Crude Carrier (4 page)

VII

Through the window of the banking airplane, Julie made out familiar landmarks in the dusk: the tapering spike of the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building's graceful silver thrust, the obsidian box of what used to be the TWA Building with its heliport on the flat roof, and, near that building's foot, the domed grayness of Grand Central Station. And the sudden emptiness where the World Trade Towers once stood.

Then they leveled off to glide over a marshland already dim with twilight and clotted with white specks of resting birds. Ponds and rivulets flickered red from the setting sun, then, with a blur of concrete and a solid thump of touching wheels, the engines began to reverse. The brakes launched her against the seat belt with an impetus that carried her impatiently through the covered ramp and toward the faces waiting to meet friends and family. At the back edge of the small crowd, a balding man of medium height and anonymous appearance, wearing an equally inconspicuous tie, caught her eye with subtle question.

“Stanley Mack?”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Campbell.” His eyes, slightly bloodshot, glanced up her tall figure and then to her hand. “Any luggage?”

“Just what I'm carrying.”

“Good. They're waiting for us.”

They
were the representatives of Marine Carriers Worldwide, who had urged Julie, as the representative of Touchstone Agency, to fly to New York for consultation. The only name Julie recognized was Mrs. Fleenor's. Her face and voice betrayed a lot of strain as she stood to shake hands. The two other representatives at the conference table were men in their fifties or early sixties who were able to mask their anxiety with some success—their careers weren't at stake. “It's a lot of money, Miss Campbell. Not that Marine Carriers Worldwide cannot guarantee its policies, of course. But you must understand that we have to be very aggressive in defending ourselves against any and all false claims.”

The one who spoke like a lawyer was in fact the company's senior attorney, Herbert Ferguson. He spent the first ten minutes making the point that bona fide losses were one thing, but that insurance fraud was something else. It hurt the whole shipping industry, drove up policy costs, and if successful, established an unsavory precedent that might entice other owners to attempt fraud. Consequently, every claim had to be thoroughly investigated and malefactors prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. The idea wasn't new to Julie, and she felt a touch of dismay as it dawned on her that Ferguson's pep talk might be the real purpose of the long flight to New York. The man was worried that Touchstone Agency would not take the
Golden Dawn
case as seriously as Marine Carriers wanted them to. And perhaps that a woman might not be able to do the work that a man could.

Mr. Mohler, the company vice president overseeing casualty assessment, nodded in agreement. Fortunately, he didn't have much to add.

Mack nodded also, and murmured a time or two that he was certain Miss Campbell understood the seriousness of the issue, that the Touchstone Agency has a sterling reputation, and that he—Mack—would still be the supervisory investigator. But Ferguson listened to himself more than he listened to Mack.

Mrs. Fleenor kept her attention on the papers in front of her.

Julie listened and watched.

Finally, Mr. Ferguson stated that it was an immense pleasure to have met Miss Campbell, that he was gratified to have this opportunity to air the concerns of Marine Carriers Worldwide, and that he had every confidence that she would do her utmost to bring the issue to a speedy and satisfactory conclusion. He didn't add “or else,” but the firm handshake and tight-jawed, challenging smile made that clear. Mr. Mohler nodded and shook hands just as firmly and then they were gone.

After a brief silence, Mack, embarrassed, said, “He wanted to meet you in person. Like he says, it's a lot of money.”

Julie had run across the type. They swarmed at the lower levels of senior executives, anxious to prove to those under them that they deserved to be where they were, and to those over them that they deserved to be promoted. “Is Mr. Mohler your boss, Mrs. Fleenor?”

She had pale blond hair that might have been dyed to hide early gray. It was bobbed in a fashion that accentuated rather than softened the length of her bony jaw. Thick glasses perched on her narrow nose and made her violet eyes look large and blurry. If she ever smiled, she might have had a wide mouth; right now it was pursed with worry. “Yes.”

“Did he authorize issuance of the policy on the
Golden Dawn
?”

