“You have the right to an attorney.”
She couldn’t afford an attorney.
“If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed to represent you.”
Great. Some overworked recent law-school grad who couldn’t wait to strike out on her own.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
Court. Jail. Rights.
“Do you understand each of these rights as I’ve explained it to you?”
Each word made sense, but taken together they formed gibberish. “Yes,” she answered.
“Having those rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me now?”
“Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I have nothing to hide.”
He spun the paper so that she could read it. “I’ll need your signature.”
The name of the pizza parlor ran down the side of the pen he handed her. What she wouldn’t give to be able to return to that day.
She scrawled her name across the bottom of the waiver. Meredith E. Cavallo. Each letter distinct, legible, despite the slight shake of her hand. She offered the pen back, and their fingers brushed. His skin felt warm. A nice sensation in a room like this.
“Why did you go to Key West today?”
That wasn’t the question she expected him to lead with, but at least she had an answer. “To talk to a woman I believe is Ishmael’s mother. I tried to call you. Several times, as a matter of fact, but you didn’t answer.”
“And how did you learn of Mrs. Wimpleton?”
His use of her name surprised Mer. “From Rob Price. He was the man I rescued from Molasses Reef. He said he went to college with Ishmael. They studied drama together.”
“Help me understand. How did you know how to contact Mr. Price?”
“Turns out it was his boat that Lindsey used when she swamped my kayak and stole the paddle.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. How did you know where to find Mr. Price?”
His badgering annoyed her. “Selkie and I searched until we found him. The same technique I employed to find Lindsey today. It takes time and effort, Detective, but actually looking where someone might be seems to get results. You should try it.”
Only the slight tensing of his jaw indicated that her barb had struck home. “Mr. Phillips helped?”
“Initially, yes.”
“Why not today?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
He resumed tapping his pen against the notepad. “Why do you suppose Ms. Hatchet tried to kill you?”
He didn’t even try to soften it. Murder. The unlawful killing of a person. She shuddered. Her mother would say someone stepped on her grave, not a prospect she wanted to contemplate given her current circumstances.
She chose her words for accuracy, stripped of emotion. “I don’t know for certain that was her intent, even if her actions could have achieved that outcome.”
“That’s quite magnanimous of you.” His words implied admiration, but his tone smacked of something else entirely.
She willed him to understand. “No, it’s a simple statement of fact.”
“Were you mad enough to want to kill her?”
For the briefest instant, she wanted to lie. “Yes, but I didn’t. You’ve established that.”
“Ms. Hatchet established that in her note.”
“Lindsey didn’t kill herself.”
“Her note says she was racked with guilt.”
Mer pushed back from the table. “Lindsey was too self-centered to be racked with guilt.”
The detective leaned into the space she’d just vacated. “Murder causes a lot of guilt.”
She inhaled sharply. “You’re talking in circles. She was the one murdered, why would that cause her guilt?”
“Ms. Hatchet claims she killed Ishmael. Congratulations, Dr. Cavallo. That must give you a sense of relief.”
Oddly, it didn’t. Like a windstorm, emotions swept over her, swirling and eddying, some whispering as they passed, others hitting her with such force they took her breath away. Her intellect took a more measured approach, a quiet analysis that brought her comfort. “I don’t think Lindsey killed Ishmael.”
Detective Talbot tipped his chair onto its back legs. “How did you come to that conclusion?”
“First, I don’t believe she killed herself, which means everything contained in her suicide note is a sham.”
“And who most benefits by Mr. Styx being murdered rather than missing?”
Possibilities pinged through her brain. “Financially, Amber. The insurance policy would have to pay out. Emotionally, Echo. He could pursue Amber, since she wouldn’t have any reason to hold out hope that Ishmael would someday return. Then, of course, there’s me. I’d benefit by redeeming my reputation. It still doesn’t explain seeing his ghost, but at least no one could accuse me of being somehow responsible for his death.”
Talbot leaned forward, and the front chair legs cracked against the floor. Mer jumped.
“Who has keys to your apartment?” Detective Talbot asked.
“No one,” she answered. “Well, I’m assuming the landlord kept one.”
“Boyfriend? What about Ian Phillips?” He spoke the name like an accusation.
“My relationship status is none of your business. And I’ve already told you that no one other than my landlord has a key. So speak plainly, Detective. What do you want to know?”
Detective Talbot riffled through the file until he found what he wanted. Very deliberately, he placed a photograph of an underwater camera with strobes on the table in front of Mer. Her aquarium was in the background. “Care to tell me about this?” His expression remained neutral.
Mer tried to swallow, but her mouth had the moisture content of the Sahara. “That’s not mine.”
“I know that. This is the camera Ms. Greene took with her on the dive. The one she dropped when Ishmael disappeared. Why was it in your apartment?”
“I have no knowledge of its ever being in my apartment.”
“I assure you, it was.”
“You searched my apartment?” She knew the answer but couldn’t help asking the question, as if hearing the words would add clarity to events that were spinning out of her control. “I didn’t give anyone permission to go inside.”
