With the auto-pilot set, we relaxed in the cockpit for the next few hours.
24
Missy was still asleep in the v-berth. Her breathing alternated from a soft rhythmic heaving to a light snore. She'd never admit that she snored, and I wouldn't want to disillusion her. Personally, I found such traits just enhance my attraction.
A steaming cup of coffee was resting on the cockpit table while I prepped my scuba gear. I was able to drop anchor close to the second coordinate that Tristan had saved. From here, the dinghy wasn't necessary, and it could stay hanging on the davits while I entered the water from the stern of Carina.
I sat back for a moment and sipped my coffee as I watched the sun rising slowly over the turquoise sea. The day seemed perfect, and a satisfied grin was on my face. A few puffy clouds drifted low over the water casting shadows across the waves. We were anchored on the edge of the color change. The white sands beneath us offered a sky-blue tint. Not far aft of the boat though, I could see the light blue make an abrupt change to the deep blue caused by the intense-drop off of the sea bottom. The depths would change from the fifteen-ish feet where we were currently hooked, to the 400 plus feet deep of the Gulf Stream coursing along the eastern coast.
I expected the dive to be as uneventful as yesterday's. I don't like leaving a stone unturned, but I wasn't expecting much. In thirty to forty minutes, I could complete the dive and be back aboard before Missy woke up. Then we could take a leisurely sail north home.
Before I strapped into my BC, I unhooked the main halyard from the sail and hooked it to the clip next to the boarding ladder. When my dive was over, I could use it to lift all of my scuba gear out of the water so that I didn't have to climb the awkwardly tiny boarding ladder with an extra hundred pounds strapped to my back.
I took another look at the handheld GPS to determine the current direction I needed to head. Stepping over the rail, I let myself fall back off the stern of the boat into the salty water. After a quick check of my gear, I descended beneath the surface following the anchor rode to the sandy bottom.
The seafloor was all sand, and the water was clear as a bell. I looked up to see Carina's keel and the dark brown bottom of her hull. A few barnacles had attached themselves to the bottom. I needed to scrape those off soon before they multiplied and began to hinder Carina's performance.
Even at 18 feet down, I could determine where the sun was, and I kicked my feet to swim east. Ahead of me, the sand seemed to stop, and an abyss opened up. This was the cause of the sudden change in water color I viewed from the cockpit. The chasm was really the edge of a cliff, and my head peered over the ledge.
The bottom of the drop was visible, but I couldn't determine how far down it was. There is difficulty determining distance underwater, especially in such clear conditions. It seems like a contradiction. Clear water should be easy to judge. It just wasn't for me. Growing up in Arkansas, even the clearest water only had five to ten feet of visibility. My mind can't always account for 100 feet or more. When the bottom is all sand, it seems to be impossible. There is no contrast for the eye to pick up on.
The same problem was plaguing me here. The only clue that gave me any indication that it was significantly deeper was an unusual sight. A mooring ball floated a few body lengths below me. The once-white buoy, now covered with green and yellow algae, swayed in the current, attached to the bottom by a cable.
It was out of place and didn't make sense. The placement of the buoy was purposeful but far too deep to be useful as an actual mooring. The cable tethering the ball to the sea bottom was taut reaffirming my initial thought that it was placed here intentionally.
The bubbles rolled out of my regulator and raced to the surface. I kicked my fins and took the plunge over the edge. The sensation of slowly settling toward the bottom in a creeping free fall is surreal.
Drifting slowly downward, I passed the mooring ball. Small cichlids were circling the ball and nibbling on greenish strands of slime. The buoy was secured to the bottom by what appeared to be an engine. I hoped whatever idiot thought that was a good idea at least had the where-with-all to remove the toxic fluids.
Leveling off a foot above the seafloor, I checked my depth. The gauge read 58 feet. The bottom was all sand with a few rocks scattered about the floor. A large snapper hung against the cliff wall staying in the shadows.
The rusted hulk of an engine was sitting in an alcove next to the cliff. Rock encircled most of it and rose 30 feet toward the surface. Toward the east, another rock wall rose from the floor. I swam toward the wall. I realized that I was at the bottom of a hole, like a small canyon. I circled the gap along the rock walls. The sea life was not as abundant as some reefs, but there were still small fish darting around the rock facing.
The question of the submerged mooring ball bounced about my head. Why was it here? It must have been a marking of some sort. I swam around the engine anchoring the ball in place. The motor was covered with the early layers of rust, but the metal structure was still sound. Another 50 or 60 years might leave some severe scars to it. So far, the rust was minimal. It had probably only been submerged six months to a year.
By my watch, I had been down for 26 minutes. I wasn't limited by the depth today, but I hadn't found anything either. My gut was telling me that Tristan was using this as a marker of some sort. It wouldn't have taken a lot of effort to drop the engine from the davits on his Bertram. Guiding it into the alcove might have been tricky, or maybe he just got lucky. The hunk of metal would sink straight down. Perhaps, it bounced a few times off the rock wall. He just had to be situated on the surface.
