Adrift

by Micki Browning

  “I don’t judge. I just think it’s about time.”

  —

  One of two scenarios lay in store for Mer. Either Leroy had waited for her, growing more irritated with each passing minute, or she’d missed the boat. Both options sucked. She hit the dock at a run, her backpack thumping into her kidneys with each stride.

  Bijoux poked her head out of the rental-equipment locker and marked her approach. “Dare I say your ship has sailed?”

  “I overslept.”

  Bijoux made a noise in the back of her throat that Mer didn’t know how to interpret. “I hope he was worth it.”

  Third and unanticipated scenario: being mocked by the boss. “Why is everyone so quick to conclude that there was a man involved?”

  “My apologies, I did not know you preferred women.”

  “I’m not going to win this, am I?”

  “You are a woman, you are nearly two hours late, and yet, despite that fact, you are smiling like an imbecile. Of course there was a man.” She tried to keep a straight face and failed. “Or a woman.”

  “Was Leroy angry?” Mer asked.

  “Oh, no.”

  Yet another unexpected alternative.

  Bijoux continued, “He was too busy speculating about the identity of your mystery man.” She wove a hanger under the shoulders of a wetsuit and hung it on the rack. Her bracelets clacked musically. “I suggested the smoldering detective.”

  Mer snorted. “Detective Talbot?” The thought horrified her.

  “That,” Bijoux said, laughing, “is exactly how Leroy said you would react. But I’ve seen how the detective looks at you.”

  “Like I’m a murderess.”

  “A murderess he wants to bed.”

  A woman walking by looked up in surprise.

  Mer pushed Bijoux deeper into the equipment area. “It was my neighbor. And it was only a kiss!”

  “Judging from your expression, it was a very good one.”

  Mer crossed her arms, but then grinned. “It was quite nice.”

  “Good. Now go celebrate. Get a pedicure, add some highlights to your hair. Buy a dress. Enjoy yourself.”

  “What about the Spirited Divers?”

  “Let Leroy and Kyle worry about them today. They’ll be back tonight for another dive.”

  Mer nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  Bijoux’s mouth twisted with mischief. “That ought to give you plenty of time in case you need a nap.”

  Chapter 18

  A pedicure seemed frivolous. Highlighting her hair struck her as equally inane, and buying a dress didn’t fit her budget, even if she were so inclined. Which Mer wasn’t.

  Her thoughts drifted to Selkie, and she pushed them aside. While Detective Talbot failed to rank in the top five on her list of favorite people, he might be the key to the new angle Vito had suggested she find. Her brother might even be pleased that she intended to work with the police rather than on her own. It was a stretch but possible.

  Traveling in the Keys was simple. Overseas Highway spanned the hundred-odd miles that linked Key Largo in the north to the southernmost point in Key West. It didn’t take long, however, for travelers to learn that easy bore no correlation to fast. Throw in some road construction, trailered boats, or an endangered Key deer and life in the fast lane could be decidedly slow.

  It was no surprise, then, for Mer to find herself in stop-and-go traffic as she crossed Tavernier Creek and merged into a single lane by the high school. Eight pop songs and a couple of miles later, she turned onto High Point Road. On the right, she passed an uninspired apartment complex. High communication towers sprang from the earth on her left and framed the government center. A few more yards and a nondescript brown sign confirmed that she had arrived at the Roth Building, home of the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office and a host of other county services.

  A trio of flags flew from high stanchions, adding the only splash of color to an otherwise drab building. The boxy utilitarian architecture extended a cold welcome. No wonder Detective Talbot was always cranky. She would be, too, if she had to work here.

  Mer pushed through the door. A sign sent her down a tiled hallway and past a display case honoring members of the Sheriff’s Office. She entered and approached the front counter. The woman behind the glass wore a headset and a dress that swirled with all the colors the building lacked.

  “I’d like to speak with Detective Talbot, please.”

  “Is he expecting you?” Her voice reminded Mer of sweet tea: sugary, with just the slightest tang of acerbity.

