Crude Carrier (15 page)

“You've gone around the Cape in July and August with the overload?”

“No—no. Not around the Cape. Off-load to another tanker before the Cape.”

“Did Mr. Rossi know about this?”

Another shrug. “Officer.”

Sam had more complaints on his list, most of which Raiford could make out: the chief steward took kickbacks from crewmen for assigning good jobs; the new third officer, Li, was from Mainland China and didn't like Taiwanese; the crewmen weren't allowed to go ashore at any port until the three-year contract was up; sickness or injury meant docked pay or abandonment; Captain Boggs never listened to crew complaints; one man who tried to complain, a long time ago, was beaten so badly by Pressler that he had been left ashore in St. Croix.

“How much do you get paid?”

“Very good pay: bunk, food, and thirty dollars every month.” The shadowy hands waved helplessly. “But only ten dollars a month goes home. Ship's fees and crimp take alla rest.”

Raiford felt a mixture of guilt, anger, and depression. Guilt because as an officer he was treated like a human while these men were exploited like animals. Anger at the greed and contempt the vessel's owners had for those who risked their lives serving the owners' profit. Depression because there wasn't much he could do about changing a system where the seamen had no justice to appeal to, no representation with the ship's owners. They came from a part of the world where others would quickly and gratefully take their places.

“I'll try to think of something, Sam. I don't know what I can do to help you out, but I'll try.”

Later in his cabin, listening to the silence of the deeply laden vessel and feeling the rhythmic, gentle tremor of the bulkheads as the ship surged through pushing seas, Raiford's mind was divided between Sam's plea for help—“Mr. Raifah, you are a good man. You can help sailors, yes?”—and the implications of the overloaded tanks. The latter point was his job, but the stories of unfair treatment kept breaking into his concentration. He again saw Pressler's shoe slam into Sam writhing on the deck. There should be something he could do, some way of helping these men at least get the little money they earned. But whatever it was—if it was—would have to come second.

Gradually, his anger settled and he could work through the implications of the new Plimsoll line. Using what he remembered of the data programmed into the Lodicator, Raiford made a few estimates of tonnage—volume, weight, and value. The rough sum his pencil came up with explained a lot. Instead of dumping around eight hundred tons of oil for a paltry value of, say, $405,000, the inclusion of the secret overload might triple the amount of oil off-loaded. In fact, he bet that new amount would be as much as twenty-seven thousand tons: the capacity of the smaller tanker he had programmed earlier. Figure nine barrels per ton at … again, call it $100 a barrel for easy arithmetic … that came to … $24,300,000! Raiford carefully refigured his calculations and then went through the math again, counting zeros and commas one more time. At a bare minimum of six barrels per ton, it came to $16,200,000. Even to a big spender like Raiford, that was a hell of a lot of money—enough to make St. Sebastian join the archery club! At $150 a barrel, it would be half again as much! And if the oil went to a port in China or Japan, the Asian surcharge would bring in even more millions. From what Sam said, the Plimsoll mark had been moved three or four voyages ago. Call it three offloads in the last year and a half, and it added up to at least forty-eight to seventy-two million dollars. If the port inspector in the Persian Gulf was paid off—and Raiford figured there was enough spare change for that purpose—then the only record of the stolen oil would be in any logbook kept by the captain of that second vessel. Which, if offered for any official inspection, could be doctored or the inspector bought. That left the only hard evidence of the larceny to be a crewman willing to testify to a midsea transfer. Raiford could guess what the life expectancy of that crewman might be.

XIX

“Nasty cut.”

The glare of the examining light struck deep into the sliced and gaping flesh of Julie's forearm. It showed a pink-and-white tangle like a fresh slab of marbled, raw beef. But there was surprisingly little blood.

The Pakistani doctor straightened from his inspection of her arm. “Went lengthwise down the muscle, didn't it? Just missed the nerves and veins and arteries—you were most fortunate there, miss. Not as deep as the bone, but it will require sutures rather than clamps. It's going to leave something of a scar. But I must say, you certainly did a neat job. Use a scalpel?”

“No. It was an accident.”

“Oh? What kind?”

“I slipped and fell on a broken bottle.”

