Cozumel was in the past now, and it was already the third day, the last full day of the cruise, and it was seven thirty and they were still in bed, snuggling close with breakfast on their balcony not due till eight, and anticipating a long, happy day.
‘When did we last get time like this?’ Sam asked her now, lazily.
Grace kissed his chest, traced with her lips one of the narrow scars that were a legacy of the Cal the Hater case, and there were more scars on this man, including a vicious reminder of John Broderick, Cathy’s biological father, and she had a reminder of her own on her left shoulder from that same terrible night . . .
Long time ago.
‘There is one thing I’d love to do,’ she said now, ‘if you don’t mind, and that’s phone home later on and make sure everything’s fine.’
‘You want to speak to our son on your birthday,’ Sam said amiably against her left breast. ‘Seems perfectly reasonable to me.’
‘Expensive, though.’
‘To hell with expense,’ Sam said.
They made the call after Grace had opened all the gifts and cards that Sam had smuggled on board, and David managed to reassure them both that Joshua was in great shape, not missing them at all, after which their son had come to the phone and chattered happily for a few moments. And then Sam had called Martinez, who was out of the hospital and home and sounding bushed but much better, and Jess was with him, taking good care of him, according to Martinez, and Sam decided to believe that, at least for now.
All was right with their world.
‘This is something almost worth starting a journal for,’ Grace told Sam as they strolled on deck after lunch in the Andromeda Café, where they’d sat at one of the vast windows, feeling lulled as they’d eaten crab salad and roast beef.
‘You don’t like journals,’ Sam said.
‘True,’ Grace agreed. ‘I just feel I’d like to really capture all this, but I guess it’ll all stay locked up in here.’ She tapped her head. ‘So we can take it out and look at it when we’re old and feeble.’
‘You’ll never be feeble,’ Sam told her.
‘I won’t mind too much,’ Grace said, ‘so long as we can be feeble together.’
A lot of love flowing back and forth between them, and it was, they supposed, always like that with them, except that back in the real world, they seldom had this kind of time or peace.
‘I never knew till now,’ Sam told Grace softly, holding her hand as they walked, ‘that ships make me horny.’
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Who knew?’
And they turned about, without another word, and went back to their stateroom.
NINETY-THREE
Everything changed at five minutes after eleven that night.
Peace of mind blown clean away.
Being the last night, discipline had come briefly back into their lives, with instructions to pack all but their overnight needs and have baggage ready for collection before midnight, and Sam and Grace had, like most passengers, taken care of business before dinner to free them for the evening.
Everyone seemed to be making the most of that freedom, as they’d seen while dining on prime rib and lobster in the Stardust Grill, filled to capacity, and even now, sitting at a corner table in the Aurora Bar sipping cognac, there were people milling around in fancy dress, someone throwing a private party someplace on the ship, and Sam had just told Grace that he was going to have to go on a diet when they got back – when his gaze fell on a character about twenty feet away, at the far end of the bar . . .
A man all done up in silver, from head to toe.
A ghost from the past.
‘Dear God.’ Sam felt shock, like icy claws, crawl up his spine. ‘Cooper.’
Jerome Cooper, Grace’s stepbrother, aka Cal the Hater. Multiple killer and the man who had almost destroyed their family less than a year ago.
Sam had never seen Cooper dressed up that way, all shimmering in silver, but Mildred certainly had, more than once, and had almost paid for the privilege with her life.
Grace turned in her seat, eyes torn wide, saw him too.
‘It can’t be him,’ she said. ‘It can’t, Sam.’
Because Jerome Cooper was dead.
Presumed dead. His body never retrieved from the ocean.
The silver man was moving, was already out of the Aurora Bar, heading toward the centre of the ship.
‘I’m sorry.’ Sam got to his feet. ‘I need to be sure.’
