Vitamin Sea

by Maia Ross

  “Having fun?” he said pleasantly.

  “Always.” I tried not to comment on his horrific Hawaiian shirt: hula girls, turtles, and cocktails in eye-straining primary colours. I took a look at his hands; they were held away from his body and clearly empty, both of them snapped into latex gloves, which was a little sobering. No bulges that I could see around his waist, but who could really tell? I stepped forward carefully, trying to exude an aura of calm and relaxation. Boris responded with a jovial smile. I couldn’t tell if that meant I was being successful or not.

  After a moment, I reached his side. Then I matched his gaze. And suddenly I was cold. A man lay on the ground, a bullet wound in the back of his head, a pool of blood surrounding him. He was dressed in a white polo and khaki pants, the office uniform of Club employees. The body lay on a blanket of pine needles and old leaves. It had been there for a while.

  “I was going for one of my walks,” Boris said, like he was talking about the weather. “And I wanted to go, off-road, I think you would say?” He motioned at his feet, housed in hiking boots. “My nephew is trying to get me out in the great outdoors.”

  “It’s nice to have family to look out for you.”

  He leaned down and pointed. “See the stippling on the bullet wound? This man was lying down when he was shot at very close range with a small calibre weapon.”

  “By someone he knew, maybe?”

  He pressed his lips together. “It’s hard to say. I, myself, would refuse to get on my knees, let alone lie down and let someone kill me.”

  I nodded grimly. “Me too. Do you think it could be a .22?”

  “I believe so. The man is named Jake Tapper. Do you know this person?”

  I pressed my lips together so it would look like I was thinking, but a sense of regret throbbed inside me. I so wished Charlotte had taken his call. Maybe I could have helped him. “I don’t believe so.”

  An awkward silence emerged. I did a wide circle around the body, far enough away to make sure I didn’t disturb any evidence. “How do you know it’s Jake Tapper?”

  “That’s what his license says.”

  I made an exasperated noise. “You shouldn’t tamper with evidence that local law enforcement needs.”

  “I put it back.” He looked at me. “Need a pair of gloves?”

  “I have some, thanks.” Beside the body was a small boulder buried in the ground. I stepped on it gingerly and took a closer look at the body. I was unhappy about a number of things, mostly this man’s mysterious call to Charlotte the other day, and the crisp cologne that was wafting off of Boris directly into my nostrils. And the fact that the dead man looked like he’d been lying still when he was shot. Like he’d already been unconscious when death took him.

  I found the culprit on his left cheek, right near his sideburn: a small hole, with purple discolouration around the edges. It looked no more innocuous than a spider bite and would be missed by someone who didn’t know what they were looking for. I felt suddenly, completely, irrationally angry. The invention of the internet meant that any civilian evil-doer could get their hands on high-quality tranquilizer guns with free delivery on qualifying purchases and just shoot people, willy nilly.

  “He was tranq’d and then shot,” I said, unable to keep the anger out of my voice.

  Boris let out a curse in Bulgarian that turned my ears pink and would probably keep them in that state for a few days. “Does it look military?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, but they’ve retrieved the dart.”

  “Well, if it is only some local dispute then that is not so bad. It is lovely to see you today, Irma. You are looking very well.”

  I tried not to blush. “Why, thank you.”

  “What do you think this means?”

  I thought about trusting him. Instead, I said, “I don’t know. How old is he?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Almost the same age as Scooter.

  “I’m not so sure about this town of yours, Irma. I remember you told me that one time that it was paradise.”

  I searched my memories, then laughed. “I did, you’re right. Well, this is the first murder I’m aware of.”

  “What about the jewellery store robber from a few days ago?”

  “Self defence.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  I wondered if he did. I could still feel tension zinging between us. I tried to control my breathing. To focus.

