Shades of Deception

by Charlie Hudson

  They’d brought the small cooler out onto the deck, both of them preferring to pull long neck bottles out of ice. Bev wordlessly replaced their beers and set the empty bottles aside.

  “I can’t say I knew the boys very well even though I was only a few years older. They’d been raised on the water like most of us and been working the boats with Bobby since they could handle a line. He’d grown his business to three boats — his regular charter, one a little smaller and a flats. Gave Pete control of the second charter and Rick had the flats, but they swapped around depending on what kind of clients they had. Pete was exactly like Bobby and Rick’s wild side wasn’t too bad, or at least not to the point where anyone gave it notice. The boys tangled up every now and again the way brothers do and nobody thought much about it. Who knows when things started to change? Rumors were drifting around about a bad crowd Rick was getting in with and he sure as hell had access to the boats. Bobby was acting as if he hadn’t heard anything and the odds are, he hadn’t. People on the water had a lot of respect for him and Becky and this wasn’t something you brought up without a damn good reason.”

  He stopped for a moment and sipped his beer. His voice became reflective. “We didn’t have some of the protocols like today and it wasn’t unusual, especially for some of us younger guys, to go out with marine patrol at night. It wasn’t like a scheduled partnering — more of a when conditions coincided arrangement. So here we were — Boone Reynold’s Daddy it was and his partner, Red McDoogle. They got an anonymous call that something looked suspicious and we weren’t far away. It was really calm and the moon was pretty full. Not ideal for sneaking around, but I guess you can’t always time it the way you might want to. We got near the area reported, lots of mangroves to tuck behind and Boone Senior throttled down to idle, listening. No lights and we could hear shouting. Couldn’t tell what was being said and night vision equipment wasn’t near as sophisticated as now. We could see there were two boats right against each other — three men and one. All of a sudden, there’s a shotgun blast and the single guy on the one boat goes down. Red hit the spotlight, identified them and bigger than shit, another shot comes across and misses us, then the boat tries to take off. The way they were positioned, there was no decent room to maneuver. Now we’re in this goddamn shootout and I’m crouched as low as I can be and still get a shot off. Not that it matters because Red won every pistol competition he’d ever entered. The whole thing was over in minutes and we were wondering what the hell had happened. We didn’t get this kind of shit here.” Her father ran a hand across his chin. “You can imagine the kind of crowd we wound up with trying to sort everything out. DEA and the whole lot on down.”

  This was definitely not a story Bev had heard and she could understand why he hadn’t told it around her mother. “The Tredwell brothers were involved?”

  “That’s where the real tragedy comes in. Once the smoke cleared, so to speak, I realized the guy who was shot first was Pete Tredwell and he took the blast to his chest. What I couldn’t believe I was seeing was when we got to the other boat, Rick Tredwell was lying there and he was the one with a shotgun. What a hell of a shock and we were up all night into breakfast dealing with everything. You think Claude can be a tough Chief — he’s a pussycat compared to the one we had then. He hauled me in — not for what I was doing or what happened, but to tell me to keep my mouth shut about the Tredwells until we had some chance of figuring out what the hell the deal was.” He stared out to the canal for a moment before resuming.

  “The Chief tapped into a couple of sources and without knowing for sure, the best we could work out was the rumors about Rick getting messed up with the wrong guys was true. Somehow Pete found out about this pick-up and we supposed he was going to try and handle it man-to-man. Like I said, guns blazing wasn’t something we usually ran into and it probably never occurred to Pete it could go down that way. The autopsy showed Rick had some cocaine in his system as well as booze. Did he really mean to shoot Pete? Who the hell knows? None of us wanted to believe it. The Drug Enforcement guys knew the other two who were killed and, while they weren’t in what you’d call the kingpin category, they’d been on the radar. There were several square groupers on the boat, by the way.”

  Ah yes, bundles of marijuana or other contraband carefully wrapped and probably dropped by a low flying aircraft for pick-up. With the miles of waterways and correct coordinates, it was a process difficult to detect. As her dad said, anyone highly familiar with the area could be quickly in and out to retrieve the goods. There were plenty of boats on night trips for different reasons and without some sort of tip-off, being stopped by any type of marine patrol would be unlikely.

