Dark Passage

NINETEEN

‘A few great magicians … have always realized that these ephemeral, temporary miracles could be restorative for their audiences. They listened for the brief pause between the end of the trick and the start of the applause – the split second when the entire audience shares a gasp of genuine amazement. At that moment there’s always been an honorable quality in illusion.’

Jim Steinmeyer, Hiding the Elephant,

Da Capo, 2004, p. 331

After I left David, I took the stairway down to deck six, waited in line for a cappuccino at Café Cino then carried it, casually sipping, as I wandered through the boutiques. I was heading for the art gallery.

Although a surprisingly large number of paintings had sold at the auction the previous day, the empty easels had been refilled, as if by magic, with equally unappealing offerings. I wondered if Nicole had artists chained in the bilges, churning them out.

She wasn’t there, but a young man who identified himself as Nicole’s assistant assured me that if I came back at two o’clock I could talk to Nicole directly.

‘I really, really like that Dutko over there,’ I gushed, pointing to a hideous oil of a dark-haired woman posing cheek-to-cheek with a horse to whom she bore an uncanny resemblance. ‘But Buddy would just murder me if I paid six hundred dollars for it.’

‘I’ll speak to Nicole about it. I’m sure she can do better than that.’ The man actually winked.

‘Thank you so much. It’s absolutely perfect for our family room.’

Back in our stateroom, I found Ruth sitting on her bed reading a book. When she saw me, she tossed the book to the floor. ‘There you are! It’s almost one o’clock! We were about to give up on you. I’m starving. Where do you want to go for lunch?’

I’d hustled and bustled so much that morning that the thought of fighting my way through the buffet lines at the Firebird, or trying to talk over the din, gave me instant indigestion. ‘Let’s be civilized and go up to the dining room,’ I said. ‘I’ll go collect the others.’

I stuck my head around the door. ‘Georgina?’

Breep-breep. Breep-breep. I nearly jumped out of my sandals. ‘What the heck is that?’

Georgina was rummaging through her cosmetic bag. ‘Get that for me, will you, Hannah?’

Ah, the phone. That white, ultra-mod moebius that sat on the desk in our cabins. I’d never heard it ring before.

I crossed to the desk and picked up. ‘Hello?’

‘I just wanted you to know I’m really glad you found your daughter,’ someone said.

‘I’m…’ I started to say, then thought better of it.

‘Look,’ the voice hurried on, low and urgent. ‘There’s something you need to… oh, shit!’

‘Who is this?’ I demanded, but the caller had already hung up.

‘Who was that?’ Georgina wanted to know.

I stared at the silent receiver, thinking that the voice sounded familiar. Male, for certain. Young, but not too young. Nervous. Connor Crawford? What was that all about?

Not wanting to send Georgina off on a killing spree, I shrugged and said, ‘Wrong number. Are you ready for lunch?’

‘Give us ten minutes,’ Georgina replied as she attacked her unruly mane with a hairbrush.

‘I’ll go ahead and get us a table, then,’ I told her. ‘Tell Ruth I’ll meet her there.’

Once I reached the dining room, I used the extra time to cruise among the tables, looking for David. I found him sitting alone at a table for two near a window, studying a menu. ‘May I?’ I pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.

‘I’m expecting Oprah Winfrey to join me,’ he quipped, looking up at me over the top of the menu.

‘I won’t stay long, then,’ I said with a smile.

David Warren, cracking a joke. Would wonders ever cease? ‘A burden shared is a burden halved,’ someone a lot wiser than I had once said. Perhaps I had lightened his. I hoped so.

I leaned across the table and told David about the mysterious phone call I’d just received.

‘Who do you think it was?’ he asked after I’d finished.

‘Not sure. It could have been that young Crawford boy, the one who got Julie drunk.’

David tented his fingers and tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘If the lad is interested in your niece, perhaps he’s been keeping tabs on her. It sounds like he may have seen something.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘Only one way to find out,’ David said.

‘I know. Track him down and ask him.’

