Out of Her Depth

by Brenda Hiatt

  “Are you the one who radioed me? I thought it was Van,” he said.

  “No, I’m the one who was attacked by the guy you rescued,” Ronan replied, pointing at his shoulder. “Where is he?”

  “Well—” began the captain, when one of the two young women in the group interrupted him.

  “It was the weirdest thing! We all thought he was completely passed out when we docked, so we left him on the boat, but next thing we knew, he was, like, totally gone. He had to have been faking it.”

  “Gone?” I echoed, a sick feeling beginning to form in the pit of my stomach. “Nobody saw which way he went?”

  They all shook their heads, and several of them started talking at once, explaining how they’d only left him alone for a second, how everyone thought someone else was watching him, how no one could have known . . . But the bottom line was, he was gone, and no one had seen him go.

  Just then, as if on cue, came a brief wail from a siren, and two police cars pulled up in front of the hotel nearest the dock, lights flashing. A moment later, three uniformed officers hurried across the sand to the dock, all looking very serious.

  If it hadn’t been for the cold knot in my stomach, I might have laughed at their timing.

  TWO HOURS later, any urge to laugh had completely deserted me. Ronan and I had repeatedly described Lenny and everything he’d done, separately and together. The police also called a medic to treat Ronan’s shoulder, and even took pictures of his cut as evidence.

  Finally, they seemed satisfied that we weren’t withholding any vital information—even though neither of us had mentioned Melanie Melampus or the ring. Ronan had insisted we keep that quiet, in a quick whisper to me as the cops arrived, and I’d gone along with it, half against my better judgment.

  “I’d say we both deserve a good lunch about now, wouldn’t you?” Ronan asked when we were finally alone on a bench near the dock, where the final phase of questioning had taken place.

  “And then some,” I agreed. “I’m not sure the interrogation wasn’t worse than the attack. Though of course I won’t have a scar to show for it.”

  “Nah, the interrogation didn’t leave a scar.”

  I just gave him a look, still not in a frame of mind for humor. All I could seem to think about was what Melanie Melampus and her hit man might try next. Which reminded me of something I still needed to do.

  “How about the Japanese restaurant in the Westin, next door? Have you eaten there yet?” Ronan asked when I didn’t reply.

  But I was eager now to get back to my room and my digital camera. I wanted to take another look at the pictures I’d taken of the man near Melanie Melampus in Oranjestad two nights ago.

  After all that time with the police, I was starting to doubt my recollections and thinking maybe I’d imagined our attacker was the same guy. Before sharing that doubt with Ronan, I wanted to verify—or disprove—my original guess. I was acting like enough of a flake already without changing my story back and forth.

  Then there was the fact that whoever was after the ring—and me—indisputably knew what I looked like now. Which made me nervous about wandering far from the hotel.

  “We’ll eat sooner if we just grab a burger at the pool bar here,” I responded. “Besides, I’m a mess, still in my swimsuit, no makeup. I’m not sure they’d let me into a nice place at the moment, and I’m too hungry to shower and change before eating.”

  It was too long an explanation, and he quirked an eyebrow, making me wonder if he guessed my real motivation.

  But he only shrugged and replied, “Sure, that’ll be fine.”

  “So, you really think we did the right thing, not mentioning Melanie to the police?” I asked when we were seated near the pool ten minutes later with our burgers and fries. “It felt kind of iffy to me.”

  “Hey, you saw how unprepared these guys were to deal with our little assault. You really think they’re equipped to do anything about an international murder case involving someone as powerful as Stefan Melampus? It would have scared them spitless.”

  He was probably right, but I still didn’t like it. “You don’t think we’ll get in trouble for not saying anything? I mean, it’s bound to come out later that the attack and the Melampus case are connected, and if you want to get credit for solving that case, it will look odd that you didn’t make the connection earlier.”

