Dangerous Waters

by Toni Anderson

  “Still in Port Alberni.” Freddy Chastain helped himself to coffee and so did the others. She used the opportunity to sneak into one of the chairs. She didn’t want to bump against anyone and let them know how fragile she was really feeling.

  “A separate team is investigating the crash incident,” Jeff commented.

  Holly nodded and sipped her coffee. She’d already sent them a statement, but one of the officers would be tracking her down later today.

  “Steffie stayed to cross-reference any evidence they came up with. They’ve already figured out a black Ram truck was stolen yesterday afternoon. They’re checking surveillance cameras and are looking for it, but if someone dumped it in the woods—well, there’s a lot of area to cover.”

  She swore under her breath. “Let’s get on with finding Len Milbank’s killer. What do we have that we didn’t know yesterday?”

  “We’ve interviewed most of the local residents, although we’ve still got a few key people to get around. Most people knew who Len Milbank was, and not one of them looked sorry he was dead.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. “I got that impression yesterday too.”

  “And no one remembers seeing him around here the last few weeks.”

  Holly thought about Thomas Edgefield’s assertion that people had lied about their whereabouts the day of his wife’s murder. He’d been chasing the truth for nearly thirty years and still hadn’t found it. People here did not want to talk to the cops.

  “What else do we have?”

  Jeff opened another file. “The eyeball is definitely Len Milbank’s. They found no DNA or prints on the knife except from the victim. We now have photos we can circulate.” He handed them each a picture of a ten-inch dive knife with a six-inch blade. He also handed them a picture of Len Milbank before he’d become fish food.

  “Anything on the suit?” she asked.

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Vehicle?”

  “Nada.”

  “Boat?”

  “Nyet. West Coast Marine Service is starting a search of all the coves and inlets, but it’s going to take some time.” Jeff raised a brow. In this light, she saw his light brown hair was starting to thread with gray. Why was a smart guy like Jeff still a corporal but she was a sergeant?

  “So what do we know?” She grabbed a piece of chalk, grateful there was a blackboard on the wall. “Victim: Len Milbank. Stabbed in the heart and found inside a supposedly undiscovered shipwreck at a depth of thirty meters.

  “He couldn’t have been stabbed during the dive itself because the tank harness would have gotten in the way of the blade.” She went through each point. “The killer must have stabbed him just before or after a dive because there’s no way you can wrestle a corpse into neoprene. And unless he had some weird rubber fetish, there’s no reason for him to be wearing a dry suit unless he was diving. Whoever killed him was his dive buddy.”

  “So the killer is a diver, probably has a boat, or access to one, or used Milbank’s,” said Chastain.

  “Which rules out exactly no one in this region,” Malone added with a scowl.

  “Whoever it is must be physically strong and a good enough diver to drag that body into the heart of the shipwreck and get out again alive. Corporals Messenger and Malone—I want you compiling a list of all the scuba divers between here and Port Alberni.”

  Malone groaned.

  “I thought no one knew about the shipwreck,” Messenger said quietly.

  “Someone sure as hell knew about it. Did you find out anything yesterday?”

  The officer slumped, defeated. “Nobody knows anything for sure. Coast Guard got pretty excited because they think she might be a windjammer.” She read from her notes, “‘An iron-hulled sailing ship made in the late nineteenth century.’ But they said there’s a wreck for every mile of coast around here. They’re going to try to measure and identify it as soon as they get clearance to dive.”

  “Should be soon,” said Holly.

  “Maybe there’s someone with an old family connection who knew about the wreck and kept it secret?” Jeff suggested.

  “It’s a hell of a coincidence that a few days after the scientist finds his shiny new sea slug some guy’s body gets dumped there.”

  Cops were never big on coincidence. Holly pinched her lips together. “There are two possible reasons why the killer would hide the body down there. One,” she ticked the number off on her fingers, “they didn’t know the wreck had been found and didn’t want Milbank washing up unexpectedly. Two, they knew the wreck had been discovered and wanted Carver and Edgefield to be in the spotlight for finding the body.”

