Dark Water Dive

by Kathy Brandt

  I swam to the diver but stayed out his reach. I didn’t want him tearing my regulator out of my mouth or disabling my equipment. I moved quickly behind him, grabbed his tank valve assembly, pulled his useless regulator out of his mouth, and stuffed my alternate in. He kept twisting, fighting me, trying to escape, but he couldn’t reach me. I simply held on to his tank and waited for him to calm down. O’Brien hovered a few feet in front of him, making eye contact, trying to get the guy to focus. Finally, with each breath he got quieter. I signaled to him that I was going to untangle his useless regulator, and then we would swim to the surface. His frightened dive partner, a woman, watched.

  Once I got the hose untangled, the five of us made our way out of the hull, Elyse with the woman, O’Brien and I with the other diver. Once out of the wreck, the guy would have headed to the surface as fast as he could—with me along for the ride since he was sharing my air—if O’Brien hadn’t pulled him down. We weren’t sure how long they’d been down, but after diving at seventy feet for over forty minutes, the ascent needed to be slow and we needed to do a safety stop for a couple of minutes at fifteen feet. If this guy ever knew the procedure, he had forgotten it in his panic.

  As we hung there at fifteen feet, I noticed the collection bag he had tied on his wrist—a couple of starfish, a conch, a purple fan coral. Right now they were beautiful, still alive, but when they died they’d turn gray and brittle. I wondered whether this guy was worth saving. I grabbed the bag and opened it, releasing it contents back into the sea. The coral would die, but the other creatures would drift back to the bottom.

  We surfaced and swam over to his boat, a rented motorboat, and climbed aboard.

  “Thanks, man,” he said, then realized for the first time that his rescuer was a woman. He got all blustery and defensive, trying to figure out how to put the right spin on things.

  “Jeez, Carla here got scared when we went in the ship. Had to turn around and help her. Got stuck on that damn piece of metal. She didn’t know what to do.”

  Right, I thought. “How long you been diving?” I asked.

  “Hey, I done plenty, but Carla here is pretty new at it.”

  Carla was glaring at him. “Come on, Bruce, you’ve made what, about five dives? I told you I didn’t want to go inside that wreck.”

  “Do you have dive cards?” I asked. I knew that none of the dive shops would rent equipment or air tanks without checking to make sure that the divers were trained and certified. But the shops didn’t gauge how much experience the diver had. The dive training emphasized safety and the importance of diving responsibly and at locations that matched experience. The Rhone was considered an advanced open-water dive site, or intermediate when accompanied by a dive master.

  “Sure,” he said, pulling them out of Carla’s purse.

  “Yeah, looks like you’ve been certified about three months. Do you know it’s illegal to do any collecting out here? This is a national park. And two novices swimming into that wreck alone. Talk about stupid. You know, if we hadn’t been there, you’d be trapped down there and dead right now. God knows whether Carla here would have been able to get out. I don’t want to see you diving in these waters again without a dive master along. Believe me, I’ll be watching for you.”

  “The hell you will,” he said, moving toward me. I would have put him in one of my famous judo holds if O’Brien hadn’t stepped in.

  “You better back off,” he said. “Unless you want to end up in jail. She’s a cop.”

  We left the two of them glaring at each other in their boat and swam back to the Caribbe to get fresh tanks. This time we headed to the stern section. We found the shark tucked up against the propeller. It was barely alive, half-hidden under the ship. It was a nurse shark, maybe six feet long, cut up and still seeping blood. It lay on its side, floundering, trying to right itself and swim, not understanding why it couldn’t do what it had always been able to do.

  Elyse pulled out her dive knife, tucked the blade under its head, and drove it in. She knew what she was doing. It was fast. The shark swung its tail once, shuddered, and was still.

  We rigged a hoist—a sling with air bags on each end—and wrestled the dead shark into it. Elyse inflated the bags with air from her alternate regulator and the fish slowly rose to the surface. She would examine it more closely out of the water. We’d pick it up from the boat after we surfaced.

  With tanks still half-full, Elyse signaled that she wanted to check the area. Damned if we didn’t find two more nurse sharks, fins amputated. Both were already dead. They were young and small, maybe three feet long. They lay on their sides, swaying in the current, discarded corpses. We left them there and swam back to the boat.

  “Dammit!” Elyse climbed onto the transom and threw her gear into the boat. O’Brien fired up the engine and I released the line from the mooring. While Elyse sat with her face in the towel, working for composure, O’Brien maneuvered the boat over to the floats.

  We wrestled the shark, some 250 pounds of it, into the back of the boat. Sadie, who been ecstatic when we’d returned, now sat in a corner and whined. Elyse went right to work examining the body. Every one of its fins had been sliced off.

  “This fish was tangled in a drift net,” she said. “You can see the pattern of slices on her belly and she’s got a piece of netting caught in her mouth. The other two small ones would have been captured the same way. Whoever massacred them was probably somewhere out there in open water. No telling how many more were taken, not to mention the other creatures that would have happened along, barracuda, tuna, probably a sea turtle or two—a green or hawksbill. And it looks like this shark was about to give birth.” Elyse had cut the fish open and pointed to the embryo that nestled in the shark’s uterus. O’Brien and I looked, and shook our heads. There was nothing to say.

