by Kathy Brandt
Now I sat on back of the boat and pulled on my fins, and then Dunn held the BC with the tank attached as I slipped my arms into it, snapped it around my torso, and tightened it down. I snugged my mask in place and tumbled into the water.
Once in, I filled my BC with air, allowing me to float comfortably as I waited for the others. When we were all in the water, I gave the signal and we started down, releasing air from our BCs. We descended slowly, clearing our ears as we went. A school of yellowtail snappers followed us to the bottom.
The airplane was lying in the sand on its belly as though it belonged, somehow accepting its place in the ocean environment. The sharks were gone. There was nothing to draw them any longer, just a hard metal tube. If the plane remained on the bottom, it would turn into an artificial reef, accumulating sea life. Within the year, coral and sponges would attach to its shell and it would become home to hundreds of fish and other reef creatures. Divers would come to investigate the wreckage and marvel in the beauty of its transformation to something that belonged to the sea. The people who died here would be mostly forgotten, only mentioned in passing as part of the history and ghosts of the sea.
As we headed to the wreck, we scared up a flounder that had been perfectly disguised in the sand. It darted away, changing to blue, then gray, and back to tan as quickly as the bottom color changed. A school of squid was hovering in formation around the wreck, eight of them, moving forward then backward in the gentle current. They scattered as we approached and regrouped just yards away. Out where the water turned opaque, I could make out the shape of a ray flying though the water like a giant bird with a long tail.
I headed inside. Harper was right behind me. It was dark, eerie, and vacant, except for a few small fish. He followed as I swam forward to the cockpit. I paused and let him swim inside while I hovered in the doorway. The cockpit was too small for two divers to enter.
He was supposed to take a careful look around to determine the structural integrity of the nose section and take photos. He never even bothered to take his camera out of his bag. He was spending more time holding his regulator in his mouth and bumping his fins into instruments than he was spending on any assessment. I hoped he wasn’t disturbing important evidence. I could see the signs. His movements were becoming frantic. He was beginning to freak out in the confined space and was trying to control it. Even worse I was blocking the door and his access out. He had that look in his eyes—trapped and panicked. Suddenly he bolted, crashing past me and into the passenger cabin.
When he got to the cabin door, he stopped. I was right behind him. He hovered there, sweeping his arms in wide arcs. I knew he was coming back from the edge, regaining his machismo, no doubt because he could see sunlight streaming down from the surface. And because Mason and Carmichael were just outside the plane.
I signaled to him, asking if he was okay. He indicated that he was and pointed to his regulator. I knew it would be his way of blaming the entire incident on equipment malfunction when we got to the surface.
I figured he’d be fine outside the wreck and in open water. I pulled out my slate and indicated that Carmichael and Mason should start retrieving luggage from the nose section while I took a close look at the interior, retrieving what I could from inside and handing it out to Harper. I’d help him save face by assigning him a task that would mean he didn’t have to re-enter the aircraft.
I started in the cockpit, where I took detailed photos of the instrument panels. I shone my flashlight along the ceiling and interior walls. Moving from the cockpit all the way back to the tail, I examined every surface for signs of an explosion. I found nothing suspicious, but the final analysis would be in the investigator's hands when the plane was brought up.
Next, I did a careful search of the cabin, checking seat pockets and under seats. The plane was too small to have overhead compartments. I found a computer bag with a laptop in it jammed under the seat where Redding had been sitting. Across the way, I retrieved the iPod that was sticking out of the seat pocket—no doubt Simon’s. Farther up, I found a couple of handbags, and in the cockpit I retrieved the pilots’ flight bags. I made several trips into the cabin, filling the evidence bags and handing them out to Harper, who swam them to the surface.
Finally, I took one last look around. Once the plane was lifted out of the water, anything loose could end up on the sea floor and be lost forever. I started back in, relieved that this would be the last time I would need to swim into this death scene. Seats were torn and empty now. The place where people had died was now just a shell filled with seawater and fish. I swam through the cabin, examining every cranny, under seats, in seat pockets.
I almost missed the gun. It was wedged between the wall and the seat where Debra Westbrook had been sitting before she moved to the back of the aircraft. I pulled another evidence container and a screwdriver from my mesh bag, slipped the screwdriver into the gun barrel, pried the gun out, and dropped it into the container, sealing it in seawater to preserve evidence. That was it. I swam out and toward the sunlight.
When I surfaced, Harper was in the boat, making a big deal about his regulator. I didn’t say anything about what had happened below, but he knew he’d better tread lightly around me. I glared at him and he said no more.
Sturtevant and Jimmy were the next aboard. They’d taken more photographs of the engines, fuselage, wings, and tail section and had already brought up items that had been scattered in the sand—mostly contents from the interior, a few seat cushions, magazines.
Sturtevant was amazed at the integrity of the structure. “The plane is pretty much intact,” he said. “Usually the wings get torn off, maybe the engines, sometimes the nose section. This will be a textbook lift. I’ll arrange for a barge with a crane. We should be able to have one out here in the morning.”