It would make a good pick up point. If something were sunk at these coordinates, they could only be retrieved by a diver. It was impossible to put up any surveillance here, and even if something was found here, there was a degree of deniability. It was off the beaten path and meant the odds of a meandering boater or diver even finding something were slim.
On the other hand, it could be a fluke. I could spend my entire dive speculating on why the damned thing was down here only to find no answers. There wasn't anything else of interest within a hundred feet of the motor.
If I could sigh underwater, I would have.
Pressing the button on my BC, I inflated it and began ascending toward the surface. The walls of the little alcove seemed to be sliding down as I rose in the water. A moray eel, most likely startled by the bubbles I was exhaling, zigzagged over my head as it fled the hole where it had been hiding.
As I passed the eel's rock shelter, I released the button on my BC and spread my fins to slow my ascent. Something caught my eye, and I had to release some air to sink back down to look.
The crevasse in the wall was about a foot and a half wide. I unclipped the small dive light from my vest and shone it into the hole. A pink plastic box was shoved in the back of the opening. Twisting the box, I was able to extract it from the hole. The box had the remainders of stickers that had a floral design. The edges of the remaining ones were flaking up and shredding slowly.
I peered back into the hole for anything else. It appeared to be empty.
I still had plenty of air and time, so I descended again to the seafloor. From the bottom, I commenced a thorough search for more openings as I started back to the surface. By the time I cleared the edge of the cliff, I had only seen the one hole. Had I not been extremely lucky, then I would have missed it completely.
Orienting myself, I kicked westward toward the anchor chain I saw straining ahead of me. I surfaced next to Carina and spat the regulator out of my mouth.
"Hey, are you a mermaid?" Missy said, sticking her head over the side of the boat.
"If only," I answered. I handed the pink box up to her. "Here, can you take this?"
She reached over and took the box. "You went shopping," she joked.
"It's just a tacky t-shirt." I unclipped my BC and attached the main halyard that I had left for me.
"Holy shit!" Missy exclaimed.
"
What is it?" I called out.
"Did you open this box?" she asked.
"No."
"You need to come see this," she told me.
I tossed my fins onto the swim platform and pushed myself up.
Missy sat on the cockpit bench, holding the opened pink box. In her right hand, she had a necklace laced through her fingers. Diamonds sparkled brilliantly in the sun.
"Uh..." I stammered.
"Did you just find this?" she asked.
"Yeah, stuffed inside a hole and guarded by an eel."
I climbed into the cockpit and took a closer look at it. The strands appeared to be silver, tarnished green. The necklace was filled with lots of diamonds of various sizes. Some were quite large.
"Are they real?" I asked Missy.
"Oh, these are very real," she confirmed. "Trust the Jewish girl in me to know that. This has to be expensive. Those are two and three-carat diamonds in there. That's just the big ones."
My butt fell back onto the bench. I stared at the glittering jewels for a full minute and said nothing. I was speechless.
"Do you think this was Tristan's?" she asked.
"I don't know," I finally answered. "I was expecting a cache of drugs. Was there anything else in the box?"
She shook her head.
I leaned forward and put my forearms on my knees as I stared at the necklace. "Does the Jewish girl in you know how much this is worth?"
She shrugged. "I'm no expert. I'd guess a lot. There are hundreds of little diamonds in there, along with some big honkers. This wasn't something you bought at the mall. This was custom and handmade."
"Someone is definitely missing it then," I said.
"Yeah, someone is missing this."
I looked up over the blue water, thinking.
"Those home invasions," Missy suggested.
"My thoughts exactly."
"You think your friend was the one doing those?"
I didn't want to consider that, but the fact is, Tristan was capable of that.
"If you had a drug dealer hounding you for 25 grand," I said, "something like that might seem like an escape plan."
"Wasn't one of those homeowners killed?"
I nodded.
"That means..."
"That Tristan is likely a murderer, too."
"What are you going to do?"
"We need to get back. I need to find out who is missing this necklace."
I started moving to pull in my dive gear so that we could pull up anchor. My mind was already doing the calculations. Even if the wind wasn't cooperative, the diesel engine could get us back to West Palm Beach by tonight.
Missy placed the diamond necklace back into the pink box and sealed it up.
"Put that below so we don't lose it."
She took the box below as I raised the anchor.
25
"I'm going to be happy this is someplace safer than onboard the boat," I remarked.
Missy took the necklace from me and placed it inside the safe in her office.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked. Her cheeks were pink from the sun, and her hair had some frizz from the salt air.
"These recent home invasions," I commented. "This kind of jewelry was stolen. From someone high-end."
"You this might have nothing to do with the robberies," she suggested.
"Maybe," I said, dropping into the chair across from her desk. "I don't have a lot of other ideas right now."
"It's possible Tristan didn't hide that box."
"Possible. But it's a big coincidence. He saved those coordinates for a reason. Do you mind if I use your computer?"
"Yeah, go ahead. I'm going to shower and dress. Don't want the entire staff to see me all wind-blown and salty."
I smiled at her. "I think you make sea hair and no-make-up look crazy sexy," I said. "I'm glad you came along."
She sat on my lap and pulled her face up against me, and kissed me. "Me too," she said. "That was the most fun I've had in a while. I see why you want to get out there again."
