Читать книгу Haunted Destiny - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 10
ОглавлениеJude McCoy, FBI man, entered Alexi’s cabin, not saying a word until they were seated in her tiny quarters. Alexi perched on the bed, McCoy sat in the one chair, which faced the dressing table built into the wall.
“Dead?” McCoy said, turning the chair toward her. “You mean our suspect? And yet he was running around the city of New Orleans and now the ship.”
His skepticism was blatant. “Ms. Cromwell, I saw that man at a murder scene in New Orleans. We chased him to this ship. He snagged a ride with some poor bastard on the street who thought he was about to get killed. Oh, by the way, I believe that poor guy’s in the hospital with a heart attack. Now the suspect’s on the ship. I saw him.”
“Yes,” she said. “Whether you accept it or not, you see the dead. Trust me.”
“You’re telling me you’re aiding and abetting a dead man we chased from the scene of a horrific crime?”
“Yes. I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to him. He led you here on purpose.”
“A dead man led me here?”
He didn’t raise his voice. But the sharp look he gave her suggested he’d be good in an interrogation room. If she’d done something, she thought, she’d admit it quickly. He was still, calm, and while his voice had a strange power, he kept it low and intense.
“I didn’t get to hear the whole story,” she said. “I gather you came after him.”
“If he’s dead, why is he afraid of me?”
“I don’t really know the answer to that,” Alexi replied. “I didn’t get enough time to talk to him. All I know is that he believes the killer’s on this ship. Yes, you saw him at the crime scene. He saw you there—and he saw that you were aware of him. He planned on coming on the ship. Look, I see the dead. It doesn’t mean I understand them any more than I understand the living.”
He leaned toward her. “I saw a man at a crime scene. The older guy driving the car saw him. I’m pretty sure a girl in a bar saw him, and I know my partner on this ship did, too. So, what—we all see the dead? Everybody does?”
“No, but more people do than you probably realize.” Alexi lowered her head. There was a reason she didn’t admit to seeing ghosts on the ship. Sometimes, others saw them, too, but, like this man, they had no idea they were seeing the dead. She assumed that, in the world at large, there were many people with this ability. Some sensed the dead, like her mom. Perhaps their fear kept them from really seeing. Some just didn’t understand what they saw.
But judging by the way this man was looking at her...
It reinforced her decision to keep silent most of the time. “I can try to find him or I can hope he comes back to find me, and then maybe you can get your answers,” Alexi said.
The fact that Agent Jude McCoy was such an attractive man didn’t make the situation any easier. His presence seemed to fill the tiny space of her cabin. She felt she could almost hear the steady beat of his heart—and feel the waves of ridicule coming from him.
He rose abruptly. “Ms. Cromwell,” he said, “Please know that I’ll be watching you, and that I’ll report our conversation to my partner. And when I find this so-called dead man, if you’ve helped hide him in any way, I will see that criminal charges are pressed against you.”
She stood, as well, suddenly angry. His height was imposing—but then again, she’d stared down David Beach a few times and he was a huge man.
“Knock yourself out, Mr. Agent McCoy, or whatever your title may be. You’re chasing a dead man. Period. And therefore, I’m not afraid of your ridiculous threats in the least!”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” he asked softly.
He barely had to move to open the door to her cabin, but when he did, he turned back. “I hope you’re right, actually. I hope this man isn’t the killer—and that he isn’t baiting you. I’ve seen one of the Archangel’s victims. I’d hate to see you in that condition.”
Sincerity at last. Something in his words, something about his voice, caused a cold flash of dread to sweep through her.
She didn’t have to reply, because he was already gone.
She made sure that her cabin door was locked behind him.
She hugged her arms around herself, shivering uncontrollably.
She’d been glad the dead man had finally sat down beside her, and that he’d tried to talk to her. She still didn’t know his name or exactly who he was or why he was there, but she understood.
He’d wanted to lead the FBI men to the ship.
Because he believed there was a killer on board.
The Archangel.
* * *
It was ridiculously late, but Jude headed down the hallway straight to Jackson Crow’s cabin.
But he hesitated before knocking on the door. He wondered if what he’d read about the paranormal angle to Crow’s “elite” unit was true—that agents were hand-selected to work in the “special” department known as the “Krewe.”
He was on board with nothing except the few toiletries and articles of clothing he’d purchased at one of the ship’s stores. His phone, however, was the next best thing to his computer, and that was in his pocket.
