Dead in the Water

by Glenda Carroll

  “I don’t do drugs. I told you that before.”

  “I know, but somehow they got into your body. Your judgment was impaired. I think it was the reason you drove off the cliff. And it could have caused Dick’s heart attack in the water. Did Dick mention who supplied him with these nutritional supplements?”

  “Not in so many words. But I got the feeling that there were a number of people involved.”

  “Did Dick ever talk about his past?”

  “No. He wasn’t that kind of guy. He talked about growing up in Texas, but that’s about it.”

  “He wasn’t from Texas. He was from Nevada originally.”

  “No. You’re wrong. He was from Texas.”

  If that was hard for Jackie to believe, I could only imagine what she’d say if I told her Dick’s wife was in a room down the hall.

  “Were you and he serious?”

  “I was. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I might have a future with someone. He knew I’d seen a lot of guys, but that didn’t seem to bother him. We were beginning to talk about getting married. Well, maybe I was the one talking about getting married. He usually sidestepped the conversation, but he never said no.”

  “What about Mike? He seems to think you and he are…uh… together?”

  “He doesn’t get it. Sure, I went out with him a few times. And I was seeing Dick, too. So what? Mike didn’t mean anything to me.”

  “Was there anyone else?”

  “No, not really. Well, there was this one guy I kept running into at the open water swims. He wanted to get together, to hang out. We had dinner a few times, drinks. He was okay. Spent the night a few times, but he was pushy, too persistent. He started to call me three or four times a day. He’d show up at workout wanting to talk to me. I couldn’t get him to stop.

  “About a week before Dick died, I had lunch with him and told him that I wanted to move on. I try and do these things face to face, you know. It’s more civilized that way. Anyway, he was extremely upset. Started talking about Dick and Mike—very unsettling. He said I really didn’t know Dick at all…that he wasn’t who he said he was. Mike, he just blew off as an overbearing idiot. He was making this big dramatic scene in a restaurant. I agreed to have dinner with him one more time so he would quiet down. I never planned on really going. I just needed to shut him up.”

  “When was the dinner planned for?”

  “Well, we were supposed to meet after the Cold Water Clash. But then Dick died; Mike was coming on like a locomotive. I didn’t want to worry while I was swimming about how I was going to dump this guy, so I told him I wasn’t going to dinner—that I saw no point in going out with him again. That was before the race started.”

  “And this guy’s name?”

  “Justin Rosen-something or other.”

  “Justin Rosencastle?”

  “Could be. I never got that part straight.”

  Each piece of the puzzle was slowly working its way into place. Unfortunately, Justin’s name was coming up too often and not in a positive way.

  Mike was leaning against the wall by the nurses’ station.

  “You want to explain this to me?”

  “You know, this hospital has a healing garden. Let’s go there.”

  The entrance to the garden was through two wide sliding glass doors between the side-by-side units that housed oncology patients. I hoped the openness and the visibility would be safe for me. Late afternoon meant sunshine in this microclimate of San Francisco. The vivid greenery and bright flowers were a welcome contrast to the dull green and blue of the hospital walls.

  Mike started in on me as soon as we sat down. But first, he checked to see if anyone could hear us. No one could. I checked to see if we could be seen by patients, families and nurses walking by the entrance to the garden. We could. I felt as safe as possible in this situation.

  “What exactly is going on here?” he asked.

  “I think that Dick’s death and Jackie’s accident and the Russian River events are related and that if we don’t find out who is at the bottom of this and why, other swimmers could get hurt. I also think this has something to do with performance enhancing drugs. From what I found out, Dick moved into this area right when you had one of the best chances you’ve ever had at going to the Open Water Nationals. And he also moved in on Jackie, someone you cared about.”

  “I hated the SOB, but not enough to kill him. By the end of the season last year, I was putting it all together…ended on a high note. Then super stud comes in with his Texas grin, down home accent and cowboy hat. I expected him to ride up to the swims on a fucking white horse.”

