“Maybe you were driving while impaired.”
He looked over at Mr. Rossi. “My head hurts. I need to have a doctor look at it.”
“I’ll call Dr. Stauss,” Mr. Rossi said. “You should go lie down.”
Joe dumped the remains of his steak into Edison’s bowl. A couple of gulps later, it was gone. Double steaks. Edison’s lucky day.
“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,” Joe said to Bellum and Hap.
Bellum rose, too, and handed him her card. “Call me if your memory of the incident returns.”
Face unreadable, Hap stood next to her.
He set the card on the table. “And I’m certain my account tallies with that of Miss Torres.”
“How can you be so certain?” Officer Bellum asked. “Did you collaborate?”
“It’ll tally because it’s the truth.” He looked into Bellum’s gray eyes. “I hit my head underwater and was taken aboard the helicopter in a semiconscious state. As you can see, I just woke up. So, when would we have had an opportunity to collaborate?”
“Maybe before you left home in the first place,” Bellum said.
“I think you need to go,” Joe said. “I’m done talking.”
She walked down his old-fashioned hallway, tanned hand nearly brushing the ashes-of-roses wallpaper. Hap trailed behind like a puppy.
Joe opened the wood and glass door and showed them out onto the porch of his Victorian house. They were buried over a hundred (cyan, black, black) feet below the surface. Built long ago for the designer of Grand Central Terminal, the house had everything he needed. His refuge, and he wanted the police out of it.
“Thank you for stopping by. And for the rescue,” he said.
“I’ll see them out,” Mr. Rossi said.
Joe stepped into his underground garden and watched the group head to his elevator. It’d take them straight up into the middle of Grand Central Terminal and out of his life, at least for a while.
Then he looked at his front yard. He’d had an opera-set designer named Maeve Wadsworth turn the cave in which his house sat into a simulacrum of a summer garden — a blue sky that changed colors throughout the day to end in an orange sunset on the western edge, a seagull flying endlessly toward the sun, and a soft blanket of real plants on the floor. She’d set up LED lights to keep the plants alive. It had worked perfectly, and his garden grew year-round.
He took a deep breath, drawing the fresh green smell into his lungs. It made him feel better. His head still felt like it had been smashed against the wall a couple times, and he winced. Again, having a headache was better than being dead.
Vivian must have injected him when they got close to the surface. It had been the right thing to do, as he hadn’t been able to make himself go up any more. The thought of bobbing around on the face of the ocean in the sun still made his heart race.
He sat and leaned against the schist wall of a cavern bored out a century before. Edison rested his head on his lap, and he ruffled his ears. “You smell much better, boy. You were pretty ripe when I first woke up.”
Edison gave him an injured look, and he laughed. “You like the odor of rotten fish better than lavender?”
Edison wagged his tail in agreement.
Mr. Rossi emerged from the elevator, walked across the old wooden walkway, and stood nearby. “How’s your head?”
“Been better.” But it had been worse, too.
“You were combative with them.”
“They were combative with me.” He petted the dog. “Are they going to investigate the sub, figure out why it rammed us?”
“Seems unlikely.”
“If they find something, it means a sub turned up right off the shore of New York and they didn’t even notice until it ran into someone.” It was in the government’s best interest to pretend Joe was lying and investigate quietly. He understood, but he didn’t want to let it go.
“It could mean that, yes,” Mr. Rossi said.
“What’s your advice?”
“Lie low. Don’t cause any trouble and see where this goes. It might get swept under the rug and not present a problem.” Mr. Rossi fiddled with his gold cuff links.
“Someone killed the pilot of that sub, either accidentally or on purpose.”
“There’s talk that someone was you,” Mr. Rossi said. “I suggest you don’t aggravate the situation.”
Joe sighed. Edison bumped his shoulder. “Let someone get away with murder?”
“It’s not your place to investigate these kinds of things.”
Answer enough, he supposed. “If I do it anyway?”
“I shouldn’t meddle if I were you,” Mr. Rossi said. “They’re thinking of filing charges.”
“What kind of charges?”
“Boating while intoxicated.” Mr. Rossi flicked an invisible speck off his suit. “Manslaughter.”
“If they’re willing to go that far, there must be a good reason.” Joe stood up. His head throbbed with pain and anger.
“Maybe.”
“I can’t undo what happened to the prince’s bodyguard, to Vivian, to me, to my sub.” He reminded himself not to shout at Mr. Rossi. “But I can make damn sure it doesn’t get swept under some political rug.”
Edison nudged Joe’s palm with his nose.
“It’s OK, boy,” Joe said. “I’m not upset. I’m angry, and I intend to do something about it.”
“I advise against it.”
“Noted,” Joe said. “Now help me figure out the next steps.”
Chapter 9
Heart pounding, Vivian bolted upright. Daylight pierced her bedroom curtains. A quick glance at her sister’s rumpled bed. Thank God Lucy wasn’t there. She didn’t want to explain herself to her snotty teenage sister.
She leaned against her pillow and willed her heart to stop pounding. She’d been having a nightmare about being trapped inside the submarine. When she’d started to drown, she woke up. She shuddered, then slowed her ragged breathing. She was home. Lots of things could happen to her here, sure, but drowning was pretty damn unlikely.
The painkillers they’d given her at the hospital had started to wear off, and her arm ached. She touched the cast with her other hand. She wouldn’t be able to work until her ulna healed. And she wasn’t the only one who depended on her income — her mother and Lucy did as well.
“Vivian?” her mother asked softly from the other side of the door. “Are you awake?”
She debated pretending she wasn’t, but her mother would know, even through the door. She always knew. “I’m fine.”
Her mother bustled in and handed her a cup of coffee. “The police are stopping by soon to have you sign your accident report.”
Vivian took a small sip of coffee. Strong and black, it tasted like heaven. “It wasn’t an accident. That sub meant to ram us, or ram the prince.”
“Murder by submarine?” Her mother gathered a pair of socks from Lucy’s bed and smoothed the bedspread down flat.
“Something like that.” The caffeine was already clearing her head. “No one gives a rat’s ass about me, so they must have been after Tesla.”
“Or the prince or his bodyguard.” Her mother sat on Lucy’s newly made bed. “After all, his bodyguard is the one who’s dead.”
“And he was rammed by a submarine. That’ll be an international incident.”
“Assuming it’s not swept under the rug.” Her mother was on her feet, tidying Lucy’s dirty clothes into the empty hamper. Vivian’s side of the room was, of course, spotless.
“What do you mean?” Vivian asked.
“My goodness.” Her mother stopped long enough to give her the look she used whenever Vivian was being unbelievably stupid. “Weren’t you in the military long enough to know the easiest thing to do is to pretend nothing happened?”