The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(19)

“I’m good,” he replies. “Someone’s been looking after that.”

That someone is me. I check his balance periodically to make sure he has enough. I haven’t told him, and I’m not sure if he suspects. Despite my anger toward the man, I can’t forget he’s the one who’d bring me cookies when I was sick and stick up for me when my brothers teased me too much.

“Stacey Miller,” I say flatly.

The look on his face says a lot. He knows she’s dead, but what else does he know?

“When was the last time you talked to her?” I ask.

“Is this an official visit? Is Lauderdale Shores part of some kind of interagency narcotics group now?” he jokes at my department’s expense.

“It’s a personal matter. I pulled her body out of the water two days ago.”

His face goes pale. “I didn’t know you still do that kind of thing.”

“I do. But this one was more freelance.”

“Freelance?”

I don’t elaborate. “What do you know about her?”

“Nothing. I never talked to her much,” he replies.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“I haven’t talked to her in at least a couple years. Why?”

I ignore his question. “What about her dad? What can you tell me about Winston Miller?”

“He worked on our boats. You remember. He had some trouble a couple years ago. We lost touch.”

“Dad says you still talk to him,” I reply.

“Not since . . . Not for years.”

“Not since when?”

“Not since I went to jail the first time. I lost touch with everyone. Nobody wants to talk to a con.”

I roll my eyes. “Enough of the pity-party bullshit.”

“When did you become such a hard-ass?”

“I’m a McPherson. It’s in the DNA. But apparently it skips a generation.”

“Touché.”

“Not since . . . ?” I repeat his words back to him.

“What?”

“You said, ‘Not since,’ then fed me some bullshit about you losing touch because of prison. But that’s not what you meant to say.”

He shrugs. “Who knows why he stopped talking to me?”

It’s more of a delaying tactic than a response.

“Did he stop? I remember the trial. The odd part was where they said you built the compartments on the boat for hauling cocaine. I remember thinking to myself how impressed I was that you kept that mechanical side of you so well hidden. But charts and currents were your thing, not fiberglass and epoxy.”

Uncle Karl remains silent. His eyes flick to the open door, where Marshal Simmons waits on the other side.

“So, Winston made the compartments.” I say it as a statement, not a question.

Uncle Karl doesn’t say anything, which tells me enough.

“Did he do it for other people?”

Karl is clearly uneasy. I’ve touched a nerve. He’s probably wondering if I’m wearing a wire for some kind of sting.

“I’m just asking questions,” I explain. “I’m your niece. Not the police.”

“In a US marshal’s office,” he says in a lowered voice. “With the door open.”

I turn to the door and shout, “Hey, Simmons, my uncle just told me he plans to escape and join ISIS.”

“Tell him to wear sunscreen,” he replies from the other side.

“He doesn’t care about a case from more than a decade ago. Nobody does.”

“Tell that to the judge that sent me here.”

“Tell that to the dumb ass that keeps violating parole.”

Anger flashes across his face. “It’s not easy being treated like a convict. Especially for something that half the people around you are guilty of.”

I lose my temper. “It’s not easy being the niece of a convict and getting treated like one even though you never did the things you say everybody else did.”

“Yeah, well, you certainly benefited from it,” he mumbles.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He glowers at me but stays silent.

“What are you trying to say?” Is he claiming his ill-gotten gains supported Dad and us?

I feel gut punched as I realize that . . . of course . . . Karl wasn’t smuggling for the first time when he got caught. Shit. How naive can I be?

The investors he helped find for the family business . . . the shares he bought. Damn.

Dad may not have known, but he probably suspected. Goddamn it.

Focus, Sloan. Worry about the past later. Right now we stay focused.

“Winston. Tell me about him.”

Karl looks off to the side, ignoring me. “I’ll talk to my niece. But not the cop.”

“You asshole. Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

“Did you come in here and treat me like family and tell me how Jackie was doing or did you just treat me like a suspect?”

Not a hint of humor or tenderness. He’s seriously angry. Well, screw him and his self-pity.

“Jackie? My daughter, your grandniece, is staying with her father because I’m too scared to let her come home after whoever murdered Stacey Miller stole my driver’s license. She’s great. Thanks for asking. I’ll tell her she can come home once I figure out why the daughter of her uncle’s drug-smuggling partner was killed a few feet away from her mom. Then it’ll all be great. We’ll bake you a fucking cake.”