Dark Water Dive

by Kathy Brandt

  “Well, now that you mention it, I guess Robsen did have some trouble getting it started. You know, swore a bit, kept trying. The thing finally turned over. Why is this important?” he asked, irritation rising again.

  “Just dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s,” I said. Christ, I hated that expression. It’s what the bureaucrats used as an excuse for their damned red tape.

  “Well, I’m getting tired of the questions, Detective,” he said. He climbed into his dinghy, fired it up, and sped away from the dock before I could get another word in. But I had what I needed.

  I stopped at the SeaSail dock on my way home. The Wind Runner’s old dinghy was nestled among a bunch or others. The engine had been removed. I found Louis in the office and asked him if anyone had had a chance to check out the engine.

  “Yeah. Got to rebuild the thing.”

  “Could you get it started?”

  “Naw, the engine’s shot.”

  So why had Pembrook lied? I could think of only one reason: Robsen had never left the Calypso at all. Or at least he’d never left alive.

  Chapter 21

  It was all pretty flimsy. One little lie about the dinghy engine. Dunn wasn’t buying it.

  “Maybe Pembrook had passed out below, too embarrassed to admit it, never saw Robsen leave,” Dunn said.

  “Well, why not admit it when I asked him?” I said. “Pembrook’s hiding something. And how the hell does someone like him end up with a boat like the Calypso to begin with? He looks and acts more like a con man than a writer.”

  “Jeez, Hannah, can’t you just be grateful that this crime has been solved? Accept that it was Downing? He had motive for both murders and no alibi during the time of either of the killings. But most important, the murder weapon was in his car. What else do you want? Blood on his hands?” Dunn said.

  That would be nice, I thought. Right now everything was too circumstantial, and why on earth would Downing have left that weapon under the seat of his car, for chrissake?

  I knew that the pressure Dunn had been getting from the commissioner had eased some with Downing’s arrest. I guess I couldn’t blame Dunn. I mean, really, everything pointed to Downing, and Dunn still had the damned burglaries to contend with. There had been another last night.

  “Anyone hurt?” I asked.

  “No, folks were locked in the basement all night. Finally got the neighbors’ attention early this morning. Burglars took an expensive diamond-and-ruby ring, necklace, and matching earrings, several other valuable pieces—worth maybe two hundred and fifty thousand. There will be hell to pay. These victims are well connected, know the commissioner personally.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No. Stark and Worthington are on it. I want you to take the rest of the afternoon off,” Dunn said. “You deserve it, and I been hearing you haven’t even taken the time to settle in, go to the market.”

  How the hell would Dunn know that?

  “You’ve been talking to O’Brien?” I asked, uncomfortable with these two exchanging stories about me.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, noting my discomfort. “Ran into O’Brien buying food for that cat you rescued. He said all you’ve managed to stock were some basics from Tilda’s little market.”

  What the hell. I could use the time. I left Dunn’s office just as the phone rang.

  “Yes, Commissioner,” he was saying as I closed the door.

  I drove into town and stopped at Bobbies, the big market in the middle of town, and managed to fill a cart: cleaning supplies, canned goods, boxes of pasta and rice. Kitty litter, for chrissake. I had never planned to be a cat owner. Right now I had four.

  All the while, though, Pembrook’s lie gnawed at me. There was just no way I could let it go. I went home, unloaded the groceries, and continued to obsess.

  “I’ll bet Pembrook is up to his ass in this,” I said aloud. Sadie’s ears perked up and she cocked her head, trying to understand. Then she came over and licked my toes in sympathy.

  What the heck. I was on my own time. I grabbed my swimsuit, a beach towel, filled a cooler with ice and a couple of beers, filled a jug of water and loaded it all plus Sadie into the Rambler. I put the top down and headed over to Cane Garden Bay, Sadie beside me, ears flapping in the wind. An afternoon on the beach would do me good, and hell, you just never knew what kinds of things you’d see going on.

  I spent a half hour throwing the Frisbee into the water for Sadie to retrieve, two young French children laughing and clapping on the beach every time she crashed into the surf and came back, Frisbee in her mouth. She was really showing off. The kids’ mother lay topless on a blanket down the way; the father was perched on his elbow reading. Pointedly ignoring me and Sadie, he called the children back when they came to sit with me and play with Sadie.

