If Claire believed a bitter cloud hung over the ship, she might’ve been imagining the casino. As I walked through the room, the cigarette smoke was thick enough to flavor hams. Puffing gamblers hunched over the slot machines, their eyes ratcheted to the bright flashing electronics that spun through loss after loss.
Nose itching from the smoke, I waited for the Ninja with the pencil mustache to open the padded wall-door. Though he glanced at the bags of evidence, his face revealed nothing.
In Geert’s office, a maintenance worker was removing the old safe. Skin the color of cinnamon, his fingers were stained black with oil, creating topographic maps of his fingerprints. I waited as he lifted a small safe—identical to the ones in our passenger cabins—and bolted it to the shelf. He went to remove the damaged safe, placing it on a mechanical dolly, when Geert said, “Leave it here.”
The Ninja escorted him back to the secret entrance, and I closed the office door.
Geert twirled the mustache. “I got a call from laundry. You took some clothes.”
“Stilton?”
He shook his head. “Gossip, it is the lifeblood of ships.”
I described the black trousers. “Is there a way to trace them?”
I expected a comment about stupid questions. Instead he offered a sigh that sounded like generations of Dutch fatalism. “By sizes, we can eliminate certain workers. But that will take time. Better to check the cabins.”
I waited a moment, wondering if my next two questions would ruin our sudden détente. “What happened to the director?”
“Locked in his cabin. One of my men is posted outside his door. These movie people, they are spoiled children.” He ran his blue eyes over the evidence bags.
“I need to lock up these materials . . .” I didn’t finish the question.
“But you don’t trust my safe,” he said.
I said nothing. But he was right.
Defense attorneys got a kick out of asking forensic scientists, “Was the evidence ever out of your possession?”
And that’s why I carried all the bags. If I was called to testify later, it wouldn’t help the prosecution if I had to admit a grumpy Dutch security officer carried the evidence through a smoky casino, then across the midship atrium, passing thousands of passengers who were headed for dinner. At the concierge desk, where I rested my elbows on the teak counter, Geert spoke to an attendant. In the wine bar off the atrium, a delicate-looking Frenchman lectured on the merits of cabernet, his accent like clarified butter.
The concierge attendant lifted a portion of the counter, and I followed Geert back into an office where a man the color of wrought iron greeted us in a mellifluous British accent. Both his white officer’s uniform and his black skin seemed to glow, the uniform so bright it stung my eyes, the skin so dark it shimmered violet.
“I am York Meriweather, first purser.” He placed one hand to his chest, shaking my hand with the other. “I’m pleased to meet you, Agent Harmon. And I can assure you, all valuables will be secure in my office.”
“Thank you.” I placed the packages on his desk. He didn’t bat an eye at the sorry state of my “valuables” in plastic laundry bags. “I don’t doubt you, but may I see your safe?”
“Most certainly. I would not be offended if you doubted, after what happened today.” He swept a hand toward a powder-coated column that ran floor to ceiling. It had two locks. One looked like a regular numerical combination dial, but the other involved a bizarre key that the purser held up for my inspection. Six inches long, its brass teeth flared like curling wings.
“And, as you can see”—he pointed to my left—“we have video cameras aimed directly at the safe.” He pointed to my right, more cameras. The smile that spread across his face came slowly but was as blindingly bright as his uniform. “If I exit the office, an alarm system is set, backing up the two locks. Another alarm is set by the front desk.”
“Very thorough.”
He gave a slight bow, feigning modesty, then used the strange key to open the safe. The tumbler released with a heavy clunk and the door required both hands to open. Rows of safe deposit boxes were shelved above vertical dividers that held canvas money bags, the type used by banks. At the very bottom was open space.
“You should have no worries about theft,” said York Meriweather. “At least, not here.”
Geert and I made our way through the atrium, passing the little Frenchman who acknowledged Geert with a gaulic lift of the eyebrows. Geert’s reply was even less friendly.
“Don’t like him?” I asked.
