Playing for Keeps (8 page)

“No! You can’t!” I insisted. “His uncle paid his fare. He has the same rights as any other passenger on this ship.”

The officer looked at me so sternly that I shivered. “Not in this case,” he said. “Mr. Urbino has been charged by the Cuban government with the crime of murder.”

7

I RAN AFTER THE MEN WHO WERE TAKING RICKY. “WAIT for me!” I shouted, and pushed behind them through the door to the private stairway leading to the captain’s office behind the bridge.

Mr. Wilson didn’t try to stop me. He simply ignored me as he led the way through another series of doors and passages, finally stopping to knock at a wide paneled door.

“Come in,” a deep voice called. The door opened, and again I squeezed ahead to be with Ricky before it was shut.

Captain Helmut Olson stood behind a large desk of dark, polished wood. With a few painted landscapes on the walls and framed photos on the desk, the office looked more like that of a businessman on shore than a captain on a ship. But I didn’t have time to think about where I was.

Scowling, Captain Olson studied Ricky. “Mr. Urbino, you will be confined to the brig until we dock in Miami on Sunday morning. There you’ll be turned over to the INS. Their agents will return you to Cuba.”

Ricky stood tall, meeting the captain’s gaze, but his face was pale. “These men said I killed someone. I did not kill anyone. Whoever told you this is lying.”

The man in the Cuban military uniform, who had been out of our line of vision, suddenly stepped from the corner of the office, startling me. I gasped, recognizing him.

“I am Major Carlos Cepeda,” he said to Ricky. “I do not lie. A man has been murdered.” He tossed two photographs on the desk—his large gold initial ring gleaming—and leaned into Ricky’s face. “Here is the proof.”

I didn’t have a chance to shield my gaze from the photographs, and I shuddered violently when I saw them. They were photos of a man’s lifeless face. He was bruised and bloody and looked as if he’d been beaten to death.

Ricky cried out, “Raúl! The boatman!”

“Exactly,” Major Cepeda said. “The fisherman who helped you escape. You killed him to keep him from reporting your flight from Cuba.”

“I did not kill him,” Ricky insisted. “He helped me. I would have done nothing to harm him.”

“We have witnesses from a
cantina
near the town of Morón. They saw you beat the fisherman, kill him, and try to sink the boat before you left. Unfortunately for you, the boat remained afloat, so the witnesses could pull it ashore.”

“No!” Ricky insisted. “You are wrong! You are lying!”

Something definitely didn’t sound right about all this. I took a step forward. “Where was the boat found?” I asked the major.

Captain Olson answered instead. “Ms. Marstead, you were allowed to accompany Mr. Urbino to my office because we have questions to ask you about your part in helping Mr. Urbino hide out on this ship. However, you have no part in
this
investigation, so I ask you to remain silent.” He gestured to a grouping of chairs at the far side of the large office. “You may be seated, if you wish.”

My heart began to beat so loudly I could hear it, and I had to swallow twice before I could talk, but I took another step forward and said, “Please, sir, answer this one question.”

“It has no bearing on the charge,” the captain said.

“Please!” I insisted.

Major Cepeda’s lips twisted in a mirthless smile. “It is of no matter, but if it will silence this persistent young woman, I shall tell her. The boat was wedged under a small pier which is located near Morón.”

“In Cuba?”

“Of course.”

I turned to Captain Olson. “There is your proof that Ricky—Enrique—couldn’t have committed the murder. The boatman took him to Haiti and left him there. Enrique had no other transportation. He couldn’t possibly have followed the boatman back to Cuba and killed him. And even if in some weird way he had, then how would he have returned to Haiti in time to be taken to Bonita Beach to meet his uncle and board your ship?”

The captain’s only reaction was a blink of surprise before he turned to the officer. “Major Cepeda, how do you answer this?”

The major slid his large gold ring up and down his finger nervously. “There—there were witnesses,” he stammered.

“Who are lying for you,” Ricky said.

