The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit)

by Andrew Mayne

  “Mr. Solar, I can guarantee your safety if you cooperate,” Landsberg calls from outside the door.

  “That sounds like a threat,” George tells the DIA man.

  “If we wanted to breach the building, we’d be inside already.”

  Damn this machine. Then again, I’m not sure how faxing this information will get us out of here alive.

  “That also sounds like a threat,” says George.

  “We’re not here to threaten you, Ms. McPherson, or her daughter or father.”

  Jesus, that really sounds like a threat.

  “Then why are you jamming our phones?” asks George.

  “The storm took out a cell tower,” replies Landsberg.

  “And the VHF bands too? That’s pretty amazing.”

  There’s a long pause from outside, then Landsberg responds, “Certain precautions have to be taken.”

  The last page slides out of the fax machine. I push them all back into their bags but pocket the thumb drive. We need a way out of this.

  I poke my head around the corner and nod to George. He makes a talking mouth with his hand, indicating that he plans to stall them.

  “Mr. Solar, I just want to come inside there and see what you’ve retrieved. I’ll be unarmed.”

  “That sounds like a trick,” replies George.

  I feel a surge of hopefulness when I realize there may be an easy way out of this stalemate. I wave at George and motion to my wrist: Keep stalling.

  I run back to the Kraken, where Dad is crouched by the boat trailer with his shotgun. I put a finger to my lips and explain using hand gestures.

  Three minutes later I run back to the front, where George is demanding to talk to a lawyer. I whisper into his ear, then hurry back to the Kraken.

  Run is already up in the boat with Jackie, ready to shoot. Anything to protect our daughter.

  “All right,” says George. “You can check it out, but the salvage belongs to the state of Florida.”

  He lets Landsberg inside, and the man enters, soaking wet from the downpour. His eyes fall on the stacks of money, which Dad and I are counting.

  I glance up at the unremarkable-looking man. He’s a little shorter than average, late forties, and wearing a drenched raincoat.

  “Wow,” says Landsberg, eyeing the money. “That’s impressive.”

  “How do we know this guy isn’t another one of their assassins?” I ask.

  “I assure you, I’m only a desk jockey,” says Landsberg. “I’m here to fix a problem.”

  Although he appears to be impressed by the money, his attention’s on the Kraken. He’s studying all the parts on the floor.

  “Mind if I look inside?” he asks.

  “Be our guest,” George replies. “But it’s stripped clean.”

  Landsberg leans into the top hatch for a moment, then hops down. “Very interesting.” A faint smile appears at the edge of his mouth. “Here’s the deal. I’m going to restore communications here and let local authorities sort out the jurisdictional matters regarding the seized money. We’re going to have to impound this vessel, because it utilizes classified technology.”

  Dad stands. “I found this thing. Unless you have a title, it’s mine.”

  I can tell he’s bluffing his ass off, but Landsberg doesn’t know that.

  “Mr. McPherson, I’m sure we can see about some kind of salvage fee.”

  “We’re not ready to turn this in,” I reply. “We’ve already seized it on behalf of the UIU.”

  Landsberg pulls a letter from his pocket. “I have a signed warrant.”

  I bet I can make a good guess at the name of the judge on the warrant, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “This is bullshit,” says George, continuing our ruse. “We get to search it first.”

  Landsberg kicks a console on the floor. “It looks like you already did a pretty thorough search. Now, I need to ask you to leave the premises. My team is about to secure this building.”

  “This is bullshit!” George growls, so convincingly that I almost wonder if he understood what the hell I did.

  I drop a stack of money. “George, we don’t have a choice. Just call and make sure we’re not going to get ambushed.”

  “I assure you that you’re safe,” says Landsberg. “Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office is being called to the scene. Have a look.”

  George peers out the window. “I guess we’re not getting ambushed . . . yet.”

  I wave to Jackie and Run to climb down from the boat racks. They join me at my side. Jackie’s shaking, but Run has his hand on her shoulder. She reaches out and grabs my fingers.

  “What’s going on?” whispers Run.

  “We’re leaving,” I tell him.