  “Let me backtrack,” I cut in. “I was at the open water swim at Lake Joseph waiting for my sister to finish. Can you describe that swim to me?”

  Mike took a deep breath, looked up at the blue sky and then off into space.

  “Okay. I might as well. There were four waves of swimmers, about a hundred in each wave. At the start of our wave, we were treading water between two orange buoys. All of us were inching up to the invisible starting line, but trying not to be pushed across it by those behind us. I was surrounded by swimmers wearing orange and yellow caps.

  “There’s always a lot of laughter at a start, some nervous—some not. People call back and forth to one another, that kind of thing. I was behind DickWad—that’s what I called him.

  “I got so close I could read the black number on his upper arm. 254. His arms had goose bumps. I remember thinking ‘big strong guy and you’re cold in 68° water? Wimp.’ While he was treading water, he turned around. You know what that asshole said to me? ‘I’m on you like flies on shit. You won’t get away from me. I’m going to win again.’

  “Then, the starter on the sailboat at the far end of the line waved a green flag. An air horn blasted—Go! Arms, legs, splashing water everywhere. DickWad bolted forward. I remember thinking, ‘Go ahead. Take it out fast. You’ll die soon enough.’”

  Mike gave an awkward smile. “Prophetic, huh? Anyway, swimmers were inches apart, trying to move forward, almost swimming on top of each other.

  “Wad took off like he was chased by a shark. I tried to keep up with him. But I was breathless and it was less than five minutes into the race. I can’t sprint for three miles, so I eased into a slower pace. Wad pulled ahead and the amount of space between us grew. He was in the lead pack. But then, that initial burst of energy was over and he began to fall slightly behind the first group of faster, younger swimmers. Soon I had caught up. I knew it was him because of the green lightning bolt on his swimsuit. I could see it underwater.

  “I was swimming right at his hip, drafting, saving energy for when I wanted to pass him. He must have sensed someone was near by. Instead of breathing just to his right side, he began to breathe every other stroke, first to his right, then to his left, quickly looking around to see who was next to him. When he spotted me, he tried to push ahead faster. But he had used up so much energy at the start, he couldn’t accelerate. Instead I moved up and slowly took over the lead. We were halfway into the race and I was ahead. Now all I had to do was stay there.”

  “So, from there on in, it was easy?”

  “Never. He was driving me crazy. He was so close that he was touching my toes with each stroke. I kicked harder, but he was still there. I couldn’t lose the guy. So, I threw in a couple of quick breaststroke kicks and could feel my feet connect with either his arms or even maybe his head. Must have been effective. Right after that, he didn’t touch me again.

  “That last leg of the swim was brutal. I could see the finish arch getting closer, growing larger. It was yellow, a little blurry, like I was looking through a thin layer of Vaseline. My lungs had shrunk to the size of walnuts, hard to bring air in and push it out. I remember hearing my breathing, like it was coming from someone else.

  “I dug down for every last bit of energy I had. When my hand grazed the bottom of the lake, I stood up, lifted my knees high out of the shallow water—kind o
f like a drum major strutting down a football field—and sprinted through the finish arch. Once I crossed the timing pad, I was bent over, breathing hard. Then I turned around.

  “DickWad wasn’t right behind me. He wasn’t swimming at all. He was floating face down in the water with rescue paddlers racing to his side and an ambulance pulling up at the lake’s edge.

  “That’s the swim. That’s what happened.”

  Mike looked down at the green lush ferns by the side of the bench.

  “Him dying took the edge off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Other swimmers wondered if I would have won if he had lived. If I really had it in me to beat him. I know I do. But people talk.”

  “So your winning has some question marks connected to it?”

  “Not for me. I was the fastest that day.”

  “No one has said anything about a kick to the head. I don’t think that had anything to do with his death,” I said. “Do you know if Dick was taking any kind of medications, drugs, maybe PEDs?”