Rumors abounded. But research into the Krewe didn’t give him much other than the knowledge that whatever they did, they were damned good at it. Looking up newspaper reports of the cases they’d solved gave him a little more. Jackson Crow was indeed familiar with New Orleans; he’d solved a case in the city that involved the death of a politician’s wife in one of the city’s “haunted” houses.
As he went on, he even found more information on the Krewe’s cases, many speculating that the Krewe of Hunters had an uncanny ability to deal with situations of unusual scope.
He buried his face in his hands for a moment as he stood outside Jackson’s door.
Great.
He was on a ship chasing a killer, and he was working with a man who believed they could question a ghost.
Did Crow think they were chasing a dead man? It was all too crazy.
Jude had to assume Crow saw the dead, and he based that on the Krewe’s reputation as much as anything.
It was time to confront Jackson Crow with what he’d learned.
Jude tapped at his door. In the silent hallway, the sound reverberated loudly. Or it seemed to.
The door opened immediately. “You’ve got something?” Jackson asked.
“A ghost,” Jude told him.
“Come in.” Once again, Jude found himself sitting on a chair in front of a tiny dressing table built into the cabin wall. Crow settled on the narrow bunk.
“You talked to a ghost?” His voice was calm, reserved, and Jude couldn’t tell if he was being mocked.
“I didn’t,” he said. “But the piano bar hostess claims that the man she was talking to—the man we followed on the ship—is dead. And yes, that she was talking to him.”
Crow took that in. Once more, his expression revealed nothing.
“The man escaped you again?” Crow asked.
Jude leaned forward. “I saw him, clear as day, sitting at the piano bench with her. I saw him—clear as day—jump up and run. I couldn’t stop him. Ms. Cromwell stopped me instead and then insisted I come to her cabin so she could tell me that he’s a dead man.”
“What information did she say she got from him?”
“Not much. Apparently, my arrival interrupted him. She said he wanted us to follow him onto this ship—because he believes the killer’s on board.”
“What do you think of this young woman?” Jackson asked him.
“What do I think of her? I don’t know. She’s either delusional—or this guy’s as real as you and me, and she’s helping him in some way. And if she is, well, then, God help her,” Jude said.
“But she seems sane to you?”
“I have to admit, I’ve been through plenty of behavioral classes, and yet I can’t come up with a reliable definition of sane. She seems to be sincere. So yeah, maybe she’s just delusional. Maybe this guy has her fooled, but she might also come from some crazy family that believes in all kinds of weirdness.” He watched Jackson for a moment. “But what the hell. I’ve read a few strange things about your unit, too.”
He thought Jackson gave him the hint of a smile.
“I haven’t apprehended a murdering ghost yet,” he assured Jude. “But then again, we don’t discount anything on heaven or earth or anything in between.”
“But...ghosts?” Jude asked.
Jackson shrugged. “Let’s see if we can find this man. Tomorrow is a day at sea. We have the ship’s security forces and we have ourselves. By tomorrow morning I’ll have a full manifest of anyone on board who could possibly have committed the murders. We believe—every profiler out there believes—that this is the work of one killer and we assume that he’s male. That said, I’ll have reports by tomorrow that should tell us who could and couldn’t have been in the cities where the other murders took place. Of course,” he added with a dry smile, “it would be nice if Ms. Cromwell’s ghost happens to know who the killer might be.”
“Her damn ghost just might be our killer,” Jude muttered.
“Since the killer struck in several cities and we’re going to learn who, on the Destiny, was in those cities at the relevant times, we’ll be able to concentrate on those particular people.” He looked at Jude, studying him. “Good call on the ship. Makes perfect sense. Ships contract crew and entertainment for specified periods of time. Crew and entertainers might work on other ships, too. A great way to get around port cities—and kill.” Jude rose; Jackson hadn’t given him any kind of satisfactory answer regarding Alexi Cromwell.
“Stay close to Ms. Cromwell,” Jackson told him. “She might be our key.”
Key to insanity! Jude thought. But there was no point in saying anything else.
He’d been dismissed.
“Good night, Jackson,” he said as he stepped into the deserted hallway.
The ship was quiet for the night, although somewhere, members of the crew were still working.
He prayed that a killer wasn’t doing so, as well.
* * *
“At least we’ve narrowed down the possible number of needles in a haystack,” Jackson said. He sipped from a steaming mug of coffee. Jude had met him at the café on the Promenade Deck. There were a number of tables, spread out a fair distance apart. It was a great area for people-watching, while carrying on a conversation without being overheard.
