The Underwater Investigation Series--Boxed Set (4 Books)

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. Slashes of fuschia infused the glassy surface and glided over the sea 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; 3200 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 70 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 entry way. 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 20 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 wanted. 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 to 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.

Then he saw the diver, coming down the passage way toward him. At first, he thought it was someone the Chief had sent down to help him. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.

Before he could get his dive knife from his ankle strap, the diver was on him, wrenching his regulator from his mouth and enveloping him in fish netting. He grabbed for his air supply. Without it, he didn’t stand a chance of fighting off his attacker. He twisted, straining to reach the mouthpiece floating just beyond his grasp. Finally, he managed to grab it. He had it in his mouth long enough to take one precious breath. Just one.

Then the other diver was back on him, pulling the net tighter, tangling him in a mass of rope. His attacker was strong and fast, even in dive gear. Again the diver ripped the regulator from his mouth.

The more he struggled, the more tangled he became, the netting caught on his tank and wrapped around his fins. He could see the air bubbling out of his regulator above his head, just out of reach. His chest was on fire. His lungs screamed for air. His body starved for oxygen. He was hopelessly trapped.

He could see the other diver, the eyes, glinting behind the face mask. He knew who it was. They had actually dived together once, only once. He watched his killer move off into the shadows, waiting for the inevitable.

It wouldn’t be much longer. He could feel things slipping away. His vision blurred, darkened around the edges. He damned himself for being so stupid. He had so much living yet to do. So many more sunrises. He tried to hold on. But reflexes took over. He inhaled, filling his lungs with salt water.

Chapter 1

I’m Hannah Sampson, Denver homicide. Once, seems like a lifetime ago, I’d studied women’s literature at the University of Chicago. That ended the day I held a six-year-old kid as she bled to death on the sidewalk a block away from campus. After that, a degree in literature seemed a farce. I became a cop and never looked back. But every now and then I regret the fact that my life is not my own. Like now.

I was almost asleep, an orchestra playing behind me. Waves lapped the shore between notes. The distant call of gulls, the occasional song of a whale blended with violins, cellos, and flutes. I was naked under soft flannel, drifting on that warm sea.

I was into the body thing, feeling the hurt-so-good pain that Jenny inflicted with precision. Her steel fingers plied the cabled muscle in my injured shoulder as I lay on the massage table.

I’d been lucky. The bullet that had ripped through my flesh had caused no long-term damage. Except to my ego. Plain stupidity, a failure in judgment had almost gotten me killed. Thank God Mack had been there to back me up. He’d put a bullet through the guy, just as he was taking aim at a spot between my eyes.

Jesus, Sampson, he’d said, you oughta know, for chrissake. Never turn your back on an informer who happens to be hooked on heroin. Mack was scared though. I could see it in his eyes as he held his hand over the hole in my shoulder, trying to stem the blood that was streaming all over my down parka. A piece of goose down was stuck right on the tip of Mack’s nose. If it hadn’t hurt so much, I would have laughed. The last thing I remembered was reaching up to brush it away.

After three months of Jenny’s kneading and stretching, I was almost 100 percent again. I kept my appointments religiously—every Friday at four o’clock. I threatened death to anyone who interfered. Mack was the only one who knew where I was. Which brings me back to why, at that moment, I regretted the career choice. My cell phone screamed at me.

This better be important, Mack!

Get up, Sampson. We got trouble at the commissioner’s office. Pick you up out front. Two minutes.

No way! Damn cell phones, I muttered, wrapping the sheets around me. The massage would have to wait.

Mack was sitting in the cruiser at the curb when I emerged tucking my half-buttoned shirt into my jeans. Boot laces dragged behind me in the snow. He was trying not to laugh.

You think it’s funny? I asked.

I had tied my dark hair into a haphazard knot and pushed it under my baseball cap. My face was a road map, lined from lying in the face cradle.

My mother says that I’m willowy. That means 5'8", 125 pounds, long legs. At 37, I’ve learned to live with it. She says I have classic good looks—high cheekbones, straight Roman nose, mysterious brown eyes. I’m not sure about the Roman nose but I like the mysterious eyes part. Nothing like a mother to put the right spin on things. At the moment she’d be calling me anything but classic.

I thought I looked like hell after a massage, Mack said. Compared to you I look like Mel Gibson.

Mack, let me set you straight once and for all. You will never, ever look like Mel Gibson, I said. So what’s the big emergency?

Don’t know nothin’ excepting to get our asses down to the commissioner’s office and get ‘em there now, he said.

He put the bubble light on the top and screeched around the corner onto Speer Boulevard. By the time we got downtown, the light snow that had been falling all day had turned into a blizzard. Traffic was heavy, people making the weekend escape to the slopes. Tomorrow they’d be skiing on hills drenched with sunlight and deep powder. But they’d be courting frostbite. It hadn’t made it above zero for a week. And that was in Denver. The high country would be at least twenty-five below and with the wind chill, it would probably drop to minus forty.

We skidded to a halt in front of one of the high rises near Capitol Hill. Once the likes of Buffalo Bill Cody and Molly Brown had lived in this area. During the 1860's gold rush, Horace Greeley reported that more gunfire echoed through the queen city of the plains than anywhere else on earth. Now, just down the street, the Denver Art Museum was advertising for an upcoming Matisse exhibit. Some things change. Some don’t. There was still plenty of gun play on the streets of Denver.

