by Dani Pettrey
She swallowed, irritated he could read her so well, especially while many facets of him remained a mystery. Finn was a man of secrets. Just as Asim had been.
forty-nine
Noah and Rissi pulled up to Marv’s house first thing in the morning.
Stepping up to Marv’s front stoop, they opened the screen door and rapped on the main one with a gold anchor knocker.
A miniature version of the black-and-white Cape Hatteras lighthouse stood between the two high-back white rockers on the small square porch. The brief early morning rain had broken up quickly, and Rissi now reveled in the warm sun on her back. It was going to be a beautiful day.
While she occasionally missed her hometown of Boston, the weather in Wilmington was a definite plus.
She was still stoked about the Wilmington Sharks’ victory last night—seven to four. She had tickets to next week’s home game against the SwampDogs. She just had to decide whom to take with her other ticket. Caleb had been itching to go, but she didn’t want to lead him on and feared he’d view it as a date.
Noah knocked again, and she tapped her foot while they waited.
“Coming,” Marv finally responded, and Rissi slipped her fidgeting hands into her tan trouser pockets.
Marv opened the door. His gaze shifted to Noah and then Rissi, his brow furrowed.
“Hey, Marv. Can we talk?” Noah said.
“Sure.” He stepped outside and gestured to the picnic table. “Loraine,” he called back at the house.
His wife popped her strawberry-blond head around the screen door. “Yeah?”
“Why don’t you get us some of your sweet tea?”
She smiled. “Be right out.”
They made pleasantries until Loraine brought them the sweet tea and poured them all a red Solo cupful.
Rissi took a sip and smiled at the hovering Loraine. “Delicious.”
Loraine smiled. “Y’all let me know if you need anything else.” She headed back into the ranch-style house.
“So what’s up?” Marv asked, lifting his cup to his mouth.
“I want to run through your dive with John Layton,” Noah said.
Marv’s brow creased, his gaze darting between them. “I already told Rissi everything.”
“I’d like you to go through it again with me,” Noah said.
Marv’s blue eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“We’re just trying to be thorough.”
“Ok . . . ay.” He clasped his hands together on the tabletop, his thumbs shuffling atop one another.
He proceeded to relay the same story he’d told Rissi yesterday.
When he finished, Rissi said, “Genevieve Layton said her husband told her something had gone very wrong on the dive.” She left the statement open-ended.
“I told you the guy panicked. It was only his second wreck dive, and the St. Marie is a tough dive. When we got almost to the far end, he signaled that he wanted to head topside, but we still had to work ourselves back through the wreck. When a dude’s panicking, you know it can actually slow things down rather than speed things up. By the time we made it out of the wreck, he bolted for the surface. I did the necessary stops, and when I surfaced he was in the bathroom.”
“So why didn’t you tell us he panicked in the wreck itself?”
Marv swiped his nose. “I thought I had.”
“You said everything went smoothly.”
“Yesterday was a blur, and I suppose at the time I didn’t want to embarrass the guy’s memory. I mean, his overreacting had nothing to do with his accident, so why bring it up?”
“It’s vital to the investigation that we understand everything that happened.”
“Investigation?” Marv frowned. “Why do you keep talking like that? The guy had an accident. He ascended too fast and was probably experiencing decompression sickness. Dizziness is one of the common symptoms. The ride back was rough. He probably lost his balance when the boat rocked over a wave and hit his head on the sink. It’s unfortunate, but there’s nothing more to it.”
Rissi narrowed her eyes. Why did it sound like they had Layton’s death all wrapped up in a neat bow?
Noah cleared his throat. “It’s our job to determine that, and we can’t jump to conclusions without having all the facts.”
“You have them,” Marv said, his tone clipped.
“Not yet,” Rissi said.
Marv linked his arms across his chest, his white T-shirt stained with black grease.
“What were you doing before we arrived?” Something told her to ask.
Marv’s brows pinched. “Working on my car. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just curious,” Rissi said, feeling far too much irritation lingered in his voice for such a simple question.
“What’s wrong with it?” Noah asked.
Marv tucked his chin. “It needed an oil change and grease. Seriously, guys, why are we talking about my car?”
“Just curious, as Rissi said,” Noah explained, looking past Marv’s shoulder at the freestanding garage with closed doors.
The same question raced through Rissi. Why keep the garage doors closed on such a warm day?
“Mind if we take a look in the garage?” Noah asked.
“Actually, I do. And if this is it for questions about the accident”—he rose from the table—“I’m going to get back to it.”
“Just a couple more questions about the dive,” Noah said.
“Fine.” Marv sat back down with a sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”
Noah’s eyes narrowed. “Why the rush?”
“Because I have plenty to do today, and I don’t like wasting time.”
Rissi wanted to inquire what exactly he had on his agenda but didn’t want to push him away. Without a warrant they had no legal authority to search the garage, and Marv had the right to refuse to answer questions.
“What about Layton’s tank?” Noah asked.
“What about it?”
“Did you inspect it before and after the dive?”
“We always inspect all our gear before setting out.”
“And after?” she asked.
“Why would I check it after?”
