Submerged

by Dani Pettrey

  “This can’t be good.” Gage clapped a hand across his face, turning from the putrid funk with revulsion.

  Cole peered into the dark galley and the malevolent odor thickened. His stomach lurched, his gag reflex kicking in.

  Landon rested a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t want to go in there.”

  Blood covered nearly every inch of the area he could see. “Dear God.”

  “Let’s seal it and get it towed back.”

  Landon stretched a large sheet of plastic over the galley entrance while Gage and Cole helped secure it in place.

  “Doc Powell said Liz’s flesh wounds were all postmortem.”

  “Yeah.” Landon crisscrossed yellow crime-scene tape atop the plastic.

  “From the amount of blood . . .” Cole turned his head to take a deep breath of sea air. “I’m assuming we’re looking at a second victim?”

  Landon nodded grimly.

  The galley sealed off, Cole and Gage set to work refloating the vessel.

  Running aground on the reef, compounded by the constant up-and-down motion of the wind and tide, had left serious damage to the ship’s hull.

  Cole set to the task of tacking, leaving the jib sheeted in place while keeping the mainsail tightly trimmed. With the high tide, the boat quickly spun, heeling over and reducing the draft. He released the windward jib sheet and retrimmed the leeward winch.

  Once free of the rock and in deep water, Gage hooked the vessel up to their tow package.

  “Cleary’s not going to be happy,” Landon said, leaning against the pilothouse door.

  Cole grimaced. “Can’t say I blame him this time.”

  Cleary met them at the docks, his wrinkled face pinched tight. “My ship, my beautiful ship.”

  “Now, settle down,” Landon said. “We’ll help you fix it up good as new.”

  Cleary’s dark eyes narrowed. “Is that police tape? What on earth did they do?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

  “Then get out of my way and I’ll see for myself.”

  Landon blocked his passage. “I can’t let you on.”

  “It’s my ship.”

  “Right now it’s a crime scene.”

  “Crime?”

  Landon cleared his throat. “I’m not at liberty to discuss any details.” He wasn’t announcing that it looked as if they had another murder on their hands. News spread too fast. By lunchtime, the whole town would be in an uproar. They were already garnering more attention than he’d wanted. Tourists slowed as they passed the docks, squinting at the ship in question.

  “When can I have my boat back?”

  “Hopefully soon.”

  “Come on, Cleary,” Gage said, wrapping an arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Why don’t we go over to Gus’s and grab some grub while they get this mess sorted out.”

  Cleary didn’t bat an eye.

  “On me,” Gage offered.

  “All right, but that doesn’t fix things. I shoulda known better than rent to outsiders. Who’s gonna fix my boat?”

  “We’ll all see to it,” Landon said.

  One of the perks of living in a small town, they all looked out for one another. Most of the time.

  Gage steered Cleary up the pier as Slidell ambled his way down, Mayor Cox fast on his heels.

  “Wonderful,” Landon murmured beneath his breath.

  “What do we got?” Slidell asked before taking a sip of coffee.

  Landon lowered his voice, “I’d say there’s a good chance we’re looking at another homicide.”

  Slidell let a few choice words slip. “Are you sure?”

  “Can’t be positive until Doc Powell runs blood typing on what we found, to rule out Liz Johnson, but seeing her flesh wounds were all postmortem . . .”

  Slidell ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “Cleary linked her to the boat. Maybe Doc was wrong about the timing of the wounds she received.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Mayor Cox swiped beads of perspiration from his brow. “Better that than the first time for two murders occurring so close together.”

  For once he and Landon agreed. “It should be easy enough to determine once I get these blood samples to Doc.”

  “In the meantime, let’s try and keep this hushed,” Cox implored. “We can’t afford the rumor mill churning on this one.”

  Landon spied the town’s worst busybodies hovering near the top of the pier, their heads bent in deep deliberation. “We may be too late.”

  With a curse, Slidell yanked his radio from his belt. “Thoreau?”