It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a polar bear, Mack complained, as he stepped out of the cruiser and pulled on his Rockies jacket. He’d been wearing the same jacket in rain and snow since I’d known him.

I was looking like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, a new down jacket, stocking cap, and mittens. I resisted the temptation to pull my snow pants out of the trunk. I hate being cold.

Jesus, Sampson, you look like a marshmallow. Come on! We’re just going across the street for chrissake, Mack insisted.

We had just stepped in out of the cold when the coroner’s car pulled up in front.

Bad sign, Mack said.

Up on the third floor, we were intercepted by Tom Kane, the police commissioner’s right-hand man. Tom was a dresser, garbed now in a camel-hair coat that was dying to be touched. He was an ambitious guy, scratching his way to the top. I’d actually dated him once for about a month.

He was doing a nervous monologue as he walked us to the office. He stopped short at the door. I found her, he whispered. Came back to the office for my notebook. Greta was always the last to leave on Fridays. Everyone else starts the weekend early. Man, I can’t believe this. She was supposed to finish compiling some data for me this weekend. I remembered now why I had quit dating Kane.

The office was a mess. Papers carpeted the floor and spilled out of file cabinets. Desks had been ransacked, drawers dumped. Pens, paper clips, and rubber bands were scattered everywhere. In the middle of it all lay Greta, high heels askew. Pink. Pink damned high heels. The last time I’d seen pink, pointy heels they were attached to my niece’s Barbie. I’d given my sister hell for reinforcing such stupidity. Admittedly the woman on the floor looked like an aging Barbie. Colored blond hair, straw-like and teased, a pink suit to match the heels. Clearly not an up-and-coming CEO of the female persuasion. No self-respecting woman pushing against the glass ceiling would be caught, even dead, wearing pink. Except maybe Hilary Clinton.

Red stained Greta’s blouse. She had been shot once, point-blank in the chest, from five, maybe six feet away. Surprise and confusion marked her face. It looked like she had probably died quickly, but not quickly enough. She lay on her side, her fingers buried in the carpet. The pink polished nail on her right index finger had snapped. A splotch of blood pooled at the tip.

We would be questioning Greta’s family and co-workers, but it was pretty obvious that she had taken the intruder by surprise. She was positioned just past the doorway to the file room. File folders were strewn around her, and it looked as though she had walked in on the murderer.

I carefully stepped past the body and into the file room. Several cardboard boxes were opened, old photos, books, and papers littering the floor. I bent to examine one of the photographs distorted by the shattered glass in a broken frame. In it, a young man, maybe twenty-three, strikingly handsome and smiling, stood between two other people, arms around one another. I recognized Police Commissioner George Duvall and his wife. They were standing on a dock, rows of boats in the background, tropical flowers bursting from every visible tree and shrub. An idyllic place from the looks of it, surreal behind shards of glass.

That’s Michael. Duvall had come up behind me so quietly I had not heard him. The Commissioner was a distinguished man of about sixty-five, gray hair, thinning on top, still attractive. Cops respected him. He was known to be honest. He backed his people and was tough on the bad guys. The man who stood in front of me now hardly looked tough.

That picture was taken at Christmas, he said. His mother and I spent the holidays with him in the Caribbean. A week later he was dead.

I didn’t ask for details. I’d read about it in the papers. I was uncomfortable with his grief. What the hell could I say? Nothing. I handed him the picture, and we walked back into the front office.

Commissioner, Mack said, any ideas about why someone would break into your office or what they might be looking for?

No, said Duvall, shaking his head. There’s nothing of value in this particular office. Mostly statistical profiles, demographics about crime patterns.

Anyone who could profit from these studies? I asked. Someone who might want a record erased?

Unlikely, he said. None of this is classified information. Any John Q. Citizen can get access by asking, and it’s all backed up on computer these days.

What about Greta? Any problems there? Jealous husband or boyfriend? Someone who knew she would be here alone on a Friday evening? Mack asked.

Greta? I seriously doubt it, Duvall said. I’d find it very hard to believe that she and Carl were having any kind of marital problems. She was devoted to her family, baked for her grandkids every week. She was always tempting the office staff with her homemade brownies and peanut butter cookies. It looks like whoever broke in was searching for something. I wonder if they found it.

I was wondering the same thing.

Would you ask your staff to do an inventory? See what might be missing? I asked, though it could take weeks to determine whether a file or slip of paper was missing from this mess. Every inch appeared to have been gone through.

What about all those boxes? I asked.

All Michael’s belongings. After he died, I went down to the islands and packed up his apartment, his research material, some of his personal effects. Gave a lot away. I had the rest shipped here to my office. My wife’s just not ready to be confronted with it. She’s devastated by his death and she’ll be hurt to find that his possessions have been violated. And now Greta, he said, his voice trailing off to a whisper.

By the time Mack and I left, Greta had been taken to the morgue. Only the bloodstained carpet marked her place. The office was covered with fingerprint dust.

