I stared at Natasha. Nothing was adding up. I started to question the events of the past few days. Maybe the painkillers had done a number on me. Something else didn’t add up.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “I thought you were watching who came and went from the port?”
Solange pressed her lips tightly together before answering.
“Our systems indicated that her card had been swiped to reboard the ship, but when we went to her cabin to speak to her, it was empty. It has remained empty.”
“Maybe she’s having a sleepover somewhere,” I said, eyeing Natasha. “And besides, don’t you have cameras everywhere. And facial recognition software.”
Solange shook her head. “Because of the sensitive nature of our prestigious clients, that is one feature that has been disabled on this particular vessel.”
“The cameras or the software?”
She sighed. “For the most part, both. We have limited cameras, but mostly in the pool area and in the stairwells.”
“But she swiped her card to reboard?”
“We believe someone else used her card to allow us to think she reboarded.”
“Do you think she paid someone to do that?” Natasha said.
Solange shrugged. “Now, I have to ask you to excuse us while I speak further with Mrs. Ainsley.”
I punched the elevator button and stepped inside without saying goodbye.
Chapter Fifteen
Things Aren’t Adding Up
Back in the safety of my own suite, I slept for two days. Whenever I surfaced from crazy nightmares, I’d call room service to deliver orange juice, soups, and smoothies. I’d bring my food back to bed, eat and drink and fall back asleep.
Natasha never called. Never visited. Though I did once dream that she was standing over my bed in the dark. But I woke, heart pounding, to an empty room.
On the third day, woke up refreshed and like my old self again. I dressed and headed for the penthouse. I needed some answers.
The key code didn’t work. Then I remembered they’d had to replace the code. I dialed Natasha’s line from the phone in the penthouse elevator lobby.
“I need the new code. I’m coming up.” I was too weary to say more.
“I don’t trust you.”
I exhaled. “Whatever. Let me in. We need to talk.”
“I think you might have had something to do with Henry’s murder.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Then why did Sharon Long tell me to ask you about it?”
“Maybe because she’s crazy and wanted to blame me—wanted suspicion on me instead of her? How would I know?”
“I don’t know you. We just met a few weeks ago. How do I know your whole plan hasn’t been to make friends with me so you could get close to Henry and murder him?”
“I thought you were convinced that Sharon Long killed him?”
“Maybe you are in on it together” I could feel her fury through the phone. “I don’t know anything. All I know is he’s gone. There was blood. He didn’t bash himself in the head and then throw himself overboard. Someone did it to him.”
“Let’s talk,” I said. “I’ve got some questions for you. Things aren’t adding up here, Natasha.”
“Forget it. Don’t call me again.”
Chapter Sixteen
Greek Goddess
When I got back to my suite, I flung open the door only to find Detective Solange in my cabin with two security guards flanking her. My room had been tossed. The covers on my bed had been stripped and thrown on the floor. All the drawers were open. My hangers swung empty. All my clothes were piled on the bed.
“Room service will restore order here,” Solange said. She was sitting erectly in one of the chairs at my café table near the sliding glass door to my balcony. “Please sit.”
“I’m busy.”
“I’m sure you have a moment.” She remained unruffled.
“Actually, I don’t.” I stood my ground, arms crossed at my chest, glaring at her. “What the hell is going on here?”
“We can do this here. Or at my office, which, I must say,” she said, glancing around, “is less accommodating than your suite.”
Turning on my heel, I headed toward the bar in the corner of my suite and poured myself three fingers of bourbon. I downed it, lit a cigarette, and plunked on my couch, putting my feet on the coffee table. “Fine,” I said, smoke curling from my mouth.
Detective Solange rose, crossed the room, and perched primly on the edge of the couch opposite me, staring. I stared back. Two could play this game.
If she thought I was going to provide evidence to help her nail Natasha, she was wrong. I had my suspicions, sure, but I wasn’t saying jack shit until I had a chance to confront Natasha and listen to her explanation. I owed her that.
We sat there in silence. The two guards stood by the door, not moving.
Finally, I raised an eyebrow and blew smoke straight across the couch at her face.
She didn’t flinch. In fact, she reached over to the table for my blue pack of Dunhills. Right before scooping it up, she paused and looked over at me.
“May I?”
I shrugged. As far as I was concerned she was an incompetent cartoon detective. “Where did you say you worked before this cushy gig?”
She ignored me. Of course, she did.
“We found something interesting in your cabin.”
I shook my head as if to clear it. “Why are you here in the first place? What is going on?”
“Mrs. Ainsley seems to think you might be hiding something. Turns out she was right.”
“What?” I scrunched up my face. “I’m not hiding shit. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Why else do you think Sharon Long went missing.”
The detective exchanged a look with the security guard and then cleared her throat.
“Sharon Long is not actually missing.”
“She’s not?” I sat up straighter. “Did you arrest her?”
“Her body was found in Tangier. In the house next door to where you were allegedly attacked.”
“Allegedly? Have you seen my fucking head wound?” I was furious. And then the words sank in. “Her body? How did she die?”
