Death By Sunken Treasure (A Hayden Kent Mystery Book 2) (2 page)

Two

The day dragged on. I found it difficult to focus on work. At three o’clock, Grant came into my office and asked if I had heard from Dana yet. In response, I picked up the phone, called the sheriff’s office, and asked for Deputy Diego. The dispatcher told me he was on his way into the office. She wouldn’t tell me if he was returning from Pigeon Key or just coming back during his shift. She did tell me the victim advocate had turned in her report.

“Why don’t you leave now?” Grant suggested. “Spend some extra time with Dana.”

Grateful for his suggestion, I grabbed my handbag and left the office. When I got to the town of Marathon on Vaca Key, I passed the turnoff for Dana’s house and drove directly to the sheriff’s station. Deputy Diego should be in his office by now. I didn’t expect him to share much, but anything he told me might help Dana. The woman I considered a second mother. She’d pulled me back from the brink of despair after the death of my parents. Deaths I blamed on myself. I shook my head to chase the thoughts away. This wasn’t about me, I had to do everything I could to care for Dana now.

Cold air greeted me as I mounted the steps to the heavy glass doors that fronted the sheriff’s station. The air conditioning in the office was set low enough to cause tiny beads of condensation to collect on the base of the door where the sun warmed the top step. It took a considerable push to gain entry to the lobby area. The cold inside was almost painful. I quickened my step past a row of benches attached to the walls flanking the door and walked up to an area set off by bulletproof glass. I gave the deputy who sat there my name and asked to see Deputy Diego. He directed me to sit on one of the benches while he called the deputy. I opted to stand, pacing to keep my blood circulating.

A clicking sound off to my left caught my attention. A young well-built man dressed in the distinctive green uniform of a sheriff’s deputy walked through a door. As he drew closer, I saw the name Diego etched on a white name badge over his shirt pocket.

“How may I help you, Ms. Kent?” His smile nearly blinded me. An air of quiet competence surrounded him.

“This is a little awkward,” I responded. “It’s more about how I can help my friend. I was hoping we could talk about what happened this morning on Pigeon Key.”

Brown eyes stared into mine. A flush of heat touched my face under his scrutiny. He must have seen something that made him understand my request. “Sure, come with me.”

I followed him behind the door and down a hallway constructed of cinderblocks to a large room. He led the way through a maze of cubicles, most occupied by men and women in uniform, to one that sat near a window. The natural light must be a welcome change from the harsh light coming from the fluorescent fixtures overhead. I wondered if having a desk near a window was a sought after perk. Deputy Diego indicated a chair alongside the desk and stood until I sat. He took his seat, closed a file folder that lay open on his desk and looked at me expectantly. “What do you need to know?”

“What happened? How did my friend find the body?” My face heated again. I’d seen drowning victims. I hoped Dana hadn’t found her son that way. I searched for a way to frame the question and finally settled on, “Was he…intact?”

The man’s eyes widened slightly at my words. Whatever he was expecting me to ask, that wasn’t it. He pulled a pad of forms toward him, picked up a pen, and printed something across the top. “We don’t know much, Ms. Kent.” He tapped the knuckles of one hand with the pen he held in his other. “Your friend got off the water shuttle and saw something she thought was a large trash bag under the pilings of the access ramp from the old bridge. She approached and realized the bag was a diver in a black wetsuit sprawled on his side. At first she thought he was hurt. The dispatcher said her 911 call was calm and she asked for an ambulance. While the dispatcher was taking down the information, your friend became hysterical. She recognized the diver as her son.”

The world seemed to go into slow motion. The horror of the words delivered in an almost uninflected voice conjured an image in my mind of Dana making the gruesome discovery. It took me a moment before I could form a coherent thought. Then I said, “Did he have a mask on?”

Deputy Diego leaned back in his chair. “Yes. Barely. One of the rear straps was torn and the second frayed to the point of near breaking. But the mask probably accounts for the delay in her recognizing him. Did you know,” he paused and glanced at the file folder that had been open when I first sat down, “Mike Terry?”