  “The DEA guys assumed it was Rick who set the shooting off. In general, the bad guys gave up and either served jail time or bargained with information about whoever they were running for. In this case, the whole business with Rick was a wildcard. Odds are he panicked and it went sideways — as bad as it gets. Anyway, everyone was dead and what good would it do for the story to be made public? The Chief talked with Bobby, then gathered the few of us who knew the truth. The official version was the brothers were out, accidentally ran across the drop, and might have tried to interfere. The other guys who were killed didn’t have family around to dispute it and it didn’t take long for the story to take hold.”

  Bev could see the way it unfolded. “What happened to the Tredwells? The name isn’t ringing a bell.”

  “It wouldn’t. Bobby insisted on getting the truth out of the Chief and it just about broke him. The last thing he wanted was for Becky or Betty, their daughter, to ever know. Betty was finishing up her masters I think it was at USF in St. Pete. She’d met a nice young man and he was working at a good job in Tampa. Bobby and Becky had the boys cremated and they sold both businesses within about two months. They moved to either Siesta Key or Port Charlotte — can’t remember which. I don’t think they really stayed in touch with anyone here after they left.”

  “I see what you mean about the Mecklenbergs. What they’re going through isn’t easy, but it obviously could have been worse.” Could the rage Bev had seen in Marlon have eventually escalated to violence? She didn’t want to believe it, but despite what she’d said earlier about people seeming normal, there was a reason investigators looked at family members and close relationships first in homicide cases.

  Her dad nodded. “You probably already know the prosecutor hammered out what was a pretty light deal with Marlon. He’s in what’s supposed to be one of the best rehab facilities in the state. I sure as hell hope it all works out for them. The problem is you don’t know how deeply his anger runs. Herb will be going up next week to meet with the rehab staff to get their assessment.”

  They both raised their hands in greeting when a large boat motored beneath them, cheerfully lighted, people on deck lifting glasses and calling, “Hello!”

  “I’d like to think Marlon can recover or whatever the term is. You do have a point about siblings hating each other hardly being anything new. You can’t help wondering though. We’ve seen our share of criminals and I agree with Chief Taylor about some people are just born mean. That happens in a family and I don’t think there’s much can be done about it.”

  Bev’s mind flickered to the terrible domestic situation she and Beau Wilson recently dealt with. What a piece of shit the guy had been. “I know about multi-generational cycles of abuse and I even have a certain amount of sympathy of how hard it is to overcome a really shitty environment. There sure are a lot of studies written about it.”

  Frank half-smiled. “I don’t try to understand what makes people act the way they do or feel what they do. I’m grateful we’ve got two terrific kids and so far, Dylan and Sophia haven’t caused any unusual problems.”

  “True enough,” Bev said, accepting the compliment on behalf of her brother. Her toddler nephew and infant niece were cute and at least her dad wouldn’t use the subject of the grandch
ildren to ask why she wasn’t pregnant yet. Not that her mother’s queries genuinely upset her. For her, having children was the immediate step after marriage and she wasn’t likely to change her opinion.

  “On to something you’ll get a kick out of,” he said as if reading her mind. “Lorna swears she’s going skydiving for her birthday and is trying to convince your mamma to join her.”

  Bev burst out laughing at the thought. Not about Aunt Lorna who would come up with the idea and no doubt would follow through. The image of her mother and skydiving was entirely too ludicrous.

  “My same reaction,” her father chuckled. “Your mamma didn’t think it was funny and is determined to talk her out of it. You’d think she’d know better by now. Lorna gets a notion and Emma won’t be persuading her to do otherwise. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it.”

  Bev was still smiling and took the fresh beer from her father. Thank God a little zaniness and occasional exasperation were the biggest family problems they had. Maybe the rehabilitation place Marlon was in could bring him out of his downward spiral. She hoped so for the sake of the rest of the Mecklenbergs.

