Page 70 of Wild Tempest

I used the keys that I had found in Martin’s kitchen with floaters on them to power up the boat. With a few taps of the touchscreen, I checked the navigation history. This particular model automatically recorded all trips.

But there was no history.

Granted, it was easy to delete on this model. It also had an SD card for saving backups. I'd have the IT guys take a look, but this unit required proprietary software to decode. I didn't think they’d find anything.

We searched below deck, but didn’t stumble across anything useful. Perhaps the forensic team would find something on the boat that wasn’t apparent to the naked eye.

JD and I continued to search. At the bow, we found another troubling development. Troubling for Martin.

The main anchor was gone, along with the chain.

Odd indeed.

JD and I searched the rest of the boat for a secondary, but didn't find any other anchors or chains. It was unusual. On a boat this size, it was good operating procedure to have a secondary anchor in case of emergency.

I shared a look with Jack. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

"He used the anchors to weigh down the bodies.”

"Wouldn't be enough," I said, growing optimistic. "They’d float to the surface eventually. Unless he made enough puncture wounds in the corpses to vent decomposition gases."

It was all speculation at this point. But Martin was looking far from innocent. Perhaps we had enough circumstantial evidence for a case.

I didn't feel solid about it. People had gotten off despite stronger evidence than this.

I cranked up the engines, and Jack cast off the lines when he hopped ashore. He drove the Porsche back to the station, and I piloted the boat. It would be impounded as evidence, and the forensic team would go over it with a fine-tooth comb.

JD and I filled out after-action reports in the conference room. I filled out an application for a warrant for Martin’s credit card receipts and bank statements. I could get that information through Isabella, but we wouldn’t be able to use it. It would take some doing, but maybe we could prove that he recently purchased the chart plotter. One in a long list of suspicious activities.

We paid Martin a visit. He’d been sitting in the tiny space for well over an hour now. Sweat misted his skin when JD and I entered and sat across the table from him. I set the empty 9mm pistol on the table in front of him, contained in an evidence bag.

His worried eyes found the pistol. Martin stared at it for a moment, then ignored it.

"That's right, we searched your condo," I said. "You and I both know the bullets in that gun will match the shell casings found on Whistler Cay.”

Martin swallowed hard. “I want⁠—“

I cut him off. "Before you ask for an attorney, you might want to listen to what I have to say.”

He hesitated a moment and stared into my eyes, trying to figure out just how much I had on him.

Curiosity got the best of him.

I pulled out my phone, queued up the footage of him exhuming the body, and played it for him.

His face tightened as he watched the footage. The only thing about it that came as a surprise to him was the fact that I had acquired it.

"That's you. And that's Chelsea Harcourt," I said, pointing to the corpse. “Your former assistant.”

Martin swallowed again. There was no denying it, but he was going to try. "I want a lawyer."

I shrugged. "Suit yourself."

JD and I pushed away from the table.

Disturbing an unmarked grave in the state was a third-degree felony. Up to 5 years and a $5,000 fine. It wasn’t a murder charge, but it was better than nothing. A slam dunk. It would give us a little time to build a murder case. It would be up to the state’s attorney to pursue those charges with the evidence we had.

I knocked on the door, and a guard buzzed us out.