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  “Who are you?” he said in an oddly pleasant voice. Odd because the voice didn’t fit him: it made him sound more self-confident than he looked.

  “Jaymie Zarlin. I believe I’m expected.”

  He stepped aside for me to enter, then shut the door after me. We stood facing each other in a short corridor illuminated by recessed ceiling lights. The space was empty, except for several lockers mounted to the wall.

  The guy studied me uncertainly. His hair was actually light red, salted with white. He wasn’t young—somewhere in his mid-sixties. “So … what were you told?”

  “Not much. How about if we start with your name? I’d like to know who I’m working for.”

  “Not for me,” he said quickly. Then he shrugged. “I’m Neil Thompson. Aquarium director. Look, he told me they were sending someone discreet.” He glanced at my bloody cheek and frowned, as if I looked anything but.

  “Discreet? I can be that.” I felt an edge of annoyance: this was like pulling teeth. “So, who is this ‘he’?”

  “Do you have any idea what—” Then he shook his head, too many times. “Listen. There’s a young man in the other room. He’s dead … drowned. You’ll find a camera, I left it just inside the door on a chair. Take pictures of … of the boy. Take pictures of everything, anything you think’s important. Take your time, look around. Look for…” His voice faded.

  “For what?”

  “For—I don’t know—clues.”

  “Clues. Clues to the boy’s death?” What the hell was going on? Thompson looked scared as a four-year-old.

  “Yes. He wants you to have a good look. Before the police arrive.”

  There it was, that “he” again. “So they’ve been called? The city cops, or the county sheriff? Because if they have—”

  “They haven’t. Not yet.” He switched on his flashlight. “He’ll call them when you finish your job.”

  I nodded, trying to understand what was going on under the scant words. “OK. But I need to meet the guy who’s paying me.”

  “He’ll talk to you when you’re done. Now, no more questions.” Neil Thompson had stiffened his face and dropped his melodious voice, apparently trying to look and sound firm. It was a move that didn’t work on the mild-mannered guy.

  But I shrugged in agreement, reminding myself of the thousand bucks Zave had mentioned. “Whatever you say.”

  I followed the lanky guy out of the hall, keeping my eyes on the beam of his flashlight. Apparently he didn’t want to turn on the lights, most likely didn’t want to attract any attention from outside. What was all this about? Calling me in before they called the police—somebody didn’t trust the cops. That, or somebody had something to hide.

  We moved into the gloom of the foyer, past the main desk and the entrance to the gift shop. From a side room marked Staff I heard quiet sobbing behind a partly closed door.

  Thompson held open one of a pair of big swing doors and motioned me in with the flashlight. I stepped into the narrow room, and he followed after.

  The space was lined with tanks glowing like neon. Iridescent fish darted through the bubbling sea water, and purple-red starfish sucked on the glass walls.

  “It’s in there. You’ll … you’ll see.” Thompson pointed to an opening at the far end of the hall-like room. The gap was covered with a heavy drape that resembled a theater curtain. “Go on through. After, he’ll be waiting for you back at the main desk. You’ll give him the camera and make your notes in his presence.”

  It was in there? A young man had died, and Thompson was already calling him ‘it’? “How about loaning me your flashlight?”

  “You won’t need it. The tank is lit.” He turned and walked back to the foyer.

  I looked at the drape. Yellow light seeped around the edges. A boy was dead in there. Drowned in a tank. And yet, nobody wanted to look. In fact, they didn’t want to look so much that they’d actually hired a stranger to do the looking.

  Well, I was an investigator, wasn’t I? I’d been offered a princely sum to take a few pictures, poke around for a few clues, and keep my mouth shut. No problem, I could do those things. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves, and tugged them on.

  Then I pushed back the curtain, lifted my eyes, and let out a sharp cry.

  The water in the two-story-high cylindrical tank glowed with a soft yellow light. A single huge translucent jellyfish, tinged pale blue, hovered close beside the figure of a beautiful young man of seventeen or eighteen. The creature’s twitching tentacles, maybe eight feet in length, wrapped the boy’s torso in an embrace.

