by Sue Henry
“Jensen? Wake up, Jensen?”
“What? Okay. I’m awake.”
Switching on a light, he glanced at his watch. Four-forty. He padded barefoot to the door in his underwear, opened it, and stuck his head around to find Kay and a woman crew member standing outside.
Something was wrong.
“What?”
“Sorry to have to wake you, but … look, can we come in? I don’t like to talk from out here.”
“Sure.” He reached for his jeans and pulled them on, as they entered and closed the door.
Half-awake and confused, Jessie sat up in her bed.
“Sergeant Jensen, this is Carla Hodges, our assistant chef, and one of Julie Morrison’s bunkmates. She got up half an hour ago and discovered that Morrison’s not in her bed and it hasn’t been slept in.”
“Anywhere else she might have spent the night?”
“Not unless she spent it sitting up somewhere on deck, and I made a quick tour as we came here. Car-la’s been up since four. She looked everywhere she could think of—heads, galley, decks, lounge—before coming to me.”
Jensen frowned, trying to think, then looked to Carla. “Hate to ask, but you would probably know this better than Captain Kay. Is there someone she might have spent the night with? Any suggestion of a relationship?”
The assistant chef shook her head. “No. No one. There isn’t room on this ship for that sort of thing. Anyway, there’s always three or four crew in each cabin. Not much privacy, except …” She glanced at the captain, hesitantly. “There is the engineer’s cabin, sir.”
“Not the engineer’s. Ray’s awake, down below—some kind of problem with a valve—and the new guy’s asleep … alone. I took a look.” He turned to Jensen to explain. “The engineers have their own separate sleeping space a deck above, but right across from the door to the engine room. They work seven to five, but are on-call twenty-four hours a day, for obvious reasons. A crew member on night duty, checking for fire, leaks, that kind of thing, woke Ray over an hour ago. There’s one other, the hotel manager’s cabin. We’ll check, but it doesn’t make sense. Our current manager’s … well …” He paused, diplomatically, but unsuccessfully, searching for a word. “He’s sort of … singular. Doesn’t spend much time with the other crew members.”
Morrison’s roommate spoke up to clarify. “He’s a bit older and just doesn’t get along well with most of us. He keeps to himself, kind of antisocial, has a pregnant wife at home that he phones at every port. Julie wouldn’t be there, but I just can’t imagine where she’d go.” Her brows tightened in a worried look. “There’s no place to just disappear.”
“No place at all?”
“Not that I can think of. To disappear, she’d have to …”
“No,” Captain Kay abruptly stopped her. “We haven’t exhausted all the odd nooks and crannies yet. There’s still a few of them, actually. Did you look in the linen storage rooms, for instance?”
“What would she be doing …? Well, no, sir. I didn’t.”
“There’s food storage rooms, freezers, the anchor chain locker, laundry, the fan room, the steerage compartment. Still lots of small maintenance spaces.”
As Alex reached for the rest of his clothes, Jessie threw back her own covers and got up to dress herself as well.
“A passenger’s stateroom?” he asked, putting on his jacket.
“They’re all occupied this trip, and fraternizing with passengers is against policy.”
“Well,” Jensen said, considering this. When had against policy ever stopped a determined romance? Fear of being fired could explain Morrison’s flash of apprehension in the captain’s office. “I guess we’d better start with those odd places. Have you got some flashlights, Captain? Who, besides yourself, has the best knowledge of the whole ship?”
“Ray McKimmey, the engineer.”
They had searched every corner of the ship they could think of when McKimmey, who had been called up from the engine room to help, found the first clue. Hanging around a bottom rail at the stern, outside Soapy’s Parlour, the aft bar to the rear of the dining room, was the blue ribbon Morrison had been wearing in her hair the day before. There was no mistaking it. Why it hadn’t blown or fallen off into the waters of Peril Strait was a minor miracle, since it just hung there, with the ends fluttering gently. On one end was a small stain of reddish brown.