“Ms. Marstead’s logistics seem to be correct,” Captain Olson said. “If Mr. Urbino planned to kill the boatman, he would have accomplished this in Haiti. There would have been no purpose or time to return to Cuba, then travel back to Haiti.”

Major Cepeda’s chin jutted out stubbornly, and he blustered, “This is a matter for the Cuban courts to decide when Enrique Urbino is back in our country, where the crime took place. My office has offered a reward for his capture. Ten thousand American dollars. You saw the flyers. I took it upon myself to leave copies of the flyers in the public areas of the ship.”

It was clear that Captain Olson didn’t like to have his authority challenged. “You shouldn’t have done that without my permission,” he snapped. “The reward is offered for the capture of a murderer, and it’s obvious from what you have told us that Enrique Urbino is not a murderer.”

Major Cepeda kept sliding his ring up and down his finger. A part of my mind kept thinking,
If his
ring is that loose, he’s going to lose it.
But I focused on what he was saying. “The reward is to be given for the return of Enrique Urbino to Cuba. I will take command of the prisoner and make arrangements to return with him to Cuba when we dock in Jamaica tomorrow.”

You can’t do that!
I wanted to cry, but I knew I’d better keep quiet. I looked to the captain for help and tensed, sucking in my breath.

Captain Olson’s eyes had narrowed, and his voice was cold as he said, “Major Cepeda, this is my ship, and I am in command. I intend to keep Mr. Urbino in my custody until we dock in Miami. There he will be turned over to the Immigration and Naturalization Service, as is proper. Tomorrow, as soon as we dock in Ocho Rios, you will leave the ship, and Mr. Urbino will remain aboard.”

“But if he escapes—”

“Mr. Urbino will not have the opportunity to escape.”

“You will confine him to the brig?”

“There is no need for that. He will be confined to his stateroom while we are in port. While we are at sea, he will be given the run of the ship. I assure you that upon our arrival in Miami, he will be turned over to the INS. They will have the responsibility of returning him to Cuba.”

“Why?” I blurted out. “He’s innocent of any crime.”

Still formal and still intimidating, Captain Olson said, “You are excused, Major Cepeda.”

The captain was silent as the major, stiff with anger, strode from his office. Then he dismissed the two men who had aided his security chief, Officer Wilson. As Captain Olson turned his black gaze on me, I moved closer to Ricky. I was frightened at having spoken out, but there was more I needed to say.

“The Cuban officer lied,” I insisted. “It wasn’t even a well-thought-out lie, because it made no sense.” I deliberately forced myself to glance down at the photographs of the boatman’s badly beaten face, and for the first time I noticed the small C-shaped cuts on his left cheek and forehead. Again I shuddered.

“There are laws of the sea as well as laws of the land we must obey,” Captain Olson told me. “I intend to follow the correct procedure.”

“But Ricky is innocent,” I said again.

“Perhaps innocent of the crime of murder, but Mr. Urbino is not innocent of traveling under an assumed name with a forged passport.”

“His fare was paid. In full. By his uncle.”

“That is of no consequence.”

“What will happen to my uncle Martín?” Ricky suddenly asked, and I could hear the worry in his voice.

“Nothing, as far as we are concerned,” the captain said. “Although he seems to have introduced himself to a few passengers aboard ship as José Diago, he registered for the voyage under his rightful name and he carries the proper identification and passport. As for the forged passport he supposedly obtained for you, that is something he will have to take up with officials within the United States. It is not my immediate concern.”

Captain Olson gestured to the chairs again. “Let us all be seated. We will begin by discussing Mr. Enrique Urbino’s position with him. You asked for the truth, Mr. Urbino. Now I am asking
you
for the truth. Please tell me how you came aboard my ship and where you have been hiding.”

I sat quietly and uncomfortably between Officer Wilson and the captain while Ricky repeated everything he had told me about his flight to Haiti, his method of boarding the ship, and his short stay in the Flemings’ stateroom.

