Swimming With the Dead (12 page)

“I grew up on sailboats, from little sunfish to sixty-foot sloops.  When I turned sixteen, my parents insisted I go back to the States for high school.  I didn’t want to leave them or the islands, but they weren’t giving me a choice.  They wanted me to get a good education.

“It wasn’t just financial success that concerned them.  They placed a lot of value on being well-read, thoughtful, questioning.  So I went to boarding school in the East and returned home for holidays and summers.  Prep school provided the foundation.  I went to Stanford, then to Berkeley for graduate school.  One September day, I had just begun the semester when I got a call.  My parents were missing, presumed dead.”

O’Brien shifted in his chair, took a sip of wine, trying to mask the sadness.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Hurricane.  Common down here in the fall.  When these storms threaten, the base personnel kick into high gear.  They round up charterers that are out on the water, take the boats to hurricane holes.  We use a small lagoon just east of the marina.  The boats are protected there by land and the mangroves.  Other boats are rafted together.  The idea is to keep them in the water, where they are the safest, and not allow them to be blown into shore.  Every available dockhand was busy.  The folks in the marina too, trying to find accommodations for all the sailors that had to come in off the boats.  People end up sleeping in makeshift beds in offices.  It’s total chaos.”

“Your parents were out in it?”

“Yes.  One of the charterers, a couple with their two children, was unable to get in.  They were out past Virgin Gorda with the storm bearing down.  My parents insisted on going.  They were the best sailors in the fleet, and they knew there was little chance this couple would be able to survive out there.  They took one dockhand and the fastest speedboat we had.  By the time they got out there, the wind was really picking up.  They got the family loaded into the speedboat and the dockhand raced them into shelter at Gorda Sound, getting in just minutes before the storm bore down.  In the meantime, my parents stayed on the boat, planning to weather it out aboard.  They had been in storms before and were skilled in handling the forty-footer.  They knew better than to try to bring her in.  They would have headed the boat straight out to open water and just tried to keep her directed into the wind under the power of the engine.  The eye passed right over them.  More than likely it blasted over the side along with hundreds of gallons of water and turned the boat over.  I spent a week out there looking for any signs of them.  Recovered debris, seat cushions, boat fenders, not much else.” 

“I’m sorry.  That must have been hard.”

“Yes.  But it was the way they would have wanted to die.  They were not the type to sit aging in rockers on the porch.  I stayed after that.  Got the base back in shape, repairing roofs, surveying boat damage.  Most came through intact.  In the entire region, two other boats went down, one off of Saint Croix, one off of Saint Martin.  Three people were picked up by the coast guard; four perished, my parents among them.

“Your parents must have been very special people,” I said.

“They were.  They realized early on what was important.  SeaSail and the islands were their lives.  I am determined to carry it on.  It’s the legacy they left me.”

I wondered how determined O’Brien might be.  Enough to kill to protect it if Michael’s research threatened his business?

“Wife?  Kids?” I asked.  I knew there weren’t.  This was the home of a single man.

“No.  There was a woman at Berkeley.  She tried it in the islands for a while but it didn’t work.  She was in law school, gearing up for the big time.  The pace down here didn’t match her ambitions.  And I wouldn’t leave.  Guess neither of us was committed enough to the relationship to make sacrifices.  No one serious since.  What about you?”

I gave him the ten-minute version of my past, omitting Jake, and worked him back to the real reason I was there.

“How well did you know Michael?” I asked.

“Michael and I were friends,” he said.  “I think the best kind.  We could argue heatedly for hours and come away from it respecting and liking each another.  At least that’s the way I saw it.  I think Michael did too.  His death was hard.  I know that people think I should be relieved to have him gone.  Sure, his research could have had a negative effect on my business, but I consider myself an islander and I’m concerned about the environment.”

“I read Michael’s dissertation.  What did he mean about you keeping him honest, something about the larger picture?”

