Trusting Viktor (A Cleo Cooper Mystery) (8 page)

He held it up eye level to me. “What color did you say your T-shirt was?”

Brushing invisible lint from my blouse, I made sure my face was deadpan before inspecting the tiny scrap. “I believe the Boston Proper catalogue described it as soft blush, certainly not Halloween orange,” I sniffed.

“You didn’t have on anything orange?”

“No. It’s not my color.”

“Well, I guess we just have your word for that, huh?”

“I guess.”

Pierce glanced at the body, then back up at me, and shrugged. “So, what do you think? This the guy who attacked you?”

“I’m not trying to be a smart aleck here, Detective, but how about a wallet? Didn’t he have one with some ID in it?”

“Would we be here if he did?”

Well, it
was
a dumb question, but I’d been thrown off my game by the scrap of fabric. Except for the buzz of the florescent light overhead, the room grew quiet.

Then, in a slightly kinder tone, he asked, “So, again, is this the guy who attacked you?”

“Look,” I said, “I know you were hoping for some definitive answer here, but I just can’t be sure. I’m sorry.”

“Actually, since I last talked to you, Captain Powell has confirmed that one of the crew members who operates a remote robot on the ship is missing. The guy hasn’t returned home and there is no record of him flying out of any of the local airports. So, we’re pretty sure this is Mr. Nuvuk Hunter, who did not report to work Wednesday. We’re having two of his coworkers flown in to give us a positive ID.”

I couldn’t help myself, I snorted exasperatedly. “Then you didn’t need me for identification at all.”

“Correct. But keep in mind, Ms. Cooper, my job is to find out not only
who
he is, but also to ascertain what happened to him.”

“Maybe he just fell overboard and drowned.”

“You mean
after
he attacked you?”

“No. I agree he’s a highly likely candidate for my attacker, but like I said, I can’t be positive. Moreover, the medical examiner hasn’t ruled on his cause of death, since they haven’t even done the autopsy yet. He could have died of natural causes, a heart attack, an aneurysm—hell, I don’t know.”

Having ushered me across the room, Pierce nodded to Tan, who was now off his phone, and opened the door leading to the hallway for me. I walked through, expecting him to make arrangements for another meeting. He didn’t. Instead he headed off in the opposite direction.

We were about twenty paces apart when Pierce, in true Columbo fashion, called out to me, “Oh, by the way, Ms. Cooper?”

I turned back to him. “Yes?”

“You aren’t planning on leaving town anytime soon, are you?”

My throat suddenly felt very dry and tight. “For the most part, I’ll be in Morehead all summer. I do have a few consulting jobs that will take me away for several days at a time, but they’re right here in North Carolina. Should I … inform you if I go anywhere?”

“Yeah, that’d probably be a good idea.”

EIGHT

My Jeep, having been
parked in the full sun for a little over an hour, was two degrees above Hell inside. Cranking the air conditioner to high, I exited the parking lot, still processing the fact that my attacker was more than likely dead and I would not be extracting any revenge. Was this cosmic retribution? Maybe. Right now, however, Bud Cooper retribution seemed the more reasonable explanation. Or, at least it would be in the eyes of the law—not by me. In my eyes, Bud Cooper might be a take-no-prisoners kind of business man, but I’d never seen him so much as harm a fly. I hit speed dial for him on my iPhone.

“Babe,” he answered quietly, as if I’d caught him in the midst of something important.

“Uh, am I disturbing you?”

“Actually, I’m in a meeting, but we’re about to break up. It’s five thirty here. Can I get back to you?”

“Where’s
here
?”

“Paris.”

“Paris? What?” I was incredulous. “I just talked to you yesterday! You didn’t say anything about France. Why are you in Paris?”

“Can I … can I call you back?” he asked with his quiet voice again.

“Never mind, it’s not important. Just tell me when you’re coming back.”

“Wednesday.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you then.”

I clicked off and made a beeline straight for Wrightsville Beach and Seahaven, Bud’s old family beach house.

Lifting the third conch from the left in a line of shells that marched along the back porch railing, I shook it, holding my palm to catch the key Bud always kept there. Slipping in the door, I went straight upstairs to his room and carefully went through his closets and drawers looking for the horrid Hawaiian shirt he’d worn on the day of our tour of the
Magellan
. The one with the grotesque orange hibiscus blossoms all over it. I had to know if it was a match for the small scrap of material I’d seen twisted in the watchband of the corpse.

Downstairs, I flipped through the dirty clothes pile. Towels, hand cloths, and a few dish cloths, but no lucky shirt. My ex wasn’t one to leave clothes lying around—one of his better points—so there was no point going through the other rooms. Before I left, however, I did check the wastebaskets and kitchen garbage. No luck there, either. Finally, I locked the house back up, still racking my brain as to where the shirt might be. I doubted, somehow, it was with Bud in chic Paris.