  He turns around and stares at the money, the submarine, and all the pieces. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  We exit the building and all climb into Run’s Expedition. Black SUVs line the road outside the marina, and men in tactical gear stand in the rain watching us.

  After we’re a mile down the road and heading for I-95, George speaks up. “I think we’re good. You get the fax off?”

  “Yeah. Where did it go?”

  “Governor’s office. It may be too hot even for him. If so, Cindy can fix that.”

  “Why did they let us go?” asks Run.

  “He was the cleanup guy,” says George. “His job was to contain things. He thought they were contained.”

  “We sealed the documents back in the oxygen cylinder,” I tell Run. “If Bonaventure gave up their location before K-Group killed him, then Landsberg knew exactly where to look. Hopefully he’ll assume that if we didn’t get into the oxygen tank, then we never found them.”

  “Right,” says George. “He let us go because he thinks what he’s looking for is still there.”

  “Jesus wept,” says Dad. “What if he knew we found them?”

  “Good question,” says George. “Good question. All I know is that we should probably stay clear while this blows up. There are going to be a lot of angry people in South Florida.”

  “What about all that money?” asks Jackie.

  “The state and the federal government will fight over it for years,” he replies.

  “And your little governor’s task force, the UIU?” I ask.

  “He has to keep it around now. It’s the only way the state can make their claim stick.”

  “You planned that all along?” I reply.

  “Maybe not this exact strategy.”

  “Just like that? It’s over?” asks Dad.

  “For us,” says George. “Copies of those documents are with the governor now, so that’s done. And K-Group has no reason to go after us. No practical reason,” he adds, checking the rearview mirror. Then, after a long pause, he sighs and says, “But you never know.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  BRIDGE

  A cold breeze rolls down the street and chills me even as I gulp down my Cuban coffee. George makes a face but stops himself from saying anything. He’s learned by now that I’m a stress eater—and drinker.

  He offers thanks in perfect Spanish to the barista in the tiny Cuban coffee shop and takes the tiniest of sips from his cup. A furrow wrinkles his forehead, which I’ve come to learn is his sign of stress.

  I glance at the stack of coffee-stained folders under his elbow at the counter, but don’t ask. We already told the federal prosecutors everything we know. Bonaventure’s files led to nearly two dozen indictments, including eight judges.

  South Florida news has been all over the case for weeks as new names surface. Bonaventure used K-Group’s money and resources to buy influence, divert investigations, and change court decisions with brilliant efficiency.

  One of his best techniques was buying off the clerks that handled the procedural work for judges. We found numerous examples of major cases that were dismissed or postponed because a clerk lost evidence or changed filings, creating procedural errors.

  Al
l of that takes a back seat in my mind to K-Group—especially DIA Jane, or Katarina Alonzo, which we’ve come to believe is her real name.

  She and her partners were apprehended by federal authorities shortly after we made our deal with the DIA director, but which federal authorities and the particulars of her apprehension weren’t divulged to us.

  The word on the street was that K-Group’s activities were limited to a handful of contractors and two DIA supervisors who had gone rogue. Whether this word was spread by the DIA to limit their exposure is anyone’s guess. Closed-door congressional hearings are being scheduled, and there’s now talk on Capitol Hill about a special prosecutor.

  But all of that is politics. We’re waiting to find out if Alonzo will be tried for the murders of Winston and Stacey. Federal cases are all fine and dandy, but I want nothing less than to see Alonzo stand trial for homicide in South Florida and face our justice system.

  “Here she comes,” says George, indicating the stout red-haired woman walking toward us, sweating in her suit.

  Claudine Bauer is clearly from up north and hasn’t figured out how to dress for our climate. The Cincinnati native was given a special appointment to handle this case after it became apparent that an outside attorney might be required to handle it fairly, given the state of things.

  “Can I get a real cup of coffee?” she says, giving George’s drink a dismissive nod.

  “Sure thing,” George replies and gives the order to the man behind the counter.

  The three-second wait is more than I can handle. “Well?”

  “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  “No,” I reply flatly.

  She takes a seat on a stool next to me. “I got good news and bad news.”

  “Damn.”

  Claudine looks to George. “Did she even hear the good news part?”