  “Let me worry about that, okay? You just enjoy your burger for now.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended. But it reminded me all too vividly of the way Tom had tried to “take care” of me while keeping secrets.

  He blinked, clearly startled. “No, I—Okay, I guess you’re right. I was. Sorry. I should know better than to underestimate you by now.”

  I was only partly mollified. “Thanks. But you need to know that I’m not willing to put myself at risk—legally or physically—just so you can get your precious payout. That may be your top priority, but it’s not mine.”

  “All the cards on the table, huh?” he said with a grin. “Fair enough. I admit I’ve been hoping this business with the ring would flush Melanie out of hiding, if she’s still alive. But I never expected you—us—to be at actual risk, and I’m sorry for that. Still, my payout and justice being served should go hand in hand, if we’re right. Does that help?”

  “In theory, at least.” While it might mollify my conscience, it didn’t make me any less scared. I rose. “Thanks for the burger. You’re welcome to my fries if you want them.”

  “Leaving so soon?”

  I nodded. “I’m expecting a call. From my daughter.” I was conflicted all over again about whether I should tell him about the FBI and Stefan Melampus, so I put it off—again. “You’ll let me know if the police catch that guy?”

  “Of course—and about anything else new to do with the case. Enjoy the rest of your day, Wynne.” He sounded like he meant it.

  “I’ll try.” But I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get much chance to relax.

  As soon as I reached my room, I knew I’d made the right decision to hurry back. My room phone was blinking like a Christmas tree, as was my cell phone. Before I listened to a single voice mail, though, I wanted to check my camera.

  I scrolled through my photos and found the two I’d taken of the man in Oranjestad two nights ago, but on the two-inch LCD screen, all I could tell was that he had dark hair and wore a black shirt. Not exactly proof.

  With a guilty glance at both flashing phones, I headed back downstairs to the business center so I could see those shots full-sized. It took a few minutes to get a computer, and a few more to remember how to view photos this way, but finally I had the first picture on the nineteen-inch screen in front of me.

  Unfortunately, it still wasn’t what anyone would call proof, just a shadowy profile, but I was pretty sure I’d been right. It looked like the same guy to me. At least I didn’t have to worry that I’d voiced an unfounded suspicion to Ronan.

  I printed a copy of the picture to show him later, cringing at the thought of what all those prints were adding to my hotel bill, then headed back upstairs to face my waiting voice mails.

  I picked up my cell phone first, since that was the number pretty much everyone had. Four new messages, in addition to the two showing on the room phone, for a total of six in about as many hours. I made sure I had paper and pen handy, then pushed the button to start playing them.

  The first message was from Deb, wondering why I hadn’t called back yet. At the worry in her voice, I felt guilty, then amused, remembering all the worry she and her sister had caused me during their teen and college years by not returning calls. She was an adult now. She could deal. I continued to the next message.

  “Ms. Seally, this is Frank Truman of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We spoke yesterday. Agent Walters and I are flying do
wn from Miami this afternoon to speak with you. Sometime tonight or early tomorrow would be best. I’ll call again once we’re in Aruba, probably sometime shortly after six p.m.”

  Two FBI agents were coming to talk to me? Clearly they’d decided my evidence was more important than they had let on earlier. Either that, or they’d managed a sweet boondoggle to Aruba on the American taxpayers’ dime. I guessed I’d find out when I met with them.

  The message after that was from Stefan Melampus.

  “As I intimated to you yesterday, Ms. Seally, I’m sending a representative, Argus Haliakis, to meet with you, as I’m unable to travel to Aruba myself at the moment. You can expect a call from him shortly, giving you his arrival time. I’d just like to add how very sorry I am that I must send a proxy, and that I do hope we can meet in actuality in the near future.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at the elegant way he expressed himself. Stefan Melampus was charismatic, no doubt about it—even in voice mail.

  The final message was the one just promised. “Yo, Ms. Seally. Gus Haliakis here, Mr. Melampus’s personal assistant. My plane’s supposed to land in Aruba at a quarter to six tonight. I’ll give you a shout once I’m on the ground. Thanks.”