  “Yeah, Sheriff?”

  “Mabel and Thelma are hovering at the top of the pier. Do what you can to get rid of them.”

  Thoreau radioed back. “Like that’s possible.”

  “Just do it,” he ground out, then turned back to Landon. “Get the boat hauled into our storage garage and start processing it ASAP.”

  Landon nodded. “Will do.”

  Slidell glared at Thoreau trying to move Mabel and Thelma along and not having any luck. “Mayor, you may want to give Thoreau a hand. I believe those two are part of your fan club. Why don’t you use some of that charm we keep hearing about.”

  Cole, Thoreau, and Slidell huddled around the workstation Landon had set up in the storage facility.

  The odor of blood hung in the air, dispelled little by the large enclosed space.

  “Thanks for coming by,” Slidell said, shaking Cole’s hand.

  “No problem. Glad to be of help.” He was as anxious as anyone to see what Landon had found. The sooner they caught the killer, the sooner he’d rest easy. One confirmed murder and one suspected one following so close after Henry Reid’s crash . . . It was too much death for such a small town.

  Slidell inclined his head to Thoreau. “Tell Tom this meeting ain’t optional and I hate waiting.”

  “Yes, sir.” Thoreau booked it to the corridor connecting the storage facility to the station.

  Cole hunkered into an empty chair.

  After a moment’s pause, Slidell grabbed one too, the metal legs scraping across the concrete floor. He sank into it with a huff. “All right, Landon. Let’s hear what you got. Tom and Thoreau will just have to catch up.”

  “All right.” Landon laid several items on the table before them. “I found the remaining nineteen tanks rented from Cole’s shop. I had Doc Powell contact Owen Matthews again, but I have to say the majority looked to be in pristine condition.”

  Cole sat up a little straighter. “And the rest of them?”

  “Still in good working condition but with similar surface damage to the one Liz Johnson was wearing. Doc says he found particles of sediment, identical to that found under Liz’s nails, imbedded in the crevices of the tank’s valve, which is why I wanted Cole here. As captain of our dive rescue squad and Tariuk’s only qualified cave diving instructor, I thought he may be able to offer some opinion on where Liz and our mystery man or woman may have been diving.”

  “That would be a man.” Tom’s boots clipping the concrete echoed in the steel-framed structure. “Cleary just finished giving Earl a sketch.” He held the picture aloft.

  Cole studied the image. A man—white skin, dark hair and eyes, drawn from a distance in shades of gray.

  “That doesn’t show us a whole lot,” Landon said.

  “Cleary said the girl rented the boat. He only caught a glimpse of the man while they were loading their supplies on board.”

  “Supplies?” Slidell propped his boot on his opposite knee.

  “Diving equipment, couple of duffel bags, grocery items. Cleary said they rented it for two weeks, and judging from the amount of gear and food they loaded, they were planning to stay out the entire time.”

  “Which explains why no one in town, other than Cleary, Piper, and Jake remembered Liz,” Landon said.

  “He get a name on the man?” Slidell asked.

  “Nope.” Tom shook his head. “He only de
alt with Liz.”

  “She mention what they were up to?”

  “Nope. According to Cleary, they didn’t say and he didn’t ask. He just assumed fishing. After he saw the dive tanks, he figured diving. Didn’t matter to him. They paid cash, up front. Top dollar, in fact. Cleary was thrilled. Truth be told, the boat wasn’t even worth the two weeks’ rent they paid him.”

  Cole chuckled. The way Cleary had carried on at the dock, he’d have thought they’d just destroyed a brand-new sloop.

  “Cash again.” Slidell sighed.

  “They didn’t want to leave a trace,” Landon said. “And that goes along perfectly with what I found, or I should say the lack of certain items I didn’t find.”

  Slidell hunched forward. “Such as?”

  “No identification. No duffel bags. Nothing but the tanks from Cole’s shop and—”

  “But Cleary specifically said he saw them carry duffels on board,” Tom interrupted. “Where are their clothes, their belongings?”

