The Mountains Bow Down Page 17

  “Yeah and did you see how long that line was? Because the olds can’t get their key in the slot because their hands shake. I have to take the card, slide it in, then explain how the stupid thing works because they always ask. Yeah, the miracle of computers.”

  Geert smiled, growing warmer. It was the smile he gave Martin Webb, only more frightening.

  “Did you key out Ramazan?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Do not waste my time.” He smiled.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Ramazan walked off the ship today and you did not run his card through the system.”

  She was a smart girl—smart enough to quit playing dumb. “That wasn’t my fault.”

  “Do tell me.”

  Adjusting herself on the chair, she got comfortable for the story. “I had a long line and he pushed through everybody. He had his toolbox with him. Up high, you know, on his shoulder.” She patted her shoulder, demonstrating. “He acted like Mr. Big Shot, making everybody move and yelling at them. He scared them.”

  “What were his words, Letty. His exact words.”

  “Well, first he told everybody to get out of the way. Then when they started freaking out, he said, ‘Ramazan make it sure that nobody gonna break a toe.’”

  Even Geert looked surprised. “Break a toe?”

  “Yeah, he’s a stupid Greek. I think he was trying to say, ‘I’m going to fix something so that nobody breaks a leg.’ But he doesn’t say anything right.”

  “Turkish,” Geert corrected. “He’s Turkish. Tell me what he did next.”

  “He ran past so fast, I don’t really know. I heard him more than I saw him, you know? That toolbox was lifted so we could all see it was some emergency. But I had the emergency. It was an old folks’ riot, everybody crying how they were gonna break a hip.”

  Geert nodded. “And yet, still, you did not key him out?”

  “He was just working on the gangway. It wasn’t like he was getting off.” She paused. Frowning. “Did he?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I just did. He was fixing something on the gangway.”

  “You didn’t stop and ask him questions?”

  “Are you deaf? I just told you I had a thousand old people crying.”

  “But you stop and talk to the passengers all the time.”

  She stopped. “Fiona.” The smirk appeared. “She tell you that, little Miss Perfect? Well, I know stuff; she’s not so perfect.”

  Geert extended an arm, sweeping in the cabin’s filth and disarray. “Does this bother you?”

  She did not look around. She held his gaze. “It’s disgusting.”

  “Yes, pigs live here. And you enjoyed the pigsty.”

  The round features seemed to flatten as if hit with an iron frying pan. “What?”

  “They took pictures of you. The pigs. You let them.”

  Her brown eyes darted toward me. But I wasn’t prepared for any of this. I didn’t watch the videos, and if this was why Geert wanted to interview the gangway girls here, it was a real humdinger of a reason.

  She turned back to Geert. “What is this?”

  “How long did you know the pigs?”

  “I don’t know them.”

  “But you took your clothes off for them. I wonder. Would your mother like to see those movies?”

  Again, she looked over at me, as though it was my idea to show her mother. The sheer panic I saw in her brown eyes sparked pity.

  But I got over it. Real quick.

  Dropping her chin, she turned toward Geert and raised her eyes, giving a lurid expression of seduction. “Did you like watching me?” she asked. “Did you watch all of it, you naughty old man?”

  Geert’s mustache was twitching in overdrive, but he controlled his voice, still almost tender. “Let us talk about Ramazan.”

  “He’s insane.”

  “Why do you say?”

  “He’s killed people.”

  Geert glanced at me. She said it casually, like somebody describing a road with a dangerous intersection.

  I leaned forward. “How do you know he’s killed people?”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t. Not exactly. But there’s a guy back in my village, in Hoonah?”

  “That’s here, in Alaska?” I asked.

  “Yeah. There’s only one Hoonah. This guy killed some people and Ram’s got those same crazy eyes. They look at you like you’re not even a person. Like you’re just a thing.”

  I recalled the two acid pools in Serif’s face.“Worse than Serif’s eyes?”

  She laughed. “Serif’s the nice one.”

  Geert’s voice was low. “You had company with these men?”