  The boy wore shorts and no top. His body was slight yet strong. There was a slight current in the tank, and his arms and legs moved rhythmically, as if he were dancing.

  But the most terrible thing was his face.

  The neck was twisted slightly, so that he looked straight at me. And the expression—dear God.

  The boy’s face was contorted in a terrible grimace of torment. His eyes were open wide, anguished. His lips were pulled back, exposing his teeth.

  I moved around the tank to view the body from another angle. I could not look into those eyes for long.

  The young man had been in the water for many hours. And yet, you could see how handsome he’d been. His hair was brown and gold, twisted in dreadlocks, bleached by the sun. He was tanned, and a single flip-flop dangled lazily from his toe. A surfer, most likely. A beautiful boy.

  I noticed a labeled sign, and gratefully moved further around to read it.

  Chironex fleckeri—Box Jellyfish.

  Native to Australia. Sting can be fatal.

  Also called Wasp of the Sea.

  I made myself look again. The creature shifted several of its bluish tentacles, exposing angry red stripes on the victim’s torso.

  The boy had been stung to death. From the look on his face, he’d screamed till he’d died from the agonizing pain.

  “Do your job,” I muttered aloud.

  I retrieved the camera, examined it for a moment, then put my eye to the viewfinder. But how could I do it? How could I peer at the victim, stare at him through a keyhole, make him into an object? I dropped my arm.

  He’s gone. There’s nothing you can do about that. But maybe you’ll see something—or the lens will see something. Some clue to what happened here.

  I lifted the camera and shot several times. Then I edged around the tank and shot more, from different angles. What I was doing still felt obscene. I was making a kind of exhibit of the boy’s terrible suffering.

  To break the brooding silence, I spoke aloud. “First things first. How did he end up in the water?”

  I tipped back my head. At the top of the open tank was a wide catwalk, almost a mezzanine, surrounding perhaps a third of the tank’s circumference. But how could I get there?

  Behind the tank was a blue wall painted with fish and other sea creatures. The wall appeared solid at first glance. But when I stepped closer I saw a door mounted flush in the stucco. A keyhole was cleverly set in a sea horse’s eye.

  I ran a latexed finger down the door seam, and to my surprise, the unlocked door gave way.

  Still carrying the camera, I stepped into a tight column-shaped space, just large enough to hold a steep circular staircase. Behind me the door, which was mounted with a spring, clicked shut. Now I wished I’d insisted on borrowing Thompson’s flashlight.

  I inched my way over to the stair and grabbed the handrail. The steel steps beneath my feet were sturdy, corrugated, and I had no trouble climbing up.

  At the top, I could see again. The soft light from the tank illuminated the platform. I noticed a light switch on the wall and pressed it. Abruptly the platform was starkly lit. Keeping my eyes averted from the tank interior, I set about examining the scene.

  The wall of the tank rose some three to four feet above the platform floor, which was wood, probably mahogany, thickly coated in marine varnish. The tank itself, some fifteen feet in diameter, was partial
ly covered with a folding lid. But what caught my attention were the objects resting on the platform.

  A long-handled scoop net lay beside an upright lidded plastic pail. I lifted the lid: the inside was wet, but the pail was empty. I bent down and sniffed: it smelled of fish. Beads of water glimmered like pearls on the varnished floor.

  The matching flip-flop, red with a black sole, lay close by the tank. Several feet away lay a black ring binder, open flat, and a ballpoint pen. Except for the flip-flop, the objects seemed organized, in their right places.

  I shot photos: of the pail, the net, the rubber sandal, the pen and the binder. Then I knelt to read the open page. It wasn’t much. A nine-week-long record of feedings of the jellyfish, a few brief observations. All noted with dates and times. I photographed the pages from the beginning, flipping them over one by one.

  Then I drew in a breath and moved closer to the tank. In my head I repeated a mantra: It’s a job, just a job.

