by Cathy Ace
Bud sighed. “So Tommy Trussler was a thief, but not a violent one.”
Ezra nodded. “Yes. The HPD reports back up our knowledge that he was a pickpocket, but don’t suggest he would break into and enter homes or hotel rooms, or carry out assaults.”
“Not his profile,” I muttered.
“Have you reached any concrete conclusions about our victim yet—something that might point us toward his killer?” asked Ezra directly.
I sighed. “Not really.” I sounded as glum as I felt. “The collection of IDs at his home suggests an obsession with a specific type of woman. Without knowing more about Tommy’s background, I’m racking my brain for any clue as to why that would be the case. Certainly, pickpocketing is a very personal crime—the thief has to get intimately close to the person they are stealing from, inserting their hand or hands into the clothing, or at least the possessions, of the victim. The thefts, therefore, might indicate an oblique sexual intent on Tommy’s part. But, again, not knowing more about the man, I cannot say this with certainty. Tell me, does HPD know nothing more about his background? Did you get anything more about him from the agency used by the Stellar Cruise Line to find and retain him?”
Ezra shook his head. “The agency really dropped the ball with Tommy. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that their hiring of him leads to them losing their contract. It’s unforgivable that they would send us someone who’s been stealing from guests. The business relationship between their head office in Miami and ours depends on their ability to thoroughly perform all standard checks on those they propose as suitable for us to have onboard.”
“You said that Tommy had no police record,” said Bud. “If he’s never been detained or investigated as a pickpocket, how would any agency know? All I can say is that he must have been an excellent thief, because it was clearly not a newfound path for him. He seems to have been getting away with it for a long time.”
“How do you know that?” asked Ezra.
“The sheer quantity of stolen licenses,” replied Bud amiably.
“And they go back many years,” I added.
Ezra guffawed. “You barely looked at the photos.” He sounded dismissive.
“It’s another thing Cait’s good at—seeing something for a brief time, but being able to make sense of it,” Bud said quietly. “She’s good at spotting patterns.”
“Anyone can see he was interested in blonds,” said Ezra, now sounding more defensive.
“Look again at the photos on the licenses,” I replied. “I happen to know that Hawai’i changed its driver’s license design in 2010—I read about it when I was plowing through some old magazines that a colleague at the university brought back from holiday; he wanted to drool over the real estate adverts for dream homes he’d seen when he visited Hawai’i a handful of years ago. A good number of the licenses Tommy had on his walls are the old design, and the expiry dates go back several years before they were changed. The women in the photographs are young to middle aged, but they all look to be over twenty-five years of age, which means they’d be eligible for permits that last eight years. I’d guess he’s been taking these for more than a decade. Another interesting fact is that the photographs have been arranged in age order, roughly speaking.”
“What do you mean in age order?” asked Ezra, fiddling with his computer’s mouse. “Look at the photos and their arrangement,” I said. “Imagine that he’s been collecting them for years, and that he began by pinning them roughly at eye level; you can see he started with younger photos, worked from left to right, then made a row below, then another, and then finally began to pin them above eye level. He’s arranged the photos of the men and the women the same way. Very well organized. It tells me something critical—oh, and, hang on, got it—I think that Kai Pukui just furnished us with an explanation.”
Ezra looked a little crestfallen, then shot me an accusing glance. I could tell I’d dented his personal and professional pride—after all, he’d seen what I’d seen, but hadn’t been able to put it together in the way I had.
“What’s that? What did Kai tell you that he hasn’t told me?” he snapped.
“Kai told us that Tommy mentioned a woman he’d loved but had lost. I think he was … not searching for her, exactly, in the normal sense, but gathering photographs of how she might have looked as time passed. And he did the same for himself.”
Ezra looked puzzled.
Bud said, “You mean he projected onto women who looked something like his lost love, and men who looked something like himself. These photographs are him playing ‘Happy Families’ with DMV photos.”
I nodded.
“Why?” Bud and Ezra asked in unison.
