Dangerous Depths (17 page)

“Sure, Neville,” he said, standing. “I think
most of the charter companies are as concerned as you are, Betty.
They understand that eventually, if we don’t control growth and
address the environmental concerns, conditions will get to the
point that sailors will go elsewhere because these sailing grounds
will no longer be pristine. I’d rather downsize than see the
islands ruined. Of course, there are charter company owners that
don’t care at all. But I think we can institute changes that they
will be forced to abide by.”

“What kind of changes?” Betty pressed.

“Limiting fleet size, maintaining moorings,
requiring holding tanks, installing pump-out stations, fining
companies whose clients act irresponsibly,” O’Brien explained.

“What about the expense of running this
campaign?” Betty again, directing attention back to Freeman.
“You’ve been outspending your opponent, Bert Abernathy, by
thousands. Where is it coming from, and will you be obligated to
special interests?”

“You’re right, Betty. This campaign’s been
expensive but if I know you, you’ve checked into my holdings.
Besides, look at all the money I’ve raised from all of you at this
occasion!” He managed to laugh it off but he hadn’t really answered
the question.

“What be your plans for Flower Island after
you be elected, Neville? Dat little piece a real estate be worth
millions,” someone called from the back before Betty could press
Freeman further.

“No plans,” Freeman said. “Maybe I’ll turn it
into a preserve some day.”

“Sure,” the man taunted, his voice skeptical
and dripping with sarcasm. “Da day you turn Flower into a park be
da day dat folks say hell be freezin’ over. And you be sayin’ you
want to help people with jobs, better wages. How come you ain’t
doing dat yourself? Payin’ wages that can hardly keep a man and his
family alive.” The man continued to yell, his voice quavering.

“I pay a fair wage for a fair day’s
work.”

“You sayin’ I didn’t give you a fair day,
Neville? Hell, I be keeping that run-down mansion out dar on Flower
together. Weren’t for me the damn place woulda fallen to da
ground.”

He turned to the audience. “Dis man fired me
for doin’ my job, far’s I can see. Didn’t want nobody keepin’ his
daddy’s house in shape for da future. Hell, it be a historical
landmark. Didn’t want nobody on dat island.” He was pointing his
finger at Neville now and moving toward the front of the room. A
burly guy with “Security” on his shirt quickly intercepted him,
however, and dragged him out.

Freeman smiled indulgently and made an
off-the-cuff joke about disgruntled employees. Then he called a
quick end to the meeting, thanked everyone for coming, and stepped
away from the podium.

“Who was that?” I asked O’Brien.

“Caretaker on Flower. Neville said he had to
fire him because the guy was stealing from him. Didn’t press
charges though. I guess the guys been causing all kinds of trouble
for him since.”

As we headed out, I noticed that Liam and Tom
had Freeman cornered, undoubtedly pinning him down about his
environmental stands. I had to feel sorry for the guy. Those two
would grill him with questions for an hour if he let them.

Reidman walked out with us. The restaurant’s
staff was busy getting ready for the dinner crowd. One of his
stewards was stocking a wine rack that filled an entire wall.

“Quite a collection,” O’Brien remarked.

“Kind of an obsession,” Reidman replied. “I
like keeping an inventory of the best wine in the world in my
establishment. A lot of people come here because they’ve heard
about my wines. I’ve been known to pour a four-hundred dollar
bottle down the drain if I consider it inferior. My personal stock
includes only the most exceptional.”

As I was contemplating what a pompous asshole
Reidman was, O’Brien’s cell phone rang. After O’Brien excused
himself to take the call, Reidman corralled me for another five
minutes of inane conversation about the merits of a “good Cab.”
Finally, I escaped and waited for O’Brien in the parking lot.

I found a place in the shade and observed,
watching people heading to their cars. Betty Welsh was standing
next to her Honda Civic talking with the guy who had caused such a
scene inside. I knew she’d get a story from him if there was
one.

I recognized Bert Abernathy, Freeman’s
opponent for chief minister, from his campaign photos. He got into
a red Audi. I hadn’t seen him at the fund-raiser. He’d probably
been standing in the back, checking out the competition. I was
surprised he hadn’t taken the opportunity to lambast Freeman. But
I’d heard the guy was reserved and didn’t go in for dirty
politics.