“No. Not well. I knew he dove. And that he was the main diver for his treasure salvage company.”

“Treasure?”

He scribbled something on the form.

“Yes, didn’t Dana tell you?”

His look softened. “She wasn’t able to tell us much. You said salvage. Had his group found something?”

I shared what information I had about the wreck and the site, which wasn’t much. And told him that the law firm I worked for would be representing his estate in the probate and Grant was named personal representative. In exchange, he told me that it looked like Mike drowned, but nothing would be final until after the autopsy. In the meantime, he would head the investigation, not the detective unit. When I had arrived, he was in the process of checking missing persons and marine reports. If Mike hadn’t dove from the shore, as many people did if they were lobstering under the bridges, then someone should have reported an abandoned boat.

While I sat at the side of his desk, he made a few more notes and then looked up. “Anything else come to mind that might be important?”

My teeth worried the inside of my lip. Grant’s words floated up in my memory. “Mike signed a new will on Friday. When he left our office, he said he was going to dive the wreck.”

Deputy Diego didn’t respond for a moment. Then he made a note and drew a box around the word wreck. “Have I helped you know what to say to your friend?”

The interview was clearly over. I thought back to our conversation. He hadn’t told me much about what happened. More about what was going to happen. Still, I felt I had enough background that I could let Dana talk without feeling the need to ask any questions. Most importantly, I knew that when Dana saw her son, a boat propeller had not mutilated his body. “Yes, thank you.”

He walked me back through the labyrinth of desks and down the hall. When we reached the door to the lobby, he slid a key card into a slot on the door, and when it clicked, he held it open for me to pass. As I stepped through into the nearly refrigerated area he said, “We may want to talk to you again.”

The door closed behind me before I could react.

Three

All I could offer Dana was an ear and sympathy. When I arrived, she was sitting on the couch paging through a photo album full of shots of Mike, most of them water-oriented, but a few taken on visits to her family home in Britain. She rotated the book in my direction so the pages faced me.

“Look. This is Mike’s certificate from when he graduated from dive instructor school.” Her finger tapped the top of the page. “First in his group. He was the best.”

Grey eyes filled with pain met my gaze. “Look at the year. He was eighteen.” She sniffed loudly and reached for another tissue.

Uncertain what to say, I whispered, “That’s quite an accomplishment. He was an amazing diver. Lots of locals have wonderful stories about his skills. Even stories about how he saved lives.”

“Hayden,” she began, “that’s the point. I don’t understand. How did he have an accident? He was too good. Diving was second nature to him.” She picked up a small framed box from the end table and toyed with it. “Something was different. Those last few weeks. Something was so different.”

I wrapped my arms around her and let her cry in my arms all the while remembering his last visits to my office. He’d wanted his will changed. Everything changed. His son was to be his only heir. Rage snapped in his eyes as he reiterated no one else was worth inheriting from him. The next day a totally different Mike walked into our office. The man was disassociated in some ways. Clearly competent, but different. What did he mean by his comment that he didn’t have much time? Did he know he was going to die? With an effort, I pulled myself back to the present. None of that would do Dana any good, and I doubted it would make any difference to her whether or not she was in his will. She wanted her son back, not his money. When Dana seemed cried out, I helped her to the bedroom and waited while she showered and climbed into bed.

The last thing I wanted to do was leave her alone tonight. “May I stay? I can make up the bed in the guestroom.”

She smiled up at me from the pillows. “No. I’ll be fine. I took a sleeping pill. I want to be alone tonight.” Her voice cracked. “He was my heart. I…I’m hoping he’ll come to me in my sleep.” Her hand reached for mine and she patted it. “Dive his site, Hayden. Do it for me. He was too good to have an accident.”

“Dana, I wouldn’t know what to look for.” I pulled back a bit and studied her face. Did she have a reason to suspect Mike’s death wasn’t an accident? “Are you asking me to look for something specific?”