Further search in the same location turned up a small gold earring in the angle formed by the deck and the superstructure of the ship. In the deck lights, they could all see the uneasy frown on the face of the assistant chef, as she held it out in the palm of her hand.
“Yes, it’s hers. One of a pair she wore all the time.”
“And here,” McKimmey said, pointing with his flashlight to the half-smoked butt of a cigarette lying in a protected pocket of the deck. “Is this her brand, Carla?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“She smoked?” the captain asked. “This is a passenger area.”
“Well, it’s a rule that’s bent a little, since all the deck space is passenger area. This was one of the few places smokers in the crew probably wouldn’t meet passengers, especially late in the evening. She only smoked one or two a day. Liked to come out here just before going to bed. Said it gave her a chance to relax and be alone for a few minutes … see where she’d been.”
Jensen got up from where he had been examining the deck nearest the rail with his light.
“There’s a few scuff marks, but it’s hard to tell if they’re the result of a struggle.”
McKimmey moved over to take a look. “These are dark,” he commented analytically. “No one on the crew wears dark-soled shoes, because they do this.”
He and Jensen looked at each other for a long minute, and, though McKimmey said nothing, Jensen identified angry comprehension and regret in his eyes.
“What time did Morrison come out here last night?” Jensen asked Carla.
“I think it was a little after ten-thirty when she came back to her bunk for her cigarettes. On our last run she usually came out here sometime between ten-thirty and midnight, for maybe half an hour.”
In sudden silence, Alex stared out at the churning white wake the Spirit left behind. What he didn’t say was now clearly understood by everyone who followed the direction of his gaze and thoughts.
Straight from the ice and snow of a hundred glaciers, the waters through which they were passing were so cold that anyone falling into them unprotected could survive for only a few minutes before surrendering to hypothermia. In the dark … in the cold … suffering from shock … a thin scream, drowned by the rumble of the engines … perhaps a weak cry from the water that no one would hear … swept away, tumbled under the roiling wake in an instant. At least it would be quick.
He turned back as Captain Kay spoke hesitantly. “She was … pretty upset this morning, but I don’t think she would have done … something like this … herself.”
“I doubt it. All the facts point to enough resistant force to pull off an earring and the ribbon. I’ll have to have it tested, but I know that this blotch on the ribbon is blood.”
McKimmey agreed. “It looks like someone caught her off guard. She didn’t finish her cigarette and wouldn’t have left it to go out on the deck.”
“Shouldn’t we go back?” Carla asked, suddenly. “Shouldn’t we try to find her?”
They stared at her, caught up in sharing her feelings and the futility of them.
Alex spoke gently. “Where?” he asked. “How?” He glanced at his watch. Five-thirty. “It’s been about six hours, at a guess. Time enough for the tide to move a body a long way from where it went into the water, but nowhere close to where we are now. We don’t even know exactly where it happened. We’ll have to leave it to the coast guard. All the passenger staterooms still have to be searched, just because they are possibilities we haven’t covered, but …”
But, he was thinking, it was also possible that whoever had committed the
stateroom thefts had had something to do with this disappearance. The very fact that the two incidents had happened so close to each other in time created a conditional and suspicious link between them. Was Morrison, or someone else, responsible for the thefts? Could someone have overpowered her, hit her, and taken her, unconscious, to a stateroom, rather than shove her overboard? Very unlikely, yes, but motive might provide the answer. Why would anyone want to kill her in the first place? Had she seen something, heard something? Was she involved in something incriminating? What had the flash of fear in her eyes meant in the captain’s office yesterday?
“Damn it.” Carla turned away, distressed, reached out to Jessie, found the other woman’s hands, and clung, shaking her head.
Jensen watched her with sympathy. He was proud of Jessie, as the two moved away a little, exchanging a word or two, but mainly holding to each other.
McKimmey walked a space apart along the side of the vessel and stood staring out across the rail into the dark. Confronting this kind of thing wasn’t easy.
