by Kathy Brandt
But I was uncomfortable with his being with me now. This was not going to be beautiful. This was going to be ugly. This was O’Brien really seeing what I did. All his concern about the effects my job had on me, until now, had been only theoretical.
I didn’t want him to swim into a crime scene, into a dead body. It wasn’t just that everything he thought about my diving would turn to hard fact. I didn’t want O’Brien to have to experience it too. I didn’t want him to know the horror. But there’d been no way to stop him.
We released the air from our BCs and descended the short distance to the muddy bottom. I could see the sloop’s anchor chain lying in the muck. I signaled to O’Brien and we began to follow it toward the mangroves. A tangle of roots materialized in the gloom of darkness under branches that kept the sun from penetrating the water. We swam along the edge of the root system following the anchor chain, careful to keep our fins from brushing the thick sediment that the trees had trapped.
The mangroves were magical in their own way—in a shadowy, mysterious, frightening way. Deep in the dark roots, barnacles, tunicates, and oysters made their homes. Baby shrimp and small reef fish hid in the tangles, protected from predators as they foraged in the thick black mud for tiny organisms.
Farther out, urchins, queen conch, and starfish littered the sandy bottom. Scores of Cassiopeia, upside-down jellyfish, undulated in the water, their lacy tentacles loaded with algae and soaking up sunlight. The brownish-yellow jellyfish were named after the mythical queen who was banished by the gods to the northern constellation for her vanity. There she is doomed to reside upside down for most of the year. But for these jellyfish, upside down is right side up.
I was swimming over patches of manatee grass, O’Brien behind me, when I saw the dark mass take shape in the gloom. I signaled him to stop and hang back. I’d told him before we went down to stay away in order to avoid any unnecessary disturbance of the fine sediments on the bottom. I was protecting him too. I wanted him as far away as I could keep him. I swam toward the shape, looking back once to make sure O’Brien was staying put. He was.
The body was wrapped in what looked like a couple of black plastic garbage bags that had been tied with rope. The plastic had been ripped and mangled by tree roots and water action, exposing the corpse, an adult black male. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and a tie dangled from his neck. The tie clip, a gold circle enclosing a BVI flag, indicated that he worked in government.
I swam around him, shooting pictures as I went. By the condition of the body, I knew it had been in the water for several days, maybe a week.
I moved in for close-up shots, taking a dozen pictures. Once the body was disturbed, critical evidence could be washed away. I needed to make sure everything was documented and on film.
Rigor mortis was gone. Worse though was the damage that sea life had done. In this area rich in crustaceans and feeding fish, any flesh not protected by clothing had been eaten away. Much of the soft tissue from the face, hands, and arms was gone. I looked at a face with eyes bulging from sockets, teeth barred in a lipless grin, and a hollow indentation where the nose had been. Sea creatures were still nibbling on the bony remains.
I was working in automatic now, immune to the carnage, objectifying the human being, and intent on photographing. I hadn’t realized that O’Brien was by my side until he touched my shoulder.
I swung around and glared at him. He just shook his head and hovered there, watching me do my job and backing me up if I needed help. Christ, I hadn’t wanted O’Brien to see this.
I signaled that I was going to check the surrounding area and swam away from the body. O’Brien stuck with me as I searched for evidence—anything that might have been dumped here with the body. I swam in ever increasing arcs, scanning the bottom.
I retrieved a couple of rusted beer cans and a glass bottle and put them in my mesh evidence bag. This felt more like litter removal than evidence retrieval, but I kept at it. Finally, I signaled to O’Brien that I was ready to head up.
We swam to the Wahoo and I handed Stark my camera and the evidence bags and climbed in. O’Brien followed me aboard.
“It’s a black male,” I told Stark. “But the body is in bad shape.”
A half hour later, O’Brien and I were back in the water with a body bag. Again, O’Brien hung back, but was ready to assist. I went to work. The head was first. I covered it in a plastic bag to preserve any evidence that might be present. Next, I secured a bag over each of his hands, one clenched in a tight fist, even in death. Then I released the body, along with the remnants of the trash bags, from the grip of the mangroves.