“His signature is required, yes.”

“But you do the real work and he usually goes along with your findings?”

A faint smile acknowledged how often a male fool was placed above a woman with talent. Then she shrugged. “Until now.”

Mack asked, “Does he blame you for the claim, Dorothy?”

“He hasn't said it in so many words.”

Julie watched the woman's long fingers slide absently across the small stack of papers in front of her. “Have you found out any more about Hercules Maritime or the
Golden Dawn
, Mrs. Fleenor?”

“I've managed to speak with some sales representatives in other insurance firms, people I've met over the years. But I'm not sure how much they can help.”

“Have they told you anything at all?”

“No one I spoke with has had any trouble with Hercules Maritime. I did find out that about five years ago they filed a claim with Coleman and Thorstein on the loss of a medium-sized tanker, seventy thousand tons, the SS
Indian Flyer
. Apparently she broke apart in heavy seas off northern Spain. The cause was determined to be structural deterioration, and the claim was paid. The person I spoke with said there was no finding of culpability against the crew.”

Mack added, “Most hull insurance covers negligence of master, officers, crew, or pilots, since human error's the cause of most accidents.”

“Does that clause apply to the
Golden Dawn
?”

Mrs. Fleenor replied. “It does. Unless there's willful culpability by owners or operators. That is, if the operators did something to cause the
Golden Dawn
to sink, or refused assistance that might have saved the ship, then all or a portion of the insurance would be voided. We don't know anything about that, since all hands on the
Golden Dawn
were lost. But if the owners knowingly employed operators with a record of unsafe practices or who were not properly certified for their position, then willful culpability can be charged against them by the insurer—by us.” Her fingers traced across the manila folder. “From what you tell me, Miss Campbell, Mr. Herberling's thoughts had been in that direction. I understand he had been looking into any pattern of carelessness by Hercules Maritime in hiring officers for their other ships?”

She nodded. “It looks that way. And, please, both of you call me Julie.”

“Julie—” She wasn't comfortable with first names. “Well, that suspicion does not seem to fit the loss of the
Golden Dawn
. The vessel was old, and I discovered that one of her sister ships had also broken apart not too long before.”

“Was the sister ship owned by Hercules, too?”

“No. Another independent. But I didn't ask who. I can call back if you want me to.”

Mack answered that one. “Not unless we need it, Dorothy.”

“I hope you don't mind, Miss … Julie … but I telephoned Mr. Wood in London and told him you had been trying very hard to get in touch with him and would probably be calling soon. He said he would be available to you.” Her fingers caressed the stack of papers again. “I assumed you still wanted to speak with him.”

“You assumed right, Dorothy. How did you manage to get through to him?”

For the first time her voice showed a quiver of emotion, but Julie wasn't sure if it was victory or anger or an escape of tension. “Marine Carriers Worldwide hasn't yet paid his claim. He's very eager to hear from us.” She added, “I—ah—did not mention the
Aurora Victorious
. I only told him you wanted to ask a few questions about the
Golden Dawn
. I allowed him to believe that you were working in our office.”

“That was wise, Dorothy.”

She slid the papers tentatively across the table toward Julie. “I couldn't remember exactly what I sent you, so much of this is duplication. I want to be certain you have everything I do.”

The only new document was a photocopy of the complete insurance policy. Julie thanked the woman and placed the photocopy in her folder, not because she wanted it, but because it seemed to make Mrs. Fleenor feel better.

The ride down in the elevator with Mack and Mrs. Fleenor was long and silent. When the two detectives, free of the woman and her muted anxiety, were finally on the street and weaving through sidewalks crowded with stiff, anonymous faces, Mack said what Julie felt. “If the company has to pay the full claim, Dorothy's going to be the sacrificial lamb.”

“And if I can show that Hercules Maritime is at fault, she keeps her job?”

“That's it.”

“Know anything about her?”

