The Girl in Dangerous Waters (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 8)

by A J Rivers

  Once all the truth came to light, they discovered a connection. Like Emma, Christina had been kept in the dark throughout her childhood about the rescue organization and what it did. Her father had been a mystery to her, much like Emma's own parents. It wasn't until Spice died that she began to uncover everything her incredible father did.

  “Mr. Griffin,” she said. “It's good to see you.”

  Emma's father stood and walked up to the woman.

  “Ian, please,” he insisted. “I haven't seen you in so long. You were just a teenager.”

  Christina nodded.

  “I'm sorry I never knew…”

  Ian shook his head.

  “That was the way it was meant to be,” he told her. “From the beginning, we agreed not to involve you or Emma. It was too dangerous. You've done more for us than you will ever know.”

  Christina smiled and wiped away a single tear that slipped from her eye before turning to Emma.

  “I hope you don't mind that I came here. I'm in Florida for a couple of months, checking on some of Dad's properties. Bellamy mentioned to me you were in town, and I kind of figured that you’d be here today,” she said.

  Even now that Jonah and Anson were arrested, Emma still felt uneasy about her whereabouts being publicly broadcasted. She’d long ago deleted social media and only kept a very tight-knit circle of acquaintances. Bellamy might be effusive and up-to-the-minute, but Emma was still hesitant, still on edge. She didn't know if she would ever feel completely at peace. Not as long as Leviathan existed in the world. But she had taken those men down, and she would do it again if she had to. Ever since the incident at the hospital, she’d taken it as her mantra: ‘Let them come’.

  “Of course not,” Emma said. “But is everything alright?”

  “Yes. I found something that I think you might want to have. It's becoming clearer that my father was better at concealing things than I ever realized. Several of the properties he owned have hidden storage areas. I'm still uncovering more and going through them. Did you know about the hiding spot in the house you used to live in?" she asked, seeming to direct the question at Ian.

  He shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Where was it?”

  “In the floorboards of one of the upstairs bedrooms,” Christina told him. “I actually found it last year when there was a leak, and I had to do some repairs. I didn't think anything of the papers and things I found in there, but with everything that's been going on, I started going through everything again, and I remembered a specific envelope I’d seen. It fascinated me, and I didn't know what to think of it, but I think you'll understand, Emma.”

  “Alright,” Emma said.

  Christina handed her a thick manila envelope. Inside it was a set of car keys, an old cell phone, and a stack of papers.

  “What is it?” Ian asked.

  “When I found Elliot on the porch of the cabin where I was staying in Feathered Nest, he had no cell phone, no identification, no car keys. Nobody knew where he came from or where he was shot initially,” Emma explained.

  “That's right. You said he didn't have his dog tags,” Ian said.

  “No. And they weren't found near the porch or anywhere. But I think I know where they are.”

  Emma met her father's eyes, and he gave a slight nod.

  Two days later, Emma's hand shook as she perched on a table in the upper floor hallway of Mirna's hotel near Feathered Nest, where the man known as Ron Murdock had made his very final public appearance. Her father and Mirna stood nearby, watching silently as she opened the vent on the wall. Emma's breath caught in her throat as she reached inside, and her hand touched something hard and cold. She withdrew it and looked down at the dog tags resting in her palm.

  Mirna gasped.

  “I have an appointment to have the vents cleaned next month,” she said. “They only need to be cleaned and disinfected every few years. How could he have known they would stay there?”

  Emma shook her head, still staring at the tags.

  “He didn't,” she said. “He could only hope.”

  Later she sat with the tags resting on her thigh, her fingers idly rubbing the dark red gem that indicated that he was assigned to protect Mariya. She opened the cell phone and read through the final message ever sent from Elliot, on the day he died. Just before getting out of the car in the woods behind cabin thirteen, he sent a text describing where he left his car, asking not to be identified, and where his tags could be found. His words were clear and unhalting. They carried no fear.

  And someone had come behind him to gather his things.

  Her father sat down beside her and handed her a cup of tea.

  “He knew,” Emma said. “When he sent that message, he knew he was about to die. He didn't want his car found or his tags advertised. He didn't want anyone claiming him.”

  “Because he wanted to protect you,” Ian said. “He wanted to keep you safe and for you to know the truth. He knew about Jonah. He found out what he did. Just like he always swore to, he died defending your mother.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Now

  I'm awake early the next morning, but for the first time in a long time, I actually feel like I slept. Whether it's catharsis from talking about Greg or just sheer exhaustion, I don't really care. Either way, I have energy and a clear mind. I've already taken a shower by the time the menu slides under my door, and I take a glimpse at it while I braid my hair. Graciela comes to the door just as I'm about to walk out.

  "You look chipper this morning," she says. "Did you sleep well?"

  "I did," I tell her, but looking into her wide almond eyes makes my mood sink down just slightly. "I'm sorry if I was too personal with you about that guy."

  She smiles at me and shakes her head.

  “You weren't,” she says. “Here, try the juice this morning. It's my favorite blend.”

