Swimming With the Dead (15 page)

Just to the right of the steering wheel was a glove box, the latch broken.  It looked like it had been forced with a screwdriver, the marks fairly fresh—shiny, no rust.  I sifted through the contents with the pencil.  I found boat papers, a nautical chart of the BVI, and a notebook.  I fished the notebook out by the spirals and flipped it open.  It was filled with dates, locations, water temperatures, depths, visibility.  The last entry was at a place called Angelfish Reef.  There was no entry for the date Michael died.  Either he had not gotten started on collecting and recording data or he had not been to the
Chikuzen
to collect data.

I wondered if whoever had broken into the glove box had found what they were looking for.  It was possible that Lydia or even Dunn had forced the lock.  Maybe it was Michael himself, having lost the key, or Acuff looking for anything of value on the boat. 

I was putting the seat cushions back in place when one tore at the zipper, the nylon fabric rotting and dried from sun and salt water.  As I tried to pull the material back around the cushion, a folded piece of heavy paper slipped to the floor.  It was brittle and water damaged, and tore as I unfolded it.  I ended up with three separate pieces that I laid out in the bottom of the boat.  It was a diagram of a ship, a maze with every detail outlined and labeled: the location of charts, crew quarters with bunks and storage lockers, the galley with bins, drawers, and storage cabinets.  The diagram had scores of tiny symbols written all over it that indicated the exact location of the ship’s contents—eating utensils, pots and pans, food bins, linens, diesel oil, even mops.  There were so many labels that they confused rather than clarified—it was like camouflage.  I could see the three big refrigeration holds along the right side.  It had to be a schematic of the
Chikuzen
.

Chapter 13

Ralph Maynard of the Department of Environment and Fisheries was a caricature of what I would have expected if I’d been thinking about it at all.  Which I wasn’t. 

Instead, I was contemplating the Honda.  I’d spotted it about a block down from Maynard’s office, idling at the curb.  I’d walked quickly in that direction, hoping that I could get to it before the driver saw me and took off.  No such luck.  I was about a hundred yards back when I saw the guy look into his rearview mirror, slam the thing into gear, and skid around the corner. 

I’d actually chased it for about four blocks, running down the middle of the street in my Birkenstocks.  I had to quit wearing the damned things.  When I finally stopped, sweat was seeping from every pore.  I looked like I’d just stepped out of the shower with my clothes on.  I stood in the middle of the street, pulling steamy air into my lungs, and watched the blue Honda turn into a speck in the distance and then disappear.  I never got a good look at the driver, and the plate was rusted and covered in mud—only a 3 and an H visible. 

By the time I got back to Maynard’s office, my heart rate had just about returned to normal but I looked like hell.  Maynard was sitting behind his desk.  Like I said, he was working to fit the image.  I’d dated a Parks Service guy for a while.  He was what my friends called “a hunk.”  His uniform consisted of worn jeans, a flannel shirt in winter, T-shirt in summer, and hiking boots.  He worked out every day, muscles hard as the rocks he climbed.  He belonged in his rugged environment.  It turned out we made better friends than lovers.  We’d continued to climb together after the romance part ended.

The man in the chair in front of me seemed to be the Caribbean version—sporting cargo shorts and a shirt covered with yellow orchids and red parrots against a green background.  It reminded me of the curtains back in my hotel room.  Maynard was working hard at the look, though.  His clothes were spotless, pressed and just too right, like he should have been modeling for some kind of outdoor clothing catalog.  All he needed was one of those safari hats with one side snapped up against the brim.

He made a big show of looking at his dive watch, which covered a large part of his wrist.  I figured its main function was to impress the impressionable—that is, anything in a bikini under the age of twenty.  Okay, I admit to being a bit resentful.  I’ve never been comfortable wearing the damned things.

“Hannah Sampson, I presume.  You’re late,” he said, rocking back in his chair.

“Sorry,” I said as I glanced at the clock above his head. It said 3:03.  Our appointment was at three o’clock.  

“I’ve got to do some sampling over at Yost Van Dyke before it gets dark.  I’m on a very tight schedule.”  He actually pronounced it
sedual
.  Christ.

