Dead in the Water Read Online Free PDF

the phone with his employer.”
    I looked around the half-empty living room. There was a nondescript brown and blue couch, one straight back chair, a large HDTV on the wall and a small bookcase. Waddel was a minimalist or someone who didn’t spend much time at home.
    Spencer walked back into the room.
    “Dick worked as a financial analyst. This came as a shock to his staff as well as his supervisor. Hard to believe he’s gone. Dick was in the best of shape. Pamela, his sister, and I—of course—were so glad when he moved here. About a year ago, a Texas transplant. He used to crew for me. Sailboat races…not too comfortable on the foredeck but he was pretty decent in the cockpit.”
    Spencer stopped and looked at me.
    “An all-around water person, it sounds like. I’m so sorry,” I said again, not sure what else to say.
    “Did you know him?” Spencer asked.
    “No, no, I didn’t. But I happened to be at the swim yesterday. I can tell you that the paramedics, the ambulance, were right there as soon he was brought to shore. You couldn’t have asked for a quicker response.”
    I’m not sure Spencer was listening. He was pulling things out of Waddell’s swimbag: an extra swimsuit, towel and the plastic baggie.
    “What’s this,” he asked, pointing to the gel packet and capsules.
    “Probably energy supplements. Swimmers, runners, lots of athletes use them all the time. It helps with endurance and performance, completely legal.” I felt I needed to add that, remembering the conversation I just had with myself a few minutes ago.
    Spencer smiled. “No doubt. Richard wouldn’t think of doing anything out of the ordinary to stretch his performance. He was a by-the-book kind of guy…straight laced, very religious…spiritual mostly. Not quite my style.”
    Too much information. It was time to get out of there.

    By 9:00 a.m. the next day, I was back at the swim office in Fort Mason. This morning, I was the one answering phones while Bill looked on. He gave me about fifteen minutes of orientation, mostly on how to work the phone headset. Then he left with an off-hand comment about never being in the office, that I’d be by myself most of the time and did I understand?
    I opened my mouth to answer. He was gone. I could hear his footsteps hurrying down the three flights of stairs. I understood all too well. I was on my own.
    “Nor Cal Swimming,” I said over and over to each caller. More than one person asked about Dick Waddell. I tried to sound sympathetic without giving anything away. Not an easy thing to do. Even Mike Menton, the swimmer who placed first in Waddell’s age group, left a message asking for an address so he could send flowers. It didn’t sound like he knew that Waddell was dead.
    About an hour later, the phones quieted down. This gave me a chance to really look around. The office was just one big room with two desks, mine at one end, Bill’s at the other with bookcases in between.
    I took the phone messages for Bill and put them on his cluttered desk. It was covered with papers, folders, crumbled up napkins and empty coffee cups.
    A folder labeled Richard Waddell was off to the side on the one semi-clear spot. I picked it up and leafed through the papers. There was a preliminary report for Nor Cal’s insurance company, a list of names and phone numbers, probably the event director and key swimmers who had been on the scene, the name of the ambulance company that took Waddell to the hospital and the name of a doctor, probably from Lake Joseph’s emergency room. Interesting, but also sad. Someone’s life came down to impersonal forms, lists, and in this case, lawyers—Dick Waddell’s humanness had begun to fade away. I glanced back at the names and phone numbers. Was the Good Samaritan in the striped polo shirt on the list? He had been the first to notice the distressed swimmer and the first to disappear. A coincidence? Maybe. But maybe not.
    The office extended to a small storage room across