Heather Graham - The Unspoken

“Look, if there was no reason to suspect foul play, his findings really weren’t negligent.”

“You’re defending him because he’s an M.E.”

“I’m only saying what’s true, especially in a big city where you can have days when the bodies just pile up,” Kat said.

“All right. I’ll apologize when I see him again—if I see him again—and let’s pray I don’t. As to the rest, time can mean everything in this kind of investigation.”

“I know. But I’m not sure whether we can answer all the questions we need answered or if those answers will lead to more questions. If we find air in the tank…”

“Then there’s a good chance he was murdered.”

He’d turned already. She suddenly hated the fact that he was as tall as he was. Keeping up with him was an effort.

“Even if the air is gone, we can’t be certain of what happened. The air might have bled out after he died,” she said, catching up with Will. “And if there is air in the tank, it still doesn’t prove that the regulator was ripped from his mouth.”

He stopped so abruptly that she plowed into him. He reached out one hand to prevent her from falling.

“No, we won’t prove anything one way or another, not without additional evidence. But it will be interesting to find out if there is or isn’t air in his tank and to take a look at the regulator.”

“You have a car?” she asked him.

“You don’t?”

“I got into my room around midnight. I took a cab from the airport.”

“I’m in the garage.”

He started walking again. This time, she kept a certain distance.

He’d rented a Honda. When Kat climbed in, he indicated a folder thrust between the seats. “Notes from my meeting with Amanda Channel and Jon Hunt at the Chicago Ancient History Preservation Center—and what I’ve dug up from recent newspaper clippings.”

Kat quickly leafed through the folder while he maneuvered the car out of the parking garage. The center sounded like a truly commendable enterprise. Nonprofit, it was dedicated to preservation. The staff was small and included three researchers, a receptionist and a general assistant. Grad students came and went. Of course, now with Brady Laurie gone, it was down to two researchers.

“Landry Salvage and Simonton’s Sea Search,” she murmured, skimming various articles written about the elusive Jerry McGuen. “These can’t be the only two parties interested in finding the ship.”

“I’m assuming that over the last century, countless individuals and companies have tried. Think about discoveries in the past. Both the Titanic and the Atocha took years and years of fruitless searches before finally being discovered.” He glanced over at her. “Laurie must have been a brilliant historian and scientist.”

“But not as brilliant a diver,” Kat said. “He shouldn’t have gone down alone.”

Will shrugged. “Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe the first person to come across the treasure was supposed to die,” he said cryptically. “Or maybe his coworkers weren’t supposed to be so close behind him, who knows? But I believe we’ll find out.”

“You have a lot of confidence,” Kat told him.

He flashed her a smile that was surprisingly charming. “That’s what we do—find things out. So far, my team hasn’t stopped until we’ve gotten the answers. Don’t tell me your team gives up so easily.”

“We haven’t given up yet!” Kat said indignantly.

His smile remained in place as he drove.

At the station, they were led first to one desk and then to another, and finally to the officer in charge of the accidental death investigation, Sergeant Riley. His supervisor had advised him to expect fed agents, and while he was pleasant and seemed to have no problem offering them assistance, he was confused about why they were there. “Sad, but the way the papers tell it,” Riley said, “Laurie went down on his own and drowned. You would’ve thought he’d know better. Every year, every damned year, there’s a diver lost somewhere in the lake, some fool so convinced of his own ability that he just goes down—and comes up dead.” Riley was in his early thirties, tops. He was medium in height and size, and wore a white tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “At the moment, the personal effects found on the corpse are in the evidence room. We’ll go sign them out and you can study them all you want.”

“Were you there when Brady Laurie was brought up?” Kat asked him.

“They were on the lake. Our marine unit went out to the site. He was declared dead at the hospital, but there’d been attempts at resuscitation before that. I took over the investigation when his wet suit and dive tanks were sent to us, and I’ve been awaiting the medical examiner’s report, but…I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting anything to come of it,” Riley said.

He walked them back to the evidence cage, where they were introduced to the officer in charge and signed in. “Was the equipment tested for leaks?” Will asked.

“Immediately. No problems.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Um, no.”

“Ah,” Chan said.

Riley frowned. “Is that a problem? I doubt we’d have gotten anything, anyway, since divers in the lake wear gloves. And then, of course, our technicians worked with the equipment to find out if it was faulty in any way.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“No.”

In the evidence area where the tank, regulator and buoyancy control belt had been stowed, along with Laurie’s weight belt, Will looked back at Kat. “May I?”

“Go right ahead.” Laurie’s equipment had not been disassembled; the “octopus” with the regulator, secondary system and computer console was still connected to the air tank.

Will examined the computer at the end of one of the hoses. He grimaced and beckoned to Kat. She came over and stood next to him, staring down at the dials. Brady Laurie had died with five minutes of air still available.

“There was air in his tank,” Will explained to Riley. “After it was checked out for leaks.”

“Well, so there is,” Riley said. “Then he must have panicked and spit the thing out.”

“Experienced divers don’t panic when they have a regulator and air. He had a secondary system, too,” Kat said thoughtfully. “Properly attached to his BCV.” Riley was looking at her blankly. “This,” she said, indicating the buoyancy control vest. “He could easily have reached for it if he’d had difficulty with his main regulator,” she said, pointing to the mouthpiece. “It allows for the flow of air.”

Riley shook his head. “We really think it was just a tragic accident.”

Kat stepped in front of Will. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Riley. We don’t.”

“You’re taking over the investigation?” he asked. To Kat’s astonishment, he sounded hopeful.

He must have read her mind. “Hey, big city here, folks. I have my hands full, so…the chief already sent down orders to set you up in one of the conference rooms.”

“Good,” Will said. “Thank you.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Can you see that we have access to this equipment, and a technical officer if need be?”

“Whatever you want that we’ve got,” Riley assured them.

“Can you also connect us with the officer in charge of the marine patrol unit?”

Riley was happy to do so. He was happy, perhaps, to do anything that would make them someone else’s responsibility.

Outside the station, Kat took out her phone. “I’ve got to tell Logan I can’t say for sure that Laurie died by accident,” she explained to Will. “Do you need to call in, as well? Now might be a good time.”

He shrugged. “I don’t have anything to report yet. Jackson Crow knew I’d be staying on for a while.”