  She pours me a glass of juice, and I take a sip. It's delicious, and I finish it before handing her the glass back.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I think I'm going to go take a swim before the pool is overrun by beautiful tourists.”

  Graciela laughs as I dramatically swing a towel over my shoulder and head out of the room. Her simple dismissal of my prying into her relationship makes me feel a little better. Maybe I misinterpreted what I saw off the balcony. It doesn't change that she lied about talking to the man, but it's possible the conversation was innocent, and she just didn't want it to be overblown out of fear of consequences from management. I'm not completely convinced, but I'm willing to put it aside for now.

  The harsh hit of emotion that came from looking down at that water affected me more than I would have thought. Just like I told Bellamy and Eric as we were standing there on the cliff, I need to get it off my mind. At least for now. Being here on the island is a chance to disconnect from all of that and just enjoy the relaxation.

  And that's exactly what I intend to do.

  Walking out onto the brick path, I lower my sunglasses over my eyes and look around at morning coming up around the resort. I'm clearly not the first person awake. A woman jogs past me in meticulously matched workout clothes that coordinate right down to the streak of color across her shoes and the thick retro scrunchie around her ponytail. Ahead of me in the grass, a small group goes through a slow sequence of yoga poses. I look forward to swimming a few laps in the pool, then maybe venturing into the ocean later. I'm not sure if I can hope for Bellamy’s agreeing to such a slow and leisurely day, but I'm willing to dig my heels in against whatever agenda she's put together for the day.

  A wrenching scream tears through the serenity. What had felt like a gentle, slow watercolor of morning rips into sudden glaring speed. I'm running toward the sound before I realize what I'm doing, and by the time I get to the pool, the jogger is clutching the wooden post at the gate and sagging towards the ground. One hand covers her mouth, barely muffling sobs.

  “What is it?” I ask, placing my hand on her back.


  She shakes her head, curling down further against her thighs. Her scream has jostled more people, and several come toward me from the beach and down the path.

  "You need to tell me what's going on. Are you hurt?” I ask.

  She shakes her head again and manages to lift one trembling hand to point toward the pool. I run to it, and my feet skid to a stop at the edge, my towel sliding down my arm to the concrete. Forget Bellamy's agenda. Right along with any chance of relaxing.

  The body floating in the pool will be taking precedence.

  A few people rush up behind me into the pool area, and I turn sharply to them. Law enforcement instinct kicks in, and I stand my ground firmly, holding up my hands to stop them.

  "Stay back," I bark. "You can't get any closer."

  "What's going on?" a young man asks.

  "I want to see," a woman around my age says behind him. "What happened? Is someone hurt?"

  She takes a step, but I press my hand closer to her.

  "I'm sorry, but you're going to need to stay behind the gate."

  "Who the hell do you think you are?" another man shouts, shoving his chest toward me. "You can't tell me what to do."

  "Emma Griffin, FBI. And yes, I can tell you what to do, and you're going to shut up and do it."

  "Where's your badge?" he demands, his lips screwing up and his eyebrows lifting as if he thinks he's being incredibly smart.

  He doesn't know the answer to that question is that my badge is in my luggage because I don’t make it a habit of accessorizing all my outfits with it when I’m not on duty. He also doesn’t know that technically, since we’re on a private island in international waters, the FBI doesn’t have jurisdiction here. But he doesn't need those details. Instead of offering them to him, I look down at myself, then back at him incredulously.

  “It doesn't go with this suit,” I tell him flatly. “Someone needs to go to the lobby and get resort security. Right now.”

  “Emma!” I hear Bellamy shout from the path. “What's going on?”

  She and Eric push past the small cluster of people now blocking the gate.

  “Let them through,” I say. “They're law enforcement.”

  Bellamy looks at me strangely as she jogs across the concrete deck.

  “Is that applicable right now?” she mutters.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I say, tilting my head sideways toward the pool.

  "What happened?" she asks.

  We walk over to the edge of the pool and look down at the body floating across the surface. The water around her is tinted a light red from a visible wound in the side of her head. I can't see her face, but judging only by her body, I guess she's in her early twenties.

  "Holy shit," Eric mutters.

  "Yeah. I was coming out here to swim, and I heard screaming. The woman in the teal workout gear was jogging and apparently came into the pool area and found her," I explain.

  "Here," he says, shrugging out of the button-up shirt he's wearing over his swim trunks and handing it to me.

  “Thank you,” I say gratefully. "There's nothing quite like illegally taking over an investigation wildly outside your jurisdiction while in your bathing suit to put you in a good headspace first thing in the morning."

  "You're not taking it over illegally," Bellamy offers. "You're… giving the professional courtesy of identifying and offering a guiding hand during an emergency."

  "Remember that for my trial."

  "What's going on here?"

  We turn around and see a large, heavyset man in a dark navy suit coming toward us. Behind him is Alonso, as well as a woman I don't recognize.

  "Are you resort security?" I ask.

  "Yes," he nods, his Jamaican accent heavy.

  Alonso steps up beside him, his usual serenely smiling face tight with worry and his hands wringing.

  "This is Damion Campbell. Head of resort security. What's going on, Miss Griffin?”

