Crude Carrier (12 page)

He wasn't sure which activity Boggs meant. “I sees me duty and I does it, Cap'n.”

“Um, yes.” The lanky man fell silent. Across the wardroom at the bar, the junior engineering officers murmured among themselves, voices blurring beneath the hiss of the ventilation system. Usually, the room was busy for about twenty minutes after supper, and then off-duty officers wandered back to their quarters, leaving the vacant room as oppressive and impersonal as a hotel lobby late at night for any who might remain. Occasionally, the younger men would gather to talk and laugh for a while in the warmer space of one or the other's cabins. Most often, the men were solitary, as if they saw one another enough during working hours and had heard each other's stories too often. But tonight the first mate's accident invaded routine, and the younger officers found they had things to talk about after all.

“The company has an agent aboard. One of our officers.”

The sudden words startled Raiford. “What's that?”

“An agent. Shipping companies often detail one of the second or third officers to keep an eye on their vessels. To report on how well or ill the captain does his job. To give accounts for any delays in operation.”

“I see,” said Raiford. But he didn't.

“I'm not supposed to know who it is, of course.”

“Ah. Well, it's not me, Captain. The only thing I know about ship operations is whether we're still afloat. We are, so I figure you're doing a good job.”

Boggs nodded, the deep wrinkles at the corners of his puffy gray eyes pinching tighter. But it wasn't from smiling. Rather, he stared hard at something in the dark green carpet. “I know who our company spy is.” His voice held a shrug. “He has his job, I have mine.”

“I guess that's the way to look at it.”

Another nod. “He does it for the bit extra in his pay envelope, of course. That, and a leg up on command when it comes time to strike for master.”

Raiford nodded again.

“The owners reward loyalty. Want people to think they do, anyway. Big investment, a ship. A captain goes a long way toward making that investment pay off or not.” For the first time, Boggs looked directly at Raiford, his gray eyes calculating something. “Suppose you had to choose, Mr. Raiford, between loyalty toward your rank and its responsibilities or being made redundant. Or between loyalty to your owners and the chance for a handsome bit of cash for yourself. Which way would you go?”

“Any man can be tempted. Depends on how much cash, I suppose.”

“And on what the owners might want one to do for it.” The coffee had stopped steaming and Boggs carefully sipped a bit of it. The cup chattered slightly as he set it back on the saucer. “Married, are you? With children?”

“Widowed. One daughter.”

“Hm. Eleven months at sea year after year is hard on family life. Calls for a lot of sacrifices. From the man as well as the woman—both give up a lot.”

“I can understand that.”

Something in the remark stung the man. “You can, can you? You can understand that, can you?”

“Yes.”

The captain's eyes shifted from Raiford and back to the carpet. The young officers at the bar began to fall silent, first one and then another yawning widely. Hansford drained his pint and nodded good night. As he left, he glanced toward Raiford and the captain. The others soon followed, leaving the wardroom empty except for the two seated men.

“Mr. Rossi's death was an accident. You know that, don't you?”

“That's what people tell me.”

“Well, it was an accident. Shouldn't have happened but it did.”

“I've heard he either fell down a ladder or fell between this ship and another one.”

Boggs stared at him for a second time, seeking something as he looked in the big man's eyes. “A ladder. He fell down a ladder.”

“That's what Hercules Maritime told his parents. I guess that's how it happened.”

“Yes. It is.” Boggs took another tiny sip. “Mr. Pressler told me about the fight on the bridge this afternoon. Being a supernumerary and unfamiliar with the laws of the sea, you may not realize that in striking a superior officer you have committed an act of mutiny.” He set the cup down with a click and cleared his throat. “As captain of this vessel in international waters, it is my duty to put mutineers in custody for trial in a suitable court.” He paused, not for Raiford to reply but to let the words sink in.

But Raiford wasn't playing that game. “What about the sailor Pressler kicked? He almost killed him. What kind of act is that, Captain?”