We’d talked with the few people who had been in the building between four o’clock and the time Kane returned around six-thirty. No one had heard the shot. The janitor reported seeing a man heading down the stairs in a big hurry around five-thirty. Said he looked like everyone else that worked in the building: suit, tie, briefcase. Tall, in his thirties, dark hair. He hadn’t given the man a second look. Figured it was just another guy in a hurry to start his weekend.

Old bag lady ran right into him when she came out of the women’s rest room, he said. I’d told her more than once that the bathroom was not for her private use. She would curse me up one side and down the other and keep using it. She ran right into that fella. He was sure mad. Both of ‘em went out the door at the same time swearing at each other.

I gave him my card and told him to call if he thought of anything else.

Outside, it was cold, dark, and still snowing. Let’s head out, Mack said. There’s nothing else to find here. Everyone else had left. The street was deserted.

Let’s just take a quick look around the street. Maybe that bag lady’s still around, I said.

Jesus, Sampson, you’re never ready to call it, Mack complained as he followed me into the alley.

We almost tripped over two guys, leaning against the concrete wall, huddled in a blanket that reeked of vomit and alcohol. They were guzzling tequila from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper sack.

They weren’t in the mood to talk. Didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. Sure they knew the bag lady. She’d been hanging around the door at the front of the building panhandling all week. Probably went over to the shelter with this cold. Called herself Josephine.

We offered them a ride to the shelter. No way they’d go. Just happy to stay where they were sipping the gold nectar. God knows how they’d manage to survive. I hoped they’d find an unlocked window, make their way inside for the night.

We’d have the cops check the shelter for Josephine and keep an eye out on the streets. Maybe she’d seen something. The janitor would be spending his Saturday looking through mug shots for the guy he saw on the stairs. Every one of the fifty-some employees in Duvall’s building would be questioned. Someone had to have seen something. Someone always did.

It was almost midnight when Mack dropped me off back at my car at Jenny’s office. God, I could use a massage now.

A layer of snow blanketed the streets, muffling sound. A dusty glow encircled street lights. I loved this time of night after a snow. Tonight though, the streets felt ghostly, haunted.

Once I would have headed straight to one of the singles bars to shake off the emptiness and numb the anger. Try to fill the hollow spot that Jake had left with alcohol and sex.

It never worked. Sleeping or awake, numbed by gin or a good lay, the vision remained. I saw Jake sinking into the icy water of Marston Reservoir. In dreams, I swam after him, reached out, trying to grasp his outstretched hand. He just kept going down, down into the murky depth, then faded into the void.

With time, the vision had blurred. I’d eventually learned to like being alone. I’m one of those people who can be. Sometimes I worry about it—see that I’m isolated. That’s when I turn to my dog. She greeted me as I walked in my front door.

Sweet Sadie, I said, scratching her ears. Sorry I’m late. She couldn’t decide whether she was more anxious to be petted, fed, or let outside to pee. She opted for a quick pat, then bounded out into the snow.

Sadie is an Irish setter-golden Lab mix, with the temperament of a teddy bear. At three she has finally advanced from the sheer recklessness and irresponsibility of a child to a more subdued adolescent. No longer does she rifle through my bedroom for anything soft and cuddly, strewing pillows across the floor and chewing my slippers to shreds. Now, like any respectable teenager, she sleeps late, lounges on her overstuffed pillow, snacks all day and generally considers the whole place hers.

I live in a carriage house behind a towering Victorian near the Denver Zoo and the Museum of Natural History. It’s a perfect place for Sadie and me, a one bedroom, with a sunny kitchen and living room. The ceilings slant in all directions, somehow still managing to come to a point in the middle. I’d furnished it in overstuffed, used.

I let Sadie in and rummaged through the fridge looking for the leftover lasagna that I’d made the night before. I’m no chef, but I like sitting down to a decent meal after a day of eating on the run at one of Mack’s favorite greasy spoons. Even at midnight, I needed to sit in front of good food and shift gears. I filled Sadie’s dish, poured a glass of cabernet, and thumbed through my mail as I ate.

I found myself thinking about Duvall. The guy seemed kind of distracted, not really in touch with the destruction in his office or the dead woman in the corner. People say there’s nothing worse than losing a child. By the looks of Duvall, I’d guess it was true.

But there wasn’t anything I could do about his loss. The only thing I could do was track down Greta’s killer. It seemed pretty straightforward. I should have known better.

Chapter 2

Sadie recognized the signs. I’d spent ten minutes layering—snow pants and down jacket, over wool sweater and leggings, over long underwear, and earmuffs over my baseball cap. I took her leash off a nearby hook, her final clue. She went ballistic. For Sadie, heaven was Saturday morning in the park.

We’d almost made it out the door when the damn phone rang. I considered ignoring it. Probably a phone solicitor. I hate having my privacy invaded by an alien voice telling me I have just won an all-expense-paid visit to someplace like Aspen or Steamboat Springs. All I’d have to do is take the two-hour tour and have enough money to buy a condo. Didn’t they know I lived on a cop’s salary?

Worse yet, now computers do the talking, so you can’t even cuss out a real person. Somehow swearing at a computer doesn’t provide the same satisfaction, though I’ve done it plenty of times.

