The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit)

by Andrew Mayne

“What?”

  “That Jane woman with K-Group. She did this,” he explains.

  “But Chief Kate is my friend.”

  “And she still is. The city manager probably got a call from some fed who said they couldn’t pay them for some program like they promised and mentioned questions about you. Who knows how it really went down, but this is most definitely about our case.”

  “About what I did? Getting caught?”

  “That, everything else.”

  “I like being a cop,” I say from the gut. “How can they take that away from me?”

  “Do you?” asks George.

  “Of course.” Maybe I didn’t fully realize it until now. Maybe diving for the police started as a rebellious way to pay the bills, but I love what I do. I’m proud of it. I think it over for a moment. “I wanna take those assholes down. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines.”

  “Do you really mean it?” asks George.

  “Hell, yes.”

  “You want to keep going? You’re not scared off?”

  “One thousand percent.”

  “Do you want to take a trip across the state?”

  “What?”

  George checks his watch. “I’ll explain on the way. We need to hurry. Cindy, I might be back kind of late.”

  “What else is new?”

  After getting dressed, I follow George out the door and into his truck. “Where are we going?”

  “I can’t tell you yet.”

  “Enough mystery bullshit for today. Where are we going?” I demand.

  “McPherson, I swear to you that I can’t tell you yet. Trust me on that. Either get out or buckle up. Your choice if you trust me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  GULF

  The sun is setting as we race toward the horizon down Alligator Alley. The Everglades, a vast sea of sawgrass, stretches into infinity on either side. This part of Florida has risen and fallen beneath the sea numerous times, reminding us that nothing stays the same. When it’s back below water, none of what’s going on right now will really matter. Small comfort when you measure your life in minutes, not interglacials.

  George hasn’t said anything about our destination. Since I suspect that this is a legit secret and not an “I’m going to surprise Sloan with a trip to the ice cream parlor” secret, I stop asking.

  “So that house you broke into from the tunnel?” says George. “I did a little digging around while I was waiting to find out that you hadn’t been taken to the county jail. It belongs to Heinrich Gustafson. He’s an attaché to the Belgian ambassador or something like that. Anyway, he has diplomatic immunity. Which basically means you can’t search his property without pulling a ton of strings—especially because the on-paper owner of the house is a Dutch company, making it even more difficult. Long story short, Heinrich owed some money a while back. He had to pay back a bribe or something. Guess who gives him a loan? His friendly neighbor Bonaventure. Through a shell company, of course. As far as I can tell, Heinrich has never even been to the place since the remodel.”

  “So, Bonaventure used that as his transfer point? Close, but not too close.” I remember something I spotted in the underground bay. “Hey, I almost forgot, there was a narrow tunnel made of plastic piping hidden in a wall. It went on forever. Do you think it led to Bonaventure’s estate?”

  “Possibly. Did it look like a water pipe?”

  “Yeah,” I reply.

  “He could have had that installed with his irrigation system. On surface sonar, it’d probably look like plumbing. Great way to get things to and from his house, like a bank tube.”

  There’s a long stretch of silence as we go over what’s in our heads. Finally, George says, “Tell me your working theory.”

  “My theory?” I reply.

  “What do you think happened so far? Don’t be afraid to fill in the blanks—just don’t get too attached to any particular part of it. Tell me what happened.”

  I feel like this is a pop quiz. “Well . . .” I hate starting sentences with that word. I start over. “Right now, I believe that Bonaventure was using the Kraken to ship cash to and from his house. He may also have been using it to import drugs from a ship offshore. Maybe go all the way to South America and back.”

  George interrupts me. “That far?”

  “Dad would know the range better than me. But a small gasoline generator and a snorkel would let it recharge the batteries for silent mode when it was safe to sail near the surface.”

  “Interesting. I hadn’t thought about that. That could mean there are more than one of them?”

  “Possibly. I don’t know. It’s just a thought. Anyway, Bonaventure finds out the feds, not DIA, are about to raid him. So he empties everything that’s incriminating into the Kraken along with whatever he has on K-Group and sends it somewhere.”

  “And where would that be?” asks George.

  “I don’t know. It could have been some other secret location. But I don’t think it made it there.”

  George glances over, seemingly surprised by this observation. “Go on . . .”

  “I think it malfunctioned and sank with his blackmail material and drug-cartel money on board. Otherwise, if he had already moved the money, wouldn’t he have fled the country? I know K-Group could get him anywhere, but they might not want to if he was already gone and under threat of being arrested. But since he didn’t have the money, he needed to stick around.”

  “And maybe make sure the money goes to who it’s supposed to—the Mendez cartel. They’re the ones K-Group propped up and Bonaventure was laundering money for. DIA might not care if Bonaventure is out of the country and out of reach, but the Mendezes want their money. They’re probably also not too thrilled about Bonaventure having their books.”

  “So, we really could have a sunken submarine with a half billion somewhere in South Florida,” I say out loud. “Back on Dad’s boat, it sounded like another crazy rumor. Now? I get why everyone’s acting all nuts.”