‘There you are!’ It was Ruth.

‘Gotta go, David,’ I said, rising. ‘If you see him first…’ I didn’t need to finish the sentence.

‘I know what to do.’

Two minutes later, at my request, our waiter escorted Ruth and me to a table for four tucked away in a private corner near the sweeping staircase that led up to the balcony.

When Georgina and Julie finally joined us, I was happy to see that Julie’s appetite had returned. ‘I want one of everything,’ she told the waiter brightly, ‘but I guess I’ll settle for the moussaka. And the lamb!’

Between the avgolemono soup and the loukoumades, I updated my family on the information David and I had learned that morning. Up to a point, that is.

‘Julie,’ I said. ‘I think we have identified the man who attacked you. We’re not one hundred percent sure, but I was hoping that if you saw him again, you might be able to recognize him.’

Julie lowered her fork. ‘I don’t know, Aunt Hannah. It still seems all fuzzy, like a really bad dream.’

Georgina reached out and seized her daughter’s hand. ‘I don’t know, either, Hannah. I’m not so sure I want to put Julie through another ordeal. Hasn’t she suffered enough?’

Ruth stared at Georgina as if she’d just sprouted horns. ‘If Julie can positively identify the man, we can put the bastard away. You want him wandering the streets, Georgina? Preying on other unsuspecting young victims?’

‘Well, no. But…’

‘It’s OK, Mom.’ Julie turned to me. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

After lunch, we returned to our staterooms. At my instruction, Julie changed out of her shorts and tank top into a conservative pair of jeans and a ‘C is for Cure’ pink ribbon T-shirt borrowed from her mother. With her hair tucked into a ball cap, and a pair of dark glasses, I didn’t think Westfall would recognize her unless he got a close look, and I didn’t intend for that to happen.

When we arrived at the art gallery around a quarter after two, the close-out sale was in full swing. Nicole’s assistant sat in a chair behind the desk, writing up sales slips and wearing out his smile. Nicole herself was loudly explaining the investment value of a Thomas Kinkade signed and numbered limited-edition print and hand-embellished canvas called ‘Gingerbread Cottage’ to a woman leaning on a walker. I’d seen similar prints in a gallery in Annapolis for around two hundred and fifty dollars, so I hoped this woman wouldn’t shell out the five hundred dollars Nicole was asking for it.

Of Nicole’s husband, there was no sign.

‘Spooky,’ Ruth declared, indicating the Kinkade. ‘If you were Hansel and Gretel, would you go into that cottage? There’s a hellish glow behind every window. Something diabolical is going on in there, you just know it.’

We wandered on. Ruth kept us entertained by making up imaginary captions for the paintings as we browsed. ‘Randy later regretted mating his Rottweiler with an ostrich,’ she observed. Or, ‘And they said radiation from the H-bomb wouldn’t affect us at all,’ helping to keep the mood light, even though we knew it could be deadly serious the moment Jack Westfall decided to make an appearance.

‘What’s the orange dot mean?’ Julie asked as we pretended to admire one of the many renderings of seascapes in the Eastaugh Collection.

‘I think it means it’s already been sold,’ Georgina said. ‘Honest to God, can you believe some of this crap?’ We’d reached ‘Wild Girls,’ the painting of the woman with her horse, and I noticed with amusement that it carried an orange dot and would be going to a good home. Ruth contemplated it for a moment, then said, ‘Although she put on a brave face, Miranda was not happy with her mail order dentures.’

It was too perfect. I had to laugh.

‘Oh, that’s so cute!’ Julie pointed to a painting of a cat dressed as a ballerina. She flounced over, leaned closer, moved her sunglasses to her forehead and squinted at the price tag. ‘It’s two hundred dollars! No way!’

‘Way,’ I said.

Julie favored me with a grin. ‘If I had a hundred dollars…’ In mid-sentence, she froze. With one quick motion she flipped the sunglasses down over her eyes, did an about-face and sidled up to her mother. ‘That’s him,’ she croaked. ‘Don’t look now, but oh my God, I think that’s the guy!’