“Maybe Layton panicked because his air wasn’t flowing properly. Or maybe he was dizzy because his mixture was off,” Noah said.
“He didn’t signal anything was off. Only pointed to the surface. I think the enclosed space got to him. It happens.”
Rissi pondered his statement and wondered why Marv hadn’t brought that up yesterday.
Frustrated with Marv’s defensive and borderline rude attitude, she followed Noah to his Jeep. She climbed up into it as Noah held the door for her—always a gentleman, like the rest of the guys on the team. Their mommas had raised them right.
Noah settled in the driver’s seat. “He was far too defensive,” he said, echoing Rissi’s assessment of Marv’s demeanor.
“Agreed.”
As they pulled out of Marv’s drive, Rissi glanced in the side mirror to find the man standing at the top of the drive, staring at them. Worry creased his sea-and-sun-weathered face.
What had really happened below the surface?
Rissi and Noah showed their badges and handed over their service weapons to the security guard upon their entrance to the ILM international customs office, which serviced Wilmington International Airport.
They were told the new acting supervisor, Mr. Stewart, would be out as soon as possible, so they sat down on one of the silver benches lining the waiting area’s walls.
Almost thirty minutes later, a man entered the lobby through the side door and strode toward them. “Sorry about the wait,” he said, rubbing his hand along his combed-over, thinning brown hair.
“No problem,” Rissi said, standing to shake his extended hand.
“Thanks for seeing us,” Noah said.
“Security said you’re with the Coast Guard Investigative Service.”
“Yes, sir. Agent Rissi Dawson.�
� She flashed her badge.
“And Noah Rowley.” He did the same.
“Jeremy, please.”
Rissi nodded. “Jeremy it is.”
“Kind of far from the water, aren’t you?” He said it with a smile that suggested he was anticipating laughter.
She humored him with a smile, as did Noah.
“We’re here investigating John Layton’s death,” Noah said.
“John’s death?” He slipped his hands into his brown pants pockets. “I can’t believe it. We’ve worked together for fourteen years. What happened?”
“He died on a dive charter.”
Jeremy shook his head. “He was so excited about winning that dive excursion for him and Genevieve. I can’t believe he died, but I warned him wreck diving was dangerous.”
The adrenaline rush of pushing the limits was addictive—seeing how deep you could go . . . what all you could get into.
“We’d like to ask you some questions about John’s work here,” Noah began.
“Sure.” Jeremy rocked back on his heels. “I’m happy to oblige, but what does John’s work have to do with a dive accident?”
“We just have a few questions. It shouldn’t take much of your time.”
“All right, let’s head to my office.”
———
Forty-five minutes later, Rissi and Noah left the customs office with a headful of knowledge and a handful of the last two months’ manifests, thanks to the very-eager-to-help Jeremy Stewart.
Climbing in the Jeep, Rissi laid the manifest pile on her lap, grabbed a highlighter from her bag, and set to work.
She prayed that, if anything on the pages was related to John Layton’s death, God would help it stand out. It was a long shot but definitely worth checking.
Noah pulled onto the highway leading away from the airport and back to town. An incoming plane roared overhead as it made its final descent into Wilmington International. The drive to Dockside took a half hour with traffic backed up on the Wrightsville Beach bridge, which gave her lots of time to comb through the manifest pages.
Slipping into a shaded parking lot in front of the waterfront restaurant, Noah cut the ignition.
“I only have a few pages left,” she said. “Why don’t you go on in and grab a table, and I’ll finish up here, since I’m on a roll?”
“No problem.” Noah reclined his seat and lay back, resting his hands behind his head. “I’ll just chill.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. Lunch can wait until you’re done.”
“Cool.” Reaching for the Arnold Palmer she’d brought, she took a long sip, then set the glass bottle back in the cup holder. She turned on the radio and found Sam Cooke’s “Bring It on Home to Me” playing. She always worked better with music.
“Nice,” Noah said, closing his eyes and smiling as the music played.
The tunes soothing, she reclined her seat back as well. Settling in, she turned back to the work in front of her.
She continued highlighting every incoming airport shipment that John Layton processed.
Three-quarters down the list, her yellow highlighter slid across what she was searching for. On August 10, a package arrived via Delta flight #1350 addressed to Litman Limited. And it was signed for by Eric Jacobs. Bingo! “Got it.”
Noah opened his eyes.
She read off the find.
“Excellent work,” he said. “And now that we know John Layton handled customs approval for Litman Limited packages, it’s a pretty good bet our cases are connected. We’ll have to pay Mr. Jacobs a visit when we get back to the station.”
“Agreed. Two more pages to go, and I’m done.”
“Take your time. It’s been a chaotic few days. I don’t mind a few down minutes.” He leaned back and closed his eyes again.
She continued through the remainder of the records, finding three more packages processed—all by John Layton, all belonging to Litman Limited, and all signed for by Eric Jacobs. Seemed the man Finn interrogated last night knew far more than he admitted to.
fifty
Rissi and Noah entered Dockside—the waterfront restaurant at the edge of a marina. It boasted a dock where folks could tie up and enter the restaurant via the pier.
The smell of briny water wafted in the air as seagulls’ cries echoed overhead.
They headed inside.