The Freemans walked out arm in arm, a posture
that Sylvia seemed uncomfortable with.

“So glad you were able to make it,” Freeman
said as he approached and shook my hand. Alex outdid himself on the
meal, didn’t he, even though he’s been very upset since his
girlfriend’s unfortunate accident. How is she doing?”

I knew he wasn’t interested in Elyse’s
condition. It was all about campaigning, saying the right things to
the right people.

“She’s still in a coma,” I said and left it
at that.

“I’m sorry,” he replied, but hardly skipped a
beat. “I heard that Dunn suspended you.”

“That’s right.” Word got around fast on the
islands but this was ridiculous and I wondered why Freeman even
cared.

“I stopped by to see Dunn this morning and
check on the state of law and order in our fine community before my
speech,” he said. “He told me what happened. I hope you can work it
out with him. He says you’re the only one with the know-how when it
comes to examining underwater crime scenes. Me, I like the image—an
American who can help smooth things over in terms of tourism,
especially with these break-ins on charter boats.”

“I’m not much for presenting an image. Dunn
will tell you that too, and it’s not why he hired me.” I stuffed
the anger. Freeman was an ass. I couldn’t figure out why anyone
would support him. And he’d used the boat thefts in his speech to
boost his own status at Dunn’s expense. I didn’t like it.

“Come Ms. Sampson, you must know the effect
you have,” Freeman said. He was actually leering now. Sylvia stood
back, fists clenched. I don’t know why she put up with it.

“You are a gorgeous white woman who carries a
gun,” he continued. “Just what the tourists like. It’s as though
they’ve come down here to their own movie set. I very much want you
on the force. When I’m elected, I’ll make it worth your while. I
think a promotion will be in order.”

“I am not interested in entertaining the
tourists with some James Bond image of a cop in a bikini with a gun
slung around her waist,” I said. No longer did I even attempt to
contain my anger. What the hell was Freeman suggesting? That he
could pay me to fulfill his little erotic fantasy?

“You should think about your future,” Freeman
said, ignoring my tone and giving my hand a squeeze. Sylvia glared
at me like it was my fault, then they got in their car and drove
away.

It happened every time—a visceral reaction
that I had no control over when O’Brien stepped into my space. I
was still standing in the parking lot of the Callilou watching
Freeman pull out when O’Brien came out the front door. He’d finally
gotten off the phone and walked toward me now with that damned
open, boyish smile. I kept hoping that one of these days I’d get
over it—get over O’Brien. It was looking less and less likely.

“That was Louis on the phone,” he said. “One
of Jergens’s boats is out at Eustatia Sound caught on the reef. His
base manager, Dobbs, called SeaSail to ask for help. It seems
Jergens went out there with his chase boat but with no idea of how
to get the charter boat off the reef. Now he’s stuck out there too.
He tore up his engine in the shallow water. Louis told them we’d
assist. Want to come along?”

“Why would you want to do anything to help
Jergens?” I asked.

“We can’t leave those charterers floundering
out there. Besides, William Dobbs is a good man. He’d do the same
for us.”

“I’d love to spend the rest of the day with
you,” I said, which was only half of the truth. The other half was
Jergens. Was he Daisy’s man in the black cape? Maybe.

***

Louis had the chase boat running when we got
to SeaSail.

“Hey dar, Hannah,” he said, offering me a
hand and helping me onto the boat. If it had been anyone else, I
would have declined the help and stepped aboard myself. But I could
never refuse Louis’s strong grip or kind eyes. Without him, O’Brien
would have been lost. He knew the condition of every boat in the
fleet and how to fix every possible problem. At almost seventy, his
body was hardened by work and the sun. I could see that he was
slowing down though.

“Damned arthritis,” he said now, showing a
slight limp as he moved to the front of the boat. What would
O’Brien do when Louis could no longer climb into a boat?

“Hannah, this be William Dobbs,” Louis said.
“Manages BVI Sail. He be my nephew’s wife’s sister’s son.” Louis’s
wife and his own son had died of meningitis long ago. I’d never
realized that Louis had any other family.

“I met William yesterday,” I said. “I didn’t
know you two were related.”

