Dark Water Dive

by Kathy Brandt

  This was not the way I’d intended to spend the morning, but I stood on the bow, enjoying the breeze and the salt spray that misted the air. Elyse stood at the helm with Teddy. They were engaged in an animated conversation about one of Teddy’s sisters, who it seemed lived next door to Elyse’s parents near Spanish Town on Virgin Gorda. That was the way it went in the islands. Everyone was connected.

  I smelled the Emerald Queen before I spotted here. A mile down wind the stench of rotting flesh was unmistakable. She was floating low in the water, just as Trish had described it. There was no fishing gear in sight. Instead, on deck was a huge container, like some I’d seen ferried on barges. As we got closer, the air began smelling like the back of a butcher shop—dead and rotten.

  “What the hell,” Teddy said, pulling alongside as his crew threw out bumpers and tossed lines to the men on the Emerald Queen.

  The boat was loaded with shark fins; bundles three feet wide were stacked up to five feet in every available space. Each bale contained hundreds of fins, many of them rotting. Each two or three fins represented one shark. The number was staggering. This was a massacre.

  Elyse stood beside me, her dismay overpowering her anger. We couldn’t believe what we were seeing. Even Teddy was speechless. I saw Elyse whisper something in his ear, and he picked up the radio and made a call.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked, showing one of the crew my badge as I stepped on board. God knows what I thought I was doing. I had no jurisdiction with these guys, and as far as I knew there was nothing illegal about carrying a bunch of rotten fish. The smell on the ship was unbelievable. It took every ounce of my willpower to keep from heading to the rail. Not cool for the official on duty to be emptying the contents of her stomach in the sea.

  “This is a U.S. registered boat,” Elyse said, stepping on board behind me.

  “So what?” The captain had finally appeared from the forward section of the boat, upwind, the only place to get away from the stench. “We are simply transporting fish products from commercial fishermen to exporters in Guatemala. Nothing illegal about that.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Elyse said. “It is illegal for any U.S. fishing boat, even in foreign waters, to possess shark fins unless the rest of the carcass is on board.”

  “What the hell business is it of yours?” the captain asked.

  “I’m not going to let you get away with this kind of slaughter,” Elyse said, shaking a finger at him. The captain followed her as she walked around checking the cargo and cursing at him.

  He was saved by the U.S. Coast Guard cutter that was just coming up alongside. They had been patrolling a few miles away over on Saint John when Teddy made the call.

  The men on the coast guard cutter were as shocked by what they saw as we had been. The commander, Johnson according to the name under the insignia on his uniform, ordered a search of the ship. They found the hold stuffed with fins. When they opened the container up on top, huge bails of tightly wrapped fins tumbled out onto the deck.

  “There’s got to be at least twenty tons of fins on this thing,” said Johnson. “At a hundred dollars a pound, that’s four or five million dollars’ worth of fins.”

  The captain of the Emerald Queen agreed that the rotting fish was a problem. He was very upset because the refrigeration unit in the aft storage area had burned out, but he didn’t seem to have any idea that they were breaking any laws. Though what they expected to do with rotten fins was anyone’s guess.

  Commander Johnson ordered the crew be taken into custody. They didn’t resist. They clearly didn’t understand the law and figured this was one big mistake.

  “We’ll be escorting the ship back to Saint Thomas,” Johnson said. “I’ll be in touch if we have questions. But feel free to call the office. I’ll be glad to let you know how this turns out,” he said, handing me his card.

  “I’ll be anxious to hear,” Elyse said. “If you can eliminate the people who are transporting the fins to distributors, you will eliminate any reason to take shark fins.”

  “By the way,” Johnson said, turning to Teddy, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate those.” He indicated the fins stacked on the Dolphin.

  “There’s no law about finning in the BVI,” protested one of Teddy’s crew, who had expected to earn some money in this transaction.

  “It’s coast guard policy. We’re making every effort to stop the transportation of wildlife plunder. If we have to, we’ll work with your local government. We could make a case against you. But of course, we don’t want to prosecute local fishermen. We would just like the activity to stop.”