But it could be the office. Maybe someone had found a motive for Greta’s murder.

Hello. I tried not to sound as irritable as I felt.

Hannah, it’s Tom Kane.

Tom, hi. Tom Kane calling on Saturday? Worse than a phone solicitor. I was scrambling to come up with an excuse to hang up before he did something stupid like ask me out again. I was just on my way out.

Sorry to bother you at home. I’m calling for George Duvall. He’s pretty upset about Greta and the break-in yesterday. I suggested he speak with you. Can you come by his house late this afternoon, say around five o’clock? He apologizes for asking but says it’s important.

By now sweat was pooling under my arms and dripping down my sides. Sadie was about to have a nervous breakdown.

Okay, Tom. Where’s the house?

314 Clover. Just go down Colorado and—

I know the area, I interrupted, eager to end the conversation and get out into the cold. I’ll be there at five.

Sadie and I spent the morning in the park. The day had turned out as promised—crisp, sunny, and frigid. The snow sparkled like sugar crystals in the light. Sadie darted through the powdery stuff and caught the flimsy snowballs I tossed her.

When we returned, she went directly to her pillow in the sunny spot in the kitchen to lick the ice from between her paws. I hit the shower, then headed to the office, leaving a contented dog chasing imaginary rabbits in her sleep.

I spent the next couple of hours going over the reports of the break-in and Greta’s murder. At this point, there wasn’t much. Fingerprints were still being run through the computer. Greta’s autopsy was scheduled for later in the day. Rodriguez and Brown were out canvassing the shelters trying to track down the bag lady and would be trying to locate anyone who might have been in the building at the time of the murder.

There had been no forced entry into Duvall’s office. The door had been unlocked and the murderer had simply slipped in. When Greta walked out from the file room, the intruder had fired. No questions, no hesitation. This was a cold-blooded, ruthless killer. There had been no struggle, no attempt to subdue her. I was sure that Greta had not been the target. The killer had been after something in the office. When Greta got in his way, he had eliminated her, removing an obstacle that kept him from achieving his goal. This was the worst kind of killer. Those that killed out of passion or hate always made mistakes. This killer murdered as a matter of course, as a practical solution to an annoying problem. As simple as swatting a mosquito that is buzzing around your ear.

By four-thirty I was on my way to the Duvalls’. They lived in an upscale part of town, a section called Cherry Creek. The street was lined with brick and stone mansions, the cheap ones in the $500,000 category. Rolling lawns ended at sidewalks canopied under elm and magnolia trees. Now blanketed with snow, in the summer this neighborhood would be bursting with color, lawns finely manicured, gardens filled with exotic mixes of shrubs and flowers.

I wondered why Duvall wanted to see me. He couldn’t possibly have discovered anything missing from the disaster in the office. And why call me rather than report it to the department? I’d thought about calling Mack but decided to leave him in peace on his day off. He and Sue were probably out in the middle of a frozen lake with fishing lines dropped in a hole.

The Duvalls’ house was one of understated elegance, no colonnades or pillars, just big and well-designed with bay windows and dormers placed to let in light yet preserve privacy. A woman opened the door as I was about to knock. She was elegant, even in jeans and a turtleneck. Her silver hair was worn short and soft around her face, and a touch of color brightened her lips. Her eyes told a different story though. Same look as Duvall’s.

Hello, you must be Ms. Sampson, she said. I’m Caroline Duvall.

Please, call me Hannah, I said, as I walked into a foyer the size of my living room.

George is in the den. He has a fire going, she said, taking my coat.

I followed her back. The place oozed money, original oils under subtle lights, velvet chairs, and a crystal chandelier. But it felt as comfortable as my own. I knew it had to do with Caroline Duvall. I immediately liked her.

Ms. Sampson, Duvall said, moving toward me with hand extended. Thank you for coming. I’m sure that there are other things you’d rather be doing on a Saturday evening.

Right, I thought, like watching an old Bogart movie while devouring pizza. It’s Hannah. And it’s not a problem. Tom made it sound kind of urgent.

I hope I’m not overreacting, he said. "I was awake most of the night thinking about it. When Tom suggested asking for your help, it seemed like the right thing to do. He has a lot of respect for your work. I’ve been back and forth about it all day, telling myself I’m just reacting to grief. But Caroline agrees that we can’t simply let it go.

I’m sorry, please sit, he said, indicating a leather chair near the fire. This room like the others was elegant but lived in. Pictures of children and grandchildren graced the mantle and tables around the room. Can I offer you a drink? A Chardonnay or Merlot, perhaps a beer, tea? Caroline and I are having martinis.

A cup of tea would be great. I was a sucker for a good Chardonnay, but I knew I had to return to icy roads.

I don’t know where to begin, he said.

I take it this has to do with your son? I said. Maybe you can start there.

Yes. He tried to mask the pain that crossed his face. Michael was the youngest of the three boys. He would have been twenty-seven next month. He was filled with life. We’d worried about him more than the others. He had been so undirected in high school. In college, he’d flitted from one thing to the next—music, psychology, anthropology, art, physics. He excelled in everything he tried. But nothing held his interest for long. And he was very busy having a good time, up all night partying.

Things changed? I asked.

