Medusa

lead us to the lab.”

“That’s a pretty slim premise, Dr. Lee.”

“I know that, Mr. Austin. But it’s something. Right now, we have nothing. Please don’t tell me it’s any more dangerous than the Florida mangroves where I was kidnapped and almost shot.”

Zavala chuckled softly.

“Lady’s got a point,” he said.

Austin turned to the Trouts.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I was thinking of having Dr. Lee stay with my aunt ’Lizbeth on Cuttyhunk Island until the danger passed,” Paul said.

Gamay chortled.

“I know your Aunt Lizzy. She’d drive this poor woman crazy with her incessant talk about beach-plum jelly.”

“Gamay’s right about Lizzy,” Paul said. “And Dr. Lee is right when she says her expertise in the lab’s work could come in handy. I know how you like insurance.”

Austin had a reputation around NUMA for daring that bordered on the reckless. Those he worked with, like the Trouts, knew that his risks were always calculated. He was like the high-stakes riverboat gambler who kept not one but two Derringers up his sleeves.

Austin threw his hands in the air.

“Looks like I’m outgunned, Dr. Lee.” He got on the intercom to the cockpit. “Ready to go in five minutes,” he told the pilot.

Gamay asked, “What would you like us to do while you’re in Micronesia?”

“Get in touch with Lieutenant Casey and tell him that Dr. Lee has joined us. Contact Joe’s FBI friend and fill her in.” He paused in thought, then said, “See what you can do about tracking down the Princess’s logbook.”

“We’ll start with Perlmutter and let you know,” Paul said.

The Trouts wished the others luck and descended to the tarmac. They watched as the Citation X taxied down the runway and leaped into the sky.

Paul gazed at the pink-tinged clouds of dawn.

“Red sky at morning,” he said, “sailor take warning.”

“That sort of stuff went out when weather satellites went into orbit, Captain Courageous,” Gamay said.

Paul was a third-generation fisherman, and weather lore had been passed down in his family from father to son. Gamay was annoyed whenever Paul reverted to his old-salt persona.

He smiled slightly, and said, “Storm is still a storm.”

She took him by the arm, and said, “Put on your foul-weather gear. You haven’t seen the storm that compares with getting Perlmutter out of bed.”

CHAPTER 31

ST. JULIEN PERLMUTTER CUSTOMARILY WORKED INTO THE wee hours and slept until long after the sun had risen. So when the telephone beside his king-size water bed gonged like a ship’s bell and awoke the renowned naval historian from a sound slumber, his usually sunny greeting had an edge to it.

His pudgy hand reached to the bedside table, snatched up the antique French telephone’s receiver, and stuck it to his ear. Still groggier than a punch-drunk prizefighter, he boomed, “St. Julien Perlmutter here. State your bloody damned business in a brief manner. And you better have a good excuse for calling at this ungodly hour!”

“Good morning, Julien,” said a soothing female voice. “Hope I didn’t wake you up.”

The ruddy features that were almost hidden under a thick gray beard underwent a miraculous Hyde-to-Jekyll transformation. The scowl disappeared, the sky blue eyes suddenly sparkled with good humor, and the pink lips under the small tulip nose widened in a warm smile.

“Good morning, my dear Gamay,” Perlmutter purred. “Of course you didn’t wake me up. I was in that delightful state between sleep and waking, dreaming of breakfast.”

Gamay chuckled softly. It was rare when the four-hundred-pound Perlmutter wasn’t thinking about food.

“I’m glad to hear that, Julien, because Paul and I would like to come over and see you. We’ll bring you a treat.”

Perlmutter smacked his lips at the prospect.

“I’ll get the coffee brewing,” he said. “You know where I live.”

He replaced the receiver in its cradle and swung his feet out of the bed, which was set into an alcove off a huge combination bedroom, living room, and study. Perlmutter made his home in an N Street carriage house behind two vine-encrusted homes only a few blocks from the Trouts’ town house. The floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined every wall sagged under the weight of thousands of books. More books were stacked on tables and chairs, piled on the floor in precariously leaning towers, and even covered the foot of his rippling water bed.

The first thing Perlmutter saw when he blinked his eyes open every morning was what many experts acknowledged to be the finest accumulation of historical ship literature ever assembled. Scholars around the globe were green with envy over his vast collection. Perlmutter constantly fended off museums that wanted him to donate it to their libraries.

Slipping a red-and-gold paisley robe over his purple silk pajamas, Perlmutter eased his small feet into soft leather slippers. He went to the kitchen to put on a pot of Papua New Guinea coffee. Then he washed his face and brushed his teeth. He poured an antique Limoges porcelain cup full of the deep, chocolaty coffee. The heady fragrance almost made him swoon.

One sip of the strong brew snapped him fully awake. He felt almost human by the time the doorbell rang. He opened the door, and his smile faded as his eyes went to the DUNKIN’ DONUTS emblazoned on the flat cardboard box in Paul’s hands. Perlmutter recoiled like a vampire being offered garlic, and would have fled into the house if Trout had not lifted the box’s lid.

“Just playing a little joke,” Paul said with an impish grin.

“We picked up these treats at the deli around the corner,” Gamay said. “Smoked Scottish salmon, blini and caviar, and fresh-baked croissants. Not the equal of your culinary skills, but we thought you might not want to cook so early in the morning.”

Perlmutter put one hand over his chest and with the other took the box, holding it as if he feared contamination, and led the way into the house.

“You had me going there for a minute,” he said, returning to his normal jovial mood. “You’ve obviously been hanging around too much with that young scalawag Austin. Where are Kurt and Joe these days? Last I knew, they were diving under the sea in the bathysphere replica.”

“They’re on their way to Micronesia on an assignment,” Gamay said.

“Micronesia?” he said. “That’s one place I’d like to visit. I hear they mark important occasions with feasts involving enormous amounts of food.”

Perlmutter escorted his guests into his kitchen, poured two more cupfuls of New Guinea coffee, and doled out the early brunch on three Limoges plates. They all sat around a polished wooden kitchen table, one of the few flat surfaces in the carriage house not piled high with books.

“Sorry for the early-morning call,” Paul began, “but there is some urgency to our search. We’re trying to track down the 1848 logbook of a New England whaling vessel named the Princess. We hoped you could tell us where to start.”

Perlmutter’s bushy brows bobbed up and down.

“Caleb Nye’s ship!” he exclaimed.

Gamay tossed her head back and laughed in surprise.

“You never cease to amaze, Julien,” she said. “We mention a whaling ship, one of hundreds, and you have the name of the captain on the tip of your tongue.”