“Who said that?” Strickland demanded, trying to follow the direction of my thumb. “That’s preposterous.”
I turned my head slightly. “Oh . . . oh, well, he’s gone now. Hey, you heard about that town went berserk in the Midwest . . . and the pharmaceutical executive who’s missing? They haven’t found his body. I hear he was a big cruise ship fan.”
“I have no idea what you mean, Mr. Mills, but I need to go now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Sure, nice talking to you. Guess you been too busy to catch the news. Good food, by the way, my compliments to the chef.”
His smile was a plastic one, with dismissive overtones. But on the way out of the restaurant he sneaked himself another glance in the direction where I’d fanned my thumb all the same.
I finished my sherbet and ordered a coffee. Strong black Colombian. I needed the caffeine to figure this out. If Carson was hiding on Deck A or D, it was under an assumed name. Either Frank Fisher knew the name, or he was hoping to get as lucky as me in going for a hit, using the same stumblebum hit man once again as a patsy. Perhaps in case he needed a red herring to slip away himself? Whatever the reason, obviously Frank was pissed because of Carson’s apparent double-cross. Kevin was dead, and Frank suspected Jeffers of that too. And now Jeffers was getting away with secret project money, as well as his own. A rat deserting to the ship.
I thought about the CIA, and whether they had really just walked away. I didn’t think they could afford to, now that the backgrounds of some of the dead soldiers of fortune on Jeffers’ hired film crew would be investigated by the FBI. And it didn’t seem likely the Agency or the Studio wouldn’t care if Carson just sailed away, knowing what he knew, when things had gone so very wrong.
I sipped at my dark elixir, distracted by new fears for Julie’s safety. Then three words floated up to me from my cup, as though from my inner Magic 8-Ball: Witness Protection Program.
What if Jeffers was on the program too? A special program, run by the CIA. A program the FBI didn’t even know about, or anyone else. A new identity for Jeffers, with plastic surgery in the event that he was implicated for Zion? Maybe Frank Fisher would be eliminated as part of the plan, too. Maybe Frank suspected what was coming, and wanted to do unto others before they could do unto him . . .
As I made my way up to the deck, another disturbing thought struck me. What if Fisher was just guessing that Jeffers was on board the SS Seven Seas, as I had been hoping? And what if I didn’t find Carson soon? How long could I afford to wait before calling Winsdon or the editor of the Washington Post?
I didn’t know anything for sure, except that my coffee had been good to the last drop.
36
I took a deck chair near the pool, and scanned the passengers for a familiar face. There was precious little time, but until I formulated a plan for exploring the off limits decks, my options were limited, and it looked good to appear normal. Suspecting I was being watched, I already regretted mentioning Carson’s name to the ship’s real estate rep. That had been reckless.
While wondering whether dialing 911 on a satellite phone would work, I was approached by a man in a blue blazer, tan slacks, and new boat shoes. He was in his late thirties, wore sunglasses, and had sunburn on his left arm and along the left side of his neck, as if he’d driven a long time along A1A, headed south. He turned a chair around to face me, sat, and then studied me carefully before speaking.
“You a detective?” he asked me. He looked away, just like they do in the movies.
“Not me,” I said with a laugh. “And you would be . . .”
“Mr. Strickland’s boss.” His lips spread in a slow smile that had some bite to it. “Would you mind showing me some ID, Mr. Mills?”
“Yes, I would mind.” I frowned. “I’m here on vacation. What’s this all about?”
“This?” he asked the mild ocean breeze, gesturing expansively past the three couples and two kids in the pool. “Oh, you mean your identity? I’m afraid we’ll need to confirm it. You see, we’ve done some checking after your bizarre conversation with our representative, and it turns out a Mr. Walter Mills is somewhat older than you, and may actually be a retired mafia man like those you were asking about. He has an extensive rap sheet, it turns out. He’s not a fugitive at this point, as there was plea bargaining in his past. As to his present whereabouts, only you know that.” He slipped his hand into his coat, and kept it there, causing me to revise my opinion of cruise ship security. “Won’t you join me on the bridge to discuss this, please?”
