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At the station, Christian followed Drake to a small, windowless room with a table between two chairs. Drake told him to take a seat, and he eased into a chair. Although the room was air-conditioned, small beads of sweat formed on Christian's forehead. He swept the moisture back through his collar-length hair.

Drake sat down in the other chair, facing Christian, and thumbed through the preliminary report that rested on the table. "I must inform you," Drake began, "that this interview is being taped."

"Do I need to lawyer up?"

Drake raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That is your choice, Mr. Roberts, but for now, you are not a suspect. It appears your wife died of a gunshot wound. I just need your statement on how it happened."

Christian leaned back in the chair. "I don't know how it happened. Allie was on board while I was diving. We were anchored off the shelf of the Tongue between the Berries and Nassau. When I climbed aboard, I found her on the deck, dead, and the boat was shot up and ransacked. I carried her below, and since everything was gone—cell phones, radio, computers—I couldn't call for help.

The GPS was also ripped out and missing, so I dug out some charts and used the compass to get here."

"What time did this happen?"

"This afternoon, around two, I think."

"When you surfaced near your boat, did you see any other boats in the area?"

"No, nothing."

"You didn't hear a boat motor while you were underwater or see another one overhead during your dive? Our waters have a high visibility."

"I told you, I didn't see or hear anything. I did a forty-minute dive and was a good distance from my boat. Hell, maybe the bastards sailed or paddled up to my sloop. Maybe that's why I didn't hear a motor."

"That's rather unlikely," Drake said. A faint smile played on his lips. He questioned and re-questioned Christian, the interview approaching the third hour. "All right, Mr. Roberts, let's move on," he said and flipped to another page. "The old fisherman heard you say that it was your fault. Did you and your wife get into a fight or have marital problems?"

Christian looked up, his eyes burning like hot blue flames. He was exhausted and famished, not to mention grief stricken, and had little patience left. "Fuck you, man," he said. "I loved her. Buying the boat, going on this fucking trip was my idea, so it's my fault she's dead. Now, are you going to find the sons of bitches that killed my wife, or are you looking to pin this shit on me?"

"We will do everything in our power to find your wife's murderer."

"Are we finished?" Christian rose abruptly from the chair.

"For now," Drake said and also stood. "We'll need to take your DNA and fingerprints so we can separate them from others found on your boat. One of my officers will drive you to a hotel and set you up for the night. I'll have more questions for you when our investigation is further along, so don't leave the Bahamas. In fact, I need your passport."

"I don't know where the hell it is. It was on the boat, top dresser drawer in the front berth, but God knows if it's still there—shit's dumped and scattered everywhere."

"We'll look for it. If it's lost, I'll begin the procedure to have your government issue another one." Drake patted Christian's shoulder. "Get some rest, Mr. Roberts."
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