by Diane Noble
“Mozart,” I said, causing him to turn and smile. “Cecilia Bartoli.”
“You’ve got good hearing.” He reached into his pocket to turn off his MP3 player, or whatever it’s called. “And good taste.”
“I adore opera—from Mozart to Puccini—especially when Cecilia Bartoli is performing.” I smiled, unwilling to divulge anything more of my eclectic musical tastes, especially my secret passion for old Beatles hits. No one but Hollis knew how I liked to dance around the kitchen while concocting a favorite meal for friends, “Hey Jude” blasting from the stereo. I resisted the urge to hum a few bars of “Yellow Submarine.” I had a sudden longing to dance in my kitchen again the way I did before Hollis died. I blinked and turned away.
Adam tossed his empty cup into a trash container a few feet from us, reached for his earphones, and put them back in place. Then he turned toward me, started to say something, but changed his mind.
In that split second, with the sunlight accentuating the craggy shadows of his face, I knew his identity.
With a gasp, I took a step backward.
I stood in front of Adam, staring. His eyes narrowed as if he knew what I was thinking. Before I could say a word, the captain approached. It had been less than fifteen minutes since my encounter with Richter. For a split second I wondered if he had news about Carly. But it wasn’t me he was after.
“Detective,” the captain said.
It didn’t matter that the earphones were still in place. Adam’s hearing was excellent. At the word, he tensed, and the hand nearest me clenched, its veins becoming visible as he tightened it into a fist.
Detective Adam Hartsfield, San Francisco PD.
I’d put the puzzle pieces together. But somehow, I found no satisfaction in it. Adam had been suspended from duty during an investigation into an episode a few years ago in which he almost killed a man with his bare hands. I remembered reading that the charges were later dropped, but it was rumored he’d made a deal with the department. He took an early retirement. I felt an almost palpable tension radiating from him.
He stared at the captain without speaking.
Captain Richter wasn’t intimidated. “I’d like for you to look over some information that just came in from our headquarters. Has to do with Harry Easton.”
“You’re asking the wrong man.” Adam turned to walk away.
I followed him, the words slipping from my mouth before my brain could stop them. “How can you just ignore a plea for help? You know more about this sort of thing than all the rest of us put together.”
“This sort of thing?” He laughed. “What sort of thing might that be?” He gave me a cold gaze, shook his head, and kept walking.
“Don’t bother,” the captain said as Adam disappeared through a doorway. He stared after him with a bitter expression, then he shrugged and turned to leave.
“What did you find out?” I called after him.
His look told me that I was about to get the don’t-bother-your-pretty-little-head lecture again, then he stopped and grinned at me. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”
I smiled and stepped closer. “Not usually. Actually, not ever.”
“Harry Easton was a PI in the Bay Area. I had GSA Nassau run a check on him. He was here on a case.”
My heart slammed into my rib cage. “What kind of case?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to say.”
I glanced around at the milling passengers, some gazing out at the port, others chatting, a foursome playing table tennis just inside the glass doorway. A couple of the college students I’d spoken to earlier, Max and Price, sauntered to the bow, snickering, heads together. Now that we had dropped anchor, a few bright orange kayaks were in the water, students calling to one another as they paddled through the waves. I wondered again if the students, especially Carly, might be involved. I turned back to the captain. “Do you still think that Harry Easton’s death was from natural causes?”
The captain let out an audible sigh. “I hope so.”
“And if Carly is missing, I have to wonder if there’s a connection—just as I mentioned earlier.” It chilled me to consider it.
“Who?”
“Her name is Carly Lowe. The missing student.”
He looked embarrassed. “Before the Global budget cuts, we had a system. Computerized. Everyone was given a key card to check in and out every time we docked. The kids, being kids, abused it. Forgot or lost their cards, traded them, bullied their way on and off ship, laughing at any security precautions we’d set up. GSA got tired of reissuing the cards and resetting the equipment, and we finally gave up.”
“So there’s no way of knowing whether a passenger has been left behind?” The lack of security on the cruise ship was appalling.
The captain shrugged. “We try our best to get them to stick together. The buddy system, you know.” He looked out at the small port beyond the kayakers. “Believe me, I’ve done this milk run up and down Central America more than once. College kids are always missing the boat and catching up with us later. You’ve heard about the—”
“Canal system? Yes, I’ve heard.” I started to turn away, then changed my mind. “You said you heard from Nassau.”
“By satellite phone. We’ve got ship to shore, of course, but we use the satellite when we can get a signal. There’s always a good connection here.”
“I should call Carly Lowe’s mother. Would it be possible to borrow the phone?”
His tone turned condescending again. “Look, Ms.—”
“MacIver.” I was getting tired of filling in the blanks.
“Look, Ms. MacIver, why don’t you wait until we’ve done a search? I’ll announce it after our morning lecture. After that, we’ll see if she made it to Playa Negra by canal boat. Believe me, this sort of thing happens with the students all the time.” He gave me a sympathetic look. “No use worrying her mother without reason.”
