“Yes, sir.” The officer of the watch tapped a few keys and a thin sheet of paper began scrolling out of a miniprinter slot in the side of the console. Cutter ripped it free, glanced at it, then tucked it into a pocket of his immaculately pressed uniform. LeSeur knew what he would do with the printout: once back in his quarters, he’d be quick to compare it to the relative position of the
Beyond the vast bank of windows that covered the forward face of the bridge, the front was getting closer and the sea was growing dramatic. It was a large, slow-moving system, which meant it would be with them for most of the crossing. The
LeSeur’s eyes roamed over the ship’s system panels. He noted that the stabilizers were deployed at half position, sacrificing passenger comfort for greater speed, and he guessed it must be at Cutter’s orders.
“Captain Mason?” Cutter’s voice cut across the bridge.
“He’ll be here any moment, sir.”
Cutter did not respond.
“Under the circumstances, I suggest we give serious consideration to—”
“I’ll hear his report first,” Cutter interrupted.
Mason fell silent again. It was clear to LeSeur that he’d walked into the middle of an ongoing disagreement of some kind.
The door to the bridge opened again and Kemper, chief of security, stepped inside.
“There you are, Mr. Kemper, finally,” Cutter said, not looking at him. “Your report, please.” “We got the call about forty minutes ago, sir,” Kemper said. “An elderly woman in suite 1039, reporting that her companion is missing.”
“And who is the companion?”
“A young Swedish woman named Inge Larssen. She put the old woman to bed about nine o’clock, then supposedly went to bed herself. But when some inebriated passengers mistakenly knocked on the old woman’s door, she woke to find Ms. Larssen missing. We’ve been looking for her since, with no results.”
Slowly, Commodore Cutter swiveled toward the security chief. “Is that all, Mr. Kemper? Captain Mason led me to believe it was something serious.”
“We thought that this being a second disappearance, sir—”
“Have I not made it clear that the vicissitudes of the passengers are not my concern?”
“I wouldn’t have troubled you, sir, except that, as I mentioned, we put out a call on the PA system, did a thorough check of the public areas. Nothing.”
“She’s obviously with some man.” Cutter wheeled his solid form back toward the windows.
“As Mr. Kemper said, this is a second disappearance,” said Mason. “I think that makes it appropriate that we bring it to your attention, sir.”
Still, Cutter said nothing.
“And as Mr. Kemper reported to you on an earlier occasion, when we investigated the first disappearance, we found hair and skin samples on the port weather-deck brightwork that matched—”
“That proves nothing, it could have come from anywhere.” Cutter waved an arm in a gesture that was part irritation, part dismissal. “And even if she jumped—so what? You know as well as I do that a ship in midocean is a floating suicide palace.”
While LeSeur knew it was true that disappearances at sea weren’t uncommon—and were always zealously covered up by the crew—this coarse reply seemed to take even Mason by surprise. The staff captain was quiet for thirty seconds or so before clearing her throat and beginning again.
“Sir,” she said, taking a deep breath, “we have to consider the slim possibility that two disappearances might indicate there’s a maniac on board.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
“I would respectfully recommend we consider diverting to the nearest port.”
Cutter stared at her for the first time, his eyes like coals in his pink, vein-burst flesh. He spoke slowly, voice ice-cold. “I find that recommendation ill-considered and utterly without merit, Captain Mason. This is the
The pronouncement of the ship’s name hung in the air as if it explained everything. When Mason responded, her voice was low and even. “Yes, sir.” Without another word, she walked past him and exited the bridge.
“Damned female fuss,” Cutter muttered half under his breath. He plucked the printout from his pocket and examined it again. His scowl deepened. Even without comparing it to the
“Full ahead, aye, sir.”
LeSeur didn’t even think to open his mouth to object. He knew it would do no good; no good at all.
30
AT PRECISELY TWENTY MINUTES PAST TWELVE, CONSTANCE Greene emerged from the aft starboard maid station on Deck 9 and wheeled her housekeeping trolley over the plush rug toward the Penshurst Triplex. She had been loitering in the maid’s station for the better part of two hours, pretending to look busy, folding and refolding linens, arranging the mouthwash and shampoo bottles in their complimentary laundry tubs, all the while waiting for Scott Blackburn to leave his suite for the casino. But the door had remained stubbornly closed all evening. Finally, just moments before, Blackburn had emerged and, with a quick glance at his watch, hurried down the corridor to the waiting elevator.
Now she stopped the trolley outside the suite; paused a moment to smooth down her maid’s outfit and compose herself; then plucked out the passcard Pendergast had given her and slid it into the waiting keyslot. The lock sprang ajar and she pushed the door open, wheeling the trolley into the suite behind her as quietly as possible.
Closing the door softly, she paused in the entryway to reconnoiter. The Penshurst was one of two Grand Triplex Suites on the
, Pendergast had said. Constance narrowed her eyes.
She didn’t know how long Blackburn planned to spend in the casino—if that was indeed where he was going— but she had to assume there wasn’t much time. She glanced at her watch: twelve-thirty. She would allow herself fifteen minutes.
She wheeled her trolley across the parquet floor of the entryway, looking curiously about her. While the suite sported the same rich wood paneling as the one she shared with Pendergast, in other ways it couldn’t possibly have appeared more different. Blackburn had decorated almost every surface with items from his collection. Tibetan rugs of silk and yak wool lay strewn across the floor; cubist and impressionist paintings in heavy frames hung on the
