SEVENTY-SEVEN

WHEN I saw Perla so friendly with De Santis, I was shaken. The sight disturbed me so much that I had to sit down and process the implications.

Fortunately, a high bar table had just been vacated, and I grabbed a cushioned stool. A steward came by with prosecco, and I snatched one up, draining the flute in a single long gulp as I added things up . . .

Perla is a former Olympic sharpshooter. She knows the South African rappelling rope trick. She’s athletic. And with an inflatable suit like the one Punch wore to look like a superhero, any illusion is possible . . .

Could Perla be the sniper shooting at cops? Could she be Panther Man?

On the face of it, the idea seemed crazy. But maybe that was the genius of it. Now that I saw her relationship with De Santis, it all made sense.

But what about murderous intent?

Perla was a tough and brittle person, but it was hard for me to see her as a cold-blooded cop shooter.

And what would her motive be? Her old radical, antiestablishment politics? Or money?

Perla appeared successful, but in towns like New York, ambitious people never had enough of it. For the same motive I’d ascribed to Hunter, she could be doing De Santis’s bidding.

Then I remembered: Track 61!

Perla talked about the men who were lining up a fortune to convert the secret train station. Just like that abandoned building near the Village Blend, De Santis could be behind the Track 61 project, using a shell corporation and other investors to avoid scrutiny.

There was an easy familiarity between Perla and De Santis. Could there be more to their relationship . . .

Is it possible they’re also lovers?

That theory went out the porthole with the arrival of another familiar face.

I almost didn’t recognize Carla, the law student and recent regular at the Village Blend. She certainly didn’t look like any hardworking grad student I’d ever known.

For tonight’s party, she wore a daring minidress in lacy black, with mesh panels in places that revealed more than they hid. Her auburn hair was piled onto her head, save for a few stray ringlets that bobbed around her ears. Her eyebrows were manicured; her eyelashes, false.

I recalled seeing Carla last night at the 21 Club where we cornered Hunter Rolf. At the time I was worried she might be shopping for a sugar daddy. Now my fears for the naïve young student were realized tenfold because her sugar daddy turned out to be Eduardo De Santis.

They probably hooked up at 21 last night!

My stomach churned as I studied them from behind my tinted Bulgari lenses.

De Santis greeted Carla with a sloppy kiss and a clumsy grope.

“Hey, now! Watch the hands!” she protested, pushing back against his roaming fingers.

With a pout, De Santis returned to his conversation with Perla, a discussion that went on for ten more minutes. Carla grew so bored she began to play some app game on her smartphone, laughing in triumph when she scored.

I used my own smartphone to communicate with Matt.

Looks like 1 of our VB customers is hooking up w/ your old friend De Santis. If we can get her away from him, she might have good intel on his connection to the cop shooter.

I did not add that I thought that shooter might be Perla.

I didn’t know how Matt would react to that theory, so I decided to keep it to myself—for now.

As Matt texted back a quick OK, my attention was diverted by several ship’s stewards, who rolled out a podium, and the largest LED screen I’d ever seen. They were followed by another familiar face—attached to an olive-skinned man in a dark suit and open-necked shirt.

I stared hard at this well-built young guy. The last time I’d seen him, he was acting as bodyguard for Eduardo De Santis and the sheikhs at the 21 Club.

Last night at 21, he’d given me a cold, dead stare, one so intense that I was sure he’d recognize me if we met again. For the first time that night, I was glad I was in disguise.

Minutes later, after a short exchange with the intense bodyguard, Victor Fontana mounted the platform and faced his quieting guests. The guard positioned himself to the right of the podium, his hawkish gaze continuously scanning the partygoers.

So did this man work for Eduardo De Santis? Or the sheikhs? At the moment, he didn’t appear to be working for any of them. Tonight he was very obviously guarding the body of Victor Fontana.

“This evening, I will introduce you to some of the surviving members of the first Andrea Doria, but right now, I want to tell you a story about a remarkable picture taken by an unknown photographer.”

The lights dimmed, and the photo filled the massive screen.

Against a gray sky, the red keel, black hull, and white superstructure of the original SS Andrea Doria cut through the choppy blue waves as it steamed forward, moving to pass the towering Rock of Gibraltar before heading into the open ocean.

“Ten years ago, I bid on—and won—the auction for the negative of this photograph from 1953 because it intrigued me,” Fontana said. “I hung a print of it in my office, and another in my home, all the while wondering why this picture continually captivated me.

“Then I discovered that the ancient Greeks and Romans saw the Rock of Gibraltar as one of the Pillars of Hercules, pillars that marked the boundary of their known world. What lay beyond was a complete mystery. Thus, to sail beyond Gibraltar, into the open ocean, was the greatest of all risks. As so many of you know from experience, in this voyage of life, daring to take the greatest risks requires the greatest stamina, courage, and nerve.”

Fontana turned to gaze at the screen.

“In this photograph, this frozen moment in time, I realized I saw a different Andrea Doria than everyone else. I saw her as more than a great ship. With her beauty, her art, her culture, her design, and her culinary offerings—the Andrea Doria became a symbol of the best in our culture. And in this picture, she, like all of mankind, is sailing toward an unknown future, but doing so with the most precious cargo—the traditions, discoveries, and creative spark that give human beings worth.”

Fontana faced the crowd again.

“I felt the world was a poorer place without the Andrea Doria, so I built her again. Tomorrow morning, we’re taking this brand-new and improved Andrea Doria out to sea on her first shakedown cruise. And in a few months, we’ll begin booking passengers.”

He finally displayed that disarming, crooked smile of his.

“Of course, many people believe what I was really attracted to was the tragic history of the original ship, rather than its legacy. I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. Now, as for my own future—”

Suddenly, the screen displayed the infamous black-and-white photograph of the zeppelin Hindenburg crashing in flames over Lakehurst, New Jersey.

“Oops!” Fontana cried in mock horror. “How did that get in there?”

The partygoers laughed.

“Not simply a joke,” he went on. “I’m thrilled to announce that my next project will be a re-creation of the Hindenburg!”

Holy cow, I thought as enthusiastic applause erupted. Most men are satisfied building tabletop models. How rich is this guy?!

Just then, Matt appeared at my side, face pale.

“While we’re on the subject of volatile and explosive gasbags,” he whispered in my ear. “I’ve got some bad news, Clare. I just found out . . .”

“What?”

“Breanne, the real Breanne, my soon-to-be-ex Breanne is at this party, too.”