“This?” I asked, surprised at my own mocking tone. “What’s this? Let’s shoot the breeze here, shall we? We wouldn’t want to upset the guests.”
He looked beyond me at the couple sitting across the pool, the wife reading the latest paperback courtroom drama like Mrs. Paul reads the want ads after all her fish sticks burn. Then he looked behind us and up, and I followed his gaze to see Ray Strickland and another man in a blazer looking down at us from behind the tinted glass of the bridge thirty feet above. My interrogator nodded. His clone nodded back. They continued watching us, and still the hand inside my would-be interrogator’s coat never left it.
“Go ahead, Mister . . .”
“Public,” I responded with a smile. “John Q. Public.”
“So you’re a reporter? Print or broadcast?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It doesn’t matter. Where’s Mills?”
“He sold me his ticket.”
“Did he? For how much? And more importantly—”
“Why? Because he needed the money. He’s quit the rackets, you see. Then he calculated that his savings would expire a little sooner than he’d anticipated he would, without his family pension. Of lung cancer.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In a bar.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
“Maybe you’re paid to lie.”
I smiled. “And it really doesn’t matter who I’m lying for?”
Blazer straightened in his chair, took in a breath to expand his chest, and gave me his best stern expression. “For the last time.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m a writer, you’re right about that. But I don’t do news. I do travel pieces. I’m the mystery cruiser that writes for Cruise Holiday, you know the column? There is no byline, so I can’t tell you who I am. I’m a reviewer. Okay? This is a new ship, a maiden voyage, my man. The gig is that I rate the amenities, see how the sales pitches are handled, interview a few residents and hear how they like the condo concept. Check with the magazine, if you like. But if I tell you who I am, there won’t be a review. Or let’s say the review will be quite different?”
He studied my hand—that pulsing, bandaged thing at the end of my arm. “Is reviewing always so dangerous?”
“Not usually,” I told him, “but sometimes it can be rough. Know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t. Where’s your camera?”
“Don’t really need it for a cruise review piece. It would give me away too, wouldn’t it? I’m sure the cruise line will supply whatever photos are necessary. Eight by ten glossies, transparencies . . . taken with a larger format view camera. Do you know how hard it is lugging one of those things around, trying to orchestrate a perfect shot with salt spray and screaming kids everywhere?”
The man shook his head slowly from side to side, but kept his eyes fixed hypnotically at the brace of the deck chair beneath me. “This is very irregular, Mister—”
“Mills,” I said. “Walter Mills.”
I returned to my room, and tried on Walter’s swimsuit, ripping one of the seams a bit to get it on. It was tight, but as long as I didn’t bend over all the way . . . A flowered short sleeved shirt with cargo pockets, plus steel rimmed sunglasses, completed my outfit. I strolled through the ship that way, after purchasing another throw-away flash camera at the gift shop opposite the hair salon, just in case I got really lucky. In the casino I thought I saw a m
an resembling Carson, and got my camera ready, but then he hit a jackpot and looked a bit too happy over the few coins that dropped from the slot into his grasp. Next I checked each entranceway to Deck A and D—also called the Aquarius and Delphic decks—after making sure I was not being followed. I found them all locked. A brass warning plate advised: OFF LIMITS EXCEPT TO RESIDENTS. Then, when a fastidious little man resembling Woody Allen in Bermuda shorts came out, I pretended to be waiting impatiently for someone. I held the door open, calling for “Wilma” behind him. But just as I was about to enter, a hall guard in a blue blazer appeared, and I put my hand on Woody’s shoulder instead. I escorted him out, striking up a conversation as if we were old buddies.
“Where’s Wilma?” I asked Woody.
He blinked at me, like Ray had, shaking his head nervously. “Who?”
“Oh sure,” I said, “pretend you don’t know Wilma either. She’s only got the biggest mouth on the ship. What—is she quiet since our divorce, now that she has my money? Her boyfriend’s hiding her in there, is that it? Maybe you seen him—tall, thin, older, red hair? A sugar daddy, hangs around with some nefarious types with greasy hair. I told her she better be careful, this guy’s a shark, but does she care? What about our son, what about our little Walter? He needs clothes and a nanny, and a private tutor, doesn’t he? Doesn’t your son have that?”
