Drowned Under Page 10

  “Great.” He walked me back to his cabin, where I paid him and he gave me an envelope with the pictures of the Manzonis and the flash drive. I zipped up my Balenciaga and headed for fresh air, hoping there was a cash machine in Wineglass Bay.

  I stood on the deck and looked up. How many people in the world never, ever knew there were this many stars, people who lived their whole lives in the sulfur glow of Texaco stations, stadium lights, and police helicopters? I glimpsed a shooting star and made a wish for Harriet. I hoped she was on a permanent vacation, cruising through the galaxies above me, with no glass ceiling and no Peggy Newsome.

  I felt dizzy. Seeing Barry, losing the Manzonis, finding Harriet’s body, and Sister Ellery’s engagement to a gigolo would have been a tough forty-eight hours, no matter what. When they came with a twenty-eight-hour journey, brain fog, and nausea, they were almost unmanageable, even for a Redondo. That reminded me, it was morning, yesterday, in Brooklyn and safe to call Frank. I hurried back to my cabin and went out on the balcony for better reception.

  It took a while to get the satellite phone working, and even longer to get Frank on the phone at the 68th Precinct.

  “So, anything?”

  He gave an Aunt Helen-sized sigh. “I’ve got to take it easy—getting unauthorized help isn’t so easy, now that I’m on patrol.”

  “Frank.”

  “Alright. I just want you to know that this cost me.”

  “Are you really going to guilt me out? I just lost my friend and possibly the only in-laws I’m ever going to have. And I’m going to miss Aunt Helen’s stuffing.”

  “Bad or good first?”

  “Bad.” I always asked for the bad first. It seemed logical to cheer yourself up at the end.

  “Okay, the prints didn’t come up in our database. But you’re in Australia. Chances are most of the passengers aren’t American, right? They might have them at Interpol. Don’t you know an Interpol guy?”

  Really? Did every trip I took have to include an Interpol element? Special Agent Graham Gant was the one who had made me betray my uncle and smuggle snakes in my bra. He also hated me because I solved his case for him. Men aren’t always great with that. I really didn’t want to encounter him ever again, much less ask him a favor.

  “Kind of, but I’d prefer that as a last resort.”

  “Well, I’d try Australian law enforcement then.”

  I did know someone in Australian law enforcement. But if I called Scott, I would have to give him the news about Harriet.

  “Could you give them, like, a courtesy call or something?”

  “No. First, it won’t be considered a courtesy. Not even close. Especially as there’s no concrete evidence this is even a crime. Second, I’m a patrolman in Brooklyn.”

  “Well, what can you do?”

  “Tone, Squid. I can send you digitized versions of the evidence. And I did talk to Dr. Paglia,” Frank said.

  “You did? God bless you.”

  “Actually, I picked him up at an illegal poker game in Sunset Park. I said I wouldn’t take him in if he looked at the stuff you sent.”

  “And?”

  “And he said head wounds bleed way more than this, so she was possibly dead already when she hit her head. And he said your photos were crap, but if you could send a few close-ups and a blood sample, he’d test it under his “John Doe” budget. He has some funds he has to use before the end of the calendar year.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “That’s Dr. Paglia.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to do that?”

  “Just find the body and take them. It’s a ship, she’s still got to be on it. And she’s not going to feel the needle.”

  “Frank!”

  “I’m a pragmatist.”

  “Are you?”

  “And, anyway, how am I going to mail blood?”

  “You disappoint me, Cyd. You did ask for help from a medical examiner. What did you think he was going to do, call a psychic? He needs evidence.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  “Look, Dr. Paglia is headed for his holiday binge trip to Atlantic City. I’d get it in before the labs close and he starts celebrating. Do they have FedEx on the boat?”

  “No. But there’s some wine and kayaking stop tomorrow. What day is it there?”

  “The twenty-first. Crap. What should I get Janice?”

  “Is this a setup?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Diamond studs or a real Cuisinart, so she stops making pesto in the coffee grinder. Garlic and Italian dark roast should never meet.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “Christ. Yes.”