  “I heard talk, but I never believed it. He seemed to thrive on being a clean athlete. I’ve never heard of anyone using drugs in Masters swimming, but I’m no expert.”

  “One more thing. Do you think that Nick, your daughter’s friend, could be involved?”

  “Nick? You’ve got to be kidding me. He is a grade A pussy. He doesn’t have the balls to do anything illegal.”

  “Okay. Look, if you hear of anything or think of anything else, give me a call. Here’s my card. I somehow think that anyone that was close to Dick or Jackie could be a potential victim.”

  “Are you saying that I might be next?”

  “It’s possible,” I said.

  I was sitting in my own car this time, in the hospital parking lot. Terrel’s dad had left me a note on the passenger’s seat. ‘Good as new,’ it said, signed ‘Pops.’ In the scheme of things, having my car repaired had been easy. But nothing else was. Justin Rosencastle was turning out to be bad news. He was probably selling drugs. And, he was interested in Jackie, obsessively interested in Jackie. I remembered the card by a vase of flowers in Jackie’s room that was from her ‘almost Saturday night date.’ Must have been from Justin. I sure know how to pick them.

  I went over Mike’s version of the swim again in my mind. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, not even the kick to the head. Lena has done that before to get someone off her toes. I pulled out my 3 x 5 cards with the names of everyone connected to the events. I put a question mark by Mike’s name on my list of suspects. I added a card for Holly Worthington-Waddell.

  I wanted to go home. I was tired of Richard Waddell, Justin Rosencastle, swimming accidents and High Test.

  Lena’s car was in the driveway. I heard her say, “I’m fine” as I opened the front door. I dropped my backpack on the couch, reached for the remote to turn on the ballgame on, and sunk down with such a thud that I moved the couch about six inches backwards. I leaned forward, elbows on knees, remote held in both hands. The Giants were melting, self-destructing right before my eyes. It was like driving by a car crash. I couldn’t not look.

  “T, catch you later,” Lena said and closed her phone. “What was the frantic call about?” Lena asked, sitting at the dining room table.

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’m tired,” I said, staring at the TV. She reached over, took the remote from my hand and turned it off. I kept looking at the screen for a few seconds.

  “That’s all you ever say. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ You’ve got to talk about it. I get this call from you telling me to leave the interview immediately. Then I get three calls from Terrel asking me where I am. Everyone knew where I was. And you know I don’t like to answer the phone—any phone—but especially when I’m with a potential client. So why were you and Terrel going into orbit?”

  She walked over to the varnished rocking chair next to the couch and sat down. “In case anyone is interested,” she said while looking around the room as if there were a crowd, “I was offered a contract with JL. And I’m being well paid, very well paid.”

  “Lena, I’m not sure it’s such a good idea that you work for JL & Associates.”

  “What? Aren’t you the one that gave them my name in the first place?”

  She stood up and started pacing around the living room.

  “Just listen to what I have to say. I’ve been trying to figure out who is responsible for Dick Waddell’s death and everything else that’s happened. I think JL & Associates is involved.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still absorbed with Dick Waddell? You need help. You have to talk to someone. I’ll pay for it.”

  “Lena, someone has been following me, taking pictures of me and you. I’m sure it’s related to the Waddell death. And I’m almost positive that whoever murdered him is responsible for Jackie’s accident, you going into shock at the Russian River, and Waddell’s wife’s meltdown.”

  Lena stared at me. “What did you just say?”

  “Dick Waddell has or had—I don’t know yet—a wife. Her name is Holly. It was Holly Worthington. She’s one of those homeless people in San Francisco you see pushing grocery carts. All their belongings stuffed inside.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  “Dr. T, your Dr. T, introduced us. She is currently sedated at SF Memorial, some kind of drug overdose. Sound like familiar symptoms? And guess what, she’s on the same floor as Jackie, just a stone’s throw down the hall.”

  “How convenient.”

  I gave Lena a blow by blow description of my day and why I was trying to reach her.

