The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(15)

At the point I should be entering the office, I instead run around the building, climb over the fence, and slip through a line of shrubs that separates our lot from the public landing next door.

I reach the edge and peer at the SUV. It’s still there. I can only assume he’s watching the office, waiting for me to leave.

That is, if I’m not making a big something out of nothing.

No, you’re not. He was watching you with night vision. There’s no innocent excuse for that.

The SUV doesn’t belong to the Lauderdale Shores fleet, nor is it owned by anyone who works there. So I can be fairly certain that this isn’t someone Chief Kate assigned to look after me.

A car passes the truck and heads in my direction, creating a distraction. I cross the street the moment it moves past and walk along the side of the street opposite the truck.

When I get to a position parallel to the driver’s seat, I look through the open passenger window.

The man is still watching the building through his goggles, facing away from me. He probably noticed the lights didn’t go on in the office and is realizing that something’s up.

I take a step toward the truck and point my gun at the back of his head.





CHAPTER TEN

BAIT

The hardest part about being a cop is pulling your gun on someone and knowing that only millimeters separate them from death. A car backfiring, a sneeze, even a nervous tic can turn a routine stop into a fatal encounter. And in this tweet-first, ignore-the-facts-later culture, even doing the right thing can ruin a reputation and earn widespread shaming from people who know less than nothing about what it means to be a police officer in a pulse-racing, life-or-death situation.

I’m thankful that I’m a part-timer with Lauderdale Shores, where I experience aggressive encounters only once or twice a month. In some cities, cops suffer them hourly.

I don’t have to announce my presence. The man behind the wheel knows I’m there by the time I have my gun pointed at the back of his head.

To someone watching this from afar, it might look like I’m overreacting. But I can’t take the chance that he’ll pull a gun from his lap faster than I can draw my own. I have to take the upper hand while I still can.

He catches me out of the corner of his eye. “Put the gun away, bitch.”

He’s in his late thirties: Hispanic or Mediterranean.

“Hands on the wheel. Police.”

The man does a slow turn. He’s got a slight grin on his face. “I’m going to start my car and leave.”

“No. You’re going to stay here until I call for backup.”

“Backup? As far as I’m concerned, you’re just some crazy bitch who pulled a gun on me.” He reaches for the ignition.

What am I supposed to do now? Shooting him is a ridiculous thought, and I have no cause to place him under arrest.

This is the gray zone.

I need to stall him for a few seconds.

“Stop. Don’t turn that ignition or . . .”

I leave it open-ended. He’s cocky and wants to hear what I’m going to say, since he’s now sure that I won’t pull the trigger.

“Or what?” He leans his left elbow on the steering wheel and stares back at me, challenging me to do something.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and raise it up to my face.

“Why don’t you call this one in, little sister.”

The flash from my phone’s camera momentarily blinds him. He responds by swiping his left hand in my direction.

I keep my finger light on the trigger. It’s a ridiculous position for him to try to throw a punch from. Instead, it tells me that he really, really doesn’t want his photo taken.

“Fuck you,” he growls, leaning back and keying the ignition.

He slams the SUV into reverse, almost clipping me with the rearview mirror, then swings out into the street and races off.

I snap a photo of the retreating car, getting the license plate in case anyone questions my memory.

Before his taillights have turned the corner, I’m calling Captain Mercer’s personal cell phone. He’s the on-duty Fort Lauderdale police captain.

“Hey, McPherson,” he says after half a ring. “Find a missing shopping cart in the canal and the ladies at Shores can’t get it out by themselves?”

Mercer loves to refer to us as “the ladies at Shores” because our chief is a woman. He also loves to act like a misogynistic asshole, but it’s mostly show. His wife is former air force and his daughter’s at the Coast Guard Academy, and he couldn’t be prouder.

“You heard about that body I found yesterday?”

“Shit, that was you. What’s up?”

“Long story short, I was in the water when the victim was killed, and the perp may have stolen my driver’s license from my vehicle. Just now I caught some creep watching me at the marina with night vision.”

He’s a quick study and doesn’t need any more details. “You stop him?”

“Yeah, but he called my bluff and drove off. Can I give you a plate and a picture of him?”

“Go for it.”

I read him the license plate number, then text him both photos.

“On it. Want me to send a patrol car by?”

I want to answer no out of pride, but having a marked car roll through the area would definitely discourage my watcher if he decided to loop back for another visit.