He was gone before Grace could speak again, and intense fear clutched at her suddenly, and she was up, too, going after him. And she saw the silver figure way up ahead, moving quickly toward the Star Theater, Sam catching up to him – and Grace wanted to scream, but instead she kept on walking, not running but moving fast, her heart pounding in her chest because there was something terrible about to happen here, something that felt inexorable to her – and this was her birthday, this was one of the best days of her life . . .
Flashes of the way it might happen scalded her eyes, her mind.
Not might. Happening now.
Sam had caught up with him, and it looked as if they were speaking, and then Sam took a backward step, and for in instant Grace thought it had happened, the worst thing imaginable, and now she did start to run . . .
‘It wasn’t him.’
Sam speaking.
To her. Right in front of her, alive and unharmed – and the silver man had gone, vanished, but Sam was smiling, and the worst had not happened.
‘I thought . . .’ Grace flew at him, held him, began to weep.
‘Oh, God, Gracie, I’m so sorry.’ Sam kissed the top of her head, stroking her hair. ‘What a mistake to make, and spoiling your special evening this way.’
‘It wasn’t him?’ She drew back, wiping away her tears. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Hundred per cent,’ Sam said. ‘I spoke to him. Not Cooper. Just a guy in fancy dress.’
‘Thank God,’ Grace said.
‘Amen to that,’ Sam said.
NINETY-FOUR
March 2
A little after two a.m. on Monday, when Sam was sound asleep, Grace, still restlessly awake, felt a sudden need for air and exercise, and maybe it was a reaction to the loveliness of the day or to the brief, but shocking, fears that had assailed her a few hours ago, but whichever, she needed soothing, and a little walk, ocean air and starlight seemed just what the doctor might have ordered.
She left a note on the pillow in case Sam woke.
Couldn’t sleep. Gone for a stroll. I’m fine and very happy, so don’t worry. Back soon. Thank you for the best day ever. G.
In the long narrow corridor outside their stateroom it was hushed, all baggage gone now – vanished as completely as their Jerome hallucination.
Grace shook off the thought, the man, and headed toward midships, taking the staircase down three flights, remembering that Deck Seven was one of those where the doors were kept open for late-night strollers.
There were still people around, most younger, still in party mood, some just emerging from the casino, a few romantic couples – one pair who looked to Grace like honeymooners – and a few solitary, like herself.
Outside on deck it was just the way she’d hoped, breezy and cool, but more exhilarating than chilling.
A few minutes of this, and she knew she’d be ready to go back to sleep.
She didn’t see anything.
But she heard him.
His voice, unmistakable, coming out of the dark.
‘Hello, Grace.’
It was true what they said about blood seeming to freeze in the veins.
‘Here I am again. Roxy’s boy, back from the deep.’
‘Jerome?’ She spun around, thought for an instant that she saw the shadow of a figure near one of the doorways, looming eerily against the white paintwork, and then it was gone again, back into the dark.
‘Can’t keep a good sailor down,’ the voice said. ‘Nice boat, though I preferred my Baby.’ T
here was a pause. ‘How is your little one, by the by?’
Grace turned and ran.
Running for her life.
Sam was awake when she got back inside the stateroom, sitting with his feet up on the small couch as she came in, springing up as he saw her face.
‘What the hell happened?’
She barely made it into the bathroom, on to her knees, to throw up.
‘Gracie, sweetheart.’ Sam was beside her, a towel in his hand, helping her.
‘Jerome,’ she said. ‘He’s on the ship. He was talking to me out on deck.’
She was still shaking, perspiring, and Sam eased her up off the floor, gave her water, helped her out of the bathroom to the bed, sat her down, then crouched, staring into her face. ‘What happened? Did he hurt you?’
‘He didn’t touch me,’ Grace said, a sense of unreality overcoming her. ‘He just talked to me, said something about his boat, the Baby . . .’ Her eyes were huge with fear. ‘And then he asked about Joshua.’
‘What did he say?’ Sam was taut, old rage returning, new fury erupting.
‘He just said: “How is your little one, by the by?” And then I ran.’
