Agent Grey, Agent Kadyrov.” Maryland Port Authority director Bob Matthews strode toward them wearing a navy blue suit, navy-and-white pinstripe shirt, and yellow tie. Very professional but still personable—the image the director had been trying to portray as he worked to make Baltimore America’s number one transit port. “Thank you for coming. Let me introduce you to the key personnel.”
He escorted them aboard the Hiram, a merchant ship flying the Malaysian flag.
Coast Guard, MPA, and Customs were all present. The refugees were huddled with extremely itchy-looking gray blankets draped across their trembling shoulders. Declan’s heart went out to them. He couldn’t believe what he was about to suggest, or rather who, but it was clear no one was helping the refugees, just guarding them. “I know a wonderful crisis counselor with the Intercultural Resource Center. I could call her if it would be of help with the refugees.”
“Excellent idea. We’ve been so focused on the murders we hadn’t paid much attention to them.”
“Tanner, huh.” Lexi rocked back on her heels with a smirk.
“Not you too.” He stepped away and placed the call and, unsurprisingly, Tanner agreed to come straight away. Whenever someone was in need.
Meeting back up with Lexi and Bob on the deck, he followed as Bob led them up the exterior ladder and onto the bridge, where two men lay dead on the floor.
Declan surveyed the scene, knowing he wanted Parker on the case. The Coast Guard Investigative Service crew was already in place, but once they made their initial assessment, they typically turned the case over to local authorities, or in this case—with a dead federal officer—to the FBI, which meant Lexi and him. CGIS’s work was impeccable—Declan had no major concerns with them—but Parker was the best. “Run me through what happened here?” he asked.
“Row”—Bob signaled to one of the CGIS men—“can you spare a minute? These are the federal agents I called in.”
The man—tall, at least six-two, with short cropped hair and a muscular swimmer’s build—joined them.
Bob said, “This is Special Agent Grey with the FBI and his partner, Special Agent Kadyrov.”
Declan extended his hand. “Declan.”
“Noah Rowley.” That explained the Row nickname. Somehow fitting, given his profession.
“Lexi,” she said, shaking his hand in turn.
Declan rolled his eyes at her flirtatious tone.
“Rowley,” Bob said, “is the CGIS Special Agent in Charge.”
“So you’re leading the investigation?” Declan asked, just so he knew exactly who Rowley was and where he stood in the hierarchy. It was always good to confirm every person’s role when multiple agencies were involved.
“For now,” Rowley said. “But we’ll turn it over once we’ve finished our assessment.”
“Can you run me through it?” Declan asked.
“Of course. The ship was five nautical miles out of the harbor when a fishing vessel heard shots fired on board. They radioed the Coast Guard immediately, and when our men boarded, they found two dead on the bridge, the captain unconscious, a crew in disarray, and twenty-four refugees in the hold. They then directed the ship into Terminal Six and called Customs and Immigration. We’re still waiting on an Immigration rep to arrive.”
“You said one of the deceased is . . . was a federal agent?” Lexi asked.
“His name is Steven Burke. He’s an agent out of Houston. Had no ID on him. We ran his prints. He was dressed like a crew member.”
“Was he undercover?”
“Not according to his superior. Apparently he asked for personal leave almost two months ago. Was due to return to duty next week.”
“So what was he doing on a merchant ship flying a Malaysian flag, and who killed him?” The federal agent’s presence and circumstances made no sense. Had the guy just decided to ask for a two-month leave to sign on to a Malaysian merchant crew? Nuh-uh. Steven Burke was up to something. Perhaps something personal, but definitely something investigative.
Bob slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “That’s why we called you two.”
Declan’s gaze tracked from Steven Burke lying on the floor to a man lying a bit closer to the door.
“The first mate,” Noah said. “Joseph Contee. Citizen of Tanzania.”
Declan spun around looking for someone in custody and not finding anyone. Perhaps they’d moved the killer belowdecks. “And the shooter?”
“The captain claims Burke opened fire on the first mate and then moved to shoot him,” Noah explained. “But the captain pulled a revolver kept on the bridge in case of pirates and shot Burke before slipping backward and conking his head on the control panel. He says no other crew members were present, and that has been corroborated by the crew members we have spoken to so far.”
Declan surveyed the bridge. “May I speak to the captain?” Undoubtedly the man seated next to the control panel with the icepack on his head and a medic at his side.
He and Lexi strode to the man, Bob Matthews following, and Noah returned to his work.
“Captain Randal Jackson, federal agents Declan Grey and Alexis Kadyrov,” Bob said.
Jackson nodded.
“Are you American?” Lexi asked.
“Kentucky born and raised,” Jackson said, a hint of Kentuckian accent remaining.
“Later you’re going to have to tell me how you ended up captaining a Malaysian merchant ship, but for now I need you to tell me what happened here,” Lexi said, squatting beside him.
“That man”—Jackson lifted his chin, indicating Noah—“just did.”
Declan purposely stood over the man rather than squatting to his level. “So you’re sticking with that story?” Because he just couldn’t see it playing out that way. Not without some pretty extreme extenuating circumstances.
“It’s not a story,” Jackson said heatedly. “It’s the truth.”
So the captain had a hair-trigger temper. Even more interesting. No sense pressing the issue just yet though. Ballistics would either confirm or contradict Jackson’s story.
Jackson removed the icepack from his head, and Declan leaned over to survey the gash and dried blood on the back of Jackson’s head. It was an awful lot of damage for a slip and knock. Looked more like someone had whacked him over the head—with what, he wasn’t sure. But why claim he fell if he’d been hit over the head instead? Unless he wanted to be hit over the head.
