I won’t let this happen.
Not today.
“Lester,” I said, unbuckling Tiffany’s buoyancy compensator, the scuba vest that also doubled as a tank harness. “Help me get this gear out of the way.”
For me to begin CPR, I needed her lying flat, and that couldn’t happen with the tank strapped to her back. I unlatched the vest, and Lester dragged the gear and tank clear of Tiffany, allowing me to lay her as flat as possible on the rocks. Needing both hands for CPR, I gave the light to Lester and showed him where to point it.
Thoughts of preserving the scene never crossed my mind.
I tilted her head back and verified an unobstructed airway. Her chest rose and sank twice as I forced two breaths of air into her lungs. I put my hands on her sternum and did thirty chest compressions. As the rocks and coral rubble tore the skin off my knees, I continued the two-breath and thirty-chest-compression cycle hoping for a reaction, some sign that she was coming back to us.
I had almost convinced myself CPR might work, that Tiffany would take a deep breath and cough out the water in her lungs, her eyes returning to normal. She’d be her old self again, smiling and full of life. We’d all hug. Even Lester.
After five two-breaths-and-thirty-chest-compression cycles, I checked her pulse. Nothing. She remained unresponsive, but I continued.
Lester kneeled alongside me. “C’mon. C’mon,” he repeated, over and over, his breaths as loud and rapid as mine. “Breathe!”
I maintained CPR and checked for a pulse every five cycles. Not sure how long I continued, but the more chest compressions, breathing, and hoping I did, the more it became clear Tiffany wasn’t coming back. She was gone, and further effort seemed useless. By the time I gave up—by the time I had lost hope—a combination of sweat and tears ran off my nose and chin, falling onto the bloodstained rocks, my breathing quick and shallow.
One last check for a pulse, and one last time, nothing. I removed my fingers from her throat and slumped. Lester dropped the light, and it clicked off hitting the ground, leaving us in the quiet darkness. He moaned several times, bent over, and pounded the ground with his hands.
On the distant horizon, at a spot no map or GPS could pinpoint, the vast array of stars gave way to the black waters of the sea. Blurry-eyed, I glared at it for several moments. The waves continued their predictable lap against the shore, and somewhere in the darkness, a fish flopped.
As Lester moaned and pounded the rocks, I buried my face in my hands.
CHAPTER 23
I WHISPERED IN her ear, “I’m sorry.”
Behind me, Lester stumbled over the coral rubble as he paced in all directions, screaming and crying, hands flailing. My emotions welled, and patience with him wore thin. He had ignored her most of the trip, treated her like crap, and spent time with someone else. Now he was upset and crying? Again, I considered grabbing him by the neck and squeezing, watching his eyes bulge out of their sockets.
But, instead, I stared at Tiffany and counted a slow ten.
The surge washed over her motionless body as I moved the light to her face and considered her lifeless eyes. I choked back bile, despair and sadness engulfing me for the second time in less than a week. Lester vomited. With the back of my hand, I wiped my cheek.
The air pressure gauge attached to her tank registered 1300 PSI—two hundred PSI less than half full. Air streamed out of the regulator as I pressed the purge valve, indicating it still worked correctly. Her dive computer displayed the surface interval—the elapsed time since her last dive—and showed two hours and thirteen minutes, which could indicate the time since she had died. Pressing one of the buttons on the console, I accessed the data for her most recent dive. It showed a shallow dive of only thirty feet, a duration of thirty-one minutes.
Tiffany was a good swimmer and comfortable in the water. With her gear in working condition and with plenty of air, something out of the ordinary had to have happened. Drowning didn’t sound feasible.
Her body didn’t show any visible indication of an attack—marine animal or otherwise—and no signs of trauma, such as a boat strike. A thorough examination was needed to determine the cause of death.
Stop it! Tiffany had just died, and I was going into detective mode—again. Think like a civilian.
I called the police.
Securing the scene was my next priority, but what was there to secure? Lester and I were the first to discover her and, as far as I could tell, the only people around. We’d already contaminated the scene some. Shouldn’t do more.
Lester had walked over and sat on the bottom stair, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. Tears streaked down his face, but he seemed more controlled than he had been a few minutes ago.
I walked over, hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “You alright?”
He shook his head. “Of course I’m not alright.”
Like me, his emotions were also in high gear. I squeezed his shoulder.
After a moment, he looked at me. “How? Why?”
Same questions I had about Bill and Marybeth. No answers. Not even guesses. Same lousy answers, although I didn’t say them out loud.
“Let’s go sit in the truck,” I said. He needed to get as far from Tiffany’s body as possible. Plus, I wanted to examine Arabella’s car.
I helped Lester into the passenger seat of his truck, leaving the door open to create some extra air flow. He grabbed a bottle of water, poured part of it over his head, and finished off the rest in one gulp.
“I need a drink,” he said, “of something stronger than this.” He threw the empty bottle on the floorboard. “Some scotch would be great.”
I went to Arabella’s car and shined the light through the windows. Not sure what I was expecting, but I needed to do something—couldn’t sit and wait. I circled the Toyota twice and didn’t see anything peculiar.