‘But you saw him, before you ran?’
‘Just a shape in the dark – I couldn’t be sure,’ Grace said. ‘But it was definitely his voice.’
Sam’s mind was racing, trying to keep control. ‘Might it have been a recording of his voice?’
‘I guess it’s possible.’ She took a deep breath, steadying herself. ‘Though even if it was, it still means Jerome’s alive and playing tricks, doesn’t it?’
‘I can’t think of a better explanation,’ Sam said grimly.
He straightened up, heading for the phone.
‘How would he have known I was going to go for a walk?’ Grace said.
‘I don’t know,’ Sam said.
‘He must have been waiting, watching,’ she said, feeling sick again. ‘He’s probably been watching us the whole trip.’
Sam picked up the phone, pushed the key for Guest Relations, waited.
‘I need to see the captain,’ he said.
NINETY-FIVE
The captain was unavailable and not, in any case, Sam was informed, the right person to talk to.
The ship’s security chief, a man of around fifty named Arlo Larsen, was lanky and bespectacled, putting Grace in mind of James Stewart, perhaps too affable and laid-back, she and Sam both felt at the outset, to be as effective as they needed him to be. Especially as Mr Larsen was probably more accustomed to dealing with complaints of theft or gambling-related frauds than with inconclusive sightings of presumed-dead psychopaths.
‘If this man was on board at two a.m.,’ Larsen told them in his office in the Passenger Relations department on Deck Five, ‘then he’ll still be on the Stardust now, which means there’s every chance we’ll be able to find him before he disembarks.’
A photograph of Jerome Cooper lay on his desk, faxed to the ship by one of the night shift back at South Beach after an urgent satellite call from Sam to Mike Alvarez at home, and the sergeant himself had spoken to Larsen to confirm the Beckets’ credentials and the seriousness of the old case.
‘You have to remember we’re talking about a full-blown psycho killer and child kidnapper,’ Sam reminded him now.
‘I understand that, Detective Becket,’ Larsen said. ‘And I also understand that even if the voice you heard – ’ he looked at Grace – ‘does turn out to have been a recording of some kind, it makes it no less sinister.’
‘You have to search the ship,’ Sam said. ‘Whether it’s for Cooper or a recording machine.’
‘The ship will be thoroughly checked after debarkation,’ Larsen said.
‘And meantime, what?’ Frustration fed Sam’s anger. ‘You let him stroll off?’
‘Of course not,’ Larsen said, ‘but you know better than most, Detective, that we can’t conduct any personal or property searches without a warrant.’
‘If it was a tape,’ Grace said, ‘it’s probably been thrown overboard.’
‘I agree.’ Behind the spectacles, Larsen’s narrow blue eyes were couched in wrinkles. ‘But so far as the man goes, or perhaps his accomplice, in my experience people who want to go on living tend not to jump off moving cruise ships out at sea. If this was your man, he sounds more like a survivor than a suicide.’
‘Jerome Cooper blew up a cruiser while he was still on board,’ Sam said.
‘Then we’d have to say that if he jumped tonight, he’s gone,’ Larsen said. ‘But since I seriously doubt that, we’ll proceed as if there’s a good chance he’s still with us, presumably under an alias.’
‘So if you can’t search,’ Sam asked, ‘what do you plan to do?’
‘Everything possible,’ Larsen said, ‘without causing alarm to our other passengers, especially since there’s no proof of any threat to them—’
‘If this is Cooper,’ Sam said, ‘you can’t assume that.’
‘Of course not,’ Larsen said. ‘But the fact seems to be that if it was Cooper who spoke to you, Mrs Becket, he made no overt threat.’
‘It certainly felt threatening to me,’ she said.
‘I’m sure it did,’ Larsen said gravely. ‘For now, I’d like the three of us to take a walk around Deck Seven with a couple of flashlights, see if this man left any trace behind.’
‘Good.’ Sam stood up. ‘I’ve noticed you have CCTV.’