O’Brien, who had been hovering nearby with the body bag, swam over now. Again, I regretted the fact that he’d come with me, but I needed the help. Bagging a body underwater was no simple task. O’Brien held the body bag open as I lifted the legs in, then the torso, and head, and zipped it up. That was that—gore hidden.
I swam to the surface with the victim while O’Brien set about freeing the anchor that had led to the discovery of the body.
“Sorry you had to see it,” I said when we were both back in the boat. O’Brien was standing behind me, helping me pull my BC and tank off.
“I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry that you feel that you need to keep doing this job,” he said as I turned toward him. I was ready for the argument until I saw the look on his face. Regret, sadness maybe. He wasn’t looking for a fight.
“Come over tonight, O’Brien,” I said. “Simon and I will make dinner. No talk about our jobs or brewing storms. Just dinner. Okay?”
“I’d like that, Hannah.”
After O’Brien and the boat handlers left the lagoon, Stark and I took a few minutes to examine the body before the air began to do its work. I took more photos. Stark found a government ID in the shirt pocket—“Conrad Frett, Minister of Natural Resources and Labor.”
The coroner was waiting for us when Stark and I tied the Wahoo up to the dock. “Are you thinking what I am?” Stark asked as we followed the van over to the morgue.
“Depends, Stark. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that this is all tied together—Frett’s murder, the crash. I’m thinking about that report that Redding had written. Chances are Kiersted was going to lose his grant because of it. And then according to Redding's report there was all Kiersted's ranting about government giving way to developers. Frett had a lot to do with that. Things are starting to stack up here. We know that Kiersted is a fanatic. That’s what it would take to bring down a plane. Next to that, killing Frett would have been nothing.”
“Let’s see what the coroner finds,” I said.
***
What he found was a 9 mm slug in Frett’s chest, fired at close range. Same caliber as the gun that had been lost on the airplane and then stolen at the warehouse. Coincidence? Not a chance. That gun had been used to kill Frett sometime before the plane ever ended up in the water.
Frett’s wallet with almost a hundred dollars in it was still in his pocket, his watch still on his wrist.
The coroner estimated that he’d been in the water for at least four days, maybe five. We needed to find out who had last seen Frett and what he’d been involved in.
Chapter 24
Conrad Frett had been living way beyond his salary as a government official. He owned a lavish home up in the hills above Road Town. The housekeeper let us in. She told us she hadn’t seen Frett since Friday morning, when she arrived at seven to make him breakfast as she did every morning before he went to work. She left dinner for him in the oven before she went home at five, as usual.
She had weekends off and had returned Monday to find the house empty. She assumed that he’d left for the office early and had gone about her chores, wondering briefly why his bed was made, something he never did himself. She always took care of it after he left for work each day, had done it Friday, and expected to do so on Monday. She didn’t give it another thought until his secretary called aroun
d one o’clock, asking if he was home, sick perhaps. That was when the maid started to get concerned. She checked and found the dinner she’d made still in the oven and the mail still in the box. Even so, she figured he had gone away for a long weekend without telling anyone.
His secretary thought differently though. She was sure he would have called the office. She said she was going to call the police. That would have been one of the calls Dunn got yesterday while we were in his office.
“How long have you worked for Frett?” I asked.
“Almost two years now. He jus’ be buyin’ dis big ole house. Way too big for jus’ one man, you ask me. I be thinkin’ he like showin’ off for da women,” she said. She was ready to gossip.
“Did he see many women?” I asked. “Maybe have them up here for the weekend?”
“Not too often,” she said. “I have to admit I be hopin’ he be gettin’ lucky dis past weekend. Da man was not da type dat women would be wantin’ to spend da time with. He be almost forty and never be married. Guess he be thinkin’ dis here house and da nice car be changin’ dat.”
“Do you think it did?” I asked.
