Under Pressure

by Kathy Brandt

  “Why are you telling me this, Debra?”

  “Insurance,” she said. “I’m not stupid. If Jack is involved, he’ll think twice before he tries it again, especially when he realizes we’ve spoken.”

  “So you’ll tell him about our conversation?” I asked.

  “I won’t have to say a word.” She looked past me and smiled. “Hello, darling,” she said.

  Westbrook walked up and pecked Debra on the cheek.

  “Hello, Detective Sampson. I’m so glad that Debra had company at lunch.”

  “I asked Hannah to join me. We’ve had quite a nice woman-to-woman chat,” she said.

  Westbrook didn’t have any trouble understanding what Debra meant. He signaled to the waiter and ordered a double martini.

  “How was the house?” she asked after the waiter scurried off.

  “It’s beautiful. But the deal is complicated.” He didn’t explain why and Debra clearly didn’t want to know. Westbrook insisted on paying for my lunch and was ordering another martini when I left.

  I knew the Realtor who was listing the house Jack was looking at and I walked straight to her office over on Wickham’s Cay. The streets were empty at this time of day. It was just too hot to be out on the pavement. Storekeepers sat under awnings, fanning themselves. A couple of tourists were carefully examining a saber as I walked past the Pirate’s Bounty. Down the sidewalk I could hear music blaring from one of the bars above the grocery store. It was a local hangout. Several men were gathered around a table outside, sipping Heinekens, and playing dominoes.

  The realty office door was shut, but the “Open” sign dangled in the window. I walked into a blast of cold. Terry Brackwell was sitting behind her desk thumbing through the real estate ads in the newspaper. She looked up when she heard me enter and was about to make a remark I knew I didn’t want to hear about yesterday’s headlines. I’d been relived to find that in today’s paper Stewart and the news about the crash had been relegated to page three and the only photo was one of Daniel Stewart resting near the pool.

  “None of it’s true,” I said and held my hands up, warding off any comment from the Realtor about a romance with Stewart. I asked her about Westbrook.

  I had to trade what I knew about Westbrook’s finances—that they were tied to Debra’s and that she was against the purchase of a house—for what she knew about the “complications” Westbrook had mentioned. It turned out that getting a non-belonger’s license wasn’t as easy as Westbrook had thought.

  “Westbrook is in a big hurry to buy that house,” Brackwell said. “From what you just told me it’s probably because his wife is about to cut him off. But he’s taken the licensing requirements way too casually. I told him he needed to get down to the government offices and get things resolved with Conrad Frett. Frett’s in charge of all the licensing when it comes to the transfer of property and development by outsiders."

  ***

  Stark was in his office, sitting with his legs propped up on his desk, arms behind his head, gazing at the ceiling. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was still daydreaming about his evening with Billy. But I knew the look.

  “What’s the problem, Stark?”

  “You realize we are nowhere on this crash or the break-in at the warehouse.”

  “Come on, Stark. We know a lot.”

  “Like what?”

  “We know it wasn’t about the drugs and that the mechanic was not involved,” I said. “Unless we’ve missed something, I think we agree that neither the Rileys nor those newlyweds were targets.”

  “Yeah, we agree. What about Debra Westbrook?”

  I told him about our conversation over lunch and about Jack Westbrook’s trying to buy the house near Soper's Hole. “If Debra had died in that crash, Jack wouldn’t have to worry about ending up in divorce court and broke. He’d be able to afford that beautiful house and be dreaming about lounging around the pool with a couple of island beauties.”

  “Maybe. It seems extreme though,” he said.

  “What about those shoes?” I asked.

  “We’ve got a couple of officers checking the stores. It’s a stretch, but you never know.”

  “Let’s go through the other passengers. We’re reasonably sure the Rileys and the newlyweds weren’t targets,” I said. “Debra Westbrook is a possibility. Who else?”

