Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

“I can’t rightly say.”

“She didn’t mention that she wanted to go shopping, or to the casino, something like that?”

Another hesitation. “Well, see, we had a bit of an argument.”

LeSeur nodded. So that’s how it was.

“Has this ever happened before, Mr. Evered?”

“Has what ever happened before?”

“Your wife leaving after an argument.”

The man laughed bitterly. “Hell yes. Doesn’t it happen to everybody?”

It had never happened to LeSeur, but the first officer chose not to mention this. “Has she stayed away overnight before?”

“No, never. She always comes back eventually, tail between her legs. That’s why I called.” He swiped his brow with a handkerchief. “And now I think you better get going with that search.”

LeSeur knew he had to delicately get the passenger’s thoughts away from a search. Fact was, the Britannia was too large to be searched completely. And even if they wanted to, they didn’t have the manpower to undertake one: passengers had no idea just how small the security staff really was on an ocean liner.

“Pardon my asking, Mr. Evered,” he said as gently as he could, “but are you and your wife . . . generally on good terms?”

“What the hell’s that got to do with my wife missing?” the man flared up, almost rising off the bed.

“We have to consider all the possibilities, Mr. Evered. She might be sitting in a lounge somewhere, still angry.”

“That’s what I’m talking about—go find her!”

“We’ll do that. We’ll start by paging her on the public address system.” LeSeur already had a pretty good idea of how things stood. The couple had hit middle age, were having trouble in their marriage, and took the crossing to try to put some magic back into life. Maybe the husband been caught boning someone at the office, or she herself had been tempted by a little afternoon delight with a neighbor. So they went on a romantic ocean voyage to patch things up, and instead of finding the magic ended up fighting their way across the Atlantic.

Evered frowned again. “It was just an argument, nothing serious. She’s never stayed out all night. Damn it, you need to get your people together and start a—”

“Mr. Evered,” LeSeur interrupted smoothly, “I wonder if you’d mind my saying something? To reassure you.”

“What?”

“I’ve been working aboard passenger ships for many years now. I see this kind of thing all the time. A couple quarrels, one steps out. It isn’t like your wife just walked out of your house, Mr. Evered. This is the Britannia , the largest passenger ship afloat. There are hundreds, thousands of things on board that could have distracted your wife. Perhaps she’s in one of the casinos—they’re open all night, you know. Maybe she’s in the spa. Or shopping. Perhaps she stopped someplace to rest her feet, then fell asleep—there are two dozen lounges on board. Or perhaps she ran into somebody she knew; a woman, perhaps, or . . .”

LeSeur let his voice trail off decorously, but he knew the meaning was clear.

“Or what? Are you implying that my wife might’ve met another man?” Evered rose from the bed in a sad, middle-aged fury.

LeSeur stood as well and smiled disarmingly. “Mr. Evered, you misunderstood me. I certainly didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort. It’s just that I’ve seen this happen a hundred times before, and it always works out in the end. Always. Your wife is just out enjoying herself. We’ll make a few announcements over the PA system and ask her to contact us or you. I guarantee you she’ll be back. Tell you what: why don’t you order breakfast for two, served en suite? I’ll bet you anything she’ll be here before it arrives. I’ll send up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, on the house.”

Evered was breathing heavily, making an effort to control himself.

“In the meantime, have you got a picture of your wife I could borrow? We have your ID photos from embarkation, of course, but it always helps to have more than one image. I’ll circulate them among our security staff, so they can keep an eye out.”

Evered turned away, walked into the bathroom. LeSeur heard a zipper opening, the sound of shuffling and rummaging. A minute later Evered emerged again, a photo in his hand.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Evered. The

Britannia

is probably one of the safest environments in the world.”

The man glared back at him. “You better damn well be right.”

LeSeur forced a smile. “Now, order that breakfast for two. And have a good day.” He let himself out of the stateroom.

In the hall, he paused to examine the photo. To his surprise, he found that Ms. Evered was something of a babe. Not outrageously stunning, of course, but he wouldn’t throw her out of bed: a dozen years younger than her husband, thin and blonde and stacked and wearing a two-piece swimsuit. Now he was more certain what had happened: the missus, pissed off, had met someone and was shacked up with him. He shook his head. These luxury liners were like one big floating orgy. Something happened to people when they got away from land—they started acting like a bunch of sybarites. If Mr. Evered knew what was good for him, he’d go out and do the same: there were plenty of rich widows aboard . . .

LeSeur chuckled quietly at the thought. Then he pocketed the picture. He’d be sure to send it down to security: after all, Kemper and his boys were connoisseurs of hot-looking women, and no doubt they’d appreciate an eyeful of the curvaceous Ms. Evered.

19

THE CHIEF OF SECURITY’S OFFICE WAS IN THE CENTRAL SECURITY complex, a tangle of low-ceilinged rooms on Deck A, at the Britannia ’s waterline. Asking directions, Pendergast passed first a manned checkpoint, then a series of holding cells, a locker room and showers, and then a large circular room filled with dozens of closed-circuit televisions cycling through hundreds, maybe thousands, of surveillance cameras sprinkled about the ship. Three bored security officers kept a listless eye on the walls of flat-panel screens. Beyond that stood a closed, faux-wood door marked Kemper . The ship’s legendary brightwork, Pendergast noticed, did not extend belowdecks.

He knocked.

“Enter,” came a voice.

Pendergast stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Patrick Kemper was behind his desk, ear to a telephone. He was a short, burly man with a large, heavy head, thick knotty ears, a brown hairpiece, and a perpetual put-upon expression stamped on his features. His office was remarkably bare: other than a framed picture of the Britannia and some internal North Star promotional posters, there were hardly any furnishings or decoration. The clock on the wall behind Kemper read twelve noon exactly.

Kemper put down the phone. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Pendergast sat in one of the two unpadded seats facing the desk. “You asked to see me?”

Kemper’s put-upon expression deepened. “Not exactly. Hentoff requested it.”

Pendergast winced at the accent. “So the casino manager has agreed to my little proposal? Excellent. I’ll be most happy to return the favor tonight, when the card counters turn out for their evening’s work.”

“You work out those details with Hentoff.”

“How kind.”

Kemper sighed. “I have a lot on my plate at the moment. So I hope we can keep this brief. What, exactly, do you need?”

“Access to the ship’s central safe.” Abruptly, the security chief’s weary attitude evaporated. “No frigging way.”

“Ah—and here I was under the misapprehension we had an agreement.”

Kemper’s look changed to disbelief. “Passengers are not authorized to enter the vault, much less snoop around in it.”