“Oh, sure. Like I said, he be havin’ a few women here. Da man was kinda whiny, timid, you know what day say—no balls. But for some dat not be da important thing—nice house, new clothes—dos be da things dat count. I can’t say I be envyin’ him. I be glad he had dat money. He be real alone without it.”
“Do you know where he got his money?” I asked.
“No, maybe a rich relation in da UK or something. Sure weren’t from anyone in da islands. He don’t have no family here.”
“Did he see anyone on a regular basis?” I asked.
“Not dat I be knowin’. He not be confidin’ in me,” she said, dying to say more.
All it took was some minor prodding. “Surely you heard rumors,” I said.
“I not be one to gossip, but his secretary be known ta visit.”
“Did you ever see a man named Enok Kiersted here?” Stark asked.
“Nobody by dat name ever come by when I be here,” she said.
We told her we might have more questions but right now she was free to head home.
“You think one of dos women don murdered him?” she asked as I walked her to the door.
“Maybe he be havin’ someone here for da weekend and dat secretary got jealous,” she said.
She was hoping for some juicy tidbit that she could spread around the island and was disappointed when I told her we didn’t know enough but that I didn’t think the secretary was involved.
I figured that Frett’s secretary deserved the benefit of the doubt and did not need her reputation bloodied by his housekeeper. Besides, the circumstances of Frett’s death didn’t seem like the act of a jealous woman. However, we did need to meet the secretary.
After the housekeeper left, Stark and I took a look around the house. Everything smelled new—like the plastic wrapping had just been removed. A stereo system took up one whole wall, the shelves nearby loaded with CDs. Plush furniture, Oriental rugs, and mahogany tables filled the room. Everything was perfectly coordinated. It was not an eclectic mix collected over a lifetime. It looked like Frett had simply had a furniture showroom moved into his house when he bought it.
The bedroom was as sterile as the living room—no family photographs, no pictures with friends or photo albums on bedside tables. I rummaged through the rolltop desk that was nestled in the bay window on the other side of the bedroom. The letters were all business, except for one of those birthday postcards from his dentist. Not one personal letter or card or any indication that he had anyone who cared about him.
In the bathroom, I found an unopened box of condoms. One can always hope. I felt sorry for the guy. And I could see how coming into money might change things. People always said “You can’t buy happiness”—but when you were this alone? If you had to buy love, it was something anyway. The question was where had he gotten the money? We’d talk to Frett’s secretary first thing in the morning.
***
The lights on the Sea Bird reflected into the still water. I pulled my shoes off and dug my feet in the cool sand. The moon was a sliver of yellow in a black sky. I could hardly tell where the water ended and shore began except for the thin strip of white bubbles that lapped the sand. The only lights were from the Sea Bird. Kiersted’s boat was a dark shadow across the way. I wondered briefly where he was.
As I stepped onto the dock, I heard a splash under my feet. Then a dark shape darted out from under the boards and disappeared into deep water, more than likely spooked by a bigger fish.
A burst of laughter echoed from the Sea Bird. Simon and O’Brien. It was good to hear the kid laughing. Sadie had heard me coming. She jumped off the boat and raced down the dock to greet me. I stooped and let her nuzzle my face, then followed her back to the Sea Bird.
Even though I’d planned on cooking, O’Brien had already started dinner. He knew I was always happy to relinquish my spot at the stove, and was in the galley, stirring and tasting. I tried to ignore the vivid image of the night we’d fought. I was determined that we would simply enjoy a meal and escape the tension that we were both feeling. Simon was sitting at the table with a knife and chopping board, carefully removing every seed from a green pepper. Nomad was curled on his lap.
“Hi, Hannah!” he said, a huge smile spreading over his face. Nice, I thought, to have someone besides Sadie so glad to see me. Make it one more—O’Brien. He left the spoon in the pot, wrapped an arm around my waist, and pressed his body into mine. God, it felt good. I could feel the heat starting deep in my belly and spreading.