But I already knew the answer.
“She was murdered.”
I closed my eyes for a second and shook my head. When I opened my eyes again, Solange stood.
“That’s why we are here.”
“I don’t understand.”
She nodded, and the man against my closet stepped aside. My closet door was open. My clothes were pulled aside. At first I didn’t know what they wanted me to see. But then I saw it. A small marble statue of a Greek goddess. But there was something wrong with it. The head was rust colored. I rose from the couch, tilted my head and squinted.
The color wasn’t natural. It was dried blood. And something else.
“What the fuck is that?”
“You tell us.” Solange’s eyes were flat black.
“I’ve never seen it before.”
Solange did not respond.
“I have no idea how it got in my closet.”
“It is from Mr. and Mrs. Ainsley’s penthouse suite. Mrs. Ainsley reported it missing the night of her husband’s disappearance. I’d like to ask where you were on the night Henry Ainsley disappeared?”
That’s when I realized that they had never questioned me about Henry’s disappearance. In retrospect, failing to interview me seemed like an obvious misstep in the investigation.
“Natasha and I had plans for after dinner, but when she arrived, she looked like she’d been crying and Henry seemed angry. I’d never seen him like that before.”
“How long have you known Mr. and Mrs. Ainsley.”
“I met them the day we left Barcelona.”
She nodded, pressing her lips together. “You did not know them before this trip?”
I shook my head.
She leaned back against the wall and c
rossed her arms, her gaze never leaving me.
I continued. “They excused themselves early. After dinner, I went to the bar—the Star Bar—the one on the Baja Deck. After that, I got a bottle and went out onto the Sun Deck. I fell asleep on one of the lounge chairs. When I woke, I headed to the Riviera Deck, and that’s when I heard Natasha scream. I rushed to the penthouse with two of your security team, and we called you.”
“Did anyone see you after you fell asleep on the lounger?”
Making a face, I shook my head. “I don’t know. I was asleep. But there wasn’t anybody around that I know of. The Sun Deck was deserted at that hour.”
Solange nodded, and one of the guards leaned into the closet and, with a gloved hand, picked up the statue and slipped it into a plastic bag.
The detective turned toward the door. “We will have to wait to examine this when we are in port at Lisbon. Right now, my inclination is to keep you aboard until we determine whether this statue has Mr. Ainsley’s blood on it. You won’t be allowed to disembark. Do you understand?”
Anger flared through me. I stood abruptly as the two guards stepped into the hall, and Solange stood in the doorway with an eyebrow raised.
“I’m not staying on board just because you think it’s a good idea. Dr. Ashe told me I should get a proper MRI scan in Lisbon. Now, you’re saying I am a prisoner? Am I under arrest? I’m not convinced you are even allowed to detain me.”
“Oh, we are.” She gave a smug smile and left, the door shutting soundly behind her.
I opened the door and leaned my head out. “One thing, Detective.”
She paused, but didn’t turn around.
“For fuck’s sakes, just listen for a second. If, just if, I had used that statue to harm Henry, why would it still be in my closet? If I were a killer…”
I paused as some passengers rushed by to get away from the crazy lady.
“If I were a killer,” I repeated, “as you seem to be implying, why wouldn’t I get rid of the evidence as soon as I could? Say, throw it overboard? Or, even ditch somewhere in Morocco? It doesn’t make any sense that I would keep it in my room. Why don’t you chew on that while you’re eating your pâté tonight?”
She didn’t move.
“You can’t hold me.”
Finally, she turned. “Actually, I can,” she said. “I can hold you in our version of a brig. It’s a little cabin with a bed and bathroom. It’s actually very nice. Not as nice as this room, though. I’m doing you the courtesy of letting you stay in your suite as long as you agree to cooperate.”
I slammed the door and leaned back on it, every nerve jangling with fury.
Chapter Seventeen
Doctor’s Orders
I poured another huge slug of bourbon, downed it and changed into my black bikini—the one that left nothing to the imagination.
Time to follow the doctor’s orders. Sort of. I was headed to the pool and, sure, I’d sit and relax for a little while, but what I really wanted was to forget about the conversation I’d just had.
To do that I needed a distraction. Some company. Male company. Some mindless rough sex to get my mind off how fucked I was. Because I was royally, phenomenally fucked. In an I-might-go-down-for-murder kind of way.
Deep inside, I knew I was taking the easy way out. Escapism. I’d made it an art form. When my life fell apart, I inevitably turned to drinking, drugs, and sex.
But being considered a murder suspect with the bloody murder weapon found in your room? Yeah, that was a new low. And the suspect in the first murder was dead and they thought I’d offed her, as well. Super-duper fucked.
Fuck it. Booze and sex was in order.
Grabbing my gray Turkish towel and a woven basket filled with more booze, sunscreen, and a book, I left my cabin.
At the pool, I glanced around. Most of the lounge chairs were empty. A few women in their late 60s or 70s with toned bodies and lightly tanned skin sprawled, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. I raised a mental glass to them. Money might not buy happiness, but it apparently bought a personal trainer and nutritionist. These women were smoking hot seniors.