  “Our Kraken,” says George. “But where is it?”

  “Somewhere between Bonaventure’s estate and . . . well, anywhere. I’d like to search the bay we were just in.”

  “You think it could be there?”

  “It’s a place to start.”

  “I don’t know. K-Group knew about the sub. I’m sure the first thing they did was search around Turtle Isle,” George replies.

  “Yeah, but they didn’t use the best living treasure hunter in the business to look for it. I’d like to at least take a pass.”

  “We could also send you back for the body.”

  “The body?” I convulse at the memory of the corpse, the rough fabric of its jeans. “I almost forgot about that.”

  “And you didn’t tell DIA?”

  “Hell, no. We should have called it in, though.”

  “We will. After.”

  “After?”

  “After you go back in there and retrieve the body and we get a look at it.”

  I stare at him in silence for a moment. “I know you live for this vigilante bullshit, but I got arrested back there and threatened with a lifetime sentence in a secret government loony bin where they execute you with medical malpractice once they’re sick of you. I’m not going back there.”

  “And I’m not asking you to do anything illegal or without some kind of legal protection.”

  “How does that work?”

  “We’ll figure something out. Worst-case scenario, I go back in for it.”

  “No way. I’m not letting you do that.”

  “We have to get to it before anyone else does.”

  I watch the sun set in the distance and the sky turn from orange to purple then black. I try to imagine the wildlife on either side of the highway living out its own life-and-death struggles.

  Somewhere, alligators are fighting pythons, owls searching for lizards, and mama panthers hunting to feed their babies.

  Sometimes you don’t get to choose your struggles—they c
hoose you.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  PRIVATEERS

  We arrive at a Hilton hotel across the state in Naples, and George tells me to wait in the car. I make a sarcastic comment about him needing a nap, but he’s in too much of a hurry to respond.

  I text with Jackie while I wait and examine the cars in the parking lot. There seem to be more SUVs than I’d expect, and I spot two police cars parked in the far corner. The drivers have their windows down as they talk to each other.

  I’m watching the police as Jackie sends me a disturbing text.

  I had to go to the principals office today.

  Then, There were some police people in the other room. They asked me some questions. They said it was a routine work thing. A background check?

  My heart skips a beat and I furiously type, What? What did they ask you?

  Nothing big. How we got along. If we were planning any trips.

  What did you say? I type, panic and rage competing to overwhelm me.

  I said you beat me all the time and lock me in the anchor well. HaHa

  A pause, then:

  I said you were the best mom.

  Thank you. And I only put you in there when you changed the wifi password to momjeans.

  :)

  I said we talked about Australia.

  I don’t know who talked to her. Possibly the real feds. Or local cops. Or it could have been cartel. Maybe DIA. Whoever they are, they now think I’m planning to leave the country. Not a good look.

  Worse, they went to my daughter’s school.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  I call Run.

  “What’s up?”

  “Some people talked to Jackie at school today.”

  “Yeah. Gunther checked them out. They were DEA.”

  “I don’t care who they were—they can’t question Jackie without me there.”

  “Gunther says legally they can if the parent isn’t present.”

  I hold back my temper. “The principal is the acting parent. Tell what’s her face that if she lets anyone talk to her without you or me there, I’ll sue her ass.”

  Run doesn’t argue with me. There’s nothing he could have done to prevent it, but he also understands a mother’s anger. “Understood. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “No. Go down there and tell her in person!” I take a breath. “I’m sorry. You handle it however you see fit.”

  “No. You’re right. I also need to talk to Gunther about this. Remind him that not everyone with a badge is our friend. Present company excluded.”

  “I don’t have a badge anymore. Not technically.”

  Saying it hurts.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. It’s this thing. It’s . . . it’s messed up. There are people in law enforcement who have a lot to lose. Others too. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Australia,” he replies.

  “That would only make things worse. I have to see this through.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I wish I knew. Right now, I’m with Solar in Naples at a hotel.”

  “Well, that’s a development,” Run says wryly.

  “Shut up. He’s in there talking to someone. Or taking a nap.” I glance back at the police cars and SUVs. “It might be some kind of operational thing—another group investigating this. I have no idea why they’d be on this side of the state,” I reply.

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “He has trust issues.”

  George emerges from the lobby entrance and walks toward me. He waves at me to come.

  “Gotta go. Keep looking after our daughter.”

  I ring off with Run and meet George in front of the hotel. “What’s going on? It looks like a command center out here.”

  “Basically, it is,” he says as he opens the door. “But nothing to do with our situation. Just keep your mouth shut. If you hear me stretch the truth, don’t correct me. If you’re asked a direct question, answer it briefly. Got it?”

  “Yep.”

  We walk past two men in suits standing by an elevator at the back of the lobby. George nods to them, and they press the button for us.

