Swimming With the Dead
Praise for
Swimming with the Dead
“Hannah Sampson is a cop, but with a twist. She’s in charge of the Denver Police Department’s dive and recovery team—retrieving evidence and investigating underwater crime scenes. For her, diving is a job, not recreation.
Swimming with the Dead
reminded me of the early Kay Scarpetta mysteries by Patricia Cornwell. I remember thinking when I read the first Scarpetta that it was going to make a great, long-lived series . . . the writing smooth, the heroine strong and yet vulnerable, the whole concept intriguing. . . . Ditto for
Swimming with the Dead
. I think it may be an even better series.”
—
Mystery News
“A likable, exuberant heroine, the fascinating world of scuba diving, and a fast-paced plot make
Swimming with the Dead
the kind of mystery that takes hold of you and doesn’t let go until the last paragraph. A terrific debut for Kathy Brandt.”
—Margaret Coel,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Killing Raven
“Debut author Kathy Brandt sets the stage for a thrilling, fast-paced series featuring Hannah Sampson, head of Denver Homicide’s Dive & Recovery Team. Hold on to your hats for this one! Packed with a wide array of characters and loads of diving know-how, Kathy Brandt’s personal experience shines through in this taut mystery. From beginning to end,
Swimming with the Dead
will keep you on the edge of your seat.”
—Roundtablereviews.com
Books by Kathy Brandt
Books Published by NAL/Penguin
Swimming with the Dead
Dark Water Dive
Dangerous Depths
Under Pressure
Swimming with the Dead
An Underwater Investigation
Kathy Brandt
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
Copyright © 2003 by Kathy Brandt
Excerpt from
Dark Water Dive
copyright © 2004 by Kathy Brandt
First digital edition copyright © 2011 by Kathy Brandt
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
ISBN: 978-1-937349-12-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Acknowledgments
Thanks to Jack Zaengle, Detective Supervisor, Underwater Criminal Investigations, for sharing his expertise about underwater forensics. To Trevor Aronson and Linda Meininger of Dive Rescue International; Lt. Tim Trujillo, Dive Team Leader, Denver Fire Department, Engine 3; Rick Leivas, Dive Coordinator, Desert Hills Fire Department; and the Mesa, Arizona, Fire Department Dive Team for sharing their knowledge about dive rescue and recovery. Any errors are mine.
Special thanks to my editor, Genny Ostentag, and to my agent, Jacky Sach. And thanks to my sisters for their faith and enthusiasm.
Most important, my deepest gratitude and love to Ron, my partner in adventure, for his advice and support and for taking this journey with me.
Dedication
For Jessi and Matthew,
with all my love
Contents
Prologue: The British Virgin Islands
Prologue: The British Virgin Islands
On the last day that he would live, he sat on the bow of the
Lucky Lady
, legs dangling over the side. He’d left the marina early, in light still muted pastel. Now the sky was saturated with intensity. The horizon brilliant with reds, oranges, and yellows spread across the glassy surface up to the water beneath his feet.
He’d had no trouble locating the wreck and tying up to the mooring. After a year exploring the waters of the British Virgins, he knew them like the rooms of his childhood. Now, he sat waiting and enjoying the fleeting solitude. The sea was silent except for the gentle splashing of the boat rocking in the water and an occasional bar jack breaking the surface as it darted after its prey.
Finally he rose. He’d waited long enough. He’d left word for the chief to meet him out at the site, an old ship resting at the bottom, right below his boat. Though not a reckless man, he was impatient. Ever since he was a kid, he’d been a solver of riddles, determined to be the first to arrive at a logical and correct conclusion. He would dive the wreck, find what he came for, and be waiting on deck prize in hand when the chief finally arrived.
For a moment he hesitated. Realized that if he were really smart, he’d keep his nose out of it. But it was too late now. Besides, he’d never been known to keep his nose out of anything.