“Hey, Kim,” Noah said, greeting the hostess.
“Hey, guys.” Kim grabbed two menus and two sets of napkin-rolled silverware. “Your usual table?”
“That’d be great,” Noah said, stepping back. With a sweep of his hand, he indicated for Rissi to go first. They followed Kim to a table in the outer right corner, giving them a great view of the sound and marina.
Kim set down the menus and silverware and with a smile said, “Amber will be right with you.”
“Thanks, Kim.” Rissi took the south-facing white plastic chair, and Noah took the one opposite her. Both preferred to sit facing the restaurant entry, but Noah conceded to her because, as he and Caleb always said, she was a lady.
Part of her wanted to be treated like one of the guys, but the other part enjoyed their polite and caring attitude. Being treated like a lady hadn’t been part of her experience until she’d started with the unit a little over two years ago.
Logan entered and walked to the takeout counter.
“Hey, Logan,” she called.
He waved, grabbed his takeout bag, and stepped to their table.
“Join us,” Noah said.
“Sure.” Logan set the white plastic bag with his takeout down and pulled up a chair from a nearby table.
“Smells like fried tomatoes and pulled pork,” Rissi said of Logan’s bag.
“You nailed it.” Logan winked. “How’d your morning go?” he asked, opening his food containers. The scent of fried green tomatoes wafted in the air, mingling with the ocean air carrying on the breeze.
A couple of kayakers in a red-and-green kayak paddled by as seagulls squawked overhead.
“It’s been interesting,” Noah said, squinting in the high-noon sun. He slid his aviator sunglasses on.
Rissi popped a hush puppy in her mouth from the complimentary basket Dockside served each table upon arrival. Southern hospitality at its finest.
She looked at the two-sided menu, despite having it pretty much memorized, then set it down, waiting for Amber to bring their drinks so she could ask her about the day’s fresh catch—always the best thing on the menu.
Amber came over, and as Noah was ordering, Rissi spotted Paul and Smitty sitting three tables over. She waved with a smile.
Paul gave her a wink in response.
Noah turned, following her gaze. “Hey, guys.” He lifted his chin in greeting.
Paul lifted his mojito, while Smitty raised a long-neck bottle.
“Can we send you guys one?” Paul asked, jiggling his glass. “Looks like you could use it. Rough day?”
“Rough week,” Noah said.
Paul stood and strode to their table. “I want to offer my condolences about Sam. Word spread quickly through town.” He raked his hand over his short dark hair. “I’m sorry. He was a good lad.”
“Thanks.”
Paul signaled Amber over. “Hey, lady, could you get these fine agents a round on me?”
“Thanks,” Noah said. “But we’re working.”
“You sure? Smitty and I won’t tell anybody.” Paul smiled.
“Thanks, but we’re good. Though we appreciate the gesture,” Rissi said.
“But maybe you could still be of help,” Noah said, pulling two more chairs up. “Could you join us for a minute?”
“Sure.”
Smitty carried his and Paul’s drinks over and took the empty seat in the scrunched-up circle Noah had fashioned with the extra chairs.
“How can we be of help?” Paul asked, taking the last seat.
“You both know just about everyone in town,” Noah began.
&nbs
p; “We know our fair share,” Smitty said.
Just about everyone in town had stopped by the Coffee Connection at one point or another. It was always bustling.
“Do you by chance know a man by the name of Eric Jacobs?” Noah asked.
“Sure,” Smitty said. “Always orders a vanilla soy latte.”
“What do you know about him?” Rissi asked.
Smitty’s wrinkles creased as his eyes narrowed. “What’s this all about?”
“Let’s just say he’s a person of interest.” Noah sat back, his arm draped across the back of Rissi’s chair.
“I couldn’t tell you much,” Smitty said, his gaze shifting to three women who’d just entered. They stood at the hostess counter, waiting to be seated. All three were decked out in white tennis skirts, neon polo shirts with matching socks, and tennis shoes.
Smitty’s eyes widened. “Hiya, Phyllis.”
The one in the hot pink shirt waved as a coy giggle escaped her lipstick-slathered lips. “Hiya, Francis.”
The other two women covered their mouths to whisper.
Smitty grabbed his drink and stood. “If you’ll all excuse me.” He didn’t bother giving them a chance to reply before he scurried across the weather-worn deck to the gaggle of ladies and wrapped his arm around Phyllis’s shoulders.
“Don’t pay him any heed,” Paul said. “He’s a ladies’ man. Always has been. You should see him at the town-hall dances. Different lady every night.”
“Francis?” Rissi asked, never having heard him called that.
“His given name,” Paul said. “Took on or was given the nickname Smitty in the Navy. Last name’s Smith.”
She’d never known that. Then again, she’d never asked.
Smitty and the ladies chatted a moment, then left without saying good-bye.
“What’s that all about?” Rissi asked, surprised they’d left so quickly, especially when it had looked like the ladies were just arriving to eat.
“I don’t think Smitty took too kindly to you asking about Eric. I’m assuming it made him uncomfortable.”
“Why’s that?” Noah asked.
“Because the two are friends.”
Noah’s brows hiked up. “Really?”