  “Quit making me sound bad. I tried to get away from them. There was one time when I didn’t feel like playing dress up—that’s what they called it, dress up. I had the stomach flu. Throwing up, fever, everything. But Ram dragged me down here, he made me play. He even stuck something down my throat. I can’t hardly remember anything after that.”

  “Letty—”

  Her eyes flashed at me. “Who’re you?”

  “Raleigh Harmon, special agent with the FBI.”

  She cursed. Then she grabbed a hunk of her black hair, petting it nervously.

  “Letty, do you know what he forced down your throat?”

  “A pill.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The next day I had these bruises on my throat. I got scared, because I couldn’t remember anything. I went to Serif, crying, and he finally told me what happened. I wasn’t playing nice dress up so they held me down and pushed a pill down my throat. Only I gagged on it. So they pushed on my neck, you know, to get it to go down.”

  I heard Geert mutter, “Pigs.”

  “And you don’t recall anything else?”

  “Just, like, in pieces.” She continued to grip the hank of hair but stared at the floor. “I remember feeling itchy. And I remember somebody was laughing. And the next day I couldn’t stop crying. I felt so sad. I wanted to kill myself. Serif said it was the pill doing that. And it would wear off.”

  “Ramazan,” I said, “he didn’t feel that sorry for you?”

  She sneered. “He doesn’t got feelings.”

  “Did they ever talk about money?”

  She glanced over at Geert. He was listening intently, twirling a handlebar. “Answer her.”

  “They always talked in that weird language. Greek or whatever it is. I couldn’t understand them.”

  “On this trip, after we left Seattle, did anything seem different, unusual?”

  “You mean like Ram and the toolbox?”

  I nodded.

  She gave it some thought. “I came down here that first night we left Seattle. My shift was over at the gangway and I knocked on the door. But they wouldn’t open it. I got scared, like maybe they were throwing me away for some other girl because Serif wouldn’t open the door more than two inches. I started chewing him out for it, telling him off, when Ram suddenly yanked him away.” Her eyes dropped again. “He came to the door and called me a lot of names. I think it started with that whole pill thing. After that, it was like I was nothing to them.”

  “Did you tell anyone about that pill?”

  “I went to the doctor after, because I couldn’t keep my eyes open. No exaggeration. I fell asleep in the shower. And then all that crying, I felt so bad.”

  “The doctor did not report it,” Geert said.

  If the doctor knew, he would be required to tell the captain who would contact Geert who would toss both men off the ship.

  She nodded. “I decided Ram would kill me. He said so. The guy’s eyes are like a wolf.”

  Geert nodded. “Leave the ship in Skagway,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “You are fired.”

  “But—”

  “You didn’t report them. And you allowed Ramazan to leave the ship.”

  “But I ju
st told you, I didn’t have a chance, he was running. It’s not fair. This wasn’t my fault.”

  Geert drew a deep breath, narrowing his eyes at her. “You want to keep your job?”

  “Are you kidding? I make more than anybody in Hoonah.”

  He sighed. “There is one way.”

  She looked hopeful, eager, almost natural.

  “You must talk to Serif. You must ask him where Ramazan went. But if you tell him about our meeting, if you tell anyone, I will make certain Ramazan knows it was you who told us.”

  At Geert’s command, she walked to the door, following the Ninja away.

  The door closed behind her.

  I said, “You trust her?”

  “Neen. That is a girl without fences. But we must get the information we can get.”

  He was apparently done with the interrogations and was walking toward the door when I remembered Letty’s description of her bruised neck.

  “May I search the cabin?” I asked.

  He turned, frowning. “You need more charges?”

  “I would like to find whatever drug they used on her.” Then the Alaska medical examiner could test for the same substance in the dead body of Judy Carpenter.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ask anybody about their cruise and they’ll inevitably bore you talking about the food. Never-ending buffets. Four-star dinners. Glorious desserts available around the clock.

  But other than a perfect steak last night and some exceptional rolls on the Highway this afternoon, my caloric intake was cruelly deficient. I was a girl who liked to eat—not nibble, but eat—and one of the biggest incentives for taking this cruise was the idea that good food would be ready twenty-four hours of every day.

