The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(12)
After I’m all packed up, I get inside and take long, slow breaths. For some reason, I thought that when I became a cop, it’d make me feel less uncomfortable when I was around police. Most of the time that’s true, especially at the Lauderdale Shores station, but outside of that place, my family, not only my uncle, constitutes my reputation—and it’s a mixed reputation at best.
I thought being a cop and a grown-up would mean that I would never have to feel intimidated again. The presence of George Solar proved otherwise.
I’d like to think that’s the last time I’ll have to deal with the man who helped ruin my childhood, but I have the sense to realize that won’t be the case.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HOUSEBOAT
The sun is setting as I reach the marina and load my gear onto the cart I use to haul it back and forth from my houseboat. Most of the other boats have returned, and I spot the cars belonging to the other onboard residents. Like me, they prefer to live slightly apart from society. The towering condos and buildings reflect in the water all around us, but we remain detached.
When I take a step onto my houseboat, I feel the comforting sensation of the vessel giving way slightly to my mass. It’s weird, I know. But living on a boat is like sleeping on a waterbed, if it’s your thing. I think part of it is the contained environment. No matter how stressful the rest of the world is, no matter what your situation on land, on a boat with a radio, a good fishing rod, and some provisions, life is manageable. I can cast off at any moment and take my home with me, far away.
That’s exactly what we did the day after my uncle was escorted from the courtroom and sent to spend the next five to ten years in prison. Instead of heading to our house, which was already under foreclosure, we went to the family boat and sailed to Bimini. We spent a week going around the Bahamian islands while Dad thought and Mom argued with him. Things were already over between them by then, but my brothers and I carried on, snorkeling, exploring, and occasionally taking our little raft to one of the superexclusive islands where celebrities pay tens of thousands of dollars a day to vacation. We even managed to find kids our own age and play with them.
That experience was imprinted permanently on me. Which is why I’ve never been able to live on land for long. Technically, my address is the apartment above the marina where the boat is docked, but the Eclipse is my home. Not that I’m terribly fond of this particular ship. The thing’s barely seaworthy, but the idea of the boat is what’s home for me.
I agreed to supervise the marina in exchange for the apartment when I got pregnant with Jackie. The owner, a man called Southie, for reasons I can only assume have something to do with his Boston accent, is a friendly snowbird who comes down here once a year to work on his old yacht. The rest of the time, a woman named Beth and her son do most of the work around the marina. They call me when something difficult needs to be fixed or someone has to be served an overdue-rent notice. That’s not a part of the job I enjoy, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay to give my daughter a fixed home of sorts.
It’s that fixed address that was causing me so much stress yesterday. A day after my driver’s license went missing, I feel a little bit more relaxed. If the killer wanted to stop me from talking to the investigators, he missed his chance. While I haven’t made a formal statement in the Palm Beach station, they have all the critical details. To be honest with myself, I’m more concerned about the fact that the cops don’t seem in any hurry to take my statement. On the surface this should be a good thing, but if the suspicion around me means what I think, they’re only biding their time for a more intense grilling.
I hose down my gear and set it on the stern to dry off. By the time I’ve downed half my postdive beer, Jackie’s ringing me on WhatsApp.
“Hey, Momma!” she says with a large grin.
The photos on the wall behind her are from Run’s office. He must have taken her there after school. His boat-renovation company lies off Las Olas Drive a few miles from here. Typical Run . . . it’s closer to restaurant row than the actual location where his work takes place.
“How you doing?” I ask, setting my beer down so it’s out of the frame. I have one a day on average, but the admonishment from my daughter about it being “early” or “drinking alone” stings, even as playfully as it’s intended.
“Dad wants to know if it’s okay if we get takeout and watch Back to the Future. Is that okay? He said you could join us.”
“Thanks, sweetie. Let me talk to him.”
Run takes the phone from her. His blue, almost silver, eyes and tan face flash a warm smile—not that different from Jackie’s, I’m noticing more and more lately.
He calls over to our daughter. “Hey, brat, give us a second, will ya? Official grown-up business.”
“And who would the grown-ups be?” Jackie snaps back from off-screen.
“Scram,” he says playfully. “Go terrorize Mr. Martinez in the gallery next door.”
She throws a hug around his neck, then leaves the office. Run stares a moment at the phone, trying to figure out the interface.
“Just talk,” I reply.
“What happened to old-fashioned phone calls?”
“Thanks for taking her for another day.” Run’s offer of takeout and a movie inevitably led to Jackie asking to spend the night at his place. Run, the clever manipulator, clearly figured this would give me an easy out if I needed him to watch her again.