Yes, Duvall said. During his junior year, he took a marine biology class of all things. It was one of those classes that every student wants to take, an off-campus three-week interim course in Jamaica. Fun in the sun for credit was the way Michael looked at it. We weren’t about to pay for all the extra expense, so he used his summer earnings to go.

Duvall put another log on the fire, took a sip of his martini and continued. Michael came home hooked. It had not been fun in the sun but three intense weeks, up every morning for class at seven o’clock, all afternoon in the water with the professor and his assistant, identifying coral, sponges, fish, and invertebrates, in the lab or studying late into the evening. When he returned home, he became a certified scuba diver and then a master diver and rescue diver.

I knew the routine. I’d had the same training and more. I headed up the police department’s scuba team. We were called in to do underwater retrieval and investigation. The calls were sporadic and easily managed along with my duties in Homicide. I’d signed up for the team because it meant a little extra money and because no one else would. After two years, I was promoted to team leader. I was the one who seemed to remain the most stoic under the horrible conditions that were inherent in the job. Really, I was just expert at stuffing emotion into the recesses of my skull.

Michael wanted to spend the rest of his life near the water and in it whenever possible, Duvall said. He ended up getting a biology degree, with a focus on environmental science. He spent the summers in one internship or another. One year he studied crabs on an atoll out in the middle of Pacific. Another he studied coral bleaching patterns in the Bahamas.

What was he doing in the Caribbean? I asked.

He was in the British Virgin Islands working on his dissertation, looking at the effects of boating activity on the marine environment. Michael was passionate. He talked to anyone who would listen about the fragile environment in tropical waters and about how devastating an imbalance can be. Human activity has transformed parts of the world’s reef into algae-covered rubble. To think that our grandchildren may never be able to experience such wonder.

I didn’t bother to mention to the Duvalls that I had never experienced any of that wonder myself. In fact, no one on the Denver team had ever done a recreational dive. Diving was business. One of my team members had been diving for twenty years and had never dived in the ocean. Diving was about retrieving evidence and solving crimes. We did not encounter beauty in the muck—just death and debris.

How did Michael die? I prodded. I really wasn’t interested in a bunch of dead coral—just rocks as far as I could tell. Seemed redundant anyway. I was pretty sure all rocks were dead, even those pet rocks that were such a marketing coup a few decades ago.

He was diving, Duvall said. Drowned. They found him in one of the wrecks, leg wedged under a heavy piece of equipment. He couldn’t get out, ran out of air. A local fisherman noticed his boat tied to the mooring when he went out in the morning to check his nets. He didn’t think anything of it. Michael was always out early and most of the fishermen knew him. But when he headed in that evening the boat was still there. He stopped to check—no one on board. He notified the police. The next morning they went out with divers and found him. They said that Michael should not have been out there by himself.

I could see how hard it was for the Duvalls to think about their son, gasping for air, trapped in this steel tomb, dying so alone and desperate.

Michael took safety very seriously, Caroline said, trying to regain her composure. He used to get angry just talking about some of the divers he’d encountered, out trying to prove how macho they were. They’d talk about shark dives, carry all sorts of gear, pick up conch or starfish and leave them on the deck to die, touch when they should be just looking. They paid little attention to their dive buddy. They’d wander too far away and would never be able to assist another diver in trouble at a hundred feet.

Michael had enormous respect for the ocean, Duvall said. He usually dove with James, a local dive-shop operator. If James couldn’t go, he would find someone else to fill in. When I went down to take care of his affairs, I spoke with James. He was extremely upset and could not understand why Michael had not been in touch with him. He usually called the night before or stopped by the dive shop.

Surely there was some sort of investigation, I said.

The local police asked a few questions, Duvall said, interviewed some people at the docks, but they were convinced that Michael was just one of those foolish divers. We’ve been trying to accept that. Maybe Michael couldn’t reach James and decided to go it alone this one time. But then this break-in at the office. I was so surprised that someone would go through the office that I didn’t think much about it yesterday afternoon. But why would the intruder go through those boxes so thoroughly? They were clearly not part of the office files, but rather personal, postmarked from the islands.

Maybe they thought they’d find something valuable in them, I said, offering what seemed pretty obvious.

Well, I went back last night, he said. "It looks like some of Michael’s research material is missing. When I’d packed his work, I’d been pretty upset. But I’d put all the research together, thinking I would pass it on to his dissertation advisor. There had been a stack of files. Each was labeled with the name of the site that Michael was surveying. I’m sure that there was one for the Chikuzen. It wasn’t there last night. I probably would never have noticed that particular file missing except that Michael died at the Chikuzen."

When did the boxes arrive at your office? I asked.

Just yesterday morning. I’d been at a meeting. When I returned, Greta said she had signed for them and had them stacked in the file room. They’d been there only a matter of hours.

I could see where all this was going. You think the reason for the break-in was in those boxes? I asked. This all could be simple coincidence.

Yes, and you could be thinking we are just two grieving parents trying to find some meaning in the meaningless death of our son.

No, not at all, I lied. "But why tell me all this?"