“Any sailor on this vessel who wishes to complain about the actions of an officer can make that complaint to me. That is standard shipboard procedure and the procedure you should have followed.” A hint of anger tightened the baggy flesh under Boggs's eyes and straightened him in the chair. “As captain, I decide whether and what kind of reprimand may be called for.” Then the eyes wavered again. “However, Mr. Pressler has decided not to lodge a complaint against you. You will be leaving ship when Mr. Pierce returns, anyway.” A deep breath and the eyes looked back at Raiford. “There will be no charges against you provided you say nothing about the incident to anyone. Is that clear?”

Raiford was damned glad he would be leaving the ship and only wished it would be in hours instead of days. “As far as I'm concerned, it didn't happen.”

“Fine. I've told you there's a company agent aboard. If he hears you talk about the incident and reports it, I will be forced to act as a captain should, regardless of Mr. Pressler's wishes. I will bring you up before captain's mast.”

Raiford didn't know what that meant, but it sounded like Captain Bligh keelhauling somebody. “As long as Pressler doesn't go around half killing the crew.”

“I'm sure the first mate will be more conscious of his behavior. And of your presence.” The tall, thin man stood abruptly. “Good night, Mr. Raiford.”

“Good night, Captain.”

XV

Julie was finishing her late lunch when she felt the buzz of the cell phone clipped to her waist. Its small screen indicated a ten-digit number, probably a London telephone, but she did not know all the area codes. Paying her bill, she found a corner in the hotel lobby to return the call. A male voice on the other end quickly answered, “Yes?”

“I received a page from this number. Are you trying to reach me?”

A brief pause. “Is this Miss Campbell? The Marine Carriers Worldwide representative?”

She did not recognize the voice. It was slightly clipped and the vowels shaded toward a rounded sound.

“I'm Miss Campbell.” That much was true. Mostly. “Who is this, please?”

“My name is Wilson. Mr. Wood of Hercules Maritime gave me your name. I wonder if I might trouble you for a few moments of your time.”

“Certainly.”

“I hope you don't mind.”

“I don't mind, Mr. Wilson.”

“That's very good of you, Miss Campbell. I'm calling from aboard the
Aurora Victorious
. It's about Mr. Raiford. I believe you received a telephone call from him a few days ago?”

“Has something happened?”

“There has been an accident, I'm afraid. With serious injuries.”

“Oh, God! What … ?”

“I'm not certain of the full extent of his injuries, but we should know soon. We're in contact with the company medical officer ashore. But I hope you won't mind providing some information to facilitate his medical treatment. You see, he listed no next of kin on his employment form, so Mr. Wood instructed me to call you.”

“What do you need?”

“Was Mr. Raiford employed prior to joining the
Aurora Victorious
? A previous employer might have his medical records, you see. In an emergency such as this, the medical people need the most complete information as soon as possible. Blood type, allergies to medications, history of previous injuries, that sort of thing.” The voice added, “It's vital for the doctor to know, Miss Campbell.”

“His medical enrollment card should be in his wallet with his health provider's telephone number. They'll have his medical history.”

“It's not there, ma'am. We've looked. To access his medical records, we need his previous employer's name. And as quickly as possible!”

“The Touchstone A—” A tiny electric shock silenced Julie as she realized she might have spoken too soon.

“That's in the States? In Denver?”

“What happened to him, Mr. Wilson? May I speak with him?”

“Thank you, Miss Campbell.” The line went dead.

Quickly, she dialed the operator and, after giving her own number for billing purposes, learned that the number she had called was to a pay telephone near Piccadilly Circus. She dialed the marine operator and repeated the call numbers her father had given her for the
Aurora Victorious
, specifying person-to-person only. Waiting for the call back, she sometimes walked, sometimes stood and gazed through the lobby windows at the flow of automobile traffic outside. When her telephone finally rang, she flipped it open. “Dad?”

“This is marine operator sixty-two, ma'am. There is no Mr. Raiford at that number.”

“There has to be—it's a ship!”

“They inform me there's no one by that name at that number, ma'am. I'm sorry. Would you like to try another number?”

“… No.”

Damn. Damn her father for going so cavalierly into danger. Damn herself for not thinking before stupidly answering that man's question. And damn everybody and everything because she felt the stifling, icy grip of fear and the knowledge that although she had to do something quickly to help her father, she had no idea what the something was.

Stanley Mack's voice lost it grogginess as he tried to fit pieces together. “The man who called you wasn't aboard the
Aurora
?”

