The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit)

by Andrew Mayne

  “Sorry,” I say after a long silence.

  Solar may have followed me to the secret boatyard, but he also risked his life firing back at the K-Group cowboys. He could have waited, but he didn’t. He was looking out for me—unless it’s still some elaborate ruse.

  Remember, Sloan. He got busted for corruption.

  Maybe he’s in this for the money or extortion, but I’m pretty sure he’s not out to harm me—at least not directly.

  If letting him get whatever K-Group’s after is my way out of this, fine. If Jackie and I are safe, I don’t care if he’s just another crooked cop who thinks he has a conscience.

  Solar pulls into a parking space in the lot behind the Straw Hut, and we get out. I’m suddenly self-conscious of the fact that I’m dressed like a teenager at an eighties concert. Would it have killed us to throw my clothes in the dryer?

  “What’s the problem?” asks Solar.

  I’m being ridiculous. “Nothing. I just realized I don’t look very coplike.” Disheveled hooker is more like it. Although George’s extra pistol’s still on me.

  “That’s a good thing,” he replies.

  He’s dressed in the standard Florida male attire of shorts and a polo shirt, but his demeanor screams cop.

  “And you?” I ask.

  “Anybody I don’t want to know I’m a cop already knows who I am. It doesn’t make a difference what I wear.” He gives me a long look. “Are you worried about this Albert guy?”

  “Les? No. Let’s go see what he says.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  TRAWL

  Les Albert is sitting on a stool at the far corner of the rectangular bar. The Miami Hurricanes are playing the Tar Heels, and he’s watching while sipping a beer. He’s a large, barrel-chested man with a red-and-silver beard that flows over his neck and onto a pink Tommy Bahama shirt.

  I’ve run into him a few times over the years, usually sitting at his same spot this time of night. When he sees me, he gives me a big grin. “Hey, Sloany!”

  I walk over and give him a hug. “What’s up, Mr. Albert?”

  “Watching the game. Same as ever.” He eyes George Solar. “We met before?”

  “I think I questioned you a few times,” Solar replies.

  “Right. Right.” He holds up his hands. “Still clean.”

  “Yeah, but your friends aren’t.”

  “You’re one to talk,” Albert says with a half smile. “Can I buy you two a beer?”

  I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

  “Sure,” says Solar.

  Albert motions for the woman behind the bar to bring us two Coronas. “What can I do for you? I take it this isn’t a social visit.”

  “Uh, we were just in the neighborhood,” I reply.

  “She your trainee?” he asks Solar. “You need to work on that.”

  “I’m retired. She’s too stubborn. You work with what you got.”

  “Too stubborn is right. Damn McPhersons,” says Albert as he taps the neck of his Corona bottle against mine.

  I take the component from my pocket and drop it on the bar. “What’s that?”

  He picks it up. “You tried googling it?”

  “I stopped after one of the results said butt plug.”

  Albert drops the part on the counter. “I have no idea. Sorry.”

  “Really?”

  I’d thought if anyone would know, it would be him.

  “He knows,” says Solar.

  Albert shakes his head. “Afraid I don’t.”

  “Take a guess,” says Solar.

  “It’s really not my thing.” Albert seems almost afraid.

  “I thought you knew electronics,” I reply.

  “Not anymore. There’s lots of new Chinese stuff out there. I’m retired.”

  “We found this in Winston Miller’s pocket. He’s dead, by the way,” I explain.

  Albert’s eyes go wide as he stares at me. I can tell he’s truly shocked.

  “Oh, we didn’t kill him. Someone else did. Maybe they were looking for this. We don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you what it is.”

  Albert turns to Solar. “Is that supposed to make me want to talk?”

  Solar shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess she thinks being honest will encourage you to be straightforward. Does it?”

  “Hell, no. It scares the shit out of me. Winston’s dead?”

  “Come on, Albert. You knew he was involved in something,” I reply.

