Swimming With the Dead (23 page)

“I’m sure there is nothing else I can help you with,” he said.

“What about these notes?” I asked.  “Is there anything in these data that indicate a problem at the
Chikuzen
?  High levels of toxins, that kind of thing?”

He took the notebook and studied the entries for several minutes.  “Nothing here too unusual.  The levels are pretty much what we would expect for that region.”

“Did Michael ever talk to you at all about any concerns at the
Chikuzen
?”

“Mike was studying the reef life.  He was concerned about pollution, which, based on these numbers, was not a problem.  Just what are you getting at?”

“He’s got a note here about talking to you about dead fish,” I said, pointing to the entry.

“Yeah, Mike mentioned that to me,” he said.  “I told him that it was just an aberration.  Probably an old battery in the ship that leaked.  The data does not indicate a problem with the water quality around the ship.”

“Did you conduct your own tests out there?”

“No.  Mike actually wanted my office to help him do a complete search of the ship,” he said.  “I told him it was a waste of time and resources.  He decided to go down to Saint Martin to check on the cargo records.  I told him it was a wild-goose chase, but what the hell; I guess he could afford it.  Parents had all that money.”

“I went down there too,” I said.  “Talked to a guy named Bert Wilson, wife Rose.  Michael had talked to them about the
Chikuzen
right before he died.  You know them?”

“Now how would I know some old geezers from Saint Martin?” he asked.

“What makes you think they are old?”

He hesitated for a split second.  “It’s just an expression,” he said.

“Michael never mentioned them to you?”

“Look, why would he?  We worked on water-quality stuff, not his half-assed notions about some plot to pollute the ocean.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Look, he was one of those guys who was always looking for someone to blame when it came to the environment.  Fish die, a few fish, some parrot fish, sergeant majors.  Christ, ocean’s full of ’em.  You’d think they were an endangered species or something.  Typical academic.  Didn’t matter whether it was relevant.”  Maynard’s voice had risen an octave and his face grew tighter.

“Isn’t it your job?  To investigate any environmental concerns?”

“Sure, if it’s well-founded.  But the department is on a tight budget and my boss looks at expenditures very carefully.  This is a government-subsidized operation after all.”

“Why would it bother you that Michael was so insistent about the environment?” I asked.  I couldn’t understand his attitude.  Michael’s activities didn’t take any funds out of his pocket.

“I got tired of hearing about it,” he said, face reddening in anger.  “Sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.  Just in the damned way.”

“In the way?  What do you mean?” I could not understand why Maynard was so upset by the fact that Michael had wanted to examine the
Chikuzen
more carefully.  “Seems to me that Michael was just pursuing an element of his research.  Finding dead fish would be a part of that.”

“Just shouldn’ta been going in that wreck,” he said.  “Guess you can see why.”

“Did you know Billy Reardon?” I asked, shifting gears.

“Reardon? Can’t say I ever heard of him,” he said. “Why?”

“Dunn just found him lying at the bottom of a cliff near Soper’s Hole,” I said.  “Turns out he was the guy who broke into my room the other night.”  I was watching for some sort of reaction from Maynard.  Surprise, guilt, something.  He was either really good or totally uninvolved.

“Yeah, sorry to hear about that.  Guess you’re no worse for wear, though.”

“Do you know if Michael knew Reardon?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said.  “I told you.  I’ve never heard of this Reardon.”

“You ever heard of a Demitri Stepanopolis?” I asked.

“No!  Now I’ve got work,” he said, getting up and ushering me to the door.

I was really beginning to feel unwanted. “Thanks, Mr. Maynard,” I said sarcastically.

“Look, I’m sorry to be short with you, Ms. Sampson, but I’ve got other things to worry about besides your investigation.”

I wondered just what was more important than a dead colleague.

When I got back to the hotel, I called Mack. 

“Sampson.  How’s things in paradise?” he asked.

“More questions than answers,” I said.  I told him about being attacked in my room, about finding Reardon dead, and about what I’d discovered in Saint Martin.  That I’d been following the same trail that Michael had followed.

“Jeez, Sampson.  First you just about drown diving and then you’re almost smothered?  Maybe I should come down there.  You okay?”

“I’ll live.  Just a few new battle scars.”