  There were several others on the beach, mostly parents, many British, vacationing with their children, a few sailors, spending the afternoon off their boats on solid ground. I had just opened a Carib, the local brew, when I saw Guy and Elizabeth Pembrook climb from the Calypso into their dinghy. He cranked it up and they headed into shore. I pulled on my hat, a full-brimmed straw affair that covered my face. I looked like all the other tourists on the beach. They got into a taxi, never even glancing my way.

  I left Sadie sleeping under a palm tree and went for a swim. I did the stingray shuffle through the sandy shallow water. O’Brien had warned me about the stingrays, burrowing themselves in the sand, invisible till you stepped on one and their barbed tail shot up in reflexive self-defense to inflict a severe wound on foot or calf. Obviously dogs and small children were immune as evidenced by Sadie and the two French children, all of whom had been frolicking unconcerned in the water just moments ago. But I wasn’t taking any chances.

  Finally I plunged beneath the surface, the warm, tropical salt water washing sand and sweat from my body. I swam out until I was treading water among the sailboats. I could see the Wind Runner still anchored nearby and the Texans’ yacht over off the point. I intended a short look around the Calypso. Might as well.

  I swam over to her and glanced around the harbor. No one was visible on any of the boats. Everyone was either napping below deck, off somewhere snorkeling, or exploring on shore. I took one more quick look around, then hoisted myself quickly out of the water and onto the Calypso.

  I sat for a moment, trying not to look guilty—difficult for a Catholic girl who was always guilty of one thing or another. I hoped that no one had noticed me. Hell, I looked like just another sailor sitting in the boat in my suit drying in sun. I thought again about the Pembrooks and this boat. How the hell could a couple like them be on a boat like this? It just didn’t fit. People with boats like this had an appreciation for character, charm, beauty. Guy Pembrook was more the live-fast type, functional boats with all the gadgets. Once again I admired this classic.

  An antique compass covered by eight-sided domed leaded glass, its brass pedestal reflecting light, was bolted into the floor in front of the wooden eight-spoked steering wheel. The boat had been carefully tended, every detail considered, brass and wood lovingly polished to rich chocolates and golden oak sheens. The empty beer can washed into the corner along with a couple of cigarette butts was incongruous. How could Pembrook take such care of the boat and then leave trash about?

  I went down the steps into the salon. Unlike the day I’d sat here with Guy, it was a mess: dirty dishes, pots and pans in the sink, food stuck to the teak table, wet towel in a heap on the floor. I supposed they’d cleaned it the other day to show it to Rodriguez. It hadn’t taken long for Guy and Elizabeth to achieve that lived-in look.

  Where to start in this mess? I didn’t really know what I was looking for or what I expected to find. I went over to the bookshelf and pulled several of the books down to expose the bullet hole I’d seen the last time I was down here. It was a tiny round spot in the teak. Could be a .22. I was sorely tempted to dig the thing out. But I had no warrant. I w
asn’t even supposed to be on the boat. Any evidence I found would be useless without having the proper authorization.

  I scanned the books on the shelf, an esoteric mix of technical books on sailing: one called Adlard Coles’s Heavy-weather Sailing, another a manual on Practical Celestial Navigation, Longitude by Dava Sobel, and novels, Hemingway, Steinbeck, of course Melville. I pulled out Pembrook’s guidebook and examined the jacket, a smooth beige heavyweight paper with a photo of a Hawaiian harbor on the cover and Guy Pembrook’s name below.

  The inside flap described the work as an extensive natural history of the islands. The bottom half of the back flap had been torn out. I took the dust jacket off the book and placed it inside a plastic bag I found in the galley, tied it closed, and stuffed it into the top of my suit.

  I continued my search, opening cupboards and drawers and peering into cubby holes. A roach scurried out of one. In the forward cabin the bed was unmade, sheets tangled in the center, a coffee cup with a cigarette butt in it sitting on the ledge that ran the length of the bed. Nothing unexpected in the closet or drawers—an assortment of socks, skimpy underwear, shorts, and T-shirts.

