Death By Sunken Treasure (A Hayden Kent Mystery Book 2) (7 page)

Eleven

The two cops’ faces spoke volumes. The female deputy’s fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically. Her expression screamed discomfort. The male cop, obviously the more experienced of the two, seemed more relaxed. He watched Dana intently. When his eyes met mine, he gave a slight shake of his head and whispered the words, “She’ll be all right. She’s had a rough shock.”

I wanted to slap him. Dana was raving hysterically. And I didn’t know how to comfort her. I needed a guidebook, someone to tell me how to make this right. She was shouting things that made no sense. Not to me. Angry one second, devastated the next. Where was Deputy Diego? Why wasn’t he here too?

Dana took a few gulping breaths. Her head lifted from my shoulder. She ran her hand over my damp blouse and straightened my collar. The female cop picked up a box of tissues from the coffee table and handed them to her. Dana blew her nose and daubed at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Sorry for what? Losing her son, crying, the outburst? Dana’s face looked like a war zone as she struggled to regain her composure. To have something to do and to give Dana a few moments, I stood, thanked the deputies, and led them to the door. The man paused on the deck and leaned in toward me.

“The death is still under investigation. There’s a lot—”

“I’ll say. Suicide by drowning.” The words flowed from me. “No way. No diver opts for drowning. Not with an air supply on his back.” My hand chopped the air as I spoke.

He caught my hand in mid-stroke. “What I’m telling you is the case is still open. The officer in charge is working with the detectives. This is about the death certificate and how he died. Now the body can be released.” He jerked his chin in the direction of Dana’s house. “She won’t get any closure without that. Let her bury her dead son. Let the police do their job.”

A thousand thoughts crashed in my brain at once. This didn’t make sense. Why issue a death certificate if there was an ongoing investigation? The determination of the cause of death should close, not open, the case. “So, you’re saying what? That the death certificate is a convenience? Can that even happen?”

“Yeah. The ME is satisfied the death was suicide by drowning.”

The words made me wince.

“That part of the investigation is closed.”

The uncertain look on his face made me wonder if he would continue. “But, is there something else?” I studied the cop closely. He was about Mike’s age. “Did you know Mike?”

He ducked his head and avoided looking at me. “Yeah. We weren’t friends or anything. We went to school together.” A faint blush touched his cheeks. “There were other things happening. Things Mike was involved in. That’s what’s under investigation.” He turned and started for the stairs.

“Wait,” I yelled after him. He paused, hand on the railing, and looked over his shoulder. A car door slammed below us. “Will you keep her informed?”

He shook his head. “No ma’am, not unless things change. Or if we need something from her.”

I plunged my hand into my pocket and pulled out the card case I kept with me. I fished out a business card and handed it to him.

“We’re not her attorneys, but we are involved with the estate. Please keep us advised…”

The business card disappeared into his shirt pocket. “Not my investigation. I’ll pass it along.”

I paused for a beat and watched him descend the stairs. Dana still sat on the couch when I returned, her face covered by her hands. She glanced up as I entered.

Her face looked drawn, her skin the color of putty. I couldn’t imagine the depth of the pain for a parent losing a child. It flew in the face of the natural order. Children buried parents, not the other way around. A spasm of pain twisted my heart.

She plucked another tissue from the box and daubed her eyes again.

My arms wrapped around her as I sat next to her. “I’m at a loss. What can I do? How can I help you?”

She patted my hand and sighed. “You should go. I’m not going to be much company tonight.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easy. I’m here if you want to talk. If not, then I’m still here.” A snippet of psychology class returned. Suicides were calm, at peace with the decision they made. Depression ran in families. Granted, Mike’s “depression,” I made mental air quotes, could have been accident-induced.

Dana stood and walked toward the wall of windows and gazed out to the ocean beyond. Her house sat on a spit of land that gave it an unobstructed view. I watched her for a moment and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. The deputies had offered tea, but I knew Dana better than that. Coffee and Bailey’s would be what she needed. The aroma of the heady brew steamed up from the cup and filled the room. As I passed the counter next to the refrigerator, a thick legal document half-stuffed back into a manila envelope caught my eye.

Curious, I paused. The words “Notice of Collection of Overdue Mortgage” caught my eye. My heart sank. Dana’s house was at risk. The house I thought long paid for had a mortgage. And it was in arrears.

The sound of Dana clearing her throat made me jump. A hot flush rose to my cheeks. I spun on my heel, slopping a bit of the spiked coffee onto the saucer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“I gave him everything.” Her eyes met mine. I saw coldness and anger in them. “Everything. Even mortgaged my house for him.”

