Page 81 of Identity Unknown
“Ravenous,” Liam replies as I try not to think about whatmight be swimming under us. “A good tuna steak on the grill, cracking a few cold ones. Top it off with a neat single-malt Scotch and a Cuban cigar.”
“I go for pasta. I’m putting in my order now.” Lucy looks at me mask to mask as we bob up and down, spitting out water.
“Thank God.” Tron points, and I turn around to see blue lights flashing in the distance and getting closer.
We wave our arms in the air, yelling when it’s not possible for anyone to hear us. Closing in and slowing down, the Hampton police boat eases to a stop next to us, throwing Liam a rope that he ties to the dive buoy. Then he slides out the knife from the sheath strapped to his ankle. He cuts the yellow nylon line that may or may not still be attached to the anchor.
Henry has a bright yellow body bag unzipped and ready. The tightly woven mesh allows water to flow through, and we unbuckle the deflated salvage bags, handing them up to reaching hands. I help maneuver the spread-open body bag under the dead man. Zipping up three sides of the pouch, Tron and I hold on to it in the rocking surf as Lucy and Liam climb the ladder, shedding themselves of their gear.
They lean over the side of the boat, grabbing the bag by the handles, hoisting it on board, water draining through the mesh. The aluminum ladder bangs and sways, the chop getting stiffer. Hanging on to a rung, I take off my fins as Lucy reaches down for them. I feel the weight of the tank on my back as I climb up, taking off my mask with its attached camera, my neck stiff from the weight of it.
I pull off my gloves and sit down on the bench seat, shovingmy tank into the holder. Unbuckling my vest, I work my way out of it and all the hoses. I bend down to pull off my dive socks, unstrapping the knife from my ankle. We struggle out of our wetsuits, dropping them in the barrel of water. When it’s my turn to stand under the shower nozzle, I wash the salt and silt out of my hair.
“What do you need to do now?” Henry asks me this as I’m toweling off.
“There’s no point in taking a liver temp or doing anything else,” I reply. “We have a pretty good idea when he went into the water. The best thing is to let my Norfolk office handle it from here. You’ll want to make sure that Doctor Peace has the video and photographs.”
“What if he was already dead when the F-16s caught up with him?” Tron asks. “Is there any way to know that?”
“I won’t be able to tell unless the toxicology gives me a clue,” I answer. “But it seems you may have two separate events. He either passed out or died while on autopilot. Why? And fifteen or twenty minutes later his helicopter sputtered and crashed into the bay. Why?”
I explain that while Bret Jones was flying, he might have had a few swallows of a berry-flavored vitamin water. I hand the collection bag to Tron, pointing out that I noticed vitamin water inside the private terminal Dana Diletti and her crew flew out of this morning.
“I noticed the same thing,” Lucy replies as our boat speeds back to the marina. “They always keep it in the little refrigerators, including the ones in the pilots’ lounges.”
“Bottles of orange- and berry-flavored vitamin water,”Tron says to me. “I think we can assume that’s where the pilot got the one you found inside the cockpit.”
“We’ll look at the video taken by the flight service’s security cameras,” Lucy adds.
“Good luck getting hold of that if Ryder Briley’s involved.” I trade my wet towel for a dry one, draping it around my shoulders. “Magically, the cameras will have been offline for some reason.”
“They were on and working fine when someone turned them off early this morning. Or thought they had,” Lucy replies with a trace of a smile. “As I’ve mentioned, Ryder Briley has been on our radar for a while. Suffice it to say that after Luna had her so-called fatal accident, I made sure it’s impossible to turn off certain camera systems, including those at the flight service. You’ll think you did. But you didn’t.”
Massive stone ramparts hulk on the bright horizon as our boat speeds closer to Fort Monroe. Dubbed theGibraltar of the Chesapeake,the military installation was built after the War of 1812. It probably doesn’t look all that different from a distance than it did hundreds of years ago.
News helicopters are following us, and I can make out the rescue and police vehicles parked by the marina, the docked boats shining in the sun. Our captain begins rolling back the engines, cutting our speed to avoid creating wake. Then we’re gliding to the pier, and I spot the black windowless van from my Norfolk office. The death investigator named Nathan is climbing out of it.
He opens the tailgate and begins following the pier toward us, pulling on a pair of purple gloves, his feet loud on aluminum. Moments later he and Liam are carrying the bright yellow pouched body, loading it into the van. Texting Norfolk medical examiner Rena Peace, I give her the latest update. I mention the bottle of vitamin water that I’m having tested immediately, the toxicology in this case my top priority.
It’s close to 3:30P.M.when Lucy, Tron and I walk back to the Hampton police marine unit across the street as thunderstorms build to the south. The heat and humidity feel good as we trudge in our boots, our bags slung over our towel-draped shoulders. I can feel that my face is sunburned from floating on top of the water. Lucy’s and Tron’s noses are red.
The Dodge Charger is parked where we left it, the interior baking hot as I settle in the backseat, opening my jump-out bag. I pull a polo shirt over my damp sports bra, fastening my seat belt, draping the towel across my lap. The palms of my hands are pale and wrinkled from being underwater, my fingernails bluish, reminding me of what I see in drownings.
We’re headed back to the NASA Langley campus, where the helicopter has been fueled and is waiting. It’s a good thing we’re getting the hell out of here, Lucy says as we pick up I-64 West by Hampton University. Thunderstorms will hit Tidewater within the hour, moving up to Northern Virginia and New England. Flooding is expected in coastal areas, and damaging winds could cause power outages.
She’s wearing her computer-assisted glasses, the lenses tinted dark green in the sun. Both of us are catching up on weatherreports, messages, emails as Tron speeds along the interstate, cutting in and out of lanes as usual. I see that trace evidence examiner Lee Fishburne has just now texted. He wants me to call as soon as I’m able. He’s inside his lab with more test results, and I try him.
“Are you sitting down?” he asks.
“Actually, I am. And in a very loud car at the moment.” I dig my notebook and pen out of my briefcase.
“Who would think that the deaths of an abused child and a Nobel Prize winner would be related somehow?” It’s rare for Lee to show any excitement.
He goes on to confirm that the sparkling residue in Luna Briley’s and Sal Giordano’s cases is the same. They had a simulant of moon dust on them that glows cobalt blue under ultraviolet light. As he’s saying this I’m texting Benton the information.
“I think it’s safe to say that the simulant came from the same source,” Lee is telling me. “It looks the same microscopically. The composition is identical. For sure it was made by the same manufacturer, the same machining used.”
“And we’ve gotten no new information that might help us figure out where this fake moon dust could have come from?” I ask as we cross the Hampton River. “For example, if it’s being shipped to someplace in Virginia?”