“You’ve obviously got someone worried.  Think this Reardon was after the diagram?”

“It was the only thing missing when we recovered my backpack at the scene.  The question is, Why?”

“Got to be information on it someone wants.”

“Yeah.  Right now I’ve got plenty of people who might have wanted Michael dead, but no one who is connected to that diagram.  I figure that Michael had it, and someone else wanted it.  He took it from the file in Saint Martin, dove the
Chikuzen
, and was killed.”

“That’s got to be the connection to the break-in up here and Greta’s murder.  Whoever it was, was looking for that diagram.” 

“That’s what I figure.  What about the break-in at Duvall’s office?  Any leads?”

“Not much,” he said.  “Duvall’s had his people going through all the material in the office.  So far nothing appears to be missing.  One set of prints doesn’t match up with anyone who works in the office.  If they belong to the killer, he or she doesn’t have a record.  The prints are not in the database.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, guys collected some fibers and hair.  Lab says the fibers are blue, synthetic, probably from a sweater.  We’re following up, but they could have come from anywhere, maybe not even the killer.  The hairs are brownish black, about six to eight inches long, and chemically treated.”

“Really?  A woman?”

“That would be my guess, though a lot of men are coloring their hair these days.”

“What about DNA?”

“Lab’s pretty sure they will be able to get some from the hair.  Be a while.  With the hair and the fibers, we’d probably have a couple of good links to the murderer if we had any suspects at all, which we don’t.”

“Anything on the guy the janitor saw leaving the scene or the bag lady?” I asked.

“The guy checked out,” Mack said.  “Just one of the employees in a hurry to get to happy hour.  No sign of our bag lady.  Checked the shelters, been keeping an eye out in the parks, other places the homeless hang out.  She’s pretty much disappeared.  Maybe the murder scared her off.”

Before I hung up, I asked him to run a check on Demitri Stepanopolis.

Chapter 22

“Hannah,  I have the autopsy results,” Dunn said when I walked into his office the next day.  “Looks like Billy Reardon was dead when he went over that cliff.  Coroner found a deep puncture wound to his femoral artery that bled out.  He was stabbed.  Coroner said the wound was small in diameter.  Could have been an ice pick.  All the other bruises and cuts were postmortem.  None of the bleeding that would have occurred had he gone over still alive.  Guess he didn’t slip, but he did have a high blood-alcohol content.”

“Do you think Reardon had any connection to Arthur Stewart?”  I asked.  It was possible that Stewart was the one who hired Reardon.  Maybe he thought I was getting too close to the truth.  If he’d had Michael killed, I’d make sure he was exposed, and he knew it. 

“No obvious connection,” Dunn said, “though if Arthur had hired Reardon, he would have made sure that he would never be connected back to it.  Arthur is no dummy.  He knows how to protect himself.”

“What about Ralph Maynard?” I asked.

“Maynard? Why Maynard?” 

“Just a hunch,” I said.  “He practically booted me out of his office yesterday afternoon.”

“Ever think he might just resent the questions?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I’ll be checking on Reardon’s associates,” Dunn said.  “Figured I go up to talk to Clara this afternoon.  Not something I’m looking forward to.  Want to come along?”

“Yeah,” I said, resigned to the fact that I needed to go.  “Anything on that piece of pipe?”

“We got lucky.  Turns out there is only one shipyard on the island that uses that particular type.  Place called Tortola Yacht Repairs.  They think it’s the best made, tempered steel or something.  Thought we could stop there on the way back from Reardon’s.”

I showed Dunn the photo that the Wilsons had given Michael.

“Michael must have recognized someone in the picture,” I said.  “Anyone here familiar to you?  You ever heard of Stepanopolis?”

We were talking about the jewel theft when Lorna walked in with the final autopsy results and Dunn’s lunch.

“Here you go, Chief.  Coroner says to tell you there’s not much in the report that he didn’t already go over with you on the phone.  Got you a turkey on whole wheat,” she said.

“Lorna, you do take good care of me,” he said.  “Don’t know what I’d do without this woman.  She not only runs this office single-handedly, but she keeps me fed!”

