Dark Water Dive

by Kathy Brandt

  If the coroner was right and he’d been killed four or five hours after eating, that would put it at somewhere around one or two in the morning. He’d left the Calypso at one-thirty. If he’d been in the water for somewhere around twelve hours, he’d been dumped shortly after being shot. The rigor mortis that had set in while he was in the water confirmed this.

  If I could depend on the watch, he had been killed sometime between one-thirty and two-fifteen; then his body was loaded into a boat and driven out into open water. The postmortem gash to his knee could have occurred when his body was being loaded into a dinghy or motorboat, or when it was pushed overboard. Fiberglass dinghies have the metal oar locks on the gunwales where the oars attach. The wound could have come from one—it matched in size.

  If Robsen’s body hadn’t drifted into Sandy Cay, it would probably have washed out to open water. What had happened to his dinghy? I wondered.

  Who would want to kill a forty-five-year-old guy who was sailing in the islands with his wife? He didn’t really know anyone. Had he seen something? Gotten involved with someone? Enough. I shut the computer down and called Mack in Denver.

  “Hi, Sampson. You ready to come home yet?”

  “Jeez, Mack. I just got here.” Then I told him about the case.

  ”Your first day on the job and you’ve got a murder on your hands. So much for escaping the crime-ridden city.”

  I asked him to do some checking for me on Robsen, Rodriguez, Manetti, and Pembrook. Mack had access to information than I couldn’t get to in the islands. He’d call his friendly hacker, talk to couple of contacts and local law-enforcement types.

  “No problem, Sampson.” I knew Mack would have entire life stories on all four of them by tomorrow.

  Stark was the only one still around when I left. He was studying the map, tapping a pencil on his desk, deep in contemplation.

  “Night, Stark.”

  “Night,” he said. I was surprised he’d responded. It was progress, anyway.

  Sadie was stretched out at the end of the dock when I got home. O’Brien was sitting beside her, scratching her ear, his feet dangling in the water. I’d forgotten I’d invited him to dinner.

  Sadie yelped and ran to meet me. O’Brien was a bit slower on the uptake.

  “Hannah, don’t look so sheepish. I saw John Dunn today. He said you were already up to your ears in a case. I had Marta put together something,” he said, holding up a bag from which irresistible smells emanated. Marta was O’Brien’s cook, more like a chef. She could make even conch fritters seem a delicacy.

  “Poached flounder,” O’Brien said. God, not only was this man drop-dead gorgeous, but thoughtful as well.

  We ate out on the deck, watching the sun set into the water while I told him about Allen and Trish Robsen.

  “I don’t like it when these things happen in the islands,” he said. “How can a man sailing with his wife down here end up murdered? And the Robsens were chartering one of my boats. I don’t understand it.”

  “What kind of information do you get when someone wants to charter one of your boats?”

  “We ask them to fill out a sailing résumé, which includes questions about what kind of sailing the potential charterer has done, where, on what sized boats, and who they have chartered with.”

  “I guess you’d have information on the Robsens, then.”

  “Sure. We can stop by the office tomorrow and Louis will pull the files.”

  It was a place to start, anyway. Maybe I’d find one small item in the file that would lead me to another small item and then another until I had a complete picture of the murder, an explanation of why a forty-five-year-old man with three kids on vacation in the Caribbean had ended up in the sea with a bullet in his head.

  O’Brien and I were below doing dishes when a voice called from up top, “Hannah, you home?”

  “Elyse, come on down.” A pair of bare feet appeared on the steps, blue shorts, then the rest. Fatigue and something else, despair maybe, were written all over her face.

  “What’s wrong, Elyse?”

  “Bad day. Hi, Peter.” She smiled at O’Brien.

  “You guys know each other?”

  “Sure. Elyse’s determination to save every animal in the sea has spilled over on me more than once.”

  “You okay, Elyse? You staying on your meds?” O’Brien asked.

  “Jeez, every time I’m a little down or up, it’s the first thing someone asks. Yes, for chrissake, I’m okay. And yes, I’m on my meds. I’m always on my meds. I had my blood levels checked today. Mary tweaked things a little.