  He didn’t sound nearly as elegant as his employer—rather the opposite, in fact. And young. I was curious enough to look forward to meeting him.

  The first message on my room phone was essentially a duplicate of the one Frank Truman had left on my cell. The second one was a surprise, however.

  “Ms. Seally, this is Curt Phelps, with Everard, Jennings & Holt. I’m assisting Mr. Holt with the Stefan Melampus case, and he has asked me to fly to Aruba to speak with you. I expect to arrive at 5:47 this evening and will contact you once I’m on the island.”

  I jotted down the name and the time, wondering why a personal meeting should be necessary. I remembered the law firm and Mr. Holt’s name from my internet research on the case. I’d been struck by it at the time, since Holt was one of those high-profile attorneys who had been in the news on more than one occasion for defending rich and powerful men in big trouble.

  I supposed it made sense he’d want a statement from me, but he could have obtained that over the phone—or after I returned to the States. Unless he was hoping to retrieve the ring itself? Hmm.

  As I hung up the phone, it occurred to me that there couldn’t be many daily flights from Miami to Aruba. I glanced at my notes. In fact, it was almost certain that all four of these men were on the same plane—right now!

  How bizarre, that I, Wynne Seally, could be the focus of that many people on one plane. I wondered how many different agendas they represented.

  Chapter Thirteen

  BY THE TIME the first follow-up call came at twenty past six, I’d showered, dressed in my most conservative outfit, and done all the internet research I knew how to do—which almost certainly wasn’t enough.

  “Ms. Seally, this is Argus Haliakis, Mr. Melampus’s personal assistant, but you can call me Gus. Everyone does. You got my earlier message?”

  “I did, and Mr. Melampus’s message as well. I hope your flight was uneventful.”

  “It was, thanks. You enjoying your time in Aruba?”

  “I was.” I realized he would have no way of knowing about what had happened that morning. In fact, none of these new arrivals would. “Things have recently become a bit more, ah, exciting than I’d bargained for, however.”

  “Yeah? What’s up?”

  This was the one man among those I’d be meeting that I’d been unable to find a single bit of information about. Not surprising, perhaps, since he had no reason to be in the public eye, but I’d have felt better if I’d managed to find a picture or description—even a Facebook page. Especially since he sounded almost like a street thug over the phone.

  “Perhaps it would be better to discuss recent events in person rather than over the phone,” I suggested. Though since I didn’t know what Melampus’s assistant looked like, I’d be no more likely to recognize an imposter in person.

  “Yeah, yeah. I understand. You think we can meet sometime in the next day or so?”

  “Sure. When did you have in mind?” I’d just make sure it was someplace public.

  “Mr. Melampus said it should be at your convenience, Ms. Seally, so you name the time and place.”

  Okay, that was kind of nice. Or was that what someone with a nefarious purpose might say? No, Stefan had told me this man was coming. He was no more likely to be a threat than the lawyer. The FBI guys, on the other hand . . .

  “Tomorrow morning, then? Say, ten o’clock in the lobby of the Royal Aruban Hotel?” He had to be tired. That would let him check into his hotel and get some dinner and a good night’s sleep before he had to deal with my problems, or his boss’s.

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

  One down. I wondered if I’d have time to grab some dinner myself before the next call came. As if in answer, my cell phone rang again before I could even set it down. With a sigh, I carried it out to the balcony before answering it.

  “Hello?”

  “Wynne Seally?”

  “Yes.” Who else was likely to answer my cell phone?

  “Frank Truman, FBI. My partner and I have cleared customs and would like to meet with you as soon as possible.”

  Nothing about “my convenience” from this guy. I wondered if men carrying guns had to jump through special hoops at customs, or if their badges expedited them through. Interesting that Mr. Haliakis had made it through ahead of them, if so.

