so poor . . .” The man added something in Portuguese to vent his frustration, then asked, “Who is responsible for this camera work?”
When I did a quick replay, I saw that the Germanic Brazilian was being too harsh on the shooter—presumably, Dean Arturo. Arturo’s camera had been blocked from the shark attack by the tournament’s own camera boat, which was no surprise. As I watched, though, I was startled when the lens panned the flotilla and then suddenly stopped when it found me and two assistants aboard my new boat: a twenty-six-foot Zodiac with a T-top, radar, a weather console, twin Mercs, and Sanibel Biological Supply stenciled on the side. The shot was out of focus, at first, but then zoomed until the frame was tight, just me holding a clipboard. For the first time, I heard the cameraman speak. But he spoke to himself, not for an audience, or possibly to a friend, because he muttered, “That’s him . . . the asshole biologist, it’s gotta be.” The shot zoomed out of focus, then sharpened again. “Yeah . . . the one who wants to screw our chances before I even get started.”
The shot tightened on my face, which made what came next more personal. “Marion Ford . . . you fuck. Stick a spear through your neck and wait for the sharks. Put that in your research paper.”
No fake Boston accent, but I recognized the voice. I’d heard it the morning I’d witnessed the stingray giving birth—Dean Arturo had posed as Luke Smith. I didn’t know why Cressa’s photo hadn’t matched, but I didn’t care. I had proof. Proof enough even if I never again met the man face-to-face.
—
THE SHARK FOOTAGE ENDED, and the next shot was of the winning boat dragging a tarpon toward the weigh station. The sling that awaited the fish resembled a body bag, which added implicitly to the tarpon’s humiliation.
Diemer was confused by what he’d just heard Dean Arturo say but interested. “This person, the cameraman, is he not your associate?” Then added a smile to his voice and confided, “Sounds rather dangerous to me. Why . . . that man just threatened your life!”
Seldom does the solution to a problem flash into my head without the plodding logic most solutions require. It did now. The catalyst was the way the Brazilian had said “rather dangerous.” It was a warning, but he was also having fun with it. Diemer relished the potential those words offered—a hunter who got an adrenaline kick from projecting how he would deal with such a matter.
Two peas in a pod, I had joked.
Maybe Diemer would have his chance. Which is why I decided to tell him the truth and explained, “A few days ago, he did try to kill me. So it’s not surprising.”
“How?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But you do know him?”
“If it’s the same voice—and I think it is—I only met the guy once. Three days ago, Sunday morning. He offered me ten thousand dollars to come along on our search for Flight 19 and film it. Obviously, he has some personal issues, but that’s not why I said no. And the tarpon footage was shot months before he made his offer.”
The man’s posture changed subtly, no longer interested in sportfishing or anything else. “Then you have found the planes.”
I touched the space bar to stop the video . . . thought about it for a few seconds . . . then decided to take a bigger risk. “You mind telling me something . . . Vargas? Are you really here on vacation? If it’s business, I know better than to ask details.”
The man remained unruffled, but neither was he amused. “Why did you deny checking my identity?”
I said, “Just being careful.”
“Humble,” he replied, staring at me. “And you have the resources to check on a stranger from Brazil.” He smiled. “A Swissair pilot. Why would you care?”
“I have an idea,” I said, “if you’re willing to listen—but let me make sure what we say stays private.”
I went out the door, across the breezeway to my living quarters. A singsong garble of voices told me that Tomlinson and Cressa Arturo were in the bedroom talking. The dog, sleeping in the middle of the floor, told me the chaos was over—for now. I returned to the lab with two cold beers, turned a chair backward, and said to Diemer, “Your business is your business, but I think maybe we can help each other. We have