The Mountains Bow Down Read online

  Geert looked at Raul, challenging him to declare his loyalty. It did not take more than a moment.

  “He was drunk,” Raul said, choosing job over roommate. “He puked all over hisself last night.”

  “But he washed his clothes?”

  “I wash his clothes, I put him to bed.” Raul was stabbing himself in the chest, his tone unleashing the frustration. “I live with un cerdo.”

  Geert let go of the clothing, dropping it with a wet thunk on the shower floor. “If you talk about my visit, I will have you fired.”

  We walked out, closed the door, and continued down the hall.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  He was checking the clipboard again. “Silly men.”

  “So? Silly men commit crimes too.”

  “They were hired two weeks ago. They can’t even figure out how to get their laundry picked up. No way would they get into my office, or my safe.”

  Moving methodically down the steel corridor, we went through twenty more cabins. None of the men were American, most were Hispanic, some Greek, and five uniforms were unaccounted for. Unfortunately, each belonged to a man whose waist was substantially larger than the black trousers. And with only two more cabins left on Geert’s list, I was beginning to wonder whether the black trousers had been stolen from the supply room, and even worn by someone who didn’t work light maintenance. A passenger, even.

  Geert was rapping on the next to last cabin when I pulled out my cell phone and called Jack. When nobody answered the door, Geert unlocked it with his master key and stepped inside.

  Or tried to.

  “Ach,” he sneered, “talk of pigs.”

  I stayed in the hallway, holding the phone, while Geert stretched his legs over plates of old food and dirty socks and scattered newspapers and magazines.

  When Jack finally answered, his voice sounded jaunty. “How’s it going?”

  “Not great,” I admitted. “What about you?”

  “Oh, just talking to Milo.” Buddies having coffee. No, whiskey.

  “The plan was for you to ask him about the jeans.”

  “Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me.”

  I felt like closing the phone on him but watched Geert shaking his bald head as he went through the closet. Since Jack kept me waiting, I went to the cabin’s bathroom, running a quick inspection. Shaving cream and razors left on the side of the sink. Soap scum. Deodorants without caps, showing dark hair. Dirty mirror. A toilet needing flushing.

  I was about to turn away when I saw an eye shadow set on the filmy counter. Bright blue and copper green. Mascara tube. Lipstick, lots of lipstick. I picked up a plastic box of powder foundation, Sandstone Glow, and was still holding the phone to my ear when I carried it over to Geert.

  He offered his own gift: black leather and silver chains.

  “Real pigs,” he said.

  Jack’s voice came back on the phone: “Raleigh, you there?”

  Geert lifted another hanger. Leather whips. More chains. The bad feeling in my gut turned sour.

  “Raleigh, you there?”

  “I’ll have to call you back.”

  In the small space, it was difficult not to breathe the foul odors, which were like rot and the sick sweetness of decomposition. Six feet across, ten long, the room was the same size as the others but seemed smaller, crowded with the plates of fossilized food and the clothing strewn on the floor. The bunk beds were unmade, and even though I was wearing latex gloves, the last thing I wanted to do was touch the beds. But a search meant searching and I pulled back the torqued sheets, shivering with revulsion as I combed through the bedding. Something solid cocooned in one blanket. I pulled it out.

  A camcorder. I held it up for Geert, dangling it from a gloved finger.

  His mustache twitched like the whiskers on a rabbit. “Only one uniform is here.”

  He held up a black shirt, then pointed to an area above the left chest pocket. The material was darker, with threads outlining a small rectangle.

  “Name tag, gone.” Geert lifted his radio, clicking the button on the side. A series of clicks came in reply. Ninja language. Finally Geert read the names from the clipboard. “Ahmed Ramazan and Murat Serif. Immediately.”

  He radioed the laundry room next, placing an all points bulletin on any of the black light-maintenance uniforms.