“I didn’t know. I…”

“He wouldn’t kill himself.” Her hand swept out and knocked the coffee and plate from my hand. Hot liquid splattered everywhere in the kitchen and down the front of my shirt and skirt. Automatically, I reached for a towel to mop up the mess from the floor. Silent tears, more disturbing somehow than the earlier loud sobbing, flowed down Dana’s cheeks. I dropped the towel to the counter and pulled her into a hug. “I’ve lost everything. My baby, and now my home is at risk. He would never kill himself. He loved life, painful as it was.” A sound like a death rattle gurgled in her throat. “The last time I saw him, I told him I wished he had never been born. He told me to be careful what I wished for.”

Twelve

Morning did not come easy. I’d been so restless, even Tiger Cat ditched me to find someplace more comfortable.

Listening to Dana last night was like peeling back an onion. Layer after layer of pain and bad solutions revealed. One after the other until finally, all that was left was the essence of the situation. Dana’s entire future was in jeopardy. The karma gods were laughing. Her worst fear, homelessness, was about to become true. My head spun. Dana had kept so much from me. Who was she protecting? Me…Mike…maybe herself.

I planned the day as I drove to work. Once settled in my office, I booted up my computer to check my emails. Grant, God bless him, had signed and scanned the opening probate documents and sent them to me. I added the death certificate and a Notice of Confidential Filing, logged on to the State E-Portal, and completed the information to open Mike’s estate. My jaw tightened. Our will did Dana no good. Not like the handwritten one. I clicked on the submit button.

I logged out of the state system and went back to my emails, grouping them by case. A strange email came to the top of the list. It had no sender. The subject line read “A A A you want this information.” I debated deleting it unread. Curiosity got the better of me. Someone took the trouble of making sure it appeared first in a subject search. I clicked on the icon to open it. A scan of the
Miami Metropolis
article filled the open page. Beneath the article, a bold hand wrote the words, “We know who you are. Stop looking.”

My mouth went dry. The handwriting matched the note from last night. I clicked print. Grant tapped on my door and entered at the same time the page spit from the printer. I reached behind me and lifted out the page to hand to him. He took the paper without a word. His face paled as he read the words.

He slid into the chair in front of my desk. A worried wrinkle creased the lines in his forehead. “This is insane. First the note, now the email.” He put the email into a file folder he carried. “Let’s hold off on opening this estate.”

My heart sank. “It’s too late. I filed already.” The pounding of the blood in my ears almost drowned out the sound of my own voice. Yesterday’s note called Mike’s death a suicide. The newspaper story and the investigation agreed. What wasn’t I supposed to look at? A cold certainty flowed through me. I would get to the truth. I owed it to Dana—and Mike.

Grant studied me. His fingers beat a tattoo on my desk. “What do you know?”

I licked my lips and rocked back in my seat. Keep it simple, Hayden. Don’t speculate. Wait for the hard evidence. Talk to the police. “I know the medical examiner’s report is going to say suicide.”

“So the note was right.” He flipped open the file folder and pulled a paper out. I saw immediately he held a copy of yesterday’s note.

I took the sheet from him and studied the writing. My hand reached for the phone, and I dialed the Monroe County Police. The dispatcher told me Deputy Diego wasn’t in yet.

“I’m calling Janice,” I said to Grant. “She might have access to the ME’s report.” With Grant listening to the conversation, I asked about the report. Then I gave Janice an abbreviated and highly sanitized version of last night’s events. I deliberately didn’t mention the note or the email. We made plans to meet for drinks after work. My story could wait until then.

Grant stared over my shoulder out the window behind me. I swiveled my head and followed his gaze. My view of the side street revealed nothing. I looked back to find him studying me again. “Why didn’t you tell her about the note?” He paused for a beat. When I didn’t answer, he said, “Don’t get involved. Something is very wrong.”

I snorted. “You think? Two wills in the space of a day, suicide or maybe an accident or who knows what else the police are investigating, and let’s not forget the ex-Mrs. Terry. The one who files a demand for part of the salvage claim and suddenly has information about the accident that left Mike a multimillionaire.”
Who had to borrow money from his mother.

“If there is any truth to Kristin’s story,” Grant said, “it will be one hell of a claim against the estate and no one will end up with anything. Let’s put that aside until we have to deal with it.”

The discussion of Kristin sparked a faint memory. I went to my file cabinet and pulled out the stack of papers Mike had left with us. “I think we have a copy of the Marital Settlement Agreement. I didn’t read it, but I’m pretty sure I saw a copy. I’m not buying the suicide theory these notes are trying to push down my throat. Not until I see the ME report and it convinces me.”

