San Diego Noir

Three hundred yards from shore, the buoy floated in the water, marking the spot where Wendy had lost her life. How hard was it to swim from the beach to the buoy? Could an inebriated woman have pulled it off?

I waded into the surf, feeling at once free and handicapped without my mask, tank, and flippers. I fought through a strong set of waves, keeping my eye on the buoy. When I reached the deep water beyond the breakers, I knew I was swimming over the kelp forest. I felt no claustrophobia floating above the dense plants, but not being able to see what was teeming beneath my belly gave me a new kind of creeps.

There were no other swimmers this far out, but I wasn’t entirely alone. North of me, a couple of kayaks sliced through the water. A bit further in, a group of surfers straddled their boards, waiting for the next big wave. Peering back at shore, I had a postcard view. The lush La Jolla hills rose into a brilliant blue sky. Fat brown seals sunned themselves on a rocky cliff that jutted into the sea.

The swim to the buoy had looked daunting from shore but I’d been gliding along at an easy crawl and was already nearing my destination. I turned over and relaxed with a few backstrokes.

Something under the water skimmed my ankle. I winced and pulled away. A seal? I tried to see what it might be, but the surface of the water was a choppy expanse of reflected sunlight.

“Hey!” I called out, hoping to catch the ear of the nearest surfer. But when I looked for him, he was disappearing toward shore on a breaking wave.

Quit freaking out, I told myself. The buoy floated a dozen or so yards farther out to sea. I’d covered enough distance to convince myself that even a drunk woman could have made the swim. I turned around and started back toward shore.

I heard a splash behind me. I turned to see a gloved hand come up from below and clamp around my ankle. I gasped and kicked hard with my free leg. A hand caught that ankle too, and started to pull me under.

I jerked my legs, trying desperately to kick free. The hands around my ankles wouldn’t let go. Splashing furiously with my arms, I tried to keep my head above the water. But I wasn’t strong enough to resist the downward pull. I took a last gulp of air before my head slipped beneath the surface.

The underwater world was murky, but even without a mask I could see by the oxygen tank strapped to his back that my assailant was a scuba diver. Firmly gripping my ankles, he pulled me toward the bottom. I fought hard, yet he had the advantages of flippers and superior strength. The sound of my pounding heart thudded in my ears.

I twisted toward the diver, grabbing at his face. My fingers caught his regulator and I pulled as hard as I could. I felt the breathing apparatus come loose and kept pulling. His mask came off with the mouthpiece, and I recognized the sandy-haired man with the oversized nose. He grabbed for his mouthpiece, letting go of my ankles.

Free at last, I shot upward. My lungs were on the verge of exploding as I broke through the surface. I had time to let out one hoarse cry for help before I felt his hands on my ankles again. I gulped for air. The last thing I saw before going back under was the bright blue California sky.

Down, down, down. I grabbed for his regulator again. He was ready for me and ducked out of reach. The exertion left me oxygen starved. The urge to inhale was overwhelming. I didn’t know how much longer I could fight the instinct to breathe. I saw stars and blotches of gray. It occurred to me that I was probably going to die.

But as suddenly as he’d attacked, my assailant let go and darted away. Willing myself upward, I saw why. A neon yellow kayak floated directly overhead. I broke the surface gasping and sputtering. The kayaker grabbed my arms and pulled me across the bow.

“You okay?”

The brown-faced boy who helped me up couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. I nodded my head, too breathless and dizzy to speak.

I spent much of that afternoon in the hospital, where I was treated for shock and kept under observation as police asked seemingly infinite questions. Finally, my father—who happens to be a doctor—insisted on my discharge and brought me home. Friends and family had gathered at my house to show their support. I finally convinced them all to go, telling everyone that what I really needed was sleep. Dad left reluctantly, reminding me that my assailant was still out there somewhere. I reminded him that I had a state-of-the-art security system—and a nine-millimeter Glock.

Still, I admit my heart jumped later that night when the motion light went on and the closed-circuit television showed a man coming up my walk.

It was Baxter.

“What’s up?” I asked when I opened the door.

“We arrested the guy who tried to drown you,” Baxter replied. “I thought you’d like to know.”

Feeling a rush of relief, I motioned him inside, eager to hear about it. “Where’d you find him?”