  “There’s still Zora Gordon. We don’t know enough about her, that’s for sure,” Stark said, swinging his legs off the desk. “She’s hostile, but it’s no crime to dislike the police.”

  “Maybe someone didn’t want her making it to San Juan to take care of her boss’s legal affairs,” I said.

  “Hell, maybe they didn’t want anyone in Puerto Rico who had never drunk anything brown,” Stark said, throwing the pencil he’d had propped behind his ear across his desk. “I know I wouldn’t.”

  “Anything on her boss?” I asked.

  “Snyder checked the registration for the Mystic. It turns out it belongs to a guy named Leo Poltolski. He lives in L.A. I called my old partner in Miami. He’s using his contacts in California to check on the guy.”

  “Then there’s Redding,” I said, “and his connection to Enok Kiersted and the fact the Kiersted is such a fanatic. Let’s go see if Gil came up with anything on Redding’s computer or those disks.”

  Gil had his eyes glued to a microscope when we walked in. He didn’t bother to look up.

  “Detectives, what a pleasure to have you visit.” How he knew who it was I didn’t bother to try to determine.

  “Just one little adjustment,” he said. “There. Take a look at this.” He waved us over but was reluctant to tear himself away.

  Finally, he stepped back so I could take a look. All I saw was a black glob with something dead in it.

  “What is this and where did it come from?” I asked.

  “It’s oil. One of the guys helping with that plane dropped it off. That Harrigan is really thorough. He sent over several samples and asked me if I’d take a quick look, see if there were any unusual particles in any of the samples. He said it was a whole lot faster and easier to have me check out the stuff than to send it out. I told him that was cool and to send over anything he wanted.”

  “What’s the dead stuff in it?” I asked.

  “Plankton. Amazingly little creatures, aren’t they?” Gil said. “They turn up in most of the ocean samples I look at.”

  “That’s it? Plankton? Nothing else?” I asked, still hoping that Gil’s excitement had been about something more than dead microscopic organisms.

  “Nope, just oil. Too bad. It would have been nice to find something definitive.”

  “Jeez, Gil. Were you able to retrieve anything from Lawrence Redding’s laptop?” I asked, stuffing my frustration.

  “No. Not too surprising. The machine is completely ruined. Salt water and computer chips just don’t mix. I was able to read the disks though. Those cases were watertight. The files were standard Word and Excel spreadsheets. I don’t know if any of it will mean anything. It’s a bunch of reports, financial stuff, and data. Let’s see, what did I do with those disks?”

  I never could figure out how Gil found anything in his lab. He was good at conveying the illusion that he knew exactly where everything was. But anyone who had been exposed to the massive disarray more than once knew better. Every time I came in, I expected to hear that some vital piece of evidence had somehow ended up in the trash. It had never happened though. I could only hope that now would not be the exception.

  “Here they are. You can use the computer on my desk,” he said, brushing a stack of papers into a pile on the floor.

  There were three disks, all labeled “Kiersted Grant” followed by a number. We started with the first. It contained a bunch of data and reports about Kiersted’s research in the mangroves and several dozen tables of data about sediment content, the species in each location, and genetic sampling of the trees. The second disk contained a spreadsheet with Kiersted’s expenses,
including everything from test tubes to centrifuges to chemicals.

  The third disk contained Redding’s draft detailing his recommendations about renewing the grant. He was recommending that Kiersted’s grant be terminated. He wrote at length about the value of the research but concluded that Kiersted was too involved in political issues and too much of an extremist when it came to the environment. He had heard that Kiersted had threatened people in the government. Redding was concerned about the reputation of the foundation if Kiersted were to become too volatile.

  “That’s a motive,” Stark said. He’d been reading over my shoulder for the past half hour.

  “It would all fit,” I said. “Kiersted figured Redding was going to pull his grant. He didn’t want him to make that report, so he sabotaged the plane to stop him. Kiersted is extreme enough to do it. When he found out that we’d brought up all the contents from the plane, he’d been worried. He couldn’t be sure that Redding’s files wouldn’t survive. What if we linked him to the crash because of the report?”