“I think she died,” I replied. “In fact, I’m pretty sure she must have. He started gathering photos of the way she would have looked if she’d lived. It’s the only explanation I can think of. If she’d left him—he can’t have left her or he wouldn’t have told Kai he’d ‘lost’ her—then he might have gone so far as stalking her. That’s the sort of obsession we’re seeing here. He wasn’t able to break from her at all. But he wasn’t stalking a living person. If we can work out from the photos the time frame when he began his ‘collection,’ we might be able to pinpoint when she died, which could help—or not.”
“Very enigmatic,” scoffed Ezra.
I felt Bud bristle. Luckily a knock at Ezra’s door prevented any further comment. Officer Ocampo stuck her head into the room at Ezra’s bidding.
“Afrim is here to see you, sir,” she announced.
“Two minutes,” replied Ezra. He turned his attention from the computer to a file on his desk. “The server, Afrim,” he said seriously. “I don’t know him personally, but I have his record here. If Tommy ingested poison, it might well be that Afrim Ardit, our twenty-seven-year-old server from Albania, gave it to him. I see he’s been with the company for three years and is a highly regarded employee. There’s nothing on his record of any note, except commendations. However, Albania has a bleak recent history. People of Afrim’s age have grown up in an environment that can force a person to make dubious choices. You two can sit in on this interview. It will save time.”
“What reason will you give Afrim for our presence?” asked Bud.
“I don’t need to give him a reason. He works for the company, and he has to do as he’s told,” replied Ezra. It was obvious that his attitude toward staff differed greatly from the one he had toward guests.
There was a timid knock on the door.
“Come,” said Ezra, loudly.
Afrim Ardit’s big, dark eyes peered out of his worried, pale face as he stuck his head around the door.
“Don’t stand out there, come and sit … stand in here,” said Ezra, realizing there were no empty seats, nor room for another.
Afrim shuffled in, looked at Bud and myself with a terrified curiosity, and hovered in the corner of the room behind our chairs; we turned to face him, though indirectly. He held his hands in front of him, clenching and unclenching his fingers, as if trying to ensure good circulation. I could hear him breathing heavily. A cornered creature—literally and figuratively. My heart went out to him. Having gained some insight into the way that gossip and rumor crackled around the ship, I suspected that Afrim had been the center of attention, and accusation, since the morning’s incident. I wondered where he’d been all that time.
“I have been waiting to come to talk to you, sir,” he said quietly, “but I can wait a little longer, outside if you like, while you finish with these good people.”
“They will remain while I ask you questions,” was Ezra’s terse response. Afrim looked too frightened to be surprised; he knew that his job, and maybe even his career at sea, was on the line.
Ezra began by asking Afrim what he had seen Tommy Trussler consume that morning. Afrim replied in a manner that told me he’d thought of little else since we’d all been ejected from the Games Room. He recited a list he’d thought about, memorized, and wa
s ready to repeat. It wasn’t very illuminating, and contained less detail than Bud’s list.
“You’re sure of all this?” snapped Ezra.
The poor man almost jumped. “I think so, sir,” he replied weakly. “Today was only my second day serving in the Games Room. It’s a big step up from my previous duties in the coffee shop, where I was backup to the baristas. But my star, you see, sir, I got my star last week, so they gave me the new duties …” He trailed off, and seemed uneasy.
“Who used to serve in there, before you took over?” asked Ezra.
“Winston, sir, Winston Williams. He did it for a few weeks, in the mornings, before his shift at the Sundowner Bar in the afternoons, or else being on the shore crew—you know, he would serve the cool drinks and the iced towels at the quayside for guests waiting for the tender boats.”
“Where’s he been moved to, and why?” asked Ezra.
Afrim looked at the floor. “He’s opened up the Pool Bar for the past couple of mornings. I don’t know why he was moved, sir.”
Ezra picked up a pencil and began to tap its end on his desk. “I’ll have to ask the bar manager,” he said, “though I am sure you could tell me if you wanted to. Afrim, it will look better if you are open with me.”