  The lid was folded back on itself. It was aluminum, lightweight, constructed in sections and hinged. A few gleaming fish swam back and forth, oblivious to their impending doom. I forced my eyes to focus on the boy.

  He was directly under me, swaying slightly. Clasped in the translucent arms, securely embraced. The creature seemed to be brooding, sullen. Unwilling to release its prey.

  I stood frozen for a moment. Then I made myself actually see the young man. He was so close I could make out the golden hairs on his forearms.

  Had he jumped into the water? Not likely, if he knew anything about the so-called wasp of the sea. Even if he’d decided to kill himself, this was too painful and ghastly a way to go about it. Besides, that flip-flop still dangling from his toe: if he’d entered the tank purposefully, he’d most likely have left both sandals behind.

  He could have had an accident, though. Tripped, fallen over the raised edge. The surface of the water was some five feet below the rim. It would have been nearly impossible for the boy to have climbed out quickly. How much time had elapsed before the lethal jellyfish attacked?

  But … tripped? I studied the boy’s body. The kid wasn’t especially tall, but he’d been athletic, strong. I doubted he was so clumsy as to have fallen in.

  On the other hand, he could have been shoved.

  Yes. A surprise push. And then, in a flash, he was in the jellyfish’s arms and stunned with its powerful neurotoxin. I watched a few unattached streamers, ruched like a girl’s hair ribbons, drift to and fro.

  Certain things didn’t add up. Why hadn’t the police been called immediately? I pulled my cell from my pocket again, and snapped a dozen more shots, as a record. A recording of the truth.

  “Are you finished?” a strong male voice called out. The voice was filled with anguish, yet firm. Used to command.

  I looked past the railing and down, into the room below. A tall, well-built man stood just inside the door. In the gloom, I couldn’t make out his face. “Who are you?”

  “I hired you. Come down and we’ll talk.”

  Chapter Two

  By the time I’d descended the stair and reentered the room, the man had stepped out again. I turned back to the tank and looked one last time at the boy suspended in his agonized world. I said a quick prayer, then pushed through the drape.

  The guy stood halfway along the narrow space, hands shoved in the pockets of his khakis. In spite of the hour and the circumstance, his navy button-down shirt was freshly pressed, his silver hair combed in waves. But even in the gloom, his handsome face revealed his suffering: his mouth was bitter, his blue eyes dark and staring.

  He looked familiar, somehow. And then it hit me: he looked like the boy. The boy in the tank.

  “You’re Jaymie Zarlin?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “Dr. Steinbach. I’ll take the camera.” He held out his hand, and I gave it to him. It was his, after all.

  “You want to know what I observed.” I pulled off the gloves and stuffed them into my pocket. “Shall I tell you now?”

  “No.” He hesitated. “Look … come to my office.”

  I followed him into the entry foyer and around the main desk. The sobbing in the staff room had ceased. I could hear voices behind the now-closed door.

  At the end of a short hall was another door, bearing a brass plate reading DR. ROD STEINBACH. The plate looked shiny and new.

  Steinbach unlocked the door, entered, and motioned me in. The small windowless room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which made it claustrophobic. “Here.” He nudged an office chair with his toe.

  He walked around the desk and dropped heavily into his own chair, then stared down at a sheaf of papers. He didn’t seem to be reading, just staring.

  “Dr. Steinbach?” I said after a full minute had passed.

  “What?” He looked up sharply, then swallowed. “Oh. I want you to jot down some details. What you noticed, what seemed … I don’t know. Out of place.” I heard a current of pain beneath the unemotional words.

  “All right.” I hesitated. “Dr. Steinbach, I have to ask. What I’ve just witnessed, it’s truly terrible. Who was the young man?”

  “I don’t see why that—” Then he broke off. “You’ll hear all about it anyway.” He opened his hands and stared at them, first the backs, then the palms. “My grandson. Skye Rasmussen. My grandson…” I could see the effort he exerted, to stop himself from breaking into tears.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll help in any way I can.” I searched for words. “Maybe we should just talk, you know? I can tell you what I observed.”

