Submerged

by Dani Pettrey

  He raked a hand through his hair and looked up to find Tom and Thoreau staring at him.

  “Reliving the moment?” Tom chuckled.

  Cole exhaled. “Last night Bailey heard a noise. I was on the phone with her at the time discussing the case and insisted on coming over to check it out.”

  Thoreau rolled his eyes. “Sure she heard a noise.”

  The muscle in Cole’s jaw flickered. How immature could they be? “You can ask Landon if you don’t believe me. He was there too.”

  “Really?” Tom’s smile widened.

  Focus on the words. For Bailey. “Everything checked out all right except—”

  Tom and Thoreau exchanged a knowing glance.

  “What?” Cole practically seethed.

  “It was a ploy to get you over there,” Tom said. “She may act and look like she’s Miss Goody Two-Shoes now, but we know better.”

  His self-control slipping, Cole pressed on. “Landon left to take Piper home. I climbed in my truck and decided to stay awhile just to be certain she was safe.”

  “Right . . .” Tom drawled out the word.

  “I must have fallen asleep. Next thing I knew it was morning and Bailey invited me in for a cup of coffee. That’s when you showed up.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s the truth.” How many times did he have to say it?

  Tom lifted his chin. “Here’s Landon. Let’s see what he has to say.”

  “What I have to say about what?” Landon asked, striding into the office.

  “About last night,” Cole began.

  “Yeah,” Tom interrupted, “Cole was just telling us about it. What I want to know is why Cole called you in. He need some help pleasing the whore?”

  That’s it. Cole lunged forward, heat seething through his limbs.

  Terror flashed in Tom’s eyes.

  “Whoa!” Landon jumped between them.

  Tom spewed out a string of expletives.

  “He’s not worth it, man.” Landon struggled to restrain Cole. “He may wholly deserve it, but as long as he’s wearing that uniform, you’re looking at assaulting a police officer.”

  Cole lowered his arms. Taking a deep breath, he took a step back. “You’re right.”

  “If you ladies are done bickering,” Slidell barked from the doorway, “we’ve got more murders on our hands.”

  Landon turned, his brows raised. “More murders?”

  “In my office. Now.” Slidell turned heel and strode down the hall.

  Tom and Thoreau moved first, followed by Landon and lastly Cole.

  “What’s this about another murder?” Landon’s tone echoed everyone’s concern.

  Slidell grabbed a sheet of paper from the fax machine and sat down. “NTSB has ruled sabotage as the cause of Henry Reid’s crash. I’ve spoken with Ginny, and Bailey is . . .” His gaze shifted to the door.

  Bailey entered, looking all business. The no-nonsense suit was back, her hair tight in a bun. No trace of makeup or color tinged her face, not even the soft peach that naturally brushed her cheeks. No color at all except her blue eyes—pink rimmed and puffy.

  Cole’s heart lurched. If either one of the twiddle twins said so much as one word to belittle her or that made her the least bit uncomfortable, no one would be able to stop him from silencing them.

  “Bailey,” Landon said.

  She gave a curt nod—no smile touching her lips—careful not to meet anyone’s eyes.

  Slidell pinned a stern warning glare on Tom and Thoreau before standing to greet her. “Thanks for coming down so quick.”

  “Your deputy said it was about Agnes?”

  He pulled out a chair for her. “Please, have a seat.”

  She was trying so hard not to look vulnerable that it broke Cole’s heart.

  “Tom, Thoreau, I can catch you two up to speed later.” Slidell settled back into his chair. “Go get Samuel cleaned up and dropped off at home.”

  Tom hesitated.

  Slidell narrowed his eyes.

  Tom turned heel and strode from the room. Thoreau followed.

  Bailey’s rigid posture relaxed slightly once they were gone.

  Slidell leaned forward, resting his burly weight on his forearms. “As I was just telling Cole and Landon here, NTSB, the National Transportation Safety Board, has ruled the cause of the plane crash was sabotage.”

