Under Pressure

by Kathy Brandt

  “It’s his job,” Stewart said, shaking his head.

  “I don’t think so, Sammy,” I said, smiling to myself as I closed the door. Lorenzo was a real schemer but somehow likable.

  I was on my way past the nurse’s station when I recognized the small woman standing there arguing with one of the nurses. She was unfazed by the fact that the nurse towered over her. It was Zora Gordon, one of the passengers from the plane. She was a unique but exquisite-looking woman, olive-skinned, her features finely chiseled, her hair a deep red mass of curls that cascaded down her back. She was maybe five-two and didn’t look like she’d hit thirty yet. She wore nylon shorts that showed off muscular legs. The woman obviously worked out. She was pressuring the nurse to get the paperwork done so she could get out of there. I stopped and introduced myself.

  “Oh yes, you are the diver. I suppose I should thank you for getting me out of that plane this morning.”

  “Seems like you were on your way out without any help from me,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not the type to simply sit there and drown. Do you know what caused the crash?” she asked.

  “Not yet. We’ll be out there again in the morning. We’ll need to interview all the passengers as well.”

  “I can’t tell you anything. The plane was in the water before I knew what was happening,” Zora said. “I really don’t want to talk about the whole ugly affair.”

  “I’m afraid we won’t be giving people any choice,” I said.

  “All right, if it’s absolutely necessary,” she said as she scrawled her name at the bottom of the release form that the nurse had placed in front of her.

  “It is. Where can I find you?” I asked.

  “I am vacationing on a yacht in Brandywine Bay. It is called the Mystic. You will need to ask the marina security man to let you in. He will unlock the gate to the dock. Please call ahead to let me know when you are coming. Here’s my cell number.” She grabbed a piece of paper from the counter, jotted down the number, handed it to me, and headed down the hall.

  “Thanks. I’ll be in touch,” I said as she pushed through the front door of the hospital and disappeared.

  ***

  Stark and I met up back at the Tortola PD. Stark was in his office, a carbon copy of mine. It was a perfect cube, nine by nine with a door, no window, and just big enough to hold a desk and a chair. Stark had the chair, and his bulk alone made the room overcrowded.

  Stark, Alvin Mahler, and I were the only detectives who worked out of this office. Mahler was out for the week on vacation down island. Then there was Jimmy Snyder. In addition there were seven uniformed officers, Dunn, and his secretary, Jean. Our office did all the investigative work and handled the occasional homicide. Other ancillary offices scattered throughout the islands handled the “routine” stuff—mostly domestic problems, vandalism, and traffic violations, which were loosely enforced, to say the least.

  The tourist guides say there are forty islands, islets, rocks, and cays in the BVI. As far as I can tell, a good fifty percent of them fall into the rock category, a pile of volcanic debris jutting out of the water.

  The total population of the BVI is around 19,000 people. Some 14,000 live on the main island of Tortola. Road Town, where our office is located, is the capital and center of commerce.

  Offshore banking is big business in the islands, with tourism in the form of the sailing industry a close second. The BVI boasts of having the largest sailboat fleet in the world.

  Ten miles long and a mile wide, Virgin Gorda is the second most developed island, with a population of some 2,500. To the northwest of Tortola is Jost Van Dyke, named after a Dutch pirate. Fewer than 300 people live on that island, many of them descendants of Quaker slaves, and they’ve had electricity only since 1991. On New Year’s Eve one of the biggest parties in the world takes place on Jost Van Dyke, at the renowned Foxy's.

  A couple of the other little islands have a restaurant or small hotel and that’s about it. Unfortunately, there is change in the tropical wind—like the big resort that’s slated for Norman Island, once completely undeveloped except for the Willie T, an old schooner and floating bar that hosts the more hardy crews.