Captain Olson thought a few moments before answering. Finally he said, “Under the circumstances, I think we can dismiss any wrongdoing on the part of Mrs. Fleming and her grandson.” His eyes drilled into mine as he added, “And I suppose on your part, Ms. Marstead.”

I gave a huge sigh of relief, slumping in my chair. “Thank you, Captain,” I said. “And Ricky, too?”

“Mr. Urbino is not included. As I mentioned, he is aboard under false and illegal pretenses and will be delivered to officials from the INS as soon as we dock in Miami.”

As Captain Olson stood, he said, “Mr. Urbino, I will send Officer Wilson to accompany you to your uncle’s stateroom. Since we will dock in Jamaica early tomorrow morning, Officer Wilson will arrange for a guard to be posted outside your door, beginning immediately. Tomorrow your breakfast and lunch will be delivered to you. After we sail at six P.M., you will once again be free to roam the ship. We will repeat the procedure on Friday while we are docked in Cozumel.”

Ricky slowly got to his feet, and I stood, too. I felt strange in the presence of this formal, unyielding captain. Automatically I said, “Thank you, sir,” but my mind was desperately searching for some idea that could help Ricky. I couldn’t let him be turned over to the INS to be returned to Cuba. There had to be a way for him to reach United States soil so he could ask for asylum. If I thought enough and hoped enough, maybe I could come up with something.

In spite of Officer Wilson, who stood close beside Ricky at the elevator, Ricky wrapped his arms around me in a quick hug. “Thank you for standing by me,” he said.

I tried to smile. “When the captain had time to think about what Major Cepeda had said, he would have figured out that you couldn’t have committed the murder,” I said. “He didn’t really need me to point it out.”

The security chief nodded. “It was obvious to all of us,” he agreed.

The elevator signal dinged, and I began to step back, but Ricky held me even more tightly, burying his face in my hair. With his lips close to my ear he whispered, “I can’t go back to Cuba.”

I could only nod. He was asking me for help, but we were up against the captain and his staff and the rules he had to follow. At the moment I couldn’t think of a single thing I could do that would help Ricky.

As the elevator doors opened, Officer Wilson stepped forward, one hand on Ricky’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I told Ricky. I tried to sound positive, but as the doors closed between us I shivered, sharing Ricky’s fear.

I went to deck five. Major Cepeda had said he’d put the flyers in public places. The lounges around the main desk would probably have been his first choice. I suspected that the captain would send someone to gather up the flyers and toss them, and I wanted to be sure to get one, to read exactly what Ricky was charged with.

It was getting late, and the lounges were nearly deserted. The passengers who were still partying were most likely in the ballroom. I could hear the faint sounds of a trumpet and the rhythm of drum-beats—slow and steady, for people who were winding down.

A few scattered sheets of paper lay on one of the round tables near the windows, and two people were standing by the table reading from one of the sheets. One was one of the security assistants I had seen in the captain’s office. The other was the cruise director, Tommy Jansen.

I waited, stepping sideways so I was behind a potted tree. I didn’t want to interrupt their conversation.

“I could use that ten thousand,” Mr. Jansen said.

The security assistant chuckled. “It sounds good, but there’s no way of collecting it.”

Mr. Jansen turned to look at him. “Why not? The kid just has to be delivered back to Cuba.”

“That’s all? And how would you go about doing that?”

There was silence for a moment; then Mr. Jansen said, “I’d have to give it some thought, but it could be done—maybe when the ship reaches Mexico.”

“The captain put him under guard. He’s going through legal channels. He won’t even let that Cuban major have him. I bet the major will be ordered off the ship once we reach Jamaica.”

“All to the good,” Mr. Jansen said. “I’m beginning to get an idea, and it’s gonna work better with the major out of the way.”

He folded the flyer he was holding and stuck it in his pocket as they left the lounge. I ran to the table and picked up the half dozen or so that were left. I headed for the elevator, suddenly afraid of the lonely silence and the creepy wail of the trumpet that shivered through the empty lounge.