  “I don't know the specifics yet,” I tell him. “I only just came on the scene a few minutes ago.”

  I step out of the way to reveal the body, and Alonso stumbles back a step. The woman standing with him tries to step forward, but he holds her back.

  “This is Catherine Tovar. She's another manager of the resort,” he explains.

  “Hello,” I say. I look to Desmond again. “I think it would be wise if you block off the area. I've seen several people go around the building, and I'm afraid they will be coming into the pool area soon. This probably isn't something you want them to see first thing in the morning.”

  Alonso nods almost too enthusiastically, making his head look like it's flopping rather than nodding.

  “Yes,” he says, gesturing toward the perimeter of the pool area. "We need to control access to the area. This is not an image I want plastered all over social media and associated with the resort."

  "I see he has his priorities in line," Eric mutters to me.

  "Do you know who it is?" Alonso asks before I can respond.

  "No," I tell him. "We didn't disturb the body."

  "Ma’am, thank you much for what you've done so far, but you should go with the other guests and leave the area," he says, reaching to put a hand behind my back so he can guide me away. "Please don’t allow this unfortunate accident to ruin your stay with us."

  "Has anyone called the police?" I ask, resisting him moving me.

  "The island has no police force. We only have security. We'll call into the mainland for them to send someone out here," Alonso answers.

  "How long will that take?" I ask.

  "It may take some time."

  He's still talking, but I realize Desmond has walked away and is at the edge of the pool behind us, using the end of a pool net to pull the body closer. I stalk toward him.

  "What do you think you're doing?" I demand.

  "We need to identify the body," he says.

  "Without taking pictures of the scene? Making notes? Anything at all? You're just going to skim her off the water like a bug?"

  "I'm sure he means no disrespect," Catherine pipes up, in a voice that should belong to a kindergarten teacher. "This is obviously a tragic accident."

  "How is that obvious?" I ask.

  She gestures toward the water, stammering slightly like she can't find the words.

  "She's in a bathing suit," Alonso points out. "It looks like she came out here for her morning swim, slipped, and hit her head. That knocked her out, she fell into the water and drowned. It's horrible. She deserves the dignity of not being left in the water in front of prying eyes."

  "The scene needs to be documented," I tell him.

  Bellamy comes up beside me and rests her hand on my shoulder.

  "I got a few pictures. Eric will help them get her out of the water and lay her down where she can be covered," she says gently.

  "Thank you," Desmond says.

  The flippant note isn't lost on Bellamy. She turns, flashing eyes to him.

  "And as soon as that is done, I suggest you keep Emma right here with you until the police come, and you listen to every word she has to say."

  "And why would I do that?" he asks.

  My eyes lock onto his, daring him to use that tone again. I drop my voice low.

  "Look me up."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Taking off Eric's shirt, I ease myself down into the water with him. It's cold as it rises up my thighs and to my waist. We approach the body slowly. Behind us, Alonso, Desmond, and Catherine watch tensely. After taking my suggestion, they are more willing to step back and let us manage the situation until the police arrive from the mainland. I’m glad they aren’t fighting me on it anymore. After seeing how they're willing to treat the situation, I am not about to leave this in their hands.

  Eric positions himself on the opposite side of the young woman's body. I carefully tuck my hands beneath her to roll her over into his arms. Her skin is cold to the touch, and I take note of the stiffness of her extremities. As she turns onto her b
ack, her long hair falls away from her face. The blood and water altered the color of her hair, making it harder to recognize, but now I know I've seen her face. It makes my chest clench.

  "This is the girl from the beach yesterday," I tell Eric quietly. "The one Bellamy and I were watching."

  I keep my hands under her body for more support as we carry her to the steps leading out of the pool. Desmond is doing what he can to keep gawkers away from the pool area, but he can't cover the entire perimeter, and I notice the clicking sound of several pictures being taken. It disgusts me, but all I can do right now is block as much of her as I can until we can get her covered. Eric and I carry her to an area off to the side of the deck, where a white trellis creates a partial enclosure to keep chairs and other pool supplies out of view of guests. I take a tarp from the top of a stack of chairs and spread it out on the ground to place her on.

  Bellamy comes with a towel to place over her, and I stalk out to Desmond.

  "You need to get every single one of these phones and delete the pictures," I tell him.

  "Miss Griffin," Alonso starts, trying to give me one of his charming smiles. "We can't demand the guest's hand over their personal devices. There's no need to be disruptive."

  "I don't know about you, but I find death a tad disruptive," I tell him. "There is a girl lying over there dead. Ten minutes ago, you didn't want anyone to have pictures of her in the pool because you didn't want it to show up on social media and make the resort look bad. Well, I can tell you that getting sued by her family because they found out about her death through a despicable picture being posted is going to look much worse for you. While he does that, you need to come identify the body."

  "You want me to get close to it?" he asks.

  "She is a human being," I snap. "You might want to remember that when her family comes to claim her and collect her things."

  "Excuse me?" he asks as I start back toward where the body lies. I pause and turn to look at him. "Why would they come here to collect her things?"