  I pulled the mattress up, hoping that the cockroaches would scatter quickly in the light. They did. Only one remained, smashed flat under a beautifully bound leather journal hidden way down at the foot of the bed. Elizabeth Pembrook’s name was embossed in gold letters. I turned to the first entry.

  April 2: Today we launched the Calypso, after eight months repairing her. She is beautiful and absolutely sound and seaworthy. Tomorrow we leave for the long haul from Miami to the Caribbean. Sam will come with us as far as Cuba, spelling us on the long open-water trip. Guy and I are treating this as a working honeymoon. Can’t believe we’ve been married almost a year.

  I suddenly realized a boat was approaching. I stuffed the journal back under the mattress and took a quick glance around the cabin to make sure I hadn’t left any sign of my invasion. Hell, the state the place was in, they’d never be able to tell. I climbed up the ladder to the deck, then hunched down and scurried to the front of the boat, climbed over the edge, and slipped quietly into the water. I stayed alongside, treading water and listening.

  Pembrook was handing stuff from the dinghy to Elizabeth, who was standing on the back of the boat. I heard Pembrook step aboard and tie the dinghy up. Then Elizabeth went below and Pembrook followed. It sounded like they were arguing, voices raised. I swam along to the side nearest the galley. Lots of clattering and banging of cupboard doors. They were putting groceries away.

  “Let’s just sail over to Saint Thomas,” Elizabeth was saying. “I bet we could sell the boat there in no time.”

  “Look, it will only be a day or two. Rodriguez is ready to buy. As soon as his funds are transferred, we make the deal and leave. I mean cash, for chrissake. It’s not that many people can get their hands on that kind of cash that fast. We’ve got to wait.”

  “I don’t like it,” she said.

  “Aw, darlin’, don’t you worry. We’ll be leaving by tomorrow, next day latest. Come here, baby.”

  That was the end of any discernable conversation. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what happened next. A good time to head to shore. They wouldn’t be noticing any cop swimming away from their boat.

  When I got to the beach, the only people around were the French family. The two young kids were sitting in the sand next to Sadie, showering her with attention. She was sprawled on her back, paws in the air, daring them to scratch her belly.

  When I approached, the father again called to his children. He glanced out toward the Calypso and gave me an accusing look. Surely he hadn’t seen me on the boat. Then I noticed the binoculars lying on the blanket. He’d probably been watching me from shore as I swam out. He might have caught a glimpse of me on the Calypso. Damned binoculars were a hazard.

  I sat next to Sadie and picked up where the kids had left off, absently scratching behind her ears and gazing out at the Calypso. Nothing about the Pembrooks fit. Elizabeth Pembrook was just not the type to have a gold-embossed journal hidden under her mattress, much less write in it. And she’d sounded scared when I’d heard her talking with Guy in the galley. Why was she in such a hurry to leave Cane Garden Bay?

  ***

  Dunn was still at his desk when I walked back into the department. It was well past six. Just about everyone else had left for the day.

  “Detective Sampson,” Dunn said, looking up from a pile of paperwork, “I thought I told you to take the rest of the day off. What are you doing back here?”

  “Just wanted to check something out,” I said. “Why are you still here, Chief? Marie’s probably got dinner waiting.” I hoped to avoid giving Dunn any details. Fortunately he didn’t ask. Dunn looked tired; dark splotches were beginning to appear under eyes marred by overwork. I could tell he didn’t need the grief, and he’d be really pissed if he knew I had just searched the Calypso uninvited while the Pembrooks were ashore.

  “Nothing else on the burglaries?” I asked.

  “Nothing, and another one reported this afternoon in broad daylight,” he said. “Something’s got to give on these break-ins. These fellows can’t just disappear into the woodwork, though that’s what seems is occurring. Folks are getting real nervous. At least the Robsen affair has been cleared up. Course, Frank Downing’s yelling foul; hired some big lawyer from the States. Be here tomorrow. I hope you’re not stirring up trouble about that case.”

  “No way, Chief, just tying up some loose ends,” I lied.