“A pay phone near Piccadilly Circus.”

“But he knew your father telephoned you from the ship—that's most likely where he got your number. So he must have some contact with the vessel.”

Julie had already figured that out. “Mack, I need to know how I can reach him. I've tried all the numbers he gave me: the marine telephone, fax, e-mail, his cell phone—everything except carrier pigeon. I'm afraid I messed things up badly!”

“Slow down—tell me everything the way it happened.”

She went through the details: the murder of Pierce and his family, the telephone voice of the man who called himself Wilson, what he'd asked and what she'd answered. “I think he was trying to determine if my dad is an operative, Mack. He recognized Touchstone Agency's name. He knew it was in Denver.”

“Yeah.” Then, “And they say he's not aboard ship?”

“The marine operator did. No one on the ship answers anything.”

“And he used Wood's name?”

“Yes.”

“That means he has a contact at Hercules. … All right. Let me see what I can do through Marine Carriers Worldwide. They can ask to speak with the electronics officer. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Julie hung up. Wilson. The man called Wilson—and he knew Julie had interviewed Wood. Now he knew that her father was with the Touchstone Agency. And knowing whom he worked for, “Wilson” could guess why he was aboard the
Aurora Victorious
. Julie felt that slight physical swirl when facts suddenly tilted toward alignment. They had gotten rid of Herberling, possibly to erase any link between the
Golden Dawn
and the
Aurora Victorious
. And Pierce? The call from this Wilson had come around noon. If Wilson had driven the fifty or so miles to Rochester by, say, five or six or even seven this morning, he could easily have made it back as far as Piccadilly Circus by noon. Silence Pierce before Julie reached him. Do it quickly. No time to wait for Pierce's wife and child to be off to school or work because Julie could be on her way to talk to the man after interviewing Wood. Kill Herberling, kill Pierce, kill the wife and child unlucky enough to witness that murder. And now the killer knew that her father was an investigator. Julie felt so stupid!

The hope was that her father would be on his guard. That he would be fully aware of the suspicion and dangers he faced. He could take care of himself. Of course he could take care of himself—it wasn't his first undercover work, and the man who called wasn't aboard ship with him. Even though her father had often challenged common sense, as if his size and strength alone would be enough to lift him out of any hole, he wasn't careless. Supremely self-confident, maybe, but not careless. Those and similar thoughts offered hope against the cold knowledge that her father, so far away, was isolated with no way out.

She told herself that his mind would be working just as hers was. And if the ship-to-shore telephone was closed to him … If he wasn't injured and could move around the vessel … The office e-mail in Denver! If he had access to the ship's computer, he would use e-mail! Or the fax. But when she was back in her room at her laptop and she finally reached Touchstone's e-mail address, the only messages were routine. Irritably, she answered what demanded reply and trashed the rest. Then she spread out her notes on Herberling's file and started to comb through the information once more, focusing her thoughts on doing something constructive in an effort to deny the tug of worry.

Julie had packed abstracts of the file's contents but left the original documents in the office safe. Now she realized she should have photocopied everything and, despite its bulk, crammed it into her flight bag. But she had not. The complete documents sat safe and secure in Denver. And unavailable.

Reading through what she had, she added what she could recall from the file. She also considered the information from the different angle that Wilson's call suggested. And that was enough to give her a thread to pull.

She tried Stanley Mack again. He had not yet had a reply from Marine Carriers.

“Mack, have you come up with anything new on Captain Boggs.”

“A little. You think you can reach Boggs to ask about Raiford?”

“Not likely. My guess is the ship's not answering any caller they don't recognize. Do the police have anything new on Herberling's murder?”

“Nothing.” Then he added, “The
Aurora Victorious
and the
Golden Dawn
—they figure in Bert's killing as well as in the Pierce murders, don't they?”

“That's what I think, too. Listen: Herberling had a list of five names and addresses in his
Golden Dawn
files, and he drew circles around three of them: Pierce, Boggs, and one other name—the chief engineer, I think. Can you verify that from your copy?”

“Let me pull the file.” Then, “Yeah—three. The chief engineer's Bowman. The two not circled are Pressler and Shockley. What, you got a photographic memory?”

