Backwater Bay

by Steven Becker

  I heard the door close and watched her go to the plate-glass window that looked out into the hallway to make sure he was gone. She came over and pecked me on the cheek.

  I felt my blood rise and wanted to reach for her, but she moved away. I quickly rationalized that by deciding she was just being professional, ignoring me in case he came back.

  “Let’s have a look at that hair,” she said, breaking the ice.

  We were back to the easier working relationship. The personal one was on hold. I followed her to a stainless steel table.

  She pulled on blue nitrile gloves and, using a pair of tweezers, removed the hair from the evidence bag. Taking one strand, she positioned it on a slide and slid it under the microscope. A second later, the image from the eyepiece appeared on the computer screen and she worked the mouse to focus and resize the window to take up half the display. From another bag, she took out the hair sample from the brush and I watched the monitor as the next image appeared.

  Side by side, they looked identical to me. I now had enough experience in these matters to hold my tongue and wait for Justine to finish. It took less time than I expected; a minute later, she pronounced they were the same.

  “I need to get DNA testing done to confirm, but they’re a match.”

  We had cleared the first hurdle. “Can you let Sid know?”

  “Sure, but how are you going to deal with a boating accident not being the cause of death?”

  I’d been thinking about this and had a few ideas. My first thought had been trying to figure out how the incision the propeller had made in Abbey’s stomach had occurred. This was problematic and even with my limited boating knowledge, if you wanted to run something over, the bow would hit the body, throwing it to one side or another and out of reach of the propeller. The boat would have had to back up to her. I remembered Sid saying that he thought the prop was running at a thousand rpms. That was pretty fast for reverse.

  “What about that thing with her lungs.”

  “I read the transcript. He said there were burst blood vessels, like they had overinflated.”

  “Right. That couldn’t have happened after death. If we can prove what caused it, we may have our cause of death.”

  Justine went to her desk and started typing. I watched over her shoulder as she did a search for “overinflated lungs.” Three-quarters of the way down the search results page I got the feeling we were onto something. There was an article on the Divers Alert Network about pulmonary overinflation syndrome. She scrolled through the content faster than I could read it, forcing me to wait for her synopsis.

  “Boyle’s law states that the volume of a gas acts inversely to the pressure it is under. The more pressure applied, the more compressed the gas becomes. One of the first laws of scuba diving is to never hold your breath. This is especially dangerous on the ascent. When you breathe in and out, the lungs compensate for the changing pressure, but if you were to hold your breath, the volume of gas would expand as you rose through the water.”

  “That makes sense, except isn’t it shallow in those canals?”

  “Shallow water is actually more dangerous. The smaller the numbers the larger the percentage change.”

  “Okay, but she was an experienced diver.”

  Justine shrugged. “People do all kinds of stupid stuff when they dive.”

  I could believe that after some of the situations I had recently bailed boaters, hikers, and fishermen out of. Boyle’s law might have explained the physics of what happened, but there had to be a human element as well.

  “It could be equipment failure and still be an accidental death,” she said.

  I got the feeling she was getting worn out by my persistence. I knew she was already busy, Maybe I was pushing her too hard to back me up. I didn’t believe this was an accidental death, especially after meeting the cast of characters involved. I was sure one of them had killed her. Before I could fill her in on what had happened that afternoon, the door opened and a pair of detectives walked in. I ducked into a corner to avoid them. They approached Justine’s desk.

  “Hey, Doey,” one of the men said.

  The nickname didn’t seem to bother her. It was likely just some police-brotherhood thing. Maybe I had been on the politically correct West Coast for too long. “Doey” sounded demeaning to me. Catching myself before I did anything stupid, I looked around the corner of the cubicle and tried to observe their interaction impartially.

  The guy might have been a wise-ass, but there was no hint of the tension I had seen between her and Dwayne, the bad cop we had taken down several weeks ago. Before they could reach her desk, she rose and led them to a stainless steel table that held several evidence boxes. I caught her eye as she talked to the men and waited while she steered them around the table so they had their backs to me. I made a motion with my hand indicating that I would call her later and slid toward the door.

  One of the men must have heard me and started to turn, but Justine took something out of one of the boxes and started talking. It distracted him enough for me to make a clean escape. It wasn’t lost on me that I was escaping from a police lab, but I didn’t want to endanger Justine’s position by being there.

  Once I was out of the building, I moved to the side of the entrance and caught my breath. Thinking about the time and knowing that Martinez would be all over me for a report on my schedule, I decided to head back to Homestead and my house on Adams Key.

  Something nagged at me as I pulled out of the lot and wove my way toward the Palmetto Expressway. On the highway I saw the exit for the 836 and, without thinking, turned onto the eastbound ramp and headed to the beach. I didn’t know if the dive shop would be open this late but decided the short detour was worth the risk. I had thought about taking the trip down to Key Largo to see T. J., but that was going to be a four-hour round trip, plus whatever time I spent there. I didn’t have the better part of a day.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was over the causeway and turned right onto Alton Road. I pulled into the marina and parked near the building where the dive shop was located. As I got out of the car, I noticed the lights were on in the store. I reached the door only to find it locked and walked over to the window, where I could see inside. There were three rows of chairs set up with their backs toward me. I quickly counted a dozen people. The man who had identified Abbey stood in front of them writing on a whiteboard.

