P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

“I may have experienced a slight lapse in judgment,” Jordan admitted.

“You think?” Darcy sat down across from her. “Listen, you really need to back off. Next time I might not have any choice but to arrest you. If he hadn’t manhandled you, we’d be down at the station right now, swearing out a warrant.”

“You’re right,” Jordan agreed, realizing how much the encounter had shaken her up. “It won’t happen again.”

“Yes, it will,” Jase said. “You won’t stop.”

“Hey,” she protested, surprised.

He gave her a disgusted look. “What? I’ve already talked to you about this, and so has Darcy. But it didn’t deter you, did it?”

“I honestly didn’t think—”

He rolled right over her. “What if that jerk had discovered you in the hotel? He might have beaten you up, or worse. For that matter, what if he murdered Holt? You could have been confronted by a killer.” He turned to Darcy. “Does Walters have any weapons registered in his name?”

“Not that I know of, but it’s easy enough to buy an illegal one. We’ve got any number of survivalist-militia-type enclaves just outside of town. Those folks would be glad to help him put his hands on a weapon.”

“Do you really consider him a suspect?” Jordan asked Darcy.

“I hadn’t until now,” Darcy answered. “I have to wonder what’s got him so hot and bothered about those papers, but it’s not like they’re worth all that much. I’ve seen people murder for fifty bucks, but in my opinion, this is just Clive being Clive.”

Jordan thought about it and agreed with her assessment. The guy was paranoid but that didn’t mean he was also a killer. Most paranoids didn’t escalate to murder. “Those papers are nothing more than a ledger of accounts showing the cargo of the Henrietta Dale the night she ran aground. The ledger itself can’t be worth more than a few thousand at auction. Certainly not enough to go postal over.” An idea occurred to her. “Just in case, can you search his hotel, to see if the murder weapon turns up?”

“Not without probable cause,” Jase said. “And she doesn’t have it.”

Darcy snorted. “Hell, given your questionable behavior over the last twenty-four hours, Jordan, I’ve got a better chance of obtaining a search warrant for Longren House than I do for the Cosmopolitan Hotel.” She rubbed the back of her neck, looking tired. “I’ll go talk to Walters tomorrow after he’s calmed down a bit. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he won’t have an alibi for the time of Holt’s murder.”

“You’d better hope those papers turn up,” Jase told Jordan. “He’ll be on a mission to prove you stole them until they do.”

JORDAN stayed long enough to finish her meal, which was now cold, then left for home. The sun had set, and a sharp breeze was coming out of the south off the water. The neighborhood was quiet; most people were already inside for the evening. Yards were bathed in deepening twilight; lights shone through windows here and there, providing extra illumination as she walked the few blocks between the pub and Longren House. Her footsteps echoed on the pavement as she made her way down the street.

The house was silent and dark when she entered; evidently everyone had left for the day. No ghosts made their presence known. Still unsettled by Walters’s accusations, Jordan flipped on the hall light and wandered back to the kitchen. She pulled a can of dog food from the cupboard, putting its contents on a plate for Malachi.

“Seriously cool defense of me back there, pal,” she told him, running a hand down his back.

He looked up from his food, wagging his tail.

“That guy is certifiable,” she said.

“Roooo.”

“You’ve got to wonder what’s so damn important about those papers that he would make such a stink,” she said thoughtfully. “And even more to the point, where the hell are they? I don’t have them. And they don’t seem to be in Holt’s house.”

Evidently Malachi didn’t share her curiosity, because he didn’t respond. Instead, he focused on eating his food.

Jase and Darcy were both clearly cranky with her over her meddling. And so far, in one day, she’d managed to get herself shoved down a flight of steps and manhandled. And she knew little more than when the day had started. She had to admit, her detecting skills were pretty abysmal.

Restless, she wandered over to the stove to put on a kettle for tea. Finding a clean mug, she dropped a bag of chamomile into it, thinking it would help her get a solid night’s sleep, then sat at the kitchen table to wait for the water to boil.

Earlier, she’d dropped the jumbled stack of Seavey’s personal papers there, meaning to go through them when she had the chance and arrange them by date. They sat where she’d left them, still needing to be carefully reorganized and placed in some kind of protective, acid-free cardboard box, if she could find one. Obviously, even though Holt hadn’t cared if the papers continued to deteriorate, walking around with them in their current, exposed state wasn’t exactly good for them. Several pages now had grass stains and dirt smudges, and some of the ink had smeared where it had come into contact with the moisture on the grass.

The kettle whistled, and she got up to fix her tea. Mug in hand, she walked back over to the table, focusing on Seavey’s blurred longhand script on the topmost page. Sam Garrett’s name caught her eye. Carrying her tea in one hand and the papers in her other, Jordan headed upstairs to her bedroom.

Deadly Force

Cosmopolitan Hotel

July 13, 1893

MICHAEL was still drinking his last cup of coffee, newspaper in hand, when he heard footsteps approach in the hall outside his suite. A fist pounded on the door of the sitting room where he took his breakfast each morning, a jarring intrusion in the peace and quiet of his routine. He frowned; his men knew better than to interrupt him at this hour.

Ever since he’d pulled himself out of the gutters of New York City, he’d made a point of taking time each day to appreciate the luxuries he was now able to afford. As part of the renovation he’d undertaken after purchasing the Cosmopolitan, he’d converted his sitting room into the style of the Turkish smoking room. Rich, golden, inlaid mahogany panels lined the walls, topped by warm white friezes sculpted in a Middle Eastern motif. Heavy maroon brocade curtains hung from the tall windows, gathered with twisted cords at frequent intervals and puddling on the hardwood floor, framed lace sheers hand-sewn in intricate patterns. Eastern rugs in swirls of dark colors graced the floor. When he relaxed in this room, he was able to temporarily push away the harsher realities of his workdays, and sometimes even the lingering grief.

The knock came again, this time more insistent. He folded the paper and laid it beside the remains of his breakfast, impatiently commanding, “Enter.”

Sam Garrett opened the door, dressed in soiled work clothes and boots, a heavy canvas sailor’s sea bag slung over his shoulder. He waited, his expression sardonic, for Remy to let him pass on Michael’s nod, then walked over and dumped the sea bag on the dining table, causing the fine china dishes to clatter. He tossed the key to the bag’s brass bar lock to Michael.

“Delivered as promised.” His tone was insolent. Without waiting for an invitation, he took a seat across the table, his soiled clothes probably leaving stains on the fine silk fabric.

After calmly pressing a napkin to his lips, Michael stood and fitted the key into the padlock, then removed the bar, opening the bag to peer inside. Watertight tins filled the sea bag to overflowing. He broke the wax seal on one to open it and examine the individual balls of brown-colored opium within.