  “No problem,” Teddy said. “Take them.” Teddy would have been worried that his captain’s license might be at risk, but I could tell that it was more than that. He had been upset by the carnage he’d seen on the Emerald Queen.

  In spite of the horror, Elyse was also clearly feeling a huge sense of relief. At least for a while, the killing of sharks for their fins had slowed a bit. We’d put the Emerald Queen out of business.

  It was not even nine o’clock when I got to the office. Dunn was gloating over the fact that he had Frank Downing in custody. As far as he was concerned, Allen Robsen’s and Ursala Downing’s murderer was behind bars.

  Chapter 20

  “Not long after you went to the hospital last night, Downing just came waltzing into his house like a drunken sailor,” Dunn said.

  “He took one look at Ursala, smirked, and passed out right next to her on da bed.”

  Frank was stretched out on the cot in his cell, arm across his face. He stood, unsteady, when Snyder opened the cell door.

  “Mornin’, Frank,” Dunn said. “You be ready to answer a few questions?”

  I had never met Frank Downing before, but he could be the man I had chased through the woods last night. Same general build, though heavier than I remembered the man who had stood on the lawn. He certainly looked like he could have been running through thick brambles. His clothes were dirty, shirt torn. He was a mess. Given the nature of his art, I’d expected to find cruelty etched in his face. I wasn’t disappointed. Along with it was a smugness, an above-it-all attitude.

  Of course, he had a motive. If Ursala had taken her flirting to the next level and actually slept with Robsen, Frank may have been pushed enough to kill. It could be all about ego for him. Nothing to do with caring what Ursala did.

  Dunn and I sat across from him in the sparsely furnished interrogation room. He fingered an unlit cigarette and glared.

  “Can you tell us where you were last night?” Dunn asked.

  “Out drinking,” he said. “Went over to Road Town.”

  “Were you with anyone? “ Dunn asked. “Anyone who can vouch for you, say, between six and seven, eight o’clock?”

  “Come on, John. Do you really think I’d kill Ursala. Why? I had a good thing going.”

  “How much do you stand to inherit?” I asked, realizing that perhaps greed rather than jealously motivated Frank Downing.

  Downing shrugged, matter-of-fact. “Everything,” he said. “Ursala didn’t have any other family.”

  “When did you last see Ursala?” Dunn asked.

  “Down at the Watering Hole,” he said.

  “What time was that?” I asked.

  “Must of been around four-thirty, five. We went down there together. Had a few drinks. She started in about me not loving her. It was always the same crap. Me telling her to get a divorce, she saying she just might.”

  “Maybe you killed her before she could divorce you,” I suggested. “Good way to protect your investment.”

  “No way. Ursala would never divorce me. She threatened it all the time. Ask anyone. Once, things had been good between us, and every once in a while they still were. Ursala hung on to that.”

  “How did you tear your shirt?” I asked.

  He smirked. “Found me a cute little whore over at Road Town. When I flashed a hundred-dollar bill at her, gal got real enthus
iastic. Damned if she didn’t pull me into the bushes right there behind the bar, tore my shirt open, didn’t even bother with buttons. We rolled around under that bush for half hour. As soon as I gave her that hundred, she took off.”

  “Can she verify your story?”

  “Christ, I don’t know who the hell she was, just one of the hookers. Can’t say I’ve ever seen her before.”

  “Sounds like a romantic encounter,” I said. The story seemed a weak cover to explain the state of his clothing. Pretty coincidental with the fact that whoever I chased into the woods would look just like Frank Downing looked now.

  I thought about those statues I’d seen at the Downing house. “You know, it looks like Ursala was roughed up before she was killed. May have been raped,” I said.

  “Rape? Christ, why would I do a thing like that? I didn’t need to rape my own wife.”

  “I saw your work at the house,” I said. “Seems like rape was on your mind a lot.”

  “Those statues are statements about existence, about relationships; they are not meant to reflect approval but just the opposite.”

  Right, I thought. I’d bet it was a way for Frank to get off.