  “Don’t swear,” he said. I sighed. “I heard that.”

  “I’m thirty-two.”

  “That’s no excuse not to be a lady.”

  “Who are you, Aunt Helen?”

  “Fine. You know if Dr. Paglia starts losing, you’re out of luck.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Janice has an uncle in Palm Beach who’s in Resort Torts.”

  “In what?”

  “Resorts Torts—anyway, that’s what he calls it. He’s an attorney, does slip-and-falls, malpractice, overboards, drownings.”

  “Great, I’ll take anything.” I took down Mr. Resort Tort’s info. “How’s Eddie?”

  “Why?”

  “He might have slept in the office. You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Got it. Maybe I can drag him to Bed, Bath & Beyond.”

  “Or Tiffany’s.”

  That got a laugh. “Love you, Squid. We’ll miss you.”

  “You too.”

  He hung up before I did. I hung onto the phone for a minute. I didn’t miss that damned inflatable snowman, but I missed the smell of pointless fruitcake and I missed Chadwick’s, filled with screaming family dinners and the smell of the best crab cakes in the five boroughs.

  I’d accidentally gotten Frank demoted, but he’d put himself on the line for me. He’d taught me to make an effort for people, even when it was inconvenient, and that was the least I could do for Barry’s folks, and for Harriet.

  I didn’t know yet how I was going to get evidence to prove it, but if Paglia thought I might be right, it meant Harriet had been killed after a day of asking questions about the Manzonis. As much as I hated to admit it, I figured the two crimes were connected. So, if I found the Manzonis, I’d either find her killer or be bumped off myself. I opened Elliot Ness’ envelope. I took one look at my thighs approaching the pool deck and didn’t feel so bad about dying before they got worse. It wasn’t my best angle. I picked up the photos of the Manzonis.

  Ron Brazil, looking none too pleased, was in lots of them. I added checking him out to my already long list of Mata Hari activities. I needed a computer to check the flash drive.

  I knew I should go to sleep as soon as I could—tomorrow was going to be a big day. Unfortunately, it was eight-thirty a.m. in Brooklyn. And that meant the Manzonis had been missing for another whole day. Sleeping seemed selfish.

  So I went for coffee instead of Tylenol PM, called Dr. Paglia, and formulated a plan.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The passenger map didn’t include the morgue. I hoped it was in the Infirmary. I grabbed my new “Black Mariah” Donna Karan silk wrap (ninety percent off at Loehmann’s President’s Day sale) and my Balenciaga and decided to take a circuitous route, just to be safe. I only threw up once on the way, swiveling at the last minute to miss a plaid deck chair.

  Once I reached Deck Five, I headed for the emergency stairs. I ate a Tums/breath mint combo, went down yet another flight of stairs to Deck Four, and headed down the low, empty hallway. There it was, the Infirmary. No lights. I tried knocking first. Then harder. If Doc was in there, he wasn’t conscious. I still hesitated.
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  I checked for CCTV cameras. Then I remembered the Risk Management guys and my sanitized room. Maybe they didn’t want cameras, for plausible deniability. Just when I felt safe, I spotted one at the end of the hall. Thanks to my brousins, I had good aim, but I didn’t have anything hard enough to break it. Then, I saw a room service cart. With the scarf over my face, I backed past the camera, then ducked under it and pulled the cart closer.

  There was one dinner plate full of toast crumbs and dried egg yolk. It would make a crash when it broke, especially if I missed. Otherwise, there was only silverware, used tablecloths, and napkins. I went through my purse and finally found the perfect thing—something thick, something that stuck to everything, something that would take days to wash off.

  I rummaged around for a butter knife, then swapped it for a soup spoon.

  I pushed the cart as close as I could get it to the wall under the camera, then bent a stack of Redondo Travel “You Can’t Take It With You” business cards to ram in between the wheels and lock them on the other side. I made the Sign of the Cross in honor of Sister Ellery, put one foot on the bottom shelf, and clambered on. To say it was unstable would be kind.