  Landon leaned against the workbench. “I have a feeling they were tossed overboard along with the body of our victim . . . or victims.”

  Tom crossed his arms with an air of defiance. “How’d you reach the conclusion there is another victim?”

  “Rain washed away most of the trace evidence outside the galley, but I found hair matted with blood snagged on the starboard cleat. I sent it over to Doc Powell. He did a quick blood-typing test and confirmed the blood on the boat does not match Liz Johnson’s.”

  “Wonderful.” Slidell exhaled. “We’re looking at a second homicide.”

  Landon nodded. “I strongly believe so.”

  “And our body?”

  “Somewhere in the gulf.”

  Tom snorted. “That narrows it down.”

  “It is what it is.” Landon shrugged.

  “Why dump all their gear?”

  “Harder to prove identity. We only know our Jane Doe’s name because Piper had it on the rental slip. Unfortunately Liz, or most likely Elizabeth, Johnson is ranked as one of the most common names out there. The prints Doc provided pulled up no information, and we need something to compare her dentals to. None of the Elizabeth Johnsons in the missing persons database are our gal.”

  “So either no one knows she’s missing or no one’s bothered to report it,” Cole said, hoping it was the former. Not that he wanted anyone to lose a loved one, but having no one who cared enough to report the woman missing seemed even sadder.

  “Cleary said the boat wasn’t due back until today. Piper said the same about the tanks,” Tom said.

  “So it’s probably too soon for anyone to realize she’s missing,” Thoreau chimed in.

  “Another day or so should do the trick. I’ll keep checking the missing persons database. Maybe something will pop up,” Landon said.

  “And our mystery man?”

  “Without a body, there’s no chance for identification. We’re posting Liz’s picture and the sketch Cleary provided of our man throughout town. Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Tom said.

  “There’s always the chance the body will float. Or someone will come looking for them both,” Landon said.

  Slidell reclined back. “Not exactly comforting odds.”

  “For now it’s all we have to go on,” Tom said.

  “That’s not entirely true.” Landon stepped back to the table. “Whoever was clearing the boat of everything personal missed one pivotal item.” With gloved hand, he lifted a cell phone. “Found it beneath the cushion of the galley bench.”

  Slidell rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Yes and no,” Landon said, squashing the budding hope. “I called the carrier, and there’s no file on record for the phone.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no history on the phone. The number doesn’t even correlate to any records they possess.”

  “So you’re saying they provide service for a phone they have no contract or record on?”

  Landon nodded. “The phone shows the carrier, but according to them the phone and the number don’t exist.”

  “You’re saying we’re at another dead end.”

  “Not exactly.” A slight smile cracked on Landon’s lips. “I’ve got the last call made from it. A week ago yesterday.”

  “Same approximate time as Liz’s death, according to Booth,” Cole said.

  Landon nodded. “It was a text.”

  “And?” Slidell said, his patience clearly waning. “What did it say?”

  “ ‘Let’s talk.’ ”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes and no . . .”

  “Real helpful, Landon,” Tom grunted.

  “Who was the call placed to?” Cole asked. That, at least, would provide another avenue to pursue, and allow Landon to proceed.

  “It’s just showing as an unlisted number. I’d like to send the phone to a friend I have up in the Fairbanks Police Department. I gave him a call and he said it takes time, but he can usually locate the actual number.”

  “Fine.” Slidell grunted. “Now, what’s this ‘yes and no’ junk?”

  “Yes, that’s all the text contained, but that’s not all that was sent.” Landon set the phone aside and lifted a glossy print, handing it to Slidell. He handed a duplicate to Cole and a third to Tom. “This picture was sent as an attachment to the text. I know it’s grainy. . . .”

  Slidell held it up, examining it. “What is it?”

  “A painting of some sort,” Landon said.

  Cole studied the angelic face, rimmed by gold. A cherubim, perhaps. “Actually, it looks like . . .” He paused. What were those called? “An . . . icon.”

