The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(13)

“No problem. I’m just trying to maximize the time that she still thinks I’m cool.”

“I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry about that.”

Despite Run’s failings in the relationship-with-me department, he’s an exceptional dad and spends more time with Jackie than many married fathers would. At times I feel a little jealous that he gets to be the fun parent while I have to be the business parent.

“Ha. You have no idea how hard it is to compete with a cop mom.”

Compete . . . He uses that word too. It’s a crummy way to parent, but it’s a reality.

“Anyway, I, uh, figured you were still processing what happened yesterday.”

Processing? Is that what he thinks this is all about?

“I’ve seen more dead bodies than you’ve seen naked ones. I’m not processing,” I respond a little too defensively.

“Sorry. You didn’t give me a lot of details yesterday. I figured it was something more than work stuff.”

“It is, and it isn’t. Whoever killed that woman took my driver’s license.”

The words pass my lips before I can contain them. I really didn’t want to tell this to Run. There’s a side to him that few people ever see. Once you understand what lies beneath that happy-go-lucky charm, it’s hard to look at him the same.

I saw it when we were dating in high school and Seth Kwan made a drunken grab for my breasts at a kegger. I gave him a black eye, but Run pummeled the shit out of the kid until his whole face was black-and-blue. A small crowd gathered, watching Run land blow after blow. Some tried to pull him off; others rooted him on.

A few years later, I was pregnant, and some teenager in a Camaro almost ran us off the road. Run chased him into a parking lot. The kid pulled over and got out of his car, ripping his shirt off in some kind of alpha display.

Run grabbed the blackjack he kept under the seat, exited the car, and clipped the kid in the temple, knocking him out cold.

We left him there in the parking lot, unconscious. Run was steaming mad for ten minutes. Then it vanished, and he was asking where I wanted to go for dinner.

Once you see that side to someone, you never forget it’s there, waiting to erupt.

Run’s face turns a little red, and he looks in the direction he sent Jackie. I can tell that he’s trying to figure out what he’s supposed to say. Does he yell at me for not telling him? Does he make some macho statement about protecting her?

To his credit, he handles it differently than I expected.

In a calm voice, he replies, “Tell me what I can do.”

It takes me a moment to get over this response. Is this a sign of a maturing Run? Or has he learned how to be more calculating?

“Watch her for a few more days. Keep an eye on her.”

“What if she asks?”

I’m about to say she won’t, then remember she’s not six anymore. I wish I could be up front with her, but knowing Jackie, if she thought I was in some kind of trouble, she’d Uber herself here in a heartbeat to protect her mother.

“I’ll tell her it’s work, and I’ll explain later.”

Run laughs. “Explain later. That one always works.”

“Explain what?” Jackie asks from out of frame.

Run doesn’t miss a beat. “Explain the meaning of minding your own beeswax. Why aren’t you bothering Mr. Martinez?”

“He was showing some people a painting that looked like a rainbow threw up on a dolphin,” she replies.

“And?”

“I told them that. He got pissed and asked me to leave.”

Run stares at me with a wry smile. “I wonder who that reminds me of.”

The first time Run’s mother showed me her art collection, I asked if she bought the pieces from the local art college. It did not go over well. She called me a philistine, and I excitedly brought up an article I’d read about the excavation of Tel Qasile, the port city founded by the actual Philistines. She was not impressed and started calling me “that weird girl” behind my back.

I watch the bluish-purple sky as the sun finishes setting and streetlamps start to turn on around the marina and surrounding streets. Just beyond the small fence that separates the marina parking lot from the street, I notice a parked SUV in a no-parking zone.

I scan the seawall to see if there are any fishermen nearby, then realize that there’s someone in the truck. I catch the glint of light on glass as he lowers something. I instinctively reach into the console by my feet.

Run calls out to me. “Sloan?”

“Just a second.” I set the phone down, pull out the night-vision goggles I keep on board, and step down into the cabin.

Keeping my head down low and my IR illuminator off, I look back at the truck and see the bright glow of an infrared light as someone watches me back.

“Everything okay?” Runs asks.

I step back out onto the deck, pretending I didn’t see what I just saw.

“Let me call you back,” I say, forcing a smile and ending the call.

Beer bottle in one hand, phone in the other, I stroll toward the marina office, pretending not to notice that I’m being watched.

The moment I pass a row of lockboxes on the dock, I put the phone in my pocket and replace it with the gun from my waistband.