“Well, you did say three o’clock.  I’ll be quick, but I expect a few minutes of your time.”  I‘d learned a long time ago not to let some jerk walk all over me.  The more you give, the more they take. 

”As I said on the phone, I am investigating Michael Duvall’s death at his parents’ request,” I said.

“The police say he drowned.  What are you investigating?  Mike was a nice guy, but he was plain careless.  Any reasonable diver would never have gone into that wreck alone.”  He started to get up.

“A few more questions, Mr. Maynard.  I’ve been told that you and Michael worked together.  What did that involve?”

“We shared data.  Sometimes went out together to collect samples.  The Environment and Fisheries Department in conjunction with Water and Sewage has been monitoring bacterial water quality since 1988.  The government owns the seabeds and therefore the coral reef within the territorial sea, which is the area all around these islands.  The major pollutant is sewage, from land and boats,” he said. 

I got the feeling he had memorized some government manual.

“Mike was looking at the boats,” he continued.  “Obviously, with the increased number of boaters every year, there’s more waste disposal in the water.  Add to that the anchor damage and the damage from divers and snorkelers.  It all adds up to damage to critical habitats—coral reef and sea grass beds.  Mike was assessing the extent of the problem and was trying to determine the carrying capacity in terms of boating.  Right now the charter companies will put as many boats out as they can rent, and they keep advertising to promote more boating.  Then they buy more boats to meet the increased demand.  At some point there won’t be any interest because the water will be a mess.”

“Where were you the day Michael drowned?”

“Hey, I was not even on Tortola.  Was up at Yost Van Dyke, taking water samples all day.  In fact, I went up there the night before.”

“Anyone see you?”

“Hell yes.  I was with two other guys from the department the whole time.  Ask them.  Their office is right across the hall.

“I’ll do that.”  I pulled the diagram out of my pack and showed it to Maynard.  “What do you make of this?” I asked.

“Looks like the schematic for a ship,” he said, spreading the parchment out on his desk and examining it carefully.  “Where did you get that?”  He didn’t seem that surprised when I told him.

“It looks like the
Chikuzen
,” I said.

“Suppose it could be,” he said.  “Hard to say.  Could be any of the wrecks down here.  There are hundreds of them.  Maybe it’s not even a wreck.”

I pointed out the refrigeration holds.  “Couldn’t be many around like the
Chikuzen
.  Why would Michael have a diagram of her?”

“God knows.  Mike was into all kinds of off-the-wall stuff.  Interested in historical documents.  Once showed me his collection of old navigational charts and drawings of whaling vessels, some from the eighteen hundreds.”

I remembered seeing the drawings and charts in the boxes at Duvall’s office.

“Why do you think Michael would have bothered to hide the diagram?” I asked.

“Damned if I know.  Might have just stuffed it in the cushion to keep it dry,” he said, folding the diagram and placing it on his desk. “You know, you ought to be checking out the people in the boating industry around here.  They’re the ones that would be threatened by Mike.”

“You said you believe he drowned.”

“I do, but if you’ve got to look, look at the likes of Peter O’Brien.”

“Why O’Brien?”

“He didn’t like what Mike was up to,” he said.  “They argued all the time.”

“That’s not the impression I got from O’Brien.  He said they were friends.  That he was all for the changes Michael advocated.”

“Well, that’s what ol’ Peter would say.  You know the PC thing.  All he cares about is SeaSail, preserving his family heritage.  A rich kid trying to get richer.  Most of the yachtsmen are the same way.  Come down here, live in the lap of luxury.  Christ, most of ’em don’t even do their own sailing.  They hire a crew, a captain, cook.  All they do is sit on their you-know-what all day, basking in the BVI sun and living off their interest.  Same with O’Brien and the other owners.  Getting rich from tourism while the rest of us beat our heads against the wall trying to make a living.”

“Seems like tourism would be good for local folks,” I responded.

“Well, I’m not getting any richer.”

“Most of us don’t get rich; we just live comfortably and don’t end up under bridges,” I said, trying to follow Maynard’s logic.  The only common thread seemed to be an intense hatred for the wealthy.  “Seems like a good thing for the islands in some ways.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot better for some,” he said.