  ***

  Elyse was uncharacteristically quiet on the way back.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. Be even better when I catch up with the people responsible for the carnage.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” I said. “And call me if you need help.”

  She dropped O’Brien and me off at SeaSail and motored back to Pickerings Landing with Sadie. I wanted to have a look at the SeaSail files on the Robsens and the Manettis before I headed over to Cane Garden Bay to see Trish.

  O’Brien owned one of the biggest and most successful charter companies on the island. He’d gained a reputation for service and quality. His boats were kept in immaculate condition, and his employees bent over backward to accommodate the customer. His parents had started the company with one beautiful wooden boat, the Catherine, a fifty-foot wooden schooner that still floated majestically in the harbor. Now SeaSail had some two hundred boats and was known worldwide.

  We found Louis, O’Brien’s base manager, in the back office, buried in paperwork. He’d been with SeaSail since the beginning, and treated O’Brien like a son. He was a wiry black man of sixty-five, engine oil permanently embedded in his hands.

  “Hey, dar, Ms. Hannah. You be back to our islands to stay dis time, I hope.” He gave me a gentle hug.

  “Louis, Hannah would like to look at the files for a couple of our charterers. Would you pull them for her? I’ll be over on dock C. Want to check on that new catamaran that just came in.”

  Louis rumbled around in the back for a minute, returning with the files and coffee. “Take yourself a seat at dat desk. You be needin’ anything else you let me know.”

  “Thank you, Louis.” The coffee was hot and strong.

  I started with the Robsen’s file. Allen Robsen had made arrangements for the boat eight months ago, putting down a deposit and then making the two scheduled payments for the charter. Their sailing résumés included a four-day sailing course in San Diego on a forty-two-foot Catalina, a three-day charter in Mexico, and a lot of day sailing in Vermont on a little twenty-footer that they kept at a marina. It all fit with what Trish had told me.

  It look
ed like the Manettis had done absolutely no planning for their charter. They had come to the office, filled out the forms, and arranged to take the boat the next day. I asked Louis about it.

  “Not the usual way folks do it, but it happens. They come to the islands to vacation, plan to stay in a hotel. Then they see all the boats, hear about nothing but the great sailing, and decide to charter.”

  “Do you check their sailing résumés?”

  “We don’t have time to check everyone. Kind of spot-check and look at the ones that don’t seem legit. With a drop-in like this, we might take them out to check their skills before we let them take the boat.”

  The Manettis résumé indicated limited sailing experience off the coast of Florida, around the keys.

  “Did anyone go out with the Manettis?”

  “Let me take a look.” Louis checked through the file. “No. They just got a briefing and a tour of the boat to acquaint them with the equipment. It’s hard to get into too much trouble in these waters as long as charterers stay away from the shallows. We’ve marked anything even remotely tricky off-limits on the charts.”

  Nothing in the files told me anything useful, except that other boats might want to stay clear of the Manettis if the couple decided to put their sails up.

  Chapter 11

  I had intended to head over to Cane Garden Bay alone, but Dunn again insisted that I take Snyder. I wasn’t sure whether he didn’t trust me with the Wahoo or if he just didn’t want Snyder hanging around the office. Either way, I was stuck with the kid.

  Trish Robsen was sitting on the deck of Wind Runner sipping coffee when we pulled up. The Manettis were with her. Melissa Manetti brought us each a cup. I was already buzzing from the caffeine that Louis had poured. This was even stronger.

  “Her son will be in around three o’clock today,” Melissa said. “Plans to stay on the boat with Trish until things are resolved.”

  “Good,” I said. “I spoke with the owner of SeaSail. He asked me to tell you to stay on the boat as long as you need to, no charge, and he sends his condolences.” Snyder shot me a knowing look. Evidently my sex life was island news.

  I didn’t mention to Trish that she would have to stay around. She was a suspect.

  “I’d like to talk to Trish for a few minutes and then come by your boat,” I said to Melissa. This was a subtle hint for them to leave. It was never a good idea to talk to people with others around. Tended to skew their story or keep them from saying everything they might.

  “Sure,” Don Manetti said, taking the hint. “We’ll be on our boat.”

  ***

  Although all the coffee was making me a little jittery, it didn’t seem to be having much of an effect on Trish Robsen. She seemed dazed, not really present.

  “I’m sorry to put you through this, but can you tell me about the night Allen disappeared?” I asked. “I know it’s hard, but it’s best to talk before things start to get vague.”

  Snyder actually pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. I resisted doing the same. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings again. I just hoped he got it all down.

  “I don’t mind, but I don’t know what more I can tell you. We were on the Pembrooks’ Calypso, like I said. I came home early with the Manettis. Allen stayed over there. I went to bed. Woke up around two. He wasn’t in yet but I figured he was still over at the Calypso swapping sailing stories. Allen never got enough of it. When he wasn’t back when I awoke at six o’clock, I took a morning swim over to the Calypso. Our dinghy wasn’t there. When I woke up Elizabeth Pembrook, she said everyone had left by one-thirty.”

