Briggs threw his hands in the air. “So I’m supposed to know everybody who lives there? That’s millions of people for Christ’s sake.”
“Sir,” Jacob interrupted politely, holding out his mobile phone. “This is the station for you. They say it’s urgent.”
Whittaker looked at Briggs, who was pacing around the tent. The man hadn’t actually answered his question, although he’d given the impression of not knowing Massey. He took the mobile from Jacob.
“Sorry, sir,” Jacob said quietly. “They said they’d been trying your phone.”
The detective’s phone had been ringing and buzzing with texts non-stop and he’d chosen action over talking for the past thirty minutes or so. He knew he could be missing vital information, but there was only so much he could do at one time.
“This is Whittaker.”
“Dis is Pam in communications, Roy,” came a woman’s voice with a slight island lilt. “I’m putting a call through to you I think you should take.”
Before he could accept or protest, Pam was gone, and the line clicked.
“Hello?” Whittaker said impatiently.
“Hello?” came another female voice, this time with a South Asian tint to an American accent.
“This is Detective Whittaker. How can I help you?”
“Oh, good. Hello, detective, I’m Myra Shah with the Tampa Bay Gazette.”
“Ma’am, I need to direct you back to our communications group for the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service. I’m in the middle of a time-sensitive case and I cannot reveal any details to the press,” Whittaker interrupted and was about to hang up.
“I’m not calling for the paper, detective,” Myra said urgently. “I know this man. I know Jensen Massey. Please don’t hang up, it’s taken me hours to get through to your communications group, and finally you.”
Whittaker took a deep breath and stepped from under the tent, away from anyone else. Briggs in particular.
“I’m sorry about that, Miss Shah, but our communications group is actually just Pam, so you can understand we’re all stretched rather thin today. What’s your connection with Massey?”
“I’ve been working on a story with him for over six months, detective, until a month ago,” Myra explained. “I’m stunned he’s kidnapped Briggs’s daughter – that’s not at all like the man I was dealing with.”
“You say you were working on a story, Miss Shah. Why did it stop a month ago?”
“I’m still working on it, but Jensen stopped talking to me about a month ago,” she replied. “How much do you know about Skylar Briggs?”
Whittaker didn’t have time to dance around. If this woman had information that could help, he needed it now, so he’d have to trust her.
“We’ve seen her police record, if that’s what you mean, Miss Shah.”
“Please, call me Myra,” she replied. “And that’s exactly what I’m referring to. Jensen went off the radar and stopped returning my calls the day Skylar Briggs was most recently arrested. I haven’t spoken to him, or seen him since. Until today that is.”
“Why does Massey have a beef with a twenty-year-old rich kid going off the rails?” Whittaker asked and prayed it wasn’t a sordid affair gone wrong.
“He doesn’t, detective,” Myra replied. “His problem is with her father.”
“Sir, sir, he’s back on the feed,” Jacob shouted from the tent.
Whittaker looked at Donovan Briggs, who was anxiously watching the monitor. He knew the man was lying, but why, when his daughter’s life was on the line, was still a mystery.
“Miss Shah, I mean Myra, would you mind staying on the line? I need to see what Massey’s up to now. I have a diver in the water and we’re trying to figure out where he’s hiding the girl.”
“No problem, detective, I’m watching it here too,” she said, and he put the call on hold.
He handed Jacob his mobile as he returned to the tent. “Don’t disconnect that call.”
Massey was back in front of the camera, “…while Nora, our Royal Cayman Islands Police Service constable, makes her way to her initial challenge, here’s the first in a series of videos I’ve put together to entertain and educate you on today’s events and the people involved.” He took a step back so Skylar was in view. “So let’s sit back and enjoy a few fun facts from history.”
Massey clicked a controller in his hand, and the feed switched to a video presentation. An illustration of three well-known monkeys filled the screen, the first with hands over its eyes, the second with hands over its ears, and the third with hands over its mouth.