“Really?” The doctor was about her father's age, but his dark face was lined with the weariness of long tours in the emergency ward. “Seems to have the appearance of a knife wound.” He waited, but Julie added nothing. “Well, since it isn't, there's little sense bothering with a police report, eh?”

That was Julie's idea. She nodded and tried not to wince at the soreness in her neck and back.

The doctor finished sewing, painting, wrapping, and needling. “Tetanus injection should suffice. But keep an eye on the wound for any infection, yes? Swelling, redness, fever. Have a doctor look at it again within twenty-four hours.” He added, “As for scar tissue, I did the best I could. But here's a salve that might reduce scarring. And you may wish to consult with a cosmetic surgeon at your earliest convenience.”

Julie promised she would follow his directions, and thanked the man, who told her to stay away from broken bottles.

Despite the sedative, Julie slept restlessly. She woke every time she rolled on her arm or tangled its soreness in the sheets. Her mind was equally restless, churning in fragments and threads that kept her from easily falling back to sleep. Disjointed thoughts raised questions whose answers seemed to hover just beyond perception. Finally, in late morning, she pried her aching body out of bed and unwrapped her arm.

The long, puckering seam and the twin puncture marks of stitches were crusted with dried blood. The surrounding flesh was warm and pink with fever. But there was no red streak of blood poisoning up her arm, and the clamped lips of tender flesh looked clean of sepsis.

Gingerly holding the wound away from the shower spray, she soaked her bruised and tight muscles in hot water and toweled awkwardly. Then she washed the cut with hydrogen peroxide before wrapping it with a fresh bandage. She managed to pull a thin sweater's long sleeve over the arm. Her late breakfast was light on food but heavy on coffee.

Glancing at her watch, she placed an overseas call to Mr. Rossi, person-to-person. The man wanted to know everything that Touchstone had found out.

“There's something going on that I think involves a lot of illegal money, Mr. Rossi.” She told about the deaths of the Pierce family and waited while Rossi expressed his shock. “I don't know if their deaths, Herberling's and your son's, are related. All I can say is the case is becoming very complex. I'd like your permission to hire a local agent who has more contacts in London than I do.”

“Like I said before, I want to get to the bottom of Hal's death. My God, if he was murdered like those poor people—!” Rossi let silence finish his thought. “I don't give a damn what it costs. If some son of a bitch killed my boy, I want him found and hung!”

But if Harold, whose mate's license appeared to be false, had been involved in the scam … ? Well, she would deal with that if it came up. “All right, Mr. Rossi. I'll be in touch again as soon as possible.”

Her next call was local, and the woman's voice, in lilting Jamaican, told Julie how to get to her office.

“And how is Stanley Mack doing now?” Audrey Bennett, proprietor of Bennett Services, Ltd., poured a cup of very dark tea for each of them and led Julie to the social side of the large, open loft. Her desk, computer, and telephone complex were arranged in a deep bay whose sixth-floor windows overlooked the canyon of busy Oxford Street. Julie glimpsed, past the pigeon-smeared cupolas of a gray building across the wide avenue, the spreading greenness of a corner of Hyde Park.

Audrey Bennett was short, fat, and self-possessed. A wide, white smile dominated a plain dark face. She was also, Mack had told Julie, one of the sharpest documents investigators in the world's insurance industry and did freelance work for some of the highest-paid solicitors in Britain.

“Fine. He sends his greetings. Asked me to tell you that he'll be visiting Jamaica in February and wants you to run away with him.”

“Ha! ‘Take her to Jamaica,' eh? He will never move from New York. He talks all the time about moving out of that city, but he will stay forever in New York.” Across the room, the telephone gave a single muted ring and her tape recorder switched on with a soft click.

“Do you want to get that?”

“No. Never mind the telephone—it never stops its ringing. And if I answer all the time, people will think I never work, ha!” She swung her pink slippers onto an ottoman that anchored a Persian rug. The rug's age and size, its spongy softness, the intricacy and precision of its design and color, made Julie think it could well be a museum piece.

“You are a pretty woman with a problem. Tell me what that problem is.”

Julie told her.