  I should have unscrewed the calamine lotion before I got on. I wrapped a used tablecloth over my dress and shawl, then filled the spoon with the lotion, which I tried to balance with one hand, while I threw a napkin over my head. I lifted the spoon and flicked its viscous contents toward the lens. I felt the flesh-colored droplets hit my head-napkin and jerked away, loosening the cart. As I tried to right myself, it broke free altogether, sending me surfing down the hallway, headed for imminent crashing sounds. I stretched my leg down and stabbed my heel into the carpet as hard as I could. It finally stopped the cart just shy of the other wall, but broke my heel. Which made it a lot harder getting down than it was getting up. Satisfied that the camera was covered and the rest suggested nothing more than a Thousand Island dressing incident, I limped toward the Infirmary.

  I pulled out the Koozer’s master keycard, hoping my camera-covering stunt hadn’t been in vain, especially as it knocked me down to four pairs of shoes for the last five days of the trip.

  I passed the plastic card over the door. Nothing. I tried two more times, then heard a click, and pulled on the handle. It opened. I pulled out my pocket flashlight and hoped (and feared) one of the two closed doors I’d seen earlier was the morgue. The first one was an examination room. The other was locked.

  I tried Doc’s desk drawer. He had the usual array of bent paper clips, dead Sharpies, and tape. Under a pile of Post-it notes, I found a picture of him in a suit in front of palm trees with a lovely thin woman, holding a baby. It was not the first time I’d found a photo which threw me. Unlike last time, I tried to ignore it and finally found a wad of keys at the back. I started working the ring until I found the right one. No morgue. No Harriet. Just a supply closet.

  Five minutes later, four syringes (in case I didn’t know what I was doing, which I didn’t), along with rubber gloves, cotton balls, and a bottle of anti-seasickness pills, sat snugly in the smallest piece of my sky blue nesting Tupperware.

  I found a detailed map of the lower decks. There was an M beside a room noted as Cold Storage. I took a shot of the map, replaced the keys, and pulled the door closed behind me.

  It made no sense to head down more stairs with uneven heels, but going barefoot down here was not an option. Finally, though it killed me, I knocked the other shoe against the stair railing and wound up with flats curved like genie shoes, which kind of defeated the purpose. I headed down two more sets of stairs, into the lower deck, the one with the mysterious “M.”

  The lower I went in the ship, the more Das Boot it got. It wasn’t just dark down there, it was crazy loud—engines clanging, generators whirring, washing machines sloshing. None of this helped with the high level dread I felt about what I was about to do.

  Just as I’d reached the limits of my claustrophobia, something scurried past me. Scurrying was never good. Neither were morgues. I knew cruise ships had them. They carried thousands of people with untold pre-existing conditions. The latest statistics made the average cruise passenger fifty-five, university educated, married, employed, and with an annual income over seventy-five thousand dollars—your basic recipe for heart failure.

  Personally, I’d lost five clients and air-lifted two off cruise ships so far. Given the average age of my clientele, that wasn’t bad, but it still broke my heart. And potentially, my pocketbook. Those emergency “assists” started at thirty-five grand, which is why I insisted on client insurance. If a passenger without travel insurance, aside from charging the deceased passenger or their family members for the final medical exam and body storage, all costs were, in the words of Darling Cruises, “up to the travel agent.” Thanks a lot. At least if, God forbid, something had happened to the Manzonis, Peggy Newsome would be on the hook for it, not me. I chastised myself for even thinking this and realized I was stalling. I needed to gut up.

  Finally, I found the door labeled “Cold Storage.” I remembered the Koozer yelling “Bright Star Rising,” when we found Harriet’s body, and wondered what other euphemisms the ship used to avoid any unpleasantness. Or lawsuits.

  I waved the keycard over the door, half hoping it wouldn’t work. But the light went green and, holding my breath, I inched the door open.