  Shock swept over Bailey’s beautiful face. “Are you certain?”

  Slidell lifted the fax, his eyes skimming the text. “Quite.”

  “Why? Why would someone want to . . . ?” Her question trailed off.

  Landon cleared his throat. “Do they have any suspects or leads?”

  Slidell shook his head. “The NTSB report says that according to commercial airline records three of Gus’s passengers flew in early that afternoon from Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, Russia.”

  “Mark Olsen and the mystery passengers,” Bailey murmured.

  “Actually, no. Mark Olsen is from Anchorage. His wife said he was heading down here for a fishing retreat.”

  Bailey’s brows pinched together. “So . . . Agnes was in Russia?”

  “According to Alaska Airlines, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what we were hoping you could tell us.”

  “I have no idea. I talked to her a few days before the acc—” She swallowed. “Before the crash, and she said nothing about taking a trip.” She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t understand. This doesn’t make any sense.”

  Slidell’s gaze was as grim as his tone. “Murder rarely does.”

  “Murder?” Bailey choked out.

  Slidell nodded. “Afraid so.”

  Bailey rubbed her temples. “I can’t believe this.”

  Cole rested his hand on her shoulder, and she flinched.

  “Sorry.” He pulled his hand back. Could he offer her no comfort?

  “It’s fine.” She brushed him off. “I’m just a little shaken.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your aunt?” Slidell asked.

  Bailey’s eyes widened. “You think . . . you think it was because of Agnes . . . that someone was trying to kill her?”

  “We don’t know. We have to consider all of the victims equally as the intended target at this point.”

  Bailey blanched.

  “Can I get you some water?” Landon offered.

  “Please.”

  Cole ached to comfort her, to let her know she wasn’t alone. Why did she insist on keeping him at arm’s length?

  “Who else was on the plane?” he asked, trying to focus on the facts rather than his frustration. “There were three passengers my team didn’t recognize when we went in. Mark Olsen was—”

  Bailey turned, her eyes widening. “You were on the . . . plane?”

  He nodded. “I was part of the rescue crew sent in.”

  She reached out and covered his hand with hers. He tried not to notice how good her touch felt.

  “And Agnes . . . Did you see her?”

  He nodded again, his throat tightening as Agnes’s terror-stricken face flashed through his mind.

  “Was she already . . . ?” Bailey’s voice cracked, and her hand gripped his.

  He shook his head.

  Bailey bit her bottom lip, tears glistening in her eyes.

  He knelt beside her, his throat like a vise, the staggering weight of that night crushing back down on him. “I thought I had her. I carried her to the surface.”

  Hope flared in Bailey’s eyes. Hope in him, as if somehow he could defy time and go back, change the outcome of the events. He swallowed. If only he could, to save her the pain. “Her heart gave out before we reached shore.” His voice was weak, his words strangled. He watched in anguish as sorrow washed afresh over Bailey’s face.

  She hung her head as tears fell, splashing off their joined hands.

  Landon cleared his throat. “Your water.”

  She took the cup, along with a tissue. “Thanks.”


  Slidell shifted uncomfortably. “If this is too difficult a time, we can—”

  “No.” She held up a hand, the tissue scrunched between her fingers. “I’m fine.”

  “You can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt Agnes?” Slidell asked.

  “No.”

  Slidell added the fax to the file. “Well, I’m sure it will turn out to have nothing to do with her and everything to do with one of the other passengers, but I have to ask.”

  “I understand.”

  “The passengers?” Cole asked, bringing the question back to the table.

  “Right.” Slidell glanced at the file. “The NTSB lists Henry Reid, Agnes Grey, Mark Olsen . . . and the two other passengers have been identified as Fedyna and Iryna Alexandrovich, both residents of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, Russia. We believe they were husband and wife.”

  “Russian.” Landon’s eyes lit. “That’s very interesting.”

  Slidell’s brows rose. “How’s that?”