  “They got their wish.” Chastain tapped his pen on the arm of the sofa. His phone rang, but he ignored it. He saw her looking. Pulled a face. “Fiancée, probably wanting to know what color ribbons I want on the flower girls’ dresses.”

  Malone laughed.

  “So we’re essentially back to square one?” Corporal Messenger said quietly.

  “Not exactly. We’ve got Milbank’s associates in Port Alberni acting suspiciously, and someone tossed his place. I’m thinking Milbank might have been involved in drug or alcohol smuggling for Dryzek, which is why he got so antsy when he didn’t show up.”

  These small coastal communities were rife for exploitation by criminal organizations, Holly knew. They also served as distribution centers for smugglers. Maybe Milbank’s death was just a drug deal gone wrong. “Jeff, can you talk to the guys from West Coast Marine Services and see if they’ve heard any whispers along the coast?”

  Jeff nodded.

  “I think we’re making someone nervous. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have tried to run me off the road yesterday.” She touched her nose, which was sore as hell.

  “Unless that was personal?” Malone ventured.

  “No one hates me that much,” Holly said. But she couldn’t silence the whisper of disquiet that ran through her mind. Something didn’t feel right. She needed more information, and the quiet, secretive nature of the village made it unlikely she was going to get it.

  Jeff was reading files on his laptop. “Len Milbank was in VIRCC in the early nineties. Served two years for armed robbery with violence.”

  “Two years?” Holly shook her head. Some days she wondered why they bothered to turn up.

  “And it turns out there was another local resident in prison with him at the same time.”

  Her veins constricted as she held her breath in anticipation.

  “Brent Carver. Finn Carver’s older brother.”

  She remembered Dryzek and Ferdinand saying Carver yesterday. She’d assumed they meant Finn, but maybe she was mistaken. “Brent was serving time for killing their father, correct?”

  Chastain nodded. “Hit him once over the head with a beer bottle. Must have had a hell of a swing. He was charged as an adult and convicted of second-degree murder. Served twenty years.”

  Most days, criminals didn’t get sentenced to enough time, but given the extenuating circumstances, it seemed a little harsh. Holly didn’t like the pang of agitation that went through her thinking about the sort of childhood those kids must have endured. She couldn’t let it cloud her judgment.

  “Brent Carver got out three years ago.” Chastain checked his notes. “He’s not even forty yet.”

  “I think I’ll go and talk to him today,” said Holly.

  “You?” Malone asked dubiously.

  She gave him what was sure to be her ugliest smile. Damn, she could barely see through the slits of her eyelids. “That’s right, Malone. Me. You think I can’t do my job?”

  “I’m not the one with the techno-colored face, Sarge.”

  She grinned for what seemed the first time in days. “You should see the rest of me. OK, let’s get out of here. Malone, because you’re so worried, you’re with me. Messenger can work on the list of divers on her own. Let’s find this bastard and get out of here.”

  Mike glanced up and down the road. Except for the bald e
agle staring at him from the high branches of a fifty-foot pine tree, there was no one around. At this time of day, everyone would be in lectures or classes or at work. He headed purposely up the steps to Finn’s cabin, tapped the door, and walked inside.

  “Hello. Anyone here?” he called. When no one answered, he cautiously opened both bedroom doors and peeked inside. No one here. With a glance at the front door, he went into Finn’s bedroom with its neatly made bed.

  He dropped to his knees and checked under the bed. Nothing, not even dust motes. He opened the bedside table. Books. Lots of them. On top of the nightstand was a lamp, a clock radio, and a copy of Invertebrate Identification in the Pacific Northwest. Mike rolled his eyes. The guy never gave it a rest.

  Nothing on the two desks except for a laptop and paperwork. Not what he was looking for. Sweat started to trickle down his spine. Remy Dryzek had asked a favor, and he had no illusions what would happen if he didn’t produce results.