“I heard something about a disagreement,” muttered Afrim. “They had a big row in the Games Room before any of the guests arrived a few days ago. We were in port, so it was quiet. No one else knew about it. I overheard Winston saying that it must have been Mister Tommy who reported him. They moved me in and Winston out yesterday morning.” He swallowed hard, and resumed the inspection of his toes.
Ezra looked hard at Afrim, then barked “Go!” Afrim reacted with a start and, keeping his eyes on the ground, scurried out of the room as quickly as he could.
“My instincts tell me he’s terrified of being suspected rather than found out,” suggested Bud. “There’s a noticeable difference. Seen it a thousand times. Right, Cait?” He looked to me for agreement.
“Does Winston Williams say ‘jingle bells’ a lot and wear a Santa hat?” I asked.
Ezra looked puzzled. “I have no idea. Why?”
I looked at Bud. “Sundowner Bar Winston?”
“Our Winston?” said Bud.
“We like the Sundowner Bar,” I explained. “It’s a great place to hide from the poolside hordes and find some peace and quiet. Winston is the barman who ‘adopted’ us on embarkation day, and has attended to us every time we’ve used the bar since then.”
“Do you think he’s a suspect?” asked Ezra. “We’ve either run out of them or have too many.”
I thought about Ezra’s question and his follow-up comment.
“No, we haven’t run out of suspects, Ezra, as you well know. We have the Croppers and the Knicelys in possession of possible poisons, and I noticed that Frannie Lang’s bathroom contains a host of over-the-counter pharmaceuticals that could prove lethal if ingested in large enough quantities. Kai Pukui told us that, back on the Islands, his family runs a business that makes products from castor oil, and the castor bean is also a lethal item.”
Ezra looked aghast. “When were you planning on telling me about the Lang woman and the Pukuis?”
“This has been my first chance,” I said as calmly as I could, given that I was feeling very much under fire—albeit the “friendly” type.
“Right,” said Ezra, sounding deflated. “You’re telling me that everyone in that room had access to a means to kill Tommy, and that everyone had an opportunity to put poison in his poi, which we seem to have settled on as the most likely means of ingestion. You’ve also told me no one would have had the chance to remove the pot containing the poisoned poi in the general melee that occurred when the pod of dolphins passed. Is all of this is correct so far?”
I nodded.
“We just don’t know enough about the victim yet, nor our suspects, to be able to narrow our field of inquiry in terms of possible motives.” I was thinking as I spoke, so I knew I sounded vague.
Ezra’s tone was impatient. “What do you propose we do about that?” he asked. “What did you do when you worked with Bud that’s different from what we’ve done so far? You can’t visit the victim’s home to search through whatever personal items he had there—if there were any. And it’s clear that no one on the ship knew the man well—in fact, no one knew the real man at all. Bud? What do you suggest?” I understood, and shared, his frustration.
Bud used his most calming voice. “You know what, Ezra? Cait’s worked cases like this before. I know how she works. While we’ve agreed to operate under your direction for this case, I suggest you allow Cait and myself to continue to find less formal opportunities to talk to those people, so she can draw them out in ways that might bring motives to light. She’s very good at that. That’s my professional opinion.”
“It’s highly irregular,” muttered Ezra.
“Irregular or not, it’s working so far,” said Bud. “We three can be an effective team, and Cait and I can contribute so much more—if only you’d let us. Or we could go back to relaxing on deck and enjoying our honeymoon.”
Ezra’s micro-expressions told me this wasn’t an option he favored. He dropped his head in what I judged to be a sign of resignation. “I am sorry. I value your input.” His jawline firmed as he stood and looked at his watch. “I’m going to check with Rachel to see if she’s been able to run any helpful tests on the items taken from Tommy’s stateroom, and from the buffet.”