  I went back into the bathroom, stoppered the sink, and dumped out the pink face powder, searching for any hidden jewelry. In the soiled shaving kits, I found a pair of cuticle scissors, more razors, boxes of condoms. Then I sorted through the trash can under the filthy counter. It was full of used tissues and despite all those years in the forensics lab, what I saw on those tissues triggered my gag reflex. I listened to Geert tell the laundry room to search every single duffel bag.

  At the bottom of the trash can, the black threads looked like dried worms. And there was the rectangular patch.

  I pulled it out.

  “Ahmed,” it said. “Republic of Turkey.”

  “We might have our man,” I called to Geert.

  While Geert printed out employee pictures of Ramazan and his roommate, Serif, I stood at the small porthole in his office, watching the early evening light blaze across the sea. It looked like noon anywhere else, and when I turned toward the noise coming down the hall, sunspots swam in front of my eyes, blurring the image of the person that the Ninjas dragged in.

  He wore a black uniform and his swarthy face carried several days of beard. But it was his eyes . . . his eyes . . . they stopped me cold. Pale green but murky, they reminded me of glacial pools contaminated with silt. Poisonous water that suffocates all marine life.

  “Serif,” his name tag said on the black shirt, “Republic of Turkey.”

  “Serif,” Geert said cheerfully. “Welcome.”

  Serif lowered his chin, deepening the set of dark circles under those disturbed eyes.

  “My men cannot find Ramazan. Where is he?”

  Serif shrugged. “I am working.” He had a thick Mediterranean accent.

  “Yah, working.” Geert lifted the camcorder from the desk. “I have seen your ‘work.’”

  “What is that?” Serif said.

  “You had a day off today,” Geert said, ignoring the ploy. “What did you do?”

  “I keyed out.”

  “Your friend, Ramazan, he got off the ship too?”

  “You have schedule. You know. He was working.”

  Something felt wrong. The man was too calm, too confident. All the other employees on this ship looked at Geert the way Ugandans looked at Idi Amin. But Serif’s attitude meant he was confident of something. Something we didn’t know. As Geert continued to query, I could feel the thing slithering toward us, circling, about to strike. Geert must have sensed it too because he gave a quick nod to the Ninja standing behind Serif.

  The Ninja struck, one viperous moment.

  The Turk collapsed.

  Geert stared calmly at the man on the floor. “What did you do with it?”

  There was no reply. Geert nodded. The Ninja drove his foot into Serif’s side and Geert repeated the question. When Serif looked up, he maintained the wicked expression.

  Geert demanded, “The jewelry. From my safe. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know wha—”

  The Ninja could’ve scored a field goal from the fifty-yard line. Serif’s body curled into the fetal position and a queasy sensation went through me. My least favorite people were ruthless criminals, but I’d been chasing them long enough to feel wary of my own animosity, what it could breed. I had felt the temptation to cross the line more than once. Except it wasn’t a line. It was more like a guardrail, running alongside some deep dark canyon where on the hottest nights it blew with the coolest wind, washing up from the depths, whispering of revenge. But if you plunged down into that place, there was no return. Ever.

  I squatted next to Serif’s curled figure. His body smelled as rancid as his cabin.

  “Serif.”
/>   After a moment, he removed his arms from around his head. He glowered at me, the pale eyes the color of antifreeze.

  “The FBI can pursue charges for pornography, perhaps even distribution. Or sexual assault.” I glanced at Geert, confirming. He nodded; he’d watched the tapes found in the room.

  Serif smiled, revealing jagged teeth. “My country does not recognize your FBI.”

  This was true. Certain foreign countries built walls to repel the FBI. Turkey was among the worst, and as its citizen, Serif was protected from us.

  But facing a power play, I played.

  I looked up at Geert. “How many tourists does your cruise line take through the Mediterranean?”

  The Dutchman didn’t let me down. “Hundreds of thousands every year,” he said immediately. “The Turkish government would not want our ships going somewhere else.”

  “You see, Serif, if the ships stopped coming, it would be your fault. Your government would know it was all because of your pornography. What’s the law like for pornographers in a Muslim country like Turkey?”