But no boys. Not a single one.
After I slicked on coconut-scented suntan oil, I stretched out in my own lounge chair, keeping it propped upright enough for me to take in my surroundings behind my own massive, black sunglasses. The pool remained deserted. Where was everybody? Then I remembered that it was Casino Day. The ship had brought in dealers from Monte Carlo and had a regular casino set up on the Baja Deck where people could play roulette, poker, baccarat, and so on.
No limits, either.
Too rich for my blood. I had plenty of money to spare, but I didn’t believe in throwing it away like that.
But that’s where the men would be. I glanced down at my bikini. Although it might cause a sensation if I walked into the makeshift casino this way, it would probably also get me tossed on my ass. The invite to Casino Day had said formal attire. Downing the last of the margarita I’d ordered, I gathered my belongings. I’d go change and stalk my man prey at the baccarat table.
When the elevator door opened from the pool deck, two pre-teen boys stood inside with their heads dipped to their phones deep in conversation. They didn’t even look up. I pressed the button to my deck and yawned.
The boys were Americans. At first, their conversation droned in an out of one ear, but then I heard a name that sounded familiar.
“Jessica Jones is hot.”
I scrunched my face up. Why was that name familiar?
“I heard a rumor she’s going to be in Avengers: Infinity Wars,” the other boy said.
I tuned in. Jessica Jones. It was the character that Natasha had said I looked like.
“No way, man. I saw the cast list. They dissed her.”
“Too bad. She slays.” The boy held his oversized phone up to his friend.
I scooted closer and slanted my eyes toward his screen. The woman wore crappy jeans with holes in the knees. I would never dress like that. But maybe our hair and eyes were a little bit alike. Then the footage changed, and another woman appeared on the screen. She had long red hair.
“Natasha Romanoff is my BAE,” the other boy said. “You can have Jessica.”
“Hey, I thought her name was Laura?” the other boy said.
“It is. Natasha is her alias, dumb shit.”
A cold chill ran across my scalp.
The elevator doors opened. The kids filed out and the doors slithered closed, leaving me to my dark realization. I thought about the stack of passports I found in the silver case. Finally, the door opened on my deck.
In my room, I sat on the edge of my bed and used my phone to search for information on the Avengers and “Natasha.”
Holy shit. All the passports I found contained names that this Natasha character used as aliases: Laura, Nancy, Yelena, Czarina, Nadine.
I continued reading. Then I froze.
The kicker? The character’s code name.
Black Widow.
Sharon Long wasn’t the Black Widow. Natasha was. Holy fuck.
Well, that explained a lot.
Natasha hesitating on the last excursion—because she knew Henry would be dead by then. Natasha making the statement, “He didn’t bash himself in the head and then throw himself overboard.” How had she known that was how he’d died unless she’d done it herself? Of course, she must’ve planted the statue in my closet that morning we went to Tangier and she stopped by my suite. I’d never for a second thought she’d killed Henry based solely on the fact that she was so petite. It didn’t seem possible that she would have the strength to knock Henry out or toss him overboard. But then I hadn’t seen her Hopak moves yet either. It wasn’t proof, but I knew I was right.
While I felt jubilant, I also felt an inexplicable sadness.
The one female friend I had made was using me. To get away with murder, no less.
I brushed away the hurt feelings. Fuck her. Fuck having friends. Fuck all of
it.
My job now was to make sure Natasha paid.
Now to convince Detective Solange.
Chapter Eighteen
Two Dead Bodies Are Plenty
When I walked into the small office, detective Solange hung up the phone in her hand.
“I was just dialing your suite.”
I raised an eyebrow. Her two security goons stood by the door. I took them in. No gun holsters, just nightsticks.
“I have consulted with the captain and the authorities in Lisbon, and we believe it will be best to have you locked up for the remainder of the voyage. Two dead bodies are plenty.”
“You’re crazy.” I involuntarily backed toward the door, but found myself pressed against the thick chest of one of the security guards.
“Karl will escort you to the brig. But as I said, it is not really a brig or jail. It’s just a secure state room. You will be quite comfortable, I’m sure.”
“I don’t understand.”
Solange folded her hands together on her desk.
“Dr. Ashe looked at the substance under a microscope in the lab for me and determined the statue had brain matter on it.”
“Natasha killed her husband,” I said. “She’s a black widow. I’m sure she’s left a string of dead husbands behind. Henry is only the latest.”
Solange looked at me like I was crazy. I knew without proof it sounded far-fetched and possibly a desperate attempt to deflect attention from me, but I had no choice. I didn’t have time to try to prove it. They wanted me locked up asap where I wouldn’t be able to prove shit.
“If you look in the case in her closet you’ll see that I’m right,” I continued.
Solange kept a straight face. “Natasha warned us that you would try to put the blame on her.”
“Can she explain the five different passports in her little silver case?”
For a second, Solange’s face showed a sliver of uncertainty, but then she gave a nod toward the security guards behind me.
Black Widow Page 9