“I’m asking you to look for Mike. He lived for the sea. He was more at home underwater than on top. I want you…I’m not sure how to say this…to connect with him…no…see the last things he saw…” She broke off and stared in the direction of the floor-to-ceiling sliders separating her bedroom from the walkway giving her a view of the ocean. “The police told me they were going to dive the treasure boat site.” She grabbed for my hand again. “I want a friend there first. Someone to tell him I loved him.”

Her eyes fluttered closed on the last words. I backed out of the room and waited in the living room until I was sure she was asleep. To occupy my time, I flipped through the photo album she left on the coffee table. All I saw was a smiling young man. There were few photos of him after his college graduation. I realized what Dana wanted was for me to fill in the blanks with the story of his recent life. My diving the site would be a form of closure for her. The small box she had played with caught my eye. I picked it up. It was a shadow box holding five gold coins in the shape of the letter T. When I turned it over, I saw a label on the back. It was inscribed,
A gift from the sea
. I didn’t recognize the handwriting.

I phoned Grant as soon as I got home from Dana’s and told him about Dana’s rebellion at the thought of an accident. “She told me that as far as she is concerned, it’s like blaming Mike for his own death.”

“That makes no sense, Hayden. What does she think happened?”

“Don’t know, but she begged me to dive the wreck.” I paused for a beat while he protested the plan. Then I interrupted, “I have no idea what I’m looking for, but I promised. That’s when she finally calmed down.”

Grant agreed to have me out of the office for the day after I pointed out that he was the personal representative of Mike’s estate, so the dive was work related. We typically looked into the circumstances surrounding an unusual death when we handled an estate. This was another avenue of investigation, nothing more. Grant reluctantly gave me the GPS numbers for the treasure ship from Mike’s file, cautioning me that the dive was deep.

Cappy, my friend and favorite dive captain, agreed to forego his usual day off to take me out. The sea looked like silver. I sat on the gunnels of Cappy’s boat, rocking with the motion of the waves, and reviewed my dive plan. Unless I misunderstood Deputy Diego yesterday, the police would be diving this wreck before too long. My goal was to find out if fishing line, a potential death trap for divers, covered portions of the site, or find some other oddity that could explain an accident. Anything that I could tell Dana to help her understand the circumstances of her son’s death.

I’d dived alone plenty of times. Always on a familiar site. This dive was new to me, and deep. Both Mallory and Janice, my two good friends and frequent dive buddies, were working today. I wished for one or both on a dive of this depth and complexity. To serve as dive partners and another set of eyes.

“Hey, Cappy? What kind of dive gas mix would you use on this dive?” I paused in my suit-up ritual to wait for his response.

“Same as you, nitrox.” He unwrapped the bungee cord from around my tank valve. Then his eyes met mine while he held the tank in place with one hand. “You are diving nitrox, right?”

I nodded. “Yep, I calculated it for a bit more depth and bottom time than usual. Got it at the Seahorse Dive Shop. No worries.” For a moment, I thought he was going to go for his tester. His jaw worked, then he hoisted the tank up and I turned my back to him so he could help me into the straps.

“Your friend got his dive gas mixes at The Filling Station. A guy who dives with me works there. He complained about Mike doing his own fills. Said Mike didn’t trust anyone else to do the right mixes or percentages.”

While Cappy talked, I settled myself on the gunnels of the boat, ready to enter the water. I puffed a few times on my regulator to be sure it was working, then took a quick breath from my redundant regulator. Almost ready, I looked up at the dive captain. “Surprises me they let him.” I shrugged the buoyancy vest to a more comfortable position and gave an okay sign. “Get his own fills, I mean.”

Cappy nodded, and I back-rolled over the side. The water that entered my wetsuit was cold enough to draw a gasp. I swam underwater to the bow of the twenty-three-foot boat, letting my body adapt to the shock of the January sea. Feeling more comfortable as activity and body heat warmed the water in my suit, I surfaced to give Cappy an okay sign.

“Cold enough for you?” He shouted over the gunnels.

I smiled my answer and snapped the wrist seal on my heavy winter wetsuit. “Five mil,” I shouted up, telling him the thickness of the turquoise neoprene fabric.

He laughed.