As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Tiffany probably drowned. Although rare, it sometimes happened in scuba.
But it didn’t feel right, and the circumstances didn’t feel like a recipe for drowning.
I called Arabella.
“Did I wake you?” I asked.
“No, I have been up for a while,” Arabella said. “I felt better and was about to make a small meal. Hey, where are you?”
“This is bad.”
My voice cracked as I told her about Tiffany. The dryness in my throat and mouth made it difficult to talk, and my eyes watered over and over. Composure wasn’t easy. I mentioned that her car would be at Karpata for a while. When she asked why, I told her. She went quiet.
Finally, in a low, controlled voice, she said, “I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so. As soon as I can, I’m bringing Lester back.”
Her voice softened. “I will be waiting.”
I put the phone back in my pocket. I needed a drink, too, but water would have to do for now. Reaching through the window of the truck and grabbing my water bottle, I noticed Lester had drifted off to sleep.
How could anyone sleep at a time like this? I took a deep breath and didn’t wake him. He needed the rest. Besides, it made him easier to tolerate.
A small, one-story building painted in bright pastel colors, characteristic of many Caribbean structures, stood on the far side of the parking lot. Karpata was a frequent dive of mine, so I’d noticed the building before, but had never taken a serious interest in it.
Several tables and chairs stood scattered along one side underneath a modest-sized, dry thatched gazebo. Cacti, ranging in height from two to three feet, dotted the unplanned landscaping. The front of the building had a sliding window. I shone the light on the front. Hanging on the exterior, next to the window, was a handmade menu, and above the window was a sign that read Cado Snack.
According to the hours displayed on the outside of the window, the snack shop was open earlier today, closing at five o’clock. Using the surface interval of Tiffany’s dive computer, and working backward,
I guessed the place was open when she drowned.
Someone must’ve been here.
The only drowning case I had ever caught was years ago in Rockford. The details were a blur, but I remembered something about a jilted husband, recently divorced, jumping from a bridge. Bill and I investigated and ruled it a suicide. Every case was different, but something about that drowning and the recovery of the body gave me pause. I walked over to the concrete wall and looked at the shoreline in the direction of Tiffany. Two different drownings and two different bodies. I couldn’t describe what it was, but something bothered me.
The sirens of approaching squads wailed behind me, and two police trucks pulled into the parking lot, their pulsating blue lights washing over the area. Two uniformed officers got out of one, and James stepped out of the other and walked toward me.
He took notes as I described what Lester and I had found. Before showing James Tiffany’s body, I glanced at Lester, who was now awake and leaning on the hood of his truck. The other two officers began taping off the area as James and I headed for the stairs. I stopped halfway down.
“She’s about thirty yards north of the entry point,” I said, pointing. Seeing her body, lying lifeless on the rubble, wasn’t going to happen. Not again. Not tonight.
“She was diving alone?” James asked.
I hesitated, blue lights bouncing across the shallow waves of the dark sea. Pursing my lips, I closed my eyes and nodded.
James sighed.
“Can I get Lester out of here?” I asked. Standard procedure called for James to confirm Lester’s identity, verify the last time he’d seen Tiffany, ask him about their relationship, and a host of other investigative questions. In his current state, Lester wouldn’t be able to answer any questions, so I hoped James would allow me to take him back to the YellowRock. “I’ll be sure to bring him to the station tomorrow for a statement.”
“Yes, go ahead. We will take care of this.” He patted me on the shoulder.
“Thanks.”
James went down the stairs, turned north at the water’s edge, and began searching for Tiffany’s body. I didn’t flinch at the sound of the ambulance, sirens piercing the calm night, as it pulled into the lot. As James’s flashlight beam approached Tiffany’s body, two paramedics, carrying life support equipment and a light of their own, stumbled along the shore in the same direction. They’d take Tiffany’s vitals and verify that she was dead. A few moments later, the ambulance crew fought the darkness and the uneven steps, working a gurney toward the dark shore. My nose tingled, and my face flushed. I couldn’t bear the scene any longer. It would be etched in my mind forever—no way to un-see what I’d seen.
I ducked under the yellow crime scene tape as I walked back to the truck.
CHAPTER 24
“SO, WHAT HAPPENS NOW?” Lester asked, his voice barely audible. He slumped in the passenger seat and stared out the window as I drove us back to the YellowRock.
“They’ll need statements from both of us.” I hesitated and swallowed. “And you’ll need to identify the body.”
Lester turned to me, wide-eyed. “No! I can’t do that. Why can’t you do it?” His breathing was heavy, almost panicked. “Please.”
I took a deep breath and sighed, returning my gaze out the windshield. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” I paused, not wanting to continue, but he had to know the next step. “Since no one was around when she died, and her death probably wasn’t from natural causes, there’ll have to be an autopsy.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You mean they’re going to cut her up?”
I didn’t look at him, trying to focus as best I could on the dark road in front of us. “It’s procedure. They have to rule out foul play.” The instant I said it, I bit my lower lip and regretted my hastiness.
“Foul play?” He scrunched his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”
I didn’t say anything.