Alex glanced after him and found himself identifying with the younger man’s response. Ray McKimmey had intelligently and capably handled himself throughout the search and its regrettable result. Tall and slender, a quiet sort of man in his thirties, he seemed thoughtful, speaking when he had something specific to say. He appealed to Jensen’s concept of merit. There was something solid about him that inspired confidence and reliance. He could be helpful, Alex thought, should there be a need to include an ally in the investigation into which he had been drawn.
Carefully, he collected the three pieces of evidence and put them in plastic bags from galley storage. They would go into Captain Kay’s safe for the time being.
As they walked back through the dining room to the elevator, leaving McKimmey to his thoughts and Jessie to accompany the assistant chef to the galley for a cup of tea and sympathy, Dave Kay shook his head, looking older and tired.
“Pardon the expression, but I can’t fathom this. It scares the hell out of me. Theft is one thing, murder—and you think it was murder, don’t you?—quite another. What are we going to do now, Jensen? Got any ideas?”
Alex thought of the response that a friend and fellow trooper would give in this situation.
“Let me knock it around for a little, Captain. There’s something we’re missing here. This doesn’t quite make sense. Pretty extreme reaction to something, by someone. Let’s go make the calls, take care of business, then we’ll talk some more.”
It angered and discouraged him to admit, even to himself, that he had no specific idea as to motive or perpetrator; only a few people on board raised questions in his mind, but no suspicions could be directly linked to either of these crimes. None. Not enough information, he thought. I need more time and information.
On the stern of the ship with only a few fragments of evidence, he had felt the world shift in a strange understanding, almost as if Morrison had tried to communicate. He remembered her pale face in the captain’s office. “No. No,” she had said, refusing a search of her possessions. What had she been hiding? It was time to find out. Time to get a grasp on what had happened—what was still happening. Right now, he thought, I have only one finger touching this and I need to grab hold of it. It was time to know what the now-useless warrant would have told them.
As they stepped out of the elevator on the Bridge Deck, he suddenly stopped and turned to Captain Kay.
“What time does Sawyer close Soapy’s Parlour?”
“It varies,” Kay said slowly. “Depends on when the passengers leave, but usually not later than eleven—possibly midnight, if there’s a reason. The Parlour isn’t even busy enough to be open about half the time. This trip, though, I think it will be, most of the time.” He paused, thinking hard. “I suppose the timing might mean that Sawyer saw something, Morrison and someone else—maybe—or. … You think he might have something to do with it? He’s an extra bartender for this particular run. We haven’t had him on board before but he was recommended by the committee and has excellent references from Skagway. I’ve watched him work, and he’s very good with people.”
Alex nodded. “I noticed that at the Red Onion the night before we left. I liked him, but I’m just trying to cover all the angles. Where does he sleep?”
They walked on toward the bridge as the captain answered. “Well, since he was hired as extra, there wasn’t a space in the crew quarters. We have just enough for the number of regular crew. The Centennial Committee has three staterooms assigned to them. From what I understand, he’s sleeping on a cot in one of those occupied by a committee member and one of the actors. I’ll have to look at the list to see which one.”
Jensen followed Kay through the bridge, where the first mate was now on duty, to the office. What next? he wondered, as he sat down to call the coast guard. How were the thefts and the disappearance of Julie Morrison related—or were they? Intuition and the proximity of their timing made him suspect that they were, but his facts were still insufficient, and what had to be done now would easily fill most of the morning. At least they would not stop again until Ketchikan on Wednesday—tomorrow—twenty-four hours. How much could he uncover in that much time? And would it be enough?
12
Morning
Tuesday, July 15, 1997
Hazlit’s Gull
Clarence Strait, Inside Passage, Alaska
As THE SPIRIT OF ‘98 TRAVELED EAST ACROSS STEPHENS Passage, close to two hundred nautical miles away, the rechristened Harry’s Doll sailed smoothly through the waters of Clarence Strait on a freshening morning breeze, headed for Ketchikan, southernmost city of the Alaskan Inside Passage.