  “I did nothing.” His mouth tightened. “Do you hear me?”

  Another Ninja appeared at the door. The tall one. He was flushed and out of breath, and he shook his head. Geert gazed down at Serif with naked hate in his blue eyes. “Where is he hiding?”

  Serif was silent.

  “This is no game,” Geert said. “I can make sure you spend a long time in one of your famous Turkish prisons.”

  No response.

  “Answer me! Where is he?”

  But the power had shifted once again. Serif scratched the beard, flicking his fingers like some obscene gesture. “What day is this?” he finally said.

  We waited. He enjoyed it, drawing us out.

  “What day is this?” he asked again.

  “It is Thursday,” Geert growled.

  “What number?”

  “Where is he?”

  Serif smiled. The teeth seemed to stretch across his face. “Now I remember. Ramazan got off in Juneau.”

  “He—” Geert looked stricken.

  “It was his last day,” Serif sat up. “He went home.”

  At Geert’s nod the Ninjas reached down, yanking him to his feet and dragging him through the hall. Geert picked up the phone.

  “Exit records, check them again. Ramazan, Ahmed Ramazan.” He hit the phone’s cutoff button, then punched in another four digits. “Staff records for Ahmed Ramazan. His term ends—when?”

  Down the hall, I heard a door open. No voices, no yelling. The door closed. I didn’t want to imagine what would happen on the other side.

  “I am hearing he got off in Juneau.”

  Stepping into the hall, I listened to a thudding sound coming from the room down the way, the room where Webb had been detained. I opened my cell phone and called Agent Kevin Barnes.

  “It’s Raleigh,” I said. Agent’s numbers did not show up on caller ID.

  “Don’t worry, I already put in a good word for you,” he said. “Job’s yours if you want it.”

  “Thanks, but I need a different favor.” I described the missing cruise ship employee who possibly left the ship in Juneau. “Any chance you can track him down?”

  “No. I’m swamped. But there are only two ways out of Juneau. Boat or plane. Nobody can drive away. Let me make some calls.”

  “I’ll fax you a photo.”

  “This guy is your killer?” he asked. “I can call in troopers if you need ’em.”

  “Right now, we think he stole that bracelet I told you about, the one with the blue stones? If you can get the state’s help on an APB, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Will do,” he said. “Sounds like that bracelet is worth some serious dough.”

  “Or it was a really nice paycheck for murder.”

  I glanced down the hall. Behind the closed door, the silence was eerie.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Geert wanted to return to the cabin shared by Ramazan and Serif. The place stunk worse than before—a locker room inside a brothel surrounded by a landfill.

  Crossing the room, I picked up one of the dirty T-shirts and threw it over a plate of scrambled eggs so old the yolks were orange. But Geert grabbed my wrist.

  “Neen. Keep it like this.”

  The Dutchman seemed like a new man. No longer sullen, his eyes were sparked by a fervor that also flushed his bald pate. Though grateful for the change, I wasn’t sure we were reading from the same page. Geert was focused like a laser on the busted safe and the pornography. For him, recovering the stolen bracelet meant his company would be cleared of theft, without coughing up insurance money. Meanwhile, Judy Carpenter’s murder remained almost hypothetical for him. But her death was my sole focus. Grand larceny was serious, but life always took precedence over material objects. Even very expensive objects.

  I kept my back against the outer wall and listened to the ocean washing against the ship’s side. Geert was placing a single chair in the middle of the filth, then positioning himself opposite that, waiting for his first “guest.”

  Ramazan had still not been found. It was now assumed that he did indeed leave the ship—after tossing the black trousers down the laundry chute. During those crucial hours, two women had been working the gangway exit. One was assigned to help passengers slide their room keys into the computer slot, confirming their exits and reboarding; the other woman was stationed at the X-ray machine, checking purses and bags and backpacks, and her name was Fiona O’Connell.

  When the Ninja brought her to the cabin, her skin reminded me of Irish cream. Amber freckles dusted her high cheekbones. But her blue eyes seemed wary. She sat in the chair opposite Geert.

