The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(45)

For every naval innovation—faster boat, radar, airplane, satellite, what have you—smugglers have always been incentivized to outthink and outdesign law enforcement.

I had an economics professor who put it to our class bluntly: “When you restrict the supply of something, the price goes up. When the price goes up, you have more people working on more solutions to distribute the product. The market corrects for that.”

According to him, the only two solutions that dramatically affect the price of an illegal commodity are decriminalizing it and easing restrictions or going the opposite direction and making sale and possession capital offenses. He claimed that educating the public on the dangers had only a nominal effect.

I’m not really sure where I stand. As a cop, I have to enforce a number of laws I don’t agree with (and may have broken in my younger days). But I also recognize that I live in a democracy, and the laws we enforce are generally the ones everyone agrees on. Or at least this is my pat answer when I’m asked for my take on criminal matters.

A phrase you hear often in training and seminars is use your discretion. That gives us a lot of leeway in what we choose to enforce, for better or worse. I know for a fact that if we did as many drug searches of rich white schools as we do poor black ones, there’d be an outcry about our “lack of discretion.” It’s tricky on both sides. That’s why I prefer the water.

Right now, I’m looking at a map of the south end of Palm Beach, where a small island called Turtle Isle perches by the mainland.

Solar and I are parked in a lot near the bridge that leads to the island, and we want to get our bearings straight so we know what we’re looking for. Chances are, Bonaventure’s estate is being watched by a lot of eyes. Even a swift drive-by is bound to get noticed.

“Turtle Isle has about twelve properties,” says Solar. “Hard to keep track. Big ones get split into smaller ones. Two are owned by royalty—a German baron and a Saudi one as well. Some romance novelist owns another. A movie director and bankers or lawyers make up the rest.”

“Must be nice,” I reply.

“Maybe,” says Solar. “The rich have their fair share of domestic squabbles, ungrateful kids, and opportunists preying upon them.”

I don’t point out how it’s probably easier to deal with that when your biggest fear isn’t losing the roof over your head. But I get what he’s saying. When I went to private school, a rich family’s divorce sounded like a civil war. Lines were drawn even in the cafeteria as stepkids sided against each other because trust funds were at stake.

I examine a printout from Google Maps, on which I’ve drawn a big red circle around Bonaventure’s estate. I don’t use the word estate lightly. There’s a main house, several guesthouses, two pools, three hot tubs, a tennis court, a mini putting green, and a large boathouse next to a hundred-foot dock.

Bonaventure’s boat, a ninety-footer cheekily named the Good Fortune, is currently docked in a marina in Miami.

“You sure there was nothing on the boat?” I ask.

“No. I’m not sure about anything in life. But DEA, FBI, and—I’m sure—a DIA search team have been all over it.”

“Yeah, makes sense.”

“DIA would have used antiterrorism stuff, military grade. Millimeter radar, X-rays, that new neutron thing. The boat was even up in dry dock with a robot arm loaded with sensors scanning the thing. Keep in mind that Bonaventure’s smart. He knew the first thing they’d search is that boat.”

“And where is he in all this?” I ask.

“Around. He’s not under official investigation. He still goes back and forth between here and New York. LA. He doesn’t leave the US, though, and he always has a security team with him.”

“You’d think K-Group could get to him.”

“They’re afraid to kill him. They can’t risk his files getting out. They’d rather get him into DIA custody and interrogate him.”

Hmm. I nod.

“The reason he won’t leave the United States is he’s afraid he’ll get hauled to some overseas black site.”

“Rich-people problems,” I reply.

Solar keys the ignition. “Ready?”

“I still think we should have used another car and worn a disguise.”

Solar even has the windows rolled down.

He pulls us onto the bridge. “George Solar 101: if you know they’re going to catch you doing a thing, don’t try to hide. That confuses them and makes them think that maybe you’re not doing a thing.”

“Aren’t we doing a thing?” I ask.

“Yep. And maybe they’ll think we’re just curious how Bonaventure lives. Who cares? If we used a rental car or one belonging to anyone we know, they’d trace it.” He points to a traffic camera on a light post. “That’s not a Department of Transportation camera. That’s a plate scanner. Right now, my registration and name are being added to a database with a time stamp. See the one ahead?” A camera is facing us on a traffic-signal pole. “That’s taking photos of everyone driving onto the island. Facial recognition would see past a wig and sunglasses.”

I get a case of the butterflies. “So DIA knows we’re here?”

“Their computer does. It’s not necessarily the same thing. They probably have it programmed to ping them whenever Bonaventure comes or goes. If he tries to sit in the back of a big SUV, there’s a thermal profile for him—same thing Predator drones use to take out terrorists in their homes.”