  “It’s never good news when it’s phrased that way,” I reply.

  “Well, Alonzo and two of her colleagues are going to be tried in South Florida.”

  “Oh,” I reply.

  “But not for murdering the Millers. There’s just not enough evidence right now for that,” she explains.

  “Are you serious?”

  “That’s not to say she won’t be charged for the deaths . . . just not immediately.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, kidnapping, for starters.”

  “Who?”

  “You. When she took you to that little DIA workspace, she did it without authorization—at least, the DIA is claiming that’s the case.”

  “What a crock—”

  She holds up her hand. “Hear me out. In Florida that can be up to thirty years.” She continues quickly, sensing that I’m about to interrupt. “And . . . and Wilkinson, the other guy on your boat—the one you didn’t fatally injure—we’re charging him with attempted murder. Now between the two of them, one is going to want to make a deal. My bet is it will be him. In the meantime, they’ve also got the federal conspiracy case to deal with. They aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Neither are Stacey or Winston,” I reply.

  Claudine takes a drink of her coffee, then sets it back down. “Yeah, I know. But that’s the best I can do under the circumstances.”

  I want to say something, but I don’t know what. The attorney’s right. It’s a convoluted case with many interested parties.

  “Sometimes it takes decades. You know how it is, George,” she says to him.

  He gives her a grunt—which I’ve learned to interpret as Georgespeak for, “Whatever.”

  “It’ll take us a couple of months to build that case and give her a chance to try to plead. In the meantime, go off with your kid and your boyfriend somewhere and have a vacation. You’re going to be up to your ears in courts and deposition rooms soon enough.”

  I’m about to point out that Run is not my boyfriend and that we’ll be staying in separate rooms while we’re in Australia, then realize how childish that sounds. I shrug instead as Claudine leaves us.

  George and I sit and watch cars passing by for a minute before I finally say, “This sucks.”

  “Yes, it does,” he replies.

  “How do you deal with it? You probably went through this dozens of times.”

  “Yep” is all he says.

  After a few moments more of watching cars drive by, he slides his coffee-stained folders across the counter to me.

  “What are these?”

  “From my filing cabinet. Cold cases. Ones that got away.”

  “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

  George gives me a funny look. “No. I pulled the ones relating to water. Victims, abandoned vehicles, weapons, that sort of thing.”

  “You’re an odd man.” I pick up a folder. Inside are photos of some high school kids.

  “They went missing eight years ago. A fisherman found one of their wallets in a canal.”

  “That’s messed up. What happened?” I ask.

  George shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was thinking maybe we find out.”

  “We?” I ask.

  “Yes, us.”

  Realization dawns on me. “Wait? Are you saying these are our cases? UIU? Is that even still a thing?”

  “The governor hasn’t shut us down. The state treasurer keeps sending us paychecks. It sounds to me like we’re still in the game.”

  I flip through the other folders and see photos of cars with bullet holes, children’s shoes covered in blood, and a dozen other dark images of crimes still seeking justice.

  “This is how you deal with it,” he replies. “Or at least how I do. You do the best you can, then you find something else that needs your attention. Every now and then, you make a difference. It’s not often enough, but in the scheme of things, it tilts the balance a little more toward the good guys.”

  I weigh the stack of folders. “There’s a lot here.”

  “Not to mention what else someone might throw our way—that is, if you’re still in the fight.”

  I glare at him, letting him know that’s a stupid question.

  “Can I take these with me on the flight?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Andrew Mayne is the Wall Street Journal bestselling author of The Naturalist, Looking Glass, Murder Theory, Dark Pattern, and Angel Killer; an Edgar Award nominee for Black Fall in his Jessica Blackwood series; and the star of Discovery Channel’s Shark Week special Andrew Mayne: Ghost Diver and A&E’s Don’t Trust Andrew Mayne. He is also a magician who started his first world tour as an illusionist when he was a teenager and went on to work behind the scenes for Penn & Teller, David Blaine, and David Copperfield. Ranked as the fifth bestselling independent author of the year by Amazon UK, Andrew currently hosts the Weird Things podcast. For more on him and his work, visit www.AndrewMayne.com.