Cooks Overboard

by Joanne Pence

  With that, she put down the knife and untied her apron.

  “You can leave your bag,” Jones said. “I’ll put it in a corner out of the way. It’ll be safe.”

  “That’s okay,” Angie said, slinging the bag’s long strap over her shoulder. “I want my sunglasses and sunscreen with me. My nose is starting to burn.” With that, she followed Paavo out the door.

  They walked out onto the deck. It was very quiet, and they were alone. That was another nice aspect to freighter travel, Angie thought. There were lots of places to go where no one disturbed you.

  Paavo placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed steadily into her eyes. “I want to apologize.”

  A part of her wanted to at least pretend to still be angry with him, just to make him squirm a bit. But one look at his big baby blues and, as usual, she was a goner. Instead of saying anything, she just nodded.

  “I’ve been acting like a son of a bitch ever since this cruise began,” he said. “It had to do with my last case. Not you, but I took it out on you.”

  “I see,” she said, still waiting. That wasn’t much of an explanation.

  “A cop was killed,” he said quietly. “It was my fault.”

  His fault? The raw pain of his words made her stomach knot.

  “We were going after a drug lord.” He dropped his hands and slid them into his pockets. “Yosh and I connected him to a homicide we were investigating. I had a snitch…a guy who was supposed to tell me what was going on. I trusted him….”

  Paavo stood behind the police barricade along with his partner, Homicide Inspector Toshiro Yoshiwara, and watched the SWAT team close in on the drug lord’s soldiers. The neighborhood appeared deserted; residents here had long ago learned to remain unseen behind barred windows and warped wooden doors that, despite their columns of locks, could be sprung with one sharp kick.

  Paavo and Yosh had tracked the gang to the dingy, once-white wooden home in the city’s Bayview district. Red and green cement patches lined the fronts of houses instead of lawns. Cracked and chipped cement stairs led to front porches buckling with dry rot.

  Their homicide investigation had begun innocuously enough, giving no hint that it would lead to this place. A successful, politically connected lawyer had been killed in what appeared to be a drive-by shooting. Soon, though, the lawyer’s use of cocaine had become a prominent factor in the investigation and had led Paavo and Yosh to Jim Nhu, one of the most powerful drug lords in California.

  A nervous snitch spilled the location of a drug and money exchange Nhu had planned. The cops and DEA were waiting, ready to move in.

  But someone at the drop site, that run-down Bayview house, must have spotted something amiss in the unnaturally quiet neighborhood. A blast of gunfire turned the drug bust deadly. A ten-year veteran of the San Francisco Police Department, Sergeant Ed Gillespie, was hit by the first eruption of bullets. He had stood between Paavo and the drop site. Paavo watched pain and surprise distort the man’s beefy features as he fell.

  At that moment, more than anything, Paavo wanted Jim Nhu dead. He vowed that Ed Gillespie, a brave man with a wife and family, hadn’t died in vain.

  An arsenal of M-16’s and other automatic weapons held the police at bay for fourteen more hours, until, finally, the gang’s firepower diminished and the police pincer formation closed in on the drug dealers.

  But something inside Paavo had died along with the police officer. His work had brought the SWAT team to the Bayview house; his work had led to Gillespie’s death. Had he overlooked something? Trusted someone he shouldn’t have? Been too quick to act and not exercised sufficient caution? He’d carry those questions to his grave.

  Suddenly, he knew he was tired of it. Tired of the constant burden of the job, tired of a responsibility too great to handle. Tired of the nightmares after good men die.

  He decided to wrap up the case, do all the necessary paperwork, then quit the force.

  But the head of the homicide bureau, Lieutenant Hollins, apparently knew him better than he thought. Hollins called him into his office the night the shoot-out ended, the night before he was supposed to go on a vacation he’d forgotten completely about and couldn’t bear the thought of. Hollins ordered him to take the vacation.

  He had refused, saying he was staying for the funeral and, after finishing up some loose ends, was resigning from the force.

  “All the more reason to leave town,” Hollins had stated. “You aren’t welcome at the funeral.”

  Paavo could only stare at him, stunned.

  Hollins squared his shoulders, his voice, his whole demeanor firm and cold. “Only men who believe in police work—the work Ed Gillespie died doing—are welcome. Not quitters. Take the leave you have scheduled, and when you come back, I’ll look at your resignation request.”

  Yosh had stayed up with Paavo throughout the night talking. The two of them, despite the months they’d worked together, had never talked from the heart the way they did that night.

  When morning came, somehow Paavo’s bags had been packed, and Yosh had convinced him to go on the cruise with Angie, that there was nothing more he could do in San Francisco. Above all, he needed to get away and think things over.

  Paavo drew a deep breath, and as he did, he noticed that Angie’s hand held his now, that she had stepped closer to him, and her face had grown pale as he had given her the barest outline of all that took place that day. “It was my collar. It should have been an easy bust,” he said. “But they fired on our guys. I keep wondering what sign I overlooked, what I missed.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Ed Gillespie was right in front of me.”

  Angie looked away as his words cut through her. Tears filled her eyes at the death of another man, and at Paavo’s pain. Her body quaked at the grim reality of his words, but also at the thought that if Gillespie hadn’t been there…if another man hadn’t died…

  She knew she couldn’t say that to Paavo. “I’m sorry,” she said, putting her arms around him. “I’m so sorry.” There were no platitudes she could give him that would help. Right now, though, what he needed was to feel her hold him. That comfort she could give.

  “That’s why I’ve got to quit,” he said as he stepped back and gazed into her eyes. “When you make a mistake, and another man is killed…it simply gets to be too much.”

  He walked over to the railing and stared out at the sea. “I’m sorry, Angie.”

  For a while, when they had first come on board and he told her he was leaving the force, she had felt elated. But no longer. Not this way.

  If he wanted to leave because he was tired of the danger and the irregular hours, she’d be overjoyed. But he couldn’t leave feeling like a failure, feeling that his mistake had caused the death of another.

  She walked up behind him and put her arms around his waist, her head against his back. One and a half weeks remained before he would return to work and officially resign. One and a half weeks for her to help him realize that whatever had happened, he’d done what he thought was right. That he was a careful man, meticulous in his police work, who’d never risk anyone’s life thoughtlessly. That whatever had made the arrest go all wrong was horrible, but not his fault. Somehow, she’d help him see that.

  Yet helping him see that also meant he could change his mind about resigning. He might decide to stay with the police force. And next time, another man might not be there to stop a bullet meant for him.

  Could she do that? How could she do otherwise? For all his smiles, he was more unhappy than she’d ever seen him, because this time he doubted himself. The man she’d been vacationing with these past few days wasn’t Paavo; he was a shell of the man she loved. She wanted her man back.

  He turned to her and brushed her hair back off her face as he looked down at her, then gently kissed her forehead. “Forgive me?” he asked.

  “There’s nothing to forgive you for,” she said, her arms tightening. “I’m glad you told me the whole story. And glad Hollins told you to think
about your resignation.”

  He seemed surprised at her reaction, then he nodded. “I guess your ten minutes are up.”

  She let go of him. “You’re right. I’d better go help the boys with dinner. I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

  “Okay.”

  She started to turn. “Oh, one last thing. The black-and-blue marks on my arms were caused when someone pulled me into the galley last night, then pushed me into a rack of pots and pans. Be careful.”

  He grabbed her wrist, stopping her. “Someone did what?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Actually, there’s nothing to explain—I have no idea who it was, or why. Oh, one other thing—would you take my tote bag, please?” she asked. “Having it lying around on the floor while we work seems to bother Mike Jones a lot.”

  Even more puzzled, he looked from her to the bag. “Sure. I’ll hold it.”

  The meal was every bit the success Angie had hoped it would be. The raves from the passengers and officers were lavish. Even the poached petrale—the fish was so mild Angie decided that’s what it had to have been—was praised as a masterpiece.

  As the pot de crême was served with coffee that Angie had made a little stronger and more robust than usual, Captain Olafson stood and invited Mike Jones into the dining room for applause. Jones walked to Angie’s side and held out his hand, pulling her to her feet to stand beside him. They both took bows to the pleasure and amusement of one and all.

  21

  Paavo opened the door to the cabin and stopped dead. To his right, the medicine cabinet was open, and his and Angie’s things were out of it and all over the bathroom counter and floor.

  In the living room, desk drawers had been opened and cushions pulled off the couch and easy chair. In the bedroom, the bureau drawers had been opened and their contents tossed, and clothes from the closet had been pulled off hangers and lay in a heap on the floor.

  “Oh, no!” Angie cried, stepping into the cabin behind him.

  “Stay back, Angie,” he said. “Let me make sure whoever did this isn’t still here.”

  In no time he did a check, then phoned Julio to get Mr. Johansen.

  “My things! Yours!” Angie looked around in a daze. “Paavo, what’s going on here?”

  He went over to her and put his arm around her shoulders as they slowly went through the cabin. “It’ll be okay. We’ll find out what’s going on. Mr. Johansen will help.” The first mate had just stepped into the cabin. Paavo’s eyes met his.

  “I’ll send someone over to clean this up for you,” Johansen said, his expression showing how appalled he was by the sight. “Then you can see what’s been destroyed or is missing. We’ll get to the bottom of whoever is behind this, believe me. I’ll not have anyone on my ship…uh, on Captain Olafson’s ship who is capable of such blatant disregard for the property of others.” With that, he stomped out of the room.

  When Angie and Paavo turned to watch him leave, they saw Julio and Dudley Livingstone standing in the doorway, taking in everything that had been said.

  Mr. Johansen assigned one of the seamen who worked in the engine room to help Julio put the cabin back into shape. When Angie saw the seaman’s grease-stained hands and fingernails, she feared he might do more harm to her clothes than being thrown on the floor had done. She joined in to help, and so did Paavo.

  It didn’t take them long to put the cabin back together again. The only long-lasting damage had been to her toiletries. It seemed everything she’d brought that could he emptied had been—into the sink or the toilet. Whoever heard of a thief with a makeup and lotion fetish? She’d have been happier had he stolen the stuff instead of wasting it.

  “Do you believe me now, Paavo?” was all she said after Julio and the seaman left.

  “I still don’t understand why anyone would think we’ve got something they want,” he said.

  “From day one it’s been this way, when everything in the bathroom cabinet was pushed around,” Angie said, equally puzzled.

  “Day one, when the cook ran off the ship and the steward was carried off sick,” Paavo mused. “I don’t see the connection to us.”

  “I’m a cook,” Angie suggested.

  “But the cook left before anyone knew that, and it doesn’t explain the steward.” Paavo began to pace. “The steward fell ill right outside our cabin…was it after he took ill you found your things disturbed?”

  “It was that night…yes, I think so. Oh! I just remembered that we first saw him out on deck, but then he came indoors. I had assumed he was going to take the elevator down to his cabin, but he didn’t. And we had left our door unlocked—just as Mr. Johansen said everyone did while at sea. Ingerson could have easily come in here. He was sick. Maybe he was looking for stomach medicine?”

  “Which you keep in full view.”

  “True.”

  “That wouldn’t explain why someone else came in here.”

  “You think more than one person searched our things?”

  “There’s also that bug from the lamp,” he added. “If it was a bug. And that whole strange business with your tote bag.”

  “Actually, Paavo, I’m not sure it was a bug. I mean, I’ve never seen one except in movies.” She didn’t want to admit that sometimes she went a bit overboard with her imagination. That might have been one of those times. Or, considering how things were going here, maybe it wasn’t.

  “Did you talk to anyone about any of this?”

  “Only Mr. Johansen. He thought I was just imagining things. He did ask Julio about it, but Julio had already thrown the strange thing away.

  “This break-in isn’t your imagination. Whatever’s going on, someone’s becoming more desperate.”

  “Time to get off the ship, I think,” Angie said.

  “You’re right. Whatever this is about doesn’t involve us, I’m sure. It might involve this cabin, though. Anyway, the sooner we get off the ship, the sooner I can go back to practicing being a civilian again.”

  Angie bit her tongue. She wasn’t sure she liked that prospect.

  The Hydra entered the galley.

  Mike Jones was bending over the sink, scrubbing out a pot used for dinner. What a nice little chef he’d become, she thought. He’d make someone a good husband one of these days.

  Maybe even her. She’d have to give that some thought. Probably she was just horny, but it was too dangerous to do anything about it in close quarters like this ship. If anyone walked in on them…my, what they’d think!

  Mike was certainly good-looking enough to consider marrying. Not as smart as she’d like; but then it was hard, when one had a genius IQ, to find any man who measured up.

  What was wrong with her? She hadn’t thought about marriage since her days as a debutante, and later at Vassar. She wondered if being around that Amalfi woman had caused it—Amalfi’s eyes all but sparkled whenever she looked at her man.

  Once she, too, had been that innocent and naive; the world had been her proverbial oyster, waiting for her to pluck its pearl. What a joke. It hadn’t taken long for her to learn what life was really about.

  “Michael, if I can tear you away from your Comet for a moment…”

  He spun around. “Oh. I wasn’t expecting you.” He quickly washed the cleanser off his hands, then grabbed a blue-striped dish towel.

  “You failed again, Michael,” the Hydra said, leaning back against the sink in the galley.

  “Me? Since when is any of this my fault?” He tossed the towel into a corner, just missing her arm.

  The Hydra glared at it, at him. “You had her here all day and you couldn’t get that stupid tote bag away from her!” She folded her arms. “That bag is our last chance. Since we know the formula isn’t in her room, it’s got to be in her bag. I want it.”

  “You had her in the galley last night and did nothing!”

  “She didn’t have the tote bag with her.”

  Jones’s mouth tightened. “Well, today she had it, but I didn’t see you wa
ltz through here and snatch it up as you danced out the door, either!” he said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” She clenched and unclenched her fists. “We arrive in Mazatlán tomorrow, and Colonel Ortega will want his formula. I’ll do all I can to hold him off. I just hope he isn’t too impatient. If he is, it’ll turn ugly fast. He may talk a big line about honor, but he’ll slit your throat as soon as look at you. We’re going to have to play this carefully.”

  “You can do it,” Jones said.

  She lifted one eyebrow, as if wondering whether his words were a compliment or sarcasm.

  “It’s too bad Amalfi found the bug you left in her room,” she said. “I didn’t realize you had anything like that.”

  “A bug?” he asked. “I didn’t bug the room.”

  She stared at him as the full impact of his words hit. “If you didn’t, then who did? And why?”

  She paced back and forth like a caged animal. “Tell me, can we trust Julio?”

  “Julio? What does he have to do with anything?”

  “He was friends with Sven. What if Sven gave him the formula? Or what if Sven told him where he put it? Julio keeps hanging around the Amalfi woman. He went in and out of the cabin a number of times carrying those stupid lamps and light bulbs. Maybe Sven put it in her cabin, and Julio used the lamps as a ploy to get in there and pick it up. Maybe Julio put the bug in there himself. Maybe he and Sven planned all along that he’d be involved.”

  “I can’t imagine. What could Julio do with it?”

  “The question is, how much did Sven tell him? If this deal falls apart, we can’t have any loose ends. We can’t have anyone around who might tie us to it. Remember, a man, a scientist, is dead. And the FBI is investigating who killed him.”

  Mike nodded gravely. “So it’s buenas noches, Julio, even if he doesn’t know a thing.”

  “We can’t take the chance.”

  “Wait! I’ve got it! I know where the microfilm is!” Mike faced her, his face filled with excitement. “Ingerson passed it to the cook. That’s why Pete Lichry pretended to go nuts and got off the ship so suddenly. It all makes sense. The two were working together.”