The Last Recorder Came With An Order To Come Alone

I wrote Lionel's words in my service book before I called anyone back.

Come get it tomorrow. Alone.

Then I called Nora. She told me to forward the demand to the case officer now handling the criminal inquiry, Daniel Cruz.

"You don't owe him a dangerous dive," she said.

"I don't owe him any dive. He canceled the contract."

"Put that in writing too."

I sent a short reply. I would meet on the public service pier at seven. I would inspect my equipment from the surface. Any underwater recovery required a trained dive team, a clear work area, and a harbor representative.

Lionel answered within a minute.

No helpers. No police. Or it goes in the crusher.

I saved the message.

Unit six held about $4,300 in parts. It also held its own recording card. But its last shore upload had arrived the afternoon before, long after both sinkings. The sounds I had reported were already safe.

I checked the archive anyway. Fear made me check a locked door twice.

Then I printed the last successful upload notice. It showed the unit number, the time, and the size of the file. I put it with my permit. The page felt thin in my hand. Still, it could tell the same story tomorrow even if I was too scared to speak clearly.

I left my dive bag on its hook.

At nine, Emi came by with a bag of food.

"I told my supervisor about us spending time together," she said at the door. "Cruz will handle your evidence and all new formal interviews."

"Does that mean you can't come in?"

"It means I won't be the person judging your statements."

I cleared a place for the bag.

"What did you tell her about us?"

Her cheeks warmed.

"That I was hoping there might be an us."

For once, I had no work to hide behind.

"I was hoping that too."

We ate sitting on overturned cable drums. She had brought rice, roast chicken, and too many napkins. I found two proper plates in a drawer.

"My brother's name was Ken," she said. "I keep making him a case when I talk about him. He used to sing badly in the car. On purpose."

"My father hummed while he worked. Only the middle of songs. Never the start."

"That sounds hard to live with."

"We managed."

She smiled, and I could almost see the car she remembered.

Later, I showed her the cable comb. One groove had worn wider than the others.

"That was his favorite wire size," I said.

"You keep it close."

"I keep making knots."

She leaned her shoulder against mine. We stayed that way until the repair shop below us shut off its lights.

Before she left, she took my hand.

"Meet him where people can see you. Cruz knows the rest."

"I won't go under that barge."

I meant it. There was nothing brave about letting Lionel choose the place where I could breathe.

At six the next morning, Cruz met Nora and me outside the harbor office. He explained that investigators had obtained warrants for business records and specified storage spaces. Another team would serve those that morning.

My meeting had not created their authority. Weeks of claims records, witness statements, and audit work had.

"You aren't there to get a confession," he said. "You can leave at any point. If he brings a threat to you, we'll deal with it."

I carried no hidden camera. I carried my permit, my property list, and a blank equipment condition form.

Nora walked with me to the service pier. A harbor safety inspector waited beside the gate. Lionel stood on his barge with Owen and two crew members.

"I said alone," Lionel called.

"I said no solo dive."

He stared at Nora.

"You charge by the hour to watch a man pick up his lunchbox?"

"This morning, yes," she said.

The inspector asked to see the recorder. One of the crew pointed to a wet black case on the barge deck.

It had already been brought up.

There had never been a need for me to dive.

"Why did you say it was below?" I asked.

"I gave an order. The boys handled it."

Owen looked toward a truck by the storage sheds.

I could see fresh scrape marks on the case. Someone had cut its cable close to the connector.

"Bring it to the pier," the inspector said.

Lionel held up one finger. Then he reached inside a plastic folder and took out a single sheet.

"Sign first, son. We finish clean."

He passed the page across the rail.

It was a bill of sale for one dollar. It covered my six recorders, the shore receiver, and every stored recording my business had ever made.