Jensen Massey’s calm voice began the narration, “Everyone has heard the ‘see no evil; hear no evil; speak no evil’ proverb. They often tie the origins to a 17th-century carving over a door of the famous Tōshō-gū shrine in Nikkō, Japan. Using monkeys to depict the proverb was nothing more than a play on words in the Japanese language, and the term ‘evil’ was only added in western use.”
The presentation moved to a depiction of ancient-looking scrolls.
“But the philosophy originated centuries earlier in China, and brought to Japan in the form of a Tendai-Buddhist legend. The famous Chinese philosopher, Confucius, created a book 2,000 years earlier composed of a large collection of sayings and ideas, known as the Analects. Amongst them was the phrase ‘look not at what is contrary to propriety; listen not to what is contrary to propriety; speak not what is contrary to propriety; make no movement which is contrary to propriety’.”
A fourth monkey was added to the earlier group of three, its hands clasped together in front of its body.
“Our modern-day version of the philosopher’s narrative has become ‘see no evil; hear no evil; speak no evil’; and the fourth, the very important, although often overlooked, ‘do no evil’.
“So let us start today with ‘see no evil’. While Nora makes her way to her first challenge of four, which will reflect the ‘seeing’ element, I’ve prepared a brief glimpse into the world of the Briggs family, so you can see exactly who we’re trying to save.”
The video switched to footage recorded on a mobile phone of Skylar Briggs at a series of parties and dance clubs. In each clip, which Whittaker presumed had been gleaned from social media sites, the young woman was clearly inebriated.
“Shut this fucker down!” Briggs screamed, turning to Whittaker. “He’s gotta be here on the island. Turn the Internet feed off!”
“That’s not possible, Mr Briggs,” Whittaker replied, remaining as calm as he could, “for a multitude of reasons.”
“I don’t give a shit about reasons,” the man continued yelling, “shut down the Internet!”
“Mr Briggs,” the detective replied, holding up a hand and catching Jacob’s eye, “please settle down. I neither have the authority, nor the means, to turn off the World Wide Web on the Cayman Islands. I also lack the desire to do so.”
Jacob quickly stepped between the two men as Briggs moved towards the detective.
“You son-of-a-bitch, if I tell you to shut it down, you’d better shut it down,” Briggs seethed. “You’ll go from banana republic detective to shining shoes at the fucking airport over this!”
Whittaker finally raised his voice. “We’re using the Internet to try and find the man, you fool,” he blurted, then quickly regained his composure. “We’re attempting to trace the feed,” he said, pointing to the officers trying not to look up at the spectacle in the small tent. “That’s what these people are doing. Besides, if we take his outlet away, what use does he have for your daughter, Mr Briggs?”
The feed had switched to footage of Skylar being arrested and shoved in the back of a police car.
“Then hurry up and damn well find my daughter,” Briggs blurted, with less fire in his voice. “This piece of shit is making Skylar out to be the bad guy.”
“And you’re still sure you don’t know this man, Jensen Massey?” Whittaker asked, looking at Briggs standing before him, sweat running down his face, his own
fury adding to the midday heat.
Briggs shook his head, but didn’t speak.
“Jacob, take Mr Briggs to your car where he can rest in the air conditioning please.”
Briggs gave the detective a stinging look, but didn’t resist, and Jacob pointed towards his police car.
“Jacob,” Whittaker said, and his constable turned. “Mobile.”
Jacob tossed Whittaker his phone before leading Briggs across the car park. The video feed was now showing a series of newspaper headlines describing Skylar’s falls from grace. Cocaine was a word which kept cropping up.
“He’s not having to try too hard to make her look bad,” he mumbled to himself as he took the mobile off hold. “Myra? I’m sorry about that, are you still there?”
“I am,” the journalist replied. “Quite the show Jensen’s putting on.”
Whittaker kept an eye on the screen as he talked. The counter had surpassed 75,000 viewers, and he pondered if that could be real. “I think we know what he’s been up to since you last spoke. This took some time to figure out and prepare.”