“As in murder?” he asked. “Who would do such a thing?”
I shook my head. “I doubt it’s an issue. Just procedure.” I concentrated on the windshield and driving. Anything to keep from falling apart myself.
We rode the rest of the way in silence. I wasn’t eager to do the ID of Tiffany’s body but knew Lester couldn’t handle it. An autopsy didn’t sit well with me either, but it’d confirm the cause of death, which I needed to know.
Something nagged at me, but I couldn’t put a finger on it. Bill and Marybeth dead the same week as Tiffany felt like a huge coincidence.
Bill never believed in coincidences. I didn’t either.
Lester also needed to consider the arrangements for getting Tiffany’s remains back to the States. He’d need to coordinate with her parents, whom I’d forgotten about until that moment. Someone should call them.
It struck me how cold the word “remains” sounded.
Do the job while investing as little feeling as possible. I never dreamed that would apply to Tiffany.
And what about Tiffany’s son, Ozzie? Two years old and orphaned. How tragic. What would happen to him? Who would he live with? Tiffany’s folks? The father’s identity was a mystery to me, so I didn’t know how, or if, he figured into things.
Poor kid.
After a long night at Karpata and a long drive back, we pulled into the lot at the YellowRock. Arabella was on the balcony and walked to the rail as we parked. I waved and motioned for her to stay put. Lester walked down the path toward his unit, and I trailed a few steps behind.
“Do you need anything?” I asked.
He didn’t turn around. “Leave me alone.” I almost missed a step, his bluntness and resentment a distinct contrast to his earlier demeanor. He opened the door to his unit and walked in, closing it behind him with a resounding thud. Standing outside, six inches from the number five nailed to the doorframe, I considered going in and making sure he was okay but decided against it.
I wasn’t his babysitter.
Arabella greeted me with a long, tight hug at the top of the stairs to my apartment. She pulled away and stroked my hair. “What happened?”
“Looks like a drowning.” I went to the fridge and grabbed two Brights. “I can’t believe it.”
“Erika called looking for you. She is pretty upset.”
“She knows already?” I opened the beers and handed one to Arabella.
“Surprise, it is a small island. She asked if Tiffany was solo diving.”
“Thanks for reminding me. I feel bad enough already!”
She jerked her head back and blinked twice. “It is … well … it surprised me, that is all.”
“I’m sorry. Tiffany and I discussed it, and she promised not to go.” I let out a long, slow breath. “I never dreamed of anything like this.” Arabella stepped up to hug me again. “Let’s sit on the balcony. There’s something I need to tell you.” On the balcony, Arabella sat on one of the chairs; I settled on the end of the lounger. Leaning forward, I bit my lower lip in hesitation. “Please listen to me fully before you say anything.”
She said okay, and I told her about the possible sabotage of my Wrangler. Afterward, neither of us said anything. Arabella stared at me. Finally, she set down her beer, stood, and walked back into the apartment.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I am going to call James and find out about your Wrangler.”
I stood to follow her. “Please wait. It’s late. I’ll be at the station tomorrow to give a statement, anyway, so I’ll talk to James then. Besides, if you’re going to work tomorrow, you can nose around a little.”
She stared at me, phone in hand. “It means someone is trying to hurt you. Possibly even kill you.”
“We don’t know that. Not yet, anyway.” I took the phone and set it on the table. Taking her hand, I led her back to the balcony. When I sat, Arabella didn’t join me.
“Three of your friends have died in the last week, you beat up, and your Wrangler sabotaged.” She paced across the balcony as she spoke. “Do you not fin
d that a little strange?”
Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. I drank some beer and gazed at the sea, reminding myself I was retired. “A little. But we don’t know if any of it is connected.”
“But—”
“Nothing to base anything on. Bill and Marybeth murdered, and Tiffany drowned.” Not sure who I was trying to convince. Me or her.
She folded her arms on her chest. “What about your Wrangler?”
Arabella was correct, but I didn’t want to believe any of it. “Let’s see what the autopsy results are before we get too crazy.” I motioned with my head at the lounger next to mine. “Please, sit.”
She didn’t.
I lowered my voice and softened my tone. “Please.”
She clenched her fists and let out a low moan, finally sitting. “How can you do nothing?”
“I am doing something.” I set my beer on the table, laced my hands behind my head, and stretched my legs out. “I’m thinking.”
“It looks like you are doing nothing.”
“Well, it’s harder than it looks.”
“Well, I would hope so, because it looks easy.” We both took a drink of our beers. “Do not hurt yourself, Einstein.”
“Seriously.” I stood to go for another beer, stopping after one step and pressing my side.
“Your rib?”
“Yeah. It must’ve stiffened up a little from sitting, plus all the excitement at Karpata tonight.” I limped into the kitchen. “If Tiffany’s death wasn’t an accident, then there has to be some connection.”
“A connection?” Arabella showed me her empty bottle, a signal I should bring her one, too.
“Yeah, there’s always a connection between the victim, the motive, and the murderer.” I walked back to the balcony and handed her a beer. “Bill always said, ‘Find the connection, and you’ll find the motive. Find the motive, and the murderer will be close by.’”
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