  “But you saw the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck.” He downs the rest of his beer. “Goddamn it.”

  “So, what is it?” I ask.

  “Sloany, now is clearly not a good time to know anything about anything.”

  “Now is not a good time, period. I could tell you how my week started, pulling Winston’s dead daughter out of the water. But all I really need to know is what this is.”

  Albert gives Solar a distrustful look. “You trust him?”

  “No,” I reply flatly. “But if you don’t, then you can assume whatever you don’t tell me here, he’ll get out of you later with a knife at your liver.”

  “Jesus. Fine. It’s a transceiver. You plug it into a radio.”

  “That’s it?” I ask skeptically. “Just a run-of-the-mill radio part?”

  Albert looks around the room, then lowers his voice. “It’s military. More precisely, naval. Very low frequency, but it can handle data. Basically, a low-frequency modem.”

  “What good is that?” asks Solar.

  I know where this is going. “Underwater, right? You could use this for an underwater radio?”

  Albert nods. “Yep. Expensive. It uses a special kind of phased array to create a virtual antenna.”

  “A what?” replies Solar.

  “It squeezes the big-ass antenna you’d need to make meter-size radio waves into a small package. Like I said, expensive.”

  “Do you know what it’s for?”

  “You mean what he was doing with it? Not a clue.”

  I push him. “And you have no idea what Winston’s been up to?”

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I do,” says Solar. “If he did, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to be hanging around here.”

  “Yeah, he would. He loves this place,” I reply.

  Albert shrugs and nods confirmation, clinking my bottle with his again.

  Noticing the sheer number of people in the bar I’ve never seen before, I palm the transceiver and put it in my pocket. “We need to go. And, Albert, you should think about going back to the frozen north and visiting friends. People who knew Winston are going to be under a lot of scrutiny.”

  “Uh, okay,” he replies.

  I pull Solar out to the sidewalk outside the bar and nervously look over my shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “I think I know. Maybe. Or at least part of it. We need to go talk to my dad. He’ll tell me if I’m crazy or not.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  AFT

  Dad sets a collection of charts on the table in the galley of his boat. He glances up at Solar. “Uh, that coffee warm enough for you?”

  “It’s fine. You’re not much better at small talk than your daughter,” Solar says.

  “Yeah. It’s just that I wasn’t really expecting company,” Dad says weakly. His eyes dart toward me. “Can we trust this asshole?”

  “Mr. Solar is helping me figure out what’s going on. It might all be a trick and he’s just using me. I haven’t figured it out yet. If I get murdered, make sure they know he’s a suspect.”

  “You just blurt everything out there, don’t you?” says Solar.

  “My daughter’s not a subtle person. She gets that from her mother.”

  We’d caught Dad on his couch playing sudoku on his iPad. To say he was surprised to see me with Solar was an understatement. I watched him keep an eye on his hidden gun, not sure at first whether I was George
’s hostage.

  He mellowed a bit when I told him how Solar had helped me back at the secret boatyard.

  “Okay.” Dad points at the charts he gathered. “These are the tide and drainage charts for the canals west of the Intracoastal. A while back, a study was done about the feasibility of widening some of the canals and using them for barging materials to the industrial areas by Alligator Alley.”

  “What happened to that plan?” I ask.

  “Environmentalists and logistics.” He points at a group of canals west of Fort Lauderdale. “You get so much runoff soil from the Everglades deposited there in a storm that you could render the whole area unusable for anything with a draft of more than a couple feet. Although going north to south, there’s actually some potential.”

  “But not here?” I point to Winston’s secret boatyard.

  Dad examines the numbers on the map. “This is the latest Army Corps of Engineers data. You’d barely be able to get this boat in there at high tide.”

  “There goes that theory,” I reply.

  “What theory?” asks Solar.

  “It’s stupid. I had a crazy idea. You mentioned that Winston wanting all that privacy was odd. I thought maybe because he was building a narco submarine.”