  I waited until he seemed to pause and knocked on the glass. After shooting me an annoyed look, he came to the door. Sometimes my uniform has its advantages and a few minutes later, I was sitting in the back row of the makeshift classroom. I had gotten a reluctant agreement to talk, but he was adamant about finishing his class. After listening for a few minutes, I guessed this was the first class in the open water certification course, a deduction I was able to make by sneaking a look at the book in the lap of the man next to me.

  “And the first rule of diving is to never hold your breath,” the instructor said, pointing at the words on the board as he spoke them.

  He had my attention now and I listened intently as he reviewed the basics of diving. When I glanced at my watch I saw it was already nine o’clock. What I had thought was fifteen minutes had been close to an hour. I looked back up and saw he was assigning homework. The class broke up and I waited patiently while he spent time answering the students’ questions. It was a mixed bag of people: a father and daughter, two middle-aged women, a group of thirty-somethings, and a few scattered men. After he finished with the last question and said goodbye to the students, I approached.

  “Well, Detective, ready to learn to scuba?”

  I decided that detective was a little less pretentious than special agent and let it go. “Actually yes, but that’s not why I’m here.” I could see him shut down and cursed myself for my bedside manner. “Some diving questions really,” I said, trying to climb out of the hole I had dug.

  “Sure thing. Any luck with Abbey?”

  “That’s why I’m here. Was
she a good diver?”

  He paused for a minute, thinking about how to answer the question. “Good diver is a relative term. There are all kinds of divers and types of dives. She was good at what she did, but I have no idea how she was in open water.”

  I nodded. All I had wanted to know was that she wasn’t a rookie. “I heard you talking about not holding your breath when you’re diving. Would that apply in shallow water, like when she was cleaning a boat bottom?” I ran my theory past him.

  He thought for a minute. “I’d think it doubtful. I’ve moonlighted and cleaned my share of hulls. It’s harder than you’d think, but the maximum draft of most boats is less than ten feet.”

  It was my turn to pause. He bailed me out. “If you tell me what you found, I may be able to piece it together.”

  “Overinflation of the lungs.”

  “Really? That’s exactly what happens when you hold your breath at depth and ascend, but I can’t see it happening from ten feet or less.”

  “Any other ideas?”

  He walked toward a rack of gear and lifted what I guessed was a regulator from a display. “These have been known to jam and can free-flow, but she was pretty good about getting her gear serviced.”

  I took the mouthpiece from him and turned it in my hand. It was evident how it worked. “Couldn’t she just spit it out?”

  “You’d think so, but strange things happen underwater.”

  It wasn’t hard to imagine what he was talking about and I had the image of a hand holding the mouthpiece in place. “Is there a way to make it . . .” I paused, trying to remember the words. “Free flow?”

  He took the regulator and went toward the back room. I followed him to the tank-filling station, where he took a tank and screwed the fitting on the regulator to the valve. “This is the first stage and controls the pressure going to the hoses.” He showed me the high-pressure line feeding the gauges and the low-pressure hose with a quick disconnect that supplied air to the buoyancy compensator. “These are both regulators. One’s a primary and the other we call an octopus, which is used to supply emergency air to another diver.”

  “She didn’t have one of those.”

  “I wouldn’t expect her to. Cleaning hulls you usually dive alone, and the extra gear is just something else to get in the way.”

  He turned on the tank valve, picked up the primary regulator, and pushed a round button set on its face. Air rushed out of the mouthpiece. I was surprised at the force and set my hand by the outlet to feel the flow. It seemed that if this were stuck in your mouth, it could do the damage Sid had pointed out.

  “That answer your question?”

  “It does.” I thanked him and left the store, thinking I had found the real cause of death and there was indeed foul play involved. Now I needed a motive.

  14

  Walking out of the dive shop, I noticed the storefront next door. Pictures of all kinds of boats for sale plastered the windows, and I scanned the listings. The divorce thing had me curious about how much the Big Bang was worth. Maybe putting a dollar value on it would justify the backstabbing I had witnessed, or even the death of a young woman, though I doubted it. As I moved closer to the door, the boats turned from smaller vessels to yachts, and the prices went from five figures to six and then seven. It was in the latter price range that I found the Big Bang. The Selene 60 was listed at 1.8 million dollars. It wasn’t worth a dead body but sure explained a lot. Plenty of people have been killed for a lot less.

  I walked past the bar on the way to the parking lot and wasn’t the least bit surprised when I saw my favorite couple sitting together. In fact, not much had changed since that afternoon except the bartender. I stood off to the side by a stuccoed column thinking I was out of sight. As it turns out, a uniform is a magnet, and before I could react, I saw Brenda’s eyes locked on to me. I thought about making a run for it. That plan had no legs and mine started to tremble as she sauntered toward me.

  There wasn’t even the remote possibility that she was heading anywhere else. Despite a slight sway, she was moving on an intercept path with my position. She clearly hadn’t sobered up since our earlier introduction, which was the reason I didn’t want an encounter now.