  “I’m sorry, Elyse,” Peter said.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I know you’re just concerned.”

  “So what’s going on?” I asked.

  “I was diving over on the Rhone, checking the condition of the reef life. While I was there I came across a shark lying on the bottom, bleeding. Its fins had been removed but it was still alive. It was awful. I just left it down there.”

  “Why the hell would anyone cut the fins off a shark?” I asked.

  “For soup,” both O’Brien and Elyse responded, amazed I wouldn’t know this.

  “Soup?”

  “Soup. It is considered a delicacy in some East Asian cities. Sells for a hundred dollars a bowl,” O’Brien explained. “The wholesale price in some regions can run up to two hundred dollars a pound for shark fins, as opposed to about fifty cents a pound for shark meat. The profit is enormous. Recently I read of one ship that sold forty tons of fins for export to China for some nine million dollars.”

  “Okay, I agree that maiming any animal is bad business, but I don’t understand why you’re so upset, Elyse. What’s the problem with fishing for a few sharks?” I asked.

  “A few? It’s turning into a massacre. Estimates are that one hundred million sharks are killed every year, most of them just for the fins. One hundred million! Many species face extinction.

  “Fortunately marine scientists have recognized that the shark population is in real danger. The U.S. has passed laws like the Shark Finning Prohibition Act that make it illegal for U.S. fishing boats or any boat in U.S. waters to possess fins without the rest of the carcass,” Elyse said.

  “Jeez, Elyse, you mean besides manatees, turtles, whales, and God knows what else, now we’ve got to worry about the damned sharks?”

  “Absolutely. Can you imagine our oceans without sharks? They are predators just like the cheetahs on the Serengeti. The ocean is a natural wilderness and sharks are a part of it. Without them, the whole ocean ecology would change. As top predators they maintain the important balance in the number of other ocean animals. They eliminate diseased or genetically defective individuals and stabilize populations. God knows what the effects of eliminating them would be.”

  “I’ve got a good example,” O’Brien said. “A shark fishery in Tasmania. It went out of business after only two years of overfishing for sharks. Then the spiny lobster industry also collapsed. The lobsters were decimated by octopuses, whose populations exploded when their predators, the sharks, were decimated.”

  “Every part of nature is connected,” Elyse said. “We should know that by now. Many marine scientists argue that sharks should not be fished at all. Their populations are way too fragile to withstand any exploitation. They don’t reproduce that fast. Sand tiger sharks mature at twelve and then produce twins every other year. The dusky shark doesn’t breed until it is twenty to twenty-five and then it has small litters only every three years.”

  “So what do you intend to do about this injured shark?” O’Brien asked.

  “I’ve got to go back down. I can’t just leave it there dying on the bottom. It was awful. The poor thing was trying hopelessly to swim, struggling to make its way to a place of safety. It had been horribly maimed for a bowl of Chinese soup!”

  “It’s probably dead by now,” O’Brien said. “Or soon will be. Let nature takes its course.”

  “It’s not natu
re; it’s greedy men. The thing could languish for days. Besides, what about all the divers that dive the Rhone? It could be dangerous if they decide to go in for a close look.”

  “Jeez, Elyse.”

  “Come on, Peter. I could use some help. Besides, I bet Hannah hasn’t dived out at the site.”

  “Why not?” I said. I could see Elyse was going with or without us.

  “Okay, what about air?” O’Brien asked.

  “I’ve got four full tanks on the Caribbe,” Elyse said.

  O’Brien sighed. “I guess we’re doing this, then. I’ll bring a couple more air tanks. Let’s take the Caribbe and get out there early. How’s six tomorrow morning?”

  “Six it is,” Elyse said.

  Damned if I wasn’t disappointed when I realized O’Brien wasn’t staying. He needed to get his gear and be back early in the morning. I followed him up onto deck.

  “Night, Hannah.”

  “Night, O’Brien.” I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him in to me. He bent down, brushed his lips against my face, and quickly jumped to the dock.