  Mer shook her head.

  “Well, then, let me see if he’s available.” She spoke with the formality of a gatekeeper who had no intention of allowing an interloper into the keep. She punched an extension into her phone and a moment later replaced the receiver. “I’m sorry, he isn’t at his desk. I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by. Your name?”

  “Dr. Cavallo,” a male voice behind her said.

  Mer spun to see Detective Talbot framed in the hallway, wearing charcoal-gray slacks and a dress shirt. “What an unexpected surprise.”

  The receptionist harrumphed.

  Mer stepped toward him and held out her hand. “I should have called ahead, I’m sorry. I was hoping you had a few minutes to talk with me.”

  His hand enclosed hers in a warm grip, but his right eyebrow went up. “Are you here to confess?”

  She yanked her hand back. “What? No!”

  Amusement crept into his eyes. “Relax, I’m kidding.”

  “You know what, forget it. I don’t know why I bothered.”

  “Because you have a question. The fact that you’re here leads me to believe I may have the answer. Or, at the very least, you hope I do. Close?”

  No arguing with his reasoning skills. “Close,” she conceded. “Do you have time?”

  “Sorry. Not today.”

  She grit her teeth. “You actually enjoyed saying that, didn’t you?”

  “A little bit, yes.”

  The gatekeeper piped up from her desk. “Would you care to make an appointment, Ms. Carmello?”

  “No. Thank you. And it’s Cavallo.” She dug her car keys out of her bag.

  “Wait.” Detective Talbot laid his hand on her arm. “I don’t have time because I have to be in court at one o’clock. Look, I’m on my way out to grab something to eat. If you want, we can talk over lunch. But that’s the best I can do today.”

  She dipped her head. It was as gracious a gesture as she could muster at the moment. “That would be nice.”

  “I hope you like pizza. There’s a little place just up on the corner we can walk to.”

  She thought of the pizza sitting in her refrigerator. “Great.” She swept her hand toward the door. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  “Lay on.”

  “Excuse me?” she said to his back.

  He turned to hold the door for her and she almost ran into him. “Macbeth says, ‘Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries “Hold! Enough!” ’ ”

  It sounded suspiciously like a warning.

  —

  They wove through the outside tables to get to the front door of the pizza parlor. Once inside, Detective Talbot navigated the crowded restaurant and claimed the rear booth. He sat with his back to the wall. Mer slid onto the seat opposite him and grabbed one of the paper menus pressed between the napkin dispenser and the ketchup bottle.

  A young woman in her mid-twenties with large hoop earrings and a small tank top greeted the detective with a slow burn of a smile and a tilt of her head. “Your usual drink?”

  He nodded.

  “Okeydoke. You need to rush off in a hurry?”

  “Don’t I always, Celia? I’ll have a hoagie.”

  “Side of marinara for your fries?”

  “Not today.” He pointed at his white shirt. “Court this afternoon. Can’t walk in looking like a crime scene.”

  Celia giggled and played with her pen before remembering that there was a
second person at the table. “And for you?”

  Mer scanned the menu quickly. “How about a Philly cheesesteak?”

  “Traditional, the works, or the Californian?”

  Really? Mer opened her menu again. Celia pointed to the section with the end of her pen.

  “Traditional. With fries. And I’ll take a water, please.”

  The waitress left, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

  “So what is—” Talbot began.

  “I wanted to—” Mer said at the same time.

  Silence smothered the table again.

  “You first.” He leaned back, his eyes on Mer’s face.

  In the wake of Selkie’s recent revelations about his specialized training, she wondered if Talbot was also an expert at recognizing deception. Probably. Not that she was planning on lying, but she felt his gaze pierce through her, as if he could read her thoughts before she spoke them.

  “I’ve been trying to reach out to Ishmael’s family,” she said.

  Celia glided by and placed water glasses on the table. Talbot’s glass had two lemon wedges perched on the rim; Mer’s had none.