“I don’t—”
“Your daughter, little . . .”
“Really, I—”
“But you’ve seen this guy, come on. Does he look sick to you?”
“Sick? No, I don’t think he’s . . .”
The little man scurried for the elevator. Momentarily stunned, I almost didn’t make it in time to block his path. “He’s what? You can tell me.”
“He’s not sick,” Woody admitted, as if he’d said too much already. “I don’t know what he is, really. None of my business.”
You got that right, pal, but I see a light at the end of your hallway.
“So what room is he in?”
The little guy squeezed past me, into the elevator. He was silent now. Fearful and turning away from me, repeatedly punching the elevator door button. But I joined him, then followed him on his walk around the jogging path topside.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said, “it’s just so frustrating. Those bodyguards of theirs. All I need to do is to talk to her. That’s all. You think you can at least let me know when you see one of them leave their room again? I won’t tell anybody about you, I promise. You gotta help me.”
I wrote down my room number, offering to buy him a drink. Woody declined the drink with a quick, nervous gesture. But then he saw he wasn’t going to lose me, and that I followed him quietly. So it was on our third lap around the oval track that he finally gave in, looking a couple of degrees past uneasy, into queasy. I calmed him by asking him about himself, first. I learned his name was Jeremy Wells. He and Alice had been art dealers in Boston, but Alice left him for a sculptor who lived in Spain. There was a nude sculpture of Alice out there on tour somewhere, for all of Jeremy’s colleagues to chuckle over at cocktail parties. So he’d sold his private collection and taken his retirement early. From now on he planned to spend his days surfing the Internet’s museum websites and art archives, advising and estimating for select clients, and now and then putting together buyer and seller. More out of habit or hobby than anything else, he reckoned it would keep him from going stir crazy aboard ship, where rowdy tourists lurked only one deck away.
“Like me?” I asked him. He nodded. Then I asked if he’d ever thought of having an adventure first, before settling down to this pampered life. He glanced at me curiously, as if the idea had already crossed his mind subconsciously, and I’d just coaxed it to the surface.
“What do you mean?” His animated eyes stared at me from a blank mousy face.
“Oh, I don’t know, like going fishing for marlin off Grand Cayman, getting caught in a thunderstorm, and making it back before the little boat gets scuttled. Or hunting tigers in northern India with a camera, with only a ride out on an elephant to protect you. Or—”
He waved a hand at me to stop. “That’s not for me. I’d lose my lunch, if I wasn’t lunch.”
“Okay,” I conceded, “how about to helping stop an escaped mass murderer, then?”
He gave me a sideways glance that was a mingling of perplexed interest and vague suspicion. “A what?”
“Mass murderer,” I said, “who has an alibi, and is in process of changing his identity with the help of a clandestine government outfit.”
“That’s—”
“Bizarre? I know, but let’s pretend it’s happening.”
“Where?”
“Here. Right now. Play along with me, for the sake of discussion, will you?”
“Why?”
“Why not? Let’s say you’ve set up some office colleagues to take the fall for an accident that you caused, which incidentally resulted in dozens of deaths.”
“Yeah?” His face changed to something a bit more elastic, as though reading murder mysteries had been his most favorite of secret pastimes. Or perhaps Alice’s favorite, while he dreamt of murdering her in real life.
“Now you’re going to take the money and run, but the CIA knows who you are, and your colleagues are no longer going to be fingered. Do you cut a deal?”
“What kind of a deal?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re good at making deals.”
“But I’m . . . not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Okay,” I said, “imagine it involves a story in the news. Like that town Zion with all the dead people. You hear about that yet?”
“Yes, I have.”
“You have?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Well, hypothetically speaking, what if it was a virus that made those people go insane, and—”
“But that’s what they’re saying.”
I sucked in a surprised breath, and leveled my good hand in front of my stomach. “Okay . . . and let’s say the vice president of the failing drug company that made the virus—”
“M-Telo-something, I think it’s called.”