Georgina tucked her chin down, kept her voice low. ‘I need to get Julie out of here.’

‘Mom, mom, I can’t breathe!’

‘Hannah!’ Georgina whispered urgently.

‘Just wait until we can confirm exactly who Julie’s looking at,’ I whispered back. I swung around slowly, casually.

Jack Westfall had made a poor wardrobe choice that morning. Had he shown up at the gallery in a tux, or even a bathing suit, it’s possible Julie wouldn’t have recognized him. But there he stood, schmoozing with a potential buyer, wearing a black polo shirt with a little squiggle on the pocket. Not an alligator, nor a polo pony; not a penguin, nor Pegasus. Not a brand name owned by millions. Oh, no. It was an image I’d seen before – on posters, on signs, in the catalog, on bid sheets. Westfall wore a company shirt, with an Eastaugh Galleries logo.

And if I had anything to say about it, his goose was about to be cooked.

‘Take Julie out the back way, through the photo gallery,’ I ordered. ‘You won’t run into him there.’

For once, Georgina didn’t give me her famous well-aren’t-you-the-bossy-boots glare. She wrapped her arm around Julie’s shoulder and the two of them strolled off into the photo gallery. Not until I’d lost sight of Georgina’s red and white shirt disappearing into the crowds that were mobbing the boutiques just beyond, taking advantage of the half-price sales, did I dare to turn around and look at Westfall again.

‘Ruth, I think I need to kill him.’

‘I will not stop you, Hannah.’

Jack Westfall moved with ease among the passengers, smiling at one here, shaking another hand there. My sister and I watched as he paused to point out a gouache of an owl camouflaged in a tree to a well-coifed blonde, resting his hand lightly on her back as he did so.

‘We are looking at a man who raped at least one girl, kidnapped another, and almost certainly murdered David Warren’s daughter. That’s what a murderer looks like, Ruth, should you ever need to paint a picture of one.’

‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered as Westfall and the blonde moved on to the next painting.

I reached into my pocket for my iPhone. ‘Stand over there, next to that horrible owl thing.’

Ruth looked puzzled, but did as I asked.

‘Now smile!’ I instructed.

Ruth posed in front of the painting, her best ‘say cheese’ face obediently in place.

‘Turn around, dammit,’ I muttered under my breath. After fewer than ten seconds, my wish was granted. Jack Westfall turned, abandoned the blonde, and smiled at someone new just behind me. I moved the iPhone subtly to the right, gave it time to refocus and snapped the bastard’s picture. ‘Got it, Ruth!’ I waved gaily.

Ruth hastily rejoined me. ‘What next, Hannah?’

‘We’re going to tell Officer Martin, that’s step number one. Now that Julie’s identified Westfall as her attacker, hopefully they’ll take him into custody.’

‘Well,’ Ruth said. ‘At least Westfall’s not going anywhere.’

‘True, but I’d feel better if he didn’t have the run of the ship. If he knew that Julie recognized him…’ I shivered at the thought. ‘Come with me to the security office?’

‘Of course,’ my sister said, and linked her arm with mine as we walked out of the gallery.

We stood like statues in the lobby, waiting for the elevator that would take us to the security office on deck eight. When the elevator doors opened and Officer Ben Martin stepped out, I nearly fell over. He didn’t see us, but veered to the right, striding purposefully toward the piano bar.

‘Officer Martin!’ I called.

Martin performed a neat, military about face. ‘Mrs Ives. How’s your niece this afternoon?’

‘She’s out and about,’ I told him. ‘In fact, that’s what we were coming to talk to you about.’ I touched Ruth on the shoulder. ‘You remember my sister, Ruth.’

Martin stood at parade rest, his hands clasped behind his back. He bobbed his head. ‘I do. Sorry it was under less than ideal circumstances.’

Pleasantries over, I got right to the point. ‘My sisters and I wanted to take advantage of the fifty-percent-off sales, and we just happened to wander into the art gallery. Julie was looking at a painting when Jack Westfall came into the gallery. Do you know Westfall?’