“The problems here are more complex than just sailboats,” he said.  “That was one of our constant arguments.  Michael would get so focused on the sailing industry that he’d lose sight of the bigger issues.  The cruise ships are a good example.  Several years ago, one cruise ship passenger videotaped a long chain of plastic garbage bags being thrown over the side in the dead of night.  Shampoo bottles and other plastics embossed with cruise line names are frequently found on coastlines around the world.  Not to mention the damage from their anchors and oil and gas seepage.”

I could see his anger rising.  O’Brien seemed as passionate about the damage to the reef as Lydia had been.

“Even more problematic,” he continued, “is the sewage and sedimentation that comes from shore.  The reef needs water that is warm but not too warm.  It needs sunlight and clear water, free from sediment and nutrients, which promote growth of algae blooms.  Development in coastal areas means increases in sediment from excavation and increases in nutrients from fertilizers, septic systems, and irresponsible disposal, not to mention the spills from huge oil tankers.  Global warming is only multiplying the problem.  Many blame the big incidence of coral bleaching in 1998 to warmer water temperatures.”

Clearly, O’Brien had spent a lot of time studying the issues.  I guess he would.  His business depended on the quality of the environment.  But there had to be trade-offs financially. 

“Wouldn’t the regulations that Michael wanted have cost you a fortune, maybe even put you out of business?”

“It would be expensive, yes.  But the business would survive.  I’m willing to make changes in the charter business because I know that change has to occur on every level,” he said.  I’m in the process of refitting all my boats with holding tanks.  It may actually help my business.  I’m developing a marketing strategy: rent from the company that cares about the reef.  I’m lobbying other companies to do the same.”

O’Brien took my plate, refusing any help from me.  “Enjoy the view. I’ll be right back.”

I was thinking more about what O’Brien had said than noticing the view.  I wondered how much of his environmental rap was a smokescreen?  After all, he could reason with any suspicious police officer that he would not have a motive to kill Michael because they were on the same side.

O’Brien returned balancing coffee cups and brandy snifters.  A bottle of Hennessy was tucked under his arm.

“What can you tell me about Lydia?” I asked as I sipped coffee.  I was passing on the brandy.

“Oh, Lydia cared very much for Michael.  They were good together.  Directed in the same way, smart.  Her family wasn’t happy about the match.  Her father is a powerful businessman in the islands.  Tried to run Michael out, insinuated to Chief Dunn that Michael was dealing drugs.  But Dunn is a good man, not the kind to bow to authority.  He looked into it and told Arthur to let it alone.  Arthur was really angry.  Tried to have Dunn booted out of office without any success.  When Lydia found out what her father was up to, she quit talking to him, refused to see him.” 

“I got the feeling there was something Lydia wasn’t telling me,” I said.  “I wonder if it has anything to do with her father.”

“It’s possible.  When all is said and done, family is the core of life in the islands, and without Michael, it’s all she has now.”

“Do you think her father could have been involved in Michael’s death?” I asked.

“I don’t know.  It’s nothing I would have ever considered, but then Michael’s death was determined an accident.”  He was quiet for several moments.  “I suppose it’s possible,” he said finally.  “Arthur is volatile and he’s used to things going his way.  But killing?  I don’t know.”

“There are ways to arrange such things that make one feel pretty removed, maybe even not responsible,” I said.

“Maybe,” he replied, reluctantly.

“Where were you the morning Michael died?”  It was time to press O’Brien harder.

“Of course, I know you consider me a suspect.  I would have reason to want Mike dead.”

“That’s right.  So where were you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall.  My days are pretty much the same.  I usually go into my office first thing in the morning, then down to the marina in the afternoon.  I suppose that’s what I did that day.”

“I need to know.  How about you give it some careful thought, check your calendar for that day?”

“I’ll do that and I will let you know.  I have nothing to hide.  As I said, Michael and I were friends.”

It was past eleven o’clock by the time we headed back to my room.  O’Brien walked me to the door.  I could tell he considered kissing me but then thought better of it.  I had to admit I was a little disappointed.  Damned if I wasn’t attracted to him.

“Watch out, Sampson,” I whispered as I closed the door behind me.