  Landon smiled. “I’ll be right back.” He returned a moment later with a blue duffel in hand. He set it on Slidell’s desk and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. “Piper and I found this in a locker at the Seattle airport. It belonged to our mystery man. Cole, it’s what I was planning on telling you guys about last night before the break-in.”

  Cole stepped forward as Landon emptied the contents—a handful of passports—most Russian, each with a similar photo but different name, a leather pouch holding a bevy of credit cards in a variety of names, a couple of driver’s licenses, an obscene amount of cash, and a pair of cell phones.

  Cole shook his head. “Who was this guy, and what was he doing on our island?”

  “Hopefully there’s something in here that will help us find out.” Landon bagged each item as he pulled it from the duffel. “I imagine all of these identities will turn out to be aliases, but at least we finally have a photograph to work with, and if we’re really lucky, a set of prints.”

  28

  “What do two Russians, a guy from Anchorage, our mystery man—who Landon believes is Russian—a grad student from Cali, and my aunt have to do with each other?” Bailey asked as they made their way back to the Post.

  “You think they are connected?” Cole asked.

  “I know it sounds absurd, but I have this feeling that somehow it’s all intertwined.”

  “Why and to what purpose? And how would Agnes fit into it all?”

  “I have no idea. It doesn’t make any sense.” She shrugged. “Maybe it really is a series of weird coincidences, but it doesn’t explain why Agnes didn’t mention anything about the trip to me.”

  “Maybe it was a last-minute trip.”

  “Why? What could have been so urgent? And why would she go to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, Russia?”

  “Maybe research . . . or a buying trip. She ran a Russian-American shop.”

  “True, but Agnes mostly did her research and purchasing via the Internet and local resources. She went to Russia more often before I came to live with her, though I can remember at least two trips she made after I left. She loved Russia. Went for the first time with her great-aunt Mildred. My mom was so mad she wasn’t the sister chosen to go.”

  “That’s when Agnes got into Russian history?” he asked.

  She nodded. “She came back and followed her great-aunt’s love for Russian-American history. After Mildred passed, she took over the shop.” Now Bailey risked ending that legacy. By selling, she could never ensure it would remain the Post. But she couldn’t think about that. What happened at breakfast would happen over and over again, and her heart couldn’t take it.

  Sure Cole stepped up to defend her, or more likely himself, from Tom’s accusation. Sure he was being kind and attentive now, but what happened when the rumor spread? By nightfall the entire town would hear Tom’s version of events, and how would Cole react then? It’d be easier for them both if she simply left and never looked back.

  “So you can’t think of any reason Agnes would go to Russia?”

  She exhaled. “I have no idea.” It seemed so out of Agnes’s temperament.

  “Maybe there’s something back at the shop that would give us some idea of why she went. Something scribbled on her calendar, an e-mail about her trip,” he suggested.

  “Good idea. I’ll take a look before I leave.”

  Cole stopped. “Leave?”

  “I’m heading back to Oregon tomorrow.” It was time.

  “Tomorrow?” The word came out strangled.

  She nodded, avoiding his gaze. Afraid of what she might find there—relief, disappointment. Not sure which would be worse.

  “Is this because of Tom, because of what happened this morning?”

  “Yes and no. If it wasn’t Tom this morning, it would have been someone else some other time. I owed it to Agnes to come back. To take care of the shop, and now that I have, it’s time for me to get back to Oregon.”

  “Where it’s safe?”

  She increased her pace. She didn’t have to explain to him. He didn’t have to agree with her decision.

  “Sooner or later you’re going to have to face your past or you’ll spend the rest of your life running from it.”

  Her shoulders slumped. He was right, but it was her past they were talking about, her mistakes. Her choice how she dealt with them. Or ran from them. “It was nice seeing you again, Cole. You take care.”

  She slid the key in the lock, hoping he couldn’t see how hard her hands were shaking.

  “And the case?”

  “I’m sure you all can handle it.”

  He braced his hand on the doorframe. “We need your help. You know Alaskan history. You know Agnes.”

