The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(43)

“How much money did you say was missing?” asks Dad.

“It’s about more than the money,” replies Solar.

“I know. But what was the amount?”

“About a half-billion dollars,” Solar says casually. “Give or take.”

Dad whistles. “Still less than the Atocha stern castle.”

This makes me laugh. “Oh, did we lose your attention? Is that not enough?”

“No. And legally you don’t even get to keep it. Not that it matters,” says Solar.

“I think I know a few maritime lawyers who might disagree,” Dad replies.

“You’re not allowed to keep illicit funds outside of reward.”

“If it’s in the water, it’s salvage,” says Dad.

“Not if it’s drug money.”

“That would take a court decision.”

“All right, you old pirate,” I snap at my father. “We’re not exactly making a good impression here.”

“Think I give a damn what kind of impression I give?” he retorts. “To him?”

“Uncle Karl broke the law and got busted. He went to jail. End of story. Solar is a cop. I’m a cop. We arrest people.”

“You’re a diver who works with the police department,” says Dad.

“I have a badge. I carry a gun.”

“So does a mall cop.”

I slam my hand on the table. “Seriously? Is that what you think of me? Is that your assessment of my becoming a police officer? You think it’s just a part-time gig like being a barista?”

“Isn’t it?” asks Dad.

“No! I became a cop because I was tired of everyone thinking we were boat-trash, would-be pirates. I became a cop because Uncle Karl went to jail. I wanted . . . I wanted there to be at least one McPherson people knew wasn’t crooked.”

“Do you think I’m crooked?” asks Dad.

I turn to Solar. “Is he?”

“I stay out of family matters.”

“No, Dad. I don’t think you’re crooked. But I think you get your priorities wrong sometimes.”

“I see,” he says quietly. “I’ll be down below if you need me.” He gets up and leaves us alone.

Damn it. I didn’t mean to hurt him . . . Wait. Don’t do this. To hell with him for calling me a mall cop.

Solar is leaning against a counter, watching me. “So, basically, I made you a cop?”

“Just shut up.”

We go back over the maps, checking the depths of the canals. There just doesn’t look like a practical way to get a submarine from the boatyard to the ocean or down the Intracoastal.

Solar is right. The radio antenna probably has nothing to do with the water. If not, then what?

Half an hour later, Dad walks up the stairs from his cabin and says, “One hundred and ten cubic feet.”

“What?”

“That’s how much space you’d need to fit five hundred million in cash. A hundred cubic feet, give or take.”

“What about the crew and air supply?” asks Solar.

Dad ignores the question and sets a piece of paper on the table in front of me. On it is a number: forty-four.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a filing box in the garage at your mother’s house. Go take a look at it.” He walks back down the steps into his cabin.

“Could you be a little vaguer?” I shout after him.

“You want to be a cop. Go be a cop. Hell, you already have people shooting at you.”

“Are things always this tense with the McPhersons?” asks Solar.

“You should see us when we aren’t getting along.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHARTS

Mom could give a damn that I showed up at her door with George Solar. In fact, she seemed almost overly polite when I explained who he was. She never cared much for Uncle Karl, especially after he got arrested. For her, that was one more warning sign that the McPhersons were a sinking stock.

She’s a few inches shorter than me and still in great shape. Mom was more of a sportsman than Dad and loved to swim and scuba. Jackie possesses many of her characteristics. I’d say she’s a good counterbalance to Run’s mom, but they both have nasty streaks and love to talk shit about the other behind their back.

Mom’s boyfriend, Hank, greeted us at the door and gave me one of his awkward hugs. He’s a nice enough guy who works as a chef and a drummer.

If Mom was looking to trade up after the divorce, I’m not sure how well that worked out.

After I give her a brief, sanitized recap of recent events, she leads us to the garage, which is still filled with filing boxes and other mementos from our time at sea.

“This is what I got in the divorce,” she says to Solar. “Lucky me. Most of it’s notes that Robert was going to use for his book project. Still unwritten.” She sighs.

“And you’re still totally not bitter,” I reply.

“I have a roof over my head. It’s more than I can say for him. Still living on a boat.”

“Yeah, those boat people. They’re the worst.”

“Oh, I don’t mean you, dear. It’s a phase. You’re working out some kind of childhood trauma, I’m sure.” She turns to Solar. “You know she tried to have herself emancipated as a minor? Legally separated? She wanted to divorce us first.”