Free Swimming With the Dead by Kathy Brandt Page B

know what happened to Michael’s diving gear or where I might find his boat?”
    “I don’t know what happened to his gear,” she said.  “I never even asked.  The Lucky Lady is in a slip down at the marina at Wickhams Two.  I haven’t been on her since Michael died.  His parents wanted me to keep her, but I can’t.  We spent a lot of time together on that boat.  Without him . . . well, you know.  I need to sell her.”
    “I’d like to take a look at her,” I said.
    “Sure.  She’s in slip twelve.  Anyone at the marina can show you.”
    “Thanks,” I said, opening the door.
    “Thank you—for getting involved.” She gently touched my arm. “And thanks for letting me go on about Michael.”
    “You’re welcome,” I said.  As I watched her pull away, I couldn’t help feeling that in all the talk, there was something Lydia hadn’t said.
    I walked through the lobby and out to the end of the dock.  It was too beautiful to go back to my room and I needed to think.  Brooding came easier without the restriction of walls.
    It was possible that Michael’s research had resulted in his murder.  From what Lydia said, he could have pushed someone’s buttons with his vehemence about the destruction of the reef.  Or threatened a thriving charter business by forcing restrictions on boating activity.  But she’d said that Michael was not as careful as the Duvalls wanted to believe.  Maybe his recklessness when it came to the environment and diving had gotten him into trouble.  He could have pulled that compressor down looking for some environmental hazard.  This entire trip could be a waste of my time and the Duvalls’ money.  But Lydia was hiding something.  I was sure of it.  I’d seen that expression before during an interrogation.
     I sat at the end of the dock for a while, feet hanging off the end, arms propped behind me.  I had forgotten how vast and star-studded the night skies could be.  As a kid growing up in Illinois, I’d spent hours lying in the grass waiting to wish on the first star.  But the brightly lit Denver skies didn’t afford such a view, and these days I never took the time to look anyway.
     

Chapter 7
     
     
    Only nine thirty and damn, it was hot.  About five minutes after I walked out of my room, my tank top was already sticking to my back.  I wore tan hiking shorts, an old pair of Birkenstocks, and the tank, a sherbet deepening to orange where the sweat soaked through.  I was headed around to the other side of the harbor to talk with one of Michael’s dive buddies, who owned Underwater Adventure.
    The shop was hard to miss.  The building, deep pink with a green awning, looked like a watermelon perched on the water’s edge.  Rows of dive tanks lined the side of the building.  Dozens of wet suits, buoyancy vests, and regulators hung from a metal bar, drying. 
    Stepping inside was like stepping into an aquarium.  There were fish everywhere—fish T-shirts, bikinis, mobiles, magnets, paperweights, jewelry, pink, yellow, and turquoise fish.
    “Good morning,” a huge black woman greeted from behind the counter. “May I help you?”
    “Hello, I’m looking for James Constantine,” I said.
    “He be here somewhere.  James?  James!” she hollered toward the back room. 
    “No need to shout, woman; I’m right here,” came a voice from around the corner.  A tall black man, tattoos gracing each bicep, gave the woman a surreptitious pat on the ass as he moved past her.
    “I’m James, help you?”
    “I’m Hannah Sampson,” I said. “Denver police officer.  Michael Duvall’s parents asked me to come down to check out a few things.  I know you and Michael were friends.  Can we talk a minute?”
    “Sure, let’s go out back.  I’m repairing equipment.  We can talk while I work,” he said, leading the way.  A small outdoor shop was littered with dive gear.  The long hoses of dive regulators in various stages of devastation were tangled on the