Chapter 11

I lay in bed staring at the light patterns moving across the walls as the sun reflected on the blades of the circling fan.  A sweetly scented breeze drifted across my body.  I was determined to enjoy the sensation for a while.  It was only six a.m.  I’d stay in bed another hour.  My appointment with Edmund Carr, the other diver who had helped retrieve Michael’s body, was not until one o’clock.

So far I really had nothing concrete to indicate that Michael’s death was anything but an accident.  Maybe it was just the aftereffects of being trapped in the wreck that had my senses alert, but I knew that I had to follow those instincts.  Every once in a while my gut led me to something important.

Almost anyone could have dived into the wreck when Michael was in there: O’Brien, Acuff, Lydia Stewart, James Constantine, all were qualified divers.  I had called Lydia’s office.  She’d been at work all day the day Michael had died. 

I’d encountered only a couple of people who had motive. According to O’Brien, Lydia’s father had very real and personal reasons for wanting Michael eliminated. 

Friend or not, O’Brien himself had reasons to want Michael out of the way.  No matter what he said, he would certainly feel the financial repercussions of Michael’s findings.  He’d made a good case about being as concerned as Michael about the damage that boating was doing to the environment.  But then, O’Brien was smart.  He knew what needed to be said.

Then there was Harry Acuff.  He was distasteful in the extreme but he had no obvious connection to the case except that he’d found Michael’s body.  He was just some seedy lowlife who was sucking whatever he could from the local economy with as little effort as possible.  But neither he nor O’Brien seemed to be willing to tell me where they’d been the morning Michael had gone out to the
Chikuzen.
 

So much for sleeping in.  It was six fifteen and I was wide awake.  After a quick shower and cup of coffee down at the docks, I found Robert out in front of the hotel and got him to drop me off at Stewart Trust.  I wanted to pay a visit to Arthur Stewart.  Lydia had said he was president and CEO of his own company, which formed and administrated offshore companies, international trusts, and mutual funds.  Stewart was in the right place at the right time twenty-some years ago when the BVIslanders gained citizenship separate from the British.  Since 1984, more than sixty thousand international business companies have incorporated in the BVI.  These businesses were attracted by the ease of obtaining tax-exempt status and by the islands’ reputation as a law-and-order society.  Stewart’s was one of the first of scores of trust companies that sprung up in response to the world of international finance.  According to Lydia, her father had also made a fortune in real estate development.

Stewart’s office was on Wickhams Cay I, along with several other trust companies.  It took up a good half of the first floor.  To call it pretentious would have been an understatement.  It looked like the office of a London barrister.  Heavy brocaded curtains hung behind velvet couches in the reception area.  The burgundy carpeting was at least four inches thick.  Though perfectly suited for the cold climates of old-money London, it was stuffy and out of place in the Caribbean.  Obviously it was made to impress, and was probably effective with Stewart’s clientele.

Stewart’s secretary informed me that Stewart was not available.  I wondered if he was behind the enormous oak doors that she seemed to be guarding. 

“Mr. Stewart is in a meeting,” she said.  “Did you have an appointment?”

“No, I thought I might just catch him free.  I spoke with his daughter yesterday.  She said she was sure he’d be able to see me.” 

I was lying through my teeth, of course.  But I could tell Stewart’s secretary was one of those protective types and maybe a bit afraid of her boss.  She was in her sixties, hair tinged with gray.  She wore a brown silky suit, just a shade lighter than her skin. It was held together over a full bosom by pearl-and-gold buttons.  She was probably intimidated as hell by Arthur Stewart.  I hoped the reference to Lydia would soften her up a bit.  No point telling her that I was a police officer investigating Michael’s death.

“Mr. Stewart won’t be in the office until this afternoon,” she said.  So Stewart wasn’t lurking behind closed doors.

“I’m sorry,” I said, resorting to my most sincere “I’m a nice person who’s just trying to help” tone.  “I haven’t introduced myself.  I’m Hannah Sampson.  I’m trying to pull together some loose ends about Michael Duvall for his parents.  Help Lydia with some closure.”  It worked.

“Poor dear.  I have a daughter about Lydia’s age.  Already married, with three children.  I hope that girl can find herself another man real soon.  I’m Ruby Chalwell,” she said, offering her hand.