Martin nodded. ‘Very well. Married to the gallery owner, Nicole Westfall.’

I glanced around the elevator lobby to make sure nobody was in earshot, lowered my voice. ‘Julie recognized Westfall as the man who abducted her from Breakers!’

Martin couldn’t have looked more surprised if I had pulled a baseball bat out of my handbag and bashed him over the head with it. When he spoke again, his voice was low, urgent. ‘Mrs Ives, I don’t mean to question your niece, but when I last saw her, she was practically unconscious, and she stated – for the record – that she didn’t remember what the man looked like.’

‘That’s true,’ I admitted, ‘but what else did she say? Do you remember how she described what her attacker was wearing?’

‘Black shirt, black cap.’

‘And?’

Martin grimaced. ‘What is this? Twenty questions?’

Ruth was quick to refresh his memory. ‘She said it was a polo shirt, with a squiggle on the pocket.’

Martin’s head ping-ponged toward Ruth. ‘Don’t all polo shirts have some sort of logo on the pocket?’

It ping-ponged back to me when I said, ‘Some. But if you go to the art gallery right now, you’ll see Jack Westfall wearing a black polo shirt with a unique squiggle on the pocket.’ I drew a representation of the logo in the air with my finger. ‘It’s a stylized E and a G floating on top of a wave. It’s the Eastaugh Gallery logo, Officer Martin. When Julie saw Westfall wearing that shirt it scared her so much she started to hyperventilate. Her mother had to take her back to the cabin.’

Officer Martin stroked his chin with a thumb and forefinger. ‘You’ll want me to arrest this man, I suppose.’

‘Of course I want you to arrest him!’ I sputtered, then lowered my voice a few octaves. ‘If for no other reason than he kidnapped and assaulted my niece. But there’s also the rape of Noelle Bursky and the murder of Charlotte Warren on Voyager to consider. Jack Westfall is the common denominator.

‘Officer Martin, I don’t have access to your crime reports,’ I forged on, ‘but I’ll bet you a million dollars – that’s how sure I am of this – that if you examine cases of rape of teenage girls on Phoenix ships over the course of the past few years, you will discover that the majority of them occurred on ships where Eastaugh Gallery was the art gallery concessioner and furthermore, that the rapes happened, without exception, at the same time as the art gallery auction was taking place.’

It was a long speech, and I stopped to take a breath.

‘Jesus,’ Martin said. ‘How did you…? Never mind. Warren, right?’

But wait, there’s more, I thought. I explained my suspicions about the Ketamine, and how Kira’s evidence suggested it would have been possible to introduce the drug into Julie’s drink using a straw. Knowing that the straw would had to have been prepared ahead of time, I added, ‘I’ll bet if you search his room right now, you’ll find evidence of that. Ketamine. Straws. Probably hidden in his underwear drawer.’

For the first time since I began talking, Martin hauled out a notebook and jotted something down.

‘So, what are you going to do now?’ Ruth wanted to know.

Martin tucked the notebook back into his breast pocket, his face immobile, grave. ‘As I explained to your sister earlier, I am not a cop. I can’t search a passenger’s room without good reason, and I have no authority to make arrests. I’m sorry, ladies, but the best I can do is take down what you’ve told me and pass it on to the F.B.I. I am simply not equipped to carry out a proper investigation. I don’t have the trained staff, or the facilities. They do.’

‘And by then, the evidence will be gone…’ Ruth let the thought die.

I’d already been down that path with Officer Martin. I knew it was a dead end. What we needed at that moment simply wasn’t in the man’s job description. ‘I’m disappointed, of course,’ I told him, ‘but I understand that you’re just doing your job, and I appreciate the time you’ve given us so far.’

To give him credit, Martin looked genuinely sorry when we thanked him and said goodbye.

‘Thanks for nothing,’ Ruth muttered as we watched Martin disappear into the piano bar. ‘What’s next, Hannah?’

‘I think it’s on to Plan B,’ I said.