  “A submarine would never make it through here,” replies Dad. “Maybe a small U-boat. But that would look kind of odd.”

  “It’s a good thought, kid. That’s the kind of thing Bonaventure would go for. It might also explain how he got rid of the records and the money.”

  “But it would never go down this canal,” replies Dad. “Nothing you’d want to crew and send across the ocean, anyway.”

  “You could trailer it,” I reply.

  “Then why build it at a boatyard on the water?” asks Dad. “I’ve seen narco subs on the news. Those things are like World War II–size vessels.”

  “Yeah, I get it. It was just an idea.” I set the transceiver on the table. “When we found out this could be used to radio underwater, I got excited.”

  “Low frequency?” asks Dad.

  “Apparently very low, according to Les Albert,” I explain.

  “Interesting. Well, anyway. As you can see from the charts, the water’s too shallow.”

  “Any chance it’s deeper than that?” I turn to Solar. “Did you get a depth reading when you were out there?”

  “I didn’t pay attention. We could go back.”

  “Don’t bother,” says Dad. “A foot or two won’t make enough difference for a manned submarine.”

  “Okay, next theory,” I reply. “Maybe it’s for finding some kind of anchored vault?”

  “Or maybe it’s just a random part Winston had in his pocket,” says Solar. “I know you know the water, but maybe this doesn’t involve it?”

  He’s right. As frustrating as it is to hear him say it. “Okay. What are alternative theories? A truck? A plane?”

  “How much money did you say was missing?” asks Dad.

  “It’s about more than the money,” replies Solar.

  “I know. But what was the amount?”

  “About a half-billion dollars,” Solar says casually. “Give or take.”

  Dad whistles. “Still less than the Atocha stern castle.”

  This makes me laugh. “Oh, did we lose your attention? Is that not enough?”

  “No. And legally you don’t even get to keep it. Not that it matters,” says Solar.

  “I think I know a few maritime lawyers who might disagree,” Dad replies.

  “You’re not allowed to keep illicit funds outside of reward.”

  “If it’s in the water, it’s salvage,” says Dad.

  “Not if it’s drug money.”

  “That would take a court decision.”

  “All right, you old pirate,” I snap at my father. “We’re not exactly making a good impression here.”

  “Think I give a damn what kind of impression I give?” he retorts. “To him?”

  “Uncle Karl broke the law and got busted. He went to jail. End of story. Solar is a cop. I’m a cop. We arrest people.”

  “You’re a diver who works with the police department,” says Dad.

  “I have a badge. I carry a gun.”

  “So does a mall cop.”

  I slam my hand on the table. “Seriously? Is that what you think of me? Is that your assessment of my becoming a police officer? You think it’s just a part-time gig like being a barista?”

  “Isn’t it?” asks Dad.

  “No! I became a cop because I was tired of everyone thinking we were boat-trash, would-be pirates. I became a cop because Uncle Karl went to jail. I wanted . . . I wanted there to be at least one McPherson people knew wasn’t crooked.”

  “Do you think I’m crooked?” asks Dad.

  I turn to Solar. “Is he?”

  “I stay out of family matters.”

  “No, Dad. I don’t think you’re crooked. But I think you get your priorities wrong sometimes.”

  “I see,” he says quietly. “I’ll be down below if you need me.” He gets up and leaves us alone.

  Damn it. I didn’t mean to hurt him . . . Wait. Don’t do this. To hell with him for calling me a mall cop.

  Solar is leaning against a counter, watching me. “So, basically, I made you a cop?”

  “Just shut up.”

  We go back over the maps, checking the depths of the canals. There just doesn’t look like a practical way to get a submarine from the boatyard to the ocean or down the Intracoastal.

  Solar is right. The radio antenna probably has nothing to do with the water. If not, then what?

  Half an hour later, Dad walks up the stairs from his cabin and says, “One hundred and ten cubic feet.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how much space you’d need to fit five hundred million in cash. A hundred cubic feet, give or take.”