“Thought the Hayden blue color accounted for the preference.”

“That and the warmth.”

I craned my neck to get a better view of the little Chris Craft boat.

“Sound the engine if I’m not back in forty-five minutes.” No way I wanted to end up like Mike. My death would answer no questions about his.

I bent double and kicked down, following the anchor line. This far out the fickle current could be a major problem. Slack one moment, roaring the next. Sometimes even at different places in the same water column. If I stayed close to the anchor line, I should be okay. The cold made the water a deeper blue. At thirty feet, the bottom came into view. Not bad visibility for this time of year. I paused to get my bearings, keeping a gloved hand on the anchor line for stability. The bottom appeared sandy, not as rocky as I expected this far out.

Shadows announced some outcroppings of coral. Grouper and barracuda swam all around. A school of yellow tail snapper flitted their tails in unison. This would be a great place for spearfishing. I reached my hand behind me to double-check the tank attachment. A glance up told me the boat was within safe free-swimming ascent distance. So I dropped the regulator from my mouth and grabbed my safe second. I pressed the center of the mouthpiece in my mouth, purged the water from it with a burst from the center button, and took a breath. If something happened to the primary, I needed to be sure of an alternate air source.

The unfamiliar weight tugging at my hip reminded me of one more piece of equipment to check. A stainless steel auger to be screwed into the sandy bottom and heavy rope line that I would tie into the eye of the auger and use as a guide as I swam hung from my buoyancy compensation vest.

I tugged on the rope and made sure of the attachment of the auger and the freedom of my legs. Gear in order, I scanned the bottom again. No remains of a hull or scattered bits of planking marred the sand. Maybe there would be some shipwreck evidence closer up.

A quick glance up at the boat showed Cappy leaning over the side. Before he came in after me to find out why my bubbles stopped moving, I let go of the line, arced my body, and kicked for the bottom. The water temperatures were colder below. The charts told me the depth would vary from ninety to one hundred and fifty feet. The computer alarm I wore as part of my dive rig was set for one hundred and thirty feet. I needed the longer bottom time nitrox would give me, but I couldn’t risk oxygen toxicity. I understood the tradeoff. Since I was diving alone, I needed even a larger margin of safety than I would need diving with a buddy.

The computer air gauge read full. The no-decompression dive time showed thirty-five minutes. That would decrease fast depending on how much the bottom fell off. The water temperature read a cold seventy-five degrees. I shook my computer and the temperature remained the same. Hot chocolate as an after-dive drink sounded wonderful. Hot chocolate
now
sounded better, but impossible. I checked the lay of the anchor line again and swam deeper.

On the bottom, I swam about five feet from the anchor, removed the auger from the carabineer that attached it to my vest and freed some of the line. My dive plan called for a crescent pattern search, and I needed to keep my line from tangling in the anchor line. Kneeling on the bottom, I screwed the auger into the sandy bottom. When I had it down to the eyelet, I tugged on the rope. The auger held. My bottom time was down to a half hour. I figured a search of fifteen minutes on the port side of the boat and fifteen minutes on the starboard side. Even on the bottom, I didn’t notice anything to make me think a treasure ship lay here.

I swam in semi-circles, working my way out farther with each turn. Most of the bottom was sand with some coral structure, but not much. I noted the distinctive pattern of the various outcroppings so if the auger let loose, I would have references to find my way back to the boat. To the east the limitless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean rolled in front of me. To the west, well, I’d probably wash up as Mike had. If I was lucky. If I wasn’t, my body would toss in the sea or Florida Bay until there was nothing left of me to find.

The morbid thought brought me to my senses. This dive had no room for error. No time to be spooked.

Once again, I checked my gear. Everything was working and in place. I held the line loosely in my hands and continued swimming my pattern. I didn’t know what I was searching for. I hoped something unusual would catch my eye.

Dana’s voice rang in my ears. Telling me Mike was too good a diver to drown. I didn’t want to tell her that skill doesn’t matter if the sea wants you. What did I really know about the man? Not much. Not as much as I probably should considering how close I was to Dana. Dana, there was no way I could ever thank her enough for all she did for me. The thought of anyone trying to hurt her made me angry. She had a champion as long as I was alive.

