Skeleton Sea

by Dwiggins, Toni

  Tolliver snapped, “And it was.”

  “I fear that's my bad again,” Russell said, and before Tolliver could argue the point she continued, “when I took that collection plate from the Diablo dock, I should have rushed my analysis. That was his field test. Would his engineered polyps start a new generation? You need to get somebody out there to check the whole inlet. Now. If I'd known yesterday what I was looking at... I should have listened to my gut.”

  “With all due respect,” Tolliver said, “your gut-feeling is bullshit. My gut has been all over the map, on this case. We go on facts, not gut feelings.”

  She held up the laptop. “All the facts you need, Detective. A to Z.”

  “How about how he got the damned things, to start with?”

  “To collect the natives, Carybdea and Aurelia, he simply went out on his boat with a scoop and a bucket. As for the foreign species, he obtained the polyps on the black market. You could nail him on the illegal importation of invasive species—if he weren't already nailed.”

  Tolliver just nodded.

  Russell pointed at the N. nomurai tank. “The young ones hail from China.” She added, “Or perhaps Japan—by way of Fukushima.”

  “You're shitting me.”

  “No bullshit, Detective.”

  “What you said before about radiation effects, the mutation thing...”

  “The species was already established in its present enormous form—before the meltdown. One could conjecture that adults drifting past the nuclear facility planted polyps there.” She eyed the tank. “It will be interesting to find out what, if any, mutations have occurred.” She gave Tolliver a strained smile. “Godzilla.”

  “I'd take that as a joke if it didn't scare the hell out of me.” Tolliver stepped aside and made his phone calls.

  When he finished, he said, “All right, I've got the Coast Guard on the way to Diablo. And my divers out at Cochrane just found some kind of feeding device in the chimney holes—injecting brine shrimp down into the cavern. They removed the feeders but they want to know what to do next.”

  “Next?” she asked.

  “About the damn box jellyfish down there.”

  “Hell Doug, seal off the cavern. Currents are still going to bring in nutrients, and you can't have that. You're going to have to starve them.”

  “Can't we just wait for them to die?”

  “You're forgetting the next generation. There will be polyps.”

  CHAPTER 50

  We dragged out of Oscar Flynn's house and squinted at the view from the hillside down to the sea.

  The morning's fog had vanished.

  The sun was low on the horizon and the ocean was golden.

  The dazzling daylight blinded me, for a moment, to the near view. And then I spotted the figure sitting on the carved stone bench at the edge of Flynn's patio.

  Lanny Keasling. He wore his blue Sea Spray windbreaker. He held a paper grocery bag on his lap. He waited for us to approach—casting a brief curious look at Violet Russell as she swept by, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, heading for the stairs down to the driveway.

  When we drew up in front of Lanny he handed the bag to Tolliver.

  Tolliver opened the top of the bag, where Lanny had crimped it, and looked inside. He took his time. And then he said, “How about that.”

  Walter nosed in and had a look.

  And then it was my turn.

  How about that, indeed.

  ***

  Half an hour later, after Lanny finished his story, Tolliver offered him a ride back into town. Lanny politely declined, saying he had a ride waiting.

  I spotted the figure down below in Flynn's driveway. Her orange-blond hair bushed out from beneath a ball cap and she hunched in a blue windbreaker.

  As Walter and Tolliver headed for the steps to the driveway, I turned back to Lanny. With my last shred of stamina, of sociability, I said, “You did good,” and I held out my hand.

  He looked at me so intently that I figured he didn't trust what I was offering, and he surely had reason to wonder about anybody's offerings or assurances, but in the end he was polite Lanny Keasling and he bobbed his head and put his hand in mine and we shook.

  I was offering respect. I hoped he understood that.

  CHAPTER 51

  The two paper grocery bags sat on the table in Doug Tolliver's office.

  The office was roomy, Formica table and slatted-back chairs at one end and big Formica desk and padded swivel chair at the other. Everything tidy, the office of a neatnik. The room was painted a cheery yellow. It had a big window that overlooked the small grassy entrance to the Morro Bay Police Department. It struck me that Tolliver was the only player on this case who didn't have a view of the sea. Of all people, Doug Tolliver should have had a view of his patch of ocean.