  For a long time, Milbank had been pressuring him to come on board with some smuggling activities, but Mike hadn’t been interested. Remy had helped him out with some trouble he’d got into with a bookie in Port Alberni, but it wasn’t enough of a debt to throw his life away. After a few weeks, Mike had paid back the money he owed. He’d assumed Milbank would stop hassling him, but if anything, things had gotten worse. Len had threatened to kill him if he didn’t start doing him a few favors.

  Now the guy’s unexpected death had left Dryzek in a rage and Mike up shit creek, trying to paddle the depths with his little finger. Someone had killed Milbank and stolen Remy’s coke or money—the guy didn’t even know which because he didn’t know if Len had made the exchange or not. Dryzek was now a fire-breathing maelstrom of retribution.

  What made Mike break out in a sweat was Gina had told him she thought Finn had found a shipwreck in that cove, and while trying to avoid imminent death, in an attempt to get on the guy’s good side, he’d told Milbank. They’d planned to check it out together—and yes, Mike had been half hoping Milbank might suck in a lungful of water and maybe get lost on the way up. But Milbank had never shown, and the dive equipment Mike had borrowed from the dive shed had walked. The cops were asking a lot of questions that made him very nervous.

  He opened the wardrobe doors, wincing at the noise, and pulled out a small case from the bottom beside a neat row of boots. The case was locked. He went back to the bedside cabinet and rifled through the drawer. Found a small key, and fitted it into the lock. Bingo. His heart drummed so fast there was a quiver in his chest as he unclipped the latches. But inside wasn’t a haul of coke. Instead there lay a matte-black semiautomatic pistol and a shitload of ammunition. Mike slammed the suitcase shut and thrust it back into the cupboard. Finn was a trained soldier. He knew how to protect himself if need be. Mike checked the top shelf, but there was nothing there.

  An itch started at the nape of his neck. He stepped back and made sure everything looked the same as when he’d come in. He was just about to leave the bedroom when he heard the front door open. He eased behind the door. What the hell was he gonna say if Finn caught him in here? Come clean? Then Dryzek would kill him for sure. He was stuck between a rock and an erupting volcano.

  Shit.

  He pressed himself tight to the wall behind the door and peered through the thin slice between it and the frame. It took him a moment to recognize the uniformed figure of Holly Rudd striding into the other room. What the hell?

  Then he remembered what his mother had told him about Holly going home with Finn from the hospital. She grabbed something off her bed, turned, and went right back out the front door. Her face was a mess. Christ.

  Mike counted to a hundred and then moved cautiously into the kitchen. He searched the cupboards rapidly, but there was no way Finn would keep contraband in the kitchen cupboard if he had the cop camping out.

  The idea of Finn stealing didn’t fit with what Mike knew about the guy, but Remy had been adamant. His throat went dry because if Finn found out, he was going to look a lot like Holly Rudd. Worse, Finn wasn’t the only Carver residence Dryzek had ordered him to search. Chances of getting inside Brent Carver’s new place without the bastard catching him were slim to none, and he didn’t want to wind up like their dear old daddy. Mike needed a miracle, but heaven seemed a little short recently. Pausing, he went back to the suitcase in the bedroom and took the gun out of the case. It felt heavy in his palm. He slipped it into his waistband and covered it with his T-shirt, pocketed some ammo, and closed everything up the way it had been.

  Finn was going to kill him if he found out. But at least the pistol gave him some hope of coming out of this mess alive.

  He checked the windows and headed down the stairs with an easy grin stretching his mouth, just in case anyone was watching. Sweat soaked through his T-shirt under his arms. He’d done something foolish and gotten involved with some scary people. Now he was paying for it.

  There was a knock on his door, and Thom looked up from his computer monitor. His secretary came in with a cup of coffee. Despite the massive difference in their salary, he was merely the figurehead and it was she who ran the inner mechanisms of the marine lab.

  “What would I do without you, Gladys?” He smiled as she settled his favorite mug on the coaster on his desk. Even on those days when he slipped into obsessive mania, she made sure everyone else did what they were supposed to do.