  I’d had a bouncer’s lifetime’s worth of dealing with people on drugs and alcohol out west. You would think a beautiful remote wilderness would be overrun with Sierra Club–card-carrying do-gooders. My experience proved otherwise. There were the random hikers and fly fishermen, but the forest was full of people up to no good. Miners, pot growers, and poachers all seemed to get their courage from drugs and alcohol. An encounter with an inebriated person was inherently risky and the woman approaching me was no different.

  “My favorite officer,” she cooed.

  I instinctively took a step back, trying to anticipate her next move. It almost put me out of her reach, but when she tripped and fell forward, whether by accident or design, I found her in my arms. When she looked up at me, I knew I had been played. I tried to lean her against the column and escape her grasp, only to find her falling into me again, this time using her breasts to cushion the blow.

  “Brenda,” I started, trying to remember her last name. “Maybe you should go back to your boat and sleep it off.”

  “Maybe you should walk me back.”

  I looked back toward the bar and saw Gordy watching us. Her invitation had one purpose for her and another for me, and I weighed the potential gain versus the risk. She had started to give me a tour of the boat earlier, only we were interrupted. This might be a chance to have a look without the inconvenience of a search warrant. After all, if I was invited aboard, there should be no repercussions. Her next move warned me of the risk, and I backed away. Before I could escape, she was on me again, pressing all her assets into me. Surprisingly it was Gordy who saved me.

  “A few drinks and she gets the Brenda Braves. I’ll take it from here,” he said, grabbing her around the waist and leading her away. Suddenly, she crumpled like a rag doll. He looked at me and I knew I wasn’t done. “A little help?”

  There was nothing I could do but provide assistance. Together we half carried, half dragged Brenda to the boat. I was close to suggesting we use one of the wheelbarrows. It took both of us to haul her dead weight over the gunwales. Once aboard, we dumped her on the couch in the salon and stood looking at each other.

  “Anything new about Abbey?” he asked.

  I looked around the salon. It wasn’t how I had planned on getting in, but I was there and didn’t want to squander the chance. “It’s being ruled an accidental death,” I said. It was the truth until I could get to Sid with the information I had just learned at the dive shop. I studied his face as I said it. There was no indication that he was relieved or surprised.

  “This can be a dangerous business. Working underwater in a busy marina. Sometimes, they forget you’re there.”

  I remembered the A-frame signs in his office warning that Bottoms Up Boat Cleaning was at work. “Don’t the signs help?”

  “People are idiots. There’s a lot of alcohol running around these places too,” he said, looking over at Brenda on the couch.

  “How’s business?” I wanted to draw him out about his own financial situation.

  “Summer in Miami, I’m surprised anyone’s even here. Look around. At least half these yachts won’t see their owners until December.”

  “Must be bad for business.”

  “Not really. You know what they say about boats: a hole in the water that you throw money into. Unless they haul them out, they need their bottoms cleaned at least twice a year. Paying one of my ladies is a whole lot cheaper than dry dock.”

  “So, it’s usually the captain that schedules the maintenance and hires you?”

  “On the big boys, yes. Some of the smaller boats, the owner takes care of maintenance themselves. Charter captains are good customers as well. We try and steer clear of the sailboats though. Keels are hell to clean, and the owners are tightwads.”


  “Who booked the cleaning for this boat?”

  “Gabe takes care of everything. I’m not sure why Brenda’s showing such an interest in it.”

  I thought he had something to say and waited, keeping my mouth closed, knowing people had a tendency to keep talking to fill a void. He was already on a roll. Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

  “If that’s all, it’s been a long one.”

  He was hiding something, but it could have just as easily been unreported income as something to do with Abbey’s death.

  Surprisingly he went to the door and opened it. I was sure he was going to wait for me to leave first, but he stepped out and a minute later I felt the boat shift when he climbed onto the dock. I watched him walk down the dock until he was out of sight. Brenda appeared to be asleep on the settee, leaving me essentially alone. Reviewing the laws on searches, I deemed that I had been invited aboard and a quick look around was entirely legal.

  I had tried to watch Justine work with an unbiased eye and, knowing she was thorough, attempted to work as she would have. Not expecting to find forensic evidence, I wasn’t worried about gloves and documenting every step I took. Looking around, I doubted there was much to be learned in the salon. Instead I decided to search the rest of the boat. Forward and to port was a stairway that went down to the staterooms. To starboard was a passage to the galley and helm. I decided to start with the galley and helm. I entered the small passage and found myself in a well appointed kitchen. Rich wood cabinets adorned the walls of a fully equipped galley. There was nothing to differentiate this from the kitchen in a custom home. Opening the side-by-side refrigerator, I found everything fully stocked. Forward was a settee with a large window looking out over the foredeck and bow.

  I worked my way back to the main salon. Brenda lay where I had left her and I moved up a short flight of stairs to the bridge. What I had expected and what I was looking at were very different. The starship Enterprise had fewer electronics than the array set into the polished walnut dashboard. The helm was unusual. Equipped with several joysticks, it looked more like a video game controller than a ship’s helm.