“Gossips,” he spat. “Old ladies in Zeeland do not gossip like these people. Some kind of joke. Security’s safe was broken into. Ha. Ha. I am not laughing. I will crush the person who did this.”
His already formidable back stiffened with defensive pride. I wasn’t exactly sorry to see his humiliation; it pushed him lower on my list of suspects. For a man like this, no money was worth public shame, not even six figures of jewelry. And as we headed for the maintenance crew cabins, I felt a fraction of relief. One person, perhaps, could be eliminated from the list.
Perhaps.
Outside the upscale Italian restaurant named Pellagio, Geert opened a door marked Authorized Personnel Only, stepping into the large kitchen. Waiters shuttled back and forth at high speed, balancing full dinner plates on both arms while dodging hollered comments from the chefs who guarded the enormous grills and ovens. The chefs wore toques and white jackets and yelled in Italian, furious Italian, where the romantic scooped lilts change into curses condemning a person to life without decent red sauce. Geert and I stood to the side like schoolkids playing double-Dutch rope, waiting for an opening. Suddenly we dashed through a cacophony of clattering plates, rattling utensils, and increased yelling.
And then, just as suddenly, it went quiet. The kitchen door had closed behind us and we were crossing through the bakery, the warm scent of bread floating on the air. Plump men in white shirts and houndstooth pants pulled racks of flaky croissants and golden buns from cavernous ovens.
My stomach went into full riot.
“Hungry?” Geert asked, glancing back.
I was afraid if I opened my mouth, drool would come out. So I said nothing. But Geert either heard my stomach or saw something on my face. Speaking in a foreign language to a baker whose merry cheeks rose with his smile, he wrapped three buns in butcher paper and handed them to me. I restrained a weep of gratitude.
Possibly it was the best bread I’d ever tasted. The light golden crust melted on my tongue, followed by the bread interior that was light as a marshmallow yet as rich as butter. I wanted to hum as we walked down a long tunnel. The ship’s employees rushed past us in various stages of hurry. Some carried bags of rice the size of toddlers. Others pushed steel carts stacked with folded tablecloths and napkins—fresh from the laundry room, no doubt—while men in coveralls wheeled small Dumpsters, trailing putrid odors.
“This is called the Highway,” Geert said. “No public, no passengers allowed. It is our express lane from fore to aft. If I need to, I can get from one end to the other in less than four minutes.” He glanced at the remaining roll in my hand. “Unless I stop to eat.”
We took the same stairs Jack and I used to reach the laundry and passed a young woman wearing a two-foot-tall feathered headdress and a skimpy dance outfit. From under thick false eyelashes, she stole a sidelong glance at Geert, her tap shoes clicking on the metal stairs. There was guilt in her look, like a naughty kid passing by the school principal. How many dramas, I wondered, were taking place among the thousand-member crew?
Grand larceny might be one.
But what about murder?
On Deck Three Geert lifted the clipboard he carried from his office and ran a thick finger down the names and corresponding cabin numbers. Forty-six men worked the light-maintenance crew, wearing a uniform that included those particular black trousers. Heavy maintenance was something different, the men who took care of the engine room and the ship’s hydraulics. Light maintenance, Geert had explained, were basically handymen, responsible for everything from fixing clogged toilets and broken doors to replacing broken mirrors and cracked bathroom tiles.
With relish, Geert snapped on latex gloves and rapped a knuckle on the door of cabin 301. “Orlando Diego, Raul Jorge,” he called. “Open up.”
The man who opened the door was short and swarthy and was rubbing his eyes. His glossy black hair twisted as though he slept in a centrifuge.
“Orlando?” Geert asked.
“Raul.”
“Let me see your uniform.”
The question startled him. “Que?”
Pushing past him, Geert slapped the light switch on the wall. Raul stumbled back, his mouth dropping open. Then closed.
It was a tiny cabin with no window. A set of bunk beds and a closet that Geert whipped open. He shoved the metal hangers across a steel pole, a sound like screeching birds.