Grant stood and walked to the door. “Mike was desperate to sign the will on Friday though,” he pointed out before he left.

The computer binged, indicating new mail. The subject and sender lines were blank. This time I didn’t debate whether or not to open it. The body of the email, written in a deep red font and gothic lettering, read, “Remember what I said.”

A cold sweat dappled my skin. I did a mental inventory of everyone in the office. The timing scared me. The email arrived the minute I was alone. Was someone from my office sending them? None of my coworkers knew Mike, the details of the two wills, and the details of his death. Except Grant, and maybe Ruth, I reminded myself.

My concentration destroyed, I sent Grant a text and told him I was leaving.

I packed up my desk and headed for the car. Something fluttered on my windshield. A finger of fear danced down my spine and curled in my heart. A leaf had blown onto the hood of the car. I was a victim of my own imagination.

The engine leapt to life when I fingered the starter. Once at the driveway, I turned my car in the direction of Marathon and the ME’s office.

Even on a cool winter’s day, the temperature in the ME’s office was a good ten degrees cooler than outside. I didn’t want to think about the implications of that. The man behind the desk scanned my driver’s license and tapped something into a computer. A printer whirred to life. Ten minutes later, after much stamping and stapling, I held an official report in my hands. Nodding my thanks, I walked back to my car grateful for the relative warmth of the outdoors.

I scanned the report while I was still in the parking lot. This wasn’t the first autopsy report I’d seen, but the details of graphic descriptions of Mike’s burn scars, stomach contents, and internal and external organs made me shudder. I skipped over the four pages dealing with property. The police would have taken custody of his wet suit, buoyancy compensator, and diver odds and ends. Deputy Diego would have those details. The toxicology report wouldn’t be available for a few more weeks. Disappointing, but getting it earlier would require a miracle.

The deputy last night said the investigation was ongoing. Had Monroe County identified evidence of drug use too?

Thirteen

I drove home and called the sheriff’s office. After the usual transfer to transfer to transfer, I finally reached Deputy Diego. Before I signed off, I asked for his direct dial number and arranged to meet him at the Monroe County Sheriff’s station.

For the second time that day, I pulled into the government center. This time I parked my car in a space near the front door to the cop shop and stepped out. The fishbowl front office was colder than it had been earlier in the week. I went to the dispatcher and slid my driver’s license through the opening in the window. She glanced at the document, slid it back, pointed toward the bank of benches bolted to the wall, and picked up the phone.

A few minutes later, the soft sound of a mechanical click broke the silence. Deputy Diego stood in the doorway leading to the hallway. His uniform, stretched tight over broad shoulders, and his ramrod straight posture suggested military service. He advanced and took my outstretched hand in a strong grip.

He led me through the door and down the now familiar cinderblock corridor to his cubical section, sliding behind his desk he pointed to the chair alongside. I took a seat. A file folder sat centered on the desk, a pad and pen lay next to it.

His dark eyes searched my face for a moment. “It’s sad when this happens,” he began. “Suicide is so difficult on the family.” His hand rested on the file folder. “We could have emailed this to you. It’s complete as far as it goes, but it’s not a final report. Detectives are involved now.”

As he spoke, his gaze stayed locked on my face. The silence hung on for a long moment. When it became uncomfortable, I asked, “Why are you so sure he committed suicide?”

He drummed his fingers on the folder. “What we discussed over the phone. The circumstances of his last weeks. From all accounts, he was spiraling into a depression, cutting ties with loved ones. Cutting them out of his will.” He slid the folder over to me. “It’s all in there.”

I picked up the folder and slid the paper out. I estimated the report to be about fifteen pages of single-spaced typing. Each page was watermarked with the word “Preliminary.” I flipped through until I came to the conclusion: Death by suicide. Status: Pending additional reports. “Are you working on this with the detectives?”

“Yes.” He looked down at his patent leather regulation duty shoes then lifted his face to mine. “We hope you’ll cooperate with us and share information, if necessary.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but he continued, “We have evidence supporting our conclusions. You have the luxury of insight.” His fingers drummed once on the desk. “There are open questions that we anticipate the toxicology screen will answer. Those questions interest the detectives. Do you know anything?”

Thoughts clicked one after each blossoming into a new thought from a new point of view, like the morphing images on YouTube. “No. I knew he was in pain. I didn’t know more than that.” What good would sharing Mallory’s information do now? He was right. Any drugs Mike took would be in the tox report. “Wait. There is one thing, two maybe. I found a note on my car, and got an email with an imbedded scan. The note said Mike committed suicide. The email told me to stop looking into it.”