Rod and Nelson had fled toward this location for three successive nights following their nefarious pause in Tracy Arm, sailing through the dark in an attempt to pass unnoticed, anchoring or tying up to sleep during the daylight hours in small coves and inlets where they could, hopefully, remain undetected by boats in the main channels. So far they had been successful, the only other vessels they sighted too far away to be a threat.
For most of Monday night it had rained, but an improvement in the weather had come with a rising wind. They now clipped along at a steady speed, sails, deck, and gear drying in the morning sun. So close to Ketchikan, Rod had elected to continue the journey during daylight hours. Nelson was uneasy with this decision, and ill-tempered, for he had not been drunk or hung-over since Saturday night, as Rod had successfully hidden the whisky bottle.
“What if they’re looking for us?” he called up from the galley. “What if they found her? We’re right out here in the open, where they can see us easy.”
“Will you cut it out? They couldn’t have found her. You know where she is. You helped put her there, watched her go down, and that’s where she’s going to stay. By the time the body’s ripe enough to float, the fish and crabs and stuff will have left nothing to show up on the surface. Bones don’t float, Nelson. Think about it.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I know you’re right, but, even so, he’s not gonna be happy,” the older man said, appearing at the top of the companionway with a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.
“Oh, stuff it, Nelson. I’m fed up with hearing it. We both know he’s not going to be happy, whoever he is, so keep it to yourself.” He reached for the plate. “Goddamn it. You burned the bacon again. How do you do that?”
“That propane thing cooks stuff too fast. I turn around to get the eggs ready, and it’s already fried the stuff. I like electric better.”
“Well, try cracking the eggs into a bowl first, then you wouldn’t have to turn around. Watch the damned bacon. Flip it over a time or two. I hate it burned.”
“I use a bowl, I’d have to wash it,” Nelson whined. “You cook, if you don’t like it.”
“And leave you to run the boat, I suppose? At least burned bacon won’t put us on the rocks somewhere.” Rod crumbled the offendingly charred bacon with his fingers and mixed it into the eggs befor
e shoveling a forkful into his mouth.
Nelson disappeared into the galley again, exhibiting an unspoken delusion of safety that he only felt when out of sight below decks. The warmth and sunshine of the day was inconsequential to him. He wished it were midnight.
Rod, on the other hand, was pleased to be traveling in the daylight for a change, and to have reached this lower part of the Alaska Panhandle, where the country temporarily spread out into a gentler, more open landscape. Having crossed through Stephens Passage and the waters of Frederick Sound, slipped past Petersburg at midnight, and threaded the twenty-four-mile constriction of the Wrangell Narrows into Sumner, men Stikine Straits, it gave him confidence to finally sail down the middle of this wide arm of ocean, a mile on either side between boat and shore. Being able to see the shape of what he was passing didn’t hurt his feelings or frighten him.
He loved to sail, and the boat he had stolen was a pleasure to handle, sleek and quick to respond to an experienced hand on the tiller. His enjoyment was mitigated slightly by the knowledge that a sailboat had not been ordered and was probably not well suited for whatever specific task it had been liberated for, that choosing it was his own indulgence and would not be appreciated by the person to whom he was responsible. Still, it was such a fine boat, a fine day, that recriminations could wait till later. So they really should have been in Ketchikan yesterday. What could one more day matter? As usual, little given to anticipation. Rod was living pretty much for the moment, taking care of whatever business was at hand and letting the rest be someone else’s worry.
By midafternoon the two were proceeding down Tongass Narrows with the Ketchikan airport in sight across the channel from Alaska’s fifth largest community. As they drew nearer, a small ferry could be seen, regularly transporting airline passengers back and forth between Gravina and Revillagigedo Islands, where Ketchikan was located on one of the largest of the many pieces of water-surrounded land in Southeastern Alaska that almost fit together like bits of a scattered jigsaw puzzle between the mainland and the Pacific Ocean.