The part of the room they occupied was furnished in a Victorian style that, despite its ornateness, managed to be both cozy and relaxing: padded and very comfortable needlepoint chairs, a large Tiffany lamp with colors whose purity vouched for its authenticity, an electric fire rising and falling behind the isinglass of a filigreed metal fireplace. On the round table—ebony or aged oak—at Audrey's elbow, a large teapot covered with a quilted warmer sat on a white doily. It was flanked by tall porcelain cream and sugar bowls bearing tiny pink flowers that also had the look of genuine and expensive antiques.

When Julie finished, Audrey Bennett nodded. “Well, Mellers the estate agent should be no problem: a ring on the telephone. This captain would be the same captain that Stanley asked me for a financial on last week. I have done his credit history already. But his bank statements, now—” Her shoulders lifted and fell and she rubbed thumb and finger together. “That may cost a bit.”

“Our client is willing to pay.”

“That is the client to have.”

“And your time, of course.”

“Of course! Otherwise, how can I afford my Victorian splendor? But it will not be too much.” She smiled whitely. “Enjoy your tea, Miss Campbell, and watch this woman work!”

Shuffling her pink slippers into the office area, she rattled the computer keyboard to scroll a list of names and telephone numbers down the screen. Opening an entry, she punched a few more keys, and then lifted the telephone to talk. “Henry Mellers, please. It is Audrey Bennett telephoning.”

The Jamaican dialect disappeared and her voice now had the rounded vowels and half-swallowed final
R
s of the Uppah Clahss. Her questions were short and almost curt; the answers she received were long, detailed, and apparently respectful. As she listened, she jotted notes on an electronic notebook, and then printed out the results for Julie. “Would you like another cuppa?”

The sheet listed the credit information that the estate agency had gathered on Boggs. The man worked as a ship's officer, rising to captain just before being made redundant. He subsequently sold his home at 85 Worsely Place, Staines, Surrey, moving to a rented flat on St. John's Road in Lambeth where he declared bankruptcy. He listed his debts as 19,308 pounds sterling and 14 pence. No assets. Later employed by Hercules Maritime, he began paying his creditors at the rate of 50 pounds per month. Maintained same rate until two years ago when he cleared bankruptcy by paying the remaining total with a lump sum of 15,108 pounds plus those 14 pence, and cleared his credit rating. A few months later, he contracted to purchase Willow House, Hampstead. The down payment was 75,000 pounds, 5,000 of which was nonrefundable and to be paid on signing. The balance—70,000 pounds sterling—was deposited in full three months after signing. The remaining cost would be met by a scheme of monthly payments from a sealed account located at the Greater Atlantic Savings and Loan, Bahamas, W.I. All payments so far had been on time.

Audrey poured them both another cup of the fragrant, hot tea. “If all your suspects get this rich this rapidly, perhaps I should have you investigate me.”

Julie gave a long sigh. “He's not just a simple old sea dog, is he?”

“That bank, you know, is one of those famous offshore institutions for rich people to hide money from the tax man. We can find out some things about the account but it will cost a great deal, and any source will want anonymity.” She added, “That means anything we do discover will be hearsay—not admissible evidence.”

Julie nodded. A sealed account in an offshore bank, a home whose taxes and payments equaled his monthly salary, a finca in Spain. The good captain had come a long way from bankruptcy in a short time.

She had a lot more to do, but at least she now had a direction to take. “Here's another list. Officers on the
Aurora Victorious
and their home addresses. I'd appreciate the same kind of report on them, too.”

“Certainly.” Audrey glanced down the list. “Who is this Dorothy Fleenor? This Olivia Minkey? They have women officers on the ship?”

“No. The first is an underwriter for Marine Carriers Worldwide. The other is the widow of the captain of the MV
Golden Dawn
.”

“Oh?” She studied Julie's face for a moment. “Interesting things are going on inside that pretty head of yours, eh?”

“Just looking at a wide range of possibilities. I'm afraid there's some urgency. How long will this take?”

“This many names, maybe two days. Okay?”

“No quicker? I'm worried about my … partner.”

Audrey shook her head. “I can try. That's all.”

Another two days. Her father could take care of himself for that long. He really could. And that would give Julie's arm time to get over its soreness and the rest of her to get copies of the files from Hercules's home office. Besides, there was nothing she could do to hurry the woman. “Okay.”