“Send us copies.”

My shoulders hunched in a shrug. “Sure. Why give me this report if it’s not final?”

“Investigation can change our perception of some things. But not the fact that your client’s air valve was shut off.”

That was a body blow. Was this in the ME’s report? I kicked myself for not reading it carefully before I came. No way Mike descended to over one hundred feet with his air off. He had to shut it off underwater. Why?
Unable to think of a single thing to say, I stood.

He walked around the desk and escorted me to the front of the building.

“Are you a swimmer?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not much.”

“Then you can’t imagine how hard your body fights against drowning. It’s not an easy death.” Especially if your life support is in easy reach. I shuddered at the thought, and walked into the lobby.

Torn between wanting to rush home and read the report and not wanting to know the exact contents, I placed the report on the passenger seat. Janice had suggested murder. Nothing Deputy Diego said agreed with that. A million thoughts whirred in my head. Janice had sent me a text while I waited for Deputy Diego, cancelling our proposed get-together. She was caught up in an investigation and was working late. I needed a change of venue. The time readout on the car display was five fifteen. I punched the button to place a call and said Mallory’s name. Two rings later, she answered her cell.

“Hey, just on my way out. What’s up? Want to go for a run?”

I heard the whoosh of papers fluttering and the soft clunk of a stapler as she spoke; she was clearing her desk for the weekend. I pictured her office, the floor-to-ceiling windows streaming in light over the bright watercolors displayed on her walls. Mallory had a knack for making herself at home.

“Nope, no run. I’m thinking the sun is over the yardarm, and a Friday night libation is in order.”

A throaty laugh reverberated around the cabin of the car. “When the heck did you start talking like a pirate? If you’re suggesting a drink, count me in.”

“Bad day?”

“Nah, but ready to par-tay.”

We chatted a few more minutes. I persuaded her to meet me at The Petard.

Despite, or maybe because of, my chat with Deputy Diego, I wanted to get in touch with Mike’s world. And I wanted a sense of the mood in the bar. If I believed Buddy—and that was by no means certain—then Mike bought out his partners. The bar was in its death throes without owners.

My mouth salivated. That would create some tasty scuttlebutt. Maybe even something I could share with the police.

Ten minutes later, I parked behind a freestanding two-story building set back from the Overseas Highway. The wooden sides were painted an uninviting grey and an outside staircase marched up the back of the building to what might be an apartment above. I walked around to the front. A ship’s figurehead jutted out over a massive front door. As I reached for the door handle, a car horn sounded from the road. My hand dropped and I turned to see Mallory driving her Prius into the lot at the bar.

While I waited, she slid the car into a vacant spot near the front and stepped out. Her red mini dress perfectly complemented her coloring. I marveled at how well she negotiated the uneven terrain of the parking area in her six-inch heels.

We pulled each other into a quick hug, then I reached for the carved handle of the door and held it for her to enter ahead of me. The darkness inside after the bright sunshine blinded me. I plowed into Mallory’s back, unable to see a thing. The air smelled of beer and buzzed with conversation. It took a few seconds for our eyes to adjust and make our way to the bar settling in the high stools. I rested my toes on the cool brass rail surrounding the bar.

I hadn’t been in a place like this since college. Shelves holding trophies featuring men with rifles lined most of the back of the bar and filled a shelf over a door dividing the two halves of the bar. A poster announcing a competition featuring Jake Patterson as a champion skeet shooter decorated the center of the trophies. Both sides of the door were flanked by a mirror fronted with a number of high-end liquor brands over a wooden counter.

A steel work counter jutted beneath the bar front. The bar top’s dark wood shone with years of careful polish. Bowls of pretzels sat on the sleek surface. Booths covered in red leatherette filled the sides of the room while a number of octagon-shaped tables were scattered around in the middle. Tucked in a corner was what looked like a bandstand, but tables covered the old dance floor. All of the chairs and barstools were knock-off captain’s chairs. The decor was decidedly nautical.

A hush fell over the group at the far end. A swarthy man I recognized as Jake cast a sharp glance in our direction. The wide set of his shoulders and the bulk of his arms gave him the look of a pirate. He looked right at home in the bar amid the nautical decorations. The unexpected blue of his shirt matched his eyes. He glanced over at the three men he’d been talking to and back at us. A younger man, one I recognized as Devon Rutherford, moved alongside the blue-eyed man. Devon’s sandy hair looked darker than I remembered it. He still had his swimmer’s body, all long and lean. The sight brought a return of faint stirrings of my schoolgirl crush. The two shared a look, and then the older man walked away.