  “Laura Prescott called.”

  His heart gave an involuntary flinch.

  “She said she was going to be late for today’s lunch meeting.”

  His throat constricted to the size of a straw. “We have a lunch meeting?” he squeaked.

  Gladys smiled and went back to the door. “One o’clock. Your place. From the expression on your face, I’m guessing Finn set it up.”

  He tugged at his shirt collar that suddenly felt way too tight. “I don’t want a meeting with Laura Prescott.”

  “You need to think about your future. You’re so focused on the past. What if the police decide you did kill that diver you found? You need to be prepared.” Gladys stared at him from his office door. “Anyway, Laura’s a sweetheart.”

  “She scares the crap out of me,” he admitted.

  Her kind brown eyes softened. “Bianca died a long time ago. No one’s saying you have to forget her, but…”

  Thirty years. Thirty years of grief and misery and bone-gnawing frustration. He stared up at Gladys and realized he’d spent most of his adult life chasing a fool’s errand. “I can’t.” He thought of the freckles on Holly’s forehead matching those on the photograph of his beautiful lost daughter, Leah. “Not yet.”

  She didn’t look surprised by his answer. “We get one chance at this thing called life, Thom, and none of us knows how long we’ve got until it’s over. You think about that.”

  Thom stared down at the trailing wisps of steam coming off his coffee. He didn’t want to think about it. Which meant he was stuck in that nightmare day from three decades ago. Reliving the panic of not being able to find his wife or children, the fear that she’d left him, the terror of knowing something was wrong, the despair at finding their bodies, and the endless search for his daughter.

  He caught his gaunt reflection in the monitor as his screen went black and jolted as an old man looked back at him. Saliva pooled in his mouth and he almost choked on it.

  Would Bianca have wasted her life searching for his killer had the tables been turned? He knew she wouldn’t. But in some ways it made it even more imperative he find the villain. She hadn’t loved him the way he’d loved her and she’d stayed with him anyway. She’d come to Bamfield because of him; therefore, she’d died because of him. And the thought of giving up on his children, of finally letting them go…

  He flicked his monitor back on and stared at the only family portrait he had. Taken in the grass outside this very building, the day before they’d been stolen from him forever. How could any father give up on his family? He’d rather die.
>
  “What the hell does this guy do for a living?” Holly and Malone looked at one another and then back at the enormous luxury cabin that overlooked the ocean. Malone’s face showed disgust. Holly’s expression should have shown surprised suspicion, except all her features were now padded by painful swelling and colorful bruises. She was going to have to rely on more than her friendly smile today.

  She knocked on the door again, but no one answered. They shrugged at one another and tramped around the back.

  “Now that’s a view.” Malone whistled.

  There were some tree-topped rocky islands nearby, and far northeast were the mountains in the island’s interior. But stretched out west to the horizon were the deep indigo waters of the Pacific.

  “They grew up here.” Holly looked around. There was nothing to suggest the grinding poverty or violent death of the past. Instead, the massive, million-dollar home with huge windows facing the sea sat in isolated splendor. She knocked on the door again, harder, and this time there was a noise from within.

  The door opened abruptly, and there stood a tall, rangy man, blond hair sticking up on end, eyes bloodshot and blurry. Barefoot, in jeans and a ragged T-shirt, his face was drawn with deep crevices that carried a damn sight more experience than his years warranted.

  “Mr. Carver? Brent Carver? Can we come in?”

  His eyes took in her battered appearance, sparking with interest, but he said nothing, just shook his head. He turned and walked wearily away. She and Malone exchanged a look and followed him inside. The house was dazzling bright, skylights making the most of the morning sun. They ended up in a huge, open-plan kitchen that would have looked right at home in a magazine.

  Brent Carver pointed to the coffeepot. “Help yourself.” Then he slumped into a navy couch, holding his head in one hand as he slugged back coffee.

  He looked like a man who’d gone on a bender ten years ago and hadn’t stopped since.