  Snyder was writing furiously, every word.

  “What about the other people there that night?”

  “We didn’t really know anyone but the Manettis. They all seemed nice enough, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about them. I think that the people over on the Dallas keep their boat here and come down several times a year.

  “The Manettis are charterers like us. We met them a couple of days ago when they anchored nearby. Had them over to our boat for dinner and did some sightseeing on shore together. After weeks on board with just your spouse, you get kind of anxious for some other company.”

  “Did Allen have any enemies? A colleague? Maybe a competitor? Did he owe anyone money? Gamble? Anything at all that could lead to trouble?” I asked.

  “No. Nothing like that. Allen is an honest business man. People respect him. We live in a small town. He belongs to the chamber of commerce, the Kiwanis. He’s in computers. It’s all pretty mundane. We’re just normal people, raised kids, belong to a bowling league, play penny-ante poker with friends on Saturday nights. This is crazy.”

  I was sorry I had to ask all these questions, but it had to be done. I noticed that Trish was speaking about Allen as if he were still alive.

  “You said you’ve been down here for several weeks. Have you run into any trouble?”

  Trish sat for a while, thinking aloud about what they had been doing in the islands—snorkeling around Saint John, several days on Saint Croix, touring the BVI.

  “Allen did have a run-in with a man from one of the charter companies,” she said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “We were anchored in Manchioneel Bay over at Cooper Island last week. We’d been at the Baths and come into the bay too late to pick up a mooring. They were all occupied. We’d dropped the anchor in about forty feet of water and were confident it was holding.

  “We had just finished dinner when another boat bumped up against us. We couldn’t figure out what had happened at first. It was dark, but we had the anchor light on, a light on below deck, one in the cockpit. We should have been clearly visible. The other boat was completely dark, and we finally realized that no one was on board.

  “Allen thought that the boat’s anchor had let loose and that it had drifted into us. We knew that anchoring in the bay was tricky. There’s a lot of turtle grass, and sometimes the anchor won’t dig into it. It will just lie on top. Then the wind picks up and anchor starts to drag.

  “Anyway, Allen lashed the boat alongside ours to keep it from drifting into shore and grounding. Then we radioed to the restaurant on shore and told them what was going on. We gave them the name of the boat and they said they’d check for the owner. Pretty soon a dinghy came racing out. It seemed that the boat was part of a flotilla organized by one of the charter companies. The man in the dinghy was in charge. He had anchored all the boats, about six, because none of the charterers on any of the boats were skilled enough to set an anchor. He had taken his dinghy from one boat to the next dropping anchors.”

  “Did you get this guy’s name?”

  “It was Davies. I don’t know what his first name is. Anyway, this guy thought he could do no wrong. He told Allen that an anchor he set would never let loose. He accused us of anchoring too close to him and was sure that our boat had swung into his. Allen got really angry. He told Davies he should have let the boat ground.

  “That’s when he took a swing at Allen. He missed him, though. The woman he was with interceded and apologized. She knew that the boat had come off its anchor. That the captain had been careless. But no sailor, especially a professional, likes to admit his anchor didn’t hold. Anyway, we reported the incident to the charter company. We could understand an anchor letting loose, but we felt that no one that volatile should be in charge of a flotilla of boats.”

  “Do you know what the results were?”

  “No, Allen made the one call and let it drop.”

  “Do you remember the name of the charter company?”

  “Yes. It was Blue Water Charters out of Soper’s Hole.”

  If this Davies had lost his job because of Robsen, he might be angry enough to go after him.

  “I’ll be talking to the folks at Blue Water Charters. Anything else you can think of?” I was sure that there was something that Trish still wasn’t saying.

  “What about over on Saint John or when you were in Saint
Croix?” I prodded, trying to jar something loose.

  “No, nothing, really. We only spent a couple days on Saint John. Didn’t meet anyone to speak of. Then we took a day to sail to Saint Croix. We spent several days touring the island, did a little shopping; then we came back here.”

  “Did you have any trouble at all in Saint Croix?”

  “You know, on the way back, about twenty miles out from Tortola, we encountered the strangest boat.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, it was this fishing boat. Maybe ninety feet long. Allen thought they might be having problems, because the boat was sitting so low in the water, just drifting out there.”

  “When we got close enough to see the name, Allen radioed to ask if they were taking on water, whether they needed help.”

  “The man on the radio told Allen that they were fine, just loaded down with fish. We could see several big bundles stacked on board and a couple of guys struggling to push a pretty good-sized shark overboard. We tacked away from them and went on our way.”

  “What was the name of the boat?”

  “The Emerald Queen out of Saint Thomas. We didn’t see it again. We never gave it another thought. I don’t think it means anything.”

  “Well, what does? Why would someone put a bullet into your husband?” I was getting frustrated now.

  “I just don’t know!” she said.

  “Something got your husband killed, Trish. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been a cop for a long time. I know when someone’s holding back.”

  “There was a woman,” she finally admitted.

  “A woman?”

  “It was nothing. I am embarrassed about it, that’s all. I didn’t want you to think Allen was unfaithful. I certainly don’t want the children to hear about it. She meant nothing. Allen was a good husband and father.”