“Where is the uniform?” he demanded.
From the bunks, somebody groaned. Geert walked over, staring at the bundled shape on the top bed.
“Get up,” he ordered.
A flurry of Spanish exploded from the bundle. None of it sounded nice.
Geert glared at Raul.
“He sleep like that, mean.” Raul’s tone sounded like a mixture of annoyance and satisfaction. Tired of dealing with an ornery roommate; pleased that somebody finally understood his plight. Raising his voice, he spoke Spanish to the bundle of blanket. I recognized two words.
El jefe. Boss.
The sleeping man shot up, presumably Orlando. Squinting into the overhead light, he listened as Raul gave him another dose of information in Spanish.
“Yah, that is right.” Geert gave his savage smile. “I am on rampage. Now, where are your uniforms?”
Face red from embarrassment, Raul lifted a nylon duffel bag from the closet floor and pulled out four pieces. Two black shirts, two pairs of black pants. Identical to the pants in the purser’s safe.
“I promise to send in the laundry,” Raul pleaded. “Today. I know, it stinks. But—”
“Where is his?” Geert indicated Orlando.
Raul reached down, picking something up from the closet floor. One black shirt, one black pair of pants.
“And the other?”
Raul hesitated, glancing at his roommate before barging into the bathroom. Pulling back the plastic shower curtain, he pointed to a black puddle blocking the drain. Geert pushed him aside and picked up the soaking material. Water dripped.
“Tell him,” Raul said to his roommate. “Tell him, or I will.”
Orlando tried to yawn. “I do my own laundry.”
Geert looked at Raul, challenging him to declare his loyalty. It did not take more than a moment.
“He was drunk,” Raul said, choosing job over roommate. “He puked all over hisself last night.”
“But he washed his clothes?”
“I wash his clothes, I put him to bed.” Raul was stabbing himself in the chest, his tone unleashing the frustration. “I live with un cerdo.”
Geert let go of the clothing, dropping it with a wet thunk on the shower floor. “If you talk about my visit, I will have you fired.”
We walked out, closed the door, and continued down the hall.
“That’s it?” I asked.
He was checking the clipboard again. “Silly men.”
“So? Silly men commit crimes too.”
“They were hired two weeks ago. They can’t even figure out how to get their laundry picked up. No way would they get into my office, or my safe.”
Moving methodically down the steel corridor, we went through twenty more cabins. None of the men were American, most were Hispanic, some Greek, and five uniforms were unaccounted for. Unfortunately, each belonged to a man whose waist was substantially larger than the black trousers. And with only two more cabins left on Geert’s list, I was beginning to wonder whether the black trousers had been stolen from the supply room, and even worn by someone who didn’t work light maintenance. A passenger, even.
Geert was rapping on the next to last cabin when I pulled out my cell phone and called Jack. When nobody answered the door, Geert unlocked it with his master key and stepped inside.
Or tried to.
“Ach,” he sneered, “talk of pigs.”
I stayed in the hallway, holding the phone, while Geert stretched his legs over plates of old food and dirty socks and scattered newspapers and magazines.
When Jack finally answered, his voice sounded jaunty. “How’s it going?”
“Not great,” I admitted. “What about you?”
“Oh, just talking to Milo.” Buddies having coffee. No, whiskey.
“The plan was for you to ask him about the jeans.”
“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me.”
I felt like closing the phone on him but watched Geert shaking his bald head as he went through the closet. Since Jack kept me waiting, I went to the cabin’s bathroom, running a quick inspection. Shaving cream and razors left on the side of the sink. Soap scum. Deodorants without caps, showing dark hair. Dirty mirror. A toilet needing flushing.
I was about to turn away when I saw an eye shadow set on the filmy counter. Bright blue and copper green. Mascara tube. Lipstick, lots of lipstick. I picked up a plastic box of powder foundation, Sandstone Glow, and was still holding the phone to my ear when I carried it over to Geert.