He made his way to the back of the boat, where he struggled into his wet suit. He attached his air tank and breathing regulator to his dive vest and turned the valve to check the airflow. Good. His gauge indicated a full tank: 3,200 pounds of pressure.
He scanned the horizon. Still no one in sight. Just miles of dark, empty water. He didn’t dive alone if he could help it, but conditions here were not difficult, maximum depth seventy feet, no current.
He knew that swimming into a wreck was dangerous and that he would need to watch himself, avoid catching a hose and cutting it on jagged metal or getting lost in the maze of passageways. But he had dived the wreck dozens of times, even diving alone when he’d found no partner. He was more than a competent diver; he was an expert, having logged hundreds of hours under the water. He would make his way into the wreck, find what he was looking for, and get out. It would take less than forty-five minutes.
He hauled his equipment to the back of the boat, put on his fins, tank, and mask, took one more look around, and rolled into the water. He adjusted his face mask, pushed the valve that expelled air from his vest, and went under.
This was the world he loved—serene, slow-moving, mysterious. In moments he was surrounded by hundreds of fish, huge schools of cobia, amberjack, and yellow-tailed snapper. They brushed up against his fins and stayed just out of reach of his fingertips. Every once in a while, he reached out and touched one. As he swam toward the wreck, they trailed behind, a stream of yellow, silver, and blue.
He could barely make out the shape of the old refrigeration ship in the distance. Visibility was poor after the wind and rain of the night before. As he approached, fear caught in his throat for an instant. Every time he dove a wreck, he sensed death hovering in the cavernous, skeletal remains. The hollow structure, black against the blue sea, lay tilted on its side. The crow’s nest pointed an accusing finger out to sea, condemning whatever force destined the ship to this final resting place. Rigging lines, laden with algae, hung in eerie drapes from the mast, coming to rest on the sea floor.
The wreck was actually teeming with life, an entire ecosystem that had begun years before with just a few tiny larvae. Coral and sponges had transformed the ugly steel hull into a tapestry of color. Angelfish, sergeant majors, wrasse, and damselfish swam through portholes and around cables and beams.
Off the bow, a school of hammerheads suddenly appeared in the dim light. Their ghostly silhouettes with characteristic snouts seemed one of mother nature’s bizarre jokes. But these sharks were no joke. He’d seen one consume a huge southern ray using its head as a weapon. The hammerheads were gone before he’d had a chance to react. They never gave him a second look.
He knew there was more to fear above the water than below, but he was nervous as he hovered at the entry to the black void. Then he heard the distant whine of a boat engine. Good, he thought, some of the tension easing, the chief had made it and would be waiting when he surfaced.
He swam into the first compartment, a huge area that had been one of the refrigeration holds. It was like swimming into a bottle of indigo ink. He switched on his flashlight, illuminating a tunnel of yellow ahead of him. A turtle scurried across the beam and disappeared. Things moved in the shadows, recoiling, retracting, retreating. A moray eel slithered through the water into a hole. Anemones closed as he brushed against them.
His light found the entryway. He checked his gauge. At seventy feet, he had enough air in his tank for at least another forty minutes. Plenty of time.
He knew the route that would take him to his destination in the deepest recesses of the ship. He’d memorized the maze of companionways, crew’s quarters, and compartments from the old diagram. He swam to the opening and shined his light into the passageway. Empty and dark. He could not see to the end, but he knew that it led to another compartment some twenty feet ahead on the left; from there he would make his way farther into the interior of the ship. He knew exactly where to find what he was looking for. Another half hour and he’d be on his way back to the surface.
He was one of those divers who was completely in tune with his surroundings when he dove. He had just made his way into the next compartment when he felt it. Something out of sync. The slightest movement of water, then the flitting of a shape in the shadows. He turned and caught sight of a squirrel fish as it vanished into the gloom. Something had frightened it. He swam back into the passageway and knew immediately that another diver had entered the ship. He recognized the sound—raspy, bubbly breaths bouncing off the steel hull.