  On its face, the robbery and Jake’s death didn’t seem to be connected. But in intelligence work, the enemy will often seed multiple lines of attack into a situation. Eventually, they’ll focus on the one that works, but getting to that point is a messy business. And right now it was too early to tease out the threads that might be all connected here.

  I examined Boris’s face carefully. “Do you have anything to do with any of this?”

  “Irma,” he said, his nostrils flaring briefly, “I would not bring trouble to your doorstep, I promise you this. And if it had been me…” He held his arms out in a shrug.

  “I know, I know, you wouldn’t have left a trace.”

  He nodded. “I do not know this man. And my company knows nothing about the store in town that was robbed. I checked.”

  I tried to identify the emotion I was experiencing. Eventually, I realized I wanted to believe him.

  “What about the man from your driveway? I’m somewhat concerned that…”

  I waited for him to finish. There was a not-insignificant part of me that wanted to know what he was concerned about. When it appeared that he wasn’t going to continue speaking, I said, “It does not look particularly good for me that he died on my doorstep, I have to admit.”

  “Do you think he was a pro?”

  I shook my head. “No. I think he was a petty thief or someone down on his luck. But him being an amateur makes me feel worse about things, honestly. You never really know what civilians will get up to. And he obviously wasn’t working alone.” I took in a deep breath, irritated at the worry that was fluttering inside me. I’d wanted a lead and now I had it; Mr. Tapper had obviously had an accomplice, one who wasn’t averse to cold-blooded murder. This was not good.

  “Your home is secure, though?” He tried to make his words sound lighthearted, but there was a heaviness under it I didn’t want to think about too much.

  I gave him a brisk nod, which he returned as he turned to go.

  “We can’t leave him here,” I said.

  Boris raised an eyebrow.

  “Children play in these woods all the time. I don’t want any of them to stumble over him.”

  He nodded. “Yes, well, I see. I shall do it.”

  I sighed. “No, I should.”

  “I believe you were quite close with the old chief, yes?”

  I nodded.

  “But not so much with the new one.”

  “I’m still breaking her in,” I said wickedly.

  Boris threw his head back and laughed. “Well, I believe having me call this in will help you with that situation. If you call…”

  He wasn’t wrong. Those of us who practiced our old profession were perpetually trying to stay out of the clutches of local law enforcement. Our goals were often so very different.

  I clamped down on the worry swelling inside me. “I’ll owe you one.”

  The glint in his eye was disconcerting. “That is delightful, as I have a favour to ask you.”

  Twenty-One—Violet

  The bing of the fire alarm went on and on. One nice thing about emergencies on the island, I’d realized, was that all the alarms were creepily soothing, almost as if the wealthy residents were too fragile to experience the kind of ear-ripping sirens Max and I used to hear at the rooming house we lived at.

  I headed to Charlotte’s room to check on her. She was sitting up in bed, but she looked tiny and utterly old. My stomach tightened.

  “Mrs. Van Oot?” I said softly. “Are you all right?”

  “Hello, there.”
>
  “Can I get you anything?”

  Charlotte pulled the covers closer to her. Her heart monitor was beeping louder than the fire alarm. Thankfully, she wasn’t hooked up to an IV machine, or I would have probably ripped it right off her. “No, thank you.”

  The door beside Charlotte’s room banged open, and someone stormed down the hallway. “Kendelle, what on earth is going on?” Emily McDonald’s hair was a purple blur as she passed Charlotte’s room. The friendly expression she’d had on her face when I’d met her earlier in the week was replaced by a look of irritation. “Mrs. Van Oot is trying to rest.”

  I wondered what she was doing in a different room if she was here visiting Charlotte.

  Kendelle said, “I’m so sorry, Emily. It’s a false alarm. I’ve called the security firm and they’ve verified it’s some sort of sensor issue on their end.”

  “Are you sure it’s not a real alarm?” Emily asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It is, after all, quite alarming.”

  “The fire department is on their way. But you can evacuate if you wish,” Kendelle answered.