Larsen nodded. ‘Cameras on all decks, and my people are already checking the time in question.’ He paused. ‘The most time-consuming task will be checking Cooper’s photograph against our passenger and crew photos. With the best will in the world, I’d say there’s zero chance of completing that before we disembark.’ He opened the door for them. ‘But we’ll do our very best.’
They found nothing out on deck, and though Larsen’s team were able to track Grace at two points on her walk, there was not a single figure on the CCTV footage even remotely fitting Cooper’s description.
‘My best advice to you,’ the security chief told them at four a.m., ‘is to get yourselves some rest, since we’ll be docking in about an hour and a half.’
‘Nice idea,’ Sam said, ‘but with debarkation starting at around eight—’
‘Eight thru ten,’ Larsen confirmed.
The Stardust had a disembarkation schedule similar to that of most large cruise ships, organizing passengers into manageable groups to stagger the customs and immigration process, departure itself via two main gangways.
‘We’re scheduled for eight thirty,’ Sam said, ‘but I’d appreciate our being allowed to stay on board until the last group.’
‘You have in mind, I daresay,’ Larsen said, ‘being in a position to view passengers as they leave.’ He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, put them back on. ‘If none of the officials raise any objection, I think we’ll find a way to arrange that.’
‘We’d be very grateful,’ Grace said.
The security chief threw her a sympathetic glance. ‘Not the finale to your cruise you had in mind, Mrs Becket.’
‘Not exactly,’ she agreed.
Neither the Fort Lauderdale police, nor the customs and immigration officers who came on board the Stardust, objected to their scrutinizing passengers as they left the ship, and Arlo Larsen told Sam and Grace that the job of checking passenger photographs against Cooper’s shot would continue till completion.
‘If that man is or has been on the Stardust,’ Larsen assured Sam, ‘then unless he’s altered his appearance considerably . . .’
‘Which is possible,’ Sam said.
‘But if he has not,’ Larsen went on, ‘we should at least find out if he was on board.’
Watching from two separate vantage points was arduous and dispiriting, their eyes burning as they struggled to concentrate on one face after another, and Sam and Grace both knew before they’d gotten halfway through that it was hopeless.
Not going to happen.
A
nd definitely not, as Arlo Larsen had said, the way they’d have chosen to end a beautiful trip.
More than anything, it was frustrating as hell.
No sign of Cooper anyplace they looked.
Cal the Hater was gone again.
NINETY-SIX
Martinez was more than glad to be home.
But he was not a happy man.
He had known, ever since he’d been back to being coherent, that something was up with Jess, that the sparkle in those pretty eyes when she looked at him had gone. She’d still been kind and attentive, hell, she’d been sweet as ever – yet something about her had been off.
And she’d been hiding something from him too, though he hadn’t been able to figure out what it might be, and it had been bugging him.
Driving him nuts, to be honest.
If not for that, he didn’t think he’d have stooped so low as to do what he had yesterday.
He’d waited until she was taking a shower, and then he’d taken a look in the canvas shoulder bag she carried with her everywhere.
He wasn’t sure why he’d done that, didn’t think he’d been expecting to find anything significant, had felt lousy even as he’d opened it, a real fink, as a matter of fact, but something had kept pushing him, goading him on.
He’d found more than he’d bargained for, that was for sure.
A small bound notebook, not much bigger than a wallet, stuffed inside a zipped compartment in the bag; the book filled with tidy notations, with reports and statistics and conclusions.
About rats.
About goddamned, frigging rats.
So he’d had it out with her.
‘Are you crazy or something?’ he’d asked her straight out of the shower, one of the new white towels he’d bought for her still wrapped around her wet body. ‘Are you a secret scientist or just a whack job?’
Not the gentlest way to talk to his fiancée.
But after what he’d just been through . . .
‘I could have died,’ he reminded her.
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Jess said.
Her face was very pale again, the way it had looked when he’d been in the hospital, while she’d seemed so scared for him.
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