San Diego Noir

The ocean can be murderous. Ask any life insurance agent who writes policies for scuba divers. But gliding nearly naked underwater is as close as I’ve come to free flight, and the irresistible sensuality of it overrides my usual caution about such things. Admittedly, it was stupid to dive alone that June morning. No excuses there. I rationalized that my dive partner would be arriving any minute. I promised myself I wouldn’t go out too far.

Swimming through the shallow water, I pushed past rocky ledges filled with lobsters, shrimp, crabs, and abalone. Divers here can look but cannot touch; the cove is an ecological preserve. Visibility improved the farther out I swam. Tempted by schools of small bass and bright orange garibaldi, I covered a few hundred yards.

I hesitated when I reached the swirling masses of feather-boa kelp that spanned the outer edge of the cove. The dense plants made me feel claustrophobic. Kicking hard, I shot through the kelp forest and the bottom dropped away to thirty feet. That’s where I saw Wendy, though I didn’t know her name at the time.

Her long, blond hair undulated with the tide. Looking down at her, I couldn’t see her face. For one hopeful moment I thought she might be a mermaid, unencumbered as she was by scuba gear. But mermaids don’t wear bikinis, and they don’t have ghostly white legs. Her arms stretched in front of her as though reaching for some treasure at the bottom of the sea. Moving closer, I saw the dull glint of metal at her wrists. She wasn’t reaching for anything; she was handcuffed to a heavy chain that was anchored to the ocean floor.

It was terribly quiet. I remembered to breathe, and soon heard the reassuring sound of oxygen rushing through my air hose, followed by my own carbon dioxide bubbling toward the surface.

I knew from the woman’s rigid form that she was past saving. I swam around her body and looked into a face so likeable that it broke my heart. She hadn’t been in the water for long. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, except for some redness where her wrists chafed against the handcuffs. Her mouth was open to the sea that filled her lungs. Her wide green eyes seemed to be staring at a small leather pouch on a thin leather strap that floated loosely around her neck.

Feeling an urgent need for fresh air, I followed the chain up to the surface, where it attached to a buoy floating about three hundred yards from shore. Treading water, I removed my mouthpiece and took several grateful breaths.

A crowd had gathered on the beach to watch the activity offshore. Coast Guard officers in small boats had been posted around the crime scene to keep swimmers away as divers searched for evidence.

“What time did you find the body?” Carlos Rico, one of the officers who’d responded to my 911 call, had been interviewing me for some time. We’d already covered this question. My answer didn’t change.

“Sometime between seven-ten and seven-fifteen.”

“You seem pretty sure about that.”

I shrugged. “Occupational habit. I’m an investigator.”

He made a note on his report. “Private?”

“Yeah.” I fished a business card out of the backpack I’d retrieved from my truck and handed it over. The type read, Elizabeth Chase, Psychic Investigator. Rico studied the card for a moment before attaching it to his clipboard. If he thought there was anything peculiar about my title, he didn’t let on.

“You say you got here about ten minutes to seven and went in the water a few minutes after seven. Can anyone confirm that?”

I looked around to see if I recognized anyone on the beach, someone who might have seen me go into the water.

“Not really. My dive partner was supposed to meet me here, but I guess she couldn’t make it this morning.” Shivering in my damp bathing suit, I watched Rico print my statement word for word. The sudden blaring of car horns and screeching of brakes made us both look up.

The uncommon sight of police and emergency vehicles in the posh La Jolla neighborhood had caused a nasty traffic jam on Coast Boulevard, the road that snakes along the shoreline. Residents in the high-rise condominiums facing the ocean had come out onto their balconies to see what the ruckus was all about. Some of them looked cranky. They’d plunked down several million dollars for their homes. Klieg lights and crime scene looky-loos were not the view they’d bargained for.

The Motorola on Rico’s hip spit out a static-filled message. I only caught part of it, something about moving the body. I felt a sudden stab of protectiveness toward the dead woman, as if my discovering her somehow made me responsible for her too.

“Where are they taking her?” I asked.

“The lifeguard station in Quivera Basin.”

That made sense. Quivera was a fairly remote location at the mouth of Mission Bay. Far from the beach-going masses, it would be a good place to examine and identify the body.