“He’s a very intelligent man, detective. I’m guessing you’re having a hard time tracing the website and where his cameras are sending their signal?”
“We’ve had no luck so far,” Whittaker admitted. “My people tell me he’s bouncing everything around through moving IP addresses and a bunch of other things I certainly don’t understand.”
“I know you have to keep trying,” Myra replied, “but I wouldn’t hang too many hopes on finding Jensen that way. He’s not your standard, sharper than the rest of us, IT guy. He’s next-level clever when it comes to computers, and especially networks.”
“Good to know, thank you,” Whittaker replied, glancing towards the water and wondering how far Nora had made it. “If you could make this as quick as possible, Myra, without leaving out anything crucial. Please tell me everything you know about this fellow, Jensen Massey.”
As the detective listened carefully, he turned back to the video feed where a shot of a large, sprawling factory with several huge chimney stacks filled the screen. The sign out front read Briggs Paper & Packaging International.
8
Counting on Both Hands
The North Sound is five miles across and six miles from the outer reef to the southern shore, but only 15 feet deep. If you took a shovel, there might be a few spots you could get to 20, but most of it is 10-12 feet of crystal-clear water and a sandy bottom with occasional patches of eel and turtle grass. I understood why Massey didn’t want anything airborne over the sound, as they would easily spot and track me.
A wide channel led away from the boat ramp, dredged slightly deeper than the surrounding shallows, which I followed for what felt like 500 metres or more. I had no idea what I was looking for, but water clarity and visibility were excellent, so I had to believe I wouldn’t miss any clues. Surely he would have made them obvious? The unknown has a devious way of making you second guess yourself. But if I kept going down the middle of the channel as he’d demanded, I convinced myself I’d find something.
My nerves had settled and gentle breaths through the regulator provided a steady rhythm to my fin strokes. I’d pumped extra air into my BCD to compensate for the additional weight AJ had given me, staying half a metre off the bottom. I took my time, trying not to expend too much energy, with no idea how much strength or air I would need for what lay ahead.
Finally, in the distance, the channel appeared to melt into the rest of the sound, its edges becoming indistinct. Dead centre of my path was an object of some kind. I had passed by a few rocks and pieces of rubbish lost over the sides of boats, but this was something more substantial. As I neared, I realised it was an underwater scooter, or DPV – diver propulsion vehicle – to use its official term. I’d never used one before, but they were becoming popular with divers and freedivers.
I finned my way to the DPV, which looked like a stubby torpedo with a handle around its midriff. The propeller was protected in a plastic cage, a compass mounted on top of the handle, and laminated instructions were clipped to the body. I read the directions.
‘Head due east for approximately 14 minutes at full speed. You’ll find your first challenge with a buoy line to the surface. At no time go to the surface. Further instructions await.’
The needle on the compass was pointing exactly east, so the DPV had been set down on the sea floor in the correct direction. I checked my dive computer; I’d already been underwater for 16 minutes. I didn’t know how fast this thing would go, but my guess was he was taking me a long way from shore, or at least from the dock I’d just left. The boat ramp was in the north-west corner of the sound, so due east was heading across the open water towards the outer reef, which angled slightly south as it stretched between the peninsula of Barkers National Park and Rum Point.
I took hold of the handles on either side of the DPV and found the throttle triggers under both thumbs. I bumped the throttle and the prop quickly spun up, stirring a cloud of sand into the water behind me. Shit, I needed to get off the bottom or I’d make a mess of the sea floor. That thought made me wonder if I could mark my trail for Whittaker to see, but without the option of elevation, I figured they’d never spot the sand swirls in the water. I remembered the weights.
Taking one from each pocket, I set a weight in the sand, then using the compass on the DPV as a guide, I moved forward a few metres directly east and placed another weight. Hopefully, they’d figure out my crude directional pointer.