I crossed the long expanse of dunes via the raised wooden walkway, then trotted down the steps to the parking area by the road. Before getting back in my Jeep, I decided to check the trash can waiting for pick-up. Its contents included a pair of old sneakers, a mildewed boat cushion, and a full bag, which I rifled through to no avail. Then I headed to Morehead City with an uneasy feeling. If I had found the orange shirt, inspected it, and discovered no tear that looked like it could be filled by the small scrap from the watch, I would have felt better. I’d have known for sure Bud had nothing to do with the death of another human being because of me.

Had he started looking for me that night, as I had been looking for him, only to find I was about to be raped by an ape man and come to my aid? Had he attacked my attacker in a rage, getting a hole ripped in his shirt in the process? If that was what had happened, wouldn’t he have destroyed the evidence? Was that why I couldn’t find the orange shirt?

Later that Monday afternoon, I felt Tulip stir at my feet. I’d been in the upstairs office for an hour. Vivid rays of afternoon sun poured through the plantation shutters, decorating the sisal rug with slashes of light. I’d just finished paying current bills and making up my schedule for the coming weeks, keeping in mind the warning I’d received about leaving town, when my iPhone rang. Absentmindedly, I said, “Hey,” without checking the caller.

“Uh, hey. Ms. Cooper?”

Time to note the ID: Global.

“Yes?”

“Hi. This is Phil Gregson at Global.”

“Yes, Phil. How are you?”

“Well enough, thank you. But I’ll be better if you say you can work in a trip out to the
Magellan
.” When I made no response, he continued. “With so much riding on this wildcat, I would be more comfortable if you could go out there.”

“Is there a problem with Elton?”

“Well, let’s just say there are some ambiguities in the interpretation of some of the samples. They’re trying to mark the top of one of the formations. Mudloggers are saying one thing, I’m thinking another.”

“What’s Elton saying?”

“He seems to be in agreement with the mudloggers, but it’s hard to tell. He’s even more nervous than before, if that’s possible. Keeps obsessing about personnel descent lines and safety stations …”

My chest tightened at the thought of being back on the
Magellan
. Then there was the helicopter ride out … oh joy. Plus, I no longer had the fuel of revenge lighting a fire under me. It had been replaced by the creeping fog of the unknown—that missing time from when I fainted on the ROV platform until I woke up in my bunk on the
Magellan
—had been pushing hard at the back of my consciousness. Finding the orange scrap of fabric that might or might not be from Bud’s lucky shirt had only increased my desire to fill in the blanks.

If returning to the
Magellan
would help dispel the fog and reveal what I needed to know—good or bad—then that was what I should do. Surely Detective Pierce would have no objection to me being a few miles offshore of Morehead City. Well, 136 miles, but who’s counting?

“When would you like me to go?”

“Just as soon as you can work it in. All you need to do is check with our operations shorebase and they’ll arrange transportation. Helicopter or boat, whichever you prefer. The office manager’s name is Wanda. Call me if you have any problems.”

“All right,” I said, hearing the beep that indicated another call. “I’ll make arrangements right now.” I clicked over. “Yes?”

“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” Bud said.

“I thought we’d agreed to talk Wednesday when you get home, so you’re early. Maybe it’s good you called now, though,” I said, thinking aloud, “because I might not be here Wednesday—not in town, anyway, if you were thinking of dropping by before going to Seahaven.”

“Actually I was. Where are you going?”

“To the
Magellan
. Phil Gregson just called. He’s got some doubts about the readings coming up from the wellbore, with the larger problem being the lack of confidence in Elton. I can’t go tomorrow because I need to run errands, so Wednesday it is.”

“You won’t stay overnight, will you?”

Did I detect a note of anxiety? “I hope not,” I said. “Why?”

“Nothing. No reason.” Bud cleared his throat. “How long will you be staying?”

“Probably just a couple of hours,” I said. “In fact I need to call right now and see about catching a ride out on one of the supply boats.”

“Supply boat? For heaven’s sake, Cleo, this is why the military invented helicopters. Learn to enjoy them.”

“Actually, Da Vinci came up with the idea, and frankly, I don’t think they’ve progressed much since his time. So, no thanks, I’ll stick with the boat.”

After putting in a help-is-on-the-way call to Elton and with quitting time fast approaching, I drove over to the port and Global’s shorebase. While the company headquarters was in Houston, its deep water group was in New Orleans. Exploratory wells located in far-flung parts of the globe use the closest port as a temporary shorebase of operations. In the case of Manteo One, that was Morehead City.

“Can I help you?” asked a tan, fit woman. Her spiky brown hair was tastefully highlighted, her face deeply lined and weathered, yet her lips were full and her bright blue eyes sparkled. Her accent was Cajun.

“Are you Wanda?”

“Sure am, doll, and I bet I know who you are,” she said, scrambling through some papers on her desk and retrieving a Post-it note. “Ms. Cleo Cooper?”

“That’s me,” I said.

“We don’t get a lot of woman boarding, only a few, but not enough to make my guess a risky one,” she laughed. “Got your TWIC card?”