  “Just make sure they’re tied up good and tight,” he warned.

  I left him at his desk and went downstairs to the evidence room, a cinder-block, windowless room with fluorescent lights, dusty and damp, filled with gray metal shelves. I found the row marked “P-S” and made my way down the narrow aisle to the Rs. The box marked “Robsen” was near the top.

  I narrowly avoided pulling the whole damned shelf over on top of me trying to finger the box off the shelf. Christ, I’d have been trying to re-sort evidence all night if I had. I always did things the hard way. A damned stool was right at the end of the row.

  I sat on the floor and opened the box. Inside was the wallet I’d retrieved at the scene. It was still damp and covered with salt. I was looking for the piece of paper I’d taken from Robsen’s shirt pocket. The lab tech had actually sealed it, still damp, inside a plastic bag. When I’d found it in Robsen’s shirt pocket and left it at the coroner’s, it had been soggy, the text indistinguishable. Now it was also mildewed and soft.

  I removed it carefully from the bag, trying to unfold it without completely destroying it. I flattened it out on the floor and then I pulled out the book jacket I’d taken from the Calypso and lay the torn piece in the place where a piece of the book jacket had been torn away. It pretty much matched. Same type of paper, and the right size.

  So Robsen had torn it out and stuffed it in his shirt pocket the night he’d been on the Calypso sometime before he died. Had it gotten him killed? Surely not. Would Pembrook or anyone else murder Robsen over that piece of paper?

  It was pretty obvious though that I needed to find out what was on that piece of paper.

  Dunn was still buried in paperwork when I came back upstairs. “Get that loose end taken care of?” he asked.

  “Yeah, no problem, Chief.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I thought the whole ball of yarn was about to unravel.

  Chapter 22

  Blue Island Books was a turquoise-and-yellow structure nestled between a plumbing store and a lawyer’s office. The place was shut down tight, its wooden doors closed and padlocked. I wondered when it had been opened last. It looked like maybe 1984. The sign was one of those “Will return at...” with a clock below it. Both hands were pointed down to the six, a result of age and gravity. My sister complained about it all the time—the sagging that came with time.

  It was almost nine-thirty A.M. and I was pretty sure that the proprietor would n
ot return at the indicated six-thirty. I was rattling the door in a futile gesture of hope and frustration when a woman in a tan suit, briefcase in hand, came scurrying down the sidewalk.

  “I’m comin’ along now,” she said. “So sorry, my children be makin’ me late dis mornin’.”

  She spent several minutes digging through an enormous purse and complaining about her son, who I learned was an unruly seven-year-old determined to spend the day sailing with his uncle instead of in school. Finally she found the keys and opened up the shop.

  The store was a long and narrow affair, with bookshelves lining every available wall. The place was reputed to be the best bookstore in the islands. At least according to their ad: If we don’t have it, no one does. They didn’t have it. Nothing at all by Guy Pembrook. It had been a long shot. “Why we be carrying a book about Hawaii here?” the proprietress asked, confused. When I suggested that someone might want to travel to the Hawaiian Islands, she was incredulous.

  “Why would anyone want to go there, when they be here?”

  I guess she had a point. I ended up buying a book about fish behavior and walked around the corner to the Internet Café. Inside, strains of Bob Marley’s “Buffalo Soldier” seeped through the wall from the bar on the other side. I sang along as I booted up one of the computers. While the shops in the BVI display styles of an era when gold brocade dresses and patent-leather shoes were in vogue, the islands are well along on the information highway.

  I logged in and did a search for Guy Pembrook. His book about the natural history on Maui came up with a review that said, a must-have for all nature lovers who will visit these Pacific islands. Pembrook provides detailed accounts of hiking trails, nature preserves, and underwater parks for snorkelers.

  There was a short biography about Pembrook. He’d written scores of articles about traveling and sailing, most focused on the natural history of the places he visited. He was quoted as saying it allowed him to do what he loved, traveling to glorious locations and sharing his discoveries with his readers. His new wife had become his companion and advisor in these endeavors. “We are living the dream,” he’d said, “sailing the Calypso, a completely restored wooden sailboat, into the most beautiful ports in the tropics.”