I picked up the DPV again, this time lifting it well clear of the sea floor, and pressed the throttle with my thumb. The electric motor whirred and the prop spun, thrusting a stream of water underneath me and pulling the DPV forward until my arms extended. My body weight slowed its progress, but not for long. The powerful little motor soon picked up speed and dragged me along with it. The instructions said at full speed, so I pressed the trigger all the way down and hung on tightly.
My mask fluttered and for the first minute or so I was biting on my regulator mouthpiece, making sure it wasn’t pulled from my clenched teeth. I wasn’t sure how fast I was going, but it was certainly quicker than I could swim, and it took some strength to keep my body pulled up over the top of the little torpedo so I could watch the compass.
After a while, I relaxed and felt comfortable letting the DPV do the work. I focused on staying streamlined in the water and keeping the machine tucked up against my chest. The jet stream of water tingled down my legs and the slightest movement in my fins immediately steered the DPV. I maintained an eye on the compass needle and resisted the urge to check my dive time too often. A few degrees off could easily put me out of visual range of the buoy line over the distance I was covering.
I began wondering what this challenge would consist of and felt the butterflies returning in my stomach. Did Massey want me to succeed or fail? I kept asking myself that question. I presumed he wanted me to carry on past each challenge, as that continued his weird online show. But I had no idea if he was excited to cut off some fingers, or hoped he didn’t have to. He certainly craved the world’s attention, and I tried not to think about that damn counter and all the people watching this very real ‘reality TV’.
It felt like I’d been travelling forever across the bottom of the sound, scattering the occasional schools of fish and scaring several stingrays who shot from the sea floor in a cloud of churned-up sand. The farther I went, the farther I felt from the people who could help me, and the closer I felt to the clutches of a madman. Droning on through the clear water, a sense of isolation and exposure gradually built, reminding me of the loneliness I felt each night at home.
My new job had distracted me five days a week and AJ did her best to fill in the other days for me. But each night, I faced my empty house, where Ridley and I had just begun to make our home. I knew I’d be better off living somewhere else, away from the memories of us together in the shack. Our laughter and our contented silence filled every space in our
home, touched every surface, and hid behind each cupboard door. I could picture him drinking from the coffee cup with the chip on the handle. Drying himself with the threadbare blue towel. Lying next to me on the left side of the bed. His side of the bed. The empty side of the bed.
Leaving the shack felt like I would be leaving him. He was stolen from me, but I could never abandon my soulmate. I couldn’t bear to move his clothes; how on earth could I walk away from the home we shared? Maybe when all his shirts had lost the scent of him. The shirts I curled up with every night. Or maybe not then either.
I realised I’d been lost in the bullshit my stupid mind conjures up and hadn’t checked the dive time. I looked at my computer; 32 minutes. Faen. It had been at 16 minutes when I’d found the DPV; I’d messed around and set the weights before leaving so probably 17, and the instructions said 14 minutes, which added up to 31. I released the throttle trigger and slowed to a stop. What an idiot. I’d probably overshot. I hadn’t noticed anything in my field of vision, but there again I’d lost focus and allowed my brain to wander. If I didn’t think this through and find the dumb challenge, I would be responsible for someone having a piece of their body severed. It would be one thing if I failed whatever the challenge was, but getting lost on the way was completely on me, and inexcusable. My fellow officers, like Williams, who already didn’t think I belonged in uniform, would love that.
Carefully scanning as far as I could see, I made a 360-degree sweep. Nothing. Okay, I needed to run a search pattern. Most likely, I’d shifted a few degrees off due east, which could easily put me out of visual range after the several kilometres I guessed I’d travelled. Any slight current could have pushed me off course, but I couldn’t feel a lick of pull in the water and the eel grass was sitting upright, not even swaying. Every time I’d checked the time, I’d rotated my right wrist to see my computer. I wondered if I’d accidentally tilted the DPV each time, veering it slightly left. I would have corrected again when I checked the compass, but perhaps it was enough deviation to alter my course.
Deadly Sommer: Nora Sommer Caribbean Suspense - Book One Page 5