  He gave the mustache a twirl. “How long you work for us?”

  “Three years.” Her “th” sounded like “t” in the Irish brogue. Knitting her small hands together, she placed them in her lap. “Three years, three months, and—”

  “You like your job?”

  Her eyes slid toward me but never made it. The dead food and stinking clothes stopped her. Finally, she nodded at Geert, but it was a tentative yes, as if saying, yes, she liked the job until that bald Dutch security officer made her sit inside this cabin.

  “You worked with Letty today,” he said. Not a question.

  “I was on the machine. Checkin’ the bags, you know.”

  “Letty is good to work with?” A question.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Spit it out.”

  “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

  “Then you will bring trouble on yourself.”

  She stared down at a half-eaten hamburger, the rare meat like an open wound. “Letty doesn’t work.”

  “Lazy?”

  Fiona nodded. “And she flirts.”

  He shrugged, unconvinced.

  A blush fired across the angular cheekbones. “She flirts and she runs her mouth even when t’ousands of folks be wanting off the ship.” Like Raul down the hall, Fiona was uncorking all the carbonated emotions that come with close quarters. Her brogue rushed like a creek. “She only t’inks about herself. Old people, they can’t be standing ’round like that. Mark me words, one day while Letty runs that mouth of hers, somebody’s goin’ to have their stroke.”

  Geert said nothing, but the hook was baited. “She talks. So what?”

  Fiona leaned forward over her praying hands. “She aims herself at the rich ones, she does. Follows old men ’round the ship, actin’ all helpful.”

  “She makes tips.”

  “Aye.”

  “Does she like the money, or the attention?” he asked.

  Fiona sat back, sensing her case was made. “The girl can’t bear no attention.”

  “You can leave,” Geert said.

  It was an abrupt order and she froze. Still clutching her hands, she drew a deep breath, steeling herself. “I’m losing me job, is that it?”

  Geert said nothing. After a moment, she gave a curt nod, stood, and walked
to the door. The Ninja led her away.

  It wasn’t my jurisdiction and he wasn’t explaining. All I could do was listen and observe, then figure out his plan.

  He walked over to the Ninja standing outside the door, and I scanned the filth, longing for a window to open. Every time I turned my head, I smelled another stink coming from the floor. Geert’s back was to me so I reached down and snagged a blue shirt off the floor, throwing it over the rotting hamburger. Geert didn’t notice. Reaching down again, I grabbed a woman’s black skirt and was about to toss it over coagulated noodles, when I saw Milo Carpenter’s face.

  The tabloid cover looked smudged, the garish colors cloudy from touch, but the photograph was unmistakable. Milo held a drink in one hand, with an arm wrapped around a young brunette whose long hair obscured half her face. Below the photo, the headline identified her as “one of Milo’s many mistresses.” Dropping the skirt, I picked up the magazine, checking the publication date. A Special Easter Edition. Another headline trumpeted an Easter miracle: a nine-year-old boy in Arkansas cracked open an Easter egg and saw Jesus in the yolk.

  Geert was stepping over filth, returning to his position opposite the inquisition chair, when I raised the tabloid. His eyes scanned the main headline, then the photograph.

  “It’s months old,” I said.

  “And the wife killed herself. Did you consider that?”

  “For two seconds.”

  “Two?”

  “She might have wanted to kill herself, but she didn’t do it like that. Somebody killed her.”

  Before he could reply, the Ninja brought another girl.

  Unlike Fiona’s geometrical face, the girl named Letitia George, or Letty, had a face that made a series of wide slow turns. Round cheeks, round chin, an almost bulbous nose and full lips smothered with pink gloss. The only linear feature appeared when she smirked: vertical dimples slicing into the plump cheeks like hash marks on bread dough.

  She plunked down in the chair.

  “I’m very glad we could meet, Letty.” Geert’s voice was warm. “You worked the gangway today.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You keyed each person out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Everybody, each person. You keyed out everybody?”