That morning they were attired in outfits acquired on board. Jude was in navy blue board shorts and a short-sleeved flower-patterned cotton shirt; Jackson wore khakis and a T-shirt with an image of Janice Joplin on the front. Jude figured they looked like the tourists they were pretending to be—or perhaps “bigwigs” disguised as tourists...
Jude nodded as they both studied their phones.
Their task had been made easier than it might have been. Computer programs had allowed tech support workers at the home office to narrow down who, of the several thousand crew and passengers, had been where when. With the majority of the passengers, it must have been pretty straightforward. They’d been in their home states working—until it was time for their vacations. With those who traveled for work, the task was somewhat harder. Their movements had to be traced through hotel and restaurant bills. Same with those who were independently wealthy.
Big Brother might not always be watching—mainly because Big Brother wasn’t interested most of the time, Jude thought wryly—but Big Brother was capable of a great deal of research.
“Angela went through every report personally,” Jackson explained, perusing the list. “She’s meticulous.”
“Your wife, right? Unusual that you’re in the same unit,” Jude said. There was no problem with agents being partners or married, but they were generally required to be in separate units.
Jackson glanced up. “It’s different with the Krewe. Angela and I met when the Krewe of Hunters was first formed. The unofficial name is the Krewe because, as I’m sure you’ve assumed, our first case was in New Orleans.”
“Yes, of course. I know about that,” Jude said.
Jackson returned to studying the list on his phone.
Jude studied his own list. Jackson Crow didn’t act as if he wished he’d managed to have one of his own people on this case.
But neither did he see him as a particularly valuable asset. Or at least that was what Jude sensed.
“So the possible suspects,” Jackson began.
“Passengers Roger Antrim and Hank Osprey,” Jude said.
“And we have an interesting list of entertainers.” Jackson took another sip of his coffee. “Larry Hepburn, Ralph Martini, Simon Green—and head of entertainment, Bradley Wilcox.” He nodded at Jude. “Your friend from the piano bar should be able to help us as far as the entertainers go.”
For a moment Jude wished he had real printouts—paper he could actually write on, the old-fashioned way—and wasn’t working on his cell phone. He refrained from saying so to Jackson.
“Everyone on this list could have been in each city where the murders took place,” Jackson went on. “These are the entertainers who were between contracts. As far as the two passengers go, both are businessmen with deep pockets. And judging by the number of times they’ve sailed on Celtic American ships, there’s every chance they were in the port cities where the previous victims were killed.”
“Wow,” Jude murmured, reading. “The list also includes the ship’s head of security, our friend, David Beach.”
“I’d put him toward the bottom of the list,” Jackson said. “The man has an impeccable background.”
“Which may or may not mean anything.”
“No, but because of his size—”
“He’d be noticed wherever he went,” Jackson agreed. “And the last one we have here is the cruise director, Jensen Hardy.”
“Two passengers, Roger Antrim and Hank Osprey. One security man, David Beach. No regular crew members—dishwashers, stewards, mechanics. Three entertainers. Ralph Martini, Simon Green and Larry Hepburn. Plus the head of entertainment, Bradley Wilcox. And last, but for the moment we won’t say least, one cruise director, Jensen Hardy.”
“Eight suspects,” Jackson said. “I’ll talk to Beach. We’ll give him the list—minus his own name, of course. And we’ll keep a sharp eye on him, but he and his staff need to be on the lookout. You should go and see Alexi Cromwell again. Actually, I’d like to speak with her, too.”
Jude stared down at Angela Hawkins’s report, which included pictures of the suspects. “I don’t believe any of these men are the one we followed on board,” he said.
“No?” Jackson shrugged. “Ghost or not, I haven’t really seen his face yet. I don’t get it. I don’t get what he was wearing. It wasn’t a mask. But he was disguised.”
“A killer would want to disguise himself,” Jude said.
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we? How’s your cell working out here?”
“I’m set for international. Should be fine.”
“Let’s head out. Don’t forget, I want to talk to Ms. Cromwell later.”
“We can arrange that,” Jude said.
“All right. I’ll go chase down David Beach. You see what you can do with the entertainer group and we’ll send for more info on our two passengers.” Jackson rose. Like many law enforcement officers in the field, he’d taken his coffee black and finished two cups.
Jude picked up his own mug of black coffee and finished the last couple of swallows. He rose, too. “I’ll find Ms. Cromwell. But all in all, you might do better in dealing with her. I’m not sure she was...comfortable with my response to her last night.”
He was surprised Jackson smiled at that. “I think you’ll do fine.”
They parted ways.
Jude used the stairs to reach the crew and entertainment level of the ship. He paused at her door. The entertainers slept late, he assumed, since they worked late.