  We step inside the elevator, and I keep my questions to myself all the way to the top floor. When we exit, we’re greeted by two other guards in suits, one a man, the other a woman, standing by the door to a suite. They recognize George and open the door for us.

  A man in a collared shirt and an older redheaded woman in a blouse and skirt are sitting at a table covered with folders and takeout containers.

  The woman I don’t recognize, but the man I do. He’s the governor of Florida.

  “Is this her?” asks the woman.

  “Yes. Sloan McPherson, this is Irene Isaacs, and I believe you recognize the governor.”

  I shake hands with both and sit in a chair pulled out for me by the governor. George takes the seat to my right. I try not to look confused and remember his warning about keeping my mouth shut.

  “George told us a bit about you. I think I met your father. You have an interesting family,” says the governor.

  George is on a first-name basis with the governor? Still heeding his advice, I don’t say anything.

  “Does she talk?” asks Isaacs.

  “She understands discretion.”

  The governor nods. “That’s a good quality. All right, George. You have ten minutes. Make your case.”

  “Do I have your permission to talk about Operation Marlin?”

  “If you trust her.”

  “Uh . . . I think she’s worthy of trust. If that helps?”

  “Remember who you’re talking to,” says Irene.

  “Right. Sure. Go ahead,” the governor tells him.

  “It’s about the Bonaventure situation. This connects to Operation Marlin.”

  “How is that?” asks Irene.

  “Operation Marlin was our attempt to shut down corruption within drug enforcement and the judiciary. We had a problem with cops, attorneys, and judges taking bribes. We only got a few indictments before more senior judges and officials put pressure on us to stop.”

  “I think the term they used was overreach,” says the governor.

  “I think the term is covering their asses. We had judges getting sweetheart loans from bankers connected to drug money and some of the worst cops I know put in charge of investigations that went nowhere. Hell, we had Florida senators on tape accepting bribes. We should have pushed this further.”

  “We did what we could,” replies the governor.

  George sighs, like he’s holding something in. “You had a reelection coming up and knew it would fuck things up, not to mention most of these judges were in communities that didn’t support you.”

  “Easy there, George,” says Irene.

  “No. He’s right,” says the governor. “I’m not going to deny that politics is constant triage. Every day, you decide what can be saved and what can’t.” He shrugs. “All right, George. I chose winning an election over the risk of letting it go further. But to be fair, I was getting all kinds of heat and even thinly veiled threats from intelligence agencies.”

  “Which is all the more reason to take those assholes down,” says George.

  “Unfortunately, not all of us have your courage.”

  George points to me. “She does. They tried to kill her. They threatened her family. They even took her badge away. But that hasn’t stopped her. Earlier today, that DIA offshoot I told you about illegally detained her in a black site in West Palm Beach. Yet she’s still here.”

  The governor stares at me for a moment, then asks, “What do you want out of all this?”

  “I want my daughter to be safe. I want these people to go to jail for the lives they’ve ruined.”

  “And how do you plan to go about this, George?”

  George turns to Irene. “Do you have it?”

  “Right here.” She slides a sheet of paper over to the governor, who reads it o
ver.

  “Why do I feel like I’m being railroaded?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being railroaded if it’s going the way you want,” replies George.

  “Okay. What about funding? I’ve got enough problems already.”

  “It’ll be self-funding.”

  “Through seizure?” asks the governor.

  “Yes.”

  “Legally tricky.”

  “Then try this on for size,” says George. “Right now, there’s as much as a half a billion dollars sitting on the bottom of a canal somewhere in Florida.”

  “That would have to go through the Federal Asset Forfeiture Program,” replies the governor. “Lately, they’ve been playing tricks with those funds.”

  “True. But if DEA or the FBI get it without formal assistance from the state, then you’ll get nothing. If the bad guys get it, we’ll get less than nothing. But if we find it, you get it all.”

  “How is that possible?” asks the governor.

  “Because if there are no narcotics present, we can claim it as salvage. That would be one hell of a budget surplus.”

  “Tricky, George. Tricky. The feds will still take us to court.”

  “If we settle on the right percentage for them, they’ll drop it,” says Irene.

  “Especially if the trial is going to involve a lot of depositions from federal agencies that may not want to reveal the extent of their involvement,” I blurt out.

  “Fair point,” Irene replies. “She’s too smart to be hanging around you, George.”

  The governor scans the document again. “I can tell you two were planning this. What’s this about rewards?”

  “Because we’re using maritime salvage law, we need a reward structure based on the percentage of the value. The percentage we’re using is minuscule,” says George. “Enough for a small budget for the task force and compensation for salvage contractors.”

  “Small? It’s millions of dollars,” says the governor, then sighs. “Fine. The courts may say something else. But how do I get this past the Florida Department of Law Enforcement? I’m going to have every law enforcement agency in Florida screaming jurisdictional encroachment.”

  “We restrict it to waterways,” says Irene. “Remember how the EPA asserted jurisdiction of everything from swimming pools to aqueducts? You can create a special task force solely for crimes relating to water.”