Black Coral Page 9

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  UNDERGROUND

  I’m deep inside an alligator’s den that its owner has just entered. In about three seconds, he’s going to round the bend and enter the main chamber. Chances are he’s coming in hot, because he knows his territory has been violated.

  I have one long, pointed pole; a dive knife strapped to my ankle; and a backup knife on my tank. None of which will make much difference against an angry reptile that weighs as much as a small car.

  I back up to the shelf and pull myself out of the water. He’ll have the same physical advantage here as in the water, but at least I’ll see him coming.

  Now what?

  When he comes, it’ll be all teeth. He’ll rip right through my arms like steak knives through veal. I feel underneath me for something to shield myself but find only small bones and sticks.

  Damn it.

  Think . . . my tank!

  I slip off my buoyancy compensation device and swing my scuba tank in front of me as I wedge myself against the chamber wall. The flashlight on my stick dangles over the edge, illuminating the water, which suddenly surges and overflows the ledge. A huge, scaly tail flips above the surface and into my light.

  Bill is in the roundabout.

  He’s spinning around, frothing up a storm. He is pissed.

  He’s also trying to figure out what’s in his chamber. Alligators don’t possess imagination or much of a functional memory. They mainly operate on senses and instincts.

  Right now, he’s probing the water for the intruder. Sooner or later, some part of his reptile brain is going to whisper—

  Splash. Bill’s head pops above the waterline. His mouth opens for an instant before snapping shut. He spins, and his tail whacks my spear light, knocking it into the water, where it creates a green glow as it descends.

  Bill’s massive body eclipses the light.

  Thrash. His head pops above the waterline and bites the air over the far end of the ledge.

  He knows I’m up here.

  I wedge myself farther back and wrap my fingers around the straps of my BC. I don’t want him to hit it and knock the tank free, leaving me completely defenseless.

  Splash. Bill’s head pokes up again. His head twists, and he lunges toward the corner where I’m cowering.

  Clang! His teeth make contact with the tank.

  Bill doesn’t like that. He sinks back into the water.

  Think fast, Sloan.

  I slide to the edge of the shelf closest to the exit, where Bill is still spinning around, blocking any chance of escape.

  I need a plan.

  Thwap. Bill’s massive tail slams into the wall as he spins around, leaving the entrance open for a split second. He does it again.

  What the hell?

  My only chance to leave is to time it between his gaping mouth and his tail, which will knock me unconscious. It’s like some goddamn video game.

  Supposing I get past him and into the tunnel, I still have fifteen feet of passage to swim through, where he could overtake me at any moment. Plus, once I’m free of the lair, he could still snatch me in the pond before I reach the shore or drag me in as I try to climb in the boat with George and Hughes.

  Worst idea ever. I’m such a damned fool.

  Some part of my brain tells me to stop going over the minutiae of my stupidity and simply act.

  Now!

  I jump into the gap, spin around, and push my BC in front of me, blocking Bill from entering the tunnel with my tank.

  Bam! His snout hits my tank and pushes me backward. What now? Hold him here until he gets bored? That ain’t gonna work.

  Bam! He pushes again. Think, Sloan.

  I need to slow him down . . . The inflatable vest!

  I pull back a little deeper into the tunnel and squeeze the air valve. A cloud of bubbles appears, and my vest fills up like a balloon, hitting the top of the chamber and dangling the tank downward.

  I yank the regulator from my mouth and turn for the exit, swimming as fast as humanly possible—which is nowhere near as fast as a leisurely alligator.

  The exit’s a small green glow ahead. I swim faster.

  A clang reverberates through the tunnel.

  Bill just hit my tank. Did he slide past it? Let’s not stop and ask.

  I’m almost at the exit. A current pushes me ahead—his massive body entering the tunnel. I kick harder.

  I reach the end of the tunnel. My dog cage has been knocked to the side. I’m not even going to try to make it in there. Nor am I going to swim for the boat. Instead I arch my back and swim straight for the shoreline shelf above me.

  My fingers claw into the mud as I kick, and I pull myself up through ever-muddier water. When air touches the back of my head, I realize I’m only in two feet of water.

  Not far enough.

  I crawl desperately on all fours until I hear voices. When I finally roll over, knife in my hand, I see Hughes about to jump out of the boat in his scuba gear.

  “Don’t!” I yell.

  There’s a surge, and Big Bill’s tail thrashes in the pond between me and the boat. And then everything goes quiet.

  A moment later, the water surges again, and my tank floats to the surface, attached to my inflated vest. The hoses have been sheared off and thrash around like angry snakes as air escapes.

  George’s calm voice calls from across the pond. “Great plan, McPherson. Great plan.”

  I pull myself into a sitting position and realize that I still have my sample bag attached to my waist, an ivory patch of bone visible through the netting.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ELEMENTARY

  Nadine Baltimore probes at the bone on the specimen table as she sprays water on it, clearing away the sediment. Hughes and George are sitting on stools by the lab bench while I lean over the fragment, getting the occasional look from Nadine that tells me to back away.

  “You found this where?” she asks.

  “You can tell her,” says George.