Because you’re both a homicide detective and an expert diver. I want you to go down to the islands and look into Michael’s death. I believe the office break-in and missing files are tied in somehow. I’ve spoken with your supervisor and he’s agreed to authorize a leave of absence. I’ve never put pressure on anyone in the department because of my position as Commissioner. But this is one time I’m willing to do it, and your boss will go along if the department is not directly involved. Caroline and I have personal resources. We can cover your expenses and salary.

You could hire a private investigator.

I’ve followed your work. I know you’re the best diver in the city, and I know your reputation, how you stick to a case long after everyone else has called it quits. What do they call you? Dead-End Sampson?

I don’t think it’s meant as a compliment, I said.

I know how it is in the department, Duvall said, how fellow officers ride each other. I also know there’s respect behind it. And Tom Kane says you’re the best. He’s not about to go out on a limb, damage his good standing in my office. He’s convinced you can help.

I can’t drop everything. I’m in the middle of cases.

If I can arrange it, would you agree to go?

Well, this is pretty sudden, I said, trying to think it through. Hmm, zero degrees and a foot of snow in Denver, a sunny eighty in the Caribbean. Might be okay. Besides, I liked the Duvalls. Maybe I could help them finalize their loss by discovering what had happened to Michael, even if it turned out that he really had died in a careless diving accident. And more than likely that’s just what had happened. I mean really, who would want to kill a Ph.D. candidate who was studying slimy sea creatures and pieces of coral? But what the hell.

Okay, I said. If you can get my cases covered, I’ll go.

Chapter 3

The first half-hour of my Sunday morning started just the way I like it to start—in bed, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Then my boss called.

Sampson, I spoke with George last night. I’m okaying this hair-brained scheme only because George is an old friend as well as the best police commissioner we’ve ever had. Normally, I’d trust his judgment, but I think parenthood has colored it in this case. Go down to the islands. See what you can find out. I’m giving you two weeks. Then get back up here to work.

By ten o’clock I was back at George Duvall’s office. It looked bad. Greta’s blood, now dried and blackened, had soaked into the papers that still covered the floor.

The investigation would continue but without me. People would be questioned, fingerprints run.

I’ve made your reservations to Tortola. The flight leaves at seven-forty-two tomorrow morning, said Duvall, who had met me at the office.

Things were moving faster than I liked. Before the call from the boss, my only plans for the day were to take Sadie for her walk and get to the gym.

Is there anything else you can tell me about Michael? I asked. Anyone have a grudge? Did he use drugs, owe the wrong people money? Though Michael’s death might have been an accident, I was now in murder mode.

No. Michael was basically a good kid, certainly honest, Duvall responded. "He did experiment with drugs in college. I think it was fairly innocuous, as much as drugs can be. Weekend parties involved alcohol and probably marijuana. But once he started graduate school, he left all that behind. He said he’d done some pretty stupid things and felt lucky that nothing serious had happened. I didn’t ask for details, but I think some of his friends had misdemeanor skirmishes with the law, driving under the influence, caught smoking marijuana, that kind of thing.

Michael was a pretty responsible kid and people liked him, Duvall said. I suppose he might have alienated some with his adamant defense of environmental issues. But I think most people respected him for it because he was practicing what he preached.

Girlfriends? I asked.

Yes, a local woman, Lydia Stewart. We met her when we were down there in December. Had dinner. She is a native of the BVI, lived there all her life though she went to college in the States. She works for one of the banks in Road Town. She is a beautiful woman, black of mixed Caribbean heritage. They had planned to marry.

The fact that Michael was involved in a relationship with a black woman didn’t seem to faze Duvall in the least. I liked this man more every time we talked. No wonder he was so well respected by so many elements of the community.

Michael was crazy about Lydia, and I think she felt the same, Duvall continued. She helped me go through his effects, and I gave her some of his things, photos, a watch, a few mementos that were meaningful to her.

I’ll be talking with her, I said, jotting the information in my notebook. Who else did he associate with?

Well, we didn’t know many of his friends in the islands. Of course, his diving buddy, James. Michael interacted with a lot of the locals—fishermen, people in the boating industry. Sailing is big in the islands. Michael also talked about another scientist whom he collaborated with periodically. Works for the Department of Environment and Fisheries. We didn’t meet him.

Anyone else? I asked.

We went sailing one day with Michael and Peter O’Brien. He owns SeaSail, one of the big charter boat companies. He and Michael had gotten acquainted when Michael began inquiring about boat use. They spent at least an hour that day arguing about the damage the sailing industry was doing to the environment. Talked about bottom paint, holding tanks, moorings, anchor damage, the tourist economy. I was too busy enjoying the ride to pay much attention. We sailed around Tortola to a little bit of an island named Green Caye, ate on the boat, did some snorkeling, took the dingy to the island and lounged on the beach. It was a simply fantastic day—the last that we spent with Michael. We left the next morning for home.

What about friends here in the States? I asked.

Well, that would mainly be the people at the university. His dissertation advisor, his roommate. I packed Michael’s address book in one of those boxes. I’m sure you’ll find the numbers.