For a few things, and not always the most important. “Any idea why he would mark those names?”

Mack thought a moment. “On a list like this, he usually circled things he wanted to look into. When he'd done it, he'd draw a big
X
through the circle. That way he could tell at a glance how far he'd got.”

“I don't remember any
X
s.”

“Nope. Means he didn't get to whatever,” said Mack.

“You sent me photocopies of everything in his file, right? Nothing left out?”

“You got it all. Why?”

“Braithwaite—Hercules Maritime's London agent—told me he faxed Herberling a message concerning the
Aurora Victorious
. But it wasn't among the stuff you sent me.”

“Braithwaite? The
Aurora
? Just a minute.” Another hiss of empty air. “No, nothing like that in these papers. What did his message say?”

“That he was unable to give Herberling the information he'd asked for about the
Aurora
's route. That Herberling would have to ask Hercules Maritime for that.”

“There's nothing like that here. You got a copy of everything I have.”

Which was puzzling, because Braithwaite had given Julie photocopies of everything he'd sent Herberling, including that message. “But Herberling's file contained that list of
Aurora
's officers, right? As well as the one with Touchstone's name?”

“No—actually I didn't find those two papers in the file. They were in the vest pocket of his coat. He'd hung his coat on a hook, and his glasses case had pushed them down to the bottom of that pocket. The forensics team found them and gave them to me with the rest of his personal effects when they finished investigating the crime scene. I just figured they were part of the
Golden Dawn
file and included them with the papers I sent you.” Mack went on more slowly, “Apparently, Bert's killer found Braithwaite's note in the file and took it. But he missed the ones in Bert's coat pocket.” Then he added, “And I was dumb enough to miss their importance.”

Julie was well aware that she made her share of mistakes, too, but what counted now was correcting them. “There has to be a link between the two ships, Mack. Maybe crew qualifications. Maybe Rossi had a false officer's ticket, and that led Herberling to question the qualifications of the
Golden Dawn
's officers. If any of them were unqualified, and if anyone in Hercules Maritime's home office knew that—Wood, say—”

“Right, Julie! It would negate their claim on the
Golden Dawn
's loss.”

“And suppose the officers of the
Aurora Victorious
became subject to subpoena? Suppose Rossi was called to testify that his papers were fake, or even that Hercules Maritime or Wood knew that when he signed on the
Aurora
?”

“Oh, yeah!”

Qualified maritime officers of junior rank, Julie had been told over and over, were hard to find, especially for tanker work. Yet insurance companies demanded that ships have fully certified crews in order to be covered. It was a motive. There were still big holes in the theory—the premeditation angle, for instance, and the murders of Pierce and his family. But a vague shape was emerging, and it reinforced a tie between the two ships. “What did you find out about Captain Boggs?”

“Like I said, only a little. His credit reports go back five years, to when he started with Hercules Maritime. If he had trouble before that, the records don't show it. Nothing overdue in the past five years, no loan apps at all in the last three years. Savings and checking at Barclay's, no overdrafts. House in Hampstead Heath bought three years ago and payments up to date. I don't have the price, but my London agent says there are some very nice homes in that area, and Boggs's payments are two thousand, fifty-three pounds a month. No tax liens. Plays the horses now and then at the neighborhood bookie's. No police record; not even a drunk driving charge. Two children, both grown and gone. Lives alone with his wife. When he's ashore, that is. Wife active in church. Has her own paid-up accounts at Fortnum & Mason, Clarke's, Sainsbury's, Harrow's of Northgate, and a couple other places.”

“Not hurting for money, then.”

“Quite comfortable. According to his taxable pay from Hercules Maritime, his house payments push him to the edge of his income. But if he has a little extra from somewhere—luck on the ponies now and then, or if his wife has money—he's not overextended.”

“I thought he had been out of work for a long time.”

“But no records from that time. If he was in debt, he's paid off what he owed and had the files purged.”

“If I need more on Boggs, can I use your agent here?”

“Audrey Bennett. She's expensive, though.”

“I'll check with my client before I get in touch with her.”

Mack gave her Audrey Bennett's London number, and Julie gave him her hotel's telephone and fax numbers.