“Hello dar, Miz Sampson. Good to see you
again,” William said, offering me a seat next to him on a wooden
platform that ran along the side of the boat.

Louis expertly maneuvered the boat out of the
slip and into the harbor. Being at the helm of anything that
floated, whether under sail or power, was as natural to Louis as
breathing. He lifted his head into the breeze and inhaled deeply.
O’Brien was at his side.

“The boat dat’s stuck out dar is a
forty-two-footer, in the shallows about halfway ‘tween Saba Rock
and the breakers,” William shouted over the engine noise. There are
two couples on board. They just went out this morning. Jergens gave
them the briefing.”

“What the heck they be doing out in dat
shallow water?” Louis yelled. “That boat draws maybe seven feet.
The water out there be less than three feet in places. It be way
too shallow for anything but a cat. Unless you really know your way
through, you be asking to be grounded.”

I wondered if that was the whole point—a good
way for Jergens to collect insurance.

William just shrugged his shoulders.

I had the feeling he wasn’t looking forward
to seeing his boss. When we got out there, I knew why. Jergens was
seething.

“What the hell you doin’ with O’Brien and
Louis, and that bitch?” he asked. William was clearly embarrassed
at Jergens’s crass language. I didn’t have the chance to tell him
I’d been called a whole lot worse.

The people on the sailboat stood on the deck,
mouths open, confused. Their boat was tipped at a about a
forty-five-degree angle and stopped dead in the water. Jergens had
his boat tied alongside.

“Sorry, boss, but you asked me to bring help.
Didn’t know who else to call on.” More likely, though, William
didn’t know anyone else who would be willing to help Jergens.

“Look, do you want help or not?” O’Brien
demanded.

“God dammit, I can handle it. Just leave
William here.”

“Wait one minute,” one of the sailors
hollered at Jergens. “You don’t let these people help get us off
this reef, you’ll not receive one penny for this charter.”

“Fine,” Jergens said.

“What’s the situation?” O’Brien hollered.

“He tore up his prop on the coral trying to
pull us off,” the man shouted back, indicating Jergens’s
motorboat.

Jergens was fumbling for an excuse for his
stupidity when O’Brien took charge. “Okay, let’s take a look at the
keel on the sailboat,” he said. He and William had already pulled
on swimsuits on the ride over. Now they snugged face masks in place
and pulled fins on, eased over the side of the chase boat, and swam
over to the sailboat. It couldn’t have been more than five feet
deep at the bow. They swam along the side, then disappeared
underneath the boat. A minute later, they surfaced.

“Looks okay,” O’Brien called back to us. “No
serious damage to the hull. The keel is wedged in pretty tight but
we should be able to pull her off.”

“Okay, Peter, I be getting’ da lines,” Louis
shouted.

I took the wheel and kept the boat away from
the reef while Louis pulled out a long line, tossing it to O’Brien,
who had already climbed onto the grounded sailboat and dropped the
mainsail. This was clearly not the first time these two had done
this. O’Brien caught the rope and attached it to the halyard while
Louis tied the other end securely to a metal bar on the chase
boat.

Once they were set up, Louis gave the boat
some gas. The line, which was attached to the halyard that ran to
the top of the mast, tightened and pulled the boat over on its side
so that the keel and rudder were now at enough of an angle to
dislodge it from the reef. He kept pulling until the boat slid
sideways though the water and over the shallow reef, water washing
over the rail.

When it was clear, Louis let up on the engine
and the sailboat popped back upright, the keel now free and in deep
water. O’Brien wasn’t about to let the boat drift back into trouble
though. He quickly put the engine in gear and steered the vessel
back through the deep areas of Eustatia Sound, around Saba Rock,
and into the safety of North Sound.

Louis and I stowed the gear while William
tied Jergens’s disabled motorboat to our stern. I’d have been
tempted to leave him stranded out there.

By the time we got out to the sound, O’Brien
had the charter boat tied to a mooring ball and was standing on the
bow. When we pulled alongside, Louis grabbed a chart out of the
glove box and handed it up to O’Brien. It was considered an
essential piece of information for every charterer who took a boat
out. Every shallow area, rock, and reef structure was clearly
marked in red as off-limits. The entire area of Eustatia Sound was
as red as it got. But Jergens had provided no chart for his clients
to navigate by.