“Just one question,” Maggie told them. “I promise. Have any of you ever seen a tie-down like that on a fishing cooler?”
“Commercial fishermen use a stainless-steel contraption.” It was Tommy Ellis who answered. “One end hooks into the cooler, the other into the floor of the boat. There’s a turnbuckle in the middle to tighten it. I noticed this cooler had a pre-molded slot for it. A marine professional would use something like that, something more secure and certainly more sophisticated than a rope, even an unusual rope.”
Everyone at the table was staring at Ellis by the time he finished, like he had just revealed some long-hidden secret.
“What?” Ellis shrugged. “My uncle’s a shrimper.”
After one drink Kesnick called it quits. He needed to get home to his wife and kids. The pilots, Wilson and Ellis, had another but then gravitated to the beach bar next door.
“We’ll be right back,” they said after spotting someone they knew.
From the look of things Maggie didn’t expect them to return anytime soon. She didn’t mind. And Liz Bailey looked much more comfortable with her crew gone. She had showered and her short hair, still damp in the humidity, was sticking up in places. She wore khaki shorts and a white sleeveless shirt. Maggie couldn’t help thinking that the clothes were fitted just enough to remind Liz’s crew she really wasn’t one of them. Maggie remembered the discussion back in the helicopter. The men strategizing the rescue and leaving out the opinion of its chief architect—the rescue swimmer.
“This is a new aircrew for you,” Maggie said to Liz.
“That obvious?”
“Not really,” she said, realizing she might sound presumptuous. She wiped at the condensation on the bottle of beer she’d been nursing for the last half hour. She wanted to guzzle it. The air was stifling and it was long past sundown. “I get paid the big bucks to figure out psychological stuff like that.”
She was pleased to see Liz Bailey smile for the first time since they’d met.
“What do you expect when you put four type-A personalities together in a helicopter. It’s okay, though,” Liz said, pausing to take a sip of her beer. “By now I’m used to having to prove myself.”
“For what it’s worth, they were really worried about you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“When they were worried what did they call me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did they say, ‘How’s Bailey?’ Or ‘Is the rescue swimmer okay?’”
“Yes,” Maggie told her. “They wanted to know if the rescue swimmer was okay.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” She took a long unladylike swig from her bottle while Maggie waited for some sort of explanation. Finally Liz said, “You’re the psychology expert. Even after today’s rescue they’re still calling me the rescue swimmer, not our rescue swimmer. What does that tell you?”
Maggie detected disappointment more than anger in Liz’s voice, despite her attempt at humor.
“It tells me they’re men.”
This time Liz laughed and tipped her bottle to Maggie as a salute of agreement. “You got that right.”
“Not to change the subject”—though it was the subject of male-female camaraderie that reminded Maggie—“but what was that you gave me before the flight? The capsules?”
“Did they work?”
“Yes, and believe me, I’ve tried everything.”
“It’s powdered ginger.”
“Ginger? You’re kidding?”
“Works wonders for the nausea. Doesn’t make a difference what’s causing the nausea, this squelches it. So what is it?”
“Excuse me?”
“What caused it? Your nausea?” Her eyes found Maggie’s and held them. “I mean you’re an FBI agent. You carry a gun. Someone said you’re like this expert profiler of murderers. I imagine you’ve seen some stuff that could turn plenty of cast-iron stomachs. But being up in the air. It’s about something else?”
Maggie caught herself shrugging and then felt a bit silly under the scrutiny of this young woman. After all, earlier Liz had seen that there was a problem when Maggie thought for certain she had learned to hide it.
“Hey, it’s none of my business. Just making conversation,” Liz told her and looked away like it was no big deal.
But after what they had just gone through in the helicopter, not to mention sneaking the gift of the capsules to Maggie—who kept almost everyone she met at a safe distance—she felt Liz deserved an answer.
“I’m sure it does seem odd,” Maggie finally said. “You’re right, I’ve seen plenty of things: body parts stuffed into takeout containers, little boys carved up. Just yesterday I had to pluck a killer’s brains out of my hair.” She checked Liz’s face and was surprised none of this fazed her. Then Maggie remembered the guys talking about Bailey and Hurricane Katrina. “You’ve seen plenty of stuff, too.”
Another smile. This one totally unexpected.
“You really are very good at this psychology stuff,” Liz said.