Swimming With the Dead (29 page)

I was swimming over yet another boulder when I saw it: the characteristic greenish white glow. I knew what it was—light reflecting on skin. I knew the guy was dead. His eyes, open and empty, glared at me through the viscous liquid, as if blaming me for his fate. Blood still seeped from the hole in his chest, tingeing the water pink. I gave the line three sharp tugs, indicating that I had found the body. Again White would tie off the line and take a compass reading, pinpointing the location. I tied the line around a nearby rock and radioed Crown.

“Victim is dead. I’ve tied off the line. Will do a preliminary search of the area.”

“What’s your air?”

I checked my gauge. “Twelve hundred psi.”

“Okay, two minutes; then you’re out,” Crown commanded.

Three feet from the body was a handgun. The killer probably believed that neither the body nor the gun would ever be found. But even if Earl hadn’t seen the whole thing, the body would have eventually surfaced when gases accumulated. Sometimes it was just a matter of days. It all depended on the condition of the victim, such as body mass and the last meal, and on water temperature and depth.

I left the scene untouched and swam back to shore. By the time I got there the second dive team had arrived, along with several cops and an ambulance crew. Earl was in the middle of it all, telling his story to whomever would listen.

Crown was filling in the second team, and a fresh diver was already suited up. He headed into the water with the underwater camera to begin documenting the scene. Once he finished, a team would recover the victim and any evidence. It would all be done by the book, carefully recorded, evidence painstakingly preserved so that it could be used if the case came to trial. I was more than willing to leave it in my colleagues’ capable hands. My job was done. And I had a plane to catch.

By the time I got back to my apartment, Mack was there, sitting on the stoop with Sadie, my golden retriever.

“Jesus, Sampson, where the hell you been? You’ve got less than an hour to make your flight.”

“On a dive,” I said, “thanks to your drinking contest with Lopez. He would have been upchucking in his regulator.”

Next to Sadie, Mack was probably the best friend I’d ever had. He was my partner in Homicide. The only time we didn’t work together was when I went out on a dive recovery. In landlocked Denver, that involved maybe one call every couple of months. There was no way Mack would have ever strapped an air tank on his back.

Mack helped me load one overstuffed suitcase and Sadie into his car and we headed for the airport.

“I’m telling you, Sampson,” Mack said, one hand on the wheel, one in a bag of chips, as he drove out to DIA, “this move to the islands is not going to cut it. Ain’t no such thing as paradise, and a damn good thing. You’ll be bored stiff.”

“I want out of this rat race, Mack. I’m sick of the phone ringing at two in the morning, of seeing kids bleeding on the sidewalk or sitting in alleys shooting up. Life’s too short.”

“Evil is just the other side of the coin,” he said. “Can’t have good without the bad. Kind of an essential part of the whole.”

Mack was a damned philosopher. But I knew his point of view kept him going. He’d been in the department for twenty-eight years, seen it all and accepted it. Not me. I needed out. We argued about it all the time. He’d been angry when I said I was quitting, but he hadn’t been surprised.

“You’re kidding yourself if you think you can escape,” he said. “You only escape when you’re dead. Besides, you love the chase. You’ll be happy in that back-to-simplicity dream of yours for about a week and then you’ll be climbing the walls.”

He dropped me off at Departures. “I give you a month, Sampson. Then you’ll be back here after your old job.”

“Wrong,” I said. “You and Sue need to come down for a visit.” I could just see Mack lounging on the beach in Bermuda shorts. I gave him a hug, which he returned in his quick, awkward manner. I knew he’d miss me. I left him standing at the curb, hands in the pockets of his Rockies jacket, shaking his head.

About the Author

Kathy has published four mystery novels with NAL/Penguin and has coauthored a memoir,
A Checkered Parachute
, with her son, Max Maddox. They are currently seeking a publisher for that book, an excerpt of which was a finalist for the 2009 Iowa Review Award in Non-Fiction. She has published articles on parenting, health, scuba diving, and travel in dozens of magazines, such as
Women’s Sports and Fitness
,
Scouting
,
Yachting
,
Cruising World
,
Complete Woman
, and
Diver Magazine
.

After her son was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 1999, Kathy became involved in mental health issues. She is on the board of directors and serves as President for the National Alliance on Mental Illness in Colorado Springs.

Kathy has presented workshops and moderated panels at national conventions and has spoken about her books at libraries, bookstores, and book clubs. She has been interviewed on radio and TV stations around the country. Reviews and articles about her books have appeared in such newspapers and magazines as the
Denver Post
, the
Orlando Sun-Sentinel
, the
Colorado Springs Gazette
,
Caribbean Travel and Life
,
Islands
,
Mystery Scene
,
Romantic Times
,
Midwest Book Review
, and
Library Journal
.

Kathy has a B.A. in English and an M.A. in Rhetoric and taught writing at the University of Colorado for ten years before becoming a full-time author. She is an avid sailor and scuba diver. Visit her website at
www.kathybrandtauthor.com
.

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