The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(24)

That’s a lot of blood.

“What’d he look like?” asks Mercer.

“Who?”

“The dead man.”

The dead man?

I get Mercer’s point. There’s no way someone could survive that much blood loss unless there was an ER at the end of the parking lot. Which there isn’t. And chances are, these men were not heading for the nearest hospital.

I got him good. Artery. Shit. Not the gunshot, I’m pretty sure. It was my little stab and twist that sealed his fate.

Mercer must see the look on my face. “Serves the asshole right. Good job.”

I know he’s trying to make me feel better, so I nod. He doesn’t have all the facts. Hell, I could have just stabbed Run in a domestic dispute and made up the whole story. That’d be dumb and fall apart in two seconds, but it’s not the point. He trusts me.

“Were they waiting for you?” asks Mercer.

“No . . . I don’t think so. I think they were looking for something.”

His eyes drift from the dock to me. “What was that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then how do you know they were looking for something?”

I give him a cross look. “They sure as hell weren’t there to steal Jackie’s sticker album, were they?” I sigh and pull wet hair away from my eyes. “Sorry.”

“Easy, officer. I’m just trying to get some clarity.”

Unfortunately, that’s in short supply right now.

“When can I go back aboard?” I ask.

“Seriously? It’s a bloodbath in there. Easier to scrap it after we’re done.”

His face registers how much hearing this hurts me. Mercer’s used to talking to other cops about little-people problems behind their backs. His brain still didn’t fully comprehend that this happened in my home.

“Write down a list of what you need, and I’ll have someone get it for you. Okay? You have a place to stay?”

“I’m fine.”

“All right. Let’s let forensics have what you’re wearing and get you into something dry, then down to the station to make a statement.”





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PORTSIDE

“Are you sure it wasn’t a misunderstanding?” asks the FBI agent sitting across the conference room table.

He’s in his late thirties with jet-black hair showing the first signs of gray at the temples. He has Hispanic or Mediterranean features but no trace of an accent, Miami or otherwise. He was introduced to me as Special Agent Maris by Detective Carbone, the Fort Lauderdale plainclothes in charge of the case—although calling it a case at this point may be wishful thinking on my part.

In the last hour, I’ve gone from certain death at the hands of two unknown assailants to convincing these idiots that it wasn’t a misunderstanding. Next thing you know, they’ll be questioning if it actually happened.

“Miss McPherson, other than the blood, we’re having trouble finding any forensic evidence,” says Carbone.

Spoke too soon.

I take a deep, long breath that probably sounds like a wheeze. I’m trying really hard not to let my temper get the best of me. I take another breath.

“Could we get you a glass of water?” asks Maris.

I give him a gaze that could freeze an ocean.

One more breath. “You mean no other forensic evidence besides the gallons of blood and the bullet holes?”

Carbone makes a little throat-clearing sound. “Well, yes. There are bullet holes in the hull of the boat. Forensics is pulling the slugs.”

“Yeah, that little detail. Of course, what do I know?”

“We’re not questioning your recollection of events,” says Maris, even though that’s exactly what he’s doing.

I’m still trying to figure out what the hell an FBI agent is doing here. Carbone would only say that he’d been working with him on cases. That seems unusual.

The only thing that makes sense is that I’m one of those cases and Maris thought he could get a chance to see me up close, overlooking the fact that I’d find that highly suspicious. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

It’s also apparent they don’t care all that much about what happened to me. While my friends at Fort Lauderdale went out of their way in responding, Carbone, the detective assigned to this, is no friend of mine—or of my contacts here.

This all feels wrong. Why are they acting as if this is all no big deal?

If this were some kind of conspiracy and these two clowns knew my assailants, that would make some sense, but they had no trouble sharing my descriptions of the assailants with other agencies. And as far as I know, the blood from my boat and the dock is on its way to a legit forensics lab to be ID’d.

That’s hardly how you cover up for someone. That plus the way Agent Maris keeps looking up at the camera in the corner, as if he has friends watching remotely.

I should have asked for a lawyer. Run’s family knows all kinds of fancy attorneys who’d be running circles around these jokers. But nope. Here I am. I thought I’d be talking to friendly faces, not trying to convince someone what happened, happened.

“Any other details, Miss McPherson?” asks Carbone—like he’s inquiring if I want breadsticks with my order.