  “Where did you go after the party on the Calypso last Sunday?” Dunn asked.

  “Hey, don’t try to pin Robsen on me too, for chrissake. I had a drink with the Texans and went home.”

  “Was Ursala home when you got there?”

  “No, she was still out. I went to bed.”

  “Anyway to prove that?”

  “There was no one else at the house, if that’s what you mean.”

  Stark interrupted, asking Dunn to step outside. When he came back in, he looked both smug and relieved. He gave me a satisfied glance and said, “Found a gun, a .22 caliber. Won’t know for sure till it’s tested but looks like the murder weapon. Know where it was found?”

  Downing looked scared, confused.

  “Under the seat of your car,” Dunn said.

  “No way,” he shouted, rising from his chair. “It’s not mine. Someone must have put it there. I didn’t kill Ursala.”

  He fell back into his chair, looking numb.

  I could see where this was going. Frank had killed Robsen. Hell, maybe he didn’t care about Ursala, but he didn’t like being made a fool of. Ursala somehow had found out that Frank had done it. Maybe she’d threatened to expose him.

  She’d called me from the bar after Frank left, then headed up to the house to wait for me. He could have followed, in a rage that only rape could relieve, taking the upper hand, gaining power, control first. Then killed her to protect his financial interests, and to keep her from talking to me about Robsen. Frank Downing had plenty of motive. Why the hell didn’t I think he’d done it?

  I drove over to the Watering Hole. I needed to find out what had gone on there last night when Ursala had called. When I’d left the office, Dunn was booking Frank Downing for the murder of both Ursala and Allen Robsen. Case closed. Something just didn’t fit, but hell if I could figure out what it was. Nothing felt right.

  The Watering Hole was empty except for the bartender washing glasses. He pretty much confirmed Downing’s story. He and Ursala had been in about five. Had a few drinks, fought.

  “They were always fightin’,” he said. “One or the other of ‘em storming out. Last night it was Frank left. Ursala hung around, talking with that guy from the Calypso.”

  “Guy Pembrook?”

  “Yeah, that’s his name.”

  “Where was his wife?”

  “She came in later, looked like some harsh words.

  “Ursala made a call. I remember ‘cause she seemed kinda upset, scared maybe.”

  That must have been the call she made to me. The phone was down the hall just outside the bathrooms.

  “Could anyone have overheard her phone conversation?” I asked.

  “Don’t know ‘bout dat,” he said. S’pose someone comin’ out of the restroom coulda heard her.”

  “Did you see anyone coming out?”

  He thought about it for a while. “Jeez, I don’t know, lotsa people in here las’ night, comin’ and goin’. I saw her talkin’ real quiet into the phone. Let me think,” he said, closing his eyes.

  I could tell he was trying to visualize the scene. I did it all the time, like rerunning a movie.

  “I do remember a couple of dem women from that sailboat from Texas come out of the bathroom, with that Miz Pembrook.”

  “Frank Downing wasn’t around then?”

  “Naw, like I said, he’d already left.”

  “Did you see Ursala talk to anyone besides her husband and Guy Pembrook?”

  “Didn’t notice anyone else, but the place was kind of crowded. She rushed right out of here after she hung up the phone. Didn’t pay me for her drinks.”

  “Would you call the department if you think of anything else?”

  “Sure will,” he said.

  The Manettis were just getting into their dinghy when I came out of the Watering Hole. I flagged them down and hitched a ride with them over to Trish Robsen’s boat. I figured she deserved to know that an arrest had been made. And I still couldn’t help feeling that I was missing something. Maybe talking to her again would help.

  I settled into the middle of the dinghy next to Melissa Manetti. Don was in the rear, pulling on the engine cord and swearing.

  “Damn things never work right.” He squeezed the rubber bulb that pumps gas into the engine and tried again. The engine caught. Manetti put it in gear and maneuvered the boat away from the dock, managing to clip the corner as he headed out. No wonder these boats didn’t work, I thought. They clearly took a lot of abuse from careless or inexperience handlers, Manetti among them.