  “To offer my condolences,” Mer added after the waitress disappeared. “I haven’t had much luck finding an address, and I thought you might be able to help.”

  He removed a lemon and offered it to Mer. She shook her head, and he squeezed it over his water and dropped it into the glass. “I don’t have their contact information.”

  Vito’s voice rang in her ears, and before she could stop herself she’d blurted out, “You haven’t run a background on Ishmael?”

  He held the second lemon wedge over his glass. “Why would I need to do that?”

  “Because you always run a profile on a victim when things don’t add up.”

  “And you know this based on your extensive training as a law-enforcement officer?” He dropped the wedge with a splash. “Besides, what, exactly, doesn’t add up in this case?”

  Where should she begin? “Everything. Or nothing, depending on which way you approach it.” The weight of his scrutiny bore down on her, but he remained quiet, encouraging her to continue speaking. “Don’t you think it odd that one witness blames a ghost for Ishmael’s disappearance?”

  “Stress does odd things to people. Ms. Greene didn’t have much experience underwater, let alone being out on a deep night dive. I’m fairly certain she found every moment of that dive stressful. It’s not a stretch, under those circumstances, for her to believe she found exactly what the Spirited Divers had set out to locate.”

  “But she doesn’t know his parents? That seems odd. She was his fiancée, after all.”

  “She still is, technically.” He chased a lemon seed around his glass with his straw.

  “Only if Ishmael is alive.”

  “I’m just saying he hasn’t been found.”

  Mer toyed with her fork. “I tried speaking to Lindsey.”

  “How’d that turn out for you?” he asked.

  “Not well. She threatened me with a wrongful-death lawsuit.”

  That seemed to startle him. He broke eye contact and took a drink of his water. Then again, maybe he was just thirsty. She’d have to ask Selkie to teach her some more about body language. A flush crept up her neck at the thought.

  “That seems a bit premature,” he finally said.

  “She’s since backed down.”

  “In exchange for what?” he asked.

  “Cooperation.”

  Celia unceremoniously dropped Mer’s sandwich on the table and then leaned over and centered Talbot’s plate in front of him. The law of gravity being what it was, Mer was pretty sure he enjoyed a generous display of the waitress’s cleavage in the process.

  “I gave you extra fries,” Celia said.

  “Thank you.” He popped a couple into his mouth.

  “Anything else?” She flicked her hair.

  “Uh, no. Thanks.”

  “If you change your mind, you know how to reach me,” she said over her shoulder as she left the table.

  Mer watched the exchange in fascination. “Friend of yours?”

  He struggled to find the appropriate answer. “No. We dated. Twice.”

  “Twice.”

  He shook a couple of French fries for emphasis. “Twice.”

  The cheesesteak covered Mer’s plate, and she contemplated her plan of attack for optimum enjoyment and minimal mess. “I see.”

  He scowled. “Back to Lindsey. What kind of cooperation did she need?”

  She manhandled the sandwich toward her face and a large chunk of meat fell out. “She’s pushing ahead with the documentary.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, Detective. Really.” She lowered the sandwich back to the plate before it lost its remaining structural integrity. “Why do you always make me feel like my contribution to the conversation needs to be taken with a grain of salt?”

  “I’m cynical that way.”

  “All I want to know is what happened. I’m a smart woman. Maybe I can help you with your investigation.”

  He salted his fries with exaggerated enthusiasm, then slid the shaker to Mer. “Why do you dislike me so much?”

  “Apart from your annoying conviction that I had something to do with Ishmael’s disappearance?”

  “Yeah. Okay, apart from that.”

  “I’m trying to do something good, and all you’re doing is deflecting my questions. Why can’t you just give me a straight answer?”

  “It could have something to do with my unresolved suspicion that something isn’t right about his disappearance, and that you were the closest clear-thinking person around when he vanished.”

  “Can we just please move beyond that? I want to find out what happened to him even more than you do.”

  “Convince me.”