"The offer still stands," I told her with a lascivious smile. "We could spend months out there. No husband, no work, no clothes."
She kissed me again without saying a word before turning and walking to her private bathroom.
I wasn't foolish enough to think that she and I were anything permanent. Missy might enjoy a few days of cruising, but she wanted certain amenities that didn't automatically come with my lifestyle. I lived most months on a few hundred dollars; she would want fancy restaurants and expensive wine. I'm happy with cheap rum and whatever I pull from the ocean. The sea and sun were something she wanted to experience in small portions. To me, it was my life. I would shrivel up and die without it. She needed stability, and I was already feeling like I had stayed in port too long.
I was a novelty, and I had to remember that. There is nothing wrong with being a novelty.
But it was nice to have someone to share the adventure. I stared at the bathroom door, feeling a wave of melancholy.
Pushing the glum moment away, I moved behind Missy's desk. Opening her internet browser, I searched home invasions in Palm Beach County. Several news stories came up. They dated back two years but seemed to increase over the last six months. I added robberies to the search terms and quadrupled the results. Most of the hits I got were in the local crime blotter website that tracked everything from jaywalking to murder for Palm County.
There were too many to write down, and the details were minimal. There were fewer murders and assaults, so I cross-referenced them with robberies and found the two that Peterson told me about a few days ago.
The first was a break-in. The details were sketchy. The 78-year old owner of the home, listed as Carl Woodman, interrupted the burglary. He was discovered later that evening by his wife and daughter. He had been beaten to death.
The second invasion ended in an assault. The victim was a 67-year old man; his name wasn't listed. He was transported to the hospital.
None of the entries I read made mention of what was taken. I stared at the screen for a minute.
Picking up Missy's desk phone, I dialed Jay's number.
"Delp," he answered.
"Jay, it's Chase."
"Hey, man," he responded. "You hear anything about Tristan yet?"
"No," I said, "and honestly, it's gotten a little strange."
"Strange?" he asked. "Like, how?"
I considered his question. "Let me keep it vague so that you don't feel like you have to react like a cop."
"I can ignore that reaction," he assured me.
"Let me start with a question. In a home burglary, do the police have a list of stolen goods?"
"Yeah, it's huge," he said. "What are you looking for?"
"Recent burglaries in Palm County. High-end jewelry, especially."
"Shit," Delp said in his thick Mississippi accent, giving the word two extra syllables. "That kid stepped in it, hasn't he?"
"I'm not sure yet," I answered, "but it sure seems like a typical Tristan move."
"How's his wife and kid holding up?"
"She's up at her mother's. A couple of Julio Moreno's guys went to her house, trying to bully her."
"You didn't do anything stupid after that?" he asked as if he knew my answer.
"I explained very nicely to Julio Moreno if something happened to me or Kayla and Abbie, one day someone I know would put a crosshair on him and drop him. I think he got the point. He hasn't been around too much since then."
"You think Tristan's dead?" Jay asked.
"Until yesterday, I did. Now it might be that Tristan has gone too far and knows he can't come back."
I could hear Jay's mind whirring. "If it gets sticky, you know to call me."
"You know it," I assured him. "Just see what you find on these lists. I'm taking a wild guess, but this might all have to do with a string of home invasions here. If I can get a tangible link, maybe it will lead me somewhere."
Jay groaned
. "How bad are we talking? Home invasions can get dicey."
"There have been some homeowners assaulted, and one died," I said. "Remember, this is all supposition. I don't want you too involved yet."
"My jurisdiction ends on Highway 98," he reminded me.
That wasn't the truth. I knew Jay, and he'd balance his loyalty to Tristan and me with his duty. I didn't want to force him to make too many ethically-questionable choices.
The shower was still running in Missy's bathroom. I was going to need to take one too. Maybe find a clean shirt and a razor. For a second, I considered joining her in the shower but decided to head to the marina shower instead.
It was almost noon, and I cut through the Manta Club. Taylor was behind the bar. The lunch crowd was sparse, and Bobby and Kristy were both leaning against the rail.
"Chase!" Bobby howled at me as I came through the doors. "You working today?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I got back earlier than I planned. I'll probably see if Hunter wants the night off."
"Cool, I'm working a double," Bobby said. "I love hanging with you."
I smiled. Bobby was a bit energetic and far more talkative than I preferred, but he was a good barback. I never ran out of beer when he was on shift.
"Hey Taylor," I called over the bar, "can you put in a tuna sandwich for me? Rare. To go."
"Yeah," Taylor spun around to the computer and typed in my order.
Wilson Peterson was sitting alone on the backside of the bar. I ambled around and sat two seats down from him.
"Hope I'm not too ripe," I said, "just got back from a few days down in Biscayne Bay."
Peterson chuckled, "Naw, I've smelled worse in the city council chamber. Old Harrison Bowe came in once with fish blood all over his shirt."
"Lovely," I commented, not sure who Harrison Bowe was.
"Biscayne Bay, huh?" Peterson mused. "How was it?"
"Weather was good. I had the wind in my hand, both ways."
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