  Instead, he had a big poster of the harbor and Morro Rock.

  The western-facing window let in the afternoon sun.

  Tolliver had placed Fred Stavis in the chair facing the sun.

  Stavis squinted.

  Walter smiled.

  ***

  This morning had started out foggy—just like yesterday morning, out at sea—only today I'd slept through a good part of the morning, awakened too early by Walter shouting from the common room, “Eureka!”

  I'd come out in my robe, groggy, grumbling, who actually says eureka? When Walter showed me what he'd discovered, I understood.

  Walter had phoned Tolliver, who'd said, “That could do it,” who'd phoned us back to say four o'clock sharp, it's all arranged.

  ***

  And now, four o'clock sharp, here we all sat around Tolliver's table.

  Stavis shifted in his chair so that the sun wasn't directly in his face. He looked composed. His right arm was in a sling but he assured us that the arm didn't pain him much. He had dressed for the occasion. For an interview at the cop house. No cargo pants. No boat shoes. Pressed khakis and a white button-down shirt—the right sleeve rolled up to accommodate the sling. And lace-up shoes, with socks.

  Tolliver rested a hand on a portable digital recorder. “Fred, I'd like to record this interview, if you'll agree.”

  Stavis gave a helpless smile. “What am I agreeing to? You still haven't told me why I'm here—is this about the shooting? If it is, I sure hope you're interviewing Jake. He drew on me first.”

  “I'm investigating that. But we're here today on a different matter.”

  Stavis eyed the two paper bags.

  “All in good time. First....” Tolliver tapped the recorder.

  Stavis gave a stiff nod.

  Tolliver pressed the record button and began the formalities. “This is Detective Tolliver of the Morro Bay Police Department, badge number 370. Today is Wednesday, August eighteenth....”

  I watched Stavis shifting position again, trying to appear relaxed, and when Tolliver asked him to identify himself for the record and give permission to record the interview, he responded calmly enough. He smiled when Walter and I gave our IDs and permissions—all of us formally on board here.

  And then Tolliver said, “I'm going to go ahead and read you your constitutional rights. You're not under arrest but I want to advise you...”

  I watched Stavis freeze up, at that, and when it was time to affirm his understanding of his right to remain silent, to an attorney, he agreed stiffly.

  Tolliver concluded, “Will you waive those rights and answer the questions?”

  Stavis took a long moment and then said, “Good golly, I don't need a lawyer and I came here to answer your questions. Nothing to hide. Will that do it?”

  “That'll do it. My consultants are going to start us off.”

  I lifted a hand to Walter. Your eureka, you take it.

  Walter cleared his throat. “Mr. Stavis, do you recall that night you and Cassie followed Lanny to the dunes?”

  Stavis flicked a look at me. “Yes yes, of course.”

  “Do you recall why Lanny went there?”

/>   Stavis seemed to be searching his memory.

  “Let me refresh your memory.”

  Walter opened the paper bag we'd brought and carefully lifted out the red float. He set it on the table, situated so that the scratches on the eyebolt end were entirely visible.

  Stavis eyed the float like it was a sleeping snake.

  Walter smiled in sympathy. “That thing has bedeviled Cassie and me from the start. It wasn't until this morning—trying to figure out the missing pieces in the Robbie Donie mystery—that I took another look and found an answer.”

  “I don't see what this has to do with me.”

  “Let me set the scene for you. It begins eleven days ago. Friday night, the night before Mr. Donie disappeared.”

  Stavis shifted again in his chair.

  “We know—from Mr. Flynn himself—that he employed you and Lanny on an iron-seeding project. For the record, one of the seeding floats is on display here.” Walter indicated the red float on the table. “On the night in question, you and Lanny were at the Cochrane Bank site, doing maintenance. Lanny did the diving, because of your eardrum problems. He checked the status of the red floats, and removed a yellow float with a bent snap hook. He was upset. He'd been concerned for some time about the effect of the seeding, and in his agitated state he let the yellow float get loose. When he surfaced, you scolded him for losing it. He said he wanted to quit. You told him he was being childish. He snapped. He tried to stop the project—he got hold of the acoustic remote and shut down the link.”