We took dinner up to the cockpit and settled under the circle of light that glowed from the overhead lamp. We were quiet as we ate, enjoying the silence and the calm night. Then Simon started to chatter about his day at school and told O’Brien about the snorkeling.
“I got some awesome pictures. Want to see them?” He scrambled down the steps and I could hear him rummaging around in his cabin. Finally he emerged with his camera and settled in between O’Brien and me. O’Brien draped his arm over him and rested his hand on my shoulder.
An hour later, we had seen every photo that Simon had taken since he’d arrived in the islands. Evidently, his camera had extra memory. Even on the tiny one-by-two-inch digital screen, the beauty of the photos was evident. We saw his underwater photos, the boats at SeaSail, then the photos he’d taken with his father.
I’d been about to suggest we look at the rest later, when I saw O’Brien shaking his head. I knew what he was thinking. The kid needed to go through them, mourn some. What better place to do it than on a quiet boat, in safe harbor, with people who cared about him?
“There’s my dad,” Simon said, his voice catching. The photo was a close-up of Redding standing in the water, drenched, having just come out of the ocean. There was another of the two of them standing on the beach and scores of pictures that Simon had taken out on the water.
“We rented a motorboat and went all over the place,” Simon said. “My dad even let me drive.” He scrolled through them quickly now, clearly feeling overwhelmed but needing to come to the end. There were pictures of islands and harbors, boats anchored in them with tiny sticklike figures that I assumed were people standing on decks.
Simon and his father had taken a swing through Paraquita Bay, a contrast to the look of the place now with all the boats jammed into the harbor. It had been nearly deserted when Simon had snapped his pictures, with only a couple of empty boats on moorings. The last photos were a gorgeous series of shots of a white egret high in a mangrove, silhouetted by the sun, marred only by the shape of a motorboat in the water.
“These are wonderful, Simon. Would it be okay if I had a couple enlarged and printed?”
“Sure, Hannah.”
“What about any of the others? Maybe the one of you and your dad?”
“I guess that would be okay.” I could tell he wasn’t sure. Maybe it wou
ld hurt too much. But he needed something of his dad to hang onto.
“We’ll go by the camera shop before school,” I said.
By the time O’Brien and I had done the dishes and wiped down the galley, Simon was asleep in his cabin, his body curled around Nomad.
We headed up top and walked down to the beach, Sadie on our heels. I could feel the tension building between us. It was called forced avoidance.
“Simon is a really good kid,” O’Brien said. I knew he was looking for some neutral ground.
“Yeah. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m scared for him. He’s not connected to his aunt in any important way. And I have a feeling she’s not going to be excited about taking him in. It will probably be about duty rather than love. That’s a bad way for a kid to have to grow up.”
“Is there no one else?” he asked.
“No.”
We were shuffling barefoot through the sand, hand in hand. “He’s obviously happy with you, Hannah,” O’Brien said.
“What are you suggesting, O’Brien?”
“Maybe you should take him for a while, see how it goes.”
“Me? How can I take care of a kid? I’ve had to leave him with Tilda every day.”
“Is that so bad? He’d have lots of extended family with Tilda, Calvin, the girls, Jimmy Snyder, Stark. And he’d be with people who truly cared about him.”
“What about you, O’Brien?”
“Definitely me. As I said, he’s a good kid.”
“I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”
“I’d be willing to help you parent.”
“Are you talking about being a family, O’Brien?”
“Maybe.” I could see that we were moving into dangerous territory and the same fight we’d had a couple nights ago. A variation on the “quit the job, have kids” conversation. I was not going to go there.
I spread the blanket that I carried under my arm on the sand and pulled O’Brien down next to me. I pushed him back, pressed my body into his, and felt his heart thumping. Mine fluttered as I flicked my tongue in his ear, then across his lips. He grabbed my arms and rolled over on top of me. He ran a hand inside my shirt and slowly and meticulously unbuttoned it. I pulled his shirt over his head and drew him into me. The rest of our clothes followed.