  “Well, aren’t you the one who’s in charge? Shouldn’t you be advising us about what to do?” Emily demanded.

  “It’s a false alarm. Our third this week. But the fire department will be here in two minutes to confirm. Again, I’m so sorry about all this.”

  Emily entered the room and plopped herself on a comfortable chair beside Charlotte’s bed, her nose stuck in her phone. I cleared my throat.

  “Oh hi, Violet,” she said, suddenly all peaches and cream. “I didn’t see you there.” Then she dove back into her phone. She swiped with one hand, tapping a vaping kit on the side of her chair. After a moment, she got up and slipped out of the room. A few minutes later, I saw her on the sidewalk, vaping and swiping.

  Maybe she’s cranky because she’d been having a nic fit. I went to Reception to make extra sure we didn’t have to evacuate; I had to get on my call in a few minutes, and if I had to skedaddle in the middle of it, I’d rather just take the meeting at Luna’s Café, surrounded by French vanilla buttercream-frosted cupcakes.

  Outside the window, a fire truck was pulling into the parking lot, pumping its airbrakes. Kendelle was sitting at her desk and her eyes were shiny. Shiny enough to make me a bit nervous. I hated it when people cried.

  I put my hand on her shoulder, a bit like how Irma did when she was up to something. As soon as those dots connected for me, I pulled myself back like I’d just touched a hot stove. “It’s going to be okay, Kendelle.” It was said a bit woodenly, but I really meant it, and maybe that was the important part.

  “Sometimes people are such jerks.”

  “I know,” I said with sympathy. To be honest, I was surprised Emily had been so short with the receptionist. She’d seemed so friendly before. Of course, sometimes people were much nicer when they weren’t around the help. I’d seen it a million times.

  The lights of the fire truck painted themselves on the Reception wall, and two suited-up firefighters burst through the door, did a circuit of the office, turned off the alarm, and declared everything safe within ten minutes. But it didn’t make me feel any better. I was bothered by the false alarm, another device at the clinic that had failed. I made a mental note to talk to Irma about it before wandering back to my perch in the equipment room.

  I had a sales meeting to get to.

  Twenty-Two—Irma

  The little sprint I’d made back to the boat really got my cardiovascular system pumping, which was nice. And after finally collecting Stu, he and I spent the rest of the afternoon sailing around the island on Submarine Sailboat, the sun on my face, the wind in my hair. I needed it. I didn’t talk a lot and Stu knew me well enough to see I was grappling with a problem.

  Someone was cleaning up loose ends—but who? Did Jake have something to do with the IV stand hack? He’d obviously been heading out of town. Who or what was he trying to get away from?

  When Stu dropped me off on my dock, I looked up to Violet’s room. The lights were out at a reasonable time for once, so I didn’t disturb her. Plus, I had work to do.

  After a healthy snack, another call to my good friend Laverne the real estate agent, and a strong cup of tea, I set off in my Jeep. After a spirited night-time drive, I parked in the garage of an organic ostrich farmer who owed me a favour and walked the rest of the way to Jake’s house. It was a small bungalow on its own at the edge of a wooded area, which was ever so helpful.

  I watched it for a while. Laverne had told me that Jake lived alone, but the light was on in the living room, so I held my position. Eventually, it turned off, without anyone in the room.

  Realizing it was on a timer, I hummed as I snapped on some latex gloves and crossed the street. It wasn’t a crime scene, but the police had probably come by to dig around Jake’s life a little at some point after Boris had informed them about Jake’s recently deceased body. I wondered, briefly, how Boris was faring. Hopefully, the police had simply taken his statement and let him go about his business, but discovering a body often left one answering some sticky questions.

  There was no police seal on the back door of Jake’s house, which was lovely. Perhaps they hadn’t made their way over yet, or they’d come and gone.