  Stark and I found Chief Dunn behind his desk waiting for us. He had the corner office with a big picture window that looked out on Road Harbour and Sir Francis Drake Channel. I could see a couple of sailboats out there, sails full, tipped in a gentle wind. The harbor itself was filled with boats, at least a hundred masts jutting into the sky. They were beautiful, a man-made version of a winter aspen grove in Colorado.

  The spot where the plane went down was visible from the window. One of our police boats making lazy circles over the site. Someone would be patrolling out there all night and into Sunday morning to ensure that other boats did not approach and that the curious snorkeler or thrill-seeking diver did not disturb the area. Dunn had also instructed the officers on board to keep an eye out for any debris that might surface and to retrieve it before another vessel interfered. He didn’t want any valuables, either the airline’s or the passengers’, being taken and he wanted everything handled as though it were evidence until we determined the cause of the crash.

  I told them what Stewart and Lorenzo had said about the crash and about my brief and somewhat brusque encounter with Zora Gordon. Then Dunn went over plans for the morning. A representative from the Air Accident Investigation Board had called him.

  “A guy named Joe Harrigan from AAIB will be on a flight into Saint Thomas from London sometime tomorrow afternoon,” Dunn said. “In the meantime, he’s arranged for a couple of salvage divers to go out to the site to assess the situation and determine what we will need to bring the plane up.

  “They will meet you out there in the morning. I’ll be down at the docks right after the early service.”

  I knew that Dunn’s wife never let him miss church on Sundays. Plane crash or not, tomorrow would be no exception.

  “Carmichael and Mason are willing to help out,” he continued. “Stark, I want you to begin talking to the witnesses and find out what they may have seen or heard before that plane went down. I want this investigation to go smoothly. The local director of civil aviation, the airport manager, and the people at the AAIB—they all want answers. And I don’t want any criticism from Edith Leonard about our procedures.”

  I could see the look of relief flood Stark’s face when he realized that he would not have to go out with us in the morning. Someday he’d need to get past his phobia about the water.

  “Has someone gotten in touch with Simon’s aunt?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” Dunn said. “It is a bit complicated. The message on her home machine said she was out of the country and would be away for two weeks. She referred callers to her business number. Evidently she heads up a big advertising agency. Her name is Elaine Redding. Her secretary said she left one contact number. She’s going to try to reach her.”

  “Surely there’s someone else,” I said.

  “The secretary didn’t know of anyone. She said she’s never heard her boss talk about any family but her brother,” Dunn replied.

  “Let’s hope the secretary can reach her,” I said.

  “We should hear back by the morning.”

  “Anything else?” I asked. I was exhausted. The diving today had been intense. All I wanted now was a hot shower, a decent meal, and to climb into bed with O’Brien.

  Chapter 8

  Enok Kiersted sat over at Calico Jack’s beach bar, sipping a beer and watching the tourists at Dolphin World. There were five of them in the pen—three kids with their parents. The wife was holding back and watching while her husband coaxed the youngest to touch the dolphin that was swimming nearby. One of the older kids, a boy of about twelve, was trying to jump onto another.

  Kiersted was pissed. He wondered what made people think that they should be riding on dolphins. It was an insult to the animals. Humans thought they owned this earth and that every other creature on it w
as here to serve them.

  In spite of the objections of the animal welfare community, six dolphins had been relocated to the new dolphin attraction in the lagoon. Dive operators and environmental groups had argued that the noise and vibration from the water desalination plant near the lagoon, the street traffic noise, the silt, trash and the dirty water that washed in during rains made the location completely unsuitable for dolphins. Besides, the lagoon was more like a pond, dredged out of a shallow mangrove bay. The bottom was silty, the water far too warm.

  The warnings fell on deaf ears. No one took action. Now, one of the dolphins was dead and another had been isolated and was being force-fed. Kiersted knew she probably wouldn’t make it.

  It made him sick. Wild dolphins everywhere were being trapped and placed in confined spaces. They often died just so that humans could be entertained and others could get rich in the process.