  “So you heard the last part of my interview. That’s weird. You know, the JL interview was nothing out of the ordinary. I met Justin— not bad looking, by the way—and I didn’t mention that I thought he was a jerk for standing you up at the ball park. He said that he knew you but after that, it was all business. ‘This is what we need; this is when we need it by.’ Could it be possible that the ‘product’ you overheard them talking about was the stuff that they sell—like RazzleD—purely legal? Could you be reading too much into it?”

  “Terrel checked with a doctor friend of his at a San Francisco clinic. The doc has connections with the police since he treats so many patients on drugs and found out that JL & Associates are being watched by the Drug Task Force in San Francisco.”

  Lena stared at me.

  “I think it’s time that you talked to the police.”

  “That’s what everyone says. But, I don’t like talking to the police. I told you that.”

  “What makes you so inflexible? Look, your association with the police was…was…I don’t know. Anyway, that was then. This is now, something completely different.”

  “You sound like Terrel. What if I’m wrong?”

  “What do you care? Let them figure that out. It’s their job. But…but…I think, only for the next few days until you talk to the police, we continue doing what we are doing. If they are behind this, we can’t act suspicious. I’m back in their office in the next day or two. I’m actually going to be working there. I’ll look around. See what’s in the file cabinets and on the computers.”

  “I can’t believe Justin is involved,” I said.

  “You don’t want to believe it.”

  “It’s hard to think he would purposely hurt someone.”

  I thought of how apologetic and kind he had been at dinner, how approachable he seemed after the Russian River swim.

  “I’m going to give him a call and come up with a reason to talk to him. Could be as simple as needing more information about Waddell for the memorial presentation. We need to meet some place in the open. I know it is not a good idea to be alone with him. Maybe I can ask him to tell me more about RazzleD, because… because…the office wants to develop a business relationship with his company. How does that sound?”

  “If he is dangerous, maybe you should do it over the phone?”

  “No, that won’t work. I want
to see him, watch his reactions while I talk to him.”

  “We are in this only for a few days, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t tell Terrel,” Lena said. Then she went into a full-on Terrel imitation, deep voice, complete with head bob. “Seriously, should you be involved with this? No…you… shouldn’t.”

  26

  I had just turned on my computer at the office, when the ‘dude’, that’s the only word for him, walked in. Shaggy blond hair, dark grey hoodie, baggy shorts and sandals. I guessed right away. It was the wandering Chris.

  “Hey, sistah,” he said, looking quickly at me and then at Bill or rather Bill’s empty desk. “Where’s the head man?”

  “Should be in shortly. You’re Chris?”

  “You got it.”

  It’s the Peter Pan of surfers. I stared at his face. There were wrinkles around his eyes and off the corners of his mouth. He had to be in his early forties.

  “You know I used to work here,” he said, moving over to sit on a corner of Bill’s desk.

  “So I heard. I’m Trisha. It’s my job now,” I said with a ‘Gee, I love you’ smile that I didn’t feel.

  “For reals?”

  “Yeah, for reals.”

  “Hmmm, no worries. I’m sure Bill will find you something else.”

  I felt like picking up my stapler and tossing it at his head. From down the hallway, I could hear Bill talking on his cell phone nonstop. He exploded through the door, Bluetooth blinking in his ear, both hands waving wildly in the air.

  “Oh, holy shit, Chris. What are you doing here?” Bill said good naturedly. “I told you I had the job covered. ‘Hey, Chris is in the office,’” he said into the cell phone, “Gotta go. Good to see you man.” They went into an elaborate series of fist bumps. “You met Trisha. She’s got your job, now.”

  “Bro, I wanna take you for some serious coffee. You up for that?” said Chris tugging Bill in the direction of the door he just came through.

  “Love to.” He glanced over at me with a ‘what am I supposed to do’ grin, shrugged his shoulders and walked out the door, not more than three minutes after he first came in.