Detective Talbot opened the folder again. “This piece of paper says I don’t need your permission. It’s a search warrant, signed by a judge.”
“Why would you search my apartment?”
“Because a dead woman said we’d find a camera there.”
The blood drained from Mer’s face and bounced back up from her toes. “Lindsey said I had the camera?”
He looked dubious. “You didn’t read her note?”
“I didn’t see it,” she admitted. “Not that I could have read it anyway; I was being held at shotgun point.”
“You’re lucky the manager didn’t shoot you.” His voice held an angry edge that cut.
“I’m not feeling very lucky at the moment.” She tried to swallow her fear. It caught in her throat, tore her composure. “You verified one part of the suicide note—that lends veracity to the remainder of the contents.”
“Which suggests that Ms. Hatchet really did kill Mr. Styx,” Detective Talbot said.
“Thank you for believing me. I mean, when I told you that I didn’t kill Lindsey.”
“Dr. Cavallo, we both deal in facts. Ms. Hatchet had been dead somewhere between four and six hours when you found her. Your phones calls placed you in Key West. I spoke with both Mrs. Wimpleton and a nurse, who corroborated your story, before I came in here. You didn’t kill Lindsey.”
“While we’re on the topic, I didn’t kill Ishmael, either.”
“So you say. That has yet to be verified.”
The enormity of her predicament crushed her insides into a quivering mass. “Perhaps I need a lawyer,” Mer whispered.
He snapped the file shut. “Perhaps you do.”
Chapter 30
Mer stood very still, her hand clutching the telephone receiver, and willed her brother to pick up. She almost cried when he did. “Remember when I said I’d never call you for bail?”
“Yeah,” Vito said, drawing the word out. Wary.
She tried to infuse her voice with levity. “Never say never.” Her voice cracked.
“Where are you?” Her brother sounded groggy, as if he’d just woken up. Which, considering the time on the West Coast, was a distinct possibility.
“Monroe County Jail.”
The intake area measured slightly larger than a small closet, but the addition of a telephone line made it abundantly better than the holding cell she’d waited in after speaking with Detective Talbot.
“I’m under arrest for burglary, obstruction, and tampering with evidence. And maybe something else to be tacked on at a later date. I don’t know. I’m confused.”
“Well, get unconfused.”
“You mean focused?”
In the silence that followed, Mer imagined her brother counting to ten, a holdover from their childhood.
“I’m hanging up now; you obviously don’t need me.”
Despite their age difference, she’d been able to annoy him with such regularity that she suspected she had special superpowers. Exasperation Girl, capable of reducing a cop to tears within seconds. She hoped the title came with a cape. She’d much prefer that to the orange jumpsuit she currently wore.
“Vito! Wait. I’m sorry. I’m serious. I don’t know what to do.” She’d never been arrested before, never even received a traffic ticket. The intake deputy had been cordial but no-nonsense. Name, birthday, address, a local emergency contact. Her first impulse had been to give Selkie’s information, but he was gone—and she had no idea for how long. Instead, she recited Bijoux’s name and telephone number. After she assured the booking officer that she had no communicable diseases, the questions shifted to her mental health, which, at the moment, appeared questionable. She wrapped her free arm around herself. As a reassuring hug, it failed miserably.
“Do you need bail or are they going to release you on your own recognizance?”
His question brought her to her latest predicament. She toyed with the telephone cord. “I’ve been deemed a flight risk.”
Not even static buzzed across the line as her brother digested that information.
“Let me guess,” he said finally. “You never got around to getting a Florida driver’s license.”
“No.”
“Car registration?” he asked, but with the resignation of someone who already knew the answer.
“Still registered to Mom and Dad’s address,” she confirmed.
“Well, gosh. Why on earth would the good folks at the Sheriff’s Office think you might not stick around?”
Everyone had done things in their lives that they regretted, Mer included. There was the time in high school when she chemically straightened her hair despite being on the swim team and in almost constant contact with chlorinated water. Then, in college, there was the Fourth of July at the lake, when she decided to wax her bikini line and had a red rash that lasted longer than the holiday. Bobby Sweeney. She regretted him twice.
The most recent addition to the list, however, was her awkward propensity for snapping out words that might be considered a challenge. “I got offered another research position in the Arctic. I may have told the detective that he could extradite me from there.”
He groaned. “And you’re the smart one of the family, huh, Doc?”
Mer squeezed her eyes shut. The walls of the cell leaned in, trapped her, and crushed the air from her lungs. “I called a bail bondsman. He laughed.”
“Imagine that.” She heard a drawer slide, and then the sound of rummaging. “Give me the detective’s name again, but it’s late.”
“It’s early here.” Despite the passage of years since her childhood, she still hadn’t learned to harness her superpower, and she waited for him to count to ten again. “His name is Talbot.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “But you might be there a while. Try not to touch anything sticky.”
—
Mer hadn’t slept longer than a blink since being released from the jail at four in the morning. Despite her brother’s influence, she suspected that Talbot may have been trying to teach her a lesson and the jail personnel had played along, taking their sweet time completing the booking process. Although, to be fair, late night at the local hoosegow seemed to be a happening place. Just not one she’d ever want to frequent. She hadn’t learned what her brother had said to convince the detective to support her release on her own recognizance. Perhaps professional courtesy extended across state lines.