  Crystal seethed with the anger burning through her. She pedaled furiously, gripping the handlebars so tightly she could feel her fingers stiffening. The son of a bitch! The arrogant, smug bastard! How in the hell could he have said what he did? Laugh the way he did? She would make him pay, pay, pay! The words throbbed through her and the only relief was her mother was at work and she wouldn’t have to hide her outrage or fake any ridiculous excuse. This wasn’t a situation where she could simply retreat into surly teenager silence. She’d shampooed and showered with lavender knowing the two of them would be in the store together for the afternoon. She’d selected the cobalt blue Scuba-Plus monogrammed polo Matt favored. Her khaki shorts were as snug as she dared to keep from drawing a nasty look or open admonishment from the old bitch who did the scheduling. She’d seen Matt head to the stockroom and it was quiet enough she could slip away without being noticed, thinking she could accidentally bump into him. At least she’d stopped unseen when she realized he was talking to Julio again. Jesus, those two were like the gossipy bitches in school.

  “You see the hot little piece, today, man? Her tits are kinda’ small, but that ass is as sweet as you could ask for.”

  “She’s still jailbait, Julio.”

  “I think someone said she had a birthday coming up and she’s got the look. My bet is she ain’t no virgin by a long shot. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

  “Hey, there’s no harm in flirting and I always appreciate a nice body. I like them seasoned though. Even if she was legal, the last thing I need is a kid who’s likely to latch on. I made that mistake once and I sure as shit won’t repeat it. If she was a few years older and understood the score, sure, I’d go after it. You want to think about her young pussy when you’re whacking off, great. Otherwise, take my advice and sniff elsewhere.”

  Crystal had backed out slowly, hoping she could make it into the bathroom and splash her flushed face with cold water. She’d managed to mostly avoid him the remainder of her shift. Goddamn him. She practically slammed her bicycle against the back support post of the small porch of the trailer and secured it to the chain with trembling hands. She wanted to smash something, scream out loud until she couldn’t breathe — except someone would hear her in the goddamn trailer park and butt their noses in where they didn’t belong. Damn, Matt Blaney. Damn him, damn him! She tossed her purse down as soon as she was inside with the door locked, snatched a pillow from the couch, pressed it to her face, and yelled obscenities into the fabric. Her knees felt weak and she dropped onto the edge of the couch, her neck and face burning. In what was probably less time than it felt like, her fury subsided and she caught her breath. Think, think! Damn it, the day had started so well. She’d been researching valuable Audubon prints and all the indicators of how to tell something authentic from a fake or reproduction were positive. She still didn’t have a plan for how she was going to manage a professional appraisal and hide everything from her mother, but she knew she could come up with something. She’d looked forward to work with Matt and a little time in the stockroom had seemed inevitable. How dare he talk about her the way he did! After what she’d done for him? He thought she was just some kid he could flirt with for his amusement? He joked about her with that pervert Julio?

  Her eyes stung and she dug her knuckles into them. There was no fucking way she was going to cry over the son-of-a-bitch. He didn’t deserve tears. Death, yes. She stiffened and lowered the pillow to her lap. She thought of the satisfaction in killing Deena. It was hardly the same though. There was no way to be alone with Matt like she’d manipulated with Deena —especially not after what she’d heard. Maybe she could blow his car up — making a bomb couldn’t be that difficult — at least not if you listened to the news. A fucking drink was what she needed. Just one — she wanted to take the edge off and still be able to concentrate. Someone had given her mother a big bottle of Captain Morgan, but she wouldn’t touch it unless there was nothing left in the house. The bottle of gin was behind it and not something her mother usually drank, plus adding water to the bottle was easy to do to keep the level where it was. She mixed a shot with orange juice, her mind slowing to think logically. A bomb was absurd of course. Trying to poison him had the same obvious drawbacks she’d been researching in trying to work out how to kill her mother. Slowly administering something with a cumulative affect wasn’t possible. Anything fast-acting would be too easily detectable. Considering Matt’s behavior, being killed by a jealous husband was believable except, despite his reputation, he didn’t seem to be involved with married women. Those on vacations without their husbands didn’t really count, did they? What else? It wasn’t as if there were any dangerous roads where she could tamper with his brakes and expect him to run off a cliff. Too bad they didn’t live in the mountains. Too bad he didn’t live on a boat. Boats did blow up sometimes with faulty gas lines and shit.