We managed to retrieve the rest of the cargo from the hold in just one more dive. Harper insisted on leading—his strategy for recovering his reputation, I guess. It wasn’t going to work with me. The thing was, I understood. He wasn’t the first diver I’d seen panic like that. Hell, I’d felt the same way myself. I would never fault a diver for that.
The problem was that Harper couldn’t acknowledge it, be human about it. Now he needed more than ever to prove that he was a macho diver. It pissed me off. He went barging into the water as though it was his to own and every sea creature in his way better get the hell out of it.
When we got to the bottom, he had his knife out and was daring a barracuda to come any closer. I swam up next to him, shooed the fish away, and gave him the sternest look I could muster with a mask over my face. I don’t think he got it. I was afraid Trey Harper wouldn’t survive long as a diver if he didn’t change his attitude. He’d end up dying under the water trying to prove how macho he was. We managed to finish the dive without incident though.
“Let’s get this stuff to the warehouse,” Dunn said when we’d all gotten back up top and into the boat. Gil was already at work on the gun.
“Harper’s a flake,” Carmichael said on the way back into Road Harbour. “I’m glad I won’t be diving with him again. He’s liable to get someone killed.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Like Sturtevant.”
We dropped Mason and Carmichael off at Underwater Adventures then tied up on the dock at the western end of the harbor, where Dunn had arranged for the warehouse. We would off-load everything we’d just collected and work out of the site. The airplane would be housed here also as soon as it was pulled off the ocean floor.
Stark was standing on the dock waiting for us. “How was the dive?” he asked, noticing the fact that I was pissed.
“Let’s just say it was interesting,” I said and left it at that.
Harper and Sturtevant had tied their boat up at the dock behind us and Harper was walking our way. He’d removed his wetsuit and now wore only a skimpy spandex swimsuit.
I introduced them to Stark, who took an immediate dislike to Harper. No surprises there. After a quick handshake
, Stark explained to Harper that in the islands, people were to come ashore fully clothed. Damned if Harper didn’t go back to his boat and pull on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
“He part of the problem on the dive?” Stark asked.
“How did you guess?” I said.
“Good police work,” he said.
Chapter 12
A speedboat followed the Wahoo into Road Harbour, keeping enough distance to ensure that the cops would not be suspicious. Two people were on board, one driving, the other holding a pair of binoculars.
They’d been out near the crash site all morning, baking in the sun and watching divers retrieve material from the wreck. They’d had no problem blending in with all the other gawkers out there hoping to see some gore. The cops hadn’t let anyone get in close. The big black cop in the suit had made sure of that.
The taller of the two, the one with the binoculars, had had a hard time keeping his eyes off a woman in a nearby boat. She was topless and lying on her back on the bow. Every once in a while he let the binoculars wander over her body, admiring the bare flesh. It was one of the things he liked about the islands—the women out on the water completely naked doing swan dives off their boats.
“Keep your eye on the police boat,” his colleague had demanded, irritated.
They’d seen the divers go down once, finally surface, and hand some containers into the police boat. A while later, they’d gone back down to the wreck and brought up a bunch of suitcases and some boxes that disintegrated as they lifted them into the boat, spilling a lump of wet island clothes and some wooden carvings all over the deck.
“Chances are it’s been ruined by salt water or was destroyed in the crash anyway,” the man had said, peering through the binoculars again.
“Surely you’ve heard of waterproof? We can’t assume anything. There’s too much at stake. We need to know where they’re taking all the cargo. Then we’ll find our little item and get the hell out of here,” the other said.
“It needs to be soon. That storm’s moving in.”
Finally, the police divers had pulled up anchor and headed into Road Harbour.
They’d followed and were watching now as the cops began unloading the cargo.
“We need to get that thing before the cops find it,” the taller one said, clearly worried, binocs glued to the proceedings on shore. “You’ve got to learn to control that wild temper and not lash out at the slightest provocation.”
“That’s why we’re together in this, isn’t it? My violent streak?” the other said, steering the boat through the harbor while keeping an eye on the activity at the warehouse.
“Yeah, but killing, that’s way over the top. All we needed was his signature and we were done. So it cost an extra half a million.”
“He should never have threatened me. No one threatens me and gets away with it.”
“Once things had been finalized we could have dealt with him. He was in way too deep to back out or go to the authorities. You knew that. It would have meant his ass too. Now what was supposed to be a simple business deal is completely down the tubes. I’ll tell you what, if the cops find out what happened, we’ve got big problems.” He cast a troubled glance at his hotheaded colleague. “You know that I don’t want to see either one of us going to jail.”
“I promise you. That’s not going to happen,” the one at the wheel said, gunning the boat and speeding out of the harbor.
Chapter 13
I was standing alongside the Wahoo when I heard the roar of boat engines out in the harbor. When I looked up, all I saw was the track of a wake leading around the point. If Jimmy hadn’t been standing right beside me, I’d have been sure the kid was out there blasting the police boat through the waves.
Sturtevant went in to have a look around the warehouse while the others hefted suitcases, evidence bags, and boxes inside. He came out and gave Dunn the thumbs-up.
