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"You're not seeing the full picture here, Harley. This may well be a matter of life and death."

"Uncle Ray can rot in prison for all I care. This doesn't involve me—or Parker."

Kilbro chuckled. "That's where you're wrong, son. Every bit of correspondence that leaves the prison is read. Mr. Lochran seems to have eyes everywhere. I fully expect he has your name—and Parker's, too—even now, as we speak. He's now going to believe you know about some evidence that can put him in prison. You think he's going to sit back and do nothing?" He locked eyes with Harley, then Parker. "Here's a little free advice from a lawyer: Don't be stupid, boys. Just read the letter. Carefully. I'll see you tomorrow for your answer. But no pressure."

"Right," Harley said. "No pressure at all."

Parker stared at the envelope in his hand. Whatever this was about, he was pretty sure there wasn't much of a decision to be made. If what the lawyer said was true about Lochran, Harley had already been sucked up in this—and Parker, too. Right up to their necks.

The lawyer strode back to the ramp and up onto T-wharf.

"Do you believe that guy?" Harley took the envelope. "I say we look at this later. 'Much' later." He folded it in thirds and stuffed it in the back pocket of his still-wet jeans. "You got work to do, anyway."

But they had to talk about it before tomorrow, right? This thing wasn't going to just disappear.

"So"—Harley pointed at Parker's tank—"you going to actually go 'in' the water, or have you found a way to clean the barnacles and crud off the bottom of the boat from the dock?"

Parker stuffed a hull scraper and scrub pads into the mesh bag. Pulled the hood back over his head and tucked the ends inside his wet suit collar.

Slipped his knife from the sheath. "I'm going, I'm going."

"I can see that." Harley inspected the twenty-eight-foot sailboat in the slip. "You keep telling me how great this hull-cleaning business of yours is, but it sure looks like there's a lot of stalling involved."

'Shake it off, Parker.' His friend was right. He'd never convince Harley to work alongside him this way. "I'm savoring the moment."

Harley read the name on the transom. "'Flight Risk'. Interesting name. How long will this one take?"

He'd done 'Flight Risk' before. "Forty-five, fifty minutes." As long as there were no glitches and his arm injury didn't flare up. "Less if you suit up and join me. Think about it. A hundred and fifty bucks. We'd split it fifty- fifty."

"I got a job."

Working for Pez at BayView Brew was more than just a job. Parker's friend was totally invested in it, especially since the burglaries had started. "Think how much faster you'll get that motorcycle if you do hull cleaning too. Not to mention the fun—no . . . the total 'bliss' this job brings."

Harley laughed like he saw right through Parker. "Maybe I'll stick around for a bit. I'd like to see what total bliss looks like. I'll time you— starting now."

Going in alone wouldn't be quite as bad knowing Harley was on the dock. Instead of jumping in, Parker sat on the edge and eased himself off the floating dock into the narrow space between the pier and the sailboat.

Immediately the water found his wet suit seams—and stole its way in. If going in alone was the number one downside to this job, the cold harbor was the second. Even with the seven-millimeter-thick neoprene wet suit, he sucked in his breath against the water—as frigid as the fingers of a corpse chilling in the morgue.

Harley knelt low and grinned. "Water a bit 'icy', Parks?"

"Just hold on to that leash." The pup looked way too eager to go swimming. "I don't want a dog jumping on my head." Parker reseated his mask and dipped his head below the surface to get a quick look at the job ahead of him. The growth on the hull didn't look bad. The keel dropped down a good three feet from the center of the boat, adding stability when the boat was under sail. Even with the tide dropping like it was, there was still room between the keel tip and the bottom for Parker to pass under it without his tank scraping. That's when he saw the wallet—just lying there on the bottom, almost directly under the keel.

Parker slid his knife back in the sheath at his calf. He let the air out of his BCD and eased below the surface feetfirst. He held his fins still as he descended to the ocean floor to keep from stirring up silt. He snatched the wallet. Brown leather with some kind of rubber band double wrapped around it, like the wallet was too stuffed to stay folded without it. Not a bit of silt or growth on the wallet either—like it had been dropped recently. He ascended slowly and spit out his regulator the moment he broke the surface. The dog's tail wagged like crazy.

"That was quick," Harley said. "Maybe I 'should' join your crew."

Parker raised his mask. "Check this out. More perks of the job." He tossed him the wallet.

Harley stretched off the rubber band, holding the wallet low to the dock so Parker could see. "Holy moly!" he exclaimed.