  She set her glass down carefully. Gas. Not gas as in fuel. Gas as in diving when gasses like nitrogen, helium, and oxygen were used, as well as, compressed air. What was it she’d read, or maybe heard, recently? Someone at the dive store had a friend who’d had a fatal accident not long ago. He’d died exploring some shipwreck and an article in one of the diving magazines was about what all had gone wrong. Who was it and what exactly had they said? She hadn’t been paying much attention. It didn’t matter, the article was probably on-line. The conversation couldn’t have been more than a few weeks before. Hadn’t the whole thing been about something careless — whatever it was being a more common problem than people realized? Crystal had left her laptop on the dining table. She wasn’t concerned about leaving it in the open and having her mother bother with it. She password protected it just in case, but the truth was between two jobs, booze, and the idiot men her mother hooked up with, she didn’t have any desire to spend a lot of time on-line. If she wanted to find something out, she usually asked Crystal to look it up for her.

  Crystal found what she needed after a short search. Okay, she could follow the article even with a lot of technical diving terms and physiological details. Half the staff at Scuba-Plus had made the move into serious technical diving to allow them to dive either deeper or longer and do planned decompression stops. The rest of the staff was like her and limited to recreational dives of 130 feet or less and within shorter time limits. At her age, becoming a technical diver would have been a little unusual, although as she’d learned, there were multiple types of technical diving with some of it extreme. It was more complicated than she wanted to get into and certainly more equipment-intensive which meant more expensive, too. Well, she had taken the Rescue and Wreck Diving courses and learned to dive with Nitrox to have an excuse for Matt to be her instructor. She’d learned how to fill tanks, too, mostly to impress Matt. Everything she’d done boosted her skills in the store and even though
she was hardly planning a career there, it didn’t hurt to be as useful as possible. It also allowed her to be in the tank room with Matt. Not that you could have a conversation with all the noise of the compressor running and clanking in hauling tanks around, but until today, she’d enjoyed the occasions for any semi-private time she could get with him.

  She scanned the article first, then read it slowly. The guy who died was an experienced diver and out with a group of friends, also experienced, but on a private boat, not a commercial charter. They were in North Carolina’s Graveyard of the Atlantic, on an as-yet-to-be identified cargo ship — one of many sunk during World War II as part of the German U-boat activities. Sea conditions were relatively calm and the current was mild. Everyone was diving double tank rigs with the two extra bottles they would use during decompression stops slung under their arms. Five divers were on the 255-foot wreck, with different dive plans of what they wanted to accomplish. Visibility was less than thirty feet and the guy — Eric — had been the last one to enter the water. She knew they were supposed to dive as buddies, but apparently this group later admitted they’d been diving together so often they didn’t always follow this standard precaution, especially not when conditions were as nice as that afternoon.

  She’d heard stories about one of the staff who had been careless about performing normal safety stops for three to five minutes at fifteen to twenty feet and suffered through the painful effects of decompression sickness. Not skipping this step was one of the points Matt had emphasized to her during training and she never questioned it. She only vaguely knew diving deep meant you had to plan a specific number of extra stops in a certain sequence. The article seemed to be written for people who might be new to deep diving. The author went into detail explaining that at 185 feet, where the wreck was, there should have been a total of ten stops beginning at a depth of 110 feet for one minute, another minute at 100 feet and so on, for almost a total of forty-five minutes of decompression, before finally surfacing. The timing of the group’s stops was staggered depending on how long they been on the wreck. Eric had been the last one to go in and no one was initially concerned when everyone else was on board and he was still underwater. He’d talked about penetrating further than before in toward the engine compartment of the wreck, hoping to find some sort of identification. Since the final stop at twenty feet was for twenty-one minutes everyone on the boat should have been able to see his bubbles as he hung on the descent line waiting for the time to pass. It didn’t take long for the joking to stop about why he wasn’t back up. One of the pairs had cut their dives short due to an equipment issue they’d fixed after returning to the boat. They hadn’t stayed on the wreck very long and were safe to go in and see if Eric was simply lower on the line, having started his ascent later than they expected.