He raised a hand to knock on the door.
It opened.
Alexi Cromwell seemed very bright and attractive for someone who’d been up until at least 3 a.m. the night before.
She glanced up at him warily—and yet as if she’d expected him.
“Ms. Cromwell, I’d like your help,” he began.
“To meet the ghost?”
He didn’t answer that. Instead, he asked, “How well do you know your fellow entertainers—and do you ever get to know the passengers?”
“Some of the entertainers I know quite well, but some are here on their first contract with the Destiny. Maybe you’d like to meet a few of them yourself?” she suggested.
“I would, thank you,” he said.
“Come to the employee cafeteria and lounge with me. I can introduce you to some of the people I know.” She looked at him anxiously. “Do you really believe the killer is on the Destiny?”
He decided not to lie to her. “Yes,” he said.
“Because your man—my ghost—came on the ship?”
“Yes.”
“But since you don’t believe me and you think this guy is alive... Maybe if that’s true, he was watching what was going on, and then realized he was late for the sailing.”
“No.”
“Why do you say that?”
“His behavior.”
“It’s still just a hunch.”
He didn’t admit that she was nearly right.
She smiled. “So you believe in gut feelings and not much else.”
He shook his head, almost smiling, but he wasn’t willing to discuss it. “My partner on this case wants to meet you, by the way. We’ll get to that later. Meanwhile, I’d appreciate going to the employee cafeteria with you.”
“Follow me,” she said. As they left her cabin and walked down the narrow hallway, she added, “You’re aware that there are quite a few entertainers on the ship, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Anyone in particular you want to meet?”
Jude had memorized the names. “Simon Green, Ralph Martini and Larry Hepburn. And your head of entertainment, Bradley Wilcox.”
“Oh!” she said.
“You know them?” he asked her. “Well?”
“Bradley Wilcox was the head on my first contract with Celtic American, too,” she said. “He’s talented at his job.”
“And?”
She shrugged. “To my mind? A jerk. Rude. He seems to think we’re all lesser individuals. His servants. But as I said, I have to admit he’s good at his job.”
“What about the others?”
“This is the first time I’ve been on the same ship—same contract—with Simon Green and Larry Hepburn. Ralph Martini, I do know. I’ve worked with him before. He’s a nice guy and, again, very talented.” She glanced at Jude sideways and he was surprised to realize once more how attractive she was, with her head of sunset-tinged hair and amber eyes.
Just the type the Archangel might choose...
“Be careful around these people,” he said, his voice gruff.
“They’re really suspects? Is there a reason for that?” she asked.
“Proximity,” he replied. “They might’ve been in all the locations where murders took place. And you really shouldn’t know what we’re thinking, and I shouldn’t be speaking to you about this at all. At the moment, though, you’re about all I’ve got.”
“So, I’m all you’ve got. Great,” she murmured.
But he could tell that she did intend to be helpful.
“Grab a tray,” she told him, leading him to the buffet. “I see Simon and Ralph—they’re over there.”
He selected a bagel and a plate of eggs from the buffet and followed her to the table.
Ralph and Simon greeted her with friendly smiles and she introduced them to Jude. “Company bigwig,” she said lightly. “Watching us on board.”
Ralph stood up to shake Jude’s hand. He was a stocky middle-aged man of about six feet. “He’s a great tenor!” Alexi said in a cheerful voice.
“And I’m chorus.” Simon got up to shake Jude’s hand, as well.
“We all start somewhere,” Ralph said.
Simon Green was a handsome man, young, classically good-looking. He was lean, and Jude figured he must be a decent dancer if he was in the chorus of a play like Les Miz.
Ralph grinned. “Should we be afraid of you?” he asked. He obviously wasn’t.
“No.” Jude grinned back. “We’re just observing, trying to see what works and where improvements might be made,” he lied. “I understand that the entertainment on this ship is excellent.”
“That’s a relief,” Ralph said. “Hey, there’s Clara.” He waved and Jude turned. A very pretty blonde had come into the room. She looked over at them and waved, frowning curiously as she saw Jude.
“Just getting some food!” she called.
“Clara Avery,” Alexi told Jude. “She has a gorgeous soprano voice.”
“Part of our Les Miz cast,” Simon added. “I’ll find a chair for her.”
Clara joined them a moment later. “You look peaked, girl!” Ralph said to her. “You up all night?”
“Nightmares,” Clara said shortly. “Hi,” she greeted Jude.
Alexi quickly introduced them.
“Nightmares?” Simon asked her. “On the ship?”