I pulled out my Transportation Worker Identification Credential, a tamperproof biometric card required by the Coast Guard, the Department of Homeland Security, and the TSA for anyone boarding a commercial exploration vessel. She checked it and handed me a form. “Sign here, here, and here. Just liability release forms. Helicopters are based over in Beaufort—’course you already know that—and supply boats run out of here. Here’s your port pass, a boarding pass for the
Magellan,
and a list of all the numbers you’ll need, including mine.” She’d made a tidy stack of document in front of me as she spoke.

“Thanks.”

“I’m going to chase you outta here now, ’cause I got a bunch of errands to run and a hot date tonight.” She laughed, then said, “Oh. If you want, you can make arrangements direct with any of the captains if you catch ’em at the dock. I believe Eddie’s down there now on one of the crew boats.”

I said a quick goodbye and made my way across the yard, my feet crunching on a zillion tiny limestone fossils in the marl that had been hauled in to create the enormous square-shaped port. I was headed to the western seawall, where three supply boats were docked. Exploration companies like Global don’t own their own, but instead contract with others maintaining a fleet of different types of boats, each designed and outfitted to meet the specific needs of the rig being serviced. In this case Global had hired a Louisiana outfit, Belou Brothers. I drew near the boats as I mused about the complicated mess of contractors and subcontractors involved in such a huge undertaking—no wonder it was costing so much money.

Three of Belou’s heavy-duty steel boats were tied up at the dock. All had bright-blue hulls and white superstructure and ranged between 100 and 200 feet. Two of them were veritable beehives of activity: one was being loaded with large tanks of drilling mud, the other with pipe. Hopping aboard the third boat—a 108-foot crew boat appropriately named
Iron Responder
—I climbed metal stairs to a helm station and tapped on the thick glass window.

The captain waved me inside. A thin, mustachioed man of about fifty with dense, white hair pulled in a short mullet, he introduced himself as Eddie Cheramie. Said to call him Captain Eddie. In no time I’d arranged to make the 136-mile trip out to the
Magellan
, departure scheduled Wednesday morning at the ungodly hour of 3:30 a.m.

When the alarm went off, I jerked awake, having slept for what seemed like ten minutes, and wished not for the first time that I was a morning person. I’m not, and this was a serious morning. That my short sleep had been marred by tossing and squirming, thinking still about that scrap of orange material, didn’t help me feel all bright and shiny either. I’d managed to get all my little errands done yesterday, but returning to the
Magellan
had my emotions running high.

By the time I’d parked the Jeep and taken a sip of the giant coffee I’d picked up at the Kangaroo station, I was a bit more pulled together. Part of me was resistant to what lay ahead, but I sensed that another part was actually eager. I hate mysteries, is all. I needed to know.

“Morning, Miss,” Captain Eddie said. “Find a seat anywhere you like. It’ll be a few more minutes before we depart, so just make yourself at home.

I dropped my pack in a seat and went to the window to watch a crane operator load boxes of food stores on the
Iron Responder’s
deck. Behind me about twenty sleepy crew members began to file aboard carrying duffel bags. Most MODUs—mobile offshore drilling units—have crews that work fourteen-day shifts.

A low rumble of engines was followed by a shudder and a slight lurch. The
Responder
was dancing in her lines like a racehorse pushing on the gate. We were about to get underway. Several dock workers tossed lines to crewmen as I took my seat. Then Captain Eddie, one deck above me, spun the bow of the boat smartly into the channel and we were off.

As we slipped past Radio Island on our port side at a sedate speed, the Civil War gun mounts at Fort Macon showed themselves on the starboard side. Once we were beyond the rolling swells of Beaufort Inlet, the captain throttled down on the engines until we planed off in the open Atlantic. From past fishing trips in this area, I knew we would keep this heading until we rounded the Knuckle Buoy, which marked the end of Cape Lookout shoals. At around twenty knots per hour, the trip would take at least four hours, so I reclined my seat a little and settled back to enjoy the beauty of the ocean before sunrise. Even though I knew what our arrival would bring, I relaxed.

But all good things, as we know, must end.

As we came alongside the
Magellan
, I picked two extremely tough-looking guys in gray jumpsuits to follow as they moved up in the line waiting for the air tugger, or personnel basket. This demonic device is used to raise passengers from the crew boat sometimes as much as 40 feet to the deck of the rig. Picture a large drawstring purse made of fish net with a round, flat bottom. Suspend it from a crane and you’ve got a pretty good idea what an air tugger looks like.

Worse still, crane operators often think it’s funny to dunk new people in the water. That’s why it’s wise to ride up with guys he wouldn’t want to take on. Making sure my life vest was pulled tight, I stuffed myself between my new large friends, tossed my pack in the center with their duffels, grabbed the rope netting, and hung on for dear life as the crane lifted us aboard and set us gently on the deck. At this point, everyone, including me, set off on their appointed jobs.

With only a few hours before the
Responder
was fully unloaded and ready to head back to port, I wanted to complete all my tasks, after which I hoped to have a few minutes to revisit the ROV platform. This time, in the full light of day.