His reasoning was sound. But I found no comfort in his assurances. Besides, I don’t take condescension well.
The ship’s daily bulletin had announced the previous morning that a lecture by naturalist Ricki Ross would precede our disembarking for the butterfly farm, the morning excursion. Those who had signed up for the overnight side trip to La Vida Pura spa would receive last-minute instructions immediately following Ricki’s talk. After a blast of static, Ricki announced over the PA system that her talk would begin in five minutes in the Clipper Lounge just off the dining room.
I ducked into the dining room for a bottle of water to take with me to the adjoining lounge. There, standing near the stacks of bottles, was Jean Baptiste.
He looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Harriet.”
He was known for his good rapport with the students. His rapport with a certain female passenger wasn’t so bad either. I’d always admired a well-trimmed goatee streaked with silver. I smiled back.
Rumor had it that he had given generous grants to Shepparton College, especially to fund this program, so he was welcomed with open arms whenever he could spare the time to come aboard. He made his home in Costa Rica, so he was a frequent passenger and guest lecturer. Though he was brilliant, he was an easy man to be around.
“So today we say good-bye to the good Dr. Baptiste.” I started to tell him I would miss him but changed my mind. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. A widow has to be careful about this, I’d heard. And the handsome, charming Jean Baptiste was single. I had an idea that women fell all over him, and I didn’t want him to think I was standing in line.
I remembered what Aunt Tildie once said about a fellow inmate, as she called him, at Green Acres Retirement Home. A tall silver-haired widower started bringing her handpicked flowers every morning. She was tickled pink but said she didn’t want to find his slippers under her dining-room table.
Flowers were fine, but I, too, wasn’t looking for anything permanent. And because of Hollis, I probably never would.
I felt my cheeks warm when Jean inte
rrupted my thoughts. “You make it sound so final. I hope our paths will cross again.” He tucked his water bottle into a pocket and gestured for me to accompany him to the lounge. “And how about you? Are you going into town today?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
I briefly considered telling him my suspicions about Easton’s PI work, then I thought better of it. I did, however, think he might shed some light on finding Carly. He lived in the area, knew the town officials; maybe he could help me get the word out—providing Carly didn’t show up onboard or on a canal boat.
I hesitated before stepping through the open doorway into the Clipper Lounge. “May I ask you something?” He listened intently as I told him about Carly.
“Carly Lowe? The petite redhead?”
I nodded. “We were supposed to meet for dinner last night, but she didn’t show.”
He laughed lightly. “You don’t think she might have gotten a better offer.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s already been mentioned. My self-esteem’s taking a nosedive.”
He laughed again. “There’s the canal—”
“Don’t tell me.”
He gave me an understanding smile. “It’s obviously been mentioned before.”
“Half a dozen times, at least. First the canal mode of transportation, then the order not to worry.”
“I’m sorry if I sounded flip,” he said. “You have every right to worry. I know what it’s like to lose a child.”
“Oh dear. I’m so sorry.”
He swallowed hard and looked away from me. We were still just outside the entrance to the lounge. In the background I heard Ricki tap the mike and say, “Listen up.”
I touched Jean’s arm. “Was it recent?”
His charm and self-confidence seemed to crumble. “It’s only been a couple of years, but it seems like a lifetime. The irony is, Nicolette suffered from chronic myelogenous leukemia, the same cancer I’m working to cure.”
“That explains your passion for research.”
An inner light seemed to burn deeply in his eyes as he nodded. “I’m so close. So very close.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me. By the time he finally made that breakthrough, it would be too late for the one cancer victim who probably mattered most in this world to him—his daughter. That fact alone must have threatened to break his heart. If it was true that he was a Nobel Prize contender, his cure—when it happened—would save countless lives. Yet he would probably trade it all just to have his daughter back. I understood that kind of grief.
“Your work has a greater chance of success because of Nicolette.”
“I like to think so. I do it for her—and for many others who will someday benefit from my research.”
“I’ve heard that your research has to do with stem cell transplantation.”
He smiled gently, seeming glad to turn the topic to his research. “That’s one of the reasons my lab is set up here in Costa Rica. Less government interference.”
“The jury ’s still out on the morality of such research.”
His expression turned dark, and sarcasm laced his words. “Due to ignorance in most, if not all, cases. People who make such judgments simply do not know the facts.”
“It’s a hot-button issue.” I thought of the recent debates in the States, the polarization of beliefs. Some people were so passionate about their opinions they seemed ready to kill researchers just to make a point—the same way abortion doctors and nurses were targeted. The other side was just as unyielding. Sometimes violently so. I had always been pretty confident about my opinions on the issue, but I had to ask myself, what if my sons or daughter were dying of cancer or a loved one was suffering from dementia and could be helped by stem cell transplantation? It would give matters a different spin.
Jean’s face softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I get a little overwrought sometimes. Ignorance is the one thing I cannot abide.”
“I understand loss,” I said. “I haven’t lost a child, but I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”
“Yes,” he said and met my eyes. It was as if he were looking into my soul. “I can see that you understand.”