  It took me quite some time to pop open the back door. The little scoundrel must have invested in some expensive locks. But I made it in, securing it behind me and sussing out a second exit that wouldn’t require me to smash a hip to smithereens. After making sure nobody was home, I debated turning on the lights. Since there were no close neighbours and Jake had blackout blinds—in the living room!—it seemed safe.

  I did not have a good feeling about this place. Normal people didn’t have blackout blinds outside their bedrooms. Or six locks on the back door.

  I closed the blinds and got started, searching all the usual places in the kitchen: under the sink, in the sink, the pantry, under the floor, in the furnace vents. The kitchen was surprisingly neat and organized. I worked quickly, and eventually, I had to conclude there was nothing there.

  I moved to the living room, which contained a small office area with two desks. No computers, but four monitors, some keyboards and a Donald Duck stuffed toy, some plastic figurines, and an empty bag of Cheetos, orange dust sprinkled liberally around the desk. Briefly, I wondered if all nerdy folk ate like lunatics.

  There were a few manuals on the table—computer encryption and one on something called shell scripting—and I took pictures of them, the desk, and a few other places in the house. The books couldn’t prove anything, but they hinted that Mr. Tapper could have been the one to build the code that Violet was trying to track down.

  The two bedrooms had been stripped of any and all personal effects. The bathroom was similarly sparse. Someone was definitely leaving town, and there was nothing substantive there. There was nothing here at all.

  I whizzed home in the car, frustrated at everything and everybody.

  Twenty-Three—Violet

  After spending my afternoon toiling away at the clinic, I’d picked up pizza in town, took a cab home, watched some terrible reality television on my tablet—Irma had no TVs—fell asleep on the couch and woke up the next morning after an excellent night’s sleep with a cupcake wrapper stuck to my forehead.

  Then my good mood soured a little. I now knew that the IV stands at the island clinic had been hacked—knew it —but I still didn’t quite know how the hacked code had been uploaded to the machines. Or who’d done it.

  I made my way to the coffee maker and palmed a coffee pod, pressing down on the panel covering the slot that normally held the pod. But I couldn’t open it. I pushed at the panel, trying to find its sweet spot. After a bit, I grew frustrated.

  But not getting the coffee machine open had woken something up inside me. I knew the slot for the pod was there, but it seemed like it wasn’t. Which was why I stood and looked at it for a long time before going into the living room.

  Kend
elle had given me a weird look when I’d rolled the IV stand out through Reception the day before. But roll it out of the clinic I had. That was why I’d taken the cab home. Even Irma, with her fanaticism for cardiovascular health, wouldn’t have made me drag the thing the forty-five-minute walk from town. Of course, Irma made the same walk in half an hour, but I was no Irma.

  And now I stood in front of one of the stands—IV02—tilting my head. I was looking for...for some interface that had allowed the hacker’s code to be uploaded to the machine. I examined it front to back. Up and down, just like I had at Stu’s. Then I put it on the floor and took a look at the unit’s underside. It reminded me of all the times I’d taken household appliances apart when I was growing up.

  The IV stand had a plastic panel covering the bottom of its LCD screen. There were no screws attached to it, but there was a thin seam around all four sides. When I’d looked at IV03 at Stu’s, I’d taken the back of the machine off with a screwdriver and found what was obviously the machine’s maintenance panel. Why would you install a covered, hard-to-open panel on the bottom of a medical device that already had a maintenance panel? Backup? It could be. Nerds liked backdoors and redundancies.

  I’d combed the internet to see if there were any other ways to access the device and found nothing; no whispers of secret panels, no discussions about it in vendor forums or nerdy subreddits or anywhere else.

  The sales guy from Medicil who thought I worked in the Yukon had sent me schematics of the machine’s interior which showed no secret compartments or USB ports. Of course, most medical equipment was maintained by specialized personnel who worked for the device companies, so they could keep their trade secrets close to the vest. Mainstream computer device makers—Nortel, in its day, for example—had secret ways to access their devices. Why not a medical device company?