He offered his own gift: black leather and silver chains.
“Real pigs,” he said.
Jack’s voice came back on the phone: “Raleigh, you there?”
Geert lifted another hanger. Leather whips. More chains. The bad feeling in my gut turned sour.
“Raleigh, you there?”
“I’ll have to call you back.”
In the small space, it was difficult not to breathe the foul odors, which were like rot and the sick sweetness of decomposition. Six feet across, ten long, the room was the same size as the others but seemed smaller, crowded with the plates of fossilized food and the clothing strewn on the floor. The bunk beds were unmade, and even though I was wearing latex gloves, the last thing I wanted to do was touch the beds. But a search meant searching and I pulled back the torqued sheets, shivering with revulsion as I combed through the bedding. Something solid cocooned in one blanket. I pulled it out.
A camcorder. I held it up for Geert, dangling it from a gloved finger.
His mustache twitched like the whiskers on a rabbit. “Only one uniform is here.”
He held up a black shirt, then pointed to an area above the left chest pocket. The material was darker, with threads outlining a small rectangle.
“Name tag, gone.” Geert lifted his radio, clicking the button on the side. A series of clicks came in reply. Ninja language. Finally Geert read the names from the clipboard. “Ahmed Ramazan and Murat Serif. Immediately.”
He radioed the laundry room next, placing an all points bulletin on any of the black light-maintenance uniforms.
I went back into the bathroom, stoppered the sink, and dumped out the pink face powder, searching for any hidden jewelry. In the soiled shaving kits, I found a pair of cuticle scissors, more razors, boxes of condoms. Then I sorted through the trash can under the filthy counter. It was full of used tissues and despite all those years in the forensics lab, what I saw on those tissues triggered my gag reflex. I listened to Geert tell the laundry room to search every single duffel bag.
At the bottom of the trash can, the black threads looked like dried worms. And there was the rectangular patch.
I pulled it out.
“Ahmed,” it said. “Republic of Turkey.”
“We might have our man,” I called to Geert.
While Geert printed out employee pictures of Ramazan and his roommate, Serif, I stood at the small porthole in his office, watching the early evening light blaze across the sea. It looked like noon anywhere else, and when I turned toward the noise coming down the hall, sunspots swam in front of my eyes, blurring the image of the person that the Ninjas dragged in.
He wore a black uniform and his swarthy face carried several days of beard. But it was his eyes . . . his eyes . . . they stopped me cold. Pale green but murky, they reminded me of glacial pools contaminated with silt. Poisonous water that suffocates all marine life.
“Serif,” his name tag said on the black shirt, “Republic of Turkey.”
“Serif,” Geert said cheerfully. “Welcome.”
Serif lowered his chin, deepening the set of dark circles under those disturbed eyes.
“My men cannot find Ramazan. Where is he?”
Serif shrugged. “I am working.” He had a thick Mediterranean accent.
“Yah, working.” Geert lifted the camcorder from the desk. “I have seen your ‘work.’”
“What is that?” Serif said.
“You had a day off today,” Geert said, ignoring the ploy. “What did you do?”
“I keyed out.”
“Your friend, Ramazan, he got off the ship too?”
“You have schedule. You know. He was working.”
Something felt wrong. The man was too calm, too confident. All the other employees on this ship looked at Geert the way Ugandans looked at Idi Amin. But Serif’s attitude meant he was confident of something. Something we didn’t know. As Geert continued to query, I could feel the thing slithering toward us, circling, about to strike. Geert must have sensed it too because he gave a quick nod to the Ninja standing behind Serif.
The Ninja struck, one viperous moment.
The Turk collapsed.
Geert stared calmly at the man on the floor. “What did you do with it?”
There was no reply. Geert nodded. The Ninja drove his foot into Serif’s side and Geert repeated the question. When Serif looked up, he maintained the wicked expression.
Geert demanded, “The jewelry. From my safe. Where is it?”