“Any idea why Agent Burke would want to shoot you and your first mate?” he asked, extremely curious about Jackson’s assessment of what led up to the shooting.
“Because the first mate discovered his true identity,” Jackson finally said.
“And . . . ?” Declan left it there. Better to let Jackson try to fill in the pieces.
“And he panicked.”
Now he knew Jackson was lying. Federal agents didn’t panic when their cover was blown unless they had a serious reason to.
“Did he have cause to panic?” Lexi asked.
“What do you mean?” Jackson scoffed, tenderly touching his wound.
Was he intentionally trying to draw attention to his injury, to remind them he was a victim?
“Had Burke been threatened? Had he discovered something he wasn’t supposed to?” Lexi pressed.
Jackson frowned. “Like what?”
“The refugees in the hold for one,” she said, disgust for their mistreatment evident in the heightening of her typically throaty voice.
Declan studied Jackson. “Did you know Burke was a federal agent when he joined the crew?”
“No. How would I know something like that?”
“So you just thought he was one of the crew?”
“Yeah.”
“How did it make you feel when you learned Burke was a federal agent?” Lexi asked.
Jackson shrugged.
“That’s not an answer,” Declan said.
“I don’t know. Guess I haven’t thought about it.”
Yep. The captain was most definitely lying. The question was why and to what extent?
Bob Matthews cleared his throat. “Agent Grey, your associate is here. They are holding her at the tape line until one of us escorts her in. I thought you could accompany me.”
He looked to his partner, and Lexi gave a nod, signaling him to go. She had this.
“Of course,” he said, moving to Bob’s side.
They climbed back down the ladder, the metal hot beneath Declan’s grip.
“You think the captain’s lying, don’t you,” Bob said.
“It crossed my mind.”
Bob straightened his jacket and tightened his tie as he stepped onto the deck. “All I care about is bringing the man or men responsible to justice.”
He wanted a quickly closed case—not a publicity nightmare for the port’s image.
Declan spotted Tanner on the other side of the yellow-and-black crime-scene tape, her hair blowing in the stale breeze. Even the slight wind coming off the water felt hot in the humid August air. It was a blistering weekend.
Tanner shifted from one foot to another and back again.
Curious. Was she simply anxious to help, or was something else going on? A few more steps in her direction and he spotted the source of her shifting. She was wearing paper-thin flip-flops. Her feet had to be burning on the scalding asphalt.
“She’s with me,” he said, approaching the officer guarding that portion of the line.
The officer gestured her in under the tape.
“Thanks,” Declan said, and the officer nodded.
“Tanner Shaw, Bob Matthews.”
Bob shook her hand. “Thank you so much for coming, but I’m not certain how much help you’ll be able to offer. It appears none of them speak English or they simply aren’t talking.”
“It could be either case, but I do speak a number of languages. Hopefully one of them fits.”
“Well, I appreciate you coming down on such short notice.” Bob looked across the parking lot to the gathering reporters. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a statement to make.”
“Of course,” Declan said.
“I’m surprised you called,” Tanner said.
“I’m surprised you wore what are basically sheets of paper on your feet when you were coming on a ship. Your feet must be burning.”
Now that Bob had excused himself, she was practically hopping.
“I’m fine. Besides, I was at a friend’s when you called. We were heading to the beach for the day.”
So that explained the tank top, shorts, and shoe choice.
“Would you like me to carry you? We’ve still got a lot of ground to cover.” He indicated the looming remains of the parking lot with a nudge of his chin.
“Nope. I’m fine.” She shuffled her feet. “Let’s just move faster.”
“Sorry to ruin your beach plans.” He wondered who the friend was and if it was a he or she, but that was none of his business.
“I’m glad you called,” she said. “Seriously. It meant a lot.”
“Yes. That you trusted me to help.”
Right. Help. As she burned her own feet.
This was ridiculous.
He reached over and swooped her up in his arms.
She wriggled. “What are you doing?”
“Saving your feet.”
“I’m fine.”
“Stop being so stubborn and enjoy the ride.” He winked.
She rolled her eyes.
He chuckled. “I’m just messing with you.”
“So Mr. Serious has a sense of humor after all.”
“So that’s how you see me? Mr. Serious?” Ouch.
She finally relaxed into his hold as they covered the remaining stretch of parking lot. “Well, yeah.”
Good to know.
“I mean, it’s not a bad thing. We’re just different,” she said.
Different as could be, and yet there was something about her. Like a magnet pulling another to it or repelling it. He still hadn’t figured out which of the two they were, but he suspected the former, which confused him to no end.
“Lexi here?” she asked, something he didn’t understand lingering in her eyes. She liked Lexi, liked everyone, but there was something there. No way was she jealous of Lexi. That would mean . . . Now he was just being foolish.
“Yep,” he said. “Up on the bridge. I’ll take you to the refugees.” He set her to her feet on the boat, missing the feel of her in his arms, the sweet scent of coconut tickling his nose.
“Thanks for saving my feet.”
“You’re welcome.”
They entered the hold where the refugees were being held, and Tanner rushed for them.
A Customs agent blocked her path.
Declan showed his ID. “She’s with me. She’s a crisis counselor.”
The Customs official nodded and stepped aside. “Great. We can definitely use her. They’re terrified.”
Declan took in their dazed and frightened expressions. Their hair matted, their clothes tattered. What had they been forced to endure? “I don’t blame them.” He prayed God would work through Tanner to provide some comfort to the poor souls so far from their homeland, just looking for a better way of life.
He needed to call Parker. Needed another sweep. They had to catch whoever was responsible not only for the murders, but for this atrocity, and he had a strong suspicion the captain knew far more than what he claimed.