“Hayden.” Devon nodded in my direction. “I’ve never seen you in here before.”

He must have seen my puzzlement. Devon was a marine archaeologist. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing behind the bar.

“Jake’s my stepfather. He’s part owner of this place. Our barmaid called in sick, so I’m covering.” He flashed a brilliant smile. “Never hurts to have a backup profession.”

“We stopped by to…remember Mike Terry.”

“I’m so sorry, Hayden. I know you’re a good friend to Dana. What can I get you?”

Mallory pointed toward a tap. “Two drafts, please.”

Devon cocked an eyebrow at her and proceeded to pull the beers. With expert movements, he placed the two mugs on coasters in front of us. “Caridad will be here soon. She’s the night bartender. Good to see you.”

I took a deep draught from my beer. The cold liquid soothed my dry throat. I preferred wine, but Mallory’s choice was good. This seemed like more of a beer place.

I brought Mallory up to date while we sipped our beers. After telling her about my trip to the sheriff’s office, I fell silent, lost in my own thoughts and not finding them comforting.

Mallory gave me a nudge. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Not worth that much.” I looked around. This was a bar made for drinking. Not one of your usual trendy tourist attractions. The majority of the patrons dressed in the attire of working fishermen. It was a place to come to forget your troubles. “Ever been in here before?”

“Nope, but you make interesting choices.” She drained the last of her beer and put the mug on the bar.

“Would you like another?” a soft-voiced woman with a heavy Spanish accent asked.

“Please, and can we get menus?” Mallory asked.

Her request startled me. Mallory rarely drank and watched her weight like a ballet dancer. I lifted an eyebrow in her direction. She shrugged a reply.

The young woman handed over menus as a group of men at the end of the bar burst into song. One of the men stood and held his mug in the air. “To Mike Terry, may he rot in Hell.” The rest burst into laughter. Jake came out of a back room, pulled himself a beer, and toasted them back. The barmaid glanced over, made the sign of the cross, said something in Spanish I couldn’t understand, and then took Mallory’s order.

When the food arrived I nearly regretted my decision not to order. The burger looked good. Almost as good as my favorite Key Colony Inn burger, despite that, I still wasn’t hungry enough to change my mind. I glanced at Mallory, who offered me a French fry from the basket that sat in front of her. The noise at the end of the bar disturbed me. From what filtered down to us, it sounded like a backwards wake. A celebration of a death well deserved, not a life well lived.

When seats opened up at the far end of the bar, I suggested we move down. Mallory, her burger and fries finished, brought her napkin to her lips. “If we’re diving tomorrow, I think it’s time we headed out. Ready?”

She had to shout the last bit when the men at the bar broke into song. The lyrics sounded like “for he’s a jolly dead fellow.” Raucous laughter followed and the buzz of voices kicked up a notch. I hesitated. “I’d like to stay a while. You go.”

She looked troubled. “No, that’s okay. I’m not leaving you here alone, girlfriend.”

“I’m fine, really,” I said with more bravado than I felt. Mallory really did look tired.

After some back and forth between us, Mallory hoisted herself off the barstool. I watched her until the door closed behind her. Then I motioned to the barmaid and indicated I was moving down to the end of the bar. She came over and picked up my half-full beer.

“Down there?” She furrowed her brow.

I nodded and slid off the stool. “Do you know those men?”

“
Sí
, they all worked for the owner on the treasure boat.”

That was exciting news. I filed the information away and moved down to sit near them, eager to listen to their conversation. One man picked up his mug and gave me a slight salute. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Devon talking to his stepfather, Jake.

Jake pulled a pitcher and put it in front of the group. They rapidly topped off their beers all the while talking about what a lousy boss Mike had been. One of the men called out to the barmaid. She went over, glancing in my direction. She came back, picked up my beer, brought it over to where the man sat, and refilled it from the pitcher in front of him. Then she brought the full mug back to me.

“Never saw you here before, missy,” the man said. “But you are a pretty enough sight to give my last beer to.” I felt flustered when he held up the now empty pitcher. I lifted my glass in thanks. He came over and took the stool next to me. “We’re celebrating the death of a friend.”

I sipped. The foam coated my upper lip. I started to lick it off, but that seemed too provocative. Instead, I planted my feet on the bar foot rail, reached over, and grabbed a napkin from the holder on the bar counter. “Celebration of his life?”

“No. He was a bastard. Fired us all last week. Even tried to take our bar away.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Sounds awful. But so was he.” He reached into his pocket, and then slapped his hand on the bar. When he lifted his fingers, a heavily encrusted doubloon remained behind.