“Uh . . . huh. Well, let’s say this drug executive, a man named Jeffers, was responsible for allowing a test of the virus there while hiring some surveillance experts to film a movie as a cover.”
“That’s one of the latest theories, yes. But how is the CIA involved?”
I lost control of my voice for a moment, and had to stop walking as pain flared in my leg. “Uh, ah-huh, the CIA, right.” I coughed as my throat spasmed. “Listen, Jeremy, what if they weren’t involved in the test at first? The CIA. But let’s say that later they paid Jeffers a million dollars, then got out when it became too risky.”
“Why?”
“Well, because there were side effects when one part of the experiment got out of control. So Jeffers’ plans changed, and he double-crossed the ones who helped him, and then he split with the money he’d saved to buy a condo on the SS Seven Seas.”
Jeremy blinked at my theory. “You’ve got some imagination,” he admitted, “getting ahead of the story like that. So you’re proposing they didn’t find this guy’s body in Zion, after all?”
“Excuse me?” I said, feeling my own Adam’s apple bobbing involuntarily.
“Jeff—”
“Jeffers?”
“Right, him. He didn’t die in Zion?”
“You tell me,” I proposed, my voice an unsteady rumble. “Did he?”
“That’s what I heard on the news, not fifteen minutes ago. Of course . . .”
“What?”
“Of course his body was badly burned. So . . . for the sake of discussion, as you say, you want me to imagine this Jeffers escaped somehow, but the CIA made it look like he died in that town, and now he’s come to live on this ship?”
I nodded, once. But I felt unexpectedly numb, in need of psychotherapy and message therapy amid all the shock therapy.
>
“Humm,” Jeremy said. “That’s a lot to imagine. The way the story is shaping up, it sounds too risky for the CIA, even if they got him plastic surgery. What if the press found him, and he talked?”
“What if?” I asked, considering it.
Jeremy nodded thoughtfully. “The CIA would be exposed even more than they have been already, and even the best lawyers couldn’t help. I mean even like those Alice had. And she got the house, even though she left me for another man. Even though she sold it right off, and cashed out on the stocks and bonds too!”
“You’ve . . . got a point,” I said.
“She got half the business too,” Jeremy confessed. “Almost got half my personal collection.”
“That’s . . . just amazing.”
“Lawyers.” He breathed the word like a curse, although it wasn’t a four letter word. “It’s not fair.”
“It’s not right,” I added.
“By the way,” Jeremy said, looking down at my hand as though for the first time, “does that hurt much?”
37
Jeremy Wells’ new habitat was possibly the most luxurious I’d seen in any cruise magazine layout while waiting in Jeffers’ outer office. His art collection must have been extensive to leave the pieces that now hung here, saved from auction and illuminated by tract lighting. The mood suggested by the original Jackson Pollack over his white leather sofa mirrored my own exactly, too. But I kept most of that from Jeremy, even when he described the tall, red-haired man in his fifties who he’d seen inspecting the condo several weeks previously, on the weekend. Up to that moment, I’d been chummy and grateful. After that, Jeremy began to see the real me. The obsessed and desperate loner, tired of communicating on the Internet. The loser tired of being the patsy.
Once my hand was re-bandaged, I flung open his curtains for a look at the suite’s terrace.
Jeremy lifted one hand in my direction. “This is all so—”
“Highly irregular? You can say that again.” I slid open the door and stepped out onto a six-by-fourteen-foot private balcony to the sea. An ornate wrought iron chair and coffee table were the only fillers for the space, in addition to two “wandering Jew” hanging plants in Grecian baskets. I leaned as far out as I could, and peered in the direction of Jeffers’ suite. As Jeremy had indicated, I could just see the hand rail, two cabins over. If Carson’s death had been faked, and he was in hiding, I imagined him also spending some time on that terrace, in an attempt not to go stir-crazy. Or maybe he was hitting the bottle heavily and continuously now, while watching satellite TV. I wouldn’t be able to tell he was there at all, though, unless he stepped to the rail. And it was a twenty-five-foot drop to the ocean below.
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