  After he and Hughes joined me on shore, George spent a good ten minutes chewing me out and making me feel guilty because he almost sent Hughes into the water after me.

  “He’s a parent, Sloan! How am I going to tell his wife that he got eaten by an alligator chasing after your fool ass?”

  “I’m a parent too!” I snapped back.

  “Apparently not a good one.”

  That was the blow that ended the conversation. He knew he’d struck low. It was the worst kind of insult—one based in truth.

  It’s one thing for a younger version of me to go chasing after stupidity. It’s another when I have a daughter at home who looks up to me, sort of. In the moment it seemed like a good idea. That’s the problem with us McPhersons—we do all our best and worst thinking in the moment.

  The bone fragment shut him up, but it really comes down to what Nadine says. I know a fair amount about physiology, but the markers I look for to identify species weren’t present. I needed someone smarter than myself.

  We could have taken it to Dr. Aguilló, but I’m concerned that it might not be a human specimen—which technically would be a good thing, because it means that nobody died a horrible death getting eaten by an alligator. But my credibility with George and everyone would take a huge hit.

  Through all this, Hughes has been helpful but kept his opinions to himself. I’m trying to get a read on him and still can’t quite figure the man out. George likes him and thinks highly of his skills. Part of me wonders if Hughes is here to take my place when I screw up again, terminally.

  “This appears to have been exposed to the air for a while,” says Nadine. “Where’d you find it, again?”

  “In an underground chamber,” I reply.

  “A limestone formation?”

  “Not exactly. It was more of a burrow.”

  “Oh.” She points to several indentations on the bone. “That would explain the alligator-teeth incisions.”

  And that’s the extent of her reac
tion. This is Nadine.

  George, frustrated that the other authority figure in my life isn’t admonishing me, decides to provoke the discussion. “Did McPherson tell you that the alligator was in the den when she retrieved the bone?”

  Nadine looks up at me. “That was stupid.” George gives me a sly smile.

  Wait for it, George . . .

  Nadine continues, “Next time you should bring a video camera and some other equipment. That’s really a rare opportunity. How did the alligator react?”

  “Angry. It spun around and tried to block the entrance.”

  “Very interesting. I wonder if that was because it knew you were a mammal or that was its normal response. You should let me know next time you do something like this.” Nadine examines the bone with a magnifying loupe. “My estimation is approximately two to three years old.”

  “It’s been down there a lot longer,” I reply.

  “No. I’m talking age.”

  “That’s one big three-year-old,” says Hughes.

  Nadine shakes her head. “Not at all. I’d guess it was a midsize breed of horse. But I’m not an expert.”

  “Horse?” asks George.

  Nadine takes off her gloves. “Yes. I’m sure Sloan told you. This is clearly part of an equine femur.”

  George gives me a sidelong glance. “Um, no. Your student forgot to mention that.”

  Nadine turns to me. “Clearly you could tell? Just look at the thickest diameter. That’s from an animal that carries considerably more weight than a human.”

  “Well, I was holding out for your professional opinion,” I offer weakly.

  “Hmm.” She moves over to the plastic bins where I’ve deposited the contents of the bags from the excavation. They’re soaking in water to keep them from decomposing. “Why don’t you all put on a pair of gloves, and we’ll see what we have here.”

  “Shouldn’t we send this to the FDLE lab?” asks Hughes.

  “Really?” asks George. “After what Ms. My Little Pony just pulled, do you really want to do that?”

  “Well, if we find something . . .”

  “We’ll bring it to them and not just Aguilló.” George looks down at the box of latex gloves. “I’m going to go work on our other case. Hughes, you’re with me.”

  The pair leaves me alone with Nadine in her lab. She’s already removing mud from a piece of fabric. “Solar seems rather frustrated,” she observes.

  “Yeah. I kind of pushed the limits on this one.”

  Nadine lifts a denim pant leg from the water basin. There are no obvious bite marks on the fabric. Next, she pulls out a gleaming hubcap. “Where did you find this?”

  “In the mud by where the van was found,” I reply.

  “Then it stands to reason this came from the van.”

  “It does.”

  She removes a clump of mud and sediment and places it into a plastic bag. She then reaches into the tub and pulls out an L-shaped tire iron. It makes a clanging sound as it hits the counter.

  “Near the van?” she asks.

  “No. Close to the shore.”

  She washes off several beer cans and sets them in a clean tub, then holds one up in the light. I lean in for a closer look. It’s a Pabst Blue Ribbon special.

  “What do you see?” I ask.

  “Oh, just thinking about an idea for a research paper. Comparing historical middens with modern ones. How much does the quality of the alcoholic vessel tell you about the socioeconomics of the people who deposited them?”

  “You mean like tracking the Egyptian economy by their wine jars?” I ask.

  “Something like that. While we can’t reliably count on court records for minor economic fluctuations, the size and quality of the vessels might tell us if there was economic hardship at that time.”

  That’s my PhD adviser. She’s not exactly scatterbrained—more like a laser beam that obliterates things at random with incredible precision.

  She reaches the last tub and reveals a small lawn-mower wheel. “What exactly are you trying to establish?”