  Few of the attraction’s operators ever admitted that people got hurt, but they did. Kiersted had heard reports of dolphins biting and ramming people in the water. And who could blame the dolphins, trapped in captivity? Existence as they’d known it was gone. They became confused, aggressive, and sick. They died from shock, pneumonia, intestinal disease, ulcers, poisoning, and sheer hopelessness.

  Kiersted had seen the creatures in the wild, leaping and darting through the water. The very nature of these animals made them uniquely unsuited to confinement. In the wild, they lived in large groups, often in tight family units. Social bonds could last for many years, sometimes a lifetime. He knew they could swim forty to a hundred miles per day. In the lagoon he watched them swim in endless circles. Dolphins are always swimming, always moving. Captivity for these ocean creatures was an absolute tragedy.

  Kiersted was furious that the enclosure had been approved. In fact, he was angry about a lot of things that were going on in the islands—about the indifference to environmental issues and about the almighty dollar being placed above the need to protect marine life. He couldn’t believe that the grants officer, Redding, didn’t agree with him.

  He’d seen it again and again. People just didn’t get it. Didn’t they realize they were destroying the very thing that brought the money here in the first place? The dolphin park was a good example. So was the extension of beachfront property over on the east end of Tortola. That area had been filled in with fine sand that would wash away with the first bad storm and high seas.

  Yesterday he’d been back in the mangroves collecting sediment samples when he saw someone dumping garbage over the side of their boat. He’d tried to get to the water’s edge and give them a piece of his mind but there was no such thing as moving quickly through mangroves. With every step, his boots had been sucked down into the muck. Then he’d caught a foot under a root and fallen, his arms buried to the elbows in mud. By the time he got to the place he’d seen the boat, it had disappeared around the bend. He’d recognized it though and would be watching for it.

  Now he had other things on his mind. It was almost dusk. The dolphin park had just closed. He waited another half hour to be sure that everyone had gone. The place was deserted and silent, the water in the lagoon like glass except for the occasional splash of a fin as the dolphins circled, dark shapes in the shallow water.

  Kiersted went down to the pen and found the sick female. She was listless, floating on her side. He got in the water and touched her. She was still breathing, barely. He pulled the netting back from her enclosure and guided her out into the main lagoon. She came around a bit when she saw the others and swam to them. One nuzzled her—a young calf, evidently her offspring.

  Kiersted swam out to the far side of the pen. He held wire cutters in one hand. By the time he finished, he’d cut the entire ocean side of the pen apart. Moments later, the five dolphins swam out of the enclosure and into open, deep water. The last to go were the mother and her calf. He saw a fin glisten in the moonlight, then disappear.

  Chapter 9

  Sadie was waiting for me. When she saw me walking down the path to O’Brien’s, she raced up, slid to a halt, and sat panting, tail sweeping through the grass.

  “Hey, girl!” I crouched and she put a cold nose against my face as I scratched her behind her ears. Sadie is a red Lab-retriever mix that my father was sure I needed for protection. I’d been living alone in a little cottage in Denver then. She’s six now and has never protected me from anything but squirrels and the occasional mongoose. I mean, she’s a Lab. What was my father thinking? But I love her anyway.

  O’Brien was in the kitchen, standing at the stove. He’d just put a wooden spoon to his lips and slurped.

  “Perfect,” he whispered to himself. He hadn’t heard me come in.

  I stood and watched him as he went over to the counter and began dicing vegetables, intent on his work. Tonight was Marta’s night off.

  O’Brien was forty-one and the owner of SeaSail, a charter company with the largest fleet of sailboats in the islands. His parents had started the company with one boat over thirty years ago. O’Brien had grown up on boats and had built the company into a multimillion-dollar enterprise.

  I could watch O’Brien for hours. His face was weathered, the veins in his arms pronounced from all the time he spent winching in sails and climbing masts. He was one of those people who would never slow down and would never be far from the sea.