  Food. Mountains. Rocks.

  Was that too much to ask?

  Apparently, yes, I decided, carrying the unmarked prescription vials from Ramazan’s cabin to the purser’s safe. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, and dinner had come and gone and now my fellow passengers were enjoying nightcaps with the musicals and comedy shows in the ship’s theaters. With legs that felt heavy as lead pipes, I slogged up the stairs because I didn’t have the patience for elevators that opened on every floor. On a landing, I stopped to catch my breath and call Aunt Charlotte.

  “We’re fine,” she said. “I ordered room service and we’re playing cards. Your mother’s winning. It’s Raleigh,” she added.

  I heard my mother’s voice, small and distant in the background.

  “It’s Raleigh,” my aunt told her.

  I asked, “Where’s Claire?”

  “She’s getting a massage. Don’t worry about us. You go finish that geology stuff and we’ll see you later tonight.”

  What a great accomplice, I decided.

  My second call was to Jack. “I’ve got some news. Where are you?”

  “On the upper deck. They’re having a memorial service, about fifty yards from where she was found hanging. In the outdoor bar. It’s a celebration of her life, they say. You need to see it.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute. Can you order me some dinner?” I gave my request: cheeseburger medium-well with everything but pickles; two orders of fries with mayo on the side; and the biggest chocolate shake they can serve.

  After putting the unmarked Rx vials in the purser’s safe, I hiked to Deck Fourteen. Maybe it was the climb, and the lack of food, and my mom’s suffering, and the total lack of answers about Judy Carpenter’s death, but when I pushed through the ship’s upper doors, my mood was surly.

  But the landscape refused to agree with me.

  Finally dipping, the sun was placing rose-colored crowns on the snowcapped mountains, and the glaciated rock, backlit by golden rays, had the detailed splendor of finest filigree. The forests were turning midnight blue, blending with the ocean that lapped along the jagged shore. I wanted to gulp the crystal air.

  The open deck was covered with chaise longues, and the people on them wore wireless headsets and snuggled under blankets to watch the movie that played on the giant white screen hanging behind the swimming pool. I glanced up to see the picture and stopped dead in my tracks.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said aloud.

  A young Milo Carpenter wore an undershirt that exposed his rippling muscles. His face was soot-streaked and sweating and he carried an Uzi with his index finger on the trigger. If I’d been the consultant, I would’ve pointed out the mistake—one twitch and the semiautomatic weapon would start firing off rounds. But Hollywood, I’d learned, felt little obligation to reality.

  I gazed around the deck for the open-air bar, but it was nowhere to be seen. And the only people not watching the movie were canoodling in the hot tub, sipping umbrella drinks. Since alcohol worked like an auger for finding Milo, I walked over and asked, “Pardon me, where did you get your drinks?”

  The man pointed to a set of spiral stairs that climbed up to some platform above the main deck, hidden behind the movie screen. “But that’s a private party,” he said. “No public allowed.”

  I thanked him and started up the stairs.

  “Hey! I said you can’t go up there!”

  From above the stairs, the big guy from Milo’s cabin leaned over the rail. Vinnie Pinnetta. Bouncer and batterer turned bodyguard. The mansard forehead projected like a cliff overhang.

  “I tried to stop her!” the man yelled from the hot tub.

  Vinnie waved at the guy, signaling absolution. I stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for him to remove the chain that blocked my path.

  “Try to behave yourself,” he said.

  The platform was surrounded by clear plastic windbreaks, set beneath the Sky Bar with a view of the ship’s wake, the white bridal train that disappeared into the dark ocean. Most of the beautiful people sat at small tables gathered around a baby grand piano that had been placed behind a wall supporting the movie screen. MJ sat on the instrument’s bench, speaking into the microphone with a voice that was almost a whisper. At the far end, Jack stood at the bar with Milo and Sandy Sparks. The person missing was Larrah-rhymes-with-Harrah.