  “When and where did you have in mind?” I asked.

  “We can be at your hotel within the hour.”

  Just great. “Will this be a dinner meeting, then?” I hoped not. But if so, I definitely wasn’t paying.

  I could hear him conferring with Walters for a moment, then he said, “Let’s meet at eight. That way all of us can grab a bite to eat beforehand.”

  So they weren’t willing to pay, either. I wondered what kind of budget they had for this trip. Maybe they’d shot it already on the flight and a room.

  “Fine. Eight o’clock in the lobby, then.” I didn’t ask how I’d recognize them. Something told me that wouldn’t be a problem.

  Curt Phelps’s call didn’t come until after seven, while I was enjoying my room service salmon salad. He must have waited until he’d checked into his hotel to worry about business.

  “Mr. Holt would like me to meet with you at your earliest convenience,” he said once we’d exchanged the required pleasantries. “Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

  “As it happens, I am.” I couldn’t imagine my meeting with Mr. Haliakis would last more than two hours. “Say, twelve thirty?”

  “That will be fine. Is there any particular restaurant you prefer? This is my first visit to Aruba.”

  “Mine, too. But I’ve heard the Japanese restaurant in the Westin is good.” Everard, Jennings & Holt could certainly afford it, and I was doing them a favor. I pushed thoughts of Ronan firmly from my mind.

  “Excellent. I look forward to seeing you at twelve thirty tomorrow, Ms. Seally.”

  Well! My social calendar certainly was filling up quickly. I closed my phone, hoping it was for the last time this evening. A glance at the clock showed I had half an hour before I needed to be downstairs for my meeting with the FBI. I quickly finished my dinner, then began a thoughtful survey of my room.

  I really didn’t want to keep the ring on me after what had happened this morning, and I definitely wasn’t ready to hand it over to the FBI—or anyone else—just yet. Which meant I needed to find an exceptionally good hiding place for it.

  I considered the undersides of drawers and the bed before realizing I didn’t have any tape. Maybe I could attach it to the bottom of one of the balcony chairs with dental floss? I fumbled
around for ten minutes, wasting half a container of floss, then decided it would be too easy to find there.

  Finally, I settled on the hem of the drapes. With my nail scissors, I was able to snip a couple of threads and create an opening just large enough for the ring. I slipped it into the hem, then shook it along the bottom until it was a foot or more from my tiny hole. I’d sew up the hole before I went to bed, but the ring should be safe enough for the hour or so I expected to be gone.

  The bedside phone jangled, bringing me quickly to my feet. Now what? It was still five minutes till eight, so it shouldn’t be the FBI guys, unless they were running late.

  “Hello?”

  “Wynne? Ronan. I was just wondering if you’d had dinner yet.”

  Well, shoot. “Actually, I have. Sorry.”

  “Ah, well, that’s what I get for waiting so late to ask. Would you like to meet for a drink or something anyway? I thought we could talk.”

  There was no avoiding it. “I can’t right now, I’m afraid. I’m supposed to meet someone in about two minutes. I take it you haven’t heard anything more from the police?” I added quickly, hoping to distract him.

  It didn’t work. “Not yet. So, um, who are you meeting? Should I be jealous?”

  I forced a laugh. “Probably. I’m meeting two guys at once.” Then, deciding there was no point trying to keep it from him, I added, “They’re with the FBI.”

  “You’re kidding.” But there was no kidding in his tone now. None at all.

  “No, unfortunately, I’m not. They insist on talking with me.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before? Is this because I didn’t want to tell the Aruban police about the Melampus case? You decided to go to the Feds?”

  “No, it had nothing to do with that—and I didn’t know this morning that they were coming. And once I did, I, ah, had no way to reach you. You’ve never given me a number or told me where you’re staying.” Which was perfectly true. Not that I’d have called anyway.

  As I’d hoped, it stopped him in mid-rant. “Oh. I guess I hadn’t thought of that. But—”