  “So he broke into the warehouse looking for Redding’s reports,” Stark said, filling in the rest. “He would have been unable to find the laptop and disks because Gil had brought them here. Then Capy ended up walking in on him. I wonder if Kiersted owns a pair of purple running shoes.”

  “The thing is, I can’t believe he’d be willing to sacrifice all those passengers, Stark, especially the kid. And for what? To keep his research going on the mangroves?”

  “He’s probably done a lot of rationalizing about the ‘greater good’ or some kind of bullshit like that,” Stark said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go talk to him.”

  Chapter 23

  The Society of Conservation office was over on Main Street. Enok was in the back in his makeshift lab. Clippings of mangroves sprouted in glass vials on every free surface. The walls looked like the back of a Ken Kesey bus, except these weren’t of the “Make Love Not War” variety. Rather they were messages of despair: A backhoe crashing through the rainforest, a pelican covered in oil and floundering on the beach, a satellite view of earth with detailed graphs and tables about global warming, a bumper sticker that said, “If You’re Not Outraged, You’re Not Paying Attention.”

  Enok was in the back pouring chemicals into a pitcher of liquid that was turning the color of pee.

  “Hi, Hannah,” he said, turning. He was wearing shorts and flip-flops. A pair of muddy athletic shoes sat near the back door. Once they’d been white, not purple.

  I introduced him to Stark, who had picked up a vial filled with liquid and was shaking it.

  Kiersted scowled, took it from Stark, and placed it back in the rack.

  Stark just shrugged. I knew what he was doing. He was applying pressure and watching Kiersted’s response.

  I was studying every inch of the lab, looking for anything that could implicate Kiersted. In contrast to the chaos on the walls, the room was neat to the point of obsession. The bookshelf above the desk held a couple hundred books, alphabetically ordered by author.

  Several dozen chemicals filled another shelf, every jar and container labeled in precise block letters and again organized alphabetically. Pencils were lying in a box in a neat row from long to short. Another held pens sorted by color. Every surface was spotless. There weren’t even any water spots around the stainless-steel sink.

  The room had all the signs of a control freak. It fit the profile of a man who might kill to command his destiny. But then, what did I know? Maybe this was how good scientists worked.

  “I hope you’re not here to arrest me for those dolphins,” he said. “I hear they’re talking about bringing another pair in at Dolphin World.”

  “It’s about Lawrence Redding,” I said.

  “What about him?”

  “Simon told me he heard you two arguing. What was that about?”

  “He was not happy about my involvement in the political issues down here. I got kind of upset with him, I guess. I mean, my politics and beliefs are my own business.”

  “What about the grant?”

  “What about it?”

  “He was down here assessing your study, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s right. I think he found things in order.”

  “We found his notes,” I said and waited.

  Kiersted thought about it for several minutes, trying to decide how to respond. Finally the dam burst. “I’m sick to death of these so-called environmentally concerned foundations who back off the minute things get one bit political. Don’t they know that it’s all political? So ludicrously short-sighted. They have to play it safe. Don’t want to make too many waves. Hell with ‘em.”

  “Did you get that pissed at Redding?” Stark asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I had to go along. It’s the money I need to do the research. I told him I’d back off. He seemed satisfied.”

  “Did you know that he was recommending against further support from the foundation?” I asked. I didn’t catch a speck of surprise on Kiersted’s face.

  “You knew, that didn’t you?” Stark said. “Were you intent on keeping him from making that report? Maybe planning to get your act together before the next grants examiner came down?”

  “Surely you aren’t thinking I had anything to do with that crash!” he said. “I would never resort to that.”

  “What would happen if the grant were suspended?” I asked.