  She didn’t look up. “I can’t.” I can’t stay here. Not long enough for him to change his mind, decide she wasn’t worth the fight. Once the rumors were in full swing, he’d pull away. They always did. The cold shoulder and indifferent gaze returning until she was nothing but an unwanted memory. She couldn’t face that again. Not with Cole. Not with somebody she truly cared about. It was better to leave before what remained of her heart got pummeled.

  “You could be the key to solving this. We need you.” He stepped between her and the door, forcing her to look at him, intensity burning in his eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath. “Agnes needs you. Liz Johnson needs you.”

  Disappointment rumbled through her. Of course not him. Why would he ever need someone like her? She was fooling herself even entertaining the idea there could be something there, that he could ever feel that way about her again. She’d burned that bridge, and there was no way to put the ashes together again. How stupid could she be?

  “You’re not playing fair.” What was he trying to do? Get her to stay? Force her to endure the rumors, the cruel nickname, all over again? “You don’t need me.”

  He never had. Sooner or later he would have realized it. That’s why she’d taken the proactive route so many years ago and given him no choice. At least it’d been on her terms. She’d forced him away before he could leave. Before he found someone better and left her in the dust. Tom and the bevy of guys that followed never really cared about her. They only wanted what she provided them, but that too had been her choice. Never giving enough of herself to get hurt. Never showing who she really was, and therefore never truly being rejected.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice lowered. “But was what happened to Liz Johnson fair? Or what happened to Agnes and everyone else on that flight?”

  Her bottom lip quivered.

  “You may be the only one who has the key to righting that wrong. Without you we run the risk of never catching this guy.”

  She exhaled, fighting the almost primal urge to flee. “Fine. I’ll give you one more week, but then I’m out of here. Killer or not.”

  Bailey sat at the desk and switched on Agnes’s computer.

  It hummed to life and twanged once the dial-up service finally connected them to the Internet. “Here goes nothing.�
� She exhaled. “And everything . . .”

  Cole rested his hands on the back of the chair, studying the screen over her shoulder, trying not to think of what had just passed between them. He’d practically begged her to stay. He’d laid it on about the case, but though what he’d said was true, there was a much deeper truth—he wasn’t ready to have her walk out of his life. Wasn’t ready to let go.

  He raked a shaky hand through his hair. He had a week to get ready, because it was clear she wasn’t staying. She either didn’t trust him enough to be honest and vulnerable with him or she flat out didn’t care. Either way she was leaving, and he, once again, had no recourse. She was making a call that would affect both their lives, and he had no say.

  “Username and password . . . Let’s pray Agnes truly was a creature of habit.” She tilted the keyboard up.

  Cole leaned farther over her shoulder and read, “Odette and Siegfried?”

  “Swan Lake,” she said, typing it in. “Bingo!” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s strange. The in-box is empty.”

  “Did Agnes get much e-mail?”

  “I don’t know, but I e-mailed her fairly often, and everyone gets at least a few a day. There should be something here.”

  “Check her sent mail.”

  Bailey clicked on the folder. “Empty too.” She clicked on each folder in turn and all produced the same result—empty. “It’s like it’s been wiped clean.”

  “Maybe Agnes emptied it out before her trip.”

  Bailey shook her head. “That still doesn’t explain why there are no new e-mails.”

  “Maybe everyone knew about the crash.”

  “She had to be in Russia for some period of time. I’m not certain when she left, but I spoke with her on the twenty-ninth, and her plane went down on the seventh. That leaves over a week she could have been in Russia. Why are there no e-mails during that time?”

  Cole sighed, frustration, hurt, and anger reeling through him. “I don’t know.”

  “Great.” She blew a loose strand of hair from her face. “Another dead end. What do we do now?”

  “We find out for certain when she left for Russia.”

  “How? Not to sound crass, but the pilot is dead. . . . I suppose we could call the airport and see if we can track down Agnes’s reservation.”