Chapter Eleven
SPECIAL AGENT PAUL Ramirez of the US Coast Guard Investigative Service is at his desk early. He’s usually in early. He’s reaching for his coffee mug when his phone buzzes. He recognizes the name of his superior, Regional Special Agent-in-Charge Donovan Brady.
As a special agent with the CGIS, it is Ramirez’s job to conduct investigations of actual, alleged, or suspected criminal activity at sea. Usually drug trafficking, human trafficking, and environmental crimes. He loves his job; it’s important work.
Ramirez also likes his boss, a Navy man. They have a relationship of mutual respect. Ramirez came up through the Navy, although he is now a civilian special agent, and relatively young, at thirty-three.
‘Ramirez, I might have something interesting for you,’ Brady says.
His ears prick up. ‘Tell me.’
‘The man who was lost overboard yesterday afternoon, in the Atlantic beyond the Lower Bay.’
Ramirez had of course heard about the case.
The US Coast Guard Station New York had handled the search and rescue, bringing back the survivors, but so far hadn’t recovered the body of the man who fell overboard.
They would be handling the accident investigation as well.
But CGIS is a different branch of the USCG and has a different reporting structure.
Ramirez’s curiosity is piqued. There must be a reason Brady is calling him about it.
‘I heard. Sounds like a fairly straightforward accident at sea. Bad judgment, drinking, carelessness. Unless you know something I don’t? ’
‘It probably is.’
Ramirez can hear the silent but. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘The man who went overboard was very wealthy. Unmarried. An experienced sailor. And the only other people on the boat were the man’s only surviving relative and his wife.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s worth looking into. But without a body, and no witnesses, even if there was foul play there’s probably not much we can do about it. The Coast Guard is doing an accident investigation, but I’d like you to look into it on behalf of CGIS, if you don’t mind.’
‘Don’t mind at all, sir.’
‘Let me know how it goes.’
Ramirez hangs up, thoughtful.
Someone from the Coast Guard would have spoken to the two survivors and taken their statement the evening before. Ramirez makes some calls and tracks the man down, gets him to send a copy of their statement. He also requests a copy of the accident report.
Ramirez reviews the documents at his desk.
It looks like a fairly straightforward case of carelessness at sea.
Some people don’t have a healthy enough respect for the ocean, he thinks.
As a former Navy man, he doesn’t understand that kind of attitude.
Staying in rough water when it’s unnecessary.
Failing to wear a PFD or life jacket with a beacon.
Not noticing when a situation has changed.
Not recognizing the level of danger they’re in.
Drinking while sailing. But then, he’s come to believe that people – quite a lot of people – are stupid.
They think nothing bad is ever going to happen to them.
They take wild risks, and then they have to pay for it.
He shakes his head and takes another look at the copy of the accident report the survivors had filled out the evening before.
His boss wants more attention on this one, because of who was lost at sea and because of who was also on the boat.
Greg Westcott was a prominent businessman in New York.
A player. The incident is being widely reported in the news.
Ramirez must speak to this couple who were on the boat himself as soon as possible to get their account of what happened.
He notes their home address and decides not to call first. They might not be home, but that’s a chance he’s willing to take, because he likes to have the element of surprise.
It’s not that he assumes people will lie, precisely, but that they like to put things in a way that shows them in the best light, and it’s better if they don’t have time to prepare.
Accidents are often messy, an accumulation of mistakes and poor decisions.
He just wants to get the truth. Then, if he’s satisfied, he’ll report his findings to Brady and move on.
Most of the investigations he takes part in are large and complex; this one should be relatively simple.
A short drive later Ramirez is standing on the sidewalk and looking up at Ted and Jill Westcott’s impressive brownstone.
After a moment, he climbs the stairs and rings the doorbell.
Soon the door opens to reveal a very attractive woman with dark hair, probably in her mid-thirties, wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt.
‘Jill Westcott?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she says warily. ‘Who are you? A reporter?’
It amuses him to be mistaken for a reporter, and he smiles.
‘No, not a reporter. I’m a special agent with the US Coast Guard Investigative Service.
May I come in?’ He guesses he’s a little younger than she is, and he sees her possibly making a judgment about him, about his lack of experience.
Well, that would be a mistake. He may be young, but he’s not inexperienced. He knows what he’s doing.
She opens the door wider. ‘Of course.’
He enters the large foyer while she closes the door behind him.
He takes in his surroundings – the marble floor underfoot, the glittering chandelier high overhead, and another pair of arched doors in front of him.
She walks past him and he follows her into the entrance hall and toward a rather grand staircase.
To his left he glimpses what looks like a living room out of a magazine, with tall windows at the front and artfully arranged expensive furnishings.
She guides him into the room and invites him to sit.
He takes a seat in one of the deep leather chairs facing the sofa, his back to the windows.
Beyond the sofa, open doors reveal what looks like a dining room.
Against the wall is a carved marble fireplace, and on either side of it, built-in shelves filled with books.
There’s a large oil painting over the fireplace – a landscape.
His eyes roam to the cabinet against the opposite wall, with its crystal glassware and supply of expensive liquor bottles.
It’s hard to even imagine how some people live, he thinks.
Sailboats and brownstones and trust funds.
He has a small, cramped apartment in Queens and a very basic, reliable Toyota.
How do these people do it? They certainly don’t earn it.
They inherit it. Ramirez won’t be inheriting anything.
He grew up like most people, the hard way.
‘Beautiful home,’ he says. ‘Do you have staff to take care of it?’
‘We have a cleaning lady who comes on Wednesdays,’ she says.
He tries to put his innate dislike for the wealthy aside and prepares to get on with it.