  Stavis blinked. “How do you know all this?”

  “I'll jump in here,” Tolliver said. “We three had a chat with Lanny late yesterday afternoon. And he came in here today to repeat his story, on the record.”

  “Seriously, Doug? Lanny's unreliable. Sandy forced him on me to begin with, and Oscar insisted I keep him. And yes, I did work for Oscar—and whatever he told you about me, well he had his own agenda.”

  “Feel free to offer any corrections.”

  Stavis glanced at the recorder.

  “To continue,” Walter said, “that Friday night you and Lanny had company. Robbie Donie was out hunting squid and he spotted your boat on his radar and came to investigate. He was an excitable sort and he accused you of poaching. Does this jibe with your memory?”

  “More or less. But I don't get where you're going with it.”

  “Then stay with me. Donie interrupted you before you had time to retrieve the yellow float Lanny lost. As Donie left, he found it and netted it. Lanny witnessed that—you were in the wheelhouse at that point—and Lanny at that point was upset about all the yelling and decided to keep his head down.”

  Pure Lanny, I thought. Already feeling guilty about the sabotage. Ducking.

  Walter continued. “The following day, Saturday, Donie hid the yellow float in a niche at Morro Rock. That night, Saturday night, Donie went out squid fishing on the Outcast. He anchored at your iron-seeding site. And then he disappeared.” Walter glanced at the red float. “I have an idea what happened Saturday night but why don't you tell us your version?”

  Stavis plucked at the sling holding his arm. He grimaced.

  Tolliver said, “You in pain, Fred? Docs assured me your wound is minor.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “By the way, I'll be asking you to provide fingerprint and hair samples, to check against the UID samples my techs took from the Outcast. Just FYI, as you tell your story.”

  “That supposed to make me admit I was aboard? I admit it.” Stavis smiled but there was no warmth in it. “So, sure, Saturday. Robbie sandbags me at my dock, about that yellow float. He's decided Lanny and I were 'up to something' at the site. So sure, I worry that he overheard us arguing—sound carries over water. He tells me he has the float, keeping it as 'evidence' for crying out loud, and he wants me to tell him what we were doing out there.”

  “Why didn't you tell him?” Walter asked.

  “Because I work for a sonofabitch? A secrets freak who made me sign a confidentiality agreement not to divulge anything about the iron seed project. So now I'm in a pickle. I decide I better find out what Robbie saw or heard or thinks he knows. Good thing is, he's dim and easy to rile up. So I played the squid card. I told him he got it right the first time, that Lanny and I were there hunting squid. I knew he was already in a war with Jake about squid, so the idea of me and another Keasling horning in didn't sit well with him. I challenged him to a duel—let's go back out there and we'll see who bags the biggest squid.”

  “You didn't tell Lanny any of this?”

  “No, he'd just muck it up.” Stavis gave a pained smile. “So Robbie and I head out, Saturday night. We take the Outcast because she's already set up with the gear, and we actually do run into squid...”

  Tolliver put up a hand. “Hold on, Fred. Back up to the gear. Don't leave out the part where you ransack Robbie's duffel, looking for the yellow float.”

  “At this point, what's that matter?”

  I spoke. “Evidence. It always matters.” I didn't add, especially when it comes to trial.

  “Sure, fine, I'll dot your i's and cross your t's for you. I wore gloves but I know you anal tech types might've found a hair or something. Look, Robbie all but threatened me with extortion so you better believe I wanted to find that float.”

  “But you didn't. Walter and I found it. Crossing our t's.”

  Walter resumed. “Now, you're on the Outcast and you do run into squid.”