While thoughts crowded my mind, I kept a careful eye on the bottom. A couple of times I spied a black grouper hiding behind a coral rock. Just beyond the farthest reach of my line, another rock stood tall, like a sentinel.

With a start, I realized it wasn’t a rock. It was part of the remains of a wreck. I dropped the line and swam over for a closer look. Several wood pikes protruded from the sand. Maybe more of the treasure ship. The mouth of something like the circular shape of a cannon covered in coral poked out less than an inch above the sand. A moray eel curled in a void among the timbers, its mouth opening and closing like a drowning victim screaming for help.

My heart pounded and my ears buzzed. There was a wreck here. No doubt about it. An old wreck, and if no one plundered it in previous generations, that meant treasure. I pulled a ragged breath into my lungs.

A buzzing noise sounded louder. I gazed around for the source. A cold finger of fear touched me when I realized the sound came from my computer alarm. I focused on my computer. My depth gauge read one hundred and thirty seven feet below the surface. Well outside of my one hundred and thirty safe depth. Worse, I almost exhausted my non-decompression time. My computer showed three minutes before decompression. I’d used almost a full half hour to run my line out.

My line. I’d dropped my line. Bubbles burst from around my regulator as I giggled aloud. Maybe somebody would drop me a line. I laughed harder.

In my euphoria, I jerked my head around and spied the rope lying between two formations, one the wreck, the other rock. It took me a few seconds to focus and a few more to decide what to do about the rope. Another burst of bubbles floated in front of my mask. I forced myself to calm down and swam to the line. I needed to retrace my route, rolling the line as I went, remove the auger, secure it, and swim for the surface.
Slowly
swim for the surface, I corrected myself. I glanced at my computer again. Almost a minute gone. No way could I do all that in two minutes.

A dull roar vaguely penetrated my consciousness. Giggles overtook me again. Maybe someone was dropping me a line after all. I looked up. The depth prohibited me from seeing the boat. I recognized the sound of a boat motor. The continuous sound meant Cappy must be furious. This time my giggle died on my lips.

Each stroke of my fins had brought me into shallower water. With sudden clarity, I realized I was suffering from narcosis. The dreaded rapture of the deep. Martini’s law. I struggled to remember how many martinis equated to one fathom. A fathom was six feet. Somehow that fact stuck. So, was it two martinis to one fathom or two fathoms to one martini. Did it matter? Right now, I felt like I was balancing my checkbook after drinking a bottle of wine. The fog in my head could cost me my life. Narcosis can kill a diver. The only real cure was ascending. Not doing mental math that was beyond me now anyway.

My fingers scraped the sandy bottom as I reached for the line with one hand while supporting myself on the bottom with the other hand. As I pushed myself off the bottom, my fingers clawed into the sand and uncovered two small rocks. I shoved them in the pocket of my buoyancy compensation vest and began to rewind the line.

Only seconds remained before my dive profile demanded a decompression stop in these cold waters. My mental fog cleared as I swam along the bottom to shallower water. I worked feverishly to rewind the line and dropped the coil over the auger head, grateful for the lack of current to fight as I rose slowly along the stretched-out anchor line. The algorithms in the computer credited me with time as I swam to shallower depths. Still I hovered within minutes of having to do a decompression stop. I considered blowing off my first safety stop. Cappy’s engine sounded sporadically now. I knew he gauged my ascent.

At seventy feet I decided to stop for a minute and see how the stop affected my decompression time. After forty seconds, I realized I needed to ascend farther up the line. At fifty feet, I stopped for three minutes. The computer nudged the outer limits of non-decompression time when I kicked for fifteen feet and my second safety stop. I stayed for five minutes, although the cold made me think of cutting the last two minutes short.

Gratefully, I broke the surface at the bow of the little boat and swam for the stern and safety.

Cappy’s face was a mask of anger. I knew I had endangered myself, but darn it, couldn’t he help me up before he started screaming?