The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(3)

“Did you know her?” he asks.

Suddenly he sounds like a cop talking to a person of interest. Something weird is going on here.

“I don’t believe so. Have you identified her?”

He ignores my question. “What do you mean you don’t believe so?”

I count to three and spare him the legendary McPherson temper. “She doesn’t look familiar.”

Ruiz nods and jots a note on a pad. “And you were underwater when it happened?”

You want to cop me? I’ll cop you back. “When what happened?”

He gives me an incredulous look. “You were underwater when the girl was killed?”

“How would I know that?” This is frustrating. It’s not what you’d normally ask a witness. It’s what you’d ask a potential suspect.

Macon is watching us closely, sensing the tension. He tries to defuse the situation. “McPherson’s the one that pulled the bodies from that plane crash in the Everglades we all had to respond to.”

“I know who she is,” Ruiz replies dryly.

I almost sensed a what in his response, implying that he knows my family history—including about my uncle Karl, currently serving time for a drug-trafficking-related parole violation.

I point to the body and ask again, “Do you know who she is?”

“No, we don’t. Not yet.”

I nod at the cops scattered around the scene. “I’ve pulled my share of bodies from the water. I’ve never seen . . .” I count all the jackets now on the scene. “DEA, Customs, FBI, BSO, PBSO, and Miami-Dade all show up for one. That’s a little unusual. Don’t you think?”

Something changes in his demeanor. I wouldn’t quite call it relaxing, but his focus shifts slightly. “Yeah. It’s odd. The field examiner took a temperature reading. She estimates the victim died about seventy minutes ago.”

He watches the expression on my face as my body turns as cold as the victim’s.

She wasn’t only dumped here . . . I was in the water when she was killed. Perhaps in this exact spot.

“You okay?” asks Ruiz.

“I’m managing.”

His tone softens slightly. “There’s nothing you could have done. If they’d seen you, they would have just taken her somewhere else to kill her.” He adds, “I don’t think you were ever in any danger.”

My attention goes to the knife still strapped to my leg. “I wasn’t worried about me.”

Ruiz turns to Macon. “Will you get a copy of her driver’s license and contact information?”

“Do we need the suit?” Macon asks, pointing to my dive suit, which I forgot I’m still wearing.

“I think we’re okay,” Ruiz replies.

This comes as a relief. If he thought I’d killed the woman, he’d want it as evidence.

“Where are you parked?” asks Macon.

I point to my Explorer on the side of the road behind a row of bushes. “There.”

He glances at the truck, then back to the water, probably noticing what I did: it’s not visible from the road.

Ruiz returns to the other cops while Macon walks me to my truck.

“Let’s be careful,” he says, pointing to a muddy patch.

Forensic techs are already cordoning off the area so they can try to get footprints and tire tracks. Hopefully it’ll be enough to find the killer if they already have leads. Hopefully.

At my Explorer, Macon waits while I rummage through my backpack. Half the contents are already spilled on the floor. I’d dumped it out when I raced back to get my phone to call 911.

“Here you go,” I say as I pull my wallet from the pile, then freeze.

Something is wrong.

“McPherson?” Macon asks. “You okay?”

I turn my wallet toward him so he can see the spot where I keep my driver’s license.

It’s empty.

“Shit . . . ,” he says. “You don’t seem like the kind of person to forget that.”

I shake my head.

No, I’m not.

Macon shouts to the group of detectives. “Ruiz!”

He comes running over to us. “What’s up?”

I show him my empty wallet. His cop brain figures it out quickly.

“He took your license.”

I nod.

The killer knows who I am.

The killer knows where I live.





CHAPTER THREE

DOCK LINE

When I think of my father, I think of sharks, and oddly enough, it relaxes me. Right now, he’s sitting on the stern of his boat with a concerned look on his face, and I’m the one trying to calm him.

My earliest memories are of Dad teaching me to swim. My most vivid is my first time snorkeling in the ocean.

I was six, and we were paddling over a shallow wreck, the Copenhagen, off the coast of Pompano Beach. I was still adjusting to the taste of salt water and the burning sensation it made in my nose when I didn’t clear it properly while my older brothers free dived down to touch the ship’s rusted anchor.

That’s when I saw the hammerhead shark. My mind’s eye remembers it being twenty feet long. In reality it was probably less than half that.

I’d seen more schools of beautiful fish than I could count, but this was something else . . . something alien.