  He raised a hand, let it fall to the desktop. “Go ahead.”

  “All right. I’m assuming your grandson was stung to death, or stung shortly before he drowned. By the jellyfish. The sign said, ‘Wasp of the Sea.’”

  “Chironex fleckeri. The sting is often fatal. They say—it’s excruciating. If the neurotoxin doesn’t kill you, the pain’s so strong it makes you pass out—and even after you’ve passed out, before you drown you continue to … scream.”

  I was silent then. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would ease the horror.

  “I needed someone to come because I—I just can’t go up there. I needed someone to be my eyes. Because I can’t even be in the same room—”

  “I understand, Dr. Steinbach. But what I don’t understand is why you haven’t called the police.”

  He frowned and looked past me. Then he got up, walked around the desk, and closed the door.

  “I’ll phone them when we’re done. It’s just that…” Dr. Steinbach returned to his chair. He gazed at his desktop as if he couldn’t recall what it was there for. “I don’t trust them, that’s all.”

  I watched as his hands picked at the upholstered arms of his chair. “Are you saying you don’t trust the cops to get it right?”

  “For one thing, yes. And … I don’t trust them in general.” He shot me a glance. “Never mind, you wouldn’t understand. Let’s just say I don’t want them poking around in my—my family’s affairs.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do understand. But in a case like this you have to call them, Dr. Steinbach. Right away.”

  “I’ll do it when I’m ready. Now, just tell me what you saw.”

  “I can tell you there’s not much up on the top level. A three-ring binder—the notes seem to be about tending to the jellyfish over the past eight or nine weeks. A pen. A net with a long handle, and a white plastic bucket with a flip lid. By the way, the bucket was knocked over at some point, then turned upright again. I think it held fish. It smells of fish, and there are several swimming in the tank.”

  Steinbach nodded his head slowly, as if these sparse facts could somehow help him make sense of it all. “Any conclusions?”

  “I don’t have enough evidence to draw a conclusion.” I spoke carefully, not sure how far I should go. “I assume your grandson was feeding the jellyfish?”

  “Yes. That was part of his study project.” Steinbach shut his eyes for
a moment and gripped the bridge of his nose. “I’d given Skye the code to the back door, so he could come in after hours.”

  “It’s possible your grandson tripped, fell in accidently. And I suppose…”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s possible he jumped.”

  “Suicide?” Steinbach’s head snapped up. “That’s nonsense.”

  “It’s far-fetched, I agree. But I wouldn’t call it nonsense. If your grandson knew about the box jellyfish, then he knew their stings could be fatal.”

  “Skye knew all about Chironex fleckeri. He’d applied for a small grant to study the species. That was one of the things that got him accepted at Stanford—he was starting there this fall. And no, Skye would never—never have done something so stupid as kill himself.”

  “OK.”

  “So it was an accident,” Dr. Steinbach said with finality. “Anything else?”

  “The door leading to the stairs was shut but unlocked, which is what you’d expect. I‘m no expert, but I’d say the body has been in the water for eight to ten hours. Your grandson’s body still wears one sandal—the other is up there on the deck. By the way, I’d recommend you drain the tank, sift through the contents at the bottom with a fine mesh. But the police will do that, anyway.”

  “Who knows what the hell the police will do. Bunglers. Idiots.”

  His vehemence surprised me. But I knew all the man’s emotions must be overwrought.

  “Dr. Steinbach, I have a question. Who found the body?”

  “Who—oh, Delia Foley. She runs the snack bar here in the aquarium. Delia comes in early and gets everything set up and running.” He waved his hand dismissively. “She’s in the other room with Neil, crying her eyes out.”

  “Would you like me to interview her?”

  “No. Delia is very upset. I’ll talk with her myself.”

  “And Skye’s parents, have they been notified?”

  “My family is not your concern. Now, anything else?”

  Rod Steinbach had to be in control, I realized. Had to. Maybe this was his way of dealing with the monstrosity of it all. “Does the aquarium have security cameras mounted at the doors?”