  “I don’t know. I was chasing a theory.”

  “Was this helpful?”

  “Well, it didn’t exactly support my premise. It didn’t falsify it.”

  “So your theory has precisely as much supporting evidence as another theory that has yet to be falsified.”

  “More or less.”

  “So now what?”

  “I guess I just drop it.”

  This draws a “hmm” from her.

  “What?”

  “Maybe that’s the right response. I don’t really understand your police work. But if this was a research project, I’d suggest that you try not to make your hypothesis too narrow.”

  I’m sure there’s wisdom in that statement. But I’m not in the mood. I’m in the doghouse with George and myself for my stunt. I’m not sure which feels worse—his disapproval or my self-loathing.

  I gather up the tubs and stack them. “May I leave this here for a few days?” I ask.

  “Sure. And next time you go into an alligator den, make sure he’s not coming home anytime soon—that’s unless you want to make Jackie my permanent lab assistant.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MISFIRE

  Halfway between the university and my boat, I get an urgent text message from Hughes:

  Meet us at new winds marina asap

  That’s a luxury yacht dock in Palm Beach—which suggests his message is related to the New River Bandits. I put the blue light on my dashboard and drive as fast as safely possible at this time of night.

  The marina is filled with police cars, and I see two hovering news helicopters. I flash my badge—which is actually an FDLE badge and another reason they want to absorb us—and make my way through the police line, where George and Hughes are talking to a Marine Patrol captain.

  Behind them stands a 150-foot yacht, The Storybook Princess. Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office forensic technicians are aboard, taking photos and dusting for fingerprints.

  I listen in as George talks to Captain Buckley about a search perimeter and pulling surveillance videos from the area.

  Hughes takes a half step next to me and explains in a quiet voice, “An hour ago, three men robbed the boat. It belongs to some internet gaming guy. Apparently, he kept a lot of cash on board. It looks like the bad guys barged in, zip-tied the crew, and stole the money.”

  “I see.”

  “Highway Patrol stopped an SUV a half a mile from here for running a stop sign. The driver had ID; the two others didn’t.”

  “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “No guns. No money. Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office thinks they might not be connected. It’s been suggested the crew staged the whole thing.”

  “What about the marina cameras?” I ask, looking up at a security camera on a post.

  “Funny thing—they were all off-line.”

  “That benefits either the crew or their alleged robbers. Are they here?” I ask.

  “Yes. Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office is talking to them in the restaurant at the end of the pier. Want to see what they’re saying?”

  “I trust you guys on that one. Think I can have a look at the boat?”

  Hughes turns to George and Captain Buckley. “We’d like to have a look at the boat.” He directs his question to George, reinforcing the idea that this is our case.

  “Your people have an issue with that?” George asks the captain.

  “Be my guest. But other than the prints we’re pulling from the latches and the safe, there’s not much in the way of evidence.” He glances at me. “And we searched the crew quarters.”

  “There are a lot more places to look,” I reply.

  “DEA already ran a dog through that can smell currency.”

  “And?”

  “She barked at the places where the money was kept. That was it.”

  “How much money?”

  “Dustin Sanchis, the owner, was kind of hesitant at first
. Then he realized that he’ll never get it back if he can’t put a number on it. He said it was between six and eight million dollars.”

  “Between?” I’d love to live in a world where a two-million-dollar rounding error is no big deal for me. “All right. Let’s go find this jerk’s cash.”

  Hughes and I pull gloves from our pockets and walk up the gangplank to the yacht. At least Sanchis knows his boats. He decided on more deck space and a garage underneath for Jet Skis and dive gear instead of using all the space to build a floating mansion with huge cabins and less room to enjoy the ocean.

  Some yacht owners forget that their boats are meant to go out to sea and basically turn them into floating hotels with little to do.

  Hughes and I walk into the main salon and then down a corridor leading to the owner’s cabin. It’s huge. A king-size bed stands against one wall, with three massive flat-screen TVs—one on each side—suspended from the ceiling.

  “Three screens? What’s that about?” I ask.

  “Porn,” says Hughes, attracting the attention of a forensic tech dusting the cabinets. “Um, I mean, I guess.”

  “Okay. But three?”

  Red-faced, Hughes points to a small camera on top of a television. Each screen has one. They’re all aimed at the bed.

  “For crying out loud . . . you mean he was filming himself?”

  “Not necessarily himself,” replies the technician.

  “I don’t suppose the cameras were on when this place was robbed?”

  “Um, no,” replies the tech. “Not then . . . but . . .”

  I hold up my hand. “I don’t want to know any more. Where’s the safe?”

  “Follow me.” He leads us to the bathroom behind the bedroom. It’s bigger than the master bath in Run’s house. “Here you go.”

  I look around. All I see is an empty closet behind a mirrored wall. “Wait? That’s the safe?”

  “Yep. The cash was supposed to be in duffel bags inside there.”

  “Good grief.” I inspect the latch that held the door closed. While the wall of the safe is thick metal, the frame where it was bolted has an aluminum edge. All the thieves or crew had to do was use a small pry bar to pop the door. Anybody could have busted in there.

  “What do you think, Hughes?”