“This will work just fine,” Sturtevant said. “No problem wheeling that plane in—plenty of clearance, big enough space to work, a clean, flat cement floor, running water, and good lighting. Harrigan will be pleased with the setup. You wouldn’t believe some of the conditions he’s had to work in.”
“You’ve worked with him?” I asked.
“Yeah, probably close to twenty years. He’s one of the best, extremely thorough. Believe me, he’ll figure out what brought that plane down if it takes him a year.”
“I hope it doesn’t take a year,” Dunn said. “The owner of the airline is looking for the right answer and she wants it fast.”
“Harrigan won’t bow to pressure from her or anyone else,” Sturtevant said. “And if he can’t find answers, he’ll blame himself.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Dunn said, shooting a glance my way. “Let me know what you turn up here, Sampson.”
Dunn went back to the office and left us to it. Sturtevant and Harper headed down to the shipyard to check on the equipment they’d need to bring the plane up. They planned to be out there at first light. If all went well, they’d have the plane in the warehouse well before noon tomorrow.
Stark and Jimmy had drawn an outline of the aircraft on the cement floor, marking the cockpit, each passenger seat and its occupant, the bathroom, and all of the exits. We spent the next couple of hours laying items out according to the place in the plane where we’d retrieved them and in the sand surrounding the wreck.
Dunn was insisting that we be thorough and treat this as a criminal investigation until we knew better. Between the water-soaked owners’ address tags and the airline tags which we matched with the computer records provided by Leonard, we managed to put a name to every piece of luggage. Then we pulled on latex gloves and started the initial examination. I felt like a voyeur, invading people’s personal belongings. But I knew it was necessary.
It was amazing what turned up in the suitcases. Gil had been going through the newlyweds’ bags, making lewd comments as he worked. Evidently the couple had been well prepared for the honeymoon. The assortment of negligees and teddies was mundane next to the rest of the stuff.
“Nice,” Dickson said, holding up a pair of crotchless panties that were tangled in plastic handcuffs.
“Jeez, Gil. How about you check out the weapon Sampson found wedged beside the seat while I finish up with that stuff?” Stark suggested.
“You get to have all the fun,” Dickson said and went to work on the gun.
He pulled the weapon out of the salt water-filled evidence container as I watched over his shoulder. “This thing’s a powerhouse,” he said. “It’s a 9 mm Beretta, automatic, fifteen rounds, muzzle velocity twelve hundred eighty feet per second. Very lethal.”
Dickson was in his element. He was working fast to get prints and avoid any oxidation, which would occur quickly and would foul up subsequent ballistic tests. He air-dried the gun and examined it, exposing it for only a few minutes.
“We’re not going to get any prints off of this thing,” he said.
“Yeah. Not too surprising.” We both knew that lifting impressions suitable for identification was a long shot when it involved salt water.
He’d immersed the gun in freshwater and gently swished it around to circulate water through the mechanism, careful with a gun he considered loaded. Then he dropped it into pure alcohol so that the water in the gun would be absorbed and oxidation prevented.
Finally, he checked it for a serial number and sealed it in an airtight container filled with diesel fuel to displace the remaining water and air bubbles. All this would keep the weapon from deteriorating any further.
“I’ll run the number through the computer, see what comes up,” he said.
“Sounds good,” I said, as he made a notation for a ballistics test.
I started going through Debra Westbrook’s belongings. There were two suitcases packed with expensive clothing and swimming apparel—enough for a different swimsuit every day. Debra’s makeup case was filled with cosmetics. Buried at the bottom was
an intricately tooled leather address book. I opened it and fingered carefully through the wet pages trying to separate them without tearing them. It was crammed with names. I recognized some—a couple of senators, a Cabinet member or two.
In the back pocket, I found a stack of business cards stuck together—one of them for a divorce attorney. I also found a hotel receipt for the Washington Arms in D.C. signed by Jack Westbrook, dated just a few weeks ago. I filed that piece of information in my “interesting, maybe significant” category. Since the Westbrooks had a home in D.C., I figured there was only one reason for that hotel stay. I was betting that Jack was fooling around and that he’d been careless enough to leave that receipt in the wrong place.
Stark had been examining the Rileys' bags.
“It doesn’t look like Westbrook was exaggerating when he told you the Rileys were well off,” he said, handing me the photos he’d pulled out of Louise Riley’s wallet. One was an old shot of her and her husband with a girl and two boys standing in front of a mansion that rivaled the White House. In another, Riley was posed in the winner's circle, holding the halter of a sleek Thoroughbred. There were more of the same kids, now grown with children of their own.
“One thing's for sure,” Stark said, digging through William Riley’s leather suitcase. “Riley never felt it when his legs were severed. He’s got enough prescription painkillers and tranquilizers to stock a small pharmacy.”
Lawrence Redding had checked a generic black suitcase on wheels, with nothing remarkable inside. The guy must not have owned a pair of shorts. It was all business casual—slacks, shirts, underwear, and socks. A Dopp kit held toothpaste, razor, shaving cream, and dental floss. The reading material matched the clothes—a book on grant evaluations, an annual report for the Woods Foundation. Redding had also carried the laptop that I’d retrieved from under his seat.