“About Carly,” I said. “If she doesn’t show up today, is there any way you can help? Perhaps direct me to the proper authorities in Playa Negra?” “I don’t live near town, but I do know the locals. If she disappeared in Parisima, those are the officials we need to contact.”
I remembered hearing the students talking about Jean’s private island. They were obviously in awe of the man, from his private island, which they had built up to Donald Trump proportions, to his scuba-diving expertise. “I know you’re a distance away, but anything you can do will be so appreciated.”
“Do you have a photo?”
I shook my head. “I can ask her mother to e-mail one to you—or to the police in Parisima.”
“That’s a start. They can put out a bulletin up and down the coast.”
We turned to enter the lounge, but I touched his arm lightly to stop him. “Thank you,” I said simply. “Just talking with you has been a great stress reliever. I really am worried about Carly.”
“I’m happy to do what I can.”
He stepped aside to let me walk through the doorway. The lounge was full. This was obviously a popular lecture. But only a smattering of students were in attendance, sprawled toward the back of the room, backpacks scattered around them. I couldn’t imagine the kids were that interested in butterflies, and I wondered why they were here.
The lecture had already started, and there were no two chairs together. Jean gestured for me to take the first one we spotted. Unfortunately, it was in the back row next to Adam Hartsfield. I was still steaming over his attitude toward the captain. The contrast between Adam and Jean hit me full force. One gave new meaning to the words honor and gentleman. The other seemed to have rewritten the book on porcupine behavior. I glanced at the porcupine beside me and gritted my teeth as I sat down.
As soon as I had settled into my chair, I leaned toward Adam and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Harry Easton?”
He stared at me, his eyes cold. “What makes you think I knew him?”
“I saw a flicker of recognition in your eyes.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” He turned back to Ricki’s lecture.
I stared at his profile, mildly irritated that I liked the strong set of his stubborn jaw. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about why he was here, what he was working on?”
He muttered without turning, “I figured he was on vacation. Same as me.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“There’s this girl, the daughter of a friend …” I explained about Carly, then waited to see if he connected the same dots I had.
He at least had the courtesy to turn to me when he said, “Sorry, I can’t help.”
“Don’t you care? A girl missing. A man dead. What if he was murdered?” My whisper turned into a growling hiss. “What if she were your daughter? And don’t you dare tell me that kids miss ships all the time.”
“I didn’t know Easton personally, so there was no reason to recognize him. Plus, he had an unsavory reputation around law-enforcement circles. He was an expert on cults. Parents from the U.S. and Canada paid him big bucks to find their kids.”
Something inside me twisted. The guy had been hired to find missing kids? That blew my theory about Easton to smithereens. And the theory that replaced it chilled me to the bone. “Cults?” I croaked. “I thought they were a thing of the eighties and nineties. I didn’t think today’s kids got caught up in them.”
“They’re out there,” he whispered. “Cults a generation ago. Now it’s gangs, neo-Nazis, paramilitary, that sort of thing. Even girls get caught up in the romance of such idiocy.”
“You said Harry had an unsavory reputation. Sounds to me like this was an honorable thing he was doing. Getting kids out of trouble and bringin
g them home.”
Adam’s ice blue eyes met mine. “The word was that he was more show than go. Charged exorbitant fees. Made a big production out of plucking kids out of danger, deprogramming them at some five-star resort in the Caribbean, handing them over to Mommy and Daddy—with full media coverage. He liked media attention. Always played the big hero.” Disgust laced his voice. “Nine times out of ten, the kids ran back to where he’d found them as soon as Mommy and Daddy weren’t around, which was the case most of the time.”
Ricki stopped her lecture and looked pointedly at us. I settled back in my seat, Adam’s words whirling like a tornado through my brain. A young person disappears. Harry Easton, hunter of missing kids, is hired to find her. She’s from a wealthy family; he’s getting paid big bucks. Then he’s found dead in a swimming pool. Natural causes? Maybe. But what if it wasn’t?
And what about Carly? Had she been planning to jump ship all along … to join some fringe group? Was that what her argument with Easton had been about?
I hated to admit it, but it did sound like something she would do. I sat back to let that thought sink in.
“We’ve got a busy day ahead, folks,” Ricki said, “so listen up. First of all, we’ll board the tenders—there will be two launched today—and head to shore. Each holds fifty, so there’s no need to push and shove when you head to the gangway. There’s plenty of room for everyone.” She smiled, and several people tittered. “We’ll be met by a bus that will take us to the butterfly farm—forty kilometers or so through the most beautiful terrain you’ll see on this trip.
“Sometime around sunset, we’ll arrive at La Vida Pura. Those who signed up for the spa package will remain at the resort when the rest of us head back to the ship. The bus will return tomorrow evening to pick you up and return you to the ship. Don’t forget your spa clothing—bathing suits, yoga togs, warmup suits—and, of course, your paperwork, showing that you’re prepaid guests. Everything else will be provided.”