  “An icon?” Landon’s brow furrowed.

  “You know, the paintings you see in the Russian Orthodox churches.” He’d visited several with Bailey and her aunt way back when.

  Tom snorted. “What would some old painting have to do with a double murder?”

  Cole rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know. I’m not even positive that’s what it is.” But he knew someone who might. Bailey. Did he really want to drag her into the investigation? No. But asking her to take a look at a photo wouldn’t be pulling her in. She would simply be providing clarity on the image. She’d worked in Agnes’s shop. Surely she would have an idea. What could it hurt to ask? “I know someone who may be able to help us with the photo,” he finally said.

  “Give them a call.” Slidell stood and dropped the photo back on the table. “At this rate, it may prove our only viable lead.”

  13

  Cole considered calling Bailey but decided he might have better luck just showing up in person to make his request. He showered, shaved, and combed his damp hair. Slipping into his favorite pair of board shorts, he pulled a black T-shirt over his head and slid his feet into a pair of flip-flops. Seventy-two degrees in Yancey was paradise.

  He parked in an open slot on the far end of Main Street and made his way to the Trading Post. Passing Thelma’s flower shop, he fought the strange and sudden urge to buy Bailey a bouquet. This wasn’t a date. He was going to her for help on a murder investigation. Besides, whatever they’d shared had died long ago, hadn’t it?

  He caught sight of her through the front window of Agnes’s shop, perched on a stool, file folders surrounding her in a myriad of piles. Her hair pulled haphazardly up in a clip exposed her graceful neck, and a handful of untamable tendrils cascaded across her shoulders. She was dressed simply—a baby blue T-shirt and a pair of gray sweats.

  He smiled. She looked comfortable. A complete one-eighty from the other day—tailored suit, hair wound in a twist, sadness clouding her beautiful eyes. Casual looked good on her. Natural.

  She stood, walking with file in hand, her gaze fixed on whatever lay inside. She nibbled her thumbnail as she paced, clearly concentrating.

  She pivoted and froze, her eyes locking on Cole.

  His heart thudding, he waved, feeling like an idiot for gawking.

  An em
otion he didn’t want to acknowledge swept over her face, knocking the wind from him as it had that fateful night.

  That night was ancient history. Everything about them was. She’d never have that kind of sway over him again, the power to devastate, to bring him to his knees. He’d never give it to her.

  The door cracked open, and he lifted his chin. “Hey.”

  She looked past him at the street, gazing from one side to the other.

  “How are you?”

  Her harried gaze settled back on him. “Busy.”

  “Yeah.” He glanced behind her to the papers strewn everywhere. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

  “I’m trying to get everything in order.”

  “Before you open shop?” He knew better.

  “Before I sell.”

  “No desire to stay in Yancey?” He didn’t blame her.

  “None.” She crossed her arms, positioning herself in the doorway more as a blockade than someone who wanted to continue a conversation. “Was there something you needed?”

  He rested his hand on the doorjamb. “Actually, there is.”

  Surprise fluttered across her face.

  “Can I come in?”

  She pulled the door to her. “Like I said, I’m really busy. . . .”

  He wedged his hand in the crack. “This won’t take long. It’s important.”

  She exhaled, and after a moment stepped aside. “All right, but just for a minute.”

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the Post. He walked by it nearly every day, waved to Miss Agnes, but he hadn’t stepped foot in it since he and Bailey had been together.

  The place hadn’t changed much, other than the piles of folders and papers, of course.

  The same cinnamony scent hung in the air. The same floral paper lined the shelves, though it’d yellowed with age.

  With each step the old wooden floor creaked beneath him, though it creaked a little louder than when he’d been sixteen. A multitude of memories flooded over him. The first time he’d walked Bailey home. Their first kiss beneath the eaves of the doorway.

  “You said you needed something.” She set the folder she’d been carrying on the desk and rested her hands on her hips.