  “Jeez, Hannah, that man is crazy about you.” Elyse was sitting in the salon, feet tucked under her, sipping tea.

  “Come on, Elyse.” I didn’t really want to hear it.

  “Hell, I saw the way he looks at you. Can’t believe someone’s finally managed to capture O’Brien’s heart.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been available for a very long time. Never seems to be with one woman for more than a few weeks.”

  “I’m not really looking for a relationship. I’ve got enough on my hands as it is.”

  “Well, you’d be nuts not to give O’Brien a chance. He is one of the best people I know.”

  “How long have you known O’Brien?” Christ, I felt a twinge of jealousy. I abhor jealous people. Elyse picked up on it right away.

  “Oh, it’s not like that. Peter and I are friends. He was several years ahead of me in school. I was a scrawny, ugly kid. One of the nasty little boys in my third-grade class used to lay in wait for me after school, call me terrible names. One day I was running away and ran right into Peter. He was probably eleven then. He bent down, saw my tears and then the kid that was following me. He grabbed the boy by the collar and hauled him down the sidewalk and around the corner. To this day I don’t know what Peter said or did, but that boy never called me a name again.”

  “Well, you certainly aren’t a scrawny kid anymore, Elyse.”

  “Thanks, Hannah. It’s amazing how those labels impact you, though. Peter’s always been there for me. He’s seen me at my worst. When I got sick the first time, the Dean insisted that I return home for a semester. I was in bad shape. Still manic. O’Brien helped my parents and Mary ease me back to reality.”

  “Reality? What the heck is that?”

  “Good question,” Elyse said, and laughed. “Good question.”

  Chapter 10

  At six the next morning, Elyse and I were sipping coffee on the Caribbe when O’Brien arrived. He was lugging an air tank in each hand and had his BC and regulator thrown over one shoulder. He’d already discarded his shirt and shoes. He looked like he’d been up for hours. We loaded the gear and got ready to cast off. Sadie was sitting on the dock with a “you aren’t leaving me here alone all day again” gaze. Rebecca was in school until three o’clock.

  “Let’s take her along,” Elyse said.

  “Okay,” I said to Sadie. “You can come, but you’re going to have to sit in the boat and behave. You’ll probably get seasick.” She yelped and jumped onto Elyse’s boat, overjoyed to be going along no matter where. Such devotion.

  O’Brien released the lines and jumped on board as Elyse threw the engine into gear, pulled the Caribbe away from the dock, and headed out into the Sir Frances Drake Channel. Once outside the protection of the cove, the water was choppy, a moderate wind whipping it into white capped peaks. The farther we got from shore, the happier Sadie seemed. She’d found a place sitting in the front between O’Brien and Elyse, wind blowing in her face and plastering her ears back. Elyse steered straight across the channel heading to Salt Island, the site of the Rhone. A few small boats, brilliant in the morning sun, dotted the sea, fishermen out early checking their fish pots.

  The dive site was deserted except for a couple of sea gulls soaring overhead and some pelicans floating lazily near shore. Every once in a while one rose, flapping its huge wings and soaring high into the sky. Then it would do a wide arc, tuck its wings in, and dive into the water. Then it tipped its head back and swallowed the fish that filled its pouch.

  When we arrived at the rocky point at Salt Island, Elyse maneuvered the boat up to one of several moorings that had been installed over the wreck. O’Brien stood on the bow with the boat hook. He easily captured the yellow line that drifted in the water near the mooring ball and wrapped it around the cleat. Then Elyse cut the engine.

  “In another hour or so, most of the moorings will be filled,” Elyse said. “The dive companies like to get out early while the water is still relatively calm. This site has a lot of surge, and can be rolly.”

  I’d noticed. The boat rocked from one side to the other, nothing like Colorado lakes. Pots and pans in the cupboards below clanked loudly against one another. Sadie, who had been struggling to maintain her balance, finally gave up and found a soft spot on some life jackets in the corner and lay down. O’Brien pulled out the dive flag, red with a diagonal white stripe through the center, to indicate that we were diving.