  “Yes. And Robbie jigs a big one. Then it's my turn. I tell him I want to hunt where I was the night before, tell him I saw squid there. When we arrive I ask him questions, vague but, you know, leading. Trying to find out what he knew. Turns out, he knew zip about the project. So, excellent. That's all I need—I tell him I'm tired, he wins the challenge, but Robbie thinks I'm being condescending. Big word for Robbie. Things get heated. He's going to show me how a real man jigs squid. The one he caught was just a warm-up. He cuts it up, baits the hooks, throws the carcass overboard. That's supposed to attract them—Humboldts are cannibals. Only there's no squid there, they'd moved on, and Robbie's jigging and getting mad and then he gets his line caught in the kelp. He's yanking on it, out of control. Wild. And the deck's slippery with ink from his first catch. And he slips, hits his head. Goes overboard.”

  “Did you push him?” Walter asked.

  “Good golly no.”

  Tolliver leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, hands clasped.

  “Doug,” Stavis blurted, “you know me. For chrissake. And there was nothing I could do. He sank fast—you know, wearing those heavy fishing boots.”

  Tolliver said, “Why didn't you phone for help?”

  “Who's going to get there in time? Seriously, I knew I was in a pickle. I had to think about my own position. If I report it, that brings attention to the site and I don't want to go up against Oscar. Wouldn't help Robbie at that point, anyway. Look, I admit I panicked. I started to motor back to shore but along the way I came up with a solution.” Stavis shifted yet again in his chair. The sun had shifted; it kept getting in his eyes. “I called Joao Silva.”

  Walter said, “Your diver.”

  “Yes. Yes I know, I told you I didn't know Silva, but I do. He does some work for me. Off the books—he's illegal—he handles the occasional dicey stuff.” Stavis shrugged. “Handled.”

  I thought, you callous shit.

  “So Joao motors out on one of my vessels and picks me up and I let the Outcast, uh, go on her way. I assumed when she was found it would look like Robbie got lost in a squid jigging accident. Which is what happened.”

  “And then where did you go?” Walter asked. “After Mr. Silva picked you up?”

  “Back to harbor.”

  “Mr. Stavis, you might want to search your memory.”

  Stavis stared.

  “Then let me help. We know you returned to the site. Where Donie went overboard.”

  Stavis turned to Tolliver. “This is going way o
ff course.”

  “We're right on course,” Tolliver said. “We can place you there, Fred.”

  “What?”

  “You returned to take care of Robbie's body,” Tolliver said. “You couldn't dive—with your eardrum trouble—so you had Silva take care of it.”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Shaws says otherwise.”

  Stavis reluctantly returned his attention to Walter.

  Walter said, “I've learned a good deal about squid hunting, on this case. Doug showed us the equipment, on the Outcast. Those lures have rows of heavy-duty hooks—and that explains what happened to Donie's jig line.”

  “Yes, like I said, it got caught in the kelp.”

  “The kelp wasn't the only entanglement. If you'll take notice of those scratches on the float?”

  Stavis studiously ignored the red float on the table. “I don't know anything about that.”

  “Then let me explain,” Walter said. “The scratches contain residue of stainless steel, a composition that includes ten percent nickel, eighteen percent chromium. Marine grade. At first, Cassie and I thought the source might be a sharp edge on the instrument cage, but when we were diving there yesterday I found no sharp edges. This morning, I thought of another possible source. A eureka moment. I phoned Doug and he was able to supply me with a sample, and I made a match between that and the scratches on the float.”

  Stavis just shrugged.

  “A squid-jigging hook made those scratches, Mr. Stavis. It caught the eyebolt end of the float, and when Mr. Donie yanked on his line, that pulled the float free of its attachment to the cage. We don't have the jig hook in question but we do have Donie's supply of spare hooks, whose points match the gouges, whose composition matches the residue.”

  “I don't know anything about any of that,” Stavis said.

  “The evidence suggests that you do.”

  “Hey, if you say so, Robbie hooked the float. The point is, his line got tangled and he fought it and he went overboard. End of story.”

  “Not quite,” Walter said. “The red float has one more twist to add to the story.”