“Someone’s got to watch out for you when you’re not at home.” Lorna set the report and lunch on Dunn’s desk.  “You ever notice, Ms. Sampson, how helpless some men are?”

I refrained from comment.  The only thing worse than a helpless man was a woman who encouraged it, and Lorna encouraged it.  She’d obviously made herself indispensable in the office.  Good way to ensure a job, I guess.

“I don’t recognize anyone here,” Dunn said, passing the photo to Lorna. “You recognize anyone, Lorna?”

“No, sir,” she said, hardly glancing at the photo and handing it back to Dunn.

“What connection could this photo or Stepanopolis have to Duvall’s death?” Dunn asked.

“I don’t know, maybe none,” I said.  “But it seems pretty coincidental that Michael ends up dead in the hold of a ship that he had developed such an intense interest in and that he was carrying around a photo of the man who was once the ship’s foreman.  A guy who also just happened to have robbed a jewelry store and gotten killed.”

“You mind if I take my lunch now, Chief?” Lorna said, interrupting our discussion.

“Course not, Lorna, you go ahead.”

I walked out with Lorna, planning on a quick lunch before meeting Dunn back at the office for the trip to the Reardons’.  I was not looking forward to seeing Clara Reardon.

“Like to join me for a bite?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said.  Why not.  I figured Lorna knew everything that went on in the islands.  No telling what valuable little tidbit she’d pass on.

She suggested a restaurant in an alley off the main street, a hole-in-the-wall crowded with local folks.  Lorna talked nonstop as we stood in line for lunch.  She was one of those women who carried on stream-of-consciousness conversations, barely stopping to take a breath.  Indicating three women sitting in the corner, she told me about one whose husband had died just last month.

“Already found herself another man!” she said.  “How come I’m not that lucky?”

I didn’t suggest that it might have something to do with the fact that the woman at the table was drop-dead gorgeous, five-four, a perfect size six, and looked a bit like Haile Berry.  Lorna, on the other hand, was a pear-shaped size sixteen, her dark hair in desperate need of a touch-up.  Yes, I am a cynic.  I believe that most men want drop-dead gorgeous.

By the time we made it to the end of the line, Lorna’s tray was overflowing, a half of a chicken, heaps of rice, some kind of yellow stuff I couldn’t identify, Jell-O, chocolate cake.  I opted for a chicken breast and the cake.  I’ve never been known to pass up chocolate.

“Were you ever married?” I asked as we settled at a table in the corner.

“Oh, yes.  A no-account man. I left him years ago,” she said.  “Truth is, I like it just fine not having a man around.  I like my freedom, no one around to bother me ’cause dinner’s not on the table or ’cause he has no clean underwear.  You married?”

“No,” I said without explanation.  I had no compulsion to tell her my life history.

“Smart.  I bet your job keeps you plenty busy too.  How is your case going?” she asked.

“It’s going.”

“You thinking the Duvall boy didn’t just drown?”

“Hard to say.”  I was there to get information, not give it.  And I certainly wasn’t about to confide in Lorna.  I figured half of Tortola would know the essence of the conversation by the end of the day.  I could just envision her picking up the phone the minute she walked back in the office and calling all her friends, swearing them to secrecy, of course.

She kept after it, though, failing to pick up on the fact that I wasn’t interested in talking about it.

“Who is this Stepanopolis fella?” she asked.

“Just a name and a face in a photo.  I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Yeah, I bet you have to follow all kinds of false leads,” she said.  “Most of the time things are just what they seem.  I think that boy just drowned.  And I’d bet that Reardon was plain drunk and looking for a good time when he broke in your room.  He was always whoring around.  Oh, Ms. Sampson, not that he should have thought you were a prospect,” she added quickly, blushing.

“How do you know Reardon?”

“Didn’t really know him.  Just heard things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Guy was a bastard.  Excuse my French, but he treated his family like dirt.  Guess he got what he deserved.  I wouldn’t be surprised if some jealous boyfriend or husband did him in.  He was askin’ for it.”

“Do you remember talking to Michael Duvall, or a message being on the machine the morning he disappeared?”

“No.  I already tole the chief.”

“What time did you get into the office?”

“I was in on time that day, just like always.  There weren’t no calls.”  She obviously didn’t like my questioning her work ethic.