“Just what's in the security file: lives over in Jersey, clean police record, clean credit record, divorced, two kids, one handicapped in some way. I think the other's in college now, but I'm not sure. No hint of question about her.” He glanced at Julie. “Why?”

“She indicated earlier that she had some personal problems that might have clouded her judgment about issuing insurance on the
Golden Dawn
.”

“Problems? What kind?”

“She wasn't specific. A hint … more of an explanation to herself, it seemed.”

Mack frowned. “She's been with the company a long time. No hint of dishonesty or ineptitude …”

“Maybe Marine Carriers would be better off firing Ferguson and keeping her.”

“Yeah. Listen, I'm sorry about that, Julie. When he asked to have you come here, I thought it was for something important. I should have known he just wanted to hear himself talk.”

“At least it opened the door for me to go see Wood.”

“See him?”

Julie nodded. “Our clients want me to go to London and make some noise about their son.”

The home office of Hercules Maritime Shipping Co. was a couple of blocks from the Tower Hill Station. Julie came out of the Underground both aware of and saddened by armed police scanning the crowds of passengers. Standing by a kiosk for a few seconds, she got her bearings. A torrent of traffic dotted with glossy red double-decker buses sped just beyond the concrete steps leading down from the Underground entrance. Across Tower Hill Road, parked tour buses nosed one behind the other at the foot of the mottled gray and white walls of the Tower of London. The gothic piers of Tower Bridge and its elevated metal crosswalk rose beyond the Tower's curved whitestone caps. The smell of fried fish and the flutter of souvenir pennants marked street hawkers. At the head of a queue of tourists snaking beside the Tower's dry moat of clipped lawn, stood the flash of a Beefeater's red and gold splendor. Mixed with the familiarity of the scene was a remembered touch of excitement dating from the time of her first visit to England for her junior year abroad at London University, and the stir of those bittersweet memories made her forget the reason for this trip momentarily.

But those memories were of events well past, and her path now led away from the crowds that surged toward the Tower's tourist centers, pulsing with the beep of the pedestrian lights. More than one man in the passing crowd glanced at her face and figure, and a few leaned toward her in the attempt to snag her eyes with their own. She remembered the sexual aggressiveness, but this time she understood that those male hormones were their problem not hers. She strode briskly down America Square where the sidewalks, at least, were relatively empty. A turn onto Crosswall Street pinched off the traffic noise. Number 17 was an isolated door flanked on one side by an Indian restaurant and on the other by a stationer's shop. A steep, narrow stairway smelling of wood rot and lit by one dangling bulb led to a small landing with two doors. One was closed and bore no nameplate. The other hung half open to show a none-too-clean toilet and sink crammed into an unlit cubicle. Julie, being a detective, tried the knob of the closed door.

If the rule of thumb for staffing the headquarters of a tramp company was “one ship at sea, one man in the office,” then Julie figured Hercules Maritime had about ten vessels. The large room wasn't designed for walk-in traffic; two rows of desks took up almost all the floor space, and the muffled chatter of telephones, telexes, and fax machines made an unceasing noise like distant surf. A large world map sheeted over with acetate half filled one wall and bore smears of partially erased grease pencil. Rosters of ship's names and ports were stuck on bulletin boards that filled space between large windows looking across a narrow gray emptiness at other office windows. Dots of colored pins signaled meaning to those who could read their code. Shirtsleeved men moved between the computers at their desks and the maps and charts on the walls, adjusting pins, erasing or noting comments, pulling worn reference texts from a long bookshelf and thumbing rapidly through the pages. The idea of the display boards, Julie figured, was that anyone could see at a glance the current location and status of every ship owned by Hercules Maritime, as well as the offers of freight from the brokers dealing with the world's commerce. The intent young man at the desk nearest the door finally looked up from the pattern of colors on his computer screen. “Something you want here, miss?”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Wood.”

His neatly trimmed head bobbed with surprise. “There.” A shirtsleeved arm jabbed toward one of three doors at the back of the busy room and darted back to his keyboard.