  Mer swallowed her French fry. “If I share something, will you reciprocate?”

  “Can’t make that promise.”

  A trail of molten cheese connected her sandwich to her plate. She plucked at the stringy goo. “Fine. Ishmael touched a picture frame in the dive shop. I printed it. My brother ran it through the automated fingerprint database.”

  “IAFIS.”

  “Whatever. He didn’t get a match.”

  “Your brother’s a cop?”

  “A detective, just like you. Only nicer. Does that give me vicarious credibility?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Talbot replied.

  “Okay, your turn.”

  “Technically, you didn’t give me anything.”

  “Really?” Mer said. “That’s how you’re going to play?”

  “I cheat at solitaire, too.”

  Mer’s phone cut off her retort. The number was unfamiliar, but the area code was from Fairbanks, Alaska.

  “I’m sorry, I have to take this.” She tapped the screen. “Hello?”

  The male voice introduced himself as the dean of the School of Fisheries and Ocean Sciences Department at the University of Alaska. After brief congratulations and apologies for the short notice, he informed Mer that she was one of two finalists for the research position and asked if she’d be available that afternoon for a follow-up Skype interview.

  Mer motioned to Talbot for his pen. “Absolutely. That’d be wonderful.” She scratched the details on a napkin. “Thank you. Yes, I look forward to it.” She disconnected the call and tapped the phone against her chin a couple of times. Huh. She’d expected Monterey to come through, but this would put her back in her old stomping grounds. She smiled. Sometimes long shots paid off.

  “Good news?”

  Mer handed him his pen back. “Possibly.”

  He burst out laughing. “You don’t play poker, do you?”

  “I’ve been warned not to.”

  “Good advice, you should take it.”

  Would he say that if he knew it came from Selkie?

  “I’m sorry.” She reluctantly pushed thoughts of the possible position aside. “I seem to have lost track
of where we left off in our conversation.”

  “You were going to tell me something groundbreaking about this case.”

  “Fine. Well, did you know that in addition to being Ishmael’s ex-wife Lindsey is his business partner?”

  “Yup.”

  She had her sandwich halfway to her mouth and paused. “You do?”

  “Yes, Dr. Cavallo. I’m a detective. I detect. Though, quite frankly, I’m pretty sure everyone knows that bit of information.”

  Celia came with a water pitcher and refilled their glasses, lingering next to Talbot. “We made fresh Key lime pie today. I can wrap a piece to go if you’d like.”

  “Rain check? I’ve got to get going in a couple minutes. Could I get the bill?”

  Mer placed her wallet on the table. “Separate checks.”

  He caught Celia’s arm. “One check will do.”

  The waitress drifted away wearing a frown.

  Mer pulled out a twenty-dollar bill anyway. “So who is Ishmael Styx?”

  “I don’t know.” He dabbed his lips with a napkin.

  Her frustration burbled over. “Didn’t you just not so kindly remind me that you’re a detective? Haven’t you learned anything? You gathered his personal items from the boat that night. His wallet. He must have identification. Credit cards, a library card. Something. What about the business? Lindsey? Someone knows something about him. Why don’t you?”

  Talbot pushed his plate aside and leaned forward. “Why are you so interested in this?”

  All the air left her and her shoulders slumped. “For the exact same reason you’re interested in me. Because I was there. And, as painful as it is to admit, I don’t understand what happened. So, whether you like it or not, I’m going to keep on digging until I know something.”

  He pursed his lips, studying her, and then seemed to arrive at a decision. “His wallet held cash, a couple photographs, and a false driver’s license. A very good one, but phony nonetheless. The business is a trust, and Lindsey is the main player. She said Ishmael’s parents were deceased and prior to that they were estranged. She couldn’t give me their names or where they lived.”

  “Deceased? When I asked her about Ishmael’s parents, she indicated that she’d be speaking with them.”

  “Interesting.” He paused as if digesting the information. “Another thing that doesn’t make sense? No one agrees on Ishmael’s birthdate.”