by Cleo Coyle
“At least we know not to wait for the mystery man. But I wish I knew where that other entrance was.”
As we ascended the gangplank’s gentle incline, I began to regret my reacquaintance with these cruel shoes.
Remember, Clare, I lectured myself. You’re doing this for Matt’s mother . . .
Then Matt lectured me: “When we get to the party I want you to speak as little as possible, and only when spoken to. If Breanne’s acquaintances approach you, greet them with aloof silence and an air kiss. They will compliment your dress or something. When they do, don’t reply. Just strike a pose.”
I didn’t think that was the best advice, but Matt knew his wife better than I did, so I agreed. It helped that a smartphone text conveyed good news.
“We have police backup,” I whispered, slipping the phone back into my purse. “There’s a friend with a badge aboard this ship right now. If I call, the detective will come running.”
“I hope it’s Lori Soles, and not her crazy partner, Sue Ellen. But I’ll take whoever’s willing to help us locate my mother.”
I planned to hold Matt to those words . . .
We boarded the ship through a glittering lobby, where a brace of hostesses waited to escort us to the festivities topside. Matt and I joined a clutch of well-heeled guests as we followed a perky young woman giving a bubbly info-talk about the ship’s amenities.
Truly, you only had to open your eyes to see the elegance.
With all the Italian marble, shining brass fixtures, and polished wooden decks, doors, and trimmings, I found it hard to remember we were aboard an oceangoing vessel, and not in some landlocked luxury hotel.
Everywhere I looked, the walls were decorated with original art, and every nook in the public space displayed an eye-catching sculpture.
I heard laughter and clinking glasses, accompanied by a lounge pianist’s tinkling keys, and I knew we were approaching the Lido Prima Classe—or the First Class Lido Deck. (Visiting the Andrea Doria was like taking an immersion course in Italian. Aboard this vessel, English was a second language.)
Beyond the bar and buffet, I saw a sizable ballroom; beyond that, the wide-open ship’s deck. The view was spectacular, with a harvest moon rising and stars twinkling.
The skyline of Manhattan blazed with light, and headlights flickered between the support columns on the Brooklyn Bridge. Farther out, the Statue of Liberty held her golden torch high and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge became a ribbon of light before the dark, cold waters of the Atlantic swallowed the horizon.
We’d just entered the ballroom when the moment I’d been dreading finally came.
“Breanne! There you are!”
An aggressive middle-aged woman with albino hair, a tanning salon complexion of parchment brown, and eyes so violet they had to be tinted contacts threw her jewelry-laden arms around me.
“Darling, you look smashing. I haven’t seen you since Saint-Tropez!”
And I’ve never seen you—ever! What do I do now?
I responded to her messy hug with a quick air kiss, praying this woman couldn’t see around the big round lenses of my tinted Bulgari glasses.
I sniffed tonic and juniper berries on her breath.
No wonder she’s so effusive. The woman is as drunk as a skunk!
Finally, she stepped back, to offer me a lopsided smile.
“That’s a lovely new scent for you—”
My guess? You’re sniffing Finesse Revitalizing Shampoo.
“And that neckline—very saucy!”
I struck a pose.
“I have to say—Oh! Look! There’s Ariana. I must say hello. Well, it was great to hear your voice. Don’t be a stranger.”
And just like that, the woman made a beeline for the famous former Interweb queen, now chatting with a white-haired cable news star and NY1 anchorman at the Art Deco cocktail bar.
“You handled that well,” Matt said, squeezing my hand . . .
I hardly had time to bask in the afterglow of my ex-husband’s compliment (sarcasm), before we came face-to-face with our supremely charming and conspicuously wealthy host.
After greeting Matt with a quick handshake and a “good to see you again,” a smiling Victor Fontana took my hand in his.
“Ms. Summour, it’s delightful to meet such an accomplished woman.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Fontana,” I replied, gamely mimicking Breanne’s affected manner of speech. “Your ship is quite the work of art!”
“Coming from this century’s voice of style and taste, that means a great deal to me.”
Fontana’s smooth reply, and his intense gaze, which, in the briefest flicker, took in my décolleté—then the rest of my figure—more fitted his reputation as a ladies’ man of Europe than the boyishly enthusiastic entrepreneur I’d seen in the exuberant video Matt had shown me.
The man’s Harry Potter glasses were missing tonight, and his shaggy “surfer dude” hair was now combed back, into a slick Wall Street bouffant.
