sub.
U-352
had the dubious distinction of being the first vessel sunk by the Coast Guard in World War II. It had been lying on its side in about 110 feet of water since 1942. This was the last wreck of the afternoon and so far, my favorite.

I’d read a pamphlet provided by the dive shop about the sinking of the German vessel, which also told how the wreck had been discovered by the shop owner back in the seventies. He’d kept it a secret for over a year until he was ready to make it part of their tour. I found it amazing that he’d gone to the trouble to find the surviving German mariners and bring them to Morehead City for a reunion and to return personal items he’d found in the sub’s remains.