  Although I had a long-term medical examiner client in Bay Ridge’s Dr. Paglia, I’d never been in a morgue, except on television. I was a big Law and Order fan and still held out hope for Law and Order: CS (Catholic School) or CSI: Bay Ridge, so I could serve as a consultant. With my viewing background, I felt comfortable with a whole range of fatal, strategically covered-up injuries. Still, I could already smell that this wasn’t cable. There were front notes of seawater and bleach, with hints of pet store and putrid.

  Someone was on the stairs. I jumped in, eased the door closed, and fell against it. The footsteps passed. I turned on my emergency flashlight. It was inadequate.

  I dug into my bag, pulled out some baby wipes, and did a quick sweep of the floor, then rolled up my wrap and pressed it into the crack to block the light.

  I hit the switch. When I imagined my clients in the ship’s morgue, it was a high-tech, sterilized, well-lighted place. This was a cross between an airline bathroom and a hoarder’s closet. I could barely move forward for the life jackets, industrial-sized cans of coffee and peaches, waiter jackets, and body bags. Two plain pine coffins were stacked upright against the wall, like pairs of skies. I had to shove aside a Costco-sized box of cocktail napkins to even locate the body drawers, if that was what you called them.

  I cleared a space around them and prepared myself.

  I never saw my late father’s body. Because he’d been in a crash, he had a closed casket. My Uncle Ray had gone for the identification, to spare my mom. And she’d spared me the truth at first. So, for a long time I believed he was just on Long Island.

  When I was old enough to understand what death was, I appreciated what my mother had done, as he would always be the dad sitting on my bed and tucking me in. Aside from losing two grandparents, I’d been able to dodge death until I turned thirty-two, stumbled over my friend and client, Mrs. Barsky, and everything changed.

  I’d been watching a lot more PBS the last month, particularly David Attenborough, who, let’s face it, looks incredible for ninety-eight, or however old he is. When I watched the violent mating rituals and the gazelle takedowns—what people called the circle of life and I called murder for hire—I realized the thing that really separated human beings from the animal kingdom was our capacity for self-delusion. We pretended every day wasn’t a dog-eat-dog day. We pretended if we had a mortgage, we were safe. We pretended that the people around us abided by the same rules we did. But we were kidding ourselves. We were just tiptoeing across thin ice, every day, pretending it was hardwood.

  There were three
morgue drawers and I had to pick one. I closed my eyes as I tugged on the cold, thick chrome handle of the middle one, jerking back when I felt the weight of something shift toward me, hitting the coffins and knocking one of them over. I moved out of the way, allowing it to slam to the floor. In the midst of the thud, I heard a definite “Ooof.”

  Chapter Twenty

  For a second I thought it might be the Ghost of Cruisers Past. But in my recollection, even Casper the Friendly Ghost had never said “Ooof.”

  “Hello?”

  The coffin gave a slight shake. It had fallen on its lid. I picked up one of the industrial cans of peaches and knelt beside it.

  “Hello? Look, you’re upside down. If you want me to help you, you’re going to have to identify yourself.” Nothing. “That was loud, someone might have heard it.”

  Nothing. I stood up and kicked the coffin.

  “Hey!” All right, it was human. I held tight to my peaches as the cheap pine box started to rock back and forth.

  “This is ridiculous.” I tried to lift it on one side.

  “Other side!”

  “You’re welcome!” I hissed as I lifted in the opposite direction.

  A hand with chewed black fingernails and a tiny kangaroo tattoo inched open the lid. At the other end of it was a Goth girl, who didn’t look more than thirteen.

  We just stared at each other for what seemed like an hour, though it was probably only thirty seconds. We both froze as footsteps ran down the hall. When they kept going, we took a breath and I had a chance to look at her. She had a ripped tank top, spiky hair, excessive earring holes. Despite her tough exterior, she sported a look of absolute fear she couldn’t totally remove from her dark-circled eyes. I held out my hand.

  “Cyd Redondo. Redondo Travel.”

  “Esmeralda Kane, stowaway.” I hadn’t expected her heavy Australian accent.

  I grinned. “How long have you been in there?”