Though he was a slim, average-sized man in a sea green suit and coral tie, Fontana’s commanding presence exceeded his physical stature. The man’s intelligence and confidence were broadly on display, but up close and personal, the glint in his aquamarine eyes was definitely more predatory than playful.
Our moment ended with the arrival of the mayor and First Lady of New York City. Matt hooked my arm and we moved along.
We passed the busy bar, crossed through the ballroom, and walked onto the expansively open Lido Deck, all the while searching for the man from Rome. It was a chilly fifty degrees outside, but strategically placed space heaters kept the guests comfortable. At the stern end of the deck, the illuminated pool was filled with clear blue water. There, Matt and I strategized, and decided to split up for a more effective search. Matt would case the bar, while I opted to “investigate” the buffet, but we agreed to stay in touch through our smartphones.
Despite my plan—and shameful salivation over the siren scent of chicken cacciatore (in both red and white varieties!)—I never made it to the glitterati’s food trough. Mere moments after Matt and I parted, I came to a dead stop at the sight of a shockingly unlikely pair.
Standing at a high table near the bar, Eduardo De Santis was drinking and laughing with a shockingly familiar face—Gus’s eldest daughter, Perla Campana.
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.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
“BREANNE, here?! But you said she was out of town!”
Matt turned sheepish. “I thought she was. But now that we’re no longer together, I’m less informed about my wife’s itinerary than I used to be.”
“How did she get in? I’m already here.”
“She came with her new meal ticket, the media mogul widower. He’s richer than Fontana, so he got her in with the other VIPs.”
This gigantic ocean liner suddenly seemed very, very small. I pulled Matt onto the empty stool beside mine.
“There are only a few hundred people at this party,” I hissed. “And the rest of the ship is sealed off to the public. This Lido Deck isn’t big enough for two Breanne Summours!”
“Are you kidding? Manhattan Island isn’t big enough for two of you—I mean her.”
“So what do we do?”
“Why don’t you go back to the pool, behind that big screen they rolled out. The lights were dimmed when Fontana spoke, and as you can see, they never turned them on again.”
“That’s your big plan? Hide me?”
“You can’t very well walk around. You’ll be spotted. If that tipsy, overtanned socialite who hugged you runs into the real Breanne . . . well, let’s just say my wife won’t let news of an ‘imposter’ stand without getting to the bottom of it.”
“How long am I supposed to cower in the dark, and how will that help Madame? We are looking for the man from Rome—”
“Listen, if I know Bree, she will only stay long enough to be seen by the ‘right’ people. And her new boyfriend needs all the rest he can get. The guy is so old I think he knew Julius Caesar personally.”
“Fine, I’ll go. Call me when I’m freed from exile.”
I was angry and frustrated as I crossed to the end of the Lido Deck.
&
nbsp; How are we going to find Madame if we can’t even find this blackmailer?
Another flute of the excellent prosecco helped ease some of my frustrations. I found a table far enough away from the pool to stay out of its light. Holding my phone, I uselessly watched steam rise from the pool’s glowing blue waters.
A few minutes went by before another figure emerged from the darkness. It was Perla. She was moving toward me.
My heart jumped, until I remembered I was Breanne, and there was little chance she’d recognize me. As she passed, I ducked my face, held the phone to my ear, and made noises as if I were immersed in conversation.
Perla, meanwhile, leaned on the rail not fifteen feet away, a half-empty cocktail glass in her hand. She quietly contemplated the cityscape—until, out of nowhere, that brittle fashionista with the cat glasses appeared.
In a rush of Italian, she confronted the professor. “I knew I would find you here, and not at the bedside of that man they call your father.”
Perla whirled. “Careful, Donatella,” she warned in English.
“You’re the one who should be careful, my cousin. Like me, you are a Campana—the only one in that family who stole our name. Why can’t you be loyal, and help me and my brother secure our Eye of the Cat?”
Now Perla switched her responses to Italian, too, and her tone turned sharp. “I told you. I have nothing to do with it. I’m not a trustee. If you want the diamond, hire a lawyer and take Sophia and Matteo to court.”
The woman I now knew was a Campana named Donatella pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it with a sterling silver lighter. “There are other ways. Easier on everyone. You could help.”
“But I won’t.”
“You won’t because you don’t know the truth—”
“You’re wrong. I know everything,” Perla hissed. “I know my biological father was a brute who abused my mother. I know that his family in Italy—your people—did nothing to stop him. And I know that he tried to kill us both on that ship, until my mother stood up for herself and saved us—”