He left as I started looking through the first box. By the time I reached the bottom of the last, it was getting dark, and I was starving. My right foot was numb from sitting on my heels for the past hour. I was surrounded by the remnants of a lifetime—photo albums, letters from home, correspondence from the university, shell and coral collections, a well-worn Nike cap, books, one called Anchoring that was filled with technical diagrams and directions about the skill of dropping the hook. Christ, a couple hundred pages about putting a piece of iron in the sand. Evidently, some kind of art in the sailor’s mind. Peter O’Brien’s name was scribbled on the first page.

At the bottom of the box, I’d found a copy of Walden, its edges bent and frayed. Michael had underlined passages on almost every page including Thoreau’s classic:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

I’d practically memorized the book when I was twenty. Like Michael, I had been drawn to ideas about living life fully, finding joy in every moment. Somewhere along the line, though, I’d lost sight of those goals. Like most, I was caught up in the rat race, my days consumed by the chase.

I’d guess that Michael’s journey to the British Virgin Islands was motivated by the same idealism that motivated Thoreau, along with a tremendous respect and love for nature. The story these boxes told was of a sensitive man, who knew the value of life and the world around him. It made me angry that Michael would never realize his dreams. What a waste.

I gathered the pile of stuff that I wanted to take with me—a thick collection of Michael’s research notes, a draft of his dissertation, the address book, photos, one of Michael with his arm around a beautiful woman I assumed was Lydia. There were several miscellaneous shots—Michael working on a boat engine, folks on sailboats. One old photo didn’t seem to fit. It was a black and white of three shirtless men around fifty, arms around each other. I’d found it stuck inside a book about scuba diving sites in the islands.

I wondered about that missing file. Had Duvall been mistaken about it being in with the other files? But then why would anyone have bothered to go through the boxes in the first place? I put everything that I wasn’t taking with me back in the boxes, turned off the lights, and closed the door.

I’d been so intent on Michael’s effects, that I hadn’t noticed how empty the building was. Now that I had what I’d come for I was anxious to get out of there. The building felt hollow, the hallway cold and deserted. My footsteps echoed off the hard tile floors as I rounded the corner to the elevators. I pressed the down button and waited. That’s when I heard it: a door opening back down the hall. Someone coming in to get a head start on Monday’s work? Maybe.

I crept quietly back around the corner and down the hallway. Duvall’s office door, which I was sure I’d closed just minutes before, was ajar. I imagined every possible scenario, including Greta’s killer waiting behind the door, ready to shoot. I stood at the door, heart pounding, gun drawn, listening. I could hear someone moving around in the office. Cleaning staff? Christ, the room was clearly labeled as a crime scene and off-limits. Whoever was inside knew he shouldn’t be there. How could anyone have entered without my seeing him? Then I remembered the back stairs.

I opened the door just wide enough to slip inside. No one. The room was dark. I stood, blind, every sense alerted, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the blackness. I could hear a faint rumbling coming from the floor and then fingers of warmth blew across my face. The furnace in the basement had come on. A scent, something sweet and musky, drifted in the heated air. A familiar smell, but I couldn’t place it. Suddenly the furnace quit and I was enveloped in silence.

I heard a noise in the file room, a kind of scraping sound. I moved silently across the soft carpet to the file room door, swallowing fear. I didn’t like the situation at all. No Mack to back me up. Neither the time nor the means to radio for help. The back of my neck tingled; the nagging pain returned to my injured shoulder. A reminder—Watch it Sampson; this time it could be worse. I rolled out my shoulder, an attempt to shake off the fear. I grasped the doorknob, cold in my clammy hand, and burst into the room gun raised.

Inside, standing on a stool, was a man, straining to pull a file off of the top shelf. Greta’s killer stupid enough to return? I’d met plenty of stupid criminals in my years on the force.

He went flying when I’d rushed into the room. Now he lay sprawled on the floor as the contents of the file rained down around us.

Holy shit! he yelled.

Tom Kane. Now I recognized the smell—his after shave. He looked up from under a blanket of papers, face ashen.

Hannah, what the hell! he said, shaken.

What are you doing here? I asked.

I was looking for the demographics that I’d left with Greta. I’ve got to have that report done for the mayor by tomorrow. I wasn’t disturbing anything else, he whined.

Jeez, Tom, you know better than to disturb a crime scene, I said as we gathered the contents of the file. Take this stuff and stay out of here until the investigation is complete, I said, handing him the file.

I could feel my heart rate slowing, the pain in my shoulder subsiding, my breath returning to normal. Now, I was just pissed. Damned Kane. I should report him.

All the accolades that I’d imagined showered upon me for solving Greta’s murder in record time vanished in the stale office air. Tom Kane was a jerk, but he was no killer.

By the time I got home, snow was falling again. Sadie greeted me at the door with her where have you been all day? attitude. While she ran in the yard sniffing every scent like it was something important, I headed for my landlords’. They live in the big Victorian in front of my place and were like a second family for Sadie. Scotty, ten, clairvoyant, and hopeful, answered before I could knock. There was nothing he liked better than having a dog to call his own for a week or two.

Don’t worry, Hannah, he said, I’ll give her a snack every day.

Sadie would be spoiled rotten and five pounds heavier when I returned. She’d be in dog paradise. I worried that someday Sadie would abandon me for Scotty and the good life. But she always greeted me when I returned with a kid’s Christmas-morning excitement. She knew I needed her.