  I walked the perimeter to the bar. Milo’s skin had the slick appearance of damp clay and he had thrown an arm around Jack’s shoulders.

  “You’re a good man, Jake.”

  Jack lifted his drink. A swaggering gesture, blurred around the edges. I took the bar stool next to him, ignoring the big goofy smile on his face. His eyes, which were set close on his face, now looked almost crossed.

  I tried to keep my voice down, but I was mad. “You’re drunk?”

  He dropped a hand on my shoulder. It felt like ten pounds. “Harrrr-mon, lighten uuu-up.”

  I shrugged my shoulder away and turned to the bartender, who was serving them another round of drinks. Like every bartender on the ship, his name tag said he was from the Philippines. When he put the drinks down, Jack thanked him; Milo didn’t; Sparks ignored him; and the bartender smiled at them all.

  “What you have?” he asked me.

  “Did you get an order for a cheeseburger?”

  “Yes.” He walked to the end of the bar, picking up the phone.

  I swiveled to watch MJ. For a piano player, her hands were small, brushing the keys with adequate dexterity. The talent was in her voice. She sang with a voice that reminded me of rain weeping down windowpanes. And she sang about love. And pain. So much pain.

  When my food arrived, I swiveled back around and said silent grace before digging into the burger. I had to restrain a moan of gratitude. The meat was tender, grilled and peppered to perfection. The melted cheddar was carmelized in places and the toasted bun was not soggy anywhere. When I opened my eyes, Milo was hunched over his drink and taking stabbing glances at MJ. Jack stared at her as well, his face looking almost grave. Only Sandy Sparks seemed oblivious to the sound, scribbling notes on cocktail napkins. When I looked over at the stairs, Vinnie the bodyguard was lifting the chain for Larrah Sparks. Her platinum hair was fluffed to perfection and she strode directly i
n front of the piano, heedless of the performance. When she reached the bar, midrefrain, she announced, “They told us we’d see bears. I haven’t seen one.”

  I ate like one, relishing every carnivorous bite. Nothing could ruin it, not even overhearing Sandy Sparks tell his wife a dumb joke about bears and the woods and the pope. When he came to the punch line, there was silence. I glanced over.

  “I don’t get it,” Larrah said.

  I dipped my French fries in mayo and considered the possibility that Ramazan and Serif killed Judy Carpenter. Possible. Not probable. Their cabin showed chaos and filth. And Letty had described their erratic behavior. While Serif was cool under questioning, Judy Carpenter’s murder was planned with precision. More probable: Ramazan broke into the safe. But murder?

  “Oooo-waaaa-waa-waaa,” Milo started singing, trampling MJ’s music.

  I bit another fry and considered the gossip rag in the Turks’ cabin. Milo on the cover implied they could recognize him. Did that mean anything? As Geert pointed out, the ship was full of gossips. Maybe the Turks heard about the bracelet found at the scene. Maybe Ramazan decided to steal it, run away. Perhaps there was no connection to Judy or Milo.

  I sipped the milkshake, still glancing around the deck and realizing that the most likely scenario was still the most disturbing: one of these beautiful people killed Judy Carpenter.

  Somebody she knew.

  Somebody she didn’t think she needed to fight.

  Somebody strong enough to lift a 172-pound woman over the deck rail.

  I carried my shake over to the plastic windbreak where Vinnie Pinnetta stared out at the passing mountains, smoking a cigarette. Each time he exhaled, the gray cloud seemed to stay suspended in midair, hanging there as the ship cruised forward.

  He looked over, glancing down at my milkshake. “Sure you can handle a stiff drink like that?”

  I flipped open my credentials. Next to my Bureau ID, I’d placed the employee photos of Serif and Ramazan. The men looked like evil swarthy cousins, haters with bad eyes.

  “You know these guys?”

  He stared down at their faces, his forehead like the bill on a baseball cap. “No, but I’m guessing they’re why you’re not having a good time.”

  “I’m having a great time.” I smiled. “But it’s going to be better when we dock in Seattle.”