“I shouldn’t have, but I stayed up watching the news,” Clara replied. “That Archangel killer out there—he was in New Orleans!”
“And he’s probably already moved on,” Simon said gently. “He goes from city to city. You’re safe on this ship. And we’re all here with you,” he added.
“They don’t seem to have anything on this guy, nothing at all! They can’t even find some of the actual crime scenes,” Clara said, shivering.
Jude considered himself a good judge of character. He believed that the men at the table were as concerned for their friend as they appeared to be. Their empathy and determination to assure her seemed completely genuine. He was as confident of that as he could possibly be.
A good thing, since this young woman, like Alexi, would certainly appeal to the killer.
He lowered his head.
The ship has many beautiful young women aboard. A veritable feast for the so-called Archangel.
Clara shivered again, then managed a smile. “I’m going to stick close to all of you.”
“The cops aren’t sharing much information,” Simon said. “I read somewhere that the women weren’t just found in churches, but that they were all posed, with saints’ medallions around their necks. What do you suppose it means?”
“I didn’t hear about that,” Ralph said. “I’ll bet the cops weren’t supposed to give out that information. I guess some of ’em talk when they’re off duty. And once the media gets hold of something...well, you know! Of course, I don’t think anyone could miss the news that he leaves his victims in churches. Or sometimes on the steps.”
Jude was intent on watching their faces and was startled when Alexi Cromwell suddenly rose. Her meal was only half-eaten.
She seemed to notice that everyone was staring at her.
She was thinking fast, Jude thought, looking for a plausible lie. Why, he wasn’t sure yet.
“I just saw someone you need to meet,” Alexi said, turning to Jude. “Ralph, would you mind returning our trays? Um, Mr. McCoy, would you come with me?”
“No problem,” Ralph said, but he watched curiously as Jude excused himself and followed Alexi out of the cafeteria.
Then Jude saw why she’d left so abruptly, why she’d summoned him.
The man in the hooded sweatshirt was moving along the hallway.
* * *
“Wait, please!” Alexi called out. The young man who’d tried so hard to speak to her—who’d disappeared at Jude McCoy’s arrival last night—had popped his head into the cafeteria.
Now he was hurrying down the hallway.
If nothing else, she somehow had to convince the FBI man that she was telling the truth.
His quarry was a dead man.
“Please!” she called again.
He stopped and glanced back at her and then nervously scanned the hallway.
Alexi realized that Jude McCoy—once again—saw him, too.
“I need to speak with you,” the agent said. His voice was calm and even.
The young man remained where he was.
Alexi kept walking toward him, with Jude a few steps behind. There was no one in the hallway just then, but at any minute there could be workers coming through, either to get to their gigs or to eat or return to their cabins if their shifts were during the off-hours.
“My cabin,” she whispered.
She reached her door and used her key card to open it. The young man paused, looked at her—and then at Jude McCoy.
Then he stepped into her cabin; McCoy followed.
“Who are you and what’s going on?” McCoy asked.
Alexi stared at him. He still didn’t know. He still didn’t get it. But the ghost, whose name she didn’t know yet, answered him.
“Byron Grant,” he said.
The name was vaguely familiar to her; she wasn’t sure why.
The FBI agent knew it instantly, though, and his tension and anger were unmistakable.
“Byron Grant is dead, killed in his attempt to save Elizabeth Williams.”
“Yes.”
Jude McCoy stood completely still, green eyes with their flecks of gold focused on the ghost.
Alexi clutched the edge of the built-in wardrobe as she sank to the foot of her bed. Now she knew. Now she understood.
Jude McCoy continued to watch the man in disbelief and anger. She thought, not for the first time, that he knew the truth—he knew it—but didn’t want to accept it.
Suddenly, his face changed. He reached out as if to place a hand on the ghost’s shoulders.
And, of course, he touched nothing.
Ghosts could surprise you. They could learn to make noise, to displace air about, to move objects...but they weren’t there in substance, as flesh and blood. They were energy, capable of so much—and yet never again would they have bodies that could be touched.
“My God,” Jude breathed.
He didn’t sag onto the floor. He just stared at the man, almost as though he wished Byron would disappear.
He seemed to hope that the ghost’s presence was impossible, a figment of his imagination.
Alexi thought she saw him wince. Saw a slight trembling seize his body.
And then he looked at the ghost again, at Byron Grant, and said, “I don’t suppose you’re going to be able to tell me who killed you?”
“No,” the ghost said. “There’s only one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty.”
“What’s that?” Jude McCoy asked.
“The killer is on this ship.”