  “What about the crew and air supply?” asks Solar.

  Dad ignores the question and sets a piece of paper on the table in front of me. On it is a number: forty-four.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a filing box in the garage at your mother’s house. Go take a look at it.” He walks back down the steps into his cabin.

  “Could you be a little vaguer?” I shout after him.

  “You want to be a cop. Go be a cop. Hell, you already have people shooting at you.”

  “Are things always this tense with the McPhersons?” asks Solar.

  “You should see us when we aren’t getting along.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHARTS

  Mom could give a damn that I showed up at her door with George Solar. In fact, she seemed almost overly polite when I explained who he was. She never cared much for Uncle Karl, especially after he got arrested. For her, that was one more warning sign that the McPhersons were a sinking stock.

  She’s a few inches shorter than me and still in great shape. Mom was more of a sportsman than Dad and loved to swim and scuba. Jackie possesses many of her characteristics. I’d say she’s a good counterbalance to Run’s mom, but they both have nasty streaks and love to talk shit about the other behind their back.

  Mom’s boyfriend, Hank, greeted us at the door and gave me one of his awkward hugs. He’s a nice enough guy who works as a chef and a drummer.

  If Mom was looking to trade up after the divorce, I’m not sure how well that worked out.

  After I give her a brief, sanitized recap of recent events, she leads us to the garage, which is still filled with filing boxes and other mementos from our time at sea.

  “This is what I got in the divorce,” she says to Solar. “Lucky me. Most of it’s notes that Robert was going to use for his book project. Still unwritten.” She sighs.

  “And you’re still totally not bitter,” I reply.

  “I have a roof over my head. It’s more than I can say for him. Still living on a boat.”

  “Yeah, those boat people. They’re the worst.”

  “
Oh, I don’t mean you, dear. It’s a phase. You’re working out some kind of childhood trauma, I’m sure.” She turns to Solar. “You know she tried to have herself emancipated as a minor? Legally separated? She wanted to divorce us first.”

  “That was a report for school, Mom. I’ve told you this a hundred times.”

  “Your brothers never gave me as much trouble as you,” she replies.

  “But they’re not nearly as interesting.”

  This makes Mom smile, and she walks over and hugs me. “That’s my little Sloan. Beating up the boys. Causing a fuss. Not taking any shit.”

  I glance over at Solar. “Have you ever seen this much dysfunction in one night?”

  “Yeah, but it was on reality TV.”

  Mom lets go of me. “Oh, we almost did one of those. Real Treasure Hunters of Miami or The Marauding McPhersons. I forget.” Shrug. “It never happened.”

  “Cable television’s loss,” Solar says dryly.

  “All right, I’ll let you dig through those,” says Mom, without even asking what we’re looking for.

  After she leaves, Solar says, “Have you entertained the idea I may have done your uncle a favor?”

  I start pulling boxes down. “It’s crossed my mind.”

  A few minutes later, we find number forty-four. Inside is a collection of folders. Some of them are clipped articles about potential treasure locations. Others are magazine articles about new scientific gear and discoveries.

  Dad was always looking for an angle, from an unexplored wreck to an improved way to detect sunken treasure. I divide the articles into piles as we pull them from the box.

  We each take a pile, looking for some clue as to what Dad was hinting at. Nothing stands out until Solar pulls out a folder and whistles.

  He shows me the label, which reads, OCEAN TECH YARD.

  Winston’s company.

  Below it are two words printed in a futuristic font: Project Kraken.

  “Oh snap!” I blurt out.

  “You know what this is?”

  “Yeah. It was some crazy thing Dad and Winston cooked up. It was a robotic explorer. Something they could just let run for months at a time searching the seafloor. They even talked some people into seed funding.”

  “What happened?”

  “I think it was battery power or a sensor issue. Maybe both. This was the nineties. Batteries didn’t last long enough. I don’t think they could keep a computer running for long underwater. That’s all different now. My daughter plays with stuff in school that could do it,” I explain.