“I don’t know wha—”
The Ninja could’ve scored a field goal from the fifty-yard line. Serif’s body curled into the fetal position and a queasy sensation went through me. My least favorite people were ruthless criminals, but I’d been chasing them long enough to feel wary of my own animosity, what it could breed. I had felt the temptation to cross the line more than once. Except it wasn’t a line. It was more like a guardrail, running alongside some deep dark canyon where on the hottest nights it blew with the coolest wind, washing up from the depths, whispering of revenge. But if you plunged down into that place, there was no return. Ever.
I squatted next to Serif’s curled figure. His body smelled as rancid as his cabin.
“Serif.”
After a moment, he removed his arms from around his head. He glowered at me, the pale eyes the color of antifreeze.
“The FBI can pursue charges for pornography, perhaps even distribution. Or sexual assault.” I glanced at Geert, confirming. He nodded; he’d watched the tapes found in the room.
Serif smiled, revealing jagged teeth. “My country does not recognize your FBI.”
This was true. Certain foreign countries built walls to repel the FBI. Turkey was among the worst, and as its citizen, Serif was protected from us.
But facing a power play, I played.
I looked up at Geert. “How many tourists does your cruise line take through the Mediterranean?”
The Dutchman didn’t let me down. “Hundreds of thousands every year,” he said immediately. “The Turkish government would not want our ships going somewhere else.”
“You see, Serif, if the ships stopped coming, it would be your fault. Your government would know it was all because of your pornography. What’s the law like for pornographers in a Muslim country like Turkey?”
“I did nothing.” His mouth tightened. “Do you hear me?”
Another Ninja appeared at the door. The tall one. He was flushed and out of breath, and he shook his head. Geert gazed down at Serif with naked hate in his blue eyes. “Where is he hiding?”
Serif was silent.
“This is no game,” Geert said. “I can make sure you spend a long time in one of your famous Turkish prisons.”
No response.
“Answer me! Where is he?”
But the power had shifted once again. Serif scratched the beard, flicking his fingers like some obscene gesture. “What day is this?” he finally said.
We waited. He enjoyed it, drawing us out.
“What day is this?” he asked again.
“It is Thursday,” Geert growled.
“What number?”
“Where is he?”
Serif smiled. The teeth seemed to stretch across his face. “Now I remember. Ramazan got off in Juneau.”
“He—” Geert looked stricken.
“It was his last day,” Serif sat up. “He went home.”
At Geert’s nod the Ninjas reached down, yanking him to his feet and dragging him through the hall. Geert picked up the phone.
“Exit records, check them again. Ramazan, Ahmed Ramazan.” He hit the phone’s cutoff button, then punched in another four digits. “Staff records for Ahmed Ramazan. His term ends—when?”
Down the hall, I heard a door open. No voices, no yelling. The door closed. I didn’t want to imagine what would happen on the other side.
“I am hearing he got off in Juneau.”
Stepping into the hall, I listened to a thudding sound coming from the room down the way, the room where Webb had been detained. I opened my cell phone and called Agent Kevin Barnes.
“It’s Raleigh,” I said. Agent’s numbers did not show up on caller ID.
“Don’t worry, I already put in a good word for you,” he said. “Job’s yours if you want it.”
“Thanks, but I need a different favor.” I described the missing cruise ship employee who possibly left the ship in Juneau. “Any chance you can track him down?”
“No. I’m swamped. But there are only two ways out of Juneau. Boat or plane. Nobody can drive away. Let me make some calls.”
“I’ll fax you a photo.”
“This guy is your killer?” he asked. “I can call in troopers if you need ’em.”
“Right now, we think he stole that bracelet I told you about, the one with the blue stones? If you can get the state’s help on an APB, I’d appreciate it.”
“Will do,” he said. “Sounds like that bracelet is worth some serious dough.”
“Or it was a really nice paycheck for murder.”
I glanced down the hall. Behind the closed door, the silence was eerie.