  O’Brien looked at me and grinned. He’d been trying to get me out to the Rhone since we’d met. It’s reputed to be one of the best wreck dives in the Caribbean. A movie, The Deep, had brought fame to the site. I’m pretty sure I saw it. Something about treasure diving.

  “The ship, a three-hundred-and-ten-foot steamer, was built in England in 1865 and was considered one of the most advanced designs of her time. She had more than three hundred cabins,” O’Brien explained. “She left Southampton under the command of Capt. Robert F. Wooley, and a month later she anchored in Great Harbour, Peter Island, in the BVI to take on cargo and supplies for the return trip.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “As the story goes, a beautiful calm morning suddenly turned into a nightmare. The barometer dropped, the sky darkened, and hurricane-force wind struck. With engines full-out, the ship rode out the storm. When a lull came Wooley decided to head out to safer open water to weather the second half of the storm. She was just passing through the channel between Salt and Peter islands, almost to open sea, when the winds struck with a vengeance, forcing her onto the rocks at Salt Island. She heeled over, broke in two and sank quickly. Only one passenger and a handful of crew survived.

  “Now she’s preserved on the sandy bottom. One piece, the bow, is in seventy to eighty feet of water. The stern, with rudder and propeller nearby, sit in fifteen to thirty, ruined on Black Point Rock one hundred fifty years ago.”

  “Sounds like a fantastic dive,” I said.

  “So where did you see the shark, Elyse?” O’Brien asked.

  “It was inside the wreck, hidden in the recesses of the bow section along the starboard side.”

  We pulled on our wet suits, attached regulators to BCs and tanks, checked our gauges, and prepared to roll off the back of the boat into the water. Sadie was curled up in the shade under the bimini, barely lifting her head to acknowledge we were leaving.

  We descended along the mooring line to the sandy bottom, followed by a school of yellowtail snappers. A 360-degree scan and I didn’t see any wreck. O’Brien pointed the way. In a matter of minutes I could make out dark shapes that looked like the columns of the Parthenon. As we got closer, the dark mass grew into pillars of color, alive with sponges, coral, and algae—orange, red, yellow, green. French angels and butterfly fish, grunts, parrotfish, black durgon swarmed around the brilliant columns.

  At the bow I could see an opening that led into the inter
ior of the ship. O’Brien pointed, indicating that this was the place to swim through. I had read the dive profile in the guide the night before. It said Penetration of the wreck should be performed only by properly trained and equipped wreck divers. Of course, I had the training and O’Brien and Elyse had probably logged months of underwater time. But I remember the last time I’d swum into a wreck. I’d gotten trapped inside with a guy who had a knife that he’d intended to use—on me.

  I followed O’Brien, who was already through the opening. Elyse was right behind me. The wreck was narrow in sections, and our tanks banged on the top of the enclosure, sending watery reverberations through the hull. Blue light permeated the inside of the ship, leaching color from the dark interior. Forms were eerie silhouettes of corroded iron. Bony joists held the shape of the ship, like the inside of a rib cage. Dark fish swam past, mere shadowy outlines. A barracuda hovered in the recesses, following our movements.

  I could imagine the terror of the people who died in the wreck almost 150 years ago, trapped in this steel tomb. There were no signs of the tragedy, though—just the empty water-filled cavern that marked their grave.

  We searched the entire interior, but found no shark, injured or otherwise. As we headed out the other side, we flushed a hawksbill turtle from its resting place. He glided away from us, flippers gracefully moving him through the water, like a bird in slow motion. We could see him outlined by the light ahead before he disappeared in the open water.

  We were about to follow him out when a light flashed across the interior from behind me. More divers had come in. I turned to see one in trouble and panicking. He was completely out of control, twisting in the water, pulling at his hose, which had gotten caught on a jagged piece of the ship. Then the diver began grabbing at his partner, his movements even more panicky than before. I realized what had happened. The hose was cut but still caught. Now he was trapped in the hull without air. His partner was also close to panic.