  “I’d write another proposal, go looking for other sources of funds. I’ve been living on this kind of soft money for years. I know how it’s done.”

  “Were you in the warehouse on Sunday night, snooping around the evidence from that crash?” Stark demanded, “maybe picked up a 9 mm Beretta while you were there?”

  “This is the first time I’ve heard of any evidence in a warehouse, and I have never handled a gun. This idea that people have the right to carry guns is abhorrent in our modern society. And believe it or not, I would never resort to violence as a solution.”

  “Right,” Stark said, eyeing a newspaper article tacked to the wall detailing the torching of a beach resort where leatherbacks were known to nest.

  Just then, Stark’s cell phone rang.

  “Stark,” he answered. He listened for a moment, then said, “Okay, we’re on the way.”

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?” I asked when we got outside.

  “Someone found a body.”

  ***

  It was tangled in the mangrove roots. One of O’Brien’s boat handlers had come across it. He’d been nudging a forty-two-foot sloop in between two other boats in Paraquita Bay when he’d managed to get the anchor chain wrapped around some roots. He’d gone into the water with snorkel and mask to free it. At first, he thought what he’d found was just trash—until he realized an arm was dangling out of the black plastic garbage bag.

  When we got out to the lagoon, O’Brien and six or seven other SeaSail employees were waiting in speedboats near shore. Paraquita Bay was crammed with boats, many of them with the SeaSail logo. Unfortunately, the protected mangrove bay had room for only a fraction of all the boats seeking refuge from the hurricane. Stark and I had driven by the SeaSail marina on the way. Close to two hundred boats were sandwiched into the marina docks and more were coming in.

  The storm had picked up speed and was on its way to being classified a category four, which meant winds from 131 to 155 miles per hour. That meant major damage. It was on a direct course for St. Martin and the BVI. Some still held out hope that it would change directions, or that the winds would lessen, but if it didn’t, it would hit sometime late tomorrow or in the early hours of the next day.

  Stark had not been at all happy about having to go out in the Wahoo. He’d strapped on a life vest before he even set foot on the boat.

  “How can anyone give the impression of a macho cop looking like an orange marshmallow? You definitely need therapy, Stark,” I said.

  “Who said I need to look macho? Besides, it’s
not fear. It’s respect. Human beings should know where they belong—that’s on terra firma. The ocean is for creatures with fins and gills. You’re the one who needs therapy, strapping on air and pretending like you’re a fish. It’s unnatural, a death wish, if you ask me.”

  Stark was probably right and today I was going to have to dive alone. Jimmy had been helping with the search for the purple shoes in shops over near West End and was out of reach when the call had come in about the body.

  I eased the Wahoo next to O’Brien’s boat and he threw us a line. God, he looked good, hair tousled, arms tanned, sunglasses dangling around his neck.

  He gave me a quick smile, then got down to business. Not even a hello. Stark saw it—O’Brien’s calculated coolness and my forced nonchalance. He just shook his head and muttered under his breath.

  When O’Brien realized I planned to dive alone, he insisted on going down with me.

  “Come on, it’s all of what—ten, maybe fifteen feet? I think I can handle this alone,” I said.

  “Maybe you ought to review the safety procedures for diving, Hannah. Like the one that says never dive without a buddy. You just can’t stand the idea of needing someone beside you, can you?” He had stepped onto the Wahoo and was pulling Jimmy’s gear out of the locker.

  I didn’t want O’Brien with me, but I wasn’t about to get into an argument, not with a half a dozen guys standing around and a body down there. I could see that O’Brien was coming along whether I liked it or not. “Fine,” I said.

  We finished getting into our gear in silence. No one else was saying anything either. Stark handed me my camera and I splashed into the water. O’Brien was right behind me.

  It wasn’t the first time we’d dived together. In the past, we’d gone diving and sailing almost every weekend, taking the Catherine to some secluded anchorage. I never tired of the beauty of the coral reef. Neither did O’Brien.