“How did you end up in the BVI?”

“I grew up in the Leewards.  Parents came down here from the States when I was young.  Went to college in Saint Thomas, majored in chemistry, got a job here on Tortola.”

“How long have you been with Environment and Fisheries?”

“What’s any of that got to do with Mike?”

“It’s habit,” I said.  “I ask questions.”

“I just got hired on here last July.” 

“Why here?” I asked.

“Good a place as any.  Look, I’ve got to go.”  He stood and moved around to the front of his desk.

“I’ll need that diagram,” I said.

“Of course.”  He handed it back to me.

I checked with the guys across the hall on my way out.  Maynard was where he said he’d been over at Jost Van Dyke.  That was one loose end tied up.  Maynard hadn’t been anywhere near the
Chikuzen
that morning, and besides, nothing he’d said translated into a motive to kill.  I wondered why he was so resentful.  He probably did his soliloquy about the rich to anyone who would listen.  I’d bet it was something that had been fermenting for a long time.  I knew a lot of people who thought life owed them.

I walked by Underwater Adventure on my way back to my hotel room.  James was outside filling tanks.  He remembered going diving with O’Brien that day, just as Capy had said. 

“We’d been hearing reports about a humpback whale hanging around out past Norman Island.  Don’t get to see them much in these waters.  Pete, me, Richard Head, and one of my master divers went out.  It was a real treat getting in the water with that whale.  Big fella, musta weighed fifteen tons.”

“Did you see Michael that morning?”

“No, but we’d headed south out of the channel that morning. Mike woulda been going in the opposite direction.”   

I walked down to
Blow Me
to talk to Richard Head.  He’d been thrilled to be on that dive.  “Never thought I’d get that close to a whale in the wild.  Unbelievable.  O’Brien was almost close enough to touch it.”

So, O’Brien had an alibi.  How the hell had he failed to remember that diving expedition?  Still, he could have sent someone else after Michael.  The dive would have been a good cover.  Besides, he and Arthur Stewart were the only people I’d found with motives.

I wondered about the diagram of the
Chikuzen
.  Had Michael hidden it on the
Lucky Lady
or had he simply slid it into the cushion to keep it from getting soaked by sea spray or from blowing away?  Perhaps it was just one of Michael’s diversions, used to satisfy his curiosity about the old ship. 

Back at the hotel, I called Derrick Vanderpool of the Saint Martin port authority.  He didn’t want to give me any information at all over the phone except to say that Michael had been down there.  I figured a personal appearance, badge in hand, would do the trick.  Maybe he’d know why Michael had the tattered diagram of a useless old ship.

Chapter 14

I was about to bite into a fork-full of tuna steak when I spotted the angry black man steaming into the restaurant.  He was about six-two and carrying about 250 pounds under an impeccable linen suit and tie.  I took a quick glance around, hoping that he was going to storm on someone besides me.

“Hannah Sampson?” he asked.

Should I deny it? 

“Yes,” I admitted, trying on the friendliest smile I could muster.  I didn’t think it would work.  It didn’t.

“You need to damn well stay out of my business,” he thundered.  “I am not some local yokel you can walk all over.  You better watch yourself.  I am a respected man on this island, and I know people.  I’ll have you booted out of here so fast you won’t know you were here.”

Had to be Arthur Stewart.  He seemed to believe he could remove anyone he liked from his island. “You must be Lydia’s father.”

“That’s right, and I want you to leave her and me alone.  It’s time she forgot Michael Duvall.”

“Please sit down, Mr. Stewart,” I said, in the most reasonable monotone I could muster, given the fact that I was ready to slap this overweight dictator in the mouth.

He just stood there fuming. 

“Look, we can talk now, or I’ll be camping out at your office tomorrow.  Your clients might be a bit reticent to do business with you when they realize a police officer is sitting out in your waiting room.”

He yanked a chair out, scraping it across the floor, and sat down.  By now we had the attention of everyone in the restaurant.  He waved to the waitress, who was cowering in the corner nearby.  She came quickly and took his order—a double bourbon on the rocks.  Fine.  Maybe he’d calm down a bit.