She’d called Bijoux from jail, and sat quietly in the passenger seat of the car while her boss drove her home. To her credit, Bijoux took the news of her employee’s arrest with graceful understanding, waving off Mer’s apologies. “Perhaps the smoldering detective is not so nice as I thought.”
No. Detective Talbot remained polite, professional, and aloof, but not nice. She had the distinct impression that she’d somehow disappointed him. He acknowledged that she hadn’t killed Lindsey, but he certainly didn’t believe her protestations of innocence regarding the camera. But, then again, she probably wouldn’t have, either, if she had been conducting the investigation. After all, it had been found in her apartment. Her ignorance of its being there didn’t negate the fact that it was.
The door to her closet stood open. All her hangers had been pushed to one side. The suitcase she’d jammed onto the top shelf now sat open on the floor. Its cavernous interior offered plenty of hiding space. Detective Talbot hadn’t said where the camera had been found, but it seemed pretty obvious.
What she really wanted to know was how it got there.
A horrible thought wormed its way into her brain. She tried to block it. Failed. Had Selkie planted the camera in her apartment? Had he really found it the day they’d gone after it? He hadn’t brought it back to the boat with him, but that didn’t preclude his going back for it later. He knew her schedule. When she’d be gone. Could he? More important, would he?
No. She banished that particular fear, but another one took its place. She peeked out her front door. Still no Range Rover.
Maybe she’d misinterpreted his attention. Assigned it too much significance. Wasn’t as if she’d had a whole lot of experience in the relationship department.
Or maybe she was just a dumbass. Wanting something didn’t necessarily make it so. Past actions were the best predictor of future behavior. He’d abandoned her once without a word. Served her right for thinking he’d changed.
A pang of longing pricked her heart. A new ending would have been nice, though.
Her tiny home suddenly seemed too big. Too empty. She picked up the framed photograph of her family and cradled it against her breast.
Maybe she should pass the torch.
She was a scientist. She knew octopuses inside and out. Literally. She understood their habits, what they ate, where they lived, their behavior. People confused her, and she comprehended even less about ghosts. She’d never expect a geologist to be well versed in biology, so it shouldn’t surprise her that she couldn’t solve a mystery.
To date, her efforts to discover what had really happened to Ishmael hadn’t turned out well. In addition to the sunburn that threatened her sanity with incessant itching, she’d nearly been killed, been given a mandatory leave of absence, placed under an unwanted spotlight, and confined to jail for the night. Not what she’d consider a successful foray into another field.
A painful lump grew in her throat. Would her new employers want someone with an arrest record on their team?
She couldn’t think about it anymore. The personal cost had been too great. The only reason she’d become involved in the first place was selfish. Everything she’d worked for was wrapped up in her reputation. Losing a diver was bad enough. Losing her reputation
was worse. It wasn’t a flattering truth, but she couldn’t deny it. The truth was she didn’t want to be wrong.
But she had been wrong. Wrong from the moment she’d boasted that science and reason would explain what had happened to Ishmael. The damage was done. She’d seen it. Seen a ghost. God help her, but she’d seen Ishmael with her own eyes. Her entire career was built on empirical observations. If she started to doubt herself now, it would call into question every bit of her previous research.
She’d have nothing.
She drew the curtain to the patio closed, blocking out the early morning sunshine. The bed creaked under her. She curled up into a tight ball and held herself very still, counting her breaths. In and out. Concentrated on deepening the inhalations, extending the exhalation. Relax.
Sleep.
Images bombarded her subconscious, dark and disturbing. Black fog whirled in wide tendrils that obscured and revealed Ishmael. They were underwater. Black water. A deep-sea anglerfish lit her path as she sank, its bioluminescent lure suspended over gaping jaws. Pain shot through her arm. A blind hagfish hung from her biceps, bored into her tissue with horny teeth. She must be dead. They only fed on corpses. She must have drowned. Again.
The hagfish disappeared. An octopus propelled itself into view backward, its tentacles streamlined to reduce drag. Another joined it, and then another. Large and small, each distinct. She should know their names. Was that an Enteroctopus dofleini or a Grimpoteuthis plena? And the one over there, with the bright blue rings, wasn’t there something dangerous about that one? Why couldn’t she remember? They started swimming. Hundreds of octopuses. All in the same direction. Creating a vortex. Sucking the breath from her lungs. Driving thought from her mind.
Laughter. She heard laughter. It bore down on her from all directions. It thrummed through her body, hijacked her pulse. Her heart beat erratically. Then not at all. The laughter ceased. The octopuses stopped. Sidled closer. Inspecting. Their tentacles wound around her. Probing. Parrotlike beaks snapped closer. Hungry.
Mer screamed.
As one, the octopuses inked. Propelled themselves from her. Left her disoriented, alone in a suffocating cloud of purple. A camera flashed. Ishmael. Pointing his finger at her. Another flash.
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