  I’d met O’Brien when I’d first come to the islands and things had gone from casual to intense way too quickly for me. A few months back, he’d talked me into moving in with him. It was a big decision on my part. I’d been living on the Sea Bird, a thirty-seven-foot Island Packet, with Sadie and my cat, Nomad.

  I loved the boat, my privacy, and the fact that I answered to no one. But I’d fallen hard for O’Brien. I’d put him off for as long as I could because I’d been happy with the way things were, him living in his villa, me on the boat. But O’Brien wanted more. I told him I’d give it a try, but I’d insisted on keeping the Sea Bird. The transition had been hard, mostly for me.

  “Hi, O’Brien.” I’d crept up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist.

  “Hannah,” he said, turning and leaning in with a kiss that tasted like curry.

  He lowered the flame on the burner and opened a bottle of Chardonnay. We took it out to the patio to watch the sunset. O’Brien’s villa was perched on the hillside, just above the SeaSail marina on the eastern end of Road Town, and looked out across the channel to Peter and Salt Islands. We could see a couple of boats anchored over at Deadman’s Bay. Their anchor lights looked like low-hanging stars. The water was turning orange and purple as the sun headed to the horizon.

  O’Brien and I had been living together for less than a year, but we were a fit—comfortable with one another, and God knows in a lot of ways we were alike. People say opposites attract. Maybe it’s true that sexual and emotional tension keep people stuck together. It doesn’t work for me. I’ve got enough tension in my life. I’d never thought O’Brien would happen—that I would develop a relationship that was this close, this giving, this comfortable.

  We settled into one chaise lounge together. I leaned back against him, finding comfort in the feel of his body next to mine. As I said, we were a good fit. He wrapped his arms around me and we were quiet, sipping our wine and lost in our own thoughts.

  “You seem worried,” I said finally, breaking the silence.

  “I spent most of the day monitoring that storm. It’s been upgraded to a tropical depression. It’s still out in the Atlantic but moving in our direction. Right now, if it continues on its present course it will hit the BVI.”

  “When?”

  “Midweek. Probably Wednesday, Thursday at the latest.”

  Already several named storms had moved through the Caribbean. A category three hurricane had grazed Jamaica before crossing Cuba and swirling out to the Atlantic. This year, we had made our way through the alphabet to F. Everyone prayed that the season would not mimic the last, when four major hurricanes came thro
ugh. That year Florida and the Gulf Coast had been hit hard.

  Hurricane Ivan had made history, hitting farther south in the island chain than any storm in the past fifty years. It was the deadliest hurricane to hit the Caribbean in a decade, and it pummeled Grenada, where chunks of twisted metal and splintered lumber had been pitched across the hillsides and roads. Power had been out, water contaminated, and trees all over the island had been demolished.

  In the harbor at St. George’s, Grenada’s capital and main port, the hurricane had hit with a vengeance. Ironically, the harbor had been filled with sailors who headed to Grenada every year to escape the hurricanes, which rarely hit the southern Caribbean. In the aftermath boats were piled four deep on shore and most of the rest were on the bottom of the harbor. We’d seen photos of the devastation. I knew that O’Brien feared the same might happen to his SeaSail fleet.

  “It could still veer off or die out, but at this point I’ve got to assume the worst,” he said. “If it continues on its current course, on Monday we’ll be notifying the boats out in charter and telling them to come in. It will take the better part of two days to get them into the harbor. There are a few whose itinerary puts them pretty far out. We have a couple boaters making the crossing from Saint Martin.”

  O’Brien refilled our glasses and gazed out at the water.

  “It will be a madhouse,” he continued, “finding places to tie them all up. We’ve got room for about a hundred fifty boats in the hurricane hole at Paraquita Bay. Every dockhand will be at work, removing sails, biminis, and taking booms down as each boat comes in. The office staff will be trying to find hotels and guesthouses for people to stay. Those last in will end up sleeping on cots in the marina, my office, anyplace safe from the winds.”