Sadie’s well-being assured, I phoned Michael’s former roommate at Berkeley and his advisor, Wayne Grishinski. Neither could tell me much. His roommate described Michael much the way his father had, as did Grishinski—friendly, outgoing, committed to his field.

Though the research was extremely valuable, Grishinski didn’t really see it as threatening. It would have taken a couple of years for Michael’s results to be published and several further studies for verification, he said. Even then, it takes pressure from someone more powerful than a Ph.D. candidate to institute change. Most people see research as purely academic, having no practical application, nothing to do with the real world. If Michael had been truly motivated, he would have had to take his findings to an individual or group with political clout. Though I suppose that he was just the sort to do it, and he did have some valuable connections through his family. All of us at the university are taking his death very hard, he said, voice faltering.

I spent the next hour reading Michael’s dissertation. It was dedicated to his parents and Lydia Stewart. There was also a note of thanks to Peter O’Brien for keeping me honest and reminding me about the big picture. I wondered what he meant.

By the time I turned the last page, I’d learned more than I really wanted to know about the million or so species that exist in the ocean: fish, shrimp, snails, worms, crabs, lobsters, urchins, sea stars, squid, sea plants, hundreds of coral species and sponges, and sea cucumbers for chrissake.

Seems like Darwin was impressed, though. He called the pyramids insignificant when compared to these underwater mountains of limestone. I guess it takes a naturalist. I dove to solve crimes, not to analyze the environment or admire my surroundings. Not that there was anything to admire. All I’d ever seen in the water were rusted vehicles, brown trout, and muddy, mucky lake bottoms. The only environmental issue I was concerned with was rotting bodies polluting Colorado lakes and rivers.

When Mack called, I’d been reading about coral colonies.

Hey, Mack, did you know that coral is really a mix of animal, plant, and mineral. They are these colonies of thousands of tiny animals, coral polyps. They have tentacles that capture unsuspecting critters that float in water. The plant parts are the algae that hide inside the coral doing the photosynthesis thing and passing on sugar and oxygen to the coral. All this activity forms stony skeletons. That’s the mineral part. Can you believe anyone would spend so much time studying this stuff?

Jeez Sampson, Mack responded, You really need to explain it all to me? What I want to know is how the hell you finagled two weeks in the Caribbean?

Yeah, well it wasn’t my idea. Forty-eight hours ago I was relaxing on the massage table and planning a quiet weekend.

Aw, Sampson, I really feel for you. While you’re down there stretched out in the warm sand, you can think of me driving around in ice and snow.

Okay. So, what do you think? I guess the boss filled you in on the details.

I don’t know, Mack said. He’s pretty skeptical. But I have a lot of respect for Duvall. I just can’t see him being that irrational. Though I guess when your kid is concerned, parents can get irrational.

Mack would know. He and Sue had raised four kids. One was twenty-eight and still living at home. He’d been diagnosed as autistic. They had taken him to every specialist in the West. It had been hard on a cop’s salary.

Anything on the break-in or Greta?

Nothing yet. Still have a bunch of people who work in the building to question. Brown and Rodriguez will be over there all day tomorrow. You know the procedure.

Yeah, I knew. There would be hundreds of pieces of information, most of it meaningless. But one small scrap might lead somewhere. It all had to be checked.

Hey, call me if you need anything, Mack said. Better yet, send for me. And Sampson, don’t get burned.

Chapter 4

I was somewhere over the Atlantic. Or maybe the black stuff below was the Caribbean. At 35,000 feet an ocean’s an ocean. All I could tell was that it was vast, empty, and deep. Boating, much less diving, in such a place seemed foolhardy—a kind of death wish.

Somewhere up ahead, about three hours away according to the voice from the cockpit, lay Puerto Rico. God, three more hours in this hotdog-shaped prison. Then I was scheduled on a puddle jumper to a place called Beef Island. I could just see it: some tiny island with pot roasts strewn under palm trees. So much for island paradises.

Desperate for distraction, I retrieved Michael’s guide book to the British Virgin Islands. The first thing I learned was that anyone who knew anything called them the BVI. According to the welcome letter from the chief minister, the BVI is the yacht-chartering capital of the world. The area is made up of some forty islands, cayes, and rocks. They count rocks? Looking at the map, I’d guess that most of the forty were, in fact, rocks. About eight looked like they might classify as islands, and that was pushing it. Names ranged from the mundane to plain weird—Norman Island, Cooper Island, Virgin Gorda, Big Dog, Cockroach. The largest, Tortola, is maybe eight miles long by four across, practically spitting distance to the other side. It’s the seat of government, and most of the 16,000-some inhabitants of the BVI live there.

Breakfast, ma’am? I looked up to see the steward hovering with what he was calling breakfast. He placed a tray containing a dried out cinnamon roll and a bowl of fruit in front of me. The cantaloupe was crunchy and tasteless, the strawberries mushy. I decided to stick with the coffee.

Not going to eat that roll? the man sitting next to me asked. He was with his wife who clearly planned to consume every morsel of her meal.

No, please, help yourself.

Thank you. Can never get enough to eat on an airplane. Meals just aren’t what they used to be. Name’s Gerald, this here’s my wife, Patricia.

The woman next to him leaned over to shake