  That was when it dawned on me: Trish had mentioned the dinghy the other day. Snyder had pulled away so quickly, I hadn’t had the chance to ask her about it. Then the call from Ursala, my trip to her house, Downing’s arrest. In all the activity, I’d forgotten. Trish had said the engine on the dinghy was not functioning. So how had they gotten to the Calypso that night? And how had Robsen motored it to shore? Pembrook had said the last time he’d seen Robsen he was driving it in to shore. I was sure of it. How the hell did it end up on the beach in front of Foxy’s?

  A new dinghy was tied to the back of the Wind Runner. Thanks to O’Brien, Trish and her son had immediate transport back and forth to shore. Trish was standing in the cockpit of the Wind Runner when we pulled up. In the few days since Robsen’s death, she’d lost weight, her shorts hanging loose around her waist. And in spite of all the sun, she looked pale, gaunt. Dark circles marred her eyes. I thanked the Manettis and climbed onto the Wind Runner. Her son, she explained, had gone into Road Town for supplies.

  I told her about Ursala’s murder, Frank’s arrest. That the gun had been found, probably the same one that had killed Allen. She sank onto the cushioned cockpit bench. Finally she spoke.

  “This seems so unreal,” she said. “Like something out of a B movie. And so senseless. Do you think that Allen actually met that woman?” she asked, tearing. “God, was Allen killed by a jealous husband?” she asked, her face collapsing in hurt. “How can I ever tell the children this?”

  I wish I could say it wasn’t so, but more than likely it was. When she calmed, regained some composure, I asked her about the dinghy.

  “The dinghy?” she asked, confused.

  “The other day you mentioned that it wasn’t running.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Allen had trouble getting it started when we left the restaurant that night. It turned over a couple times but wouldn’t catch. Allen spent a few minutes checking it out. Then he yanked on the cord till the thing started smoking. We were going to leave it at the dock and ride over with the Manettis, but Allen was a little uneasy about leaving it there all night. He decided to row it over to the Calypso, not a big deal, really. All of a sudden it turned into a rowing competition with Don Manetti. We won.” She smiled, remembering. “Allen wa
s sometimes such a kid at heart. Raising an oar above his head and laughing. ‘You never had a chance,’ he’d kidded Don.”

  “Did Guy Pembrook know the engine wasn’t working?” I asked.

  “Well, he might not have. We climbed aboard the Calypso, everyone laughing. I can’t remember anyone mentioning the engine. I’d forgotten about it myself until the Manettis dropped me back here that night, but I knew Allen would simply row back to the boat. He enjoyed being on the water without the engine noise. He used to kayak whenever he had the chance. Loved gliding silently through the water.”

  Her son was just pulling up in a taxi when Trish pulled up to the dock and dropped me off on shore. I helped them load groceries into their dinghy, pushed them away from the dock, and watched as they motored back to the Wind Runner. Now that the investigation was closed, I expected that they would return to the States. Maybe Trish could begin to heal, to put it all behind her. I wondered if she’d ever again come to these islands to sail. I doubted it. I wish that I’d had better news for her. That I’d been able to tell her that her husband had been faithful.

  As I headed to my car, I spotted Guy Pembrook walking down the beach toward the dock. What the hell, a few more questions wouldn’t hurt.

  “Mr. Pembrook,” I yelled, intercepting him under a nearby palm tree.

  He turned, irritated. “Detective Sampson, how’s your investigation?” he asked, covering the irritation with a smile.

  “Looks like we got our killer. Chief arrested Frank Downing this morning,” I said, though I figured Pembrook and half the island already knew this by now.

  “Really?” He actually smiled for real this time.

  “I’ve been wondering about something, though,” I said. “You said Robsen motored his dinghy to shore that night after the party?”

  “Well, as I said before, he was heading that way.”

  “Did he have any trouble with the engine?” I asked.

  Pembrook hesitated. “Not that I recall. Why do you ask?”

  “Trish said the engine quit at the dock that night. That they were planning to get someone from SeaSail out to look at it in the morning.”