Ezra unnecessarily reorganized a few items on his desk, then, having regained his composure added, “You are correct, Bud, we can be a good team, but every team needs a leader and I must be that. I need to be advised of any and all information you gather, and you must understand the fact that I am giving you an extraordinary amount of latitude in this instance. The safety of everyone on this ship is my responsibility. It is now also yours. You may follow your own investigative path, so long as it does not endanger anyone’s life, or the reputation of the company. You can run with it. But security. Discretion. Am I clear?” Ezra’s military bearing had fully returned, though his eyes told me he was still struggling with having to accept help from guests he would have preferred to not need.
Bud and I agreed. I was delighted he’d agreed to let us get on with investigating in our own way. Forget procedures! Now I can get going.
Sundowner Bar—Deck 15, Aft
“I NEED SOME AIR,” I whispered as we took our leave of Ezra.
Bud nodded. “Me too. It’s been a bizarre day, and we’ve spent most of it inside. I’m desperate to feel the wind on my face again.” He looked at his watch. “It’s gone half past six. What do you think? Back to the room, or a quick once ‘round the top deck?”
“How about a drink at the Sundowner Bar?” I countered. “Winston should be there.”
Bud nodded his agreement. “You’re right. Two birds, one stone,” he said, and we headed for the elevators.
The Sundowner Bar was busy—and well named. Guests lingered there at the end of the day sipping drinks, because it gave an uninterrupted view of the ocean and, at the right time, the setting sun. It was blustery, and every passenger was aware we were sailing northwest toward Vancouver and cooler climes than any of us had been used to for nearly two weeks. Some folks were already dressed for the formal dinner; women attempted to look elegant as they held down their hairdos in the stiff breeze; men who rarely wore neckties tried to look nonchalant in bow ties and cummerbunds. The sight of those who’d recently left the poolside next to those in full evening dress was strange—an experience unique to cruiseships, I suspected.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells!” called Winston as he saw us approach. “Come hither, I have just the spot for you.” His grin was cheery beneath his Santa hat, which, possibly because it was formal night, had the addition of a blinking star on its bobble. “It’s Christmas every day here!” he continued, ushering us to a table and pulling out a chair. “What’ll it be? The daytime medication, or the
nighttime usual?”
“The daytime medication, please, Winston.” Bud and I chorused.
He Christmas-carolled his way to the bar, returning no more than three minutes later with a glass of cold beer for Bud and a cider for me.
“Ch-chin, ch-chin,” he said with a smile, placing the drinks in front of us. On our first visit to the bar I’d heard him say the same thing to any guest with a British accent; he’d picked up on my Welsh lilt right away, claiming Welsh blood in his own ancestry.
On this occasion, I took the immediate opportunity to engage Winston in conversation. I didn’t even take more than a tiny sip of my drink, whereas Bud gulped down almost half of his.
“Been busy today, Winston?” I began.
“It comes in waves,” replied the barman. “All in a day’s work at sea, you know.” While he smiled down at us, enjoying his own pun, I noted his eyes scanning the rest of the guests. He was attentive and professionally entertaining at the same time. I reckoned he was about forty, and he’d told me on a previous occasion that he’d worked for the Stellar Line for eight years. I also knew he was from Jamaica and had a wife and three children there, with his first grandchild on the way. Due any time, he’d said.
“Did you hear about the incident?” I asked quietly.
Winston bent down as if to wipe something from the table. “You mean this morning?”
I nodded.
He nodded, but said nothing. Discretion?
“We were there,” I added. “In the Games Room, when the poor man died.”
Winston stood upright. Glancing about, he kept his voice low. “Terrible sad, Missus Cait. Terrible sad.”
When Bud and I had told him, on our first evening aboard, that we were on our belated honeymoon, he’d begun to call me Missus Cait. I liked it, and it had stuck.
“Did you know him?” I asked. I’d decided that “fussy confidante” was the right approach, and Winston seemed to accept it.
